#james bucky buchanan barnes

[54nboo]

‘sugar tits.’ bucky barnes.

summary: chef james barnes doesn’t like when the waitress parades around the restaurant for tips, and he really doesn’t like it when she lets the men think they have a chance with her.

pairing: chef!bucky barnes x waitress!reader

insp by: i dont know…. i had a prophetic vision

word count: exactly 10k!!!!!!!! which is crazy

cw: +18 content, porn with a plot i guess, lots of banter, fingering, public-ish sex, p in v, oral (fem!receiving), boobs…, lots of health and safety violations, i dont know guys im scared

a/n: bwa collabbbbbbb!!!!! this is so awesome sauce cant believe i am in this 👁️ bouncy white ass 4 ever!!!!! if ur finding this outside of the masterlist, go check it out!!!!!!!!! also this is my first… proper smut so…. be kind to me world and lowkey close your eyes when they start bangin

+ 18 minors dni!!!!!!!! ᶦ ʷᶦˡˡ ᶠᶦⁿᵈ ʸᵒᵘ

bucky's a jealous person. he always has been.

he doesn't like to share, nor does he pretend otherwise. not his kitchen, not his recipes, not his workers, and certainly not you.

he doesnt like it when you're working the front of house, all bright smiles and flirty little laughs, coaxing tips and compliments from men who don't deserve your attention, and it doesn't help that you're walking around in that tiny little skirt and buttering up the customers, it also doesn't help that you're so good at it.

bucky knows it's a part of your job, knows that you do it to survive— but do you really need to be doing all of that? he's sure that if you lean any closer to the guy at table seven, he'll be able to see the lining of your panties, and at this point, he's not even sure if you're wearing any.

the kitchen behind him is organised chaos— pots and pans clattering against the stoves, utensils scratching against ceramic, and shoe soles padding around the linoleum floor.

but bucky doesn't hear any of it. his eyes are locked on you through the serving hatch, where you're leaning over a little too close to the asshole at table seven, your smile soft and sweet as you pour him another glass of whiskey and giggle at something he says.

bucky hates it. you might as well be sitting on his lap and hand feeding his steak to him. hell, you might as well pull down his fancy suit pants and just start fucking him in the middle of the restaurant with everyone watching.

"you're staring."

bucky's jaw clenches as he glances sideways. steve stands next to him at the grill, sliding a seared salmon onto a plate, eyebrow arched like he's just caught bucky with his hand in the cookie jar.

"i'm not." bucky snaps back a little too fast, eyes darting back down to the pan in his grasp. his knuckles are bone white from how tight he's gripping the handle.

steve smirks as he places the seared salmon onto the counter with practiced ease, "y'know, you could just tell her. it won't hurt. you're already staring at her like you've claimed her."

as well as being jealous, bucky's awfully proud. chateau barnes is a renowned high-end restaurant in new york. as the head chef of his own restaurant, he almost has to be. he prides himself on order, control, and precision in the kitchen— every knife sharpened, every pan and pot in its place, and every dish leaving the kitchen exactly as he had envisioned it.

and because of that, bucky would never admit that he loses all control of his mind the second you step out onto the floor. he'd rather die than admit it to steve, who seems to notice everything anyways.

"i don't know what you're talking about." bucky grumbles, basting the steak in butter, eyes fixed firmly on the pan as if it's the only thing that matters.

steve cocks a brow, "you know what i'm talking about."

bucky doesn't respond. he doesnt want to give steve the satisfaction of knowing he was right, and this steak was currently more important than whatever bullshit his sous chef was about to spew.

steve stops what he's doing just to taunt bucky, his voice low enough that only he can hear. "the fact that you wanna bend her over the counter and take her right there in front of—"

"finish that fucking sentence and you're on dish duty for the next month." bucky cuts him off, eyes snapping towards steve. the glare alone would have made an apprentice shit their pants, but it only makes steve grin wider.

"tough crowd." the blonde mumbles. he shrugs as if its the most normal thing in the world, then goes back to slicing into a perfectly roasted duck breast.

there's an annoyed quirk in bucky's eyebrow as he goes back to plating the dish. putting steak down, drizzling the sauce, adding garnish, every detail done with deliberate and precise movements— anything to keep his hands and mind busy. anything to keep steve from seeing how close he'd come to hitting an exposed nerve.

bucky doesnt look up. he knows that if he does, he'll see that rich asshole at table seven still trying his luck, and he'll see you entertaining him like he's paying you a million dollars to do so. both of you would piss him off, and right now, he needs his head in the pan. the butter's foaming and the steak is searing, and focus is the only thing that keeps him from calling a smoke break.

so he keeps his eyes down. baste, tilt, baste again. control. order. discipline. that's what he's good at.

but it's you out there, and that alone stirs up an itch under his skin that he can't ignore. its an almost unbearable urge that picks at him— the urge to just look up. because if its you, then he wants to see. he needs to.

and when he finally gives in— when his eyes drag up from the dish he's preparing to you— you're already prancing towards the kitchen, weaving through the tables with that little sway in your hips, balancing a half-eaten dish in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other.

it scratches the itch, but now he has to deal with you.

you slide the dish onto the window sill with a small clink, gingerly leaning into the cut-out just enough to make your presence known. you tilt your head when bucky glances up at you, a half-grin tugging at your lips like you're ready for whatever bite he's about to throw at you.

"table seven said his steak is over cooked, james." you say, nudging the dish towards him, "he also said the sauce is too peppery."

bucky keeps his focus on his work, but it's impossible to ignore your presence. he slides the freshly prepared steak onto the window sill with a quick flick of his wrist, but you're staring at him like you can see the control he's trying so hard to cling to. he reaches over to grab another ticket, but he can smell whatever sweet perfume you'd dusted yourself with drifting through the window. it's torture.

bucky's not sure whether he wants you to leave him alone or if he wants you to lean over the window a little more just so he can sneak a glance down your collar.

but he doesn't spare you a second glance. "it wasn't."

you suck your teeth in mock thought, eyes narrowing in on where the steak was ripped open by a knife, "well, he asked for medium-rare, and i'm pretty sure i wrote down medium-rare, so it must've been a performance issue on your end, boss."

"yeah?" his blue eyes snap towards you. his voice is controlled, but you can hear the tension coiling in his throat. "you should probably check that notepad again, doll. the ticket said medium-rare, so i gave him medium-rare."

"that's funny..." you drawl, "because he's still complaining."

bucky's jaw tightens. his grip around the knife tightens like a vice. "why don't you just stick your tits in his face a little more? maybe then he'll stop complaining about the fuckin' steak and start tippin' you like he means it."

his voice is low and rough, and laced with venom that he doesn't bother to hide. he's jealous, and he knows that. his voice cuts sharper than the knife in his hand, but it does nothing to hinder your attitude.

"y'know, he looks a little bit like you." you lean your head on the palm of your hand, your lips tugging into a grin that teeters on the edge of mockery. "a little more clean-shaven... has manners... smells good too. says he's the ceo of a record company or something fancy like that."

god, if you weren't so gorgeous— if you hadn't made every word sound like pure honey— bucky mightve told you to turn around and continue taking orders like the good little waitress you are. his thoughts die in his head the second a particular one hits him— you're being a brat.

"you shove your tits close enough to get a whiff of him?" he spits, eyes ever-so-slightly glancing down at the midriff you have exposed. "you enjoy being a tease?"

you follow his line of sight and roll your eyes, almost instinctively leaner lower, "so what if i do? theyre my tits.”

bucky looks back down to the scallops he's preparing, his lip turnt, "not anymore with the way you're parading them around."

he hears you suck in the tiniest gasp— just audible enough that it makes him huff out a breath of amusement.

you're not necessarily offended by him calling you a tease. you're more offended by the fact that he thinks you're 'parading them around' like some bimbo. you'd argue that you're just doing your job— keeping the customers happy, looking hot while doing it, and making some tips in the process.

you open your mouth to say something, to rip into him without saying something that seriously jeopardises your job— because he is your boss after all— but before you can say anything, steve stops you.

"could you guys stop flirting? its dinner rush."

his voice catches your attention. you shift your weight as you lean over the pass, your elbows resting against the cold metal as you grin at steve. he's cute— everybody knows it— and you've always liked how easy it was to talk to him.

"what, feeling left out, rogers?" you tease with a dramatic pout, reveling in the way steve's ears tint the lightest shade of pink.

"a little." he plays into your teasing, brows raised, "but the tickets are piling up and i'm not likin' how that guy at table five is looking at us."

"oh, those guys?" you turn on your heel, eyes flashing to a large table of around six guys. the man at the head of the table sits like he owns the restaurant, his gaze locked straight on you. "yeah, i'm pretty sure theyre apart of the mob."

steve blinks, "the mob?"

"the mob." you emphasise with a dramatic nod, "they're drinking us dry of our entire whiskey reserve."

"i'll order in another lot tonight. the next lot should hopefully last us a couple more months.” steve nods, already scribbling down a note on the corner of a ticket. he taps the pencil against the pass and shoves the ticket into his pocket like it's already been handled.

then steve's eyes flick up to you, who's standing there with a tired smile. he— very obviously— looks you up and down, slow enough that bucky catches every damn second of it, then he meets you with a grin that's just shy of smug.

"looking good, sugar."

the pet name runs off of steve's tongue like it belongs there, entirely too sweet for a restaurant running on blood, sweat, and tears.

the knife in bucky's hand stills, the blade pressing unnecessarily hard into the scallop underneath. his eyes flick up to look at whatever weird little flirting match you and steve have going on just inches away from him, and he's glaring like he's seconds away from snapping the cutting board in half.

if steve wasn't his best friend, he probably would've stabbed him— no, wait— he'd still stab him anyways.

bucky turns his attention to you to see your reaction. and sure enough, you're standing there, practically twirling a strand of hair around your finger, acting like you've just been complimented by the hottest guy in the world. your lips curl into a grin that you try (and fail) to stifle. but because steve's your friend, you roll your eyes like it's no big deal— like you're too used to his charm for it to get under your skin.

"thanks, stevie. you’re not so bad yourself." you grin, sing-songing as you pull away from the pass, "anyways, i've gotta go. fancy guy at table seven was just about to tell me about rising stars and pop music or... something like that."

and then you're turning away. you toss a small wink over your shoulder as you saunter away— but then you adjust your skirt, just subtly enough to be casual, but bucky can't help the sharp intake of his breath. the curve of your ass presses up against the thin fabric, the faint lining of your panties traced just beneath it, teasing him with more than he has any right to see.

bucky's jaw locks. heat crawls down his spine and coils deep within his gut, dragging low until it settles in his cock. he feels the shift in his pants, and the sudden tightness makes his breath hitch.

focus, bucky, focus. control and order. that's what you're good at.

he forces his gaze down, anything to get over it, but his body aches with the phantom burn of you. the imagine of your body swaying as you walk away is burnt into the skin behind his eyelids, and it's a sight he can't just run from with the repetitive motions of his knife. every slice and every stab only presses it deeper.

he blinks and you're still there. he sees the curve of your ass and the way you tug your skirt lower like it might cover something. the arch of your back as you stretch just slightly, and the press of your tits against the weak buttons of your blouse like they're begging to be let loose. and the worst part— the part that makes his cock twitch in his pants— is that bucky isn't even sure if you're doing this on purpose or if you're just that effortlessly fucking tempting.

"it did look like you just sent out leather, man." steve's voice cuts in like nails on a chalkboard, "you... distracted?"

buck's knife lifts from the board as he slides the scallops on to the plate, "sugar?" he grinds out, not looking up.

steve can already tell. he doesn't need bucky to say a single word. the way his jaw tenses, the way his grip flexes around the handle of the knife, the way he slides the scallops around like he couldn't care less, and the way his eyes subtly dart towards the floor where you're entertaining table seven again.

bucky barnes is jealous, and it's the most entertaining thing steve has seen all night. he wants to laugh, and he almost does, but he holds it in.

"what, you jealous?" steve teases with a shit-eating smirk.

"you can't flirt with the staff." bucky's words are deadpan, like he's been repeating the phrase over and over in his own mind— like he's repeating it again moee for himself than for steve.

"i understand." steve nods, but then he pauses just long enough to be smug about it. "we can't flirt with them, but we sure can eye-fuck them from across the restaurant—“

the cutting board suddenly screeches against the metal counter as bucky pushes it back. steve's still smirking as bucky rips at the knot around his waist, tearing his apron off and tossing it haphazardly over his shoulder with an annoyed huff.

"i'm goin' for a smoke." he grunts, not even sparing steve a glance before he pushes past the other kitchen staff.

the back door slams shut behind him, and steve feels it's only in his best interest as his best friend to follow. someone's gotta make sure bucky doesn't burn down the alleyway with his temper.

the back of the restaurant is quiet. the clanking of pots and pants and shouts of orders fade behind thick brick, leaving only an echo of the chaos inside. the moon is bright and high up in the sky, casting pale white light onto the alley.

bucky leans against the wall, his hand shielding the flame of his lighter from the wind. the cigarette glows, the smoke curling upwards. he takes a long drag of it, letting the smoke fills his lungs.

the cool air does little to ease the burn in his skin— if anything, it makes it worse. every muscle in his body feels like they've been pulled taut, as if the mere memory of you has set fire to his body.

as he exhales, a small white cat slinks out from around a dumpster, moving like a pale shadow in the dark, her delicate paws padding against the concrete as she wanders closer. she's a familiar face that makes bucky sigh.

bucky calls her alpine, a sweet reminder of a trip he once took a few years ago— a quiet winter in the mountains, snow blanketing the world in a stillness he rarely ever witnesses in his line of work. in a way, alpine was his calm in the blinding chaos.

she brushes against his leg, her tail curling, and for a moment, the tension bucky feels in his chest eases, replaced by the memory of calm he almost never allows himself.

steve tucks his hands into his pockets as he leans against the wall beside bucky. he watches his friend for a moment, analysing how his jaw tenses and how his head tilts away like making eye contact with steve would cause every thought in his brain to fall from his mouth.

"you really letting her get to you that much, huh?" steve says, his voice low. he's not teasing anymore— just simply asking.

bucky doesn't say anything. his shoulders are tense as he takes another long drag of his cigarette like it’ll help.

"c'mon—" steve nudges him, "let me hear it."

bucky exhales a long stream of smoke, finally meeting steve's eyes, jaw tight and eyes low, "she just... she gets under my skin. every word, every look, every little movement. i can't—“ he pauses for a second, “i can't stop thinking about her, even when i try not to. i know it's stupid, but—"

he drags in another breath as if he's finally accepting what he feels, "i just... can't look away. i dont want to even if it's killing me inside seeing her kissing up to the customers."

"i mean—" the cigarette trembles in his hand, and a more annoyed expression replaces the forlorn one. "she said he smelt good, steve. can you fuckin' believe that? its like she's trying to get on my nerves."

steve huffs out a laugh, "i mean.. you dont exactly smell like roses and daises, buck. you've got more of a... cooking oil scent—"

"and she said he's clean shaven. what does that even mean?" he runs a tired hand against his jaw, feeling the stubble rub against his fingers, "i shave, don't i?"

the way bucky complains is similar to that of a teenage boy whining about the girl he likes not liking him back. it's boyish. it would be endearing if it wasnt wrapped up in frustration— like he might actually punch through a wall because of it.

"you care way too much about what she thinks for someone who insists they don't give a shit." steve points out, a sincere smile tugging at his lips as he shrugs. "just... ask her out, man."

bucky doesn't answer right away. whether it's because he's not sure how to reply or because he knows steve's right, he doesn't know.

beside him, alpine perks up from where she's curled up next to his feet, ears twisting at full attention towards a noise in the distance. bucky glances down at her— this small, stubborn creature who doesn't leave no matter how many times he shoos her away— and sighs, an uneven trail of smoke trailing through the air.

"i can't." he finally mutters, grinding the cigarette against the brick until the embers die. "what if she's seeing someone? a woman like her would probably have a line of guys out the door."

steve cocks an eyebrow like he has the solution to all of bucky's problems. "last i heard, she's not seeing anybody. hasn't been for a while."

that piques bucky's attention. "where'd you hear that?"

"from mikaela." steve replies like it's obvious.

the name doesn't ring a bell. it's not even in the drawer of names that bucky half-remembers. the cluelessness on his face has steve barking out an amused laugh.

"you don't know mikaela?" he says pushing off of the wall and crossing his arms against his chest, "waitress with the brown hair and blonde highlights? c'mon, buck, you're telling me you don't know mikaela?"

bucky sucks his teeth, shaking his head like the mere idea of knowing waitresses other than you was laughable, "i don't pay attention to front of house.”

"that's a damn lie. you pay plenty of attention to front of house— just not to mikaela or any of the others. you don't know mikaela, but you sure as hell know the one with the tiny skirt and fuck-me-eyes."

bucky exhales through his nose, sharp and frustrated. "watch it, steve." he warns, but it doesn't land as harsh as he wants it to, because it's true— he does know you. he knows you more than he should. more than he wants to admit.

his job was easier before you were hired— before you started running around the restaurant like you owned it, before you had befriended steve or any of the other chefs, before you had stuck your fingers in every single crevice of his fucking brain.

sometimes he wishes he could go back in time to tell steve not to hire the applicant with a dozen waitressing jobs under her belt and references who did nothing but praise you. but other times, he wishes he was the one who had interviewed you just so he could have weaselled his way into your life from the start, claiming some part of you before anyone else had the chance.

bucky flicks the dead cigarette and stamps it out until it's a grey mess of ash on the ground. his shoulders loosen a fraction as he steps forwards, ready to push his problems away and slip back into the kitchen.

"okay. smoke break's over." steve claps a hand against bucky's back, gently ushering him back into the door. "sam can't run the kitchen by himself."

bucky huffs out a small laugh, low and dry, "he probably thinks he can run it better than both of us."

steve nods, "and some days, i think that might be true."

bucky just rolls his eyes as steve playfully pushes him towards the hum of the restaurant. the doors swing shut behind them, leaving the alleyway and alpine behind, quiet again.

hours pass. the restaurant is empty now, the dinner rush long over.

in the kitchen, pans and knives are freshly washed and stacked and the hum of the kitchen is softer, almost intimate. the harsh fluorescent light overhead has been switched off and replaced by a single lamp that casts an orange light over the counters, which smell of citrus scented cleaner.

in the main room, the lights are dimmed and there's a faint aroma of charcoal and expensive cologne in the air. the energy from hours ago still buzzes throughout the restaurant like an echo. a few glasses are left drying on the bar and there's a few chairs stacked haphazardly on top of each other, but otherwise, the building feels quiet.

it's just you and bucky. it's been only you two for the past hour.

steve had left earlier with a tired wave and a reminder to lock up, but not without shooting bucky a knowing look as he stepped out of the door. bucky ignored it at the time— brushed it off with the same scowl he always gave steve when he thought he was being clever— but now that the restaurant was almost silent, it settles a little heavier in his chest.

bucky's sweeping the wooden floor of the main room. sweeping. he never sweeps. not when there's busboys or waitresses or literally anyone else around to do it. he didn't know what possessed him, and neither did you.

when he had asked if you had needed help cleaning, you had looked at him like he'd just asked if the sky was blue— baffled, a little amused, and even a little suspicious. james buchanan barnes offering to help with front of house duties? it's unheard of.

now that it's just the two of you, he can't seem to sit still. he sweeps and sweeps, pulling dust from crevices that probably haven't been touched since they first bought the restaurant.

he glances at you.

you're leaning on the bar, a pen in your hand and your head in the other. you're staring down at a notepad containing god knows what. orders? inventory? you're honestly probably just scribbling nonsense just to look busy— and if you are, it's working.

a particularly harsh drag of plastic against the wood gains your attention. your eyes move upwards before your head does, catching the broom mid-sweep in bucky's hands. he's tense. you can see it in the way his shoulders are squared and that familiar scowl on his face as he drags the bristles against the ground.

"you keep that up and i'm gonna start thinking you have a secret love for housekeeping, james." you joke, watching in amusement.

bucky falters for a moment, eyes flicking up to you before he cocks a brow and continues his assault against the floor, "just figured the place could use it."

"uh-huh." you nod suspiciously, pen poised but not writing. "what's with the sudden kindness? what'd you do?"

"nothin'." bucky's quick to respond, "pretty little thing like you shouldn't be running around the restaurant this late. might get yourself hurt."

you'd be flattered if this wasn't totally out of character for him, and also because it's bucky. he's calling you a pretty little thing? who flayed james barnes and crawled into his skin?

"pretty little thing?" your lips twitch, trying not to grin at the absurdity of it. you raise your brows, "okay, who'd you kill?"

"what, i can't compliment you? you sure seem to like it when customers do it." he snaps, broom held a little too tight in his grip.

you pause and raise a brow, "excuse me?"

bucky stops. he isn't sweeping anymore. the broom stands neglected in his hand, his new focus being you. the way you're staring at him makes his skin burn.

"don't act like you don't know what i'm talkin' about." he rolls his eyes, lip almost turned into a snarl, "all those fancy assholes throwing compliments at you, and you eat it up. but me? god forbid i say a word."

you scoff as you stand up a bit straighter, arms crossing against your chest as a defence, "so it's a crime to like being complimented?"

"it's not a crime." bucky retorts, "but you goin' around sticking your tits in their faces and practically sitting on their laps? it should be considered criminal. and it's all you can do, isn't it?"

you narrow your eyes, "that's rich, coming from a man who stares at them every chance he gets."

"sweetheart, it's hard not to." he fires back, watching as you shake your head in bewilderment.

"so, what are you saying?" you challenge, eyes glaring daggers into bucky. "that you think i'm an attention-seeking slut who parades herself around for everyone to see?"

you know this is destructive. bucky's your boss, the one who can put you out of a job with two words, but part of you can't stop— can't stop pushing, can't stop poking and prodding, needing to hear him either admit it or deny it. you don't really care which one it is at this point— you just want to hear it from his mouth instead of reading it in his eyes.

he lets out an annoyed sigh, "don't put words in my mouth—"

"oh, come on, james. we both know you think it." you take a step forwards, the space between you two shrinking until the air is electric. "just admit it and we can get this over with."

your voice is quiet, but so full of venom. you don't need to be loud— you're so close to bucky that it felt like if you even thought too loud, he would hear it.

your stomach twists as you step even closer. you're practically chest-to-chest with bucky, your chin tilted upwards just enough to meet his stare head on. his jaw clenches as he stands his ground, like he's testing how far you're willing to go, and you both know that neither of you will stand down.

his shadow swallows you whole. you feel like you've been caught inside of it. there's nowhere to step and nowhere to breathe that isn't him— his heat, his stare, his scent, his unrelenting presence pressing down on you.

he looks down at you, his eyes half-lidded and twitching as you near him, "you've got a mouth on you, don't you, sugar tits?"

the nickname wrings out a dry laugh from your mouth. he's mocking you, taunting you, poking at some sore spot just to see you flinch— and god, it works.

"what, want me to put my mouth to better use?"

you don't mean to sound flirty— you really don't— but with him this close, his scent practically wraps around you like a ribbon, warm smoke and faint cologne threaded through something else that was unmistakably him. his presence swallows up the space between you, heat curling up your neck until you feel it burrowing underneath your skin.

"is that an offer, doll?"

"in your dreams, barnes."

he's practically in your face, and suddenly every word you say is full of a weight you don't recognise. it's suffocating.

and then— just subtly— you watch as his eyes slowly rake down from your eyes towards your lips, lingering for too long. tracing the curve, memorising the way they part when he leans in a little closer. his breath fans over your face, and you feel your resolve completely dissolve.

you let out a little hitched breath, sharp and caught in your throat, and it's just enough to break whatever restraint he's been holding on to. bucky's eyes darken, and then he's on you before you can even think twice, closing the space between you and pressing his lips to yours.

it's not gentle. it's claiming, leaving no room for regret or argument, and the world narrows to the heat of your mouth against his and the press of your body against his chest.

he indulges in your taste— almost intoxicating— drinking you like you're an oasis in the middle of a desert. every press of his lips draws a ragged breath from your mouth, and the tension and anger you'd been holding onto melts into something raw.

bucky rakes a warm hand up your back, the other sneaking around your waist, pressing you closer as if he can't get enough of the feeling of you in his hands. his fingers trace the curve of your spine, sliding beneath the fabric of your too-tight shirt.

you break free from his lips just enough to whine, a shaky hand running against his jaw, almost pushing him away. "james—"

every move he makes is deliberate, and there's an air of want in the way his lips trails down your jaw and how he buries his face into your neck, pressing wet, open-mouth kisses along the tender skin.

"if you want me to stop—" he murmurs against your skin, each word soaked in something tender that betrays the intensity of his touch, "jus' say it and i'll stop."

this is wrong. bucky is your boss. every rational thought in your body is telling you that this shouldn't be happening, screaming at you to just pull away, to push him off of you before this goes too far.

but then he nips at the skin on your collarbone, his tongue swiping lightly over the tender spot, and something in you flips. every rational thought you had is drowned out by the heat pooling low in your stomach.

your silence is the invitation he needs. his eyes flick up to yours, searching for even the faintest signs of hesitation, but finds none.

he leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss again. your bodies press against each other, moving together almost instinctively, and he guides you towards a nearby table. without breaking the kiss, you let yourself sink into the edge, the tablecloth cold against your skin as bucky hovers just above, his hands bracketing your face.

your legs wrap around his waist, and you feel the hard outline of his cock straining against his jeans— a delicious yet torturous reminder of how urgent this has become— and it only makes you press against him even harder.

bucky's hands trail down to yours hips, fingertips digging into your sides as he pulls you tighter against him. you grind against him, the friction sending sparks throught your bodies. a whimper leaves you as your hands bunch the fabric of his shirt, tangling the cotton as you pull yourself impossibly closer. bucky pulls away from the kiss, memorising the way you push your hips into his and how you respond to his touch.

you look so pretty and desperate trying to grind against his cock, and he groans at the sight.

"fuck—" he rasps, "you don't know what you do to me."

you whisper, "then show me."

bucky's lips find yours again, harder this time as his hands fall to your thighs. you lean back as his fingers glide under the fabric of your tight skirt, sliding it up until it bunches around your hips, and the sight that greets him is enough to make his mouth run dry.

you're wearing the cutest pair of black lace panties he's ever seen, and the sight alone almost undoes him completely— delicate and teasing, like they were made specifically to drive him insane.

"is this all for me?" the question drips with smugness as his thumb presses against the band of your panties, watching as it cuts into your thigh.

"don't flatter yourself, james." you huff, flustered but defiant, your body betraying you with a small jerk of your hips, "you're not that special."

"not that special?" he raises a brow, eyes focused on the way you lean into his touch, "sweetheart, we both know none of those men were ever gonna get to fuck you. not the suits... not the smooth talkers... not a single one of 'em. if it weren't for me, you wouldn't be sitting here, dripping through this pretty fabric."

you bite down on your bottom lip, because he's right. you would have never given any of these rich guys the light of day. all they were good for was their money and their attention— nothing that made you feel utterly exposed and electric like bucky did with a single word.

he presses the pad of his thumb against your folds, pressing down right over the spot you need him most, feeling you soak through the lace. you gasp at the pressure, back arching just slightly, the soft sound that leaves your mouth almost pathetic.

"look at you. you've been saving this for me, haven't you?" he cocks his head, eyes half-lidded as he watches you squirm. "walking around in this skimpy little skirt and that tiny shirt— practically beggin' me to tear them off of you."

"awfully cocky for a man who hasn't made me moan yet." you murmur, eyes fluttering shut when his fingers hook around the lacy fabric on your hips,

bucky scoffs, the way your hips lift for him to drag your panties down your hips betraying your words. "you keep talkin' like that and i'll make sure the whole block hears you."

the lace slips down the expanse of your legs, each second growing more and more agonising with every painful stop bucky makes. when it finally slips from your foot, bucky stuffs it into his pocket. the lace sticks out like a sore thumb— a trophy.

he looks down at your cunt, a low, guttural groan escaping him, and it's almost enough to make you cum right then and there. his eyes flick back up to yours before his lips crash back into yours, the kiss far hungrier and desperate than before.

your hands thread into his hair as the world narrows in on the taste of his tongue and the feeling of his hand sliding from your knee down to your inner thigh. every glide and subtle press of his fingers ignites a fire you can't control.

bucky catches your bottom lip between his teeth, tugging it until it burns red. you huff when he pulls just a little too hard, but to make up for it, he runs a finger through your folds, your argumentative grumbles turning into airy gasps before he's pressing his lips against yours again, swallowing any last shred of resistance you have left.

his thumb finds your clit, brushing lightly at first, sending heat throughout your body. your breath hitches and bucky's quick to press harder, drawing figure eights onto the bundle of nerves.

his touch is both punishment and reward, a bitter reminder of how he has you unraveling under his touch. every whimper, every shiver, and every gasp seems to feed him, as if your reactions are what's keeping him alive.

you pull away from the kiss to breathe. you can feel the press of a finger against your entrance, and before you can fully grasp what's about to happen, bucky pushes two fingers into you.

your head tilts back before you can stop it, a broken moan slipping from your throat— unrestrained and humiliating. you can feel bucky shifting against your skin and you already know what he's going to say before he even opens his mouth.

"what did you say about not making you moan?" he murmurs into the skin just below your ears, smugness dripping off of every syllable.

heat rises up your neck, but you refuse to give him the full satisfaction of watching you submit to him.

"just..." you breathe, your nails digging into the tablecloth as he pumps his fingers into you, "sh-shut up and keep going.”

he hums, "gladly."

bucky's fingers drag in and out of you, curling against your walls with devastating precision. his fingertips brush against all of your sweet spots like he knows exactly where to touch to make you fall apart.

he can tell you're close by the way your eyebrows knit together in concentration and the way you fuck yourself back onto his fingers. he reaches down with his other hand and adds a delicious pressure against your clit, watching as your arms buckle and almost collapse back onto the table.

"c'mon, cum for me." bucky urges, "cum on my fingers, baby."

and you do, your legs quivering as a wave of heat flashes over your entire body. bucky doesn't stop— he continues his assault on your clit and he drives his fingers into your cunt until you're clenching around him, whimpering protests.

he pulls his fingers out and you instantly clench around nothing. your eyes track him as he brings his fingers to his mouth, tongue darting out to taste you. he groans around his fingers, the sound low and almost animalistic as he leans in to kiss you.

you can taste yourself on his lips, your legs wrapping around his waist, pressing him closer to you.

"that feel good?" bucky asks, his lips glistening with your slick.

you huff out a small laugh, "what do you think?"

he rolls his eyes and dips his face into the crook of your neck, his stubble scratchy as he presses kisses to your skin. you lull your head back, lips parting with a shaky sigh, but then your eyes land on the large glass doors of the restaurant— completely see-through and mercilessly reflective.

all rational thought comes crawling back to you, but your next words are already in bucky's mouth, his hands crawling up to slide into your hair.

"shit, jame—" his kiss steals your breath, "james, we can't—" his tongue grazes yours and you whimper, "we can't—" another kiss, rougher this time. "we can't do it in here. people'll—" he swallows the protest whole, "people will see."

it's almost like he enjoys watching you struggle.

"what, afraid table seven'll walk past and see you sitting here all pretty and spread out on his table?" his words come out muffled as he presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth.

"it's bad for our image, james. if someone walks by—" you grumble into his mouth, but he cuts you off by simply pulling away.

there's a flicker of arrogance in his eyes as he tilts his head like your reasoning doesn't make sense. "i was just knuckles deep inside of you, sweetheart. you're really worried about our image right now?"

"i'm serious." you push at his chest, but it's light-hearted at most. your nails curl into his shirt like you don't want him to stop, "what if steve comes back and—"

bucky just dives back into your neck like it's a five star restaurant, teeth grazing the skin on your collarbone before his tongue swipes over it.

"rogers has a date tonight." bucky pulls back and swipes a thumb against his teeth marks, "he's not comin' back anytime soon."

you glare at him when his eyes flick up to yours, dead serious. "i'm not having sex with you in the middle of the restaurant, barnes."

he rolls his eyes. "okay, okay, fine. whatever the princess wants, the princess gets." he exhales against your throat, the joke falling upon deaf ears when he grabs you by your thighs and pulls you to the edge of the table.

you tense when he wraps a thick arm around your back and his other arm snakes under your thigh, hoisting you upwards. you wrap your legs around his waist and giggle.

he walks you towards the kitchen with ease, eyes closed and face still stuffed in the warmth of your neck. you're almost amazed, but then you remember that he knows this place like the back of his hand and he could probably do this blindfolded.

bucky pushes the door open with one hand and it slams behind you as he presses his lips to yours, swallowing the startled gasp that leaves you. the faint hum of the fridge and the overhead led lights fill the kitchen, but you're far too preoccupied to notice.

he sets you down onto the cold, hard counter, his palms pressed firmly into your thighs and you hiss at the contact. youre pressed flush against his chest, every breath you take tangling with his, like he can't even stand an inch of distance between you. his stubble scrapes along your jaw as his mouth trails to your cheek, and then down your throat, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

"on the counter?" you furrow your brows, the cold metal searing into the burning skin on your thighs and ass.

he hums, sucking a delicate bruise onto your neck, "on the counter."

"this is such a health and safety violation, james—"

"bucky." he interrupts, voice stripped of teasing or smugness and replaced by something softer— something more sincere. "call me bucky."

you blink at him for a moment. part of you wants to tease him, but another part of you just wants to press sweet little kisses across his face and melt into his arms. you let out a breathy laugh.

“nicknames, huh?” you grin, “okay, i can do that... bucky."

the single word hangs between you, and you swear bucky moans a little bit before he's on you again, lips wet and swollen. every inch of him presses against you, the weight of his body pinning you into the counter.

you can feel his cock straining within the confines of his jeans, pressing insistently against your inner thigh. your hand trails from his neck down to the outline of him, the pressure of your palm dragging out a low, shaky inhale.

"fuck..." bucky mumbles, pressing a kiss to your jugular to hide the sharp intake of air that escapes him. his fingers dig deeper into your hips, pulling you impossibly closer.

you can feel him pulsate under your palm, and the way he presses into your hand makes you bite your lip. "do you want me to—"

he shakes his head, "don't worry about me." he murmurs, his hand sliding down and finding the heat that awaits him. "just lean back. wanna taste you."

you swallow and obey. it's almost pathetic how quick bucky can make you listen to him— one moment you're talking back, and the next, he has you spread out like a whore. every thought of self respect and decorum escapes you the moment he lays a single hand on you.

and then bucky's kneeling in front of you like a sinner at an altar, worshipping you like you're the only source of forgiveness in this sorry world. he's looking up at you with half-lidded eyes as he gently spreads your legs open, his lips parting as he leans closer, letting the heat of his mouth hover just above your cunt.

your breath hitches when his tongue presses flat against you, licking a slow line from your opening to your clit. bucky takes your hand threading through his hair as a good sign and presses his face into you a bit more, nose digging into your heat just right.

compared to his hands— rough and calloused, gripping your hips so tight that you're sure they'd leave bruises— his tongue was soft, poking and prodding at your cunt like he's trying to figure out what makes you feel good and how to make more of those pretty little moans fall from your mouth.

"bucky—" you moan when you feel his tongue breaching your hole, the muscle fucking into you, "oh, god."

bucky hums, the vibrations shooting shockwaves of pleasure throughout your entire nervous system. you rut into his face, but his hands slide up to hold your hips down, and he only pulls off to breath before diving back in.

you're close, and bucky can tell. the sounds are obscene— wet and sloppy— his tongue sliding over your heat and your moans and whimpers mixing together like an orchestra.

when you finally cum, your legs are clamping around bucky's head, your head thrown back against the wall as you grind yourself onto his face. you don't even care if he's breathing— the muffled moans that leak from his mouth tell you he's enjoying it.

when you finally let him go, he pops off of your cunt with a small hum, looking completely pussy-drunk. he presses his cheek against your thigh, a curious finger pressing against your folds.

"fuck, that was good." you blurt out, still fucked out of your mind.

before you know it, bucky's rising to his feet and unbuckling his belt. you start undoing the buttons on your shirt, the action tedious and repetitive when all you want is his dick inside of you. you're left in your bra— black and lacy to match your panties— and bucky's eyes never leave your chest, even when he fumbles with the loops of his belt.

before long, bucky pulls himself out of his boxers. the first thing you notice is how flushed the tip is after being pressed against denim all night. he's also long and thick, and far bigger than anything you've ever taken before. you're almost scared.

he hums, a teasing smile on his face. "thanks, sugar."

even through your hazy state of mind, you still know what he's talking about— and you're going to kill him. steve called you sugar once, and now bucky's running around throwing the word at you like he's taunting you.

you can't believe he's literally about to be inside of you and you're still letting him torment you. you're lucky he's making you feel good, because if he wasn't, you'd probably say some half-assed insult just to spite him. even in the middle of pressing into you, he can't get steve out of his head.

he presses his tip against your entrance, and you have to hold yourself back from rocking onto his dick. bucky tilts his head, almost amused at your desperateness before something else cuts through his thoughts.

"you sure you want this?" he asks, his voice low, giving you one last chance to back out.

you nod quickly, your hands planting themselves onto his shoulders, "i do. i want this."

"mh-hm." he presses a kiss to your forehead with a smile, all rational thought getting thrown out of the window as he teases, "alright, sugar."

you roll your eyes. "oh, bite me, buck." you grit out halfway through a gasp.

and maybe he takes you too literally, because he does— he quickly undoes your bra and he bites you, hard and wet right into the flesh of your breast. your breath hitches as you drag a needy hand up his neck and into his hair, tugging at the root.

he groans into your flesh as he quickly pushes in and bottoms out. it’s quick and overwhelming, stealing the air from your lungs. you gasp, the sudden breach both burns and soothes all at once, your nails clawing at his shoulders just to get a grip.

but it leaves bucky feeling like something is missing, feeling like he needs more of you— like being buried in you isn’t enough— so he tries.

he tugs your bra off of you and tosses it somewhere on the ground, his hands desperate and greedy as his thumbs graze your nipples before leaning down and taking one into his mouth, tongue flicking and sucking like he’s a man starved. it’s so messy yet so good that you’re almost confused.

"what are you—"

you're cut off when bucky jerks. your hips are already flush, but bucky tries as hard as he can to push into you ever further, the tip of his dick practically digging into your cervix. you tremble in his arms as he pops off of your tit, a string of saliva connecting you.

"god, you taste like pure sugar." he groans, “and you're so tight. you been waiting for me? waiting for me to fuck your pretty little cunt?"

you nod, because what else can you really do? he’s grinding against you like his life depends on it, and the force of it has you turning into jelly in his arms. the drag of his cock inside of you has your back arching into his chest.

his hands are pressing into your hips so hard that you’re sure it’s going to bruise. his forehead is resting against yours, and it feels less like sex and more like he’s trying to claim every single part of you at once.

and then he finally pulls his hips back, his dick sliding out of you slow enough to make your walls clench around nothing before he hammers himself back into you with a force that rattles the counters. he swallows your cry in a desperate kiss before he repeats it again, and again, and again before he lays you down.

the counter makes contact with your bare back, goosebumps shooting throughout your entire body, but it’s nothing compared to how bucky’s driving his cock into you like you belong to him. your hands are reaching for something— anything— before you grab a hold of a rickety spice shelf above you, the metal groaning under the tension. one of the containers threatens to fall with a particularly hard thrust, but you don’t pay it any attention.

you’re sure bucky’s gonna be upset with you later, but you can’t really bring yourself to care when he’s fucking you like he’s determined to ruin you.

the kitchen echoes with you moaning bucky’s name and his groans, the loud wet plapping of his dick driving into you almost drowning you both out. bucky’s touch is electric, his hands sliding up your sides to pinch at your nipples with a shit-eating smile.

"you think that asshole at table seven could fuck you this good?" he grits out as he watched you writhe under his hands, "you think he could have you moaning his name like this?"

"ugh— no. fuck, no— only you." you groan, "only you, bucky."

the sound of his name on your tongue has him doubling over. "fuck. that's right." he groans into your neck, teeth nipping at the sensitive skin of your earlobe.

your grip on the shelf tightens until your knuckles whiten and the rattling of the jars and containers gets drowned out by the sound of your heartbeat in your ears. heat coils low in your stomach, and your mouth falls open but no sound comes out— just desperate, broken breaths that tell him exactly how close you are.

bucky feels it— the way your walls flutter and clench around him— and his hand snakes down between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit with ease, pressing down and rubbing tight circles that make your whole body jerk.

“c’mon, sweetheart, give it to me.” he rasps, and you can feel him coming undone inside of you, “give it to me— wanna feel you fall apart on my cock.“

and you do— the coil of heat in your stomach snaps and your head tips back, hitting the cool metal of the counter. a loud, strangled cry leaves your lips when every muscle in your body goes numb, then shatters into waves of molten pleasure with a final thrust.

he lets out a small laugh when he feels you clench around him, coming on his cock. he twitches in you, nails digging into your waist as he drives himself into you, “fuuuuck—“

“cum in me, buck— please.” you whimper, starting to feel overstimulated. your hands reach up to tug at his hair, pulling him towards you, “need it— need you.”

his hips stutter at your plea, your voice breaking whatever restraint he had that was holding him back. a strangled groan tearing from his throat as he buries his face into your neck, his thrusts turning ragged and messy, almost desperate to fill you.

bucky spills into you, cum hot and thick against your cervix, coating your insides like an artist does to a canvas. you pull him to your mouth, swallowing his groans. he feels drunk on the way you’re clenching around him, his thrusts faltering as you ride out your orgasms.

when he finally stills, forehead pressed against yours, he wraps his arms around you, holding you as if you might slip away. and then his voice comes out, soft and unguarded— sweet.

“you’ll be the death of me, sweetheart.”

you let out an uneven laugh, still shaky from your climax. you press a warm kiss to the edge of his hairline just long enough for him to feel it.

“what a way to go, huh?”

the first thing buckys notices when he steps into the restaurant the next day is that it smells of coffee— and it never smells of coffee. the aroma is strong and oddly comforting, wrapping around him as he takes a deep breath.

the first thing he notices is you. you’re already moving between tables, apron tied around your waist and a small trolley full of cutlery standing idly beside you. the sunlight streaming through the windows catches your skin just right, and bucky can’t help the subtle smile that tugs at his lips.

and then you look up at him, all polite and composed, none of your usual snarkiness coating your voice.

“morning.” you say with a small smile, voice overwhelmingly casual, but there’s a softness in it that has bucky’s chest tightening.

“mornin’.” he replies, eyes flicking to a tray of paper coffee cups that sits idly on the bar counter, “you felt nice enough to buy us coffee?”

you shrug like you’re hiding a secret, “i was in a good mood this morning.”

and just like nothing out of the ordinary had happened, you go back to setting up the tables— placing cutlery and plates in their places, smoothing out the table cloths, and straightening up the chairs.

there’s a moment where bucky pauses to study you, his mind racing with the memory of you spread out and arching your back on the table you’re currently setting up, before he clears his throat and moves towards the kitchen.

from the pass, bucky can see steve, already knee-deep in prep work, chopping vegetables with precision. steve glances up at bucky as the kitchen door swings open, eyes already scanning his friend like he’s reading the aftermath of last night before he turns back to his cutting board.

bucky can sense something’s wrong before he even steps through the door. he tucks his bag under the counter and pulls his apron off of the hook, the strap settling into the back of his neck as he fastens it around his waist, preparing himself for whatever smirk and comment steve’s already lining up.

“have fun last night?” steve asks without looking up.

"hmm?" bucky's brow twitches as he opens the fridge and pulls out a tray of prepped ingredients. he tries to look indifferent, but he’s sure the way he tenses his jaw betrays him. “sure.”

he didn't tell steve he was doing anything last night. he just assumed steve would think he went home and sat on his sofa, cooked up some mac and cheese and nursed a beer or three— not that he had fucked you right where he was preparing vegetables.

steve nods like he’s interested, but then his knife pauses. he places it down carefully before he turns to bucky with an inquisitive eye, and bucky doesn’t miss the way steve stares for a moment too long.

“when i opened up this morning, old man pat came by and complained about a noise.” he mentions, his voice even and calm. “said it sounded like a cat screaming and meowing all night long.”

“weird.” bucky mutters under his breath. the memory of you coming undone on his cock plays in his mind on a loop, and you were definitely pretty loud. “probably alpine trying to catch rats near the dumpsters again.”

“yeah, probably.” steve narrows his eyes for a moment before he claps his hands and points to the door with his thumbs, “i’m gonna head over to the grocer to pick up some stuff. you mind watching the stock for me?”

“yeah, sure.”

steve undoes his apron and pulls it over his neck, hanging it back onto the hook. he dusts his hands off and pulls open the kitchen door, but pauses in the doorway.

“oh, and buck?” he calls.

bucky hums as he glances at steve.

“the next time you fuck the waitress in the middle of the restaurant, make sure the cameras are off.“

every muscles in bucky’s body tenses. heat crawls up his neck fast and hot, his eyes instinctively finding you— maybe to see if you heard that steve knows, or maybe to just calm himself down in this moment of immense horror— but you’re there, folding napkins with practiced motions and pursed lips, completely unaware that steve knows your dirty little secret.

bucky blinks, still frozen. he feels like he’s a kid caught with his arm elbow-deep in the forbidden cookie jar.

“and hey—“ steve casually adds as he pulls his jacket over his shoulders, “while you’re at it, next time, invite me.”

🏷️ @opheliabbarnes @its-in-the-woods @chateaubarnes @flockoff-featherface @earthsmightiestbenders @heldbybarnes @superbassbuck @iamthatonefangirl @wildflowersandvibranium @firingstars @unificsation @rosesaints @barnesonly @houseofhyde @blowingbarnes @umbreoni @emmathefanficgal

[kijrbds]

when they serve bisexual realness

[wildflowersandvibranium]

Older!Beefy!Bucky Barnes x Younger!Smaller!Reader

OLDER BEEFY BUCKY!!! THIS BUCKY RIGHT HERE !!!

THE BUCKY WHO...

Sends you the best but also worst selfies imaginable. Half his face in the frame, his chest more in the picture then his face , sometimes just his salt and peppered chin. “Got your coffee be home in 5. Kiss ya’ in 6” One night he’s in just sweats , large torso caging yours as you tease him about the mornings selfie , he grumbles, “What? You can see me in it , can’t you?” But then you catch him as he secretly tries to copy the angles you use—ending up with blurry close-ups of his blue eyes or a random shot of his shoulder.

His body is just about everywhere. On the couch as he sprawls out after an hard day dealing with snobby congressmen and know-it-all reporters. He takes up half the cushions , head in your lap , you rake your nails in his hair as he happily hums. In bed, he’s a weighted blanket that you can’t wiggle out from under no matter how hard you try. You love it. Even sitting at the dinner table, his arm draped over the back of your chair makes you feel so safe, folded up next to him in your little flannel pajama pants and your his t- shirt .

Speaking of his clothes. The size difference speaks up most there: his college hoodies swallowing you whole. His suit jackets and ivory button downs hang on you like dresses, sleeves near passing your wrists. He loves seeing you pad around the house barefoot in them, but eventually he’ll tug you back toward him , mid making morning coffee with a lazy grin, “Careful, baby. You keep wearin’ those, I’m not gonna let you leave.”

His calloused hands wrapping completely around the expanse of your thigh, his stride on those long legs so long you have to practically jog beside him. He secretly loves it when you have to tug on his arm silently pleading he slow down a bit.

He groans like an old man he is one when he sits down , stretches, or stands up. You laugh every time as he plops down on the sofa with a groan. Him seeing you fail to hide your smirk behind your has him leaning it to mutter, “Laugh it up, doll, you’ll get there too,” before yanking you into his lap , as he pokes and squeezes right under your ribs throwing you both in a laughing fit.

His age also shows in the way he worries. He checks the locks twice before slipping into bed, drives slower with you in the seat beside him then how he does with Sam in the car, and makes you walk on the inside of the sidewalk every single time. No argument. And when you do end up rolling your eyes or make a snarky comment, he just gruffs, “Its my job to make sure your taken care of babydoll.”

You’ll be sitting on the counter in the kitchen on a Friday night, date night! Your legs swinging off the edge as you stuff your face with any taste test or snack he slips your way as he stirs whatever is simmering in the pot in front of him. And when he can step away from the stove for a moment , he wraps his large hands around your legs tugging, till you’re settled right on the edge. He stands over, absolutely dwarfing you , rubbing to your waist , giving a teasing squeeze. He smirks leaning in for a quick peck, “Perfect height f'me.”

When he kisses you, rather it’s before work , a kiss goodnight or just wanting to get a taste of your shimmery lipgloss—He bends so far down , you have to grab onto his scruffy jaw or shirt to pull him closer. “Need a stool, sweetheart?” He teases, but before you can answer , he deepens the kiss swallowing your words.

There’s always a protective edge in the way he touches you too—his hand at the base of your neck , laced in your hair, guiding you through a crowd, his palm spread across your spine when you’re standing close at a party or sat together at a restaurant , his rough thumb pads rubbing circles on your thigh and hip bone when he notices you fidget.

Teases you by calling you “kid,” knowing it makes you go shy and try to hide the giggles that slip right out , at the name. He’ll smirk when you decide to snap back ,saying how "you're not a kid" and "your mature" , he’ll bend close, brushing his stubble along your cheek as he whispers, “Don’t worry, sweetheart. You’re plenty woman for me.”

He always notices the looks people give you two when you’re out together—the way they wonder what you’re doing with an older, rougher man like him. He’ll bend low, lips at your ear, “Just let ‘em wonder baby."

Even when he teases you about being younger, or smaller, there’s pride behind it. Pride that you choose him—the older, scarred, larger man—and look at him like he’s your whole world. Because he is.

bonus:

especially when you yank him down from his collar , for a searing kiss, tugging at his graying hair with those dainty hands of yours, whispering that you love how he covers you, not just physically but in your relationship, he realizes then maybe you do crave love all the things he thought would scare someone like you off.

[deedzreads]

[buckyfmd]

˚୨୧⋆.˚ vodka drunk? no! cockdrunk :p

daddy kink did make an appearance, i’m sorry (i’m really not) :P

your forehead glistened with pure bliss and sweat. leaned back, bucky made contact with the wooden headboard, groaning at the impact, but quickly swatting away the pain when your cunt clenched in a way that you may actually be a vice.

“if you keep doing that— fuck—” he cursed, his mouth grabbing and biting into the soft flesh of your chest.

and poor you, all you could do was utter out a hum— more like a broken moan— and bucky chuckles, his hips bucking up making you inhale sharply as if you were a serpent.

“oh you like that?” he cooed, repeating his action again, a hand reaching towards your face to caress the crimson cheek.

teeth sinking into the flesh of your lip, you bite back a moan, the rhythm of your hips excruciatingly slow to savour every ridge and vein of bucky’s cock. “need more, bucky, need more.”

you gasped, steady hands gripping your hips as he guided you with a stable tempo. steady— yet the increasing speed makes it hard for you not to squirm and fall apart on his lap.

“just like that, sweet girl,” bucky praised, “fuck yourself all silly on my cock.”

you clench your needy cunt again, pussy pulsing with anger and want, trying to squeeze him so tight, that you can memorise every vein. but this— this only tells bucky one thing, and one thing only. you were close.

bucky lets out a shaky exhale, his lips parted as he places wet, open kisses around your areola. “buck— daddy— please, ‘mgonna cum..”

you swear you could feel bucky’s erection grow even harder— if that was even possible— confident that it was from the name that just slipped out of your tongue like butter. like it was a normal occurrence. bucky’s grip on your hips grew even tighter, and it was sure to leave marks afterwards. maybe even a bruise. “call me that again.”

his ceruleans ambushed with darkness and lust, he thrusts up, making your eyes roll, inevitably making you see stars. “daddy, daddy—”

your words come to a halt when you feel it. the bang. the crash of your orgasm rippling through your veins as bucky fucks you through it.

your lips parted in a silent gasp, your eyes widened in pure pleasure.

“yeah? that good, baby?” bucky purrs, grinning like a kid opening presents when you give nothing but a plethora of moans and whispers as a response.

“look at you,” he chimed, hips digging into you, “such a sweet girl.”

“so full and drunk on my cock, you can’t even respond to a simple question.”

[imtaashu]

𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝙼𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝙸𝚝 𝙻𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝙷𝚎𝚛𝚜

✦ Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Reader ✦ Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Slow Burn to Softness ✦ Word Count: 2,527 ✦ Summary: Bucky hasn't touched pierogi since his mother died not from a lack of offers, but because no one ever got it right. He always refused. Always turned cold. Until you made them one night in the tower kitchen without knowing the weight they carried. And somehow, Bucky didn’t flinch. He ate. And every Avenger was left speechless.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ✦✦ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ✦✦ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

“Don’t.”

Sam paused, hand hovering over the covered plate in the fridge. “What’s this, man? Homemade pierogi?”

“Throw it out,” Bucky muttered, not even looking up from where he was oiling a knife.

Sam frowned. “Damn, okay”

“I said throw it out.”

He didn’t yell. But the bite in Bucky’s voice had the whole kitchen freeze. Nat arched a brow. Steve sighed, quiet and knowing. Wanda gently nudged the plate away from Sam with her powers.

Bucky stood and left without another word. He never ate pierogi.

Not on Polish holidays. Not at Wanda’s request. Not even when Steve once found an old photo of the Barnes family, his ma in an apron, flour on her cheek, arms wrapped around little James like he was her whole world.

No one pushed him after that.

Every time someone tried “Just a bite, Buck,” or “I followed an old Brooklyn recipe!” he went quiet. Shut down. Sometimes he pushed the plate away. Once, he dropped it in the trash without blinking.

It wasn’t cruelty. It was grief. That food belonged to someone who was gone. And if it didn’t taste like hers? It didn’t belong at all.

You found that out much later.

It started on a quiet Sunday morning one of those rare Tower days where no one was saving the world, getting blown up, or debating who left dishes in the sink.

You’d wandered into the kitchen in Bucky’s hoodie, hair messy, socks mismatched, humming some old tune you didn’t even realize he’d once loved.

And you cooked. No recipe. Just vibes. And memory.

Your grandmother used to make pierogi on slow days like this. The smell of sautéed onions, the dough soft between your palms. You’d learned by watching. Folding. Trying. Failing. Trying again.

You missed her. So you cooked.

Bucky walked in halfway through, towel slung over his shoulder from a morning workout. He stopped short.

You looked over your shoulder with a smile “Morning! You want some? It’s nothing fancy just pierogi, cheese and potato style.”

He froze.

Your smile faltered. “Too early for carbs?”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t move. His eyes stayed locked on the pan.

When he finally spoke, it was quiet “Where’d you learn to make that?”

“My grandma,” you said, gently, sensing something shift. “She used to hum while she folded them. I can’t do them nearly as good, but I try.”

He sat at the island stool slowly, like the weight of the air had changed.

You plated a few for yourself. Then paused “Want one?”

Bucky looked at you. Really looked.

And something in his face broke. Just for a second. He nodded.

You handed him the plate. No expectations. No teasing.

Just… kindness.

He took it with a tremble in his fingers. Watched the steam curl in the sunlight.

Lifted the fork. Took a bite. You didn’t speak. Didn’t even blink.

And when he exhaled like he hadn’t breathed in years you smiled softly and turned back to your coffee.

He finished every bite. The silence was warm. No one else walked in.

The universe held its breath. When he was done, he set the plate down with gentle hands.

“She used to hum that song too,” he said quietly. “While she cooked.”

You blinked. “Your mom?”

He nodded. “I haven’t eaten these since she died.”

You swallowed hard “Did I… was it okay?”

Bucky looked at you then. Like you’d done the impossible “You made it like hers.”

🫶 Later That Day…

The team found out at dinner. Sam screamed “You ATE THE PIEROGI?”

Nat actually dropped her fork. “Wait—he ate them?!”

Steve looked like he’d seen a ghost “He hasn’t touched them since 1943”

Wanda’s eyes went wide. “Did you make them exactly like his mom?”

“Nope,” you said simply, grinning at Bucky. “I made them like mine.”

He didn’t say anything. Just reached for your hand under the table. And held it like it was something sacred.

───────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ─────────

💌 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 💌

@nerdreader @starstruckfirecat @baguwagu @sunday-bug @murnsondock @7batsinatrenchcoat @overwintering-soldier @surebutwhy @embervelour @bananaminn @butterflies-on-my-ashes @thiscornerofmyfanficbrain @okaytrashpanda @xamapolax @aceofheartsssss @the-real-kellymonster @mars-in-a-cup @doilooklikeagiveafrack @maifics @cjand10 @aesthetic0cherryblossom @rosemary-beach-babe @pattiemac1 @chriszgirl92 @heyrosh @morphoportis @sugamilkey @dreammiiee @riah1606 @suri-de-city @ordelixx @galaxygoddess30 @magnificentreviewdreamer @flowstatefic @prk-hoon @multifandomrandomgirl @sashaiz01 @kodzuminx @sarapolare @sinistersnakey @greatenthusiasttidalwave @najdjjfjjdid @thelastbluecookie @squishyfruitloop @cammiwu @livia087 @ang0320 @boomyoulookingforthis @nvr-land @ruexj283 @sebastians-love 🫶🏻

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

───────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ─────────

[metal-armed-muse]

Imagine calling husband bucky ‘bro’ because he’s ignoring you in purpose just to annoy you…and his head snapped and said: ‘excuse me?’ Like he’s offended his whole life then he throws you on his shoulders and march on your bedroom then he shows you who runs the house😩🥵

oooh i love this, and had so much fun writing this. but sorry it kinda took so long 🥺

nsfw. 18+. mdni.

so imagine this. you’re on the couch, like a bored little cat. you’re scrolling your phone, trying to not watch your husband be stupid hot. but you are just a woman. and bucky’s right there, right within arm’s reach, and he’s ignoring you. you know it. he knows you know it. he’s doing it because you rolled your eyes at him earlier.

drama queen.

but anyway, you try nudging his shoulder, try whining his name, even lean across him to block the tv. nada. nothing. so yeah, one little “bro,” slips out.

his reaction is instant. his head snaps around like you just slapped him. brows arch and eyes wide with disbelief. he looks at you like you’ve just committed treason.

“excuse me?” it’s all low, like he’s genuinely offended, like the audacity of you. attention gained. but death wish signed.

before you can laugh or backtrack, he’s already on his feet, grabbing you so fast your squeak barely leaves your throat before you’re hoisted over his shoulder. he’s muttering about how you must’ve lost your damn mind, parading you down the hall while you’re kicking and swatting at his back.

“bucky—”

“don’t you ‘bro’ me, baby,” he growls, marching straight for the bedroom. “you think i’m your husband or your college roommate, huh? callin’ me bro? nah. i’ll remind you who the hell i am.” the way he says “baby” should not make your stomach flip when he’s this pissed, but here we are.

your fists drum weakly against his back, more out of protest for show, because you can already feel the heat curling in your belly, and you’re pretty sure you’re wet already. all it takes is him manhandling you like a sack of potatoes and suddenly you’re dripping.

he kicks the bedroom door shut, tosses you onto the mattress, you land with a bounce. his body looms over you.

“bro,” he mocks, pinning your wrists above your head with the metal arm. his other hand slides down, fingers over your waist, your hip, before squeezing hard enough to make you gasp. “you ever call me that again and i’ll fuck you stupid until you can’t even remember the word.”

“bucky, i—”

“say it.” he presses closer, mouth grazing your ear. “say it again. call me bro.”

he’s giving you an out. you know it and your throat goes dry. but you still whisper it, just to see what happens. “bro.” because, hello? brain is mush at this point.

he laughs, and you feel it rumble through his chest. “wrong fuckin’ answer.”

his mouth catches yours, and his tongue slips in claiming yours, teeth tugging at your lip. his hand leaves your hip just long enough to shove your pants down. movements impatient now.

“gonna make you beg, sweetheart,” he mutters against your mouth, breaking the kiss only to drag his lips down your throat, biting. you’re sure he’s left enough marks for you to cover up with foundation tomorrow. he definitely finds that one spot you hate because it always takes forever to fade. you should probably make him buy more foundation just for this.

“gonna make you cry for your husband.”

you moan his name, and arch your back. the metal arm still has your hands in its grip. but he frees himself with his other hand easily, now pumping his cock. he makes a show of dragging it through your wet folds, making you squirm.

“this what you wanted?” he taunts, grinding against you. “actin’ out so i’ll put you in your place? fuckin’ brat.”

you whimper, try to buck your hips up, but he slams you back down with his weight. he holds you there, smirking down at you like he’s already won.

“nah, sweetheart. you don’t get to move until i say. you don’t get to come until i say. and you sure as hell don’t get to call me anything else.”

when he finally thrusts into you, you almost see stars. it’s all at once, so deep into you, the stretch knocking the breath right out of you. your cry is muffled by his mouth, swallowed down as he fucks into you hard.

the bed frame moves back with every thrust, hitting the wall, and your cunt clenches around him.

“whose pussy is this, huh?” his voice is ragged, forehead pressed to yours, sweat already slicking his temples. “say it. tell me it’s mine.”

“y-yours,” you choke out, your wrists straining at his grip.

“that’s right.” thrust. “mine.” thrust. each thrust is sharp enough to make your eyes roll back. his free hand grabs your jaw, forces you to look at him, his pupils blown wide.

“aw, look at you,” he teases. “so fucked out already. my dumb little wife can’t even keep her insults straight. you gonna apologise? or you want me to keep ruining you until you remember how to behave?”

your answer comes out as a broken moan of his name, and that only makes him grin. smug bastard. you hate him. you love him. but mostly you hate how good he is at this.

“good girl. scream for your husband. let the neighbours know.”

oh, you do. over and over again, when he teases your clit until you cum. your throat is raw and your body is nothing but a shaking, oversensitive mess beneath him.

“good girl. that’s my good, filthy little wife.” the praise mixed with degradation makes you dizzy.

but he doesn’t stop, he doesn’t even slow down, fucking you right through it with his eyes fixed on you. he doesn’t let up until he’s spilling inside you, with his chest pressed to yours, and his sweat dripping down your neck.

and even then, even when you’re both panting, he smirks against your lips, “call me bro again, and i’ll fuck you stupid in every room of this house just to remind you who runs it.”

you’re too far gone to argue, just nodding dumbly with your cheek pressed to his shoulder, knowing damn well he means it.

and safe to say, the word is deleted from your vocabulary, and you’ll never call him bro again. not unless you want to spend the whole next day limping around with his smug ass grinning at you. but let’s test that theory later, yeah?

dividers by @/cursed-carmine — thank you!

[flockoff-featherface]

"..interesting way to wake me up, pretty girl.." (or, bucky barnes and his gorgeous tits)

bucky barnes x f! reader

a/n: GOOOOD MOOOOORRRNIIIING (it's afternoon.) (i've been thinking ab this aaaaalllll night.) i bring more for the people bc i am. a woman of the people. tagging: @chateaubarnes, @unificsation, @houseofhyde, @opheliabbarnes, @umbreoni

content: smut ! so much smut. seriously don't like don't read my loves. MDNI! bucky barnes has gorgeous tits, some somno, orgasm denial (briefly), thigh riding, creampie i think?? ish???

okay. sleepy mornings with bucky. it's barely dawn, and he's still slightly asleep. you're tracing small circles along his skin, and a slightly evil thought suddenly comes to you - how would bucky react to his tits being sucked on?

so you're sat there now, head slightly lifted from his chest as you assess his.. sleepiness. he's fairly deep in, you figure, and probably won't fully react, not yet at least. you start by roaming your hands round his chest anyway, just to fully gauge how deep a sleep he's in right now

and he's barely moving, until you ever so slightly run a nail over his "pecs" tits. then, his breath hitches and his eyebrows scrunch up slightly, only to relax again. so you do what any sane person would do, wrapping your sweet lips round his gorgeous tits. just feeling them round in your mouth, not doing anything quite yet

okay, and he's so soft in your mouth, but his nipples kinda perk just a little? not enough for you, of course, so you do what anyone else would do, duh.

you start sucking, softly, sweetly sucking. nothing too crazy yet, just enough to harden, before you switch tits, each one receiving the same level of love and attention of course!

still no real reaction from him. disappointing. this experiment is NOT going in the direction you wanted.

sigh.

so you try doing what he does, of course! pulling. you're pulling with your mouth now, as one of your hands softly rolls his other nipple in between your fingers, twisting and teasing.

finally! he begins to stir slightly, gulping back something. you can feel his metal arm wrapping round the curve of your ass as he (still slightly sleepy) pulls you in closer

he's sighing, still in his sleep, and you're continuing your relentless 'attack', switching from nipple to nipple as a thin thread of saliva trails between them.

unsatisfied with his.. sleepier state, you nibble softly on his right nipple. not enough to actually hurt, but enough for him to wake up suddenly, grabbing you properly now,

"jesus doll…"

and so here you are, saliva dripping down your mouth, over his tits, batting your sweet lashes up at him, all doe-eyed and needy.

and jesus christ is he hard. painfully hard, even.

"..interesting way to wake me up, pretty girl.."

so now his metal arm's wrapped round you in a vice-like grip, as he grinds up into you. aaaannndd surprise surprise! both of you are wet - shorts and boxers who? they're off. he's pulling them off with need, with urgency with speed.

and with his other hand, he's pulling your head back to his nipples again,

"c'mon doll, jus' like y'did a minute ago.. yeah? or have ya forgotten already.."

see, it's a whole other thing with him awake. his teasing comments and reactions only have you throbbing over him an- wait! what's he doing???

"naughty… gotta learn ya lesson here…"

he's pushing you over onto his thigh, and you're whining and pouting at him, as he kisses the corners of your lips before whispering into your ear,

"what? you think you're the only one who can tease?"

"buuuuckkkkk…"

you're whining and sighing, shaking your head as he rolls your hips over his thigh. and you're so so sensitive, so each movement he makes, pulling you over his thigh has you going insane

and he's revelling in your sweet moans, he's teasing and chuckling, all whilst you try to angle yourself better on him,

"awhhh, what's the matter, baby? didn't want this?"

and you're not quite sure anymore. sure, you wanted him awake, and in a… similar position. but in you, not teasing you as he pumps his cock to the sight of you, getting off on his thigh

and you're so, so, so close now! just a few more pushes and you're almost there, you can almost see it! you're arching and moaning and your gasps are faster and needier, panting as he continues, all until-

"buck!!!! why'd ya stop…"

small tears brim your eyes, dropping onto your lashes as he pulls you off his thigh, inspecting your juices over it. he's sighing and shaking his head, before pulling you over his cock,

"c'mon pretty girl - no waste, remember?"

and you're nodding your head, thoughts barely there as all your hazy brain can think of is him, his sweet voice, his low laugh, his huge arms, his perfect self

and you're back to that aching, throbbing sensation briefly, until he drags his tip through your folds, teasing you just a little bit, before he pushes up into you, filling you entirely.

late night sex is one thing. morning sex? whole other situation, his arms locking you in place with a strength replenished by the night's rest,

"c'mon gimme those pretty sounds now baby.."

you're sighing into his mouth as he kisses you, his forehead lightly bumping yours, still thrusting up into you

he's speeding up now, each thrust getting messier and messier as he moans back into your own mouth, before pulling away.

as he pulls away you have a wonderful idea.

after all, how better to fully test your experiment, than when he's wide awake, fully in you?

so here you are again, lips teasing one nipple, sucking, wrapping your tongue round, pulling and nibbling softly, switching from nipple to nipple as he gasps and groans, throwing his head back in sheer, pure ecstasy

so now of course, you're in control, setting the pace as you play with him, tease him till he's close. you can feel it - the way he shifts inside you slightly, the way his hips angle a little better and oh dear. you've not seen this coming.

he's regaining control of the situation, and you're seeing stars again, letting go of the nipple that was in his mouth, the cool string of saliva dribbling between the two of you. a reminder of where this all began, of course.

he's unrestrained now, slamming into you with a force almost unrecognisable. and you're so, so close, that you can only beg him to continue, beg him not to stop, to let you actually release.

lucky for you he's fixated on needing you then, hmm?

naturally, given that you were just, so, worked up, you cum first, eyes rolling back as he pulls you in closer, a sound somewhere between a gasp and a scream, and maybe a vocalisation somewhere of 'bucky!' in there, clawing out of your throat as he just. keeps. going. you're seeing stars, having gushed out over him now, your soft walls opened just for him as he, too, pulls you in close, cumming hot and fast, spilling ropes all over you.

you both stay as you are for a minute, with him still buried deep in you, and your body pressed flush against his as you press loose kisses along his collarbone, resting your head against his chest.

he dips a finger down into the ring formed around where the two of you meet, swirling his tongue round it before dipping back into the thick paste and pressing it against your lips. you eagerly welcome his intrusion, licking and sucking slightly weaker than usual, fully fucked out.

you're so close to sleep, as you mumble out your final thoughts,

"mmm… y'sound real pretty buck… 'specially when im on y'tits…"

-before conking out, fully asleep on his chest as his cock twitches again, still buried in you <3

xoxo, ro~

plus reactions from the bwa server:

im love my friends <3

[feelingdozy]

FOOL FOR YOU - Bucky Barnes

Summary: Cooking dinner for the team involves you against knives- and it so happens that you end up giving yourself a cut because bucky, being the handsome man he is, walks in the kitchen as you pick one up. Hidden feelings and worried bucky don't clash very well, especially when it's a reoccurring issue.

Warnings: 18+ friends to lovers, love confessions, fluff and crack, oblivious feelings, requited crush, public events, accidents, description of blood, reader cuts her finger, medbay visits, knives/cutlery, multiple injuries, hitting her head, drink spills etc, forceful/aggresive man (not bucky), team shenanigans, porn with a good amount of plot, p in v, fingering, oral (f!rec), heavy makeout, size kink, praise kink, creampie, unprotected sex, cursing, rough-ish sex, marking, light bondage

req: I need Bucky with the prompt "let me patch you up", the trope "friends to lovers" and please do nsfw... read full

w/c: 6,2k ･ a03 ･ prompt list ･

You had been fine. Had was the keyword there. Until he walked in. Strands neatly over his face, unintentional framing that led your eyes straight to his, the rough stubble that led down his jaw and made his face even more jaw-dropping.

You were cutting vegetables. You were doing it neatly, too. The team had requested all different kinds of foods this time for lunch, so you piled them up to lead into a vote, that led into another, and another- eventually you had given up with an exhausted sigh, announcing you'd combine them all.

Yelena gave you a wide grin, Bob a shy smile. Ava's shoulders perked up, Bucky silent as always just huffed out, and Alexei boomed with laughter.

So that had you here, cutting up a salad, preparing spaghetti with a special 'surprise' sauce as Alexei had added, along with mac and cheese as if one pasta wasn't enough to satisfy.

It wasn't annoying per-say- just frustrating, clumsily dropped the butter, spilling a drop of milk when it lingered away from the pot, dropping a batch of noodles.

Now you were here, finally on the salad. The last piece of the holy trinity of disaster foods they'd set you up to make, almost like they were plotting to find you dead by the time it was ready.

Starting with cucumbers, peeling, then cutting and adding them neatly to the big bowl with the dust of your hands and a boast at how good you did so far.

The next was some tomato's, cut them- somewhat.. nicely, juice everywhere but still got in the bowl.

Lettuce before the sauce since you had a picky group of people who hated the thought of more leaves in food than necessary.

You thought you had finally cleared it. Past the point of horrible mistakes and no returns.

But then Bucky Barnes walked it.

Graced with a compression shirt that said post-training hunger and sweatpants that gave much more imprint than you wanted to tease yourself with. You tried not to.

Not to look down. Not to look at him at all.

But your heart raced. So did the tips of your fingers, and your cheeks flushed at the sight of him so casual and laid back around you, you swore he was humming a tune-

"Shit!" You exclaimed as you looked down to find a good amount of pain from below- oh fuck, oh fuck you were ridiculous!- you cut your finger cutting lettuce thinking about your teammate and friend undressing you!

"Are you okay, y/n- oh my god-" he, too, had the same reaction looking down at the mildly nauseating pool of blood there on the cutting board, and it might've tripped your gag reflex to have you heaving dry.

"Bucky-" you attempted to get out, "I've got you, stay calm okay? 'gonna get some paper towel real quick then take you down to medbay."

He was surprisingly...calm. But you quickly realized he wasn't- he was keeping it together for you. His shoulders were tensed, and he was hastily opening and closing cabinets like he was searching for a lost key to a very important diary, or top secret files.

He was mumbling under his breath, weren't you ever the annoying one-

"Found it. Give me your finger, sweetheart" blood loss and nicknames combined almost made you faint on the spot. "Let me patch you up."

You looked away as he dealt with the overwhelming view in front of him, a silly, stupid mistake.

"How'd you do this, hm?" There was no mocking tone to his voice, only a pinch of genuine worry.

You sighed in embarrassment, "Cutting lettuce 'nd got distracted from you opening the fridge.. need to cut back on those brownies mister"

He chuckled lightly at that, one of his palms landing on the plain of your back as he led you to the elevator.

"Do you feel lightheaded?" He asked.

"A little," you admitted, "The blood- blood isn't an easy sight either. Not my best moment."

He started to rub your back soothingly, trying to distract with light conversation-

What had you done today so far?

Plans for the week?

Did Valentina give you any new missions yet or just complain and it went in one ear and came out the other?

It became easy.. until the elevator dinged an unpleasant chime at your predicament, and you found yourself treacherously on a bed getting looked at.

Now you really felt sick- the pain amplified, whimpering while they checked it out.

Then suddenly, you were being wrapped in arms. Warm arms. Big arms. His arms.

"Shh, don't look, you don't gotta look." He cooed, rubbing the back of your head gently.

Your brain was running miles per hour and it definitely wasn't from your finger. What was this? What was this man doing. Bucky Barnes?

Silent lady killer, gruffs and groans, stubble and amazing hair after sleepless nights- was cradling you in his arms? Oh my god, oh my god, oh my-

"That was quick, wasn't it?" Pulled away from his chest, you almost sobbed to see the bright lights reminiscing of a doctor's office and the smell of disinfectant flood your senses instead of his cologne that drove you crazy. Inside and out sort of crazy.

"Y-yeah, very quick" you commented with a wag of your finger, now looking at the bandage securely wrapped around it better than the paper towel substitute. But.. you sort of wanted it back. Because Bucky had done it for you-

You were insane.

Over the next few days, Yelena could tell you were acting.. weird. Too clumsy, too jumpy, and constantly on edge.

"I can't tell if you're very pent up or mentally unstable" she announced when she found you crouched in the kitchen, trying to find the garbage bags someone had stuffed way too deep in there for comfort.

"Mm, maybe both" you replied back, trying to have a sense of humor, yet she wasn't wrong.

Since that incident, you had gotten either Alexei or John to stir something together, but they always came out in disastrous mixtures and disappointing flavours that never combined exactly right.

Luckily, since then there hasn't been a screw-up so damaging to your reputation.

That was until he walked in again.

Perfectly timed, handsomely dressed, and strikingly distracting for someone with their head under a cabinet.

"Whatcha looking for?" Gravelly, and definitely curious, he witnessed you bang your head in an attempt to look up at him.

"F-fuck!" You'd done it again, except more embarrassing with two people watching, and a second time with Bucky watching.

He was immediately on alert, Yelena watching in interest as his body moved almost instinctively to your lowered form that was, in her case, very funny to watch struggle out from the small space that didn't allow any good amount of room.

You rubbed the spot that ached and throbbed at the hard whack it had taken to the bottom of the sink, Bucky kneeling down to carefully execute removing you from down below.

Huffing and nodding her head in I told you so, "Jesus! How the hell did you do that-" Yelena nearly yelled, very concerned, and very scared for your well-being at this point.

"Are you okay? Is it hurting?" Bucky asked as he parted your hair for any sign of a bad bump, or bleeding- anything that said otherwise of good.

Yelena watched in silent contemplation as you and him made small talk, almost familiar in a way that set off red flags from the get-go

She started to ponder.

She remembered the story from the last time, that suddenly, when Bucky walked in you had lost your concentration and ended up slipping up on your hold.

And now- he was back, and you were losing it again.

She had her eureka moment. And she was not going to let it go.

"Here, let me help," Bucky asked while holding out his hand for you to take, with you hissing out a strained okay.

"Let me take you to the infirmary again." He left no room for argument, yet you still tried to pester.

"Bucky it's really okay-"

"Let him take you!" Yelena barged in, weirdly boisterous and cheerful.

"I mean, if you really don't want to take her, I can, but-"

"I've got her." Matter-of-factly, He was already leading you there at this point, and you were stuck in his reaffirming hold. Though suffering through the pain and kissing your teeth while holding back grunts- you still had a hard time not becoming a flustered mess with his hand safely plastered around your waist.

It was gentle, yet firm, his cologne close and airy. It was both personal- whatever soap he used and something cedar or woodsy, filling your nostrils in the best way ever. Maybe that alone would do the job of making you feel better.

"How's it going there, two-timer?"

"Hah hah. Funny" he laughed a deep chuckle at that, taking in your shrunken, injured form again.

"How d'you keep getting into this situations?" He questioned, nothing mean nor rotten. He was questioning your very valuable ability to make yourself an embarrassment in front of him.

"I- uh-" but before you could even scrape up an answer, you had showed up at the medbay.

"Guess this is our stop for a second time. C'mon, I'll come with you again"

"oh, bucky, you really don't have to-"

"I want to. Promise"

"You're joking"

"Bob. See. You saw right? That was real?"

"that was very real, Yelena" they both whispered from the corner, eyes peeled to bucky escorting you in while promising to 'keep you very, very safe'. At least that's how Yelena put it.

"How long has this-"

"She's done this before. Every. time. he. walks. in."

"Every time?"

"Every time Bob." She was deadpanned, and deathly serious.

And when the two of you came back out, laughing, Yelena held her chest like a heart attack would strike her next- maybe it would with the view she was witnessing in front of her.

"Oh my god" Bob mumbled, more to himself than Yelena when he caught the little whispers of conversation here and there when he focused enough.

"Yeah, can't believe a second time..."

"very clumsy, always there to help..."

"Are they flirting?" She asked, eager.

"Worse."

"Worse? What could be any worse than that!"

"They don't know that they're doing it" She dramatically sighed while rubbing her temples, debating on just going up there and really putting it into the two of you.

"And it's just simple conversation- like neither of them know they're totally down bad-"

"NO!"

"Did you hear that?" You squinted when you scanned the area, bucky still accompanying you to your bedroom.

"Hear what?"He replied, feigning innocence

"I swear I heard a scream.. kinda sounded like Yelena."

He shrugged, "the usual Yelena type of activities" He hid the corner of his lips perking up well, as he knew for a fact it was her.

Well, he knew it was her and Bob- and heard everything they had whispered. Not yet. He convinced himself, not yet.

What he didn't know, was that the moment would come sooner than he thought- very soon.

When a gala came around, and that required you proper, cleaned up, and etiquette that has people's mouths down, flabbergasted.

But that wasn't going to be simple. In fact, it was going to be near impossible while James Buchanan Barnes was strutting around in a fancy suit, slicked back hair-

You were already salivating just thinking about the sight.

You tried to be as normal as you could within the time before it was set to happen. The few hours earlier had been spent away from him, in fact, solely with Yelena and Bob chatting away in your room about nonsense.

You and Yelena had swapped makeup, both doing different styles while also multitasking each other's while Bob sat and watched curiously or scrolled on his phone.

By the time you three were finished, it had already rolled around to the evening- your room was blasting music as you finally scooped the dress that had been laying on your bed all day to put it on, Yelena whistling when you came out the bathroom.

"Yeah?" You asked with an embarrassed little tremble to your lip as you grinned at their shared reaction.

"Yes." They said in unison, Bob patting some areas down while Yelena circled for the zipper on the back to do it up all the way.

The dress you picked had not-so-coincidentally matched the blue of Bucky's deep colored eyes, leaning toward a dark powerful blue that definitely spoke out. Doing your hair the way you liked it, you picked some of Yelena's accessories to spice up the lower cut that revealed a bit of your chest, leaving most to the imagination.

Both their eyes sparkled when you twirled, finished and gleaming within the dimly lit room that held two bundles of absolute excitement and enthusiasm.

"You girls ready? Bob asked while tightening his tie in the mirror while running a hand habitually through his half-slicked locks that ran a little frayed at the front, one sliver very apparent and giving him a gentle formal look.

"Ready!" You exclaimed as Yelena fixed her strays, Bob helping her put the outer coat of her suit on in practised precision.

"Ready m'lady's" she answered following behind your trail, finally exiting the stuffy warmth, evidence of your hour long hangout to the fresh conditioned air of the tower.

You all took a deep breath, both of nerves and the newly felt breeze before going to the elevator and heading down to where Val had planned it.

The first reaction to the area dressed and decorated left you all a little stunned before stepping out, the crowd apparent, and looking very royally scary and rich.

Rich in a literal sense that was- in a way that both your friends had gotten swiped by your side in no time by investors and top payers that they had no choice but to step aside with because Val had made it very clear that if you didn't- you didn't want to know what the consequences would be.

So you were left on the floor with a bunch of middle aged heafty men, and wealthy men all alone. So what does someone do in this situation? Very obvious.

"What can I getcha?"

The bar. Luckily most seats were unoccupied, and you ordered your usual that had you sipping every so often while people watching with a bored expression. Nothing alcoholic. Just something to pass the time.

It was nice, for the most part. Squeaky tiles and overdone little details that meant Val had it down very precisely to whoever was in charge of decorating.

You observed the different groups of people, mostly white-haired and delicately sewn and tailored on the arms that read off as prestigious, almost scarily so. Until you saw him

Like you knew, brown hair slicked back dangerously, stubble not shaved but grown preciously, with an edge that made him look even hotte-

Gentlemanly. Yes. And not very, very, hard to resist pouncing on. His jaw flexed as he spoke, and you could only imagine the gruff tone mixed with the softness of his speech. His muscles fit the suit perfectly.

Like it was sin, they stretched the fabric over every delicate line and bicep and that you clenching the glass in your hand tightly. It was nicely spanning for the expanses of his chest too, built torso and all were very exposed, very obvious to anyone who looked at the way it listened to his command and made him broad and delicious.

Somehow, someway, like he could sense the catch of your breath and the spike of lust and adrenaline flowing newly through you, he met your eyes.

His gaze softened, and his lips curled in tune. A smile reserved solely for you, and you gave one back. Like everything around you had zoned out, you were only focused on the man making his way toward you.

And with that came disaster.

It followed you everywhere. Especially towards the ones that definitely shouldn't have had to go through the misery of your heart and your weary hands.

Because when you raised from your chair to meet him halfway, you were met not with the crinkle in his eyes nor the lingering of his scent.

You were met with the big chest of an investor who got in your path, and suffered consequences when your drink had split all down the freshly dry-cleaned and ironed white shirt that now was stained, colored and ruined.

Eyes widening immediately, you went into shock as he started to curse off at you, muttering countless apologies as he went on.

The anger in his eyes never dulled, instead worsened when he gripped your arm with more strength then needed, unnecessary and outright scary when he started to shake you and explain dumbly like you were a toddler in need of a lesson.

That's when Bucky stepped in. A hand firmly rested on his shoulder, making the older man stop in his tracks and turn back to be met with the darkened gaze of the winter soldier targeted towards him.

You wouldn't say it was scary, no, that's not the right word. He was heavily intimidating. One of the men that you don't want to get on his nerves because you know for a fact he's not going to let it slide no matter what.

And with that, the man let go of you and led himself off somewhere stumbling like he was the one nursing a drink.

"Sweetheart? You alright?" You watched the scene dazed, and coming back when he made it to your side.

Some people heard the commotion and stopped to stare, most resuming their talks and looking away instinctually when seeing Bucky at the scene of the crime.

It didn't make him feel ideal, but in this situation he was glad that there were no eyes on you to make it a huge deal that you'd have to poorly clean up after with sullen apologies and Val's frustrating lectures.

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak up at the moment.

"Let's go back to your room alright? Get you cleaned up some." When he said that, you finally looked down to see some residual of the liquid splattered on your hand where it once was, like evidence it all happened.

You let him blindly lead you, now listening to the hum of the elevator in comfortable silence.

"Did you.. uh-" he started, almost seeming hesitant to end.

"Wear that dress for a particular reason? Looks familiar."

You huffed a laugh, and nodded lightly.

"Yeah. I did"

"You did?" As he replied, you looked up at him, and he was of course already looking.

"I think you know."

"I-" he almost gulped. "I think I do."

The tension was palpable, but struck down when you took his collar in your fist and pulled him down.

He met your lips with no resistance, and whether it was hunger or devotion, both felt the same at the moment.

The moment you merged with his, everything about him was heavenly- your senses flooded with the way his tongue slid over your bottom lip, nipping to get it in your mouth, reining dominance as he explored you.

Your hands found his waist where they could, chest to chest now, heads slotted perfectly as the movements got sloppier. Fueled, he cradled your jaw and pulled you even closer. While his thumb absentmindedly traces you, you're fumbling with a crooked brow when he's still deepening it, slow and reverent.

His steady hands ground you to earth while he devours you, he's lightheaded when you both pull back and your breathing ragged.

A little breathy, he laughs when he presses your forehead to his, just taking in the contact and the resolved heap of unsolved feelings out in the open.

"I think you like me, Barnes."

"You sure?" He mumbles with a smirk, lost in the way you're still holding onto him like you never want to let go. Newsflash, you don't.

Still a little dazed, you have no motion to hold your words back now. "Unless it was just the dress?"

You question with a raised brow, and he chuckles loudly.

"Mm.. dunno- but it's definitely helping." His eyes scan down your figure, leaving nothing to be hidden as he takes it all in.

Whether the kiss or the view, he doesn't know, he's already half-hard.

"Did y'pick it just to tease me, sweetheart?" He asks as if he's not blown away and hiding his boner in the confines of tight dress pants

"Bucky, for the love of god, please take me to my room right now" As much as he tries to hide it, he's sinister grin throws the work away.

The request makes stutter for a second internally, mind running faster than he can process.

He takes one of your legs and lifts it up against his waist before pressing another kiss onto your lips, finding himself perfectly close to your ear to whisper,

"Jump" And so you do.

He holds your weight up effortlessly, no struggle nor tug of the arm as he leads you to your room with practised precision and with the speed of a man on a mission.

Legs curled around his beefy hips, you can pretty much feel every flaunt of his imprint against the open area of your underwear, heat infectious and utterly undoing when you accidentally grind into him chasing for the unknown friction and he grunts back with a twitch in his slacks.

When he finally makes it to your room, he's opening it hastily and plopping you softly down on the plush of your bed, taking in the image of you a little flushed, hair straying, makeup wiped off some and stained preferably to his lips.

"You're truly a vision, sweetheart." He's mumbling before reaching for you again, kissing you harder, messier, no attention to the way teeth may clatter and tongues might tangle. He's searching for that.

The ruin. The undone. And he hasn't even started.

His hands find their way down your figure, feeling every curve and inch of skin hiding underneath the masterpiece that's your outfit you picked that had his attention away from those old men and glittery women.

"Can I take this off you?" You nod, watching the fabric slip down when he reaches behind you to unzip it, raising your hips so he can fully pull it off before placing it with care on your chair.

"Fuck" he's licking his lips when you're below him, bra only and underwear soaked when he presses down right where you need him, arching into his touch.

He's kneading the padding of your breasts before kissing down your collarbone, biting and licking the skin to hopefully have purplish spots bloom later on to remind him how he tasted every inch of you.

"Bucky, need you s'bad" your reaching out to tug on his tie, and he listens.

"You gonna be a good girl for me?" The way he says it is intoxicating, gruff and dark. He knows exactly what it does to you.

"Yes, yes please-" In the midst of your pleas, he's settling down on the bed to perch himself between the plush and empty space of your thighs.

They were lonely until his breath fanned inside, teasing you devilishly with a couple kitten licks before his teeth dip in to the sensitive area, eliciting an unexpected yelp while you squirm, though it doesn't do anything except food for thought because his grip is firm-

You couldn't close your legs no matter how much you'd had liked to, when his muscles tense so nicely to keep you from hiding anything from him.

He works his way up, leaving the damp spot to grow, almost enveloping the whole piece. And when he finally, finally rubs small circles on your clit, you're immediately whining out for more.

"Bucky, god- I need more, please"

"You need s'more sweets?" Before you can respond, a finger is already tugging the underwear down your leg to find your glistening cunt in front of him, leaving nothing to the imagination now.

And suddenly, he's hungry- his fingers work as fast as his brain processes it, slipping past your entrance easily as your back lifts to chase the friction.

And when his tongue doubles down, you're almost screaming his name for the compound to hear.

"Fuck, you taste so fucking good sweatheart."

"Thank you, thank you" your babbling out when his fingers deliciously curling up like he's already memorized the spot that has you keening, lips latching onto your sensitive bud as he sucks first gently, then harshly when the force of the finger picks up to have you fleeing around.

The sight makes him delirious- his dick is fully hard, rubbing almost pathetically against the softness of your mattress and groaning into your taste mostly because eating you out is helping him get there. He could likely come undone without you even needing to lay a hand on him.

Though it helps when your hands find his hair, not caring about the style and how the gel's firmly in place. No, your latching onto what you can, clawing while holding on for dear life and bringing him closer, both riding him out and backing away.

"Soak my face, you're not getting away from me til you cum." Pussy-drunk and with no regrets, he's urging another one of his fingers into you, and two together are utterly huge. You're wondering just how much he has to stretch you open, the image of the cock hiding behind zipped up pants has you questioning how your sanity's going to be after this.

With how wet you are, it doesn't feel like a challenge to have them both moving in tandem, but the low, buildup in the pit of your stomach isn't showing any mercy when slow stripes and teasing blows of air to your clit turn into the most leg-trembling head you've ever recieved when he finds your clit and never lets it go.

He knows you're close, knuckles never letting up on his hair, and the way you're grinding yourself into him as he's moaning- the vibration echoes back, making your rhythm stutter. A cry erupts from your throat, and your toes are curling almost numb.

Clit overstimulated and that spongy spot within you being targeted has the world fading, literally at his fingertips when he curls perfectly and as you soundlessly cumming to his command.

"Doing so perfect for me, sweetheart, christ." He's climbing up you, shaky but recovering when he collides with you again, tasting yourself and seeing the mess you had made when you feel it all over and integrated into his stubble like an oil he had put in.

"How the fuck are you so good at that?" Your voice is strained in a way that makes him huff out a laugh, and not to admit he's flattered that you find him so daringly good.

"Just.. passionate?" He replies while you're laughing back.

And then you feel something. Undeniably huge and aching up against you, the collar of his suit a little soaked with remnants of the night and his tie crumpled, beard glistening.

"you-"

"I think I might've came my pants already" he says it so casually, it almost sounds wrong.

"I want you, Bucky" because you can tell what's going through his head. the contemplation. The aftermath. But you want him on you.

Literally.

"r'you sure, sweetheart?" It's smitten almost, nervously so.

"Yes Buck, and if you don't unzip those pants I'm going to start humping you through them" he's making quick work now, watching him undress while you unstrap your bra as you laugh.

Except your face drops and your eyes widen when he's shirtless, and even moreso when his pants disappear.

You find yourself led downward, landing on every surface of a scar, scrape and bruise. To you, he's beautifully open to you right now and that means more than anything.

On the other hand, you're drooling because of how good he looks, all that's been hidden underneath those tight shirts and multiple layers. And you look down to be met with the most enticing sight of all.

"God Bucky, you're damn built- and holy fuck you're huge.. is that even going to fit.." you're mumbling the last part to yourself, but he grins because he hears it anyways.

"I'll go slowly, sweetheart, don't worry. You tell me if anything's wrong, alright?" Your heart thumps loudly when you realize how real it's becoming, and everything is swimming inside you with anticipation.

He pumped himself once, then twice as he was already red and aggravated- he was weirdly sensitive, too, the tip madly dripping pre-cum while his eyelids were dusted, looking back at yours to find the same lust-evident look.

Glassy and divine, he had lined up against your cunt, rubbing the tip to collect your juices and catching on your clit as you hissed.

"Please, Buck. I can take it, be your good girl." You whined, inching closer and closer desperately that was nothing short of lewd.

"Yeah? You can?" He growled, starting to push himself in.

"Mhm, yes- yeessss" the stretch was genuinely mouth-watering and almost borderline painful with his length and your pussy trying to accommodate it.

"You're doing so well, sweets- fuck you're squeezing me so tight" his breathes were deep and focused, thrusting almost to the hilt. His hands splayed themselves on your hips, almost bruising in a way that had you lightheaded with delight.

The sensation of his dick reaching every crevice and corner of you, so much so that when he laid a hand on your lower stomach, he'd pride you-

"Can feel myself all the way in, you're doing s'good, shit" the pressure was amazing, almost overbearing when he began a steady rhythm that had you doubling down on his name, a mantra that sang like music to his ears.

"s'pretty like this, below me with my cock deep in you-" when you had gotten used to the sheer size and girth the man had inside you, he bent down to take your nipple into his mouth, nursing it like he would a cup of his favorite coffee.

Nipping, your moans got louder when he bit it cheekily and thrusted upwards like he knew where to aim, hips flush against you and sweat beading down both your foreheads as sex and slaps of skin filled the room steadily.

He hasn't displayed his size properly- not yet, so when he runs his hands down the lengths of your arms to obtain your wrists with one palm while holding them together, everything kicks into overdrive.

Suddenly the way he's sucking on your breasts makes you squirm even harder. The way he holds onto your hands, firmly and you can see the outstretched outlines of his built veins that curve along his forearms.

Suddenly you're aware of his beefy girth, the one that's digging into you while he huffs affirmations in your ear. His free hand is bringing you back to him every time, you can feel his tuffs of pubs while your ass hits just right. He can't see it, but he doesn't need to. The view below him is just where he wants to be.

You can feel your orgasm building in the pit of your stomach, gasping when he decides to fully bottom out, your breath is punched out of you and your pleading while your hands reach out to anything they can, familiarly in his hair again.

"Gonna cum, gonna cum deep in this sweet pussy. That okay, sweetheart?" You don't know how he's even forming coherent sentences, but somehow, someway, you're nodding back in agreement.

You hear his groans raise in volume as he bites down on your neck to save some dignity. You can feel the twitch of him present and every vein scraping the inside of your gummy walls- carving it out for his shape to be forever stained in paradise.

"Buck- m'cumming, oh my ffffuck cumming, don't stop" the noises that feel the room are downright dirty and obscene, and his hips are jerking mindlessly into yours, flush against you with force.

"never dreamt of it"

tears are stinging the corner of your eyes when you swear he's rearranged your insides, clenching down on him tightly as you feel your impending release. When it snaps, your absolutely spent, juices coating his cock as he pressed firmly into you.

Pulsing, he didn't let up, letting your climax hit with the pressure. In fact, it spurred him on. Panting, he was close too, hitting his almost at the same time.

mushroom tip filling you to the brim with rope after rope of his cum, legs twitching erratically and pussy utterly tender, and swollen. You could feel his seed everywhere, already probably dripping down your thighs.

He grazes your nipple accidentally, sore and sensitive when the overstimulation from anything and everything hits.

"Careful Buck" you sigh out, smiling crookedly at the bliss of the aftermath.

"You okay? Was it okay?"

"mhm- s'good buck. Real good"

He chuckled dreamily and mumbled, "let me get you cleaned up," retreating to the bathroom to find a cloth hung up to wipe you down, his cum that had spilled out and ran down the inside of your thighs that had him resisting the blood flow down to his dick again.

Your eyes stayed closed before you felt the weight of the bed dip down, his presence known and back by your side where you wanted it. He pressed a peck to your check, nose and then mouth before running a hand through your hair.

"Little sweaty there"

"Mm- don't care. Gonna take care f'you anyways"

You hummed while he did so, admiring your wrecked form. Nothing short of wonders in his mind, he was content while he put a hand over your waist- almost like a claim.

Protective, and saying something words hadn't yet. He broke the silence first.

"Tomorrow- let me take you out. Real dinner. Real date and everything." His voice was a little used, but the way he rubbed soft strokes on your waist told you everything.

"Not going to let me cut myself again, Barnes? What a gentleman" he snorted at that, planting playful kisses in the corners of your neck.

"Can't let my girl get injured again. Wouldn't be proper." Your cheeks flushed at his words, and your hands stilled where they hung over his neck.

"Y-your girl?"

"I knew from the start but.. whenever I saw you get cut like that- I was worried and i- it just made me think of everything else I could've been patching you up for and not just a cut finger. How I wanted to be there if it happened again"

Leaving him with no room to ramble, "Of course, buck"

"Yeah?" He asked with a boyish smile.

"Yeah." You said, stealing a kiss from him.

You slapped his chest when he went in for another, pouting when you wouldn't let him reach you.

"That scream was Yelena, just so you know"

"I knew it! Damn you-" you faked an angry face before asking, "What was she screaming about anyways?"

"I- uh... nothing important, trust me."

THE MORNING AFTER...

The two of you woke up, soaked in each other's embrace and yawning in tandem, legs tangled and pillows thrown to different edges and corners of the bed. You didn't want to leave- warmth radiated off of him, his hand spanning safely to encase you, and tightening every time you threatened to move

"Buuuck- gotta let me get up- needa pee" you rubbed your eyes, and when you opened them he was right next to you.

"mmmff- sweetheart.."

"Don't you dare say five more minutes" he sighed, rolling himself over dramatically to face the wall.

"Hey- you said ten minutes an hour ago! Don't get all fussy!"

When you wrestled yourself out of bed, the two of you eventually made it to the kitchen, unintentionally in his worn, huge t-shirt that you had stolen when you transferred to his room to access a toothbrush. He wore a hoodie and shorts combo- something you definitely wouldn't see on him unless it was a great day.

Yelena was sat on the counter and Bob doing the dishes, both chatting and laying down banter. Until you walked in.

"Did a shark get to you while sleeping?" She commented, whether amused or concerned you couldn't tell.

"What?" You said sleepily, eyes dreary and still half closed.

Bob tripped over his own feet at the sight while putting a dish away, "Jesus!"

You finally realized when you looked down and saw the sea of bite marks. Some purple, some lightly faded already and some skimming yellowish tints.

"Shit" you muttered, hearing their snickers in the back "Hey- you guys! Shut it!"

"Guess you're not pent up anymore!" Jumping off the counter, she ran with a speed never seen before as you chased her around the living room, loudly yelling her name with fire in your eyes.

Bucky was around the corner, watching the situation unfold with a tiny smirk on his face. He hoped to add more love bites to the collection soon.

thank you for reading :) requests are open! || Marvel Masterlist

[wakemeornot]

God I loved this. This was a pleasure to read, I'll tell you that. I'm such a sucker for a fake dating trope and this certainly did not disappoint.

Also, fuck Bucky’s grandpa and lets all love Bucky for the way he stood up for us 🥹

⁺‧˚ ⋆ 𝐁𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐚𝐥 | 𝒃𝒖𝒄𝒌𝒚 𝒃𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒔 ⋆ ˚‧⁺ (au masterlist)

Pairings: ceo!boss!bucky barnes × fem!reader

Synopsis: An ordinary office employee becomes embroiled in a fake relationship with her icy, CEO boss, Bucky Barnes. A deal that begins as a business arrangement spirals out of control when his grandfather declares she isn't suitable to be part of their family. As pretend dates bleed into genuine feelings, misunderstandings have them falling apart. But when Bucky unleashes a grand gesture, they must confront reality—was it ever truly pretend?

Inspired by the kdrama "Business Proposal"

Contents: fake dating, chaotic relationship dynamic, workplace romance, contract relationship.

Word count: 33.1k+

Completed!!

Aesthetics ⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧

𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕:-

Episode 1: A blind date disaster

Episode 2: The contract relationship begins

Episode 3: The CEO’s new girlfriend

Episode 4: First date... Or boardroom strategy

Episode 5: Meet the Barnes family

Episode 6: The office bet & Jealousy problems

Episode 7: The Accidental Almost-Kiss

Episode 8: A soft CEO? Impossible

Episode 9: The Aftermath

Episode 10: The Fallout

Episode 11: The Odds Be Damned

Episode 12: The Business Proposal

__________________________________________

☆[Follow the tag ⁺‧˚⋆Business Proposal⋆˚‧⁺ for updates]☆

Series Taglist: @calwitch, @scott-loki-barnes, @baw1066, @awesompawsum, @bucky-baby-barnes, @marianastudiesart, @pattiemac1, @maryevm, @borkybawnes, @mcira, @otterlycanadian, @mrsnikstan, @sebastians-love, @homiesexual-or-homosexual, @winchestert101, @julesandgems, @purplefluffycows, @brckenmemories, @avengersfan25, @samfunko, @mackevanstanfan80, @forthelovelyheart, @quinquinquincy, @ozwriterchick, @hagarsays, @sweatyconnoisseurstrawberry @inlovewith3 , @daystarpoet , @scorpio-echo , @vicmc624

[brnssldr]

SO... HOW DO YOU WANT IT?

pairing: bucky barnes x fem!reader

summary: a sunday morning cleaning playlist takes a raunchy turn, and bucky walks in just in time to hear exactly how you "want it."

warnings: 18+ MDNI. pre-established relationship, no use of y/n, unprotected sex (don't be silly, wrap your willy!), oral (f!receiving), fingering (f!receiving), doggy, it’s implied that they haven’t done doggy before, missionary, dirty talk, praise kink, teasing, begging, rough sex, overstimulation, creampies... plural.

wc: 6.2k

a/n: hey... i just like the song okay?

masterlist

It’s a mid-Sunday morning, the kind that feels almost too quiet. Sunlight slips through the blinds, throwing soft strips of gold across the floor. The apartment isn’t exactly a disaster, but you know if you don’t tackle the mess now it’ll get worse, so you shove your feet against the hardwood and get started. Bare toes rest against the cool floor as you shuffle around with a spray bottle in one hand and a scrub brush in the other, your hair refusing to cooperate but you’re far too focused to care.

Music hums in the background, a random shuffle of songs you’ve half-forgotten until suddenly a familiar beat hits. The kind that makes your stomach dip and your lips twitch before you’re even sure what’s playing. Then Petey Pablo’s voice crashes through the speakers and you freeze, laughter bubbling in your throat. You haven’t heard this song in years—college parties, sticky kitchen floors, cheap drinks, the thrill of feeling untouchable for a night.

You don’t mean to give into it, not really. But your hips shift before your brain can stop them, a slow circle, then another, as the lyrics spill out and your mouth moves with them. You grip the brush like it’s a mic, rapping a few lines, stumbling over others, laughing when you’re off but committing to the performance anyway. A swipe of the cloth here, a dramatic spin there, rubber gloves squeaking when you snap your fingers in time with the beat.

The sight you make is far from glamorous. Baggy sweats stained from past cleaning days, an old t-shirt borrowed from Bucky, its collar stretched loose from years of wear. Hair frizzed or flattened depending on the spot, bouncing with every move. But none of that matters when the rhythm takes you, pulling you into the memory of who you were when this song lived in every club and house party.

You drop low, knees bent, weight rocking back on the balls of your feet. The scrub brush waves in one hand like some kind of trophy. Your laugh spills out—loud, uncontained—and you twist, sliding a palm down your thigh before popping back up and swaying to the chorus.

What you don’t know is that Bucky heard you long before he saw you. The front door’s still locked behind him, but his hearing picks up the bass the second he’s in the hall. Then your voice—half-sung, half-rapped, spilling words that make his jaw drop and his brows shoot up. The 40s never prepared him for this kind of soundtrack. By the time he gets the door open, he’s already half-stunned by what you’ve been shouting into the air.

And then he sees you.

Back turned, bare feet sliding against the floor, body swaying with a rhythm that looks too practiced to be anything but old muscle memory. You don’t see him leaning against the frame, eyes sharp, mouth parting just slightly as the lyrics carry on. His gaze catches on your hips, the way they roll, deliberate in a way you probably don’t even realize. Your hands are full of bleach and a brush, but somehow the room belongs to you anyway.

He doesn’t move. Not at first. He should—he knows he should announce himself, drop his bag, make his presence known—but instead he lingers, frozen by the strange collision of the raunchy words spilling from the speakers and the sight of you dancing in baggy sweats like they’re silk.

Then the verse hits.

“Tell me what you want, do you want it missionary with your feet crammed to the headboard?”

“Do you want it from the back with your face in the pillow so you could yell as loud as you want to?”

“Do you want it on the floor, do you want it on the chair?”

“Do you want it over here—”

He clears his throat.

The sound cuts through the apartment sharper than the music. You jolt, the scrub brush nearly flying from your grip as you let out a sharp scream. The spray bottle tips, a quick splatter of bleach hitting the floor before you fumble to catch it.

“Alexa, shut it off! Shut it off!” you yell, voice cracking with panic. The device takes its sweet time, repeating the song title back at you—“Turning off Freak-A-Leek by Petey Pablo”— before finally cutting the music. Silence drops heavy, leaving nothing but your uneven breathing and the pounding of your heart in your ears.

You spin around, face hot, sweat clinging to your forehead. And there he is, standing in the doorway with the most unreadable look on his face. Arms crossed, jaw tight, blue eyes pinning you where you stand.

“H-how… how long were you standing there?” you manage, chest rising and falling too fast.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t soften. Just delivers in the flattest voice you’ve ever heard from him, “Not long.”

The deadpan is almost worse than if he’d laughed. You clutch the spray bottle tighter, trying to find a hole in the floor to crawl through. Relief trickles in anyway, enough for you to let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding.

But then his mouth shifts. Just barely. The kind of tilt that’s not a smile, not yet, but close enough to make your stomach flip.

“So…” His voice dips lower, casual, teasing in a way that coils heat up your spine. “How do you want it?”

For a beat, you don’t understand. You just blink at him, scrubbing glove still halfway raised, until the words slot into place. Your jaw goes slack, lips parting as your brain stumbles for a reply.

And he just watches you, patient, eyes glinting with the kind of quiet promise that makes your knees weaken more than any song ever could.

Your mouth is still hanging open when he pushes off the doorway, feet silent against the floor. He doesn’t break eye contact, not once, as he closes the distance between you. There’s a weight to the moment that makes your stomach twist tight, like every step he takes presses the air thinner.

Instinct has you trying to busy your hands—lifting the scrub brush, shifting the spray bottle—but he reaches out before you can retreat. The brush slides from your fingers with one easy tug. The bottle follows, pulled gently from your grip and set down on the counter behind you. His touch isn’t rough, but it’s certain, a quiet claim that leaves you standing there empty-handed and exposed.

“That seemed like muscle memory, no?” His voice is low, edged with that teasing lilt again. He tilts his head, eyes sweeping over you like he’s replaying what he just saw. “The way you were moving back there… don’t think that was for cleaning.”

Heat rushes to your face, embarrassment curling sharp in your chest. You open your mouth to argue, to say something, anything, but the words fumble before they form. He’s too close now—close enough that you can see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the fine lines by his eyes that crease when he’s amused.

You try to step back, only for your bare heel to skid slightly against the damp spot you’d just sprayed. His hand steadies you before you can stumble, palm warm and firm against your waist. The touch anchors you, stilling the nerves, even as your pulse hammers under your skin.

He doesn’t waste the moment. His gaze dips to your mouth, lingering there long enough that your breath stutters. And then he leans in, slow enough that you know it’s coming but fast enough you can’t think your way out of it.

The first brush of his lips is messy—clumsy from the way you’re both half-laughing, half-breathless. The rubber glove squeaks against his chest when you instinctively press your hand there, the ridiculous sound breaking into your shared laughter. It feels awkward and real, all tangled with the sweat on your temples and the taste of your own grin.

But he doesn’t pull back. He deepens it instead, mouth slotting more firmly over yours, his hand at your waist sliding to the small of your back. The laughter fades, replaced by the heat of him—steady, consuming, patient in the way he draws you further in.

Your free hand curls into the worn cotton of his shirt, knuckles brushing the cool metal of his arm beneath the fabric. He tilts his head, adjusting, and suddenly the kiss is less about humor and more about need. His breath mingles with yours, heavy and warm, as if he’s determined to map every corner of you with just this connection.

The gloves are still on, still ridiculous, but neither of you cares. You’re caught in the press of his mouth, the way he tastes faintly of salt and travel, the way he holds you steady as though letting go isn’t an option.

When he finally breaks the kiss, it’s only far enough to rest his forehead against yours. His breathing is rough, uneven, but his voice carries the same quiet tease, softer now, almost reverent.

“Definitely not just cleaning.”

Your chest is still heaving when his words sink in, the faintest brush of a smile ghosting across his mouth. His forehead rests against yours like he’s anchoring himself there, steady and unshakable while you feel like your insides have turned into static.

“Not just cleaning,” you mutter back, voice caught between a scoff and a laugh. The gloves are still squeaking as you push weakly against his chest, as if reminding him—and maybe yourself—that you were in the middle of something before he decided to walk in like that.

He doesn’t budge. His hand stays on your back, fingers splayed, the weight of it pulling you closer even as your laugh shakes through both of you.

“Didn’t know you had moves like that,” he says, voice rougher now, though there’s still that teasing spark threading through it. His eyes flick over your face, down to your lips, then back up again. “Guess I’ve been missing a show.”

“You weren’t supposed to see that,” you shoot back, breathless, trying to keep your tone light but hearing how thin it sounds.

“Supposed to?” He hums, leaning back just enough to catch the full view of your fluster. “You were putting on a whole damn performance, doll. Looked like you’d rehearsed.”

Heat blooms in your body so fast it’s dizzying. You want to hide, maybe bury yourself in the pile of laundry you’d been avoiding, but his grip on you makes retreat impossible.

“I was cleaning,” you insist, your voice pitching higher when he raises his brows at you.

“Yeah?” His thumb brushes against the hem of your shirt, not quite slipping beneath it but close enough that your skin tingles. “Funny, didn’t look like you were worried about the floor.”

You try to glare, but it doesn’t land. Not when his lips are so close, when his voice drops just slightly lower on the word “floor.” He knows it too, and it makes his grin widen—barely there, but enough to unravel you.

Your hand is still pressed to his chest, glove squeaking with every faint shift. He glances down at it, then back at you, amusement glinting in his eyes.

“Never kissed anybody with these on before,” he murmurs, deliberately brushing a finger over the rubber cuff at your wrist. “Gotta say, it’s a first.”

“Don’t,” you warn, though your voice cracks, betraying how much the heat of his hand is distracting you.

“What?” He’s grinning now, full and unashamed, like he’s savoring every second of watching you squirm. “Just saying. Whole new experience for me.”

You huff, trying to shove at him again, but it only earns you a firmer pull, his arm wrapping tighter around your waist. He leans in close, lips brushing your ear when he whispers, “Not that I mind.”

The sound of it sends a shiver straight through you. You want to snap back, want to find some footing in this banter, but the words dissolve when his breath fans warm against your skin. Your knees feel loose, the floor cool beneath your bare feet, grounding you only barely.

He doesn’t push further—doesn’t rush. He lingers, cheek brushing yours as though he’s memorizing the shape of your face. Then he presses another kiss to your lips, slower this time, less messy, as if he’s testing how long he can hold you here before you pull away.

And you don’t.

Your body betrays you, leaning into his, mouth parting with a sigh when his tongue teases the seam of your lips. The laughter from earlier hasn’t fully left—you can still feel it bubbling faintly in your chest—but it’s tangled now with something deeper, heavier, impossible to brush off.

When he finally eases back again, it’s only enough to catch your expression, his thumb brushing over the heat of your cheek. He studies you like he’s cataloging every twitch, every breath, storing it away with the same intensity you’d caught on his face when he first walked in.

“You should dance for me more often,” he says at last, soft but steady. The tease is still there, threaded beneath the weight of something else—something you’re not sure you’re ready to name.

The words catch you off guard, mouth parting with no reply. And that silence, that stunned look in your eyes, seems to be exactly what he wanted.

The way he says it—dance for me more often—makes your stomach twist tight, heat curling low as though the words alone are enough to keep you pinned in place. You want to argue, to joke, to push some of the attention back onto him, but the look in his eyes steals the breath from your throat.

Your hands are still trapped in the ridiculous rubber gloves, sweat sticking to the insides now. You shift, meaning to peel them off, but he notices first. His metal hand catches your wrist before you can tug at the cuff, and without a word he starts sliding it free for you. The yellow glove squeals faintly as he works it down your arm.

“Let me,” he murmurs, pulling it off in one slow stroke. He doesn’t toss it away—he sets it neatly on the counter like it’s precious cargo. Then he reaches for the other, peeling it away from your skin with just as much care. His fingers linger against your bare hand once it’s free, warm and solid.

The touch feels different now, skin to skin, no barrier squeaking between you. It’s grounding, intimate in a way that makes your chest ache.

“There,” he says softly, his thumb brushing the inside of your wrist. “Better.”

You don’t realize you’ve been holding your breath until it slips out in a rush. Your fingers curl instinctively into his shirt, finally able to feel the texture of the fabric under your nails.

His mouth quirks as he watches you, like he’s cataloging every flicker across your face. He dips his head again, catching your lips in another kiss. This one starts gentler, but the ease of it doesn’t last. His hand presses into the small of your back, guiding you closer until your chest meets his. The warmth of him seeps into your skin, all steady muscle and steady need, and the kiss deepens with the slow inevitability of a tide pulling you under.

Your laughter hums faintly against his mouth, but it’s laced now with a sigh, your body surrendering inch by inch. His teeth catch your bottom lip, playful but deliberate, and you gasp softly, giving him more.

When he finally breaks away, his lips trail to your jaw, the edge of your cheek. He lingers there, breath hot against your skin, his nose brushing lightly as though he’s memorizing the shape of you.

“You keep surprising me,” he says, his voice rough, unsteady now. “First with the song, now with this.” His hand slips higher along your side, not rushing, just mapping. “Makes a man wonder what else you’ve been keeping tucked away.”

You swallow hard, pulse loud in your ears. Your body hums with the weight of his words, the weight of his hands. It feels like you’re teetering, balanced on the thinnest edge between playful and something heavier, hungrier.

His forehead dips to yours again, a quiet pause, his breathing as ragged as your own. For a moment, the world narrows to nothing but the heat of his body pressed against yours and the quiet thrum of your heart.

Then, softly, his lips ghost over yours as he whispers, “So… how do you want it?”

His question hangs between you, low and deliberate, as though the words themselves are a touch. You feel the air shift with them, heavy and charged, and suddenly the apartment feels too small. The faint sting of bleach lingers in your nose, a reminder that this was supposed to be just another quiet morning. Now your pulse thrums so hard it makes the mess of the room blur around the edges.

Your mouth opens but no sound comes out, the flush in your body burning hotter than the sweat clinging to your hairline. You want to laugh it off, to push his question away, but the weight of his gaze won’t let you. He’s steady, unflinching, as if he already knows what you’ll say but wants to hear you struggle to admit it.

You swallow, throat dry. Your hands are tangled in the fabric of his shirt, knuckles white where you grip him. When the words finally spill, they tumble fast and broken, barely more than a whisper.

“…from the back,” you murmur, breath catching, “with… with my face in the pillow.”

The silence that follows makes your heart seize. Then his breath leaves him in a sharp exhale, almost like a groan, his grip at your waist tightening until his fingers dig into the fabric of your shirt. His eyes darken, blue turned stormy, the kind of look that pins you in place.

“You don’t know what that does to me,” he mutters, and before you can reply his mouth is on yours again.

This kiss is nothing like the messy, laughter-tangled ones from before. It’s hungry, edged with the restraint of someone who could devour you in seconds but is forcing himself to savor each moment. His tongue teases yours, pulling a sound from your chest that you didn’t mean to give. Your bare toes curl against the floor, the faint tackiness of cleaning solution beneath your feet grounding you in the moment.

His hands are everywhere at once—palms sliding down your sides, fingers pressing into the curve of your hips, the metal of his other arm cold even through the thin cotton of your shirt. He doesn’t rush, but the way he moves you backward, step by step, makes it clear he has an intention he won’t abandon.

Your back hits the edge of the counter and you gasp, breaking the kiss. You want to hide, still embarrassed by your own words, but he won’t let you. His thumb tilts your chin up, forcing your eyes to meet his.

“Say it again,” he demands softly, voice like gravel.

You hesitate, heat curling in your stomach. But his expression leaves no room to escape, and when you finally repeat it—quieter, shakier—it feels like baring yourself open.

He hums low in his chest, pressing his forehead against yours. “Good.”

His hand trails to the waistband of your sweats, tugging gently, testing. You shiver, anticipation twisting with nerves, but you nod, and that’s all it takes for his mouth to be back on yours. The kiss steals the air from your lungs, each brush of his lips dragging you deeper into the coil of tension that’s been building since the moment he walked through the door.

His fingers slip under the fabric, brushing skin, rough calluses scraping light over your hip. You tremble at the touch, the cool metal of his other hand contrasting so sharply it makes your breath stutter. The juxtaposition—warmth and chill, strength and care—unravels you with every second.

The faint chemical bite of bleach is still in the air, clinging to your shirt, mixing with the salt of sweat at your temple. The whole apartment smells like a lived-in mess being pulled apart, and yet none of it matters when he presses his mouth to your neck, teeth grazing sensitive skin.

“Gonna give you exactly what you asked for,” he murmurs against your throat, his voice vibrating through you. “Every word of it.”

And the way he says it makes your knees weaken, the world narrowing to nothing but his hands, his mouth, and the promise hanging heavy between you.

Your protest dies in your throat when Bucky suddenly bends, one arm hooking under your thighs and the other bracing your back. With barely any effort, he lifts you off your feet, the world spinning as you cling to his shoulders and your legs wrap around his waist.

“Bucky—” you gasp, but he’s already moving, strides purposeful as he carries you straight down the hall.

“Bedroom,” he rumbles, like it’s the only place this can go. The bedroom door swings open under his foot, and then you’re on the mattress. Bucky's setting you down in front of the edge of the bed, his weight crowding over you before you can catch your breath. His hands don't leave you—calloused palms anchoring at your waist, sliding under the hem of the oversized shirt you'd stolen from him.

"This mine?" he asks, voice low, tugging at the fabric.

You nod, breath hitching as he peels it up and over your head, the soft cotton snagging briefly before he tosses it aside. His gaze lingers, eyes dark, but he doesn't give you a chance to shrink away. His hands are already at the drawstring of your sweats, tugging loose, easing the down inch by inch.

"Too many layers," he mutters, lips brushing your shoulder as the baggy fabric pools at your ankles. He crouches just long enough to free you from them, his metal fingers grazing along your leg, deliberate and slow, like he wants to feel you every second.

By the time he straightens, you're bare and trembling under the weight of his stare. His thumb strokes your hipbone once—gentle, almost grounding—before his grip firms again.

“Go on, doll,” he encourages, voice low, a command wrapped in heat. His hands guide you, steady but firm, turning you gently and nudging you forward until your chest meets the sheets. “Face down.” His palm presses to the curve of your spine, coaxing you higher on your knees. “Ass up—just like you said.”

The mattress dips as he urges you forward, your body sinking into the sheets. You feel his presence before his touch—the heat of him hovering close, the weight of his stare heavy on your back.

Then his hand lands on your ankle, firm but unhurried. His fingers trace lazy lines up your calf, kneading muscle with a care that makes your toes curl. He follows the path with his other hand, mirroring, the cool brush of metal against one leg and the warmth of flesh against the other making you shiver.

“You always keep me guessing,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “One second, scrubbing floorboards… next second, this.”

You want to hide your face, but his grip climbs higher, sliding up your thighs. His calloused fingers dig in, squeezing, testing, before parting your legs wider. You whimper, the sound muffled into the pillow, but it only makes his chuckle vibrate low in his chest.

“Shy now?” he teases. “Didn’t sound shy when you were rapping about positions.”

Heat rushes through you, embarrassment twisting with arousal. You try to mumble a retort, but it breaks into a gasp when his thumbs press into the soft flesh at the crease of your thighs. He kneads there, rolling muscle under his hands like he’s savoring the give.

“God, doll…” His voice drops darker. “You’ve been hiding this from me?”

Before you can answer, he leans in, his mouth hot where it meets the back of your thigh. The scrape of stubble makes your skin prickle, and then his tongue drags a long, slow stripe upward.

Your whole body jerks. “Bucky—”

He hums against you, the vibration shooting straight through your core. His hands spread you, holding you open as his tongue finds your clit. He flicks it lightly, teasing, then circles it until your hips writhe helplessly against the sheets.

“Fuck—you’re already soaked,” he groans, pulling back just enough to breathe the words against your skin. “You like it when I watch you, huh?”

You bite into the pillow, muffling a desperate sound. He laughs low, satisfied, and then dives back in. His tongue alternates between slow, deliberate licks and quick, focused flicks that make your legs tremble. When he slips higher, thrusting his tongue inside you, you gasp, fists clutching at the sheets.

“Bucky, please,” you pant, voice breaking.

He pulls back with a wet sound, his lips shiny, his breath ragged. “Please what?”

“Don’t stop—just—” You can’t even finish, your hips rocking back toward him.

“Mm, greedy,” he murmurs, mouth brushing over your folds again. “Say it. Tell me what you want.”

“Your cock,” you admit, breathless, shame and need tangling in your chest. “I want you inside me.”

The groan he lets out is guttural, his forehead pressing briefly against your ass like he’s steadying himself.

The mattress shifts as he stands back, and for the first time you notice the sound of him undressing. The soft rustle of fabric, the faint clink of his belt buckle—each noise seems louder than it should, strung tight against the silence between your ragged breaths.

You glance back over your shoulder, and the sight almost undoes you. Bucky’s shirt is already half-pulled over his head, muscles stretching, skin flushed. He tosses it aside carelessly, before working open his jeans, pushing them down along with his briefs until he’s bare, flushed, and thick in the golden light.

He kicks the rest of his clothes away and for a moment, he just breathes. One hand braced on your hip like he’s steadying himself, his other hand drags once over his cock, not for show—just a slow, grounding stroke that makes your stomach flip.

Then he’s kneeling over you on the mattress. His grip on your hips tightens, bruising now. You feel the blunt head of his cock slide through your folds, smearing slickness, teasing your clit until you whimper.

“Thought you wanted it from the back?” he taunts, voice rough. “Face in the pillow?”

“Yes—yes, please—”

That’s all it takes. He pushes in with one deep stroke, filling you in a way that knocks the breath clean from your lungs. Your cry muffles against the pillow, your walls stretching tight around him.

“Fuck,” he hisses, the sound strained. “So tight. You’re strangling me, sweetheart.”

He pulls out slowly, savoring the drag, then thrusts back in hard enough to make the bed jolt. Your body bows, nails clawing the sheets.

“Just like that,” you gasp, voice breaking. “Oh God, don’t stop.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not stopping till you can’t even think straight.” His voice is gravel, each word punctuated by another sharp thrust.

His rhythm builds—deep, punishing strokes that make you feel every inch of him. The sound of skin meeting skin fills the room, wet and obscene, your moans spilling louder each time he slams into you.

“You feel how good you’re taking me?” he growls, his hand fisting in your hair to tilt your head back just enough. His breath is hot against your ear as he leans close, hips driving forward. “So perfect for me.”

Your answer is a choked cry as his metal hand snakes beneath you, circling your clit with ruthless precision. The added friction shoves you closer to the edge, your body clenching hard around him.

“Say it again,” he demands, thrusts sharp and deliberate. “How do you want it?”

“From the back,” you sob, the words shaking, “just like this—Bucky, please—”

“That’s it,” he rasps, voice thick with lust. “Good girl. Keep saying my name.”

You do—you can’t stop, chanting it between gasps and moans as your orgasm slams into you. Your whole body locks up, walls fluttering around him, vision white-hot.

He groans, deep and raw, driving into you through your release. “Fuck—you’re milking me—gonna make me—” His thrusts grow erratic, hips snapping until he buries himself deep with a strangled sound. The heat of his release floods you, pulse after pulse, his breath ragged against your ear.

For a long moment, he stays inside you, his weight heavy, his arms wrapping around your middle to keep you pressed flush. His lips find the curve of your shoulder, kissing lazily as he pants through the aftershocks.

Finally, he pulls back just enough to glance down, watching himself still buried deep in you. His grin is wicked, satisfied.

“Messy as hell,” he mutters, giving one slow roll of his hips that makes you gasp, oversensitive. “Guess we’ll have something else to clean up, huh?”

The bed creaks as his weight shifts off you, the drag of his body leaving your back exposed to the cooler air. He eases out of you with a low hiss, his hands gentling at once as he turns you onto your back.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, brushing damp sweat from your face. His touch is careful now, steady, like he’s afraid to hurt you after the way he just had you.

You blink up at him, your chest still rising hard, your skin flushed and dewy with sweat. His face hovers close—eyes soft, lips swollen, hair a little wild. For a moment, you expect him to kiss your forehead, tuck you in, maybe fetch water.

But instead, your hand drifts upward, fingertips grazing his chest. You trace over the slick sheen of sweat there, following the curve of muscle, the scars etched into his skin. Your touch lingers, slow and reverent, until your palm settles over his heart.

He swallows, watching you. “Sweetheart… you okay?”

You smile up at him—lazy, bliss-drunk—and give him a look that’s equal parts adoration and hunger. Your other hand slides down his chest, over the ridges of his abs, pausing just above where he’s still hardening again.

“Don’t give me those eyes,” he warns softly, his voice already roughening.

“What eyes?” you whisper, feigning innocence as your thumb strokes along the center of his chest.

His jaw flexes, his composure cracking. “The ones that make me forget I’m supposed to be letting you rest.”

Your fingers trail lower, brushing the line of his pelvis, and you murmur, “Maybe I don’t want to rest.”

That undoes him. His groan is guttural, and the next thing you know, his mouth is on yours—hot, insistent, his kiss swallowing your laugh. His tongue sweeps in, tasting you, claiming you all over again.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he mutters against your lips as he shifts, bracing over you. “But I’ll die happy.”

You giggle into the kiss, but it turns into a gasp when his hand cups your breast, thumb brushing your hardened nipple. He squeezes gently, then harder, pulling another sound from you that makes his cock twitch against your thigh.

“Look at you,” he growls, kissing down your jaw, your throat, biting lightly at the pulse hammering there. “Still needy, even after I ruined you.”

“You didn’t ruin me,” you breathe, arching into his mouth. “Not yet.”

That earns a wicked chuckle. He drags his metal hand down your stomach, the coolness shocking against overheated skin, until his fingers slip between your thighs. He finds you wet, swollen, still slick with both of you.

“Christ,” he groans, sinking two fingers inside easily. “Listen to you—so fucking messy for me.”

Your hips lift, chasing the thrust of his fingers. “Bucky, pleas—”

“Yeah, I know what you want.” His metal hand fists his cock, stroking himself while he watches his fingers disappear into you as he sat leaning back on his knees. “You’re gonna take me again, sweetheart. Face to face this time. Want to see those pretty eyes when you fall apart for me.”

He lines himself up and pushes in slow, watching your expression as his length fills you again. You whimper, your nails digging into his shoulders.

“Fuck,” he hisses, jaw clenching. “So tight—even after everything. You’re made for me.”

You can only moan, wrapping your legs around his waist to pull him deeper. The intimacy of the angle makes your chest ache—the press of his body against yours, his breath hot on your lips.

“Say it,” he urges, thrusting deeper, his forehead pressed to yours. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you gasp, the words spilling easy, true.

His groan is ragged as he starts moving faster, hips slamming into yours with renewed hunger. The wet slap of skin fills the room again, punctuated by your cries and his curses. His hand slides under your back, holding you flush as he drives into you, harder, deeper, until you’re clawing at him in desperation.

“Look at me,” he orders, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. His thrusts slow, grinding now, hitting deep. “Don’t look away.”

You hold his gaze, breathless, undone—and he sees it. The love, the heat, the way you’d give him anything in this moment.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he mutters, almost in disbelief, before kissing you again—messy, consuming—as his pace builds, both of you chasing that edge together.

Your nails scrape down his back as he pounds into you, the pace building until it’s almost unbearable. Every thrust drives the breath from your lungs, every grind against your clit sending sparks shooting through your body.

“Fuck, sweetheart—” His voice is wrecked, rasping near your ear. “You’re squeezing me so tight—I’m not gonna last if you keep looking at me like that.”

You can’t stop, though. Your eyes stay locked on his, even through the blur of pleasure, even as tears sting the corners from how good it feels. He looks at you like he’s being undone piece by piece, his control slipping with every roll of his hips.

“Please, Bucky,” you gasp, the words spilling out fast, needy. “I’m so close—don’t stop—”

“Not stopping.” His forehead presses to yours, sweat dripping between you. “Gonna give you everything. Come on, doll. Let me feel it.”

His hand slides down, circling your clit in fast, relentless strokes. The double sensation rips a cry from your throat, your body arching into him as the orgasm slams into you.

Your vision whites out, your walls clamping down on him so tight he growls, almost feral, his hips stuttering.

“Jesus Christ—yes, that’s it—fuck!” He drives into you a few more times, deep, desperate, before burying himself to the hilt. His release hits hard, his cock pulsing inside you as he groans into your neck, his whole body jerking with the force of it.

For a moment, all you can hear is your twin ragged breathing, the creak of the bed as his weight collapses over you. He doesn’t pull out right away; instead, he stays buried inside, holding you tight as your bodies tremble together through the aftershocks.

Finally, with a soft grunt, he rolls to his side, shifting you with him. His arms wrap around you as he pulls you onto his chest, your cheek pressed against the slick heat of his skin. His heart pounds hard under your ear, his breath still unsteady.

He presses a lazy kiss into your hair. “You’re gonna be the death of me,” he mutters, voice low but tender. “But hell if I’m ever letting you go.”

You smile against his chest, fingers tracing idle circles over his ribs, still bliss-drunk, still buzzing from the way he said it.

The sheets are a mess, half-twisted around your legs, clinging to damp skin. The bedroom is quieter than the rest of the apartment, but it doesn’t feel untouched—the scent of bleach and cleaner still follows you, clinging stubbornly like a second skin. Every inhale reminds you of what started all of this: the gloves, the scrub brush, the ridiculous performance that should have been private.

The silence stretches, comfortable but charged, until you mutter against his skin, “We reek of bleach.”

He huffs out a laugh, low in his chest. “You saying it’s not a good look?”

You groan, burying your face deeper into him. “My skin is probably throwing a fit from all the chemicals.” The thought alone makes you squirm, as if you can already feel the itch of irritation that’ll come later.

Bucky’s hand slides lazily along your back, fingertips tracing shapes into your damp shirt. “Guess I’ll have to run you a bath later. Wash it off before it gets worse.”

The way he says it—soft, certain—makes your chest ache. You nod, letting yourself melt further into his hold. The scent of cleaner doesn’t seem quite as harsh with his warmth pressed around you.

His chin dips, rough stubble brushing against the crown of your head. “Still worth it,” he murmurs, almost like he’s talking to himself.

You shift enough to look at him, brows pulling together. “Worth what? Smelling like a janitor’s closet?”

That earns you a crooked grin, tired but real. “Worth comin' home early. Worth seeing you like that.” His gaze flickers down to your mouth before meeting your eyes again, steady and intent. “Haven’t been able to get the picture out of my head since.”

Embarrassment pricks your skin. “You were not supposed to see that,” you protest, though your voice lacks any real bite.

“Lucky for me,” he teases, “I did.” His thumb grazes your cheek, lingering there, tracing the curve of your flush. “Lucky for me, you didn’t stop.”

You roll your eyes, half to hide how your pulse jumps at the words. “I was cleaning. Not performing.”

He chuckles, deep and low. “Felt like a performance to me. And doll…” His voice drops, warm against your skin. “You killed it.”

The compliment lands heavier than it should, settling somewhere deep inside you. You look away, suddenly overwhelmed, but he doesn’t let you retreat. His hand tilts your chin back until your eyes meet his again. The softness there disarms you more than any teasing ever could.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

The tenderness in the question makes your throat tighten. You nod, your voice rough when you answer, “Yeah. Just… can’t believe this started with bleach.”

That makes him laugh, the sound warm and steady. He presses a kiss to your forehead, lingering there, his lips against damp skin. “Guess cleaning day has its perks.”

You smack his chest lightly, but the sound that escapes you is a laugh, muffled against his skin. He holds you tighter, his hand rubbing gentle circles into your back, and for the first time since the morning started, the chaos of it all seems to settle.

Right now, it’s just the two of you, tangled together in sheets that smell faintly of sweat and cleaner, your body sinking into the steady rise and fall of his chest.

And when he whispers, almost to himself, “So worth it,” you can’t help but agree.

[deedzreads]

when the author starts describing some fuck ass outfit that i’m supposedly wearing

[cece693]

So, as many of you remember I wrote a Bucky fic sometime ago about his luscious hair, and because I'm immensely obsessed with it, here's something else that came to mind. Hope you enjoy!

THE GREAT HAIR CRISIS

pairing: bucky barnes x gender neutral reader synopsis: You’ve seen Bucky's old photos—clean cut, sharp jawed, every inch the American soldier—but nothing compares to the Bucky you know now. So when one day he casually mutters about getting a haircut, you act like it's the end of the world. Because it is.

It started with the photographs.

Steve had pulled out an old box one night—wartime snapshots, black and white Polaroids, glossy postcards from decades gone by. You’d expected to see the wide smile and clean cut charm of the man you’d heard so many stories about, and sure enough, there was Bucky Barnes: crisp uniform, hair slicked back, eyes bright enough to burn through the grain of the paper.

“Hot,” you’d muttered under your breath, flipping through them with interest. “Okay, yeah, definitely hot.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Don’t inflate his ego.”

But the thing was—none of those photos compared to the man who now stood in your kitchen, hair brushing his shoulders, dark bangs shadowing those large doe eyes. There was something about him now—something untamed, a mix of softness and danger—that made you ridiculously weak.

Every time he tucked a loose strand behind his ear, every time his bangs slipped forward and he huffed them away, every time you caught him tying his hair up before a sparring session—you fell harder. You were done for.

Which is why his casual little statement, one rainy evening on the couch, nearly killed you.

Bucky was sitting beside you, hair damp and curling slightly at the ends from his shower. He combed his fingers through the strands, staring at them with a frown. “Y’know…” he said casually, “maybe I should get a haircut.”

You sat up so fast the popcorn bowl toppled over. “Excuse me?”

He blinked. “What?”

“Don’t you dare joke like that.” You pointed at him as if he’d confessed to treason. “You listen to me, James Buchanan Barnes—if you cut that hair, I swear—”

“Sweetheart, it’s just hair—”

“Just hair?!” You were already on your feet, pacing. “That’s like saying Mjölnir is just a hammer or Steve's shield is just metal! Your hair is a national treasure, Bucky.”

He snorted, hiding his grin behind his hand. “A national treasure?”

“Yes. Smithsonian levels. Maybe even the Louvre if they’re lucky.” You snatched the pair of scissors off the coffee table (why they were there, neither of you knew) and dramatically shoved them into the junk drawer. Then you bolted into the bathroom, reappearing seconds later with his electric shaver held high like it was a live grenade.

“And this—” you shoved it into your backpack—“is going into witness protection. No sharp objects near you for a week. Maybe two. We can't risk you having an impulsive moment.”

Bucky burst out laughing, head dropping back against the couch. “You’re insane.”

“Insanely right,” you corrected, crossing your arms. “Do you have any idea what that hair does to people? I mean, look—” you snatched an old photo from the mantle, one of him clean cut in uniform. You held it up like Exhibit A.

“This guy? Hot. Sure. Boy-next-door energy. But this—” you gestured to the man in front of you, the shoulder length hair falling into his face, the way he brushed it back with his metal hand—“this is feral, mysterious, brooding assassin chic. Do you understand how rare that is?”

He was shaking with silent laughter now, watching you get red in the face over his haircut.

“And don’t even get me started on the bangs,” you added. “You hide behind them like some tragic romance novel cover model. Do you know what that does to me?!”

Bucky held up his hands in surrender, still chuckling. “Alright, alright—I won’t cut it. You win.”

“Damn right I win.” You collapsed onto the couch again, grabbing the popcorn bowl with all the dignity of a general who’d just won a war.

A beat of silence passed before Bucky leaned close, eyes glinting with mischief, and whispered conspiratorially, “What about trimming the ends?” Your gasp rattled the windows.

[metal-armed-muse]

media darling

pairing: dark!Congressman!Bucky x Journalist!fem!reader

word count: 4.3K

summary: you are the reporter they bring in when there are men behind chairs too powerful to fear, the one with the questions no one else dares to ask. but when the new Congressman snaps, the story you walk away with isn’t the one you thought you’d write.

warnings: mean!Bucky, dark!bucky, dub-con/non-con elements, coercion, power imbalance, sex tape, pnv (unprotected), degradation, creampie, cumplay, MDNI. no use of y/n.

a/n: i don’t condone any actions depicted in the story. this is fiction, and please treat this as such. if you aren’t comfortable reading this, please do not read it.

You weren’t the usual type of journalist. No neighbourhood pieces or petty stuff. You only took cases worth your time. Complex profiles, reputations hanging in the balance, high profile affairs gone wrong. Basically the stories that required more than a microphone and polite questions read from cue cards. You’d built a name on that. Notorious for pushing too far, for asking what no one else had even imagined, for walking into rooms where powerful men sat smug in their chairs and walking out with their masks in shreds. The kind of reporter called in when someone wanted a spectacle out of a situation.

That was exactly what you thought when you rolled the small camera tripod in the congressman’s office and set it up yourself. Exact centre of the room, aligned to capture both the sides of the table, already blinking its little read light, recording your silence before the words even started. You tested the angle, checked the microphone pinned to your blouse and only then lowered yourself opposite to him. Calm and composed and ready to peel him open.

He wasn’t what you’d imagined. When they told you that you had to interview an ex assassin, the guy across you was the last guy you’d expected to find. He was composed, at least, that’s what he wanted everyone to believe. Navy blue suit, tie slightly loose around his neck, hair slicked back enough to look polished and taken seriously. Every aspect of him was planned to perfection and executed flawlessly. No one would second guess his policies if he looked the part. James Buchanan Barnes—war hero to assassin, now rebranded to politician—sat on the opposite side of the table.

“You’re not what I expected,” you spoke your mind, instead of opening with the first rehearsed question. On hindsight, you should’ve stuck to your practiced approach.

“What were you expecting?” His mouth twitched, you couldn’t quite figure out if it was meant to be a smile. His voice carried a rasp, that better fit late night confessions and not legislative interviews.

“Stiffer,” you said, “older, maybe. Someone who’d talk with memorised talking points.” You were quick to judge him. Truth be told, you’d judged him before you even stepped foot into his office. You had one goal only, and that is to make a scintillating story out of the ex winter soldier.

“Guess I’ll try not to disappoint.”

You tilted your head, and allowed your gaze to drag all over him. “Mm, jury’s still out.”

Something like irritation crossed his eyes. Or it could be amusement. It was hard to tell. He leaned forward a little and rested his elbows on the table between you both. “You here to ask about my policies, or waste both of our time?”

Zero patience.

You smiled, all teeth. “Oh, I’ll get there. But let’s not pretend you don’t know how the public sees you, Congressman. Everyone’s fascinated by the same thing: how the government decided to scrub the blood off the Winter Soldier and rebrand him as the golden boy of Brooklyn.”

His jaw flexed, expressing his annoyance. He didn’t answer right away. You watched him inhale, and then exhale, like he was counting to ten. Like he was giving you time to take back what you just said.

You didn’t.

“Rehabilitation isn’t rebranding,” he said finally. “And I don’t answer to gossip.”

“Then what do you answer to?” You tapped your pen lazily to the edge of your notebook, almost taunting. “Orders? Votes? Or is it whoever has their legs spread the widest?”

If you didn’t get his attention so far, now you had. His head snapped toward you so fast you almost dropped the act, but pride made you keep your smirk in place. His blue eyes cut through you, stripped of patience.

“You think you’re funny?”

“I think I’m getting more honesty out of you than anyone else has managed.” You crossed your legs slowly, the movement he traced with his eyes. “Don’t worry. I won’t print that last part. Unless you want me to.”

Through gritted teeth, he glared at you. At that point, he looked less like a man fending off an eager journalist and more like a predator trying very hard to still keep the leash on himself.

When he finally spoke, his voice almost dropped down an octave. The single word sent chills to your spine. “Careful.”

A sane person would’ve rethought things. A sane person would excuse themselves and be done with whatever the hell this was. But a sane person usually doesn’t make a good journalist. And you were a great one.

“What happens if I’m not?” You did what you did best. Push until someone showed their real face.

The legs of his chair scraped against the hardwood floor, he shoved back from the table. In two strides, he was around it, towering over you. You hadn’t even had time to stand before his hand gripped the armrest of your chair. Trapping you in place, the heat of him a wall around you enclosing you in place.

“You came in here thinking you could play with me.” His words were low, as if the camera in the centre of the room didn’t exist anymore. “You thought I’d just sit there, let you run your mouth, let you poke and prod.” His lips curled into something meaner, darker. “That was your first mistake.”

Again, a sane person would’ve kept their mouth shut. But you tried for bravado, your voice betraying you halfway, “and the second?”

He leaned down until his breath ghosted just over your ear, “that you don’t know when to stop.”

His words hung there, close enough that you could feel the rumble of them against your skin. And for the first time all evening, your sharp little smirk faltered. His gaze dropped to your mouth, lingered, then slid lower. Slow enough that heat prickled at the back of your neck.

The camera running in the background gave you a false sense of security. You feigned courage, and spoke, “congressman, the camera—”

“Let it run,” his tone was unbothered. A man who’d spent his entire life surveilled, recorded, dissected—what was one more set of eyes?

He straightened just enough to look down at you properly, his hand still braced on the armrest like a threat. “What were you gonna ask me? Something about trade, about policies?” His head tilted, the mockery dripping now. “Or was it about how long I can keep my composure before I break?”

Your pen slipped from your fingers and rolled to the floor with a little clatter. You didn’t reach for it. Your knuckles were pale, clutching your notebook tight, as if the thin cover could protect you from the weight of him leaning over you.

When you still didn’t answer, he said, “I thought you were supposed to be good at this.” There was no patience left in his voice. “Control. Provocation. Asking the kind of questions that cut deep. Isn’t that why they sent you in here? Because you’re the little firecracker who knows how to make people slip?”

Your throat was dry, but you forced the words out anyway. “Seems like it worked.”

Your stupid reporter brain didn’t know when to shut the fuck up.

A laugh tore from him, but it was anything but pleasant. It was the kind of laugh that told you you’d pushed too far without saying a word. His metal hand moved to the other armrest, landing there and trapping you completely. He’d caged you without laying a finger on your skin, yet you could feel the threat radiating off him.

“Did you think I’d snap?” The heat off his skin slapped you right across yours. “Did you think I’d yell, raise my voice, and you can pick that up in your little microphone?”

Your pulse pounded so hard you could feel it in your ears. He was right. You had wanted this, had pushed for it, had prodded and smirked and needled. You wanted a story, saw him as a character on a paper. But now, pinned beneath his stare, your bravado felt paper-thin.

“I didn’t—”

“Didn’t what?” His tone was silk-wrapped steel. He cut off your protest with the smallest shift forward, his nose brushing the edge of your hairline. “Didn’t expect me to bite?”

Your lips parted, but nothing came out. You hated the silence, hated that for once you didn’t have the right quip on your tongue, hated that his nearness pulled every clever word straight out of your lungs.

He caught the moment you faltered. The moment it dawned on you, and realisation crossed your face. His grin spread, and he leaned back just far enough to look at you properly. “There it is,” he murmured, satisfaction coated his words, “finally, shut you up.”

The camera was still recording, doesn’t take a genius to figure out that the red light was still blinking behind you. You wondered—no, feared—what kind of picture you must’ve made right then: sitting stiff in your chair, chest rising too fast, eyes wide while the new Congressman loomed above you, looking nothing like the cleaned-up public servant they’re selling the public.

“Ask me another question,” he ordered, voice soft but absolute.

Your mind scrambled for one, any, and your gaze flicked to your notebook in you lap. It might as well have been blank.

“I—” Your voice cracked, and you tried again. “What do you…what do you say to the people who don’t trust you in office?”

His teeth flashed in something like victory, like you’d just admitted how thoroughly he’d rattled you. “I’d say…” he drawled, dragging it out, savouring the tremor in your voice, “…they should be more careful about where they put their trust. And who they mouth off to.”

The threat wasn’t veiled anymore.

The chair dug into your spine, the cool metal of his hand closing over your wrist before you’d even registered him moving. His grip wasn’t crushing, but firm enough to cause your notebook to tumble to the floor.

“Congressman—” you tried, meaning to steady yourself. But it came out weak, too small against the weight of his presence.

“That’s cute. Still trying to keep it professional, huh?” Your mouth wanted to form a retort, something sharp, but the words stalled in your throat. Not because you didn’t have them, but because his thumb’s slow drag over your pulse made your skin prickle and your stomach swoop in ways you hated. You told yourself it was fear. Except the burn low in your belly wasn’t fear at all.

His thumb stroked once again over your pulse, a reminder of how fast it was hammering. “You think being press gives you immunity? Sweetheart, you came in here poking at me like you wanted to see the monster. Now you’re gonna find out.”

A protest formed in your lips, but he stole it before you could speak. His mouth crashed into yours, all teeth and heat asserting dominance. It wasn’t a kiss meant to coax, it was meant to devour, to brand you of him. When you gasped against him, his tongue pushed in deep, as though it was greedy, and you could taste the coffee on his breath.

You shoved weakly at his chest, out of instinct, not entirely out of refusal. He growled when you did that, and took your lower lip between his teeth, drawing blood.

“Camera’s on,” you whispered desperately, as if that might remind him of consequences, of image, of control.

Glancing over towards the red blinking light, he backed off you, and hope clouded your eyes. Maybe reminding him of the camera now was the only correct thing you’ve done today. The relief was short lived when he reached out and angled the tripod until the lens caught you square in its frame. You, with your whole body under his, and his shadow looming over you like a predator that’d found its prey.

Only once it was set did he lean back in, breath hot against you. “Good,” he rasped, teeth grazing the shell of your ear. “Let ‘em watch. Be the best fuckin’ sex tape Capitol’s ever seen.” His laugh was cruel. “Bet you’d like that. Tomorrow’s headline will be: Congressman rails reporter until she can’t talk straight.”

You wanted to spit at him, to curse him, to claw your way out from under his weight. Instead, your thighs pressed tighter together, as if instinct alone was trying to shield you. But that small twitch was exactly what betrayed you. His gaze sharpened, and you knew he’d noticed. Humiliation seared through you, because some dark, treacherous part of you throbbed hotter at the thought of being caught on film.

Humiliation rose to your stomach like bile, your cheeks reddened in response. Gathering the little ounce of dignity left, “you can’t—”

“Can’t?” His hand slid down, to catch the hem of your skirt, shoving it up in one harsh motion. His fingers squeezed your thigh, hard enough to sting. “You opened that pretty mouth, sweetheart. Asked the wrong questions. Now you’re mine until I decide otherwise.”

He dragged the chair slightly forward, it came with a squeak across the floor. He pushed your legs apart, as his gaze flicked to the camera. A slow smirk spread over his face, “smile for the press, babygirl.”

You tried to twist away, words mumbling out of your mouth in desperation. Your job, your reputation, your whole fucking life flashed before your eyes. Only for him to cup your jaw with his metal hand, forcing you to meet his eyes.

“You’re not a reporter right now,” he growled. “You’re a mouthy little brat who thought she could handle me. Guess what, sweetheart? You can’t. And I’m gonna make sure you remember it every time you sit down to write another story.”

The words burned you, humiliation spreading through your body like trees caught on wildfire. When his metal fingers left your jaw, you made the mistake of exhaling like it was all over.

The smirk on his face said otherwise, as he proceeded to move those fingers towards your now spread apart legs. He dragged the dampness across your panties, pressing hard enough to make your body jerk.

A broken sound tore through your throat.

“That’s it,” he mocked softly. “All it took was my hand and now you’re soaked. Pathetic.”

The camera blinking in the background picked up on every single movement, as did the microphone pinned to your blouse. He bent a little to angle himself against your chest, against the microphone, and whispered, “Go on, say something for the camera. Tell ‘em how the big bad Congressman ruined their little press darling.”

Metal fingers withdrew from your dampness, only to grip your thighs, spreading them wider. He crouched between them, suit jacket pulled taut over his shoulders, tie hanging loose as though even the fabric had given up trying to restrain him.

Polished Congressman on his knees, eyes starved as he devoured your cunt with his sight alone.

You tried again, a weak echo of protest. “The camera—”

“—is getting a show,” he cut in, his voice a growl pitched low enough to rumble straight through your bones. His hands shoved your skirt higher, baring you, until the air felt too sharp against the wet heat clinging to your panties. He nosed at you, inhaling deeply like he meant to shame you with the sound of it. “Fuck. You came in here acting like you had claws, but look at you now. Dripping for me.”

On reflex, your hips jerked, but he caught you by the waist and pinned you to the chair with infuriating ease. The cold press of metal fingers hooked into your panties, yanking them down rough enough that the elastic burned your thighs, then discarded them entirely.

“Don’t—” You meant to beg, but it came out shaky, breathless.

His eyes flicked up, the black almost fully encircling the blues of his irises. “Don’t what? Don’t ruin that perfect little image of yours?” A cruel smirk escaped his lips. “Too late, sweetheart.”

You shook your head, weak, muttering something that wasn’t even words. He didn’t stop. He didn’t even hesitate. And God help you, your hips tilted up to meet him before you could force them still. You hated yourself for it, for the way your body betrayed the no tangled on your tongue.

The first lick of his tongue on your heat, sent shivers down your spine. Your head snapped back against the chair with a strangled cry. Thighs trembling, your hands grabbed his suit, a weak attempt to push him away. When it failed, you squirmed your way out of his grasp, only for his hands to clamp down harder, bruising grip dragging you closer towards his mouth.

“Maybe you should talk less and open your legs more,” he muttered into you, the words vicious against your skin before his tongue dove back in. He latched onto your clit, sucking hard, and your nails dug into his shoulders, useless against the brutal drag of his tongue.

“Bucky—please—”

He pulled back just far enough to sneer up at you, his mouth slick with your arousal. His lips were red and swollen. “Please what? Please stop? Or please don’t you dare fucking stop?” You shook your head weakly, your fingers twisted in his jacket as if to push—but your hips rolled helplessly against his mouth, a traitor to your protests.

He gave your pussy a taunting lick, never breaking eye contact. “Come on, media darling. You’re good with words. Use ‘em.”

You tried to twist, to catch your breath, but his hands were iron on your thighs. “Stay still,” he ordered between licks, his voice muffled but sharp. “You wanted answers? Here’s one—your pussy’s the only thing worth my time.”

Your thighs clenched hard around his head, a desperate attempt to block him out, but it only gave him leverage. His tongue flattened, lapping you, until you couldn’t tell if you were trying to shove him away or hold him closer.

“You say no, but this little cunt’s already decided for you.”

His mouth worked relentlessly on your cunt, and you feel the right coil snap inside you. Vision blurring, you could do nothing but sob, your body trembling under the ruthless pace of his mouth.

Feeling your body seize through the actions of his tongue, heat tore through, sharp as lighting. Your vision went white around the edges as the orgasm ripped you open.

When you collapsed back bonelessly, he finally pulled away, lips glistening and his jaw smeared with you. He looked wild, hair all mussed, pupils blown black. He didn’t give you a chance to catch your breath as he crushed his mouth against yours. The taste of yourself flooded your tongue, his hand fisting your hair to hold you there until you moaned against him.

“Yeah,” he snarled, pulling back just far enough to smear the mess across your lips with his thumb. “Taste what you give me. Sweet little mouthy slut.”

Before you could even answer him, he was unbuckling his belt, the metallic click loud in the silence of the room. The zipper hissed down, and then he was yanking himself free, already flushed dark with need.

He dragged your hips to the edge of the chair and shoved in one brutal thrust, splitting you wide.

Your cry echoed sharp in the enclosed room. His head falls back once, before he leaned into you, his mouth brushing your ears, “so fucking tight around me, like you were made for this cock.”

His metal arm came back to hold your head, while he thrust deeper into you. Your eyes flew wide at the pressure, the shock of feeling him drive against that tender spot.

The air left your lungs, as his pace picked up, him rutting into you mercilessly, nearing his release.

You sobbed, nails digging into his sleeves. “Don’t—don’t cum inside me—”

He laughed. A breathless sound laced with cruelty. The flesh hand moves over to press down into your lower abdomen, pinning you in place.

“Oh, I’m gonna, sweetheart. Gonna paint that pretty pussy from the inside out.” His teeth sank into your neck, his voice a growl against your skin. “You think you get a say after mouthing off to me? Not a chance.”

As his thrusts grew heavier, you felt the pressure build inside you, as your body is dragged towards another climax. He groaned like a man possessed, his movements erratic now, hand gripping your hip so tight you knew he’d leave marks.

Head buried against your neck, as he buried himself deep and held himself there. His cock throbbed inside you when he spilled his release, now coating your inner walls, filling you to the brim.

You gasped, the sensation flooding you so full it left you dizzy. You should have hated it. Instead, your back arched, your toes curling in your shoes as a second climax tore loose from your body, clenching down on him in helpless aftershocks. The sound that slipped from you wasn’t protest at all, but a broken moan that only made his teeth bite harder into your neck.

He stayed still inside until the last pulse faded, until your body sagged beneath him. Then he pulled out slowly, and you could feel it—the slick warmth sliding free before it spilled down your thighs in a humiliating trickle.

“Look at that,” he murmured, voice still mean and smug with pleasure. “Leaking all over my fucking chair like you’re proud of it.”

You whimpered, shifting your legs together. But his hand was back on your hip instantly, forcing you open. His gaze dropped to your exposed cunt, watching his spend drip down onto your swollen folds. “No. Not wasting a drop.” He caught your wrist, guiding your trembling fingers down.

“Push it back where it belongs,” he ordered, his eyes locked on your face. “Go on. Fuck your fingers into yourself until it’s all nice and messy again.”

Shame scorched you, but your body obeyed. Your shaky fingers pressed back inside, pushing his cum deeper. The wet sounds filled the room, and you bit your lip to keep from sobbing aloud.

“Good girl,” he drawled, satisfied. “Now clean up. Every finger. Slow.”

Your hand shook as you lifted it, slick dripping between your knuckles, proof of what he’d just done to you. You hesitated, lips parting with a weak sound of protest, but the scent hit you first—salt and heat, musk curling in your throat—and something low inside you tightened in response.

Bucky’s eyes never left you. “Go on,” he coaxed, softer now, though the command was still there. “I can see you’re curious. Bet you’ve wondered how you taste on a cock, huh?”

Your tongue darted out before you could stop it, a nervous flick that smeared wetness across your bottom lip. The taste startled you—sharp and earthy, but laced with the faint sweetness of your own arousal—and instead of pulling back, you licked again.

His grin widened, triumphant now. “There you go,” he said, like he could settle in to watch you unravel all night. “Knew you’d like it. Don’t stop now—nice and slow for me.”

Heat rose up your throat, humiliation and want tangled so tightly you couldn’t tell them apart. You dragged one finger past your lips, sucking gently, and your thighs pressed together, trying to ease the ache that had never really faded.

“Swallow,” he demanded. When you did, choking around the shame, his grin spread. “Fuck, you’re perfect.”

The praise from his mouth left you fluttering instead of making you feel every shade of disgust. His words shouldn’t sound like approval, but they curled hot in your chest all the same.

He tucked himself back in with casual efficiency, buckling his belt like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t just ruined you in the middle of his office. And then he dropped into his chair, leaning back with the kind of heavy-lidded satisfaction that made your pulse thrum. He didn’t need to touch you anymore—the weight of his stare alone kept you rooted, fumbling with your skirt, your panties, trying to make yourself look untouched.

But your hands shook too badly, and your thighs pressed together too tightly, almost like it wasn’t just shame anymore but a restless want.

Not once did he look away.

When you finally reached for your bag, desperate to flee because you couldn’t stand to let your body betray you more, his voice cut sharp through the silence. “Camera.”

Your breath stalled. The red light still blinked, steady and damning in the corner. You hesitantly turned, but he only raised a brow, like he knew you’d already do what he wanted. Slowly, you retrieved it, setting it in his waiting hand. His metal fingers curled over it with utmost care, claiming it like a prize.

You should have bolted then, but you didn’t. Something in you wanted to linger, to see what else he might demand, what else you might let yourself obey.

He leaned back, smirk curling as he set the camera down on his desk like it was a trophy. “Make an appointment with my assistant. Two days.”

You stared at him, heartbeat deafening your ears. “For — for what?”

He chuckled, setting the camera on the desk beside him. “To finish what we started, sweetheart. Wouldn’t want to leave the tape incomplete.”

The words didn’t have your desired effect on your body, heat spread thick under your skin, your pulse quickening at the thought of being dragged back under his control, of giving in again even while you swore you wouldn’t.

You hated yourself for it, hated that your body refused to line up with your better judgment. Because the truth lingered hot and undeniable in the back of your throat: you couldn’t wait for the next appointment.

dividers by @/cursed-carmine —thank you!

[flockoff-featherface]

smoke screens and sweet saccharine things

mob boss! bucky x jazz singer! f! reader

summary: bucky barnes, known mob boss, has been hiding a secret, just a little too long for even his own liking.

word count: 10.6k

CONTENT/WARNINGS: 18+, descriptions of violence, explicit content, MDNI, the mob does things guys, cursing, smut, breeding kink, bucky barnes is a munch, unprotected sex (i think that's everything?)

A/N: this is part of the bwa collab (go check out the other fics too or else), and i had so much fun writing it! (if you see the explicit john wick references LOOK AWAY/j) huge thanks to everyone in bwa for being so sweet, supportive and amazing, @chateaubarnes, @houseofhyde and @unificsation for the "lock in vcs" and check ins, @barnesonly and @juniebjonesin for proofreading for me (ly guys mwah mwah)! tagging my fellow bwa-thers supreme leader @superbassbuck and @its-in-the-woods , enjoy!

Drip.

Drip. Drip.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Drip.

The tears of angels, sorrowful in the heavens, did nothing to soothe his soul, as yet another day of work drained on. The wind howls past him as he drags yet another breath from his cigarette. Savouring the taste, he slowly exhales into the wind’s mournful howls, before flicking it away. He runs a hand through his hair, attempting to ease the tension, or stress stuck up there. It briefly dissipates, melting away with the pitter pattering all around him. Yet when he remembers what those idiots had just done, he finds himself raising the bat once more.

THWACK!

Birds scatter, quickly escaping the scene, and a lonely crow finds itself in the middle of the mess, sorrowfully cawing out in misery. Thick, sangria liquid pooled over rough gravel, hidden from the hustle and bustle of the city via an alleyway. He looked down at the crow, flailing about below him. He pulled back the bat, lowered by his side, coated in the very same liquid, each crack stained by pain and suffering. He hands it over to another, pulling off his gloves and handing them over too, sighing and tutting as he does,

“I’m gonna be fuckin’ late because of these thick idiots. Jesus Fuckin’ Christ, Steve, finish up f’me, yeah? Gotta fuckin’ meet Stark, too.”

He almost turns and leaves, but spins back on his heel one last time,

“You better fuckin’ think twice next time y’even consider stealin’, got that? Fuckin’ idiots, c’mon Sam.”

And then he turns to leave, with Sam holding his umbrella above him. After all, Bucky Barnes always got the last word, no matter what.

Bucky Barnes. The man, the myth, the legend. Rose through the ranks as an enforcer, only to take over the family business once his father passed away. Known, revered and feared, Bucky Barnes was cruel, harsh and unrelenting. Tales of his cruelty, of his punishments travelled through the streets of New York, establishing himself as the somewhat unofficial King of New York. A.K.A., someone not to be fucked with.

So you can imagine just how angry Mr. Barnes is, when he’s whisked away from his regular business, to deal with some absolute idiots, who had the bright-fuckin’-idea to fuckin’ steal from him. Fuckin’ pricks, the lot of ‘em.

He continues muttering and grumbling the entire way to the car, as he slips his rings back on. A sweet, modified pitch black Mustang, Boss 429, 1970. In the rain, each droplet rolls off smoothly, from the hood to the ground, pooling down into the sewer grates. Moody, low headlights barely announce themselves. The car itself, just like Bucky Barnes, is very much an imposing force of nature. The driver waits patiently for his acknowledgement - you didn’t just do things around Bucky Barnes. No, you waited patiently, for his instruction. He turns back to Sam, running a hand back through his hair again, eyebrows furrowing in anger once more,

“I mean really, what fuckin’ idiots, huh? What family were they, Wilson’s? He’s a wack-ass piece a’ shit anyway, but he wouldn’t go this fuckin’ far.”

Sam sighed, pinching his own nose before he continued. No matter how he answered - whether he told Bucky or not - he’d be mad. Better tell him, rather than wait for him to find out, huh?

“Nah, not Wade’s. These were.. that new one, ya know?”

“Fuckin’ Rumlow’s? That fuckin’ bitch. Not even three months in this city, huh?”

“...”

For a moment, they stood quiet, in the hellish downpour. Bucky huffed, leaning against the car. Sam continued to stand as he was, umbrella covering the two of them as Bucky continued his quiet grumblings. Sure, people walked past - but didn’t stop. One quick glare from either man was more than enough to halt questions. Eventually enough, Bucky stood back up, rolling his shoulder back into place as he smoothed down his suit.

“Better fuckin’ hope Stark’ll listen. Uppity bitch.”

He finally acknowledged the driver, allowing him to open the door and let the two of them in. Bucky first, as he relaxed into his seat, and Sam second sat opposite. Sam pours the two of them a dram of whiskey each, and the car roars to life, reversing out smoothly into the dark, moody streets of seedy New York. The very same moody low lights now announce the King’s own arrival, as the driver drives, ensuring the journey is as smooth as possible. One can only imagine what would happen if the driver hit a pothole, and James Buchanan Barnes threw whiskey on his suit. No, no, one shudders at even the thought of such a situation occurring.

By the time the two have finished strategising and conversing over the potential issues and situations that could occur in the next hour or so, the car slows down to a smooth stop, parked neatly into a parking bay. The driver steps out, waiting patiently for both men to finish their conversation and give him the signal. Inside, though,

“Yeah, I got that stone ya wanted. Why you’d go to lengths for a fuckin’ stone, is beyond me, boss. But here, give it a once over, yeah?”

Sam hands over a smooth velvet case. Bucky looks up at him, before slowly opening the box. Inside, a polished, perfectly cut, smooth 143 carat Ceylon Sapphire, straight from Sri Lanka, won in an auction. Bucky would’ve gone himself, but business kept him busy, forcing him to send Sam, naturally.

He carefully held the stone in his hands. How was it, that something so pure, beautiful and perfect sat so sweetly in the palm of his hands? His hands, stained with blood, pain and anguish, wrapped round the stone. He held it up to the car’s light, taking the time to appreciate each and every glimmering line, cut and shine, before carefully placing it back in the box. He throws an appreciative nod in Sam’s direction, before tucking the box away,

“Business calls, Sam. Let’s move.”

Sam raps his knuckles against the window, once, twice and thrice, before the driver opens the door, waiting. Sam steps out first, umbrella already opening as Bucky makes his way out. Bucky steps out slowly, adjusting his suit, tie and cuffs as he walks away from the car, leaving the driver to take care.

The rain hadn’t stopped.

In fact, it was almost like the rain had worsened, attempting to wash Bucky Barnes free of sin.

The umbrella acted as a shade, yes, but it also hid Bucky Barnes. God’s light didn’t shine in his corner of the world. Not here, not there, not anywhere. The bright neon sign of the restaurant shone bright tonight, the rain blooming round it,

“Chateau Barnes”

Sam stepped forward, opening the door for him. Bucky wiped his shoes along the small mat, before stepping inside. Warm, cozy, but still expensive enough to eat at your wallet. Not your wallet being spent though, is it? His eyes flit round, looking for the familiar goatee-sporting man.

And there he is, leaning back in a booth, waiting. Once the two’s eyes meet, the atmosphere suddenly shifts around them. Electricity, sharp and stinging, in the air as Bucky walks over, Sam falling in step with him.

“Barnes.”

“Stark.”

“And you brought Wilson, hmm?”

“Well. You brought Banner. Only fair I bring one of my own, hmm?”

“Tou-fuckin-che.”

The two sit down, eyes barely skimming over the menu. A waitress saunters over, taking their drink orders. An old fashioned for both Sam and Tony, a Manhattan for Bruce and a boulevardier for Bucky.

“And do you know what you’d like for food, or should I come back after drinks?”

The four exchange glances, before rattling off their usual orders. She walks away, orders in hand.

“Well. Now that food’s sorted, business?”

“Slow down, Stark. Let a man get his drink, before y’start throwin’ shit at me.”

“Alright, alright. Drinks first. So, horrible weather, hmm?”

“Tell me ‘bout it.”

Though from his tone, it is explicitly, undeniably clear, that he wants him to do anything but that. Stark holds his ability to.. irritate, or push buttons in high regard, though, and ignores Bucky’s dry, barely responsive tone.

“Fuckin’ downpour out there, pissin’ itself more than a grievin’ mother”

“Jesus Christ, Stark? Ever heard of a normal fuckin’ sentence? Fuckin’ hell… Just. Nothin’ ‘til we’ve got drinks, yeah? Fuck me..”

Tony only laughs in response, leaning back as the waitress returns, drinks in hand. She hands each drink over, and Bucky doesn’t miss the weird look she gives him. Not a bad look, more a ‘I’ve-seen-you-somewhere-haven’t-I’ look. Nothing out of the ordinary for him. Finally, he gets a chance to savour his drink. Sweeter than his usual drink, for sure, but still hitting each taste bud, as he swirls it round his mouth, savouring the taste. All four men take a minute to appreciate their drinks, before Tony starts,

“Fuckin’ Rumlow. Y’seen his bastards yet? Fuckin’ dickwads, lot of ‘em. Shit, Barnes. We gotta show ‘em who owns-”

“Yeah. One thing at a time, Stark. Rumlow’s bitches first, then we’ll sort everythin’ else, yeah?”

“Now, now Barnes. Y’not scared I want your area, hmm?”

His eyebrows furrowed again, his eyes darkening. Sam inhales and exhales deeply, beside him, almost as a reminder of where he is. A moment passes before he relaxes again, drinking his drink and leaning back too.

“My part? Stark… don’t forget I still collect ya debt. Don’t forget who fuckin’ runs this shit, hmm? Still, Rumlow’s a fuckin’ problem. And I’m willin’ to give some o’my men to help… sort him out, hmm?”

Tony grumbles slightly into his drink, about to retort when the waitress returns, with four very different plates. One for each man and his tastes. Tony gets a fancy steak and mash, and Sam gets a steak and chips. Bruce ordered a plate of truffle-topped tagliatelle, and Bucky receives a ravioli, filled with only the best lobster. The waitress pauses before leaving, nodding in Bucky’s direction,

“Chef sends his regards.”

He nods back, after taking a moment to appreciate the plate in front of him,

“And send ours back, hmm?”

She nods, and walks away again, leaving the four of them to talk business over their meals. Each man takes their time to appreciate the high-end meals placed in front of them. The effort, attention to detail, exquisite-ness of it all is not left unappreciated, as they strategise and plan exactly how to handle Rumlow and his.. situation.

“...So, I’ll send a few a’my men. They’ll be more than capable, capiche? An’ before y’say - yeah, I fuckin’ know y’got this. But I gotta deal with it too, y’know?”

Bucky sighs, running a hand over his face, and Tony sits, quietly contemplating. Bruce leans over, whispering into his ear, provoking Sam to lean over and whisper too,

“...I got nothin’ t’say, jus’ wanna look like we’re strategisin’ an’ shit.”

Bucky nods back, attempting to hold back a smile, before making eye contact with Tony again.

“Okay, Barnes. Okay. But only because Rumlow’s a fuckin’ bitch of a problem, yeah?”

“Thanks for co-operatin’ - ‘preciate it, Stark.”

By the end of dinner, all four men pay for their meals, leaving a generous tip behind. The waitress comes by to pick up their dishes, and Bucky sends her back with a message,

“Compliments to our chef, hmm? Wonderful dinner, and wonderful drinks, as always.”

And with that, all four men depart off, to their separate cars. Sam and Bucky wait just long enough to see Tony and Bruce leave, before walking back to their car. Bucky resists the urge to light a cigarette, knowing he’d have to put it out sooner than he’d want. Instead, he brushes his hair back with his hand, shaking his head,

“Keep an eye on Stark, Sam. He’s got somethin’ planned. Don’ like it.”

Sam nods, and keeps the umbrella held, shielding Bucky from the Heavens.

“Fuckin’ Hell, the rain, huh? Can ya do somethin’ ‘bout the rain, miracle man? Can ya fuckin’ make it pretty f’me? Jesus fuckin’ Christ, all it fuckin’ does in this fuckin’ city is rain. I mean, really. Fuckin’ A, this stupid weather.”

Sam chuckles quietly, shaking his head. But he knows better than to respond. Bucky Barnes wasn’t the kinda man you casually joked with, nor was he a man to be taken lightly. They both stand around a while, the only noise being the pitter patter of rainfall, surrounding them. By now, the doom and gloom of dark grey clouds had disappeared, leaving behind a dark blue sky, almost rivalling the sweet sapphire in his pocket. Where the Moon should shine bright tonight, glowing and glittering amongst the blanket of stars, she had instead run off, chasing after the Sun, and his warmth, and glory. And left behind, in her place, was an empty void of blue, filled with drab clouds in between. Truly, the skies mourned her absence, with just how much they cried. He tutted, stamping away at an awkward piece of gravel under his shoe, before giving the signal back to the driver, who opened their doors once again. In they sat, leaning into the cool, grounding leather of the seats.

Only one last stop for the night.

There you were, sat in your dressing room, halfway through getting ready for the night. It’s a nice, comfortable room, draped with the finest silks and most extravagant lamps. You wear a long, somewhat scandalous, yet still classy, sanguine-red gown draped itself across your body, accentuated by a cheeky-high slit up your thigh. You adorned yourself with dazzling gemstones, set in gold, across your neck, arms, on your ears and a barely visible one round your right ankle.

Your make up was just about almost done for the night, with only some eyeliner and mascara left - which you were concentrating heavily on, pulling a face as you carefully lined your eyes. Your eyeshadow sparkled, in all the right places, and your blush bloomed just perfectly. Your lips were just soft enough, for the sweet, sweet songs of the night, and your hair was just tousled enough to be stage-worthy.

You slip on each ring, taking the time to appreciate how they looked on your hands, and to remember how each one got there. A small smile on your face, you move over to perfume.

Being a singer of your level, you had access to all the world's needs, riches and comforts, of course. It wasn't always like this, and you remember the days where you'd beg, day after day, for even one performance. But the Hotel Continental takes care of its own, and since joining, you've been kept well.

Yet you find yourself reaching for the very same perfume. From all those years ago. It didn't really matter up on stage, which perfume you wore. Only for you, and there's only one that you adore. An old bottle, name barely visible with how often you used it. And as always, it complemented your body oil, outfit and make up just perfectly. You spritz some on, before carefully placing it back down in your perfume cabinet.

The time. What time was it? You turn round to the clock behind you-

8:03 pm.

27 minutes. In 27 minutes, you'd be up on stage, as you would most nights, performing. In 27 minutes, you'd perhaps search the crowd for old familiar faces. In 27 minutes, it'd be just you, and the music. stage, and the music.

You finish getting ready, as Winston’s ‘25-minutes-left’ knock rattles on the door.

“Come in!”

He carefully opens the door, a cup of chamomile tea in one hand, and a warm hug from the other. The door shuts softly as he walks over, setting the cup down on your table. He opens his arms wide, and you immediately accept the warm hug. Winston’s always been so sweet, just like a father to you - your saving grace in the city that never sleeps. He gently pats your back, before pulling away, a hand softly smoothing your hair,

“You ready? The stage awaits you again, my dear.”

You sip your tea slowly, swirling the taste round in your mouth, nodding back,

“Yeah. Just.. the usual jitters, you know?”

“Really? All these years, and you still get nervous?”

He tutted and chuckled, earning a smile from you. He’s always been good to you, both him and the hotel. The Hotel Continental was a luxurious place, filled with everything the rich man needed. A grand lobby, an extravagant lounge, perfect room service - truly New York’s best of the best. Unbeknownst to most attendees, though, the Hotel Continental hid its own secrets, too.

For starters, any and all mob business was to be abandoned on the steps of the Continental. There is to be no business conducted inside, nor blood to be shed. After all, not the Continental was a safe haven for many a character, but the Continental had its own reputation to hold - the risk was too high.

Second, the Continental had its own.. connections to New York’s underground. Common knowledge, amongst those involved. But this, much like the first point, was never to be exposed. Exposing the Continental in such a manner would result in excommunication, from the High Table. And who would risk excommunication, in such a world?

Third, was the hotel’s own speakeasy. Not easily accessible, mind you, but the Hidden Note was well known, at least amongst New York’s worst. And within the Hidden Note, was the Continental’s final secret.

You.

New York’s best jazz singer, sought after by everyone and anyone, hidden away in a speakeasy.

You inhale deep and exhale fast, smoothing down the wrinkles on your dress, a well-disguised stress-managing mechanism,

“Yeah. All these years, and the nerves still get me, huh? It’ll be okay when we’re out there, though.”

It always is.

“Speaking of out there, I hear a certain.. someone has been.. attending more recently, hmm? You know anything about that?”

He shoots you a knowing glance as you busy yourself with switching your earrings, favouring the drops over the smaller studs,

“I have no idea who you’re on about, Winston! Besides, it’s all good for business, hmm?”

You wink back, before checking the time. How have 15 minutes passed so soon?

“Is that so, hmm? So a certain.. blue-eyed man hasn’t been frequenting our hotel, has he?”

Winston makes direct eye contact with your reflection in the mirror, and suddenly, it’s very hot in here. He shakes his head, placing an affectionate hand on your shoulder,

“Be careful, little dove, hmm? That’s all.”

You look back up at the clock, adorned with sweet cherubs, playing the lute and the harp, singing their sweet songs all up the marbled pillar, round the clock face itself - time always passed quicker before performances.

“Now, now. Don’t get all panicky on me - I need you at your best for tonight, hmm?”

Sighing, you take a moment to centre yourself, breathing in and out, closing your eyes. Any and all thoughts leave your brain as you focus on the task at hand: tonight’s performance. Opening your eyes again, you find Winston’s hand outstretched towards you,

“You’ll be alright. Shall we?”

You nod back in the mirror’s reflection, turning and taking his hand as he (the very same as he does every night you perform) leads you through the back, helping you sort out last minute touches and such. It’s less of a necessity, and more of a pre-show ritual, at this point. He offers you whiskey, and you refuse. He knows you’ll refuse, each time, but he also knows you need it to be the exact same, every night. He knows, and ensures your pre-show ritual continues as smoothly (or chaotically, depending on how you view it) as it did, the very first time you performed.

“Right. 3 minutes left now. It’s all you, hmm?”

“Gotcha. Same as always, Winston.”

And with that, Winston leaves you, presumably to go sit with the highest of the highest out in the audience. Your audience. Here, waiting just for you. Stood behind the curtain, you make your way up on stage, finally smoothing down your dress one last time. You crack your knuckles, adjust your mic and mentally prepare for the night to begin. You can hear Winston out there, introducing you,

“And now, for New York’s best kept secret, our very own Siren of The Night, here at The Hotel Continental’s own, Hidden Note!”

Winston walks off the front of the stage, as the curtain slowly parts, revealing you, and the musicians behind you. A warm light hits you, and you smile, your jewels dazzling round, bouncing off the walls. A round of applause fills the room, as all eyes land on you. You take a minute to look around the room, seeing newer faces (is that the CEO of that one really big record label? Strange.. he looks awfully familiar), and old ones too.

But there’s only ever one pair of eyes you seek out.

And there they are, fixated on you.

You close your eyes, as the band behind you starts to play. Old hits, and some new ones too, smoothly playing behind you. You sway with each note, and by the time you begin singing, the audience is entirely enchanted, by the sweet notes dancing around them. Your voice, smoother than honey, builds a sweet tension, with each note climbing above the other. And when it snaps, all eyes are on you.

Each song holds emotion, intensity and passion, as you put in your all into every note. Small movements across the stage become dramatic flairs, here and there, and your nerves easily dissipate into a raw confidence. Your dress billows out, flowy and following each and every movement. Even the light follows you round the stage, as each movement casts a different pattern across the walls of the room.

The thrill of the performance only pushes you, as you reach the very climax of your performance, with a note that holds each and every audience-members eyes and attention. It’s long, powerful and intense, and only speaks to just how strong a singer you are.

Eventually, you lower your arms, finishing your performance the same as always, with a sweet bow, smile and a wave. You scan the crowd again, searching for those familiar cloudy blue eyes, once more.

They’re not there.

You collect yourself, smiling and waving once more, bowing with the band, before you head back off-stage, back into your dressing room, where you sit, quiet.

Thinking.

Meanwhile, Bucky Barnes was pissed. 

You see, he’d been sat, nicely, calmly, in his seat. Enjoying the performance. Winston, owner of the Hotel Continental, sat with him, Sam, and some other fucking chump. But he’d been calm. For the sake of the rules, at the very least. And it’d started out fine. He made the regular small talk he needed to. Winston talked to him about regular, normal things. The weather, how it manages to piss it down, every, fucking, day. How business was going, how family was. Winston was like that. Good, kind. Normal. He is the godfather of the underworld here for a reason, after all. Bucky (entirely unwillingly) had found out the idiot’s name was Barry. Who the fuck is Barry, anyway? Who the fuck cares? But he’d been nice, and calm, and normal anyway. Turns out, this was Barry’s first time here (again. Who the fuck cares?). Some rich-prick’s son-in-law, and he just had to see what the Hidden Note was hiding away, in its exclusive clutches.

And Winston? He knew Bucky. He knew Bucky, and he knew exactly how he’d handle a bitch like Barry. And Bucky knew exactly what Winston was doing, as the older gentleman looked back at him with a look that could only be conveyed as saying ‘Not-On-Continental-Property’. Sam stifled a small laugh behind a cough, and Bucky rolled his eyes to the side, not wanting to interrupt the performance.

So when Barry, the bitch, piped up with a,

“I’ve heard better than this fuckin’ shit! I mean c’mon? The fuck is this?”

Bucky Barnes was beyond pissed.

And when Winston looked over with a warning glance, once more in his direction, all he could do is grit his teeth and nod (and pray that somehow, somewhere, Barry, the bitch, would leave. Let him get his hands on him. Somehow.), unwilling to cause a scene in Winston’s kind hospitality.

So when Barry (the Bitch) made a huge fuss, specifically toward’s the end of your performance, of needing a smoke, Bucky Barnes was more than happy to oblige. Especially, when Winston offered over one of his own cigars for him. Picture, if you will, the image of bright, neon green lights, blinking around in his brain.

Bucky leads him outside, into an alley just behind the hotel. Explicitly not Continental property. On his way out though, he sneaks a glance at you. At how gorgeously each and every light shines off you. At how you, and only you, shine brighter than any diamond, ruby and sapphire. At how you smoothly move round the stage, your sweet voice stunning and fascinating everyone, and everything that dared even breathe in a presence as angelic as yours, and grumbles about missing it under his breath,

“Yeah. This fuckin’ way.”

Taking twists and turns, past the Continental’s.. shadier business, (including a room of slightly dodgy.. accountants, operating an old switchboard) they finally make it outside. Sure, the hotel has its own little smoking room. But that’s hotel-owned property. Bucky Barnes can’t beat the shit out of Barry (the Bitch) on hotel-owned property. And Barry (the Bitch) has no fucking idea what’s about to happen.

Stepping outside, the rain has not stopped, not at all. It’s almost asking him to reconsider - is this really a good idea? But he cares not for what the heavens think. Nor the winds, as they scream in an attempt to warn the other man. And he most definitely could care less for the little birds in the air, cawing and crying as they fly past. In the madness of the rain, he finds himself getting angrier by the minute, only for the Bitch himself to start speaking too,

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, her fuckin’ voice droned on, huh? I mean, a guy comes all this fuckin’ way, for some good fuckin’ shit, only to sit through that?”

His eye twitches slightly as he briefly considers the gloves. But then, the sting of the rings won’t quite hit him the same, so he puts them away, and waits patiently for the idiot to turn around. It’s a sign, then, from the heavens themselves, or some devil, somewhere, that out of the corner of his eye, is a metal pipe.

A metal fuckin’ pipe.

It’s practically Christmas Day, as Bucky Barnes’ eyes light up!

Seriously, if you had seen him right here, right now, you’d presume he’d just won the fuckin’ lottery!

But no. A metal. Fuckin’. Pipe.

He holds the metal pip in his hands, feeling the rain trickle off, over his palms. Tossing it lightly, he feels its weight, completely ignoring whatever fuckshit Barry (the Bitch) had to say.

“-back in Gotha-”

THWACK!

He falls to the ground, blood quickly pooling round his head, mixing with the rain. Bucky drops the bat, grabbing his head in one hand, and winding up with a punch from the other. Each punch that connects is only accentuated by the tears of heavenly bodies, slapping the man’s bleeding face. Each ring connects, scrapes and pulls at his skin, as bloody bits dribble down. But Bucky sees not blood, nor does he see him. He sees rage, sheer, unadulterated rage, as he continues to punch wildly. A fire rages within him, as he unleashes a wild, flurry of blows upon this man. Each punch burns more and more, and the rain only worsens it, the sting of each punch sizzling with each harsh droplet, off like smoke and ash from a burning fire. 

Eventually though, Bucky stands back up. His own hands stained with the blood of an imbecile, the fire still rages, as he spits back at him, finally lighting up Winston’s cigar. The bright orange of the lit cigar lights up his face briefly, in the muddy, blue-grey rain. It’s a somewhat peaceful moment, in the hellish landscape of this godforsaken city.

He pauses to take a nice, long drag of the cigar, enjoying the flavour as he puffs out a shape into the rain. He watches as it floats out, before dispersing into the tears of Heaven itself, sighing as he did,

“You fuckin’ idiot. You fuuuuuuckin’, idiot! Y’come to the Hotel Cont’nental. The Ho-Tel-Fuckin’-Con-Tinen-Tal. Ya fuckin’ dog. Y’eat our food. Y’sit with us, like ya belong here. Ya fuckin’ don’t! And y’have the fuckin’ nerve to cuss her out? Fuckin’ dickbag. Let this be ya fuckin’ lesson, ya ragin’ sack a’shit!”

He kicks him, the final wisp of fire rushing through his foot as it connects with his face, and finishes off by spitting back at him again, as the other man mumbles and grumbles through a face full of blood.

Bucky tosses the old metal pipe into some bins, conveniently located to the very side of the door they left from. Now, the bins themselves were Continental property - but the rules never mentioned disposing of used tools.

He stood in the rain briefly, brushing his hair back once more before he walked back inside, leaving the fool outside. Someone would check him. Eventually. Probably. Maybe. Perhaps.

Then again - that’s not Bucky Fucking Barnes’ problem, is it?

Walking back through the shady corridors of the Hotel Continental, he pauses at the administrative office, producing a gold drachma from his pocket. Tossing it over the desk, he leans over, whispering quietly,

“I’m orderin’ a hit.”

The lady sat behind the desk barely looks up from her typewriter, puffing out a small cloud of smoke to the left,

“Name?”

“Brock Rumlow.”

She continues typing away, and he waits. He knows how this game works.

“Reward?”

“2.5. Mill.”

“Very well, Mr Barnes.”

He raps his knuckles on the desk, nodding and turning away. As he walks off, he can just about hear her turning to other employees, placing the “hit” on Rumlow. He pauses, turning back quickly,

“Actually - is he available? Wick. Family friend and all, you know how it is.”

She sighs, and nods, retyping up the instructions,

“AMEND: Hit to be offered to Mr Wick first. If not Mr Wick, then the High Table decides. Does that work for you, Mr Barnes?”

“Yes. Perfect, thank you.”

“Enjoy your stay, sir.”

Speaking of, he had one very important, final meeting to get to.

Let’s hope he wasn’t too late, hmm?

Back amongst the expensive, yet lonely, decor of your dressing room, you sat curled up on the mockingly large bed, teasing your unchosen solitude. The tea, that Winston had brought over earlier, remained half-drank, cold and dull.

And it wasn’t really long before a knock came by your door. But not the knock you had desperately waited for.

“Oh, little dove? It’s just me, thought I’d quickly come by, may I?”

Winston. Of all the times your dear godfather had to appear, now really wasn’t the best time, was it.

Not when you were busy sulking.

Still, you rise from your.. depressing form, and open the door ever so slightly. Outside, stands Godfather Winston, with a velvet pouch in one hand. He raises his eyebrows in concern, at your somewhat despondent state, and you sigh and conjure up a small smile for him. You notice now, he’s hidden a hand behind his back, and slowly raises it forward,

“Oh, a blueberry muffin! Ohhhh, that’s just what I needed tonight!”

“Still the same little dove, hmm? Well, I think this’ll be me for the night, hmm? You’ll be back in day after tomorrow - take the day for yourself.”

You take the muffin, gratefully, and wave him off. And now you’re left again, all alone, with a blueberry muffin and cold, chamomile tea. Slumping into a corner, you slowly chew through the muffin. It’s.. strangely comforting, and each bite warms your heart ever so slightly more.

So when a second knock comes at your door, the more familiar pattern of four, you find yourself mumbling a soft,

“Come in, if you like.”

He pushes the door open, and takes note of your smaller form, sat in a corner. Internally, he makes a face, and sighs. Ahhh, Bucky Barnes has really done it this time, hasn’t he?

He makes his way over, joining you in the corner. You turn your head (petty, huh?) away from him, huffing quietly. He exhales softly, before whispering,

“Hey, doll.”

It’s soft, sweet and reverent. Nothing like he was before. No, this wasn’t the Bucky Barnes the world knew. This was the sweet, gentle ‘James’, that only you knew. Your James. The side he reserved, only for you. He reaches out to your hand, and you frown. You know he can’t see it, but you also know he can feel it, through how you shift slightly. He tries again, his heart melting with just how unresponsive you are to him. And he knows exactly what caused it, too. It doesn’t matter why or what caused him to leave - he should’ve stayed, and waited.

But how does he explain, that he could not bear to sit through that idiot’s each and every stupid word? Especially, specifically when he spoke of you, in such a manner?

He gulps back his guilt, and reaches for your hand. This time, you feel you’ve been petty enough, and let him hold it. His rough, calloused hands run over your smooth, pretty ones. He pulls you in closer, his other hand reaching for your face, softly turning you in, towards him. You sigh, and press your forehead to his, letting him pull you by the waist now, closer in. As you do, he exhales a breath he didn’t even know he had held, shaky and vulnerable,

“Hey honey. Missed ya.”

His every word comes through mumbly and quiet. To anyone else, it might’ve sounded like shame, or fear, but you know this voice well. It’s reserved, just for you, his soft, sweet voice, dripping in your ears. You push your face forwards, your nose brushing past his. His lips meet your cheek, dropping down to your lips with a smile,

“Take it you missed me too, huh?”

You shuffle your body forwards again, and practically fall into his arms. He pulls you into his lap, properly this time, with your legs swung together over his left, and his arms supporting you up against him. He leans you away briefly, just enough to rake his eyes over you. The dress, hugging you tight and perfect, falls just short of exposing you. And matching red gloves tuck under the edges of your ‘off-the-shoulder’ sleeve, wrapping round your hands. Your dress flows out, like a smooth river of red, over his legs, and around you. He pulls you in again, pressing his lips up against your neck, and kissing up to your ear,

“I take you liked the dress? I know I do.”

You hum in response, and sigh as his lips slowly wander round your neck, pressing little marks here and there, like new jewellery,

“James..”

“Yes, dear?”

“Still mad, by the way”

You feel his eyebrows furrowing as he mulls over your words, sighing into the crook of your neck. He readjusts you, now straddling him, and slowly lowers you down, fixing your dress around you. His hand still supports you, as though you were fragile, and even the lightest touch could break you,

“Well. However will I make this up to you, hmm?”

You make a face, whining and pulling him closer. He chuckles, shuffling off his blazer, and pressing himself closer to you, unable to bear the thought of being separated from you. He inhales deep, memorising your scent once more.

“You still use that same perfume? Pretty girl.. I bought you so many others..”

“But that’s still the first one you bought, my love.”

You play with his hair, soft fingers dancing through his scalp as he tuts softly. Was he in your embrace, or you in his? Who knows? Your other hand trickles up and down his back, soothingly as he remains still, unmoving but for his slowed breathing.

If anyone were to see this sight - the most feared man, in all of New York, lying in the most sought after jazz singer’s arms, muttering sweet nothings into her neck? One can only imagine the scandal, the gossip, the floundering arms and legs!

But none of that mattered, at this moment. All that really mattered was Bucky, and you, tangled up in the low, warm light emanating round the room. The singular, vintage lamp (a 2-month anniversary gift, Bucky had insisted upon), working overtime as it provided the softest, most perfect light for this moment. He pulled back briefly, to appreciate you once more. Where once, the harsh stage-light had you shining, glittering and bright, now, the softer, warmer light radiated off you, softening your sweet gaze on him. 

He had truly no choice but to bask in your heavenly glow, a sweet angel, in his arms.

Which reminded him, of his hands. Still stained with the very same sanguine colour wrapped around your body, still reminding him of his sins. How was it, that something so pure, beautiful and perfect sat so sweetly in the palm of his hands? How was it, then, that you wanted him? All these years, you had been his, and only his. The Siren of The Night, yet the only one privy to your sweet voice was him, and him alone.

He leaned further back, and you whined again, begging him closer. He leaned forwards, only to press a sweet kiss to your forehead, before hooking his arms under you, lifting you up. You moan softly, only for his ears, and if someone were to stop, just outside the East side of the Hotel Continental, and look up to the third floor, perhaps they’d see just a glimmer of red, brushed up into a sweet, tender embrace, as the rain rejoiced, just outside the window.

And he slowly walks over to your bed, your soft, silken sheets awaiting the weight of two intertwined souls. Each step, accompanied with another sweet kiss, a nibble here and there, a sweetened gasp in the air. He lowers your body onto soft sheets, and slowly climbs over you, nuzzling his nose against yours, oh so lovingly.

Who would’ve thought James Buchanan Barnes was such a lover boy?

The harsh contrast between the thundering rain outside, cold and unforgiving, and the sweet warmth of inside is not lost to either of you, as he continues to trail his hands along your body, barely tickling your sides. You respond with sighs of content, and relax briefly, before lifting your head, making direct contact with his stormy blue eyes, littered with droplets of rain, hailing down into your own eyes. It seems he’s gotten your.. meaning, as he lifts himself upwards, hands trailing round the back of your dress, eagerly searching for the sweet strings of fate themself. And when his cool, cold hands touch your warm, soft back, you can’t help but gasp. He presses another kiss to your neck, in an attempt to soothe the suddenness of it all, and takes the time to pull each string out. Your dress begins to fall but he holds it up himself, leaning you back on your pillows.

He takes your right hand first, slowly slipping the glove off. He kisses each finger, before gently placing the glove on your bedside table. This was his ritual. He takes your left hand next, mirroring the right. He pauses on your ring finger, kissing the ring that had blessed your hand two years ago.

“My love, mine.”

“Just as you are mine, James.”

“Always.”

He sits back up, ushering you to lay down. Grabbing a pillow, he shuffles it under your hips, readjusting you the way he knows you like it. You wiggle your hips slightly, and his hand rests on your waist as he pulls himself over you, again.

Except, he doesn’t quite realise how close to your face he is, and only really acknowledges it when he finds himself staring back at your eyes,

“Oh. Hi, you.”

“Hi, you, too.”

“Horrible weather today, hmm, love?”

You can’t help but to giggle and push your head against his, lovingly. Always lovingly. How he finds a way to make you giggle and laugh, each and every time, you still have no clue. He uses the opportunity to lift you up, finally peeling the dress away from you. With each new inch revealed, Bucky’s eyes light up, as though he was unwrapping his gift on Christmas Day (Note to Self: Perhaps wrapping yourself up for him on Christmas might be a good present…). He presses his lips against your collarbone, before lowering himself further down your chest, across your stomach and finally resting his head just above your core.

You’ve laid back down, allowing yourself to become comfortable once more. And he’s fully removed the dress at this point, his hands circling patterns across your stomach. Just as you close your eyes, his sweet kisses lulling you to sleep, he nips at your hip, earning a shocked yelp and grasping of his hair from you,

“Sorry, my love.. couldn’t help it..”

You sigh, releasing his hair again. He lifts his head back up and frowns. You mirror his frown, tilting your head sideways,

“What’s wrong, Jamie?”

“...”

“James?”

“My love, you’re not… wait..”

He stands up, crossing the room with ease. You curl up, immediately missing the warmth of your oh, so sweet husband laying across you, and wait patiently. Whatever he had in mind would be worth it, after all. He unlatched your jewellery cabinet, searching through various drawers, organisers, draping necklaces over his fingers, anklets and bracelets and bangles gently held in his metal hand. He returns, not without relatching the cabinet, and begins with the bracelets and bangles.

Adorning you.

Adoring you.

Because at the core of it all, below everything, that was what James Buchanan ‘Bucky’ Barnes did.

Each bracelet and bangle gliding onto your wrists sweetly and smoothly. Each one accompanied by an adoring kiss, pressed into your wrist and sweet murmurs. Next, the necklaces. Each one, a differing length, layered across your chest. He loops each one round, and presses a kiss at the apex of each necklace, lowering down to your sternum. He clasps each one with care, brushing your hair away, ensuring it never traps in the intricate mechanisms.

And finally, your anklets. He lifts your right ankle, brushing his lips past the anklet he had gifted you, when the two of you started dating five years ago. A smile graces his face, as he lifts another, draping it over, and carefully clasping it, sealed with a kiss. He repeats this with your left ankle, before reaching over to kiss your lips once more,

“There. Pretty, gorgeous and ready f’me now, my love.”

He was always careful with you, and around you. Where he could care less how he spoke with quite literally, anyone else, he was always careful with you. Even in his words, he put effort to ensure you truly got the best of him, always. His hand drops across your face slowly, pulling you in for another sweet kiss.

And each sweet kiss is soft, gentle and loving. You can feel him holding back (though you know he won’t, not for much longer) as he gently guides your head into place, both of your lips moving with sweet harmonies. As he moves you back, into his lap, each piece of jewellery now adorning your form rhymes and jingles. Yet he never pulls away from the kiss, only pushing deeper.

His tongue brushes your lips. Now, if you told anyone that had happened, naturally they’d have seen this as his need for you. A level of possessiveness over you, which was only to be expected from a mob boss. But you know better, as his tongue gently pushes over your lips, he begs. He begs to be let in. And you part your lips, ever so slightly, in time with his. Just enough for him to slip in.

Anyone else would expect a horrible battle for dominance, greed and lust.

Instead, he slowly explores your mouth, inhaling and exhaling through his nose as he does. His tongue softly travels over each tooth, before kissing the roof of your mouth as he pulls back. The sweet string of honey, dripping from either of your lips as he doesn’t dare to breathe in your angelic presence, dribbles down, leaving a sweet trail for him, across your chest. His tongue immediately darts down, refusing to even let a single drop go to waste. He slowly drags his tongue back up, past each necklace, over your neck, and leaving one chaste kiss on your lips.

“Perfect. My sweet, perfect angel. My everything, and anything.”

You hum in response and he moves backwards. You know what’s next, lying down in preparation. He pulls your knees up in preparation, nuzzling your inner left thigh with a sweet kiss. He presses another kiss to your lacy, red panties, matched to your dress. He pauses, quickly removing his rings and tucking them in your bedside drawer. He returns, and drags his finger along your wet core,

“Look at you, wet and ready, all f’me?”

“Always you, my love, always you..”

He hooks a finger under the waistband of your panties, slowly pulling them down and off. Placing them with your discarded gloves, he slowly licks a sweet stripe up, pausing at your sweet spot, and circles it with his tongue. Out of sheer need, hunger and want, your back arches, and you throw your head back, mouth agape. Each movement he makes causes more and more heat to pool in your core.

Bucky seizes the opportunity, plunging his tongue between your folds. Instinctively, your thighs threaten to shut round him, trap him and hold him there. But his arms hold either thigh pinned down, forcing you to feel each and every stroke as Bucky absolutely devours you, as a man starved, hungry and needy. Each stroke accompanied with your sweet, sweet notes, harmoniously bouncing off the walls of the room. He quickens his pace, here and there, and slows as you come closer and closer, teasing you, pushing you. You whine and make a face, and he complies, quickening once more.

“B-Buck… Jamie…. M'close!!"

He responds with a sweet hum, which only serves to push you over the edge. The metaphorical spring in your core coils tighter and tighter until it snaps, and you buck upwards. He continues to hold you down, his tongue still darting round your folds. Eventually, he lets go of your thighs (finally), and you immediately wrap round his head, as he continues on, through your release. 

There’s a sudden revelation you have, as you work on your comedown, of the situation you’re in. The idea of Bucky Barnes, mob boss, between your thighs. You absent mindedly fiddle with your wedding ring, your grasp on the soft sheets slowly loosening. Outside, the rain continues pelting down with a sense of vengeance, disguising your sweet sins from the horrors of the world surrounding you. It’s bittersweet, how two individuals tangled in the grimy, filthy underworld find themselves sweetly, honestly and truly in love with each other.

It’s almost poetic.

And when he’s done, and had his fill, he taps your thigh, snapping you out of your lost trance, and prompting you to finally set him free. As you do, a sorrowful emptiness in your core mourns his loss as he pulls back, licking his lips and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. You drink in the sight, of Bucky Barnes, beard, mouth and face covered in your sweetened honey. You sigh, the sound sweetly ringing in his ears, and his hand finds your face once more, slowly stroking your cheek.

For a brief moment, the two of you remain like this, soft and sweet, with the only sounds being the rain, still thundering outside.

He pulls you forward and kisses your lips sweetly, and your tongue pushes through his lips, exploring his mouth, this time. You can taste yourself on his tongue, and find yourself moaning at the taste, which is only followed by his own sweet moans, tugging on your tongue.

As he pulls away, his lips lower down to your chest, wrapping round one nipple and pulling, twisting, sucking and loving, teasingly. You whine and shake your head, softly calling out his name as his metal hand reaches up for your other one, playing around in his hand. The cool touch against your warm, soft skin only excites you more and more, and he switches over, attentive to your every need. His other hand wraps behind you, pulling you closer to him as he takes care of you.

And when he’s done, he follows the trail of stones up your chest, kissing the middle of each and every necklace again. He pauses at your neck, nibbling at where it curves, and becomes your shoulder. You attempt to softly push him back, and he shakes his head, tightening his hold on you. Tight as his grip may be, he never hurt, nor harmed you. He could never imagine causing pain to you, let alone actually doing it,

“Sweet girl, what’re you doin’?”

“Jus’ wanna take care of you too, y’know?”

“No, no, I’m makin’ it up to ya. C’mere, we’re celebratin’ early this year..”

“Bucky! There’s still.. time.. anniversary’s tomorrow!”

“Mhm, and? What’s wrong with celebratin’ early, hmm? Or d’ya not wanna..?”

You shake your head, and he finally starts to strip, just for you. Shirt and tie first, and he maintains full eye contact with you the entire way. He even pauses to let you trail your hands across his torso, up his chest, teasing his nipples gently. His belt next, clanking onto the ground beside your bed, slacks joining it. And finally, you reach forward, tracing his outline through his briefs. He attempts to stifle back a groan, only for your perfectly acrylic nails to begin pulling them down - releasing a somewhat needy noise from the back of his throat.

You giggle, as he kicks off his briefs, and he pulls one of your legs over his, around his back. You follow along with your other leg, wrapping round his back and locking him in place - not that he’d want anything different. 

He lowers you back, allowing you to get comfortable again, as he lines himself up, holding you by the waist. He rubs small circles into your waist, slowly pushing in, past your tight walls, as he keeps eye contact with you, the entire time. With each passing inch, he kisses your neck, chest, your ear, your cheek, your other cheek and finally, as he bottoms out, briefly whimpering as he leans in to kiss your lips, holding you, suppressing sweet moans with his tongue. He pulls away again, slowly pushing in, and then out, your walls always ready for him. You feel every push and pull past your folds, and he lowers a hand to your sweet nub, rubbing soft circles. You whine, and moan, and arch your back, and each time he pushes in, he kisses you, slow and sweet.

Love.

That’s what this was.

Pure, unadulterated, sheer love.

He quickens his pace, his thick girth being just perfect to satiate your each and every needy whine, and your perfect nails dig into his back, leaving loving marks across his skin. His own fingers dig into your waist slightly, with enough strength to bruise. The feeling has you even more excited, heat only increasing as his rough fingers bruise your hips.

And the gentle, amber light bounces off each item of jewellery, still adorning you, bouncing round the room with a soft, warm glow. Each movement made causes a sweet jingle of noise, matched by your own sweet moans, his gentle groans and the constant downpour outside. It’s lewd, sweet and soft, all at the same time, and it’s everything you’ve missed.

As you both approach your climax, he angles himself just right, hitting each and every angle just perfectly. He pulls your hips further down, and you find yourself a sweet, babbling mess. He continues through your sweet release, as your hands and legs weaken slightly, and holds you up, flush to his body as he joins you, ropes and loads filling your insides. And even when he’s done, he pushes down with his hand on your belly, feeling exactly where you wrapped round him,

“There we are, pretty girl. Feel that? Feels good, hmm?”

In your somewhat sweet, yet fucked out state, all you can offer in response is a soft hum. He presses his forehead against yours, grounding you as you both even your breathing once more. Eventually enough, he attempts to pull out, and you whine again, pulling your arms around the back of his head.

“Stay..? Gotta make it stick… lover boy..”

He sighs happily, unable to ever deny his sweet girl, and remains just a little longer. Both of your hands roll up and down each other’s bodies, and before long, he’s switching positions. He pulls out softly, and you whine in his ear as he moves you both around,

“Shhh, pretty girl, y’wanna make it stick? Only one way, baby..”

-manhandling you sweetly, into his arms. He stands up, with you, sitting back on the floor, in front of your long, floor length mirror. He’s behind you, now, with you in his lap, your legs swung over his left arm. The air hits your folds, now exposed to the air, and you gasp softly as he tilts back you head, kissing you sweetly. Once again, his hand finds your folds, playing around as he lifts you higher,

“Ready, sweet thing?”

You nod feverently from need, and want and desperation, and he chuckles in response, as he pushes up into you. The new position only feels better, as he kisses your walls, filling you fully as he does. Instinctively, you pull up, and he keeps you pulled down, eyes focused on your own in the reflection of the mirror,

“See that, pretty girl? Takin’ me s’well… made jus’ f’me.. an’ I’m made jus’f’you.. feel s’good baby..”

His eyes are laser focused on where the two of you join, where you become one together. Yours, attempt to meet his, or follow his, but with just how sweet he feels in you, your focus is slightly lost.

Each push up into you is joined by a sweet kiss to your shoulder, and a soft moan or groan from either of you. As he quickens his pace once again, he throws his head back, mouth agape as unrestrained moans and gentle whimpers, only for you, stutter out of his throat. In response, you gasp and moan and whine and drag your hands and nails across the arm holding you in place. His other arm holds your stomach, rolling circles into your skin. As you both chase your high together, he pushes his face into your shoulder, and each sound he makes vibrates through your skin, as shivers trickle down your spine.

He fastens his pace, slamming up into you. Despite that, it’s not harsh, or painful, and you attempt to move and meet his pace. His lips move to your ears, whispering sweet nothings and occasionally nibbling at your skin, illiciting sweeter noises from your throat. Soon enough, your clenching your walls around him, and he’s pushing through your tight walls, painting all over them.

And as the two of you sweetly climax once more, he slows his pace, before finally coming to a stop, still entirely buried in you. He stays there, waiting for the two of you to relax again, testing the waters by slowly moving (only for you to clench again, to which he responds with sweetly nuzzling his nose into your neck). Ten slow, sweetened and very well appreciated minutes pass, as he rakes his eyes over your soft body, joined with his so perfectly, before very, very slowly pulling out. Suddenly empty, you sigh, and he presses another kiss to your forehead, making his way over to run a bath for the two of you.

He finds your batch of rose petals, bath salts and bath oils, combining them just perfectly in the bathwater, before making his way back to you.

“Bath’s almost full, pretty girl. I’ll carry you over, wait.”

He hooks both arms under you, lifting with practiced ease, before lowering you carefully into your marble tub and settling in behind you. You tip your head back onto his chest, humming old songs and lying comfortably in your safe space as he wraps his arms round your waist. He traces small patterns into your skin, muttering sweet nothings into your ears before dropping his head onto your shoulder. It’s mushy, sweet and entirely unlike the persona he puts on.

The fire from before finally quietens down, each softening ember glowering gently, calmly basking in your warm presence.

“I suppose you’ve made up for your.. mistake.”

You can feel his smile, pressing into your shoulder as he muffled a response, causing you to turn ever so slightly,

“What was that, Buckaroo?”

“Ohhhh.. baby no… Y’killin’ me with that! Buckaroo? Really?”

He shakes his head, with that sweet, sweet smile you fell in love with, all those years ago. You sigh and smile back, raising a hand to push his hair out of his face,

“I said, I’m awful glad. Could’n’ imagine my beautiful girl mad at me.”

You swoon, his words never failing to warm you, and he pulls you back in, brushing your oh, so swollen lips for one last, deep, loving kiss.

A few hours have passed since your and Bucky’s… rendezvous. He’s helped you redress, into a soft, expensive, silk robe, and fed you grapes as you both lazed across your bed. He’s called for the driver, who waits patiently in the still pulsing rain, still plundering down outside, and quietly leads you through the hotel. You’ve passed Winston, who pauses to ask the two of you about your sweet one year old, who waits at home, nesting softly in Sam’s arms. He’s mentioned coming by on the weekend (after all - who’s to stop her great Godfather from spoiling her?) and you’ve nodded sweetly, before making your way out. He hasn’t commented on the glow on your face, nor the slightly out of place grin on Bucky’s, but a man like Winston knows better.

Stepping out, Bucky grabs a complementary umbrella for you, leading you over to the car. The driver immediately opens the door for you, waiting for you to sit in and get comfortable, before moving around to open the door for Bucky too.

Bucky’s hand naturally finds your thigh, squeezing it softly,

“My love, you are truly the best thing to have ever happened to me.”

Your hand trails over his, and you lean into his warmth, as the driver finally drives out, taking the two of you back home. He looks over at you, his eyes melting as they meet yours. Truly, Bucky Barnes was the moon, to your bright, warm sun. And he was more than happy, chasing his sweet sun, catching your sweet embrace in his arms. And you, were more than happy, falling into his grounding, soft arms. Perhaps, you were the only thing, warming the stone, cold heart of the… notoriously stone cold mob boss.

The sun.. to his moon.. yeah, he liked the sound of that.

Sure, the winds and the rains and numerous heavenly bodies may weep and mourn and attempt to wash away his sins, to convince him to turn, to change his ways. They may howl, day after day, begging he find his soul. But his soul was never his.

And what is the will of the Heavens in comparison to his sweet, darling wife?

For Bucky Barnes was a mob boss second, but a devoted, loving husband first.

Forever, and always.

post credits

The car finally pulls up to a comfortable, somewhat secluded area, stopping outside large gates. Bucky leans out, holding his hands up in a sign, and the gates open slowly. As he leans back in, he pulls you slowly over his lap again, careful as ever. Now, you had fallen asleep on the way home, the warmth of his shoulder serving as a perfect pillow for your sweet face.

The car slows even more, rolling along to the front door. Bucky tosses two gold coins into the front’s cup holders. The driver lowers his hat, tipping it in respect, and waits patiently. Another man walks up to the door, and Bucky nods, letting him open the door. Bucky steps out, with you asleep, in his arms. He walks up the steps of your shared, grandiose, albeit secluded, home, and the same man who opened your car door, returns to open the front door.

Sweet cinnamon and pine waft past his nose, as the dimmed lights of the home softly welcome you both home. From the living room, he can hear Sam reading yet another story to your oh, so eager little one, still up and awake, and very much unwilling to sleep. He sets you down on a couch, before sliding next to Sam, and scooping her up into his arms,

“Hey there princess - miss us?”

In response, she babbles back, dropping what might sound almost like words, here and there. Sam stands up, cracking his back as he does, and nods over to you,

“Have fun?”

Bucky pulls your daughter to his chest, nodding back,

“Yeah. See y’in two days, hmm?”

“Copy that, boss. Happy anniversary.”

With that, Sam makes his way out of the humble mansion, likely on his way home. Bucky settles next to you, and you instinctively cuddle against him. He opens up his left arm, letting you nuzzle up onto his chest, and with the other arm, guides your daughter to rest just opposite you. She reaches out to your face inquisitively, and Bucky gently guides her hands into his, redirecting her attention to ensure you could sleep.

With Bucky’s tender hands, and your soothing form, her eyes start drooping. He catches this, humming sweet lullabies, sending her off to sleep with sweet sheep, and goats, and perhaps a slightly over-protective Uncle Sam and Uncle Steve. Soon enough, both you and your daughter are fast asleep, the three of you now splayed across the couch. His left arm naturally rubs soothing circles into your back, and his right holds your daughter close, safe and sound.

And as the three of you lie there, and the clock quietly strikes 00:00, finally hitting your anniversary, he finally has a moment to himself, softly whispering a 'Happy Anniversary, prettiest girl' into your hair. He finally has a chance, to think quietly, all by himself. And in the quiet of the night, all he can think is-

Yeah. This is the life.

[navybrat817]

Healer

Image credit to @petite-madame here.

Pairing: Warlord!Bucky Barnes x Healer!Female Reader

Summary: He destroys, you heal, and he'll never let you go.

Word Count: 300

Warnings: DARK AU, dubcon/noncon elements, beind held hostage, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), dirty talk, possessive behavior, breeding kink if you blink, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).

A/N: Day 6 of the Sexy September Scribbles Challenge. Prompt: Can you be good for me? ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications as I no longer do taglists. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

“Can you be good for me?”

You made a small sound as Bucky’s rough hands roamed your body like he had the right. Your lips were still swollen from his deep kisses, and you swore he tried to drag the air from your lungs so you could breathe him in. He told you he kept you alive because you could heal his men, but you should've known by the glint in his cold eyes that he planned to use you beyond your gifts. 

“Why should I?” you asked, your eyes drawn to the jagged scar on his face, which only made him more handsome. 

He smirked and withdrew from you almost completely before he snapped his hips, drawing a cry from you. He made sure you were prepared for him, opening you up with his fingers and tongue before he pushed his large cock into your traitorous hole. Physical pleasure didn't erase your fear. 

“Because you're mine now, my angel, and your body knows it,” he said, his lips touching yours. “And I can either give you heaven on earth or create a hell for everyone around us.”

You gasped. Bucky earned his reputation by conquering and destruction. You earned yours through peace and healing. He took lives away while you saved them. While your gifts made you indispensable, it also made you a threat if you worked for the “wrong” side. He wasn't afraid to hurt others if it meant keeping you in line. 

You had to comply. 

“You're the devil,” you whispered, biting your lip when he thrust harder. And you weren't just his prisoner. You were his possession. 

“And I'm more than happy to sin inside you,” he taunted, your body betraying you again by tightening around him. “Now be good for me while I breed you.”

But why do I love them together? Love and thanks for reading. ❤️

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