I Snorting Omg

oh my. we love a steamy scene

the art of pretending [one-shot]

marvel au bucky x agent!reader

being mentored by bucky is nothing short of torture; he’s cold, infuriating, and impossible to please. but when a mission gone wrong leaves you stranded in a freezing safehouse together, you start to wonder if all that supposed hatred has just been hiding something else entirely.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, shower sex, unprotected sex, fingering, forced proximity, one bed, kissing, enemies to lovers-ish?, sexual tension, sparring, mentor bucky, bickering, insults, violence, bit of blood/gore/wound descriptions, bucky has issues, protective bucky, slut shaming (not from bucky), no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 12.4k

A/N: hi! this is for some requests i received (one and two). i combined two of the requests because they were pretty similar, hope thats okay and i hope you enjoy! this took me... so long to write. i hope it doesn't flop <3 sorry for any typos - not proof read.

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You had two goals for the night: get shitfaced and get railed. So, catching your asshole boyfriend wrist-deep in some girl’s panties, doing the kind of finger work he never even bothered to learn for you, wasn’t part of your itinerary.

You could’ve cried, you could’ve begged, or collapsed into a sad cliché with a tub of ice cream and Sex and the City reruns. But no, you had a mission, and one mission alone. Get so unbelievably drunk on whatever you could get your hands on, so drunk in fact that you wanted to black out before midnight and preferably unconscious until sunset the next day.

Tony’s penthouse parties weren’t usually your scene. Too many sleazy rich men with superiority complexes, trophy wives sipping champagne through botoxed grins, and a carousel of extras that Stark always vehemently denied were hookers. What you did know was that, being an agent for S.H.I.E.L.D., your name was always on the list, and tonight, free top-shelf booze felt like divine intervention.

You just had to get in, get drunk, and avoid eye contact with your co-workers long enough to pull off a quiet mental breakdown and ignore the fact that you were rather underdressed for the type of party Stark was hosting. Scantily clad club clothing clashed hard with the pearls and Prada crowd.

A few raised brows and vague greetings followed you as you slithered through the gathering. 

But you held back a groan when you spotted the trio parked at the bar: Yelena, Steve, and Bucky. Great. The Greek god chorus of shame, in all their sculpted, judgmental glory. They looked just as uncomfortable as you felt, loitering by the bar instead of mingling with Stark’s circus.

You ignored their stares and made a beeline for the shelves behind the bartender—some poor kid who looked far too green for this gig. He gave you a look of dismay as you grabbed a bottle of tequila without asking. Slamming down a shot glass, you poured with shaky hands and knocked it back with the elegance of a car crash.

You barely registered the silence that followed until you glanced up and saw the stunned expressions staring back at you.

Yelena was the first to speak. “What happened to you? You never come to these things.”

You poured another shot. “Free drinks,” you muttered, then downed it, already lining up the next. No salt. No lime. Just pain, raw and unfiltered, sliding down your throat.

“I thought you were going out with your boyfriend?” She continued to press, while Steve looked rather scandalised as he watched you swallow back your third shot in a row with a shudder. 

Yelena reached over and snatched the bottle from your hand before you could pour again. “You should slow down.”

​​You blinked at her, teeth gritted, blood thrumming loud in your ears. She meant well. Of course she did. You’d always gotten along—ever since she’d been assigned as your mentor in your early days at S.H.I.E.L.D. You two had clicked effortlessly. It was all a part of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s long-term strategy to make field missions run smoother and reduce casualties. Avengers were paired with up-and-coming agents to pass down their experience and training, with the hope that one day, those hard-earned skills would save lives.

But everything changed when they reassigned you.

You’d been told it was to ‘broaden your skillset’, that it was about growth, adaptability, and learning from different leadership styles. What they didn’t say was that it would mean training under James Buchanan Barnes, aka Mr. No-Praise-All-Pain.

You’d tried. Really. At first, you gave it your all. Took his criticism, bit your tongue, pushed harder. But Bucky didn’t bend. He didn’t compliment. Didn’t guide. He just judged, cold and final, like every failure confirmed whatever low expectations he had of you.

Five months of that, and you were drowning. You begged for reassignment—back to Yelena, to Natasha, to anyone—but were denied every time. Some higher-up probably thought your mutual disdain was ‘motivating’, like locking two angry wolves in a cage and expecting them not to rip each other’s throats out.

And now here he was. Bucky Barnes. His suit jacket was slung carelessly over the back of his bar stool, his tie loosened just enough to reveal the sharp line of his collarbone. His dress shirt clung to his muscular frame, sleeves rolled to his elbows, exposing those unfairly defined forearms and the gleam of vibranium wrapped around a bottle of beer. His expression was stony, but familiar—stern brow, mouth set in a tight line, like he was already displeased with you and you hadn’t even said a word yet.

That look. That look you couldn’t stand.

Disappointment, or maybe pity. You couldn’t tell. Either way, it made your skin itch.

You wanted to punch him in his sullen, pouty face.

Instead, you laughed bitterly and reached for the bottle again, only for Yelena to hold it further away, firm.

“I said slow down,” she warned.

You made a face at Yelena. “Uh, you can’t talk. I saw you do shots out of a candle holder once.”

She didn’t even blink.

“Yes. And you called me messy. So I stopped.” She turned away just long enough to vanish the tequila bottle from sight like some sleight-of-hand magician. “This is me returning the favour. Stop it. You’re being messy.”

You barked out a harsh laugh and rubbed a hand down your face, smearing frustration across your cheeks. “You know what’s messy? My boyfriend. Well—ex-boyfriend.”

Across the bar, Bucky shook his head and muttered something low under his breath. You didn’t catch it, but you were sure it was vile because even Steve glanced over at him in disbelief, his eyebrows climbing high. Great. Judgment from Captain Morality and the Tin Soldier. Just what you needed.

Yelena sighed, already exhausted. “What did he do this time?”

You could tell she was reaching the end of her patience, and honestly, it was fair. She’d been your reluctant witness through the entire tragic saga of your love life. Two and a half years of emotional landmines and loser boyfriends who all somehow managed to be worse than the last. It was impressive, in a bleak kind of way.

You gestured vaguely, your expression somewhere between rage and disbelief. “I was supposed to meet him at some sleazy club downtown, his buddy was DJing—-fucking terrible DJ by the way. I’d barely walked in the door when I caught him in a back booth, fingering some girl who wasn’t even trying to be subtle about it!”

Yelena’s lips pursed. Steve stared like he’d never heard someone use the word ‘fingering’ out loud before.

“What did you do?” Yelena asked, her voice low, careful.

“Oh, the usual,” you said sweetly. “I punched him. Hard. He hit the floor like a sack of shit. Then I stepped on his hand until I felt something snap.”

Steve choked on his beer, coughing violently into his elbow. Bucky just watched you with the world's best poker face, a slight clench in his jaw muscles. 

You smiled at Steve, feral and unbothered. “Don’t worry, Cap. He won’t be playing DJ with anyone’s body parts anytime soon.”

Yelena gave a low whistle, somewhere between impressed and alarmed. “You actually broke his hand?”

“Felt like justice.” You shrugged. “Plus, he was always texting with that hand. Two birds, one stomp.”

“That’s assault,” Steve managed, his voice slightly strangled.

“Oh, please,” you said, rolling your eyes. “We’ve all done worse.”

Across the bar, Bucky finally spoke, his voice gravel-edged and unimpressed. “And now you’re here, drinking like a lunatic in front of half the team. Real graceful recovery.”

Your shoulders tensed, that familiar heat creeping up your spine.

“I’m not showing up for training tomorrow,” you said flatly. “Hell, I don’t plan on being conscious tomorrow.”

Bucky didn’t miss a beat. “It’s going on your report.”

Your mid-year report. Just another excuse for Bucky to publicly drag you, whining to the higher-ups about what a terrible mentee you were. How you needed to ‘apply yourself’, ‘show initiative’, or whatever corporate nonsense they lapped up. And of course, those same higher-ups were always looking for a reason to cut dead weight. One misstep, and you were done.

“Of course it is,” you snapped, spinning on your heel. “You miserable, ancient cunt.”

Steve choked on his beer again.

Without another word, you reached behind the overwhelmed bartender, who looked about five seconds from quitting, and grabbed the nearest bottle. You didn’t even look at the label. You stormed off with tequila already burning in your veins and spite lighting the way. 

—

You were leaning casually against the wall outside the gym’s changing rooms, dressed in workout gear that was probably a little more flattering than necessary. Tight enough to flatter your waist, breathable enough to pass as practical. Around you, the low hum of chatter buzzed from a small group of fellow agents. You were killing time before your dreaded one-on-one training session with Barnes.

Theo leaned a shoulder beside yours, towelling sweat from the back of his neck. He’d been an agent about as long as you had—charming, competent, and a little too easy to get along with. The two of you were part of that unofficial after-hours crew: drinks on Fridays, complaints about the job, stumbling home tipsy and hungover texts on Saturday mornings.

“You’re on sparring duty all week too?” Theo asked, glancing at you with mock pity. “I swear Rogers gets off on making me eat mat.”

“I know what you mean. Barnes definitely loves making me suffer,” you replied with a grimace. “That man has a personal vendetta against me.”

Theo grinned, tossing the towel over his shoulder, and he gave you a playful sidelong look. “When I get knocked on my ass, promise you’ll kiss it better?”

You arched a brow, but the smirk tugging at your lips betrayed your amusement. “Careful. I’m starting to think you’re flirting with me.”

“Starting to?” he shot back, unfazed. “Let me make it clearer. If I don’t get my ass handed to me by Rogers, I’ll buy you a drink Friday.”

You leaned back against the wall, arms folding over your chest. “And if Rogers wins?”

Theo leaned in, voice low and smooth as his fingers brushed a stray strand of hair behind your ear, lingering just a moment too long. “Then I’ll buy you two,” he murmured.

You opened your mouth to respond. Flattered, a little surprised, already mentally debating whether it was worth shaving your legs, when a voice cut through the hallway like a blade.

“Agent. You’re late.”

You didn’t have to look to know who it was. That gravel-edged tone, sharpened with disapproval, could only belong to one man.

Bucky stood at the end of the corridor, arms crossed, jaw set like granite. His black compression shirt clung to every sculpted line of his chest, joggers slung low on his hips in a way that really shouldn't have been legal. He looked like he’d just stepped out of a combat simulation and into a fitness magazine.

But the expression on his face? Full-on battlefield.

That signature scowl was locked in place, thunderclouds brewing behind his eyes as he stared straight past you, straight at Theo. Typical. You hadn’t even done anything, yet somehow, he already looked pissed.

“Training doesn’t start for another twenty minutes.” You reminded him.

He didn’t seem interested in whatever argument you were about to make, and he turned on his heel without another word.

You sighed, uncrossing your arms as you pushed off the wall and flashed Theo an apologetic smile. 

Jogging to catch up, your boots thudding against the hallway floor, you called after Bucky. “You know, there’s this really neat thing called a schedule. Maybe try sticking to it?”

He didn’t even glance over his shoulder. “You could use the extra time.”

You scoffed in disbelief at his audacity. Classic Barnes, gruelling, joyless, always ready with a critique and never a compliment. He’d made it his mission to grind you down, one scathing remark at a time. And yet, you knew you were one of the top agents. The higher-ups had told you as much in your mid-year review, even going so far as to say that your mentorship with Barnes was working brilliantly. You hadn’t bothered correcting them, though it irritated more than you liked to admit. All your hard work, and somehow, he got the credit.

Bucky didn’t stop until you were both inside one of the gym’s private sparring rooms. The door clicked shut behind you. No audience. No distractions. Just him and you and the electric tension that always seemed to spark the moment you were alone together.

“Seriously, Barnes, what’s your problem today?”

Bucky stepped onto the mat, gesturing for you to follow.

“You’re here to train, not flirt in the hallway.”

You barely resisted the urge to roll your eyes. Bucky always had a problem whenever your love life even breathed into the conversation. Said it was irrelevant. Unprofessional. A distraction.

Back when Yelena was your partner, the two of you used to spar and gossip at the same time, her dodging your punches while you gave dramatic play-by-plays of whatever your latest fling had done to you in bed the night before. She lived for it. Bucky? Not so much.

He’d cut the conversation short every time. Couldn’t even stand the sight of you laughing a little too long with someone else. He’d yank you away with some bullshit excuse like, ‘distractions on the field will get you killed’, or ‘do I need to report you for slacking off?’ Like you were breaking protocol instead of just being a human being.

You stepped into position across from him, tightening your stance, heat already prickling beneath your skin. From the glare he was giving you, he looked ready to fight. Good. So were you.

“Are you always such an asshole,” you said, voice flat, “or is that just a special little treat you save for me?”

He gave you a look, deadpan and infuriating. “Only when I’m working with someone who’s constantly late, distracted, or hungover.”

You let out a sharp breath through your nose and threw a lazy jab, just to shut him up. He deflected it with a flick of his wrist like he could’ve done it in his sleep.

“And yet,” you muttered, circling to your right, “you wrote me a glowing mid-year report.”

His hand faltered for a split second. It was brief, but you caught it, a crack in the armour he hid behind.

“So you read it,” he replied, already shifting back into motion.

“Hard not to. Maria practically quoted it word for word at me in the hallway.”

His mouth flattened. “It was accurate.”

You scoffed and came at him again, this time with more force, a blow aimed at his jaw. He blocked with ease, catching your wrist mid-air and twisting just enough to tip your balance. You staggered, caught yourself, then stepped back with a glare.

“‘Most adaptive mentee in the current program,’” you quoted, circling him again.

A jab. He blocked it.

“‘Performs under pressure.’”

You followed up with a low kick aimed at his calf. He side-stepped like you were moving in slow motion.

“‘Good instincts in the field.’”

Another punch, this one he met palm to palm, stopping your momentum cold. You grit your teeth and shoved him off.

“‘Promising.’” You swept your foot in a feint and then struck at his ribs. He pivoted out of reach, breath barely changed. “‘Capable.’”

He lunged this time, arm out, trying to lock your elbow, but you twisted under it, ducking away, the mat skimming under your feet.

“‘Excellent recall.’” 

You squared off again, eyes locked on his.

“Why the hell,” you asked, low and angry, “are you always such an asshole to my face when you’re singing my praises behind my back?”

He didn’t answer right away, moving like a shadow around you, eyes locked on yours. 

“As much as it pains me,” he finally spoke, tone flat, “you are my best mentee. Even if I dislike you personally, I felt your report should reflect that.”

You blinked, momentarily thrown. That was… probably the most praise you’d ever got from him—buried beneath the usual bullshit, sure, but praise nonetheless. On a good day, you might get a grunted ‘good’ if you were lucky. Most of the time, training with Bucky was just an endless list of everything you were doing wrong, punctuated by a jab to the ribs for emphasis.

“Do you always make your compliments sound like insults?”

“It wasn’t a compliment. Just the truth.”

You threw a kick toward his side, fast and impulsive. He caught your ankle and held it, grip firm around your calf for a second too long. His vibranium fingers were cold, even through the fabric of your leggings. You could’ve sworn they tightened around the muscle just a fraction as your eyes swept up to give him a look of disbelief. But instead of pulling away, you leaned into the moment and used the hold for balance. You pivoted hard on your grounded foot, letting the captured leg swing inward. Then you launched yourself forward, hooking your other leg around his waist, aiming to bring him down with you.

For a half-second, it worked. His balance shifted. Your hips were flush against him, legs locked tight around his torso as you twisted your weight, trying to drag him off his feet.

With a grunt, he straightened, twisted, and you suddenly found yourself airborne.

You hit the mat hard, slamming against it with a thud that knocked the breath out of you. The ceiling lights above blurred for a second as the impact rattled through your spine. His shadow hovered for a beat, chest rising with exertion, jaw clenched.

He didn’t smirk. Didn’t gloat. Just stared down at you, maybe it was the oncoming concussion you probably just suffered, but you could’ve sworn there was a flash of concern in his eyes.

“Next time, I won’t let it slide if you don’t turn up because you’re hungover.” He wiped a forearm across his brow.

“How do you know my heart wasn’t broken?” You asked, shaking off the blow as you rose to your feet once more, feet finding their usual stance.

He arched a brow, unimpressed.

“Don’t you have sympathy for me?” you asked, somewhere between a joke and a challenge.

“I wouldn’t call it sympathy,” he said coolly. “More like pity.”

That stung more than you cared to admit. You rolled your shoulders, stepping in again. Your guard was up, but there was a crack in it now, frustration flaring under your skin.

“I can’t imagine you were actually that sad about it.” Bucky bit out, not even bothering to hide his annoyance now. “Don’t you have a new fling every other week? Sure sounded like you were lining up another one in the hallway.”

“Oh wow,” you drawled, voice harsh. “Slut shaming? This isn’t the 1940s, Barnes.”

“It’s not my fault who you choose to date.”

You exhaled, long and low. The tension between you had teeth now, gnawing at the air. “Y’know, for someone who hates me, you sure pay a lot of attention.”

He didn’t respond. Just stood there, fists flexing at his sides, poker-faced.

You waited, ready to shoulder any insult he laid on you. You could see irritation simmering under his skin, jaw ticking, knuckles white.

“I think you should take a lap or two around the room.” He huffed finally. “Your blocks are late, your punches are soft, and your stance is a joke. Try warming up before you embarrass both of us.”

You grinned back at him, though it was closer to baring your teeth than a show of amusement. “But I’m still your best mentee, huh?”

“Let’s make it five laps then.”

You gave him a lazy salute and turned for the edge of the mat.

“Whatever you say, Sergeant.”

As you jogged the first lap, footsteps echoing lightly in the private room, you could feel his eyes on you, tracking every movement and watching you like a hawk, like a fuse lit, waiting.

And damn it, you ran a little faster because of it.

—

If you’d known how this mission was going to turn out, you would’ve called in sick. Faked a family emergency. Broken your own damn leg. Anything to avoid being stuck alone with Bucky Barnes in a freezing H.Y.D.R.A. bunker from hell. You’d even considered whispering a desperate prayer to whatever all-seeing god might be listening—or hell, maybe begging Stephen Strange to yank you into an alternate universe where this wasn’t your reality.

Gunfire rattled somewhere outside the cement walls, and you imagined your fellow agents in the middle of all the fun, chucking grenades, dodging bullets, living the dream. Meanwhile, you were practically glued at the hip with Sergeant Sunshine, babysitting an ancient Soviet-era computer that looked like it still ran on dial-up.

You were perched on the edge of a desk, legs swinging, having shoved aside a mountain of dusty files scribbled in Russian. All completely useless to you.

“What is it with H.Y.D.R.A. and brutalist architecture?” you muttered, eyeing the thick ceiling. “Why does concrete get them so hard?”

“I can’t concentrate with all your whining.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s literally the first thing I’ve said in ten minutes, Barnes.”

He didn’t respond. Didn’t even throw you one of his signature grunts. Just kept clicking away like the keyboard had wronged him personally, eyes narrowed at the screen as if trying to decode the goddamn Rosetta Stone.

You groaned and rolled your head back, staring up at the ceiling.

More concrete.

You weren’t usually this unbearable on missions, but this? This whole situation felt like a personal attack. You’d been mid-flirt with Theo on the quinjet (who had been very committed to making bedroom eyes at you) when they’d called out team assignments. The second you heard your name paired with Barnes, tasked with data extraction while everyone else got to blow things up, you’d spun around to glare at him.

He’d been sitting there in his usual cold, statue-like stillness beside Steve, as if this wasn’t a death sentence. You’d stormed over, demanded if he knew anything. He just shrugged and muttered something about ‘higher-ups’.

The walls shook suddenly—another explosion—and dust drifted from the ceiling. You blinked it out of your lashes and slid lazily off the desk, sauntering over to where Bucky hunched at the terminal.

“Can you hurry it up? At this rate, they’re going to bury us alive in here.”

“Give me a second,” he muttered through gritted teeth.

You leaned in slightly, eyeing the screen. A wall of Cyrillic met you, completely unreadable. You couldn’t help the exasperated sigh that left your lips.

“Remind me again why we’re the ones doing this? Wouldn’t it have made more sense to send someone who actually speaks Russian to help you? Or, I don’t know, someone who has the patience to teach you how to use a flash drive?”

He didn’t answer, just kept typing and clicking, as if the keys owed him money.

You crossed your arms, scowling. The only thing more miserable than being stuck in a concrete crypt was being stuck in one with him. When he was distracted, like now, he forgot to wear that usual look of thinly veiled disappointment. His brow furrowed in focus, lips twitching as he muttered to himself in low, clipped Russian. He looked—God help you—human. Not like the cold-hearted pain-in-your-ass who’d spent the last six months tearing you down. But like someone thoughtful. Careful. Quietly brilliant.

And stupidly, stupidly attractive.

You hated how your eyes lingered on the way his rolled-up sleeves hugged his forearms. The way the shadows danced over his cheekbones and the little groove between his brows. The way that little furrow deepened when something didn’t go his way, like he was trying to wrestle the entire world into submission with sheer concentration alone.

It would’ve been easier if he were just awful. Easier if you didn’t catch glimpses of something else beneath the gruffness. Something that made your chest tighten a little when you weren’t focusing. 

You swallowed hard, forcing your eyes to the screen. What was wrong with you?

The download bar finally appeared on the screen, crawling forward at a snail’s pace. You exhaled loudly, half in relief, half in impatience. 

“About time,” you muttered.

He shot you a look, cold and flat. “You wanna do it?”

You turned your back on him, pacing the room. Your nerves were coiled tight, the distant sounds of gunfire and explosions growing louder. The base was a pressure cooker and the damn download bar still hovered at 34%.

While you were busy taking your own turn brooding, the heavy metal door at the far end of the room slammed open with a deafening clang, nearly launching you out of your skin. Three armed H.Y.D.R.A. agents stormed in, rifles raised, eyes locked on target.

So much for the diversion. Clearly, it hadn’t been enough—or worse, H.Y.D.R.A. had seen through it. They must’ve realised it wasn’t a full-blown William-the-Conqueror-style invasion, just a cleverly dressed-up distraction.

“Company,” Bucky muttered, pulling his sidearm in one smooth motion.

You were already moving, instincts kicking in before your brain could catch up. You dove low, sliding across the slick concrete floor as a hail of bullets tore through the room. You grabbed the nearest overturned chair, dragging it into place just in time as metal pinged and sparked against it.

Bucky didn’t hesitate. A single, precise shot rang out, dropping the first H.Y.D.R.A. agent without a flinch. You didn’t stop to think. You surged forward, catching the second agent by surprise, your knee slamming into his gut with enough force to knock the air from his lungs. He doubled over, right into the crack of your gun butt across his temple. He crumpled, unconscious, before he hit the floor.

Then you saw the third.

Rifle up.

Aimed right at you.

“Get down!”

The shout was raw, sharp enough to slice through the chaos. You barely had time to turn your head before a body crashed into yours. His arm slammed into your torso, hurling you sideways just as the trigger was pulled.

The shot cracked like thunder.

Your back hit the ground hard, skidding across the floor. Pain flared along your shoulder, but it was nothing compared to the sound that followed, the harsh, guttural grunt that tore out of Bucky’s throat.

You twisted around.

He was down, gasping, clutching at his side and blood already soaking through the black fabric of his suit.

You scrambled back to him just as the final agent aimed again. Snarling, you fired three quick shots into the bastard’s chest before he collapsed in a heap.

The air went still for only a moment, then the ground trembled violently before you had a chance to assess the damage done to Bucky. Chunks of the ceiling cracked and began to rain down. Concrete groaned like a beast waking from a long sleep.

You turned to the computer, some unreadable symbols flashing across the screen, but you were quick enough to decipher that it meant the download was complete. Snatching the flash drive, you spun back to Bucky, who was trying to sit up, blood spilling between his fingers as he pressed them hard against the wound in his side.

“Get up,” you barked, crouching beside him. “We need to move, Barnes!”

—

The two of you had spent nearly two damn hours stumbling through the snow-blanketed mountainside, following the rough coordinates burned into your mind from the mission briefing. By the time the cabin finally came into view—half-buried in the snow, smoke long gone from the chimney—you were soaked to the bone and one more smart comment away from throttling him.

The escape had been messy, the H.Y.D.R.A base nearly becoming your tomb. You’d been forced to bolt through a collapsing back corridor, dragging the injured super soldier along with the last of your adrenaline. Between the debris, the gunfire, and the growing dark stain across his side, you weren’t sure how either of you had made it out. Worse still, you’d missed the quinjet extraction window by twenty minutes. The skies had turned black with storm clouds, wind howling across the range as ice and snow stung your cheeks. The base had finally picked up your call for aid on the mission-assigned satellite phone, but due to zero visibility and increased H.Y.D.R.A activity in the area, the replacement quinjet wouldn’t arrive until first light.

Which meant you were stuck together. In the cold. For the whole night.

The safehouse, at least, was still intact. A small timber cabin tucked between trees, barely standing but just enough. It had a lounge no bigger than a broom closet, a wood-burning stove long dead and cold, a bathroom you prayed had running water, and a single bedroom with a mattress that looked like it had seen better decades.

Your breath misted in the air as you slammed the door behind you, the wind nearly ripping the handle from your grip. Bucky collapsed onto the torn couch by the stove without a word, letting out a low groan that he probably thought you didn’t hear.

You should’ve made starting the fire your first priority. But one look at the blood soaking through Bucky’s side made that choice for you.

Now, kneeling between his legs with the remnants of the first-aid kit splayed out on the coffee table, whoever had been here last hadn’t restocked it properly. You glared up at Bucky as he shifted under your touch again. “Stop squirming.”

“I’m not.”

“You are,” you hissed, dabbing antiseptic across the wound with a gauze pad. “You keep flinching.”

“Because you’re digging in like you’re trying to punish me.”

“Oh, I haven’t even started,” you muttered.

He scoffed, muscles twitching beneath your hands as you pressed down. “Are you always this demanding?”

“Are you always this whiny?”

His glare was instant, eyes narrowed. “Is it your goal to piss everyone off?”

“I’m a fucking delight, and you know that.”

He gave you a deadpan look. “I think you’re mistaken. I definitely don’t like you.”

You lifted your brows, trying to keep your voice light despite the roiling mix of emotions spilling out. “You say that like you didn’t just take a bullet for me.”

You hadn’t even had the time to process it when it happened. The crash of his body slamming into yours, the sound of the gunshot, and the sickening thud of him hitting the ground. But now, with him sitting across from you, shirt dark with blood and a fresh gash still weeping crimson, the weight of it began to settle in.

He took a bullet for you.

You didn’t know what to do with that.

Part of you expected him to twist it somehow, to throw it back in your face as some kind of lesson that you were careless. That you’d left an opening. That he had to clean up your mess. You were already bracing for it, the sting of snide remarks spread over weeks like salt in a wound, little digs during training about how you ‘owe him one’ or how ‘distractions get people killed’.

And yet... he hadn’t said any of that.

Instead, he just shrugged, wincing slightly. “I heal faster because of the serum,” he muttered, voice gruff but quieter than usual. “I’ll be back on the field faster than you ever could.”

You stared at him.

At the stubborn line of his jaw, the tight press of his lips as he tried not to show how much pain he was in. The way his hand gripped his side was too tight. The blood beneath his fingernails.

Why had he done that?

You weren’t always the easiest to get along with. You’d spent months pushing each other’s buttons, arguing, fighting, constantly locked in a cold war of insults and bruises. So why? Why would he throw himself into a bullet’s path for you?

It was hard not to feel... something. Flattered, maybe. A little shocked. And, against your better judgment, grateful. You didn’t want to be grateful—not to him, of all people—but your stomach wrenched every time you replayed the moment in your head.

You didn’t ask him to do it. And yet, he did.

And now he was pretending it didn’t matter. Like he hadn’t made a split-second decision to put your life before his own. What if that bullet had hit a little higher? His heart? His throat? His skull?

“Sure,” you drawled, trying to cover for your sudden silence. “Great excuse.”

“It’s the truth.” He muttered. 

He didn’t look at you. Just kept his eyes on the floor and said nothing.

Which, somehow, said everything.

You stared at him for a moment longer, shaking your head as you tossed the bloodied gauze into the small bin beside the couch. The cold was starting to settle into your bones, your fingers stiff with it.

“Whatever. I’m going to try to find some firewood before we freeze to death.”

He glanced toward the boarded-up window, ice clinging to the edges. “You sure there’s any left out there?”

“Nope.” You pulled on your jacket. “But I’d rather get eaten by a bear than stay in here with you.”

You were halfway to the door before you paused, glancing over your shoulder.

“Can you get to that bed yourself, or do you need me to do that for you, too, super soldier?”

His answer came quickly, teeth clenched. “I’m fine.”

“Sure you are.”

You couldn’t deny the nausea in your stomach. Not from worry. Definitely not that. Just frustration. That’s all it was.

The wind nearly ripped the door from your hands as you stepped outside. Snow came in sideways, biting at your skin the second you crossed the threshold. You tugged your jacket tighter and trudged into the blizzard, squinting against the blur of white.

The woodshed was exactly where the briefing had said it’d be, about ten feet from the side of the cabin, half-hidden by trees. Or at least, had been. What you found instead was a crooked mess of collapsed timber and broken beams. Snow had settled deep into the heap, and every piece of wood you managed to drag free was soaked, the logs heavy with ice and rot.

You swore, breath clouding in the air.

You searched anyway, fingers numb, arms shaking. You tried the back of the cabin. Nothing. Even the branches scattered beneath the trees were too damp. No kindling, no dry bark, not even a damn pinecone. The cold was sinking deeper now, crawling down your spine and settling like an anchor in your chest. You didn’t want to push further into the wilderness, not in this weather and not with H.Y.D.R.A. agents crawling all over the mountainside. 

By the time you stumbled back inside and forced the door closed again, you could hardly feel your fingers or toes. Every limb ached like they were five seconds away from turning purple and black from frostbite. The cabin felt just as cold as the outside, but it was a momentary relief to be out of the wind that cut through your thick layers.

Bucky was on the bed, half-sitting up against the wall, the blanket pulled low across his hips. His eyes flicked up as you entered, taking in your dripping hair and shaking hands.

"Let me guess," he muttered. "No luck?"

You didn’t answer right away, just peeled your jacket off and dropped it near the door with a wet splat. “Everything’s soaked. The shed’s collapsed.”

He exhaled through his nose, chest deflating with the effort. “You’re freezing.”

You ignored him, stomping the snow off your boots. “I’ll live.”

“Not if you keep acting like a damn idiot.”

You turned to glare at him. “I’m sorry, which one of us got shot again?”

You crouched down, your knees protesting as you bent to untie your boots, but your fingers were too stiff, trembling from the cold. The laces had frozen slightly, the knots tight and uncooperative. You hissed through your teeth, fumbling and cursing under your breath as you tugged uselessly at them.

Bucky watched from the bed, arms crossed over his broad chest. He didn’t move to help, but you could feel his eyes on you. He tilted his head slightly and gave you a look that was half-concerned, half-exasperated, like you did this to yourself.

With a final frustrated yank, you freed your boot and kicked it off, followed quickly by the other. A damp string of muttered profanities trailed from your lips as you scrambled back to your feet, wet clothes clinging uncomfortably to your skin. 

“Which one of us,” Bucky spoke pointedly, breath fogging in the air between you, “went outside to play in a blizzard and came back looking like a drowned rat?”

You were shivering now, teeth on the verge of chattering, but you still squared your shoulders and stared him down, as defiant as ever. A bead of melted snow trailed down your temple. He stared right back.

“Get over here,” he said finally.

“Excuse me?”

“You need to warm up.” His tone was flat, too practical. “And the bed’s the only warm place in this shithole.”

“Oh, now you care about my well-being?”

He didn’t dignify that with a response. Just lifted the edge of the blanket.

You hesitated, eyeing the small mattress like it might bite you. "You’re the worst."

"And you’re still standing in wet clothes. Take them off and get in."

Your mouth dropped open. “Excuse me?”

“Not all of them,” he said, eyes rolling. “Just the top layer before you die of hypothermia. Stop being dramatic.”

With a theatrical sigh for good measure, you peeled off your wet sweater, leaving the thermal shirt beneath and then your pants. You did not check to see if he was watching you shivering in your underwear, cheeks flushed. You padded toward the bed like it was a walk to your own execution, hesitating again at the edge.

You tried—really tried—not to let your eyes linger on the broad plane of his chest, but it was impossible not to. His shirt was rumpled and half-untucked, the hem tugged up where he’d peeled it back to expose the bandage on his side. The white gauze was already marred with deep red, blooming in uneven patches that made you pause with something halfway between guilt and concern. Your gaze drifted to the sharp curve of his waist, the ridge of muscle visible beneath the bloodied wrappings. 

It was distracting. 

He was distracting.

But what you tried hardest not to think about was the bed. Specifically, how absurdly small the mattress looked with him sitting on it, shoulders nearly brushing both edges. There was no way you’d both fit. You’d be pressed against him. Shoulder to shoulder, chest to back, knee to thigh. 

You swallowed hard and told yourself not to think about it.

But you were already thinking about it.

“Don’t make it weird,” Bucky muttered.

“I’m not making it weird.”

He let out a low, tired huff, the kind that told you he was in pain but too stubborn to say it. You rolled your eyes in reply, more at yourself than him, and climbed in carefully, slipping beneath the blanket with a reluctant shiver. The bed was warmer than expected. Or rather, he was. Bucky radiated heat like a furnace, the kind that seeped into your skin and made your limbs relax before your mind could catch up. You hovered near the edge of the mattress, body stiff, spine straight like it might help you keep your distance. But it was a hopeless attempt. The bed was tiny—criminally small, really—and with him taking up so much space, there was nowhere to go but closer. One wrong move and you’d be on the floor.

“God, you’re warm,” you muttered into the pillow, trying not to sound too affected.

“Serum,” he replied shortly, his voice rough with exhaustion.

Slowly, inch by inch, you gave in. The chill in the air made it too easy to justify. You shifted toward him, the blanket tugging between you as your arm brushed against his. Then your hip. Then your thigh. Until, somehow, your bodies were nearly flush. 

He didn’t move. Didn’t pull away. Didn’t say a word.

And that somehow made it worse.

The silence settled between you, heavy and warm and intimate, like the air itself had thickened. You could hear his breathing, steady, but a little too deliberate. You could see his chest rise and fall from the corner of your eye. And worse, you could feel him. Every inch of him. The solid line of muscle at your side. The way your knees had somehow locked together under the blanket. How your forearm grazed his with every breath you took.

You needed a distraction. Desperately.

Reaching over to the nightstand, you snatched up the battered satellite phone, almost too quickly. The cold metal was jarring against your palm. For a moment, you considered activating the self-destruct protocol and blowing both of you up to end your shared misery. You flicked it on, the screen’s pale light casting long shadows across the room and across him.

Your eyes flicked over before you could stop them.

He was already staring at the ceiling, the faint furrow between his brows still present even in rest. His profile was defined in the low light, long lashes, strong nose, and the stubble on his jaw catching just a hint of light.

You forced yourself to look back at the tiny screen to check for any new updates.

Nothing. You were well and truly in for the night.

You scrolled to the mission briefing instead, flicking through the files to pass time, anything to distract you.

And then you saw it.

There, buried under the pre-mission notes, weather expectations, and extraction protocol, was a small addendum in the personnel request section.

Operation HARVEST: Agent Barnes, James B.Requested field partner: Agent 00149. Request approved.

You stared at it, the room suddenly quieter than it had been all night. 

That was your agent number.

He asked for you.

The same man who had spent the last six months grunting his way through every interaction, who seemed perpetually annoyed by your existence, who had made a point never to give you more than an ounce of credit, had explicitly asked to be paired with you.

You felt your throat tighten.

“You okay?” Bucky asked, as if he could sense your world shattering around you. His voice was low, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion 

You didn’t answer right away. You sat there, still curled under the heavy covers. The warmth of his body was helping, yes—but your blood was starting to simmer for a very different reason.

You turned slowly, holding the satellite phone up between your fingers.

“You want to tell me why it says on the briefing notes that you requested me as your partner for this mission?”

Bucky blinked once. His mouth parted slightly, but no sound came out.

“I asked you on the quinjet if you knew anything,” you went on, voice harsh now. “You told me it was a higher-up’s decision. You lied to my face.”

Bucky sighed through his nose, already bracing himself as he sat up straighter against the headboard. “I didn’t think it mattered.”

“Didn’t matter?” you scoffed, pushing yourself to your knees to face him, ignoring the goosebumps that rose as the blankets fell from your shoulders. “You picked me. You had me assigned to a mission with you, just the two of us, didn’t tell me, and then lied about it.”

“I didn’t lie—”

“You did lie.”

He dragged a hand down his face, slow and weary, but there was tension in the movement, an edge of frustration barely restrained. “I didn’t want you partnered with the other guys, alright?”

You faltered, unsure if you heard him right. “Excuse me?”

“It doesn’t matter—”

“No, you can’t just say that and not explain—”

“Fine!” He groaned, exasperated. His eyes dropped away from yours, fixing instead on a knot in the cabin’s dark wood wall. “I heard them talking. Theo and a few of the other agents.”

“What?” you asked, voice tight. “What were they saying about me?”

He didn’t answer. The silence stretched, heavy and awful.

“Just say it,” you bit out.

He looked at you then. Really looked at you. And it hit you square in the chest, something dark and protective burning behind his eyes. But it was reluctant, too, as if he hated that he was about to say it out loud.

His voice was low and rough when it came. “That you’re easy. That it’d be simple to get you into bed because you’re always asking for it. That you’re a slut. I gave them a piece of my mind and reported them, but I still don’t want you around them.”

You felt it like a punch to the gut.

Your breath caught, the sting behind your eyes immediate and hot. You blinked once. Twice. The words echoed, raw and ugly, and for a second, all you could do was try not to let them settle too deep. Not to let them stick.

You weren’t naïve. You knew you didn’t sleep around any more than anyone else your age. You knew that if the situation were flipped, if you were a man, no one would bat an eye. And still, the weight of it settled heavy in your gut, all twisted up with something darker. Dread. Shame. Fury. And under it all… that sick, crawling feeling that maybe Bucky had said something. Given them reason to think they could say it. That maybe he thought the same thing deep down.

That, maybe, to him, you were just some mess he had to clean up.

The words came fast, your voice shaking. “And what, you thought you’d ride in and defend me like some white knight? You know I could easily drop Theo, I could easily drop any of those assholes!” Bucky blinked, caught off guard, but you were already going, bitter heat rising in your throat like bile.

“You thought that would make it better?” you snapped. “You think that helps? They’re probably all laughing behind my back about how I can’t defend myself—”

“I wasn’t going to stand there and let them talk about you like that!”

“Why?” you demanded. “Because you didn’t want to hear it? Or because you’ve thought the same fucking thing?”

His eyes flared with disbelief, maybe even insult.

“I would never think of you that way,” he barked, and his voice cracked like thunder. “Let alone say it out loud. Because I’m not an asshole. Not like those guys you date.”

You laughed, blunt and hollow. “Why do you care who I date?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. For a moment, you thought he wouldn’t come up with any words, but to your surprise, he exploded before you. “Maybe because you deserve better!” he shouted, the words ripping out of him before he could take them back.

The silence after that was suffocating.

You stared at him, heart hammering in your chest, a strange cocktail of feelings in your stomach that you didn’t care to identify. He sat there, breathing hard, his hands clenched at his sides like he didn’t trust himself to speak again.

“Jesus,” you muttered. You weren’t foolish enough to believe him, to fall victim to whatever joke he was trying to play. “Give me a break.”

“I’m serious,” he mumbled this time. 

You turned your face away. “Oh yeah? Like you could do any better? Don’t be ridiculous.”

His breath hitched, like you’d slapped him. You could feel him shift beside you under the covers.

“You really think that?” Bucky asked in disbelief.

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. But Bucky didn’t let it stay quiet.

“You want to know the truth?” he asked, voice low and rough, as if the words had been caged for too long in his throat. “Fine.”

You turned back toward him, uncertain what expression you were even wearing anymore.

“I’ve liked you since the first damn time I saw you,” he said. “Group training. You were paired with some agent twice your size, and you still knocked him on his ass.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

“I thought you were… brilliant. And sharp. And confident. And yeah, beautiful too. You had this way of looking right through people—through me—and it scared the shit out of me. When they assigned me to mentor you, I panicked,” he said, with a dry, bitter laugh. “I thought if I pretended, if I was distant, if I acted cold, I could make it go away. Trick myself out of it.”

“But it just got worse,” he went on. “Every time I saw you smiling at some sleaze who didn’t deserve to breathe the same air as you, every time I had to watch you flirt with some smug asshole agents, I wanted to break something. Because it should’ve been me.”

You shook your head slowly, stunned. “Bucky…”

“I hated watching you get your heart broken over and over again,” he said. “Hated seeing you walk into training after pretending like nothing happened. You didn’t deserve that. Not when I knew I could treat you better if I just had the fucking guts to say something.”

Your ribs felt suddenly too small for your body, bones pressing into your lungs.

“And now we’re stuck on a mountainside,” he said, his voice softer, hoarser, “and I’m here bleeding in a bed with you, still lying to you, still trying to act like it doesn’t kill me every time you look at me like I’m just your mentor who you hate.”

You gaped in stunned silence, heartbeat pounding in your ears. Bucky watched you expectantly.

No. No, that couldn’t be what he meant. Not really.

“I don’t know what kind of cruel joke you’re playing on me,” you finally said, voice shaking, fingers knotted in the sheets. “I don’t get it. You’ve spent this whole time being…”

“I’m being serious,” he said, eyes locked on you. “I don’t expect you to believe me. I’ve fucked this up too many times. But I swear on my life, I’m not playing a game.”

You stared at him, blinking hard. “So what, this entire time you’ve been an asshole because you were what, pretending? Pretending that you didn’t like me, pretending that you weren’t jealous, when you could’ve just talked to me?”

His silence was immediate. Heavy. It told you everything you needed to know.

Your chest rose and fell too fast. Your mind was spinning, flipping through every memory like a film reel: his cold shoulder, his clipped instructions, the scowls when you joked with someone else, the way he always hovered a few steps too close in combat zones. The way he always caught you when you fell. There had been moments. Tiny fractures in his mask. The way his gaze lingered when he thought you weren’t paying attention. The time he bandaged your hand without a word, but so gently it had made your throat tighten. The night you caught him staring at you across the gym like he was in pain.

How had you missed it?

“I need to…” You whispered, slumping back under the sheets, pulling the blanket higher around yourself as if it might guard you from the ache in your ribs. “We should sleep. It’s late. Evac’s coming once the sun is up.”

He didn’t protest. He just nodded once, jaw tight.

Neither of you said another word.

Sleep didn’t come easily.

—

You hadn’t seen much of Bucky since you were both airlifted off the mountain.

He’d been recovering from his wound, officially. But it didn’t take a genius to figure out he was avoiding you. No texts. No nods in the hallway. No eye contact across the cafeteria. Just cold silence.

Coward.

You’d spent the past week half-waiting for him to come to his senses. The other half had been consumed wondering what the hell you’d do if he did. Because yes, you found him infuriating. Yes, he was emotionally constipated and moody and had the charm of a brick wall. But he was also gorgeous in that tortured-soul, sharp-jawed, arms-too-big-for-his-shirts kind of way. He cared about you, in his own twisted Bucky way. He’d taken a bullet for you. Defended you. Chose you.

And now he was just… gone.

You were leaning against the wall at the edge of the main gym, arms crossed, purposefully not looking at Theo and the other assholes you had suspected Bucky had been right about, when you heard footsteps and someone cleared their throat beside you.

Yelena stood beside you, her smirk suspiciously wider than usual.

You turned, brows knitting in apprehension. “Hey.”

“Congratulations,” 

“For what?” You replied hesitantly, watching as her brows lifted in delighted surprise. 

“You haven’t heard?” Her voice was alarmingly gleeful, like she was especially thrilled to be the bearer of whatever news she was about to lay upon you. “Barnes finally accepted your mentor transfer request.”

Your heart flatlined for a second. 

“What?”

Yelena, oblivious to your distress, continued to dig further. “I don’t know what you did to him up on that mountain, but… damn. I didn’t think he’d actually do it.”

“I didn’t ask for a mentor transfer,” you muttered, dread settling in your chest.

Yelena’s expression faltered. “Oh. Well, you have one now. You’re with Thor. They tried to pawn you off onto me, but you know, got my hands busy with the new group coming in—”

“Thor?!” You snapped, interrupting her spiel, “He’s a drunk! And he’s not even here half the time, too busy in Asgard—”

Yelena gave you a helpless shrug, and that’s when the doors to the gym opened and in walked the ghost of your week-long frustration.

Bucky was in full training gear, black sweatpants slung low on his hips, compression shirt clinging to him like a second skin. His hair was ruffled, pushed back half-heartedly like he couldn’t be bothered to fix it, a few strands falling into his eyes. The corded muscles of his arms were on full display, the glint of his vibranium arm catching the light with every step. He looked unfairly good, carved from grief and sleepless nights. But it was the way he wouldn’t look at you that struck harder than anything else. His jaw was tight, lips set in a permanent pout, that brooding scowl etched so deep it felt deliberate. He looked everywhere but at you, like you weren’t even there. 

Your blood boiled.

Without a word, you peeled yourself from the wall and marched toward him. He spotted you mid-stride, his posture tensing like he was preparing for impact.

“Hey—” he started.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” you snapped, voice low and venom-laced.

“Not here,” he muttered, eyes flicking toward the other agents filtering in behind you. A few of them had already glanced over curiously, settling in for whatever show was about to unfold.

“Too late,” you hissed. “You requested a mentor transfer for me without even telling me?”

“I thought it was what you wanted.” You both knew he was lying, and he refused to meet your eye. This wasn’t about what you wanted. It was about him feeling embarrassed after his outburst on the mountain. 

“Oh, really?” You stepped closer. “Because I don’t remember asking you to make my career decisions for me.”

“I was doing you a favour.”

“Yeah? Maybe try talking to me like a normal fucking person, and then I’ll tell you what I want.”

His eyes flickered up, stormy blues locking onto your face. “And what is it you want?”

You stared him down, tilting your head slightly, weighing the war going on inside you.

You.

I want you.

The thought was immediate, impulsive, and so painfully real it made your chest ache. But you shoved it down, crushed it before it could breathe. No. That was stupid. Why the hell would you want him—this man-child who’d ghosted you for a week, who’d spent the last six months acting like every word out of your mouth was a personal offence, who seemed to find joy in making you feel like nothing?

But then again… maybe you both had been trying so hard to deny the truth, burying something under six months of thinly veiled insults and sparring matches that got too rough. Maybe he was pushing you away because he didn’t trust himself to keep it professional. And maybe you were just as bad, biting back, rising to the bait, pretending you didn’t notice the way his eyes lingered or the way his voice softened when you were actually hurt.

You had to know if it was real.

The shuffle of movement and muffled chatter around you signalled the start of group training, slicing through your heated stand-off. Agents around you began to pair off, leaving you and Bucky still locked in place, face to face, breath mingling.

You lifted your chin. “Be my sparring partner?” you asked, voice loud enough for the others to hear, but eyes fixed solely on him.

He didn’t argue. Didn’t flinch. Just nodded once, tight-lipped, like he’d been waiting for the invitation all along.

You squared off on the mat, bouncing on your toes, adrenaline already coiling in your veins. Bucky moved like a soldier, controlled, fluid, annoyingly graceful.

“You don’t have to prove anything,” he muttered as you circled.

“I’m not,” you said, “Just testing a theory.”

He raised a brow. “What theory?”

You lunged, caught his arm, and twisted into a low grapple—just enough to draw him in.

His chest brushed yours. His breath hitched.

Then you kissed him.

Hard.

Your lips crashed against his mid-motion, stealing the next move right off his tongue. You felt him freeze, just for a heartbeat, before his hands twitched at your waist like he didn’t know whether to shove you away or pull you in. You felt the tension roll off him in waves. The way his body reacted was instinct. Shock. Hunger. 

His movements hesitated, and to your delight, despite the entire gym watching, he began to kiss you back. 

And that hesitation?

It was all you needed.

You shifted fast, breaking the kiss, then ducking low, hooking your leg behind his knee as you spun. In one fluid motion, you swept his legs out from under him and used the twist of your momentum to pull him down with you. He stumbled, off-balance, and you moved like lightning, hips snapping around his waist, thighs locking tight. You rotated with the drop, forcing him onto his back as you rolled with the momentum.

He hit the mat hard.

You were straddling him, thighs clamped around his ribs, palms flat on his chest. You smirked down at him, panting. 

Bucky stared up at you, winded, stunned, and very, very pinned. “That was dirty.”

You leaned down, your face just inches from his again. “So was your little mentor stunt. Call it even.”

Throughout the room, the entire gym was dead silent, staring. You gracefully dismounted him and marched off the mat, but Bucky scrambled up and followed you.

“Oh, now you want to talk?” you snapped as he caught up beside you.

“You can’t just kiss me and then walk away like that!”

“Why not?”

“You kissed me to mess with me.”

“I kissed you to see if you meant what you said on the mountain.”

The two of you burst through the gym doors and into the hallway. You didn’t look back. You didn’t have to. Bucky’s heavy footsteps were right behind you, his presence unmistakable, all coiled frustration and breathless anger.

A few agents stood frozen near the water station, others lingering by the mission board, all of them caught mid-conversation as they turned to witness the fallout. You were aware of the eyes on you, the awkward silence that followed, but you didn’t care. Let them stare. Let them gossip.

You stormed past them without pause as Bucky chased you like a dog on a leash that was just about to snap.

“You just kissed me in the middle of sparring,” he shouted after you, voice ragged and accusing. “In front of everyone. Is this a joke to you?” 

You didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. The elevator was too slow, too exposed. Instead, you veered to the stairwell and shoved the door open with enough force that it bounced off the wall. The clanging echo followed you as you started up, two steps at a time.

“Oh my god, would you just shut up already?” you snapped over your shoulder, breath catching as your hand slid along the metal railing, spiralling up the concrete stairwell. 

Behind you, Bucky cursed under his breath. “It was unfair.”

He reached for you and just missed your wrist. You yanked it away before he could try again, your skin buzzing with the ghost of contact.

“Isn’t that what you taught me to do? Use anything to my advantage?” you bit out, pushing through the next door as you reached your floor. The hall here was quieter and dimmer. You passed rows of familiar doors. Your apartment was at the end of the corridor, and every step toward it made your pulse throb louder in your ears. “What, you have a problem with me using my assets against you?

“Assets, huh? You know, you really are unbelievable—”

You let out an exasperated groan, cutting him back. “You kissed me back.”

That stopped him.

His boots scraped the floor as he slowed a few paces behind you, chest heaving, eyes wide with shock.

“What?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

You turned your key in the door. The metal clicked, and you pushed it open with a little more care this time.

“You kissed me back,” you repeated softly, almost to yourself this time and stepped inside. 

Bucky barged in after you.

“You don’t understand—I’m… I’m trying to protect you!” His voice followed you into the room, desperate. 

You kicked off your shoes without looking at him. “I don’t need protecting.”

“Would you just listen for once—” he snapped, shutting the door behind him. 

You rolled your eyes and started pulling off your shirt, tossing it onto your bed and turned to face him, arms crossed. “I am listening, you’re the one not listening to me.”

Bucky stood just inside the door, like he hadn’t decided whether to walk out or burn the whole damn building down. 

“I shouldn’t have told you that on the mountain, it was unprofessional of me.” His voice cracked as his words poured out faster than it seemed he could stop them, emotion thick in every syllable. “I requested the mentor switch because I don’t trust myself to keep pretending. I can’t control myself around you!”

You padded barefoot across the room to the small bathroom.

“How am I supposed to go on training you?” He muttered, gesturing vaguely in your direction. He was repeating himself now, rambling like a crazed man completely oblivious to your actions. “You pull that stunt in the middle of training, humiliate both of us in front of the others, and then act like it meant nothing? Jesus, I can’t even think straight when you—”

You peeled your leggings off and let it fall to the floor behind you.

“—and don’t even get me started on that assets comment! What the hell does that even mean? You can’t just go around weaponising your—”

You unclasped your bra and bent to turn on the shower. The hiss of water filled the room, steam already curling up the mirror.

“—I mean, are you even hearing yourself? You just, what? Decided to tackle and kiss me like it was some kind of training tactic?! That’s not even…Are you using my confession against me? God, you’re impossible, I swear—”

He looked up.

And stopped.

Mid-sentence. Mid-breath.

There you were, back turned, steam catching on the bare curve of your spine and trailing over the lines of your thighs, standing in nothing but your underwear.

His words died in his throat like a car slamming into a wall.

Mouth slightly open. Eyes locked. 

You glanced at him over your shoulder, saw the exact moment it hit him and raised a brow, feigning casual curiosity as you stepped toward the open shower door, letting the foggy heat billow around your legs.

“You joining me?” you asked sweetly. “Sure sounds like you need to cool off.”

He said nothing.

Just stared.

Like you’d just knocked the wind out of him for the second time that day. Just that haunted, hungry look in his eyes like he was trying to figure out if he’d died and gone to hell. Or heaven.

His mouth opened, like he had something to say, some half-assed rebuttal, some snarky comeback.

But no words came out.

Only a low, helpless breath.

“I wasn’t using it against you.” You clarified as you dragged your underwear down your legs, tossing them somewhere across the room. “I was seeing if you meant what you said.”

You stepped nto the shower, leaving him stood stunned in the bathroom doorway. A soft sigh slipped from your lips as warm water poured down your shoulders and back, washing away the dull ache in your muscles. For a moment, you simply stood there, facing the stream, eyes closed, the patter of droplets against your scalp soothing like white noise in a storm.

Then came the soft rattle of the shower door behind you. You didn’t need to open your eyes to know it was him.

The subtle swish of movement was followed by the cool press of metal against your waist, his vibranium arm snaking around you, cool against the heat of the water and your flushed skin. Goosebumps prickled instantly across your stomach, nipples peaking at the contrast.

You turned slowly, steam swirling around you in thick waves as you met Bucky’s eyes. His wet hair was slicked against his neck, droplets clinging to the dark strands and sliding down his jawline. Beads of water traced the line of his throat and the rise of his Adam’s apple, disappearing over the muscle of his chest. His hands found your hips, warm and solid, the grip almost possessive.

You tried not to look down, tried not to let your eyes drift to the answer to a question you’d been too proud to ask. Instead, a smirk tugged at the corner of your lips as you stepped into him, letting your palms slide up the hard planes of his chest, past his dogtags and looped around the back of his neck.

“I think this is going to do the opposite of cooling me down,” he muttered, voice husky, half-lost beneath the steady rhythm of water hitting tile.

You let out a soft, breathless laugh, and then you kissed him.

It wasn’t gentle.

Your mouths crashed together like you’d both been holding back for too long. Hungry. Desperate. Sloppy. The water only made it messier, lips sliding, catching, breath hissing as teeth grazed. He kissed like he needed to claim this moment before the world snapped back into place. You returned the kiss with equal urgency, fingers threading into his wet hair, tugging, needing more.

His hands slid down your back, firm, sure, guiding you until your spine pressed against the slick wall of the shower. You wrapped a leg around his hip, instinctive, needy, and he growled softly into your mouth as his hand dropped to support your thigh, holding you steady. You ground your hips into him, once, twice. His grip tightened, and the next thing you knew, he was lifting you, hands firm on your ass as he carried you effortlessly from the shower. The bathroom was thick with steam, fog curling along the edges of the mirror and dripping from the ceiling. Water trailed down both of you, soaking the tiles as he strode across the room.

Your back met the edge of the counter with a soft thud, followed by the chill of the fogged-up mirror behind you. The coolness shocked your skin and made your spine arch sharply, drawing a low noise from your throat. Bucky didn’t miss a beat. He was still kissing you, still swallowing your gasp as his hands ran down your thighs and urged them further apart.

He stepped in, slotting himself between your legs, his body flush against yours. The sensation of him made your head spin. Water from the still-running shower continued to hiss in the background, steam billowing out and filling the room like a cocoon. You were both soaked, skin slick and glistening, lips swollen, breaths short. Your fingers found the back of his neck again, anchoring yourself as he kissed you deeper, slower now, like he was savouring every second.

His hands slid down your hips and tugged you forward until your thighs bracketed his waist. You felt his cock, solid and insistent, pulsing against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, and your breath caught.

“I think I’ve dreamt of this moment.” He confessed between kisses, before consuming you again.

It took little resistance for him to push into you in one smooth motion. You weren’t just drenched from the shower. Your whole body sang from the shock of it, a strangled sound tearing from your throat as your fingers fisted in his wet hair. His mouth tore from yours with a ragged gasp, trailing down your jaw, your neck, leaving fire in his wake. Bucky braced a hand behind you on the counter, the other gripping your thigh, steadying you as his hips began to move precise and relentless.

“Do you know how long I’ve thought about this?” he muttered into the curve of your neck, voice wrecked. His lips brushed against your pulse, the edge of his teeth grazing the skin like he was half a second from losing control. “How many nights I told myself I couldn’t touch you... shouldn’t want you, couldn’t have you.”

You let out a breathless laugh that quickly turned into a gasp as his hips snapped forward again. 

“Keep going,” you rasped, one hand clawing up the curve of his back, the other buried in his hair. “Don’t stop.”

His only reply was a low, broken groan against your skin, like he was coming apart just from the feel of you wrapped around him. You locked your ankles behind him and rocked your hips forward, drawing him deeper. A spark of pleasure flared up your spine, making your head fall back against the fogged-up mirror..

“I tried so fucking hard to keep my distance.” He chuckled low against your collarbone, though the sound was strained, caught between shallow pants and a raw groan of need. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

His vibranium hand slid between your bodies. His fingers found that sensitive bundle of nerves, circling with gentle strokes, and your body jolted in response. An uncontrollable whimper left you as your thighs trembled around him.

“I’ve been dying to hear those sounds from you.” Bucky panted against your ear. 

You pressed closer to him, shaking legs tightening around his waist as you pursued his fingers. He chuckled at your poorly hidden desperation, chest vibrating from the sound. As his fingers swirled, cock pumping in and out, you felt your body clench involuntarily around him, drawing a moan from him. 

“Fuck, Bucky, ” you breathed, barely able to form the word as your pleasure surged, unrelenting and dizzying. “If I’d known this was what you were holding back, I would’ve pushed harder.”

Bucky’s rhythm faltered, his thrusts becoming uneven and desperate, chasing the high he could feel coiling tighter in both of you. Your raw moans echoed around the small bathroom, rising above the hiss of the shower and the frantic beat of the slap of wet skin. Your climax broke over you like a wave crashing against the shore. Your entire body arched, legs trembling as you whimpered, lips parted, eyes squeezed shut. Pleasure tore through you like lightning, leaving your nerves sparking in its wake.

With a guttural groan muffled against your neck, Bucky followed you over the edge. You felt him twitch inside you, warmth spreading as he spilt into you, his hips stuttering erratically as he buried himself as deep as he could go. His arms tightened around you, as though he needed to hold you close to keep himself grounded.

For a long, breathless moment, you stayed like that. Tangled together, trembling, the heat of the afterglow. The water still rained behind you, forgotten, as you both came down slowly, limbs heavy and slick with sweat and steam. Then, slowly, Bucky lifted his head to look at you. His hair was plastered to his forehead in wet strands, water trailing down the lines of his cheekbones and along his jaw. His eyes, dark and hungry, searched yours with a mix of dazed satisfaction and something else. A flicker of awe, maybe. Or disbelief.

You gave him a slow, wicked smirk and reached up to brush a dripping lock of hair off his brow, your fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary.

“I need you to pull that transfer request, by the way,” you murmured, voice low and rough with breath. “There is no way in hell I’m training with Thor.”

His lips twitched, a hoarse laugh escaping him, short and surprised. But the fire in his gaze didn’t fade. If anything, it darkened.

“I’ll pull it…” he said, voice thick with promise as his hands slid back down to your waist, “…when I’m done with you.”

From the way his fingers gripped your hips, you had a feeling that wouldn’t be anytime soon. 

---

hello! i no longer have a taglist because it got too long and was reaching the tag limit. if you want to be notified when i post please follow @artficlly-updates and turn on post notifications!

need. want. pls.

I forgot to save the clip before answering the original ask but it was a man bragging about buying his wife diamonds every year. And of course Bucky would do the same.

Imagine you and Bucky at a charity gala being held in a luxury hotel. One of the men at the party makes a joke about how you must be costing Bucky a fortune because you're always wearing different necklaces and bracelets. His wife chimes in, an undeniably envious tint to her voice as she asks if Bucky actually buys you diamonds every year.

"Of course I get her something for every occasion. Diamonds. Emeralds. Sapphires." Bucky ticks off the list with a casual shrug, he loves buying you things so being generous is second nature to him.

Bucky wants you to have items as beautiful as you are. Or close to it because so far nothing he can get has been as stunning as you are to him.

Bucky picks the set of jewels based on his other gifts, he takes matching sets to another level. "She needs new jewelry to go with her new car," he says casually to the dismay of the stingy men around him, their wives glaring at them.

Bucky's blue eyes find you, a smirk pulls at his lips. He really, really loves buying you things. Gets off on spoiling you. "And what else is going to match her new heels?"

His gaze darkens as a memory replays in his mind, judging by the slight shiver making it's way down your body, you're remembering the same night he is.

You covered in diamonds. Wearing only the heels. His body, warm and heavy, on yours. Under you. On top of you. Bending you over. His large hands on your hips keeping you still. Moving you any way he pleases. You can hear his words in your ear, feel the deep rasp of his voice, praising you, telling you how beautiful you are, how perfect you are, how much he loves you, how good you are to him, for him.

"You take me perfectly "

"One more, just one."

"Just like that, that's it fuck you feel so good"

"That's my girl."

"As a matter of fact, I have some new pieces waiting for her upstairs. She can have them whenever she wants." His gaze never leaves yours, his hold on you unbreakable.

Just say the word and everything you want is yours Malyshka.

I cannot wait for the next part of this cause lawd my knees are shakin

https://www.instagram.com/reel/CsudqThAl9o/?igshid=MmJiY2I4NDBkZg==

Qb bucky is ready he just needs his assistant to accept her fate

Pairing: QB!Bucky x Grumpy!Assistant Reader

AN: Written on my phone.

Part of the QB Series.

Bucky looks at you, wide-eyed and hopeful as his teeth rake across his bottom lip. "So," the word is dragged out, your brow raises instinctively when he tapers off with a grin.

You tilt your head, gesturing for him to continue. You know what he's trying to ask but you've decided to be obtuse, forcing him to say the words aloud. Perhaps it's a little mean of you but it's so much fun to watch him squirm.

After a few long seconds, Bucky realizes you're not going to help him, his shoulders slump and his long fingers card a messy path through his soft, mussed locks. "It's for charity."

You shrug.

"I-it's for a children's charity," he implores, brows knitting in disconcernation.

Your eyes drop to your phone, a few taps on the screen and the sounds of your newest show fill the room.

Unperturbed, he continues. "I'll give you the money, all you have to do is bid on me."

You don't look up, instead you deliberately turn up the volume. His desperate huff does something to your chest but you choose to ignore it, the same way you're ignoring the six-foot-something quarterback sitting across from you.

"Okay, okay. Fine," he mutters under his breath. He's not above begging if thats what it takes. Bucky pushes his chair back and stands. He goes to you, turning your seat around, the legs scrape against the floor. Your phone is lifted from your hand, carefully placed on the table.

Bucky drops to his knees before you and he cants his head back so you have no choice but to gaze into his pretty blue eyes—you feel as if you just stepped off a cliff, the wind rushing up while your heart drops to your stomach.

"Please," he shamelessly pleads, his deep voice rolls down your spine, your attention torn between his face and his large hands gripping your thighs as he kneels between them.

Bucky repeats the word, whispering it so sweetly and urgently, willing to offer everything he has just to hear you say yes. Please say yes.

He needs you to win. If you don't, then all his plans are ruined. Bucky hasn't told you all the details of the auction, too wary to reveal what's in store for the winner of his particular date, he has this distinctive feeling that if you know exactly what you're in for that you won't even show up to the gala.

"Please. Please. I'll do anything you want. Just please don't let someone else win." I want to be yours.

The heat from his palms pierces through the thin layer of your shorts, sinking into your veins and settling into the depths of your chest. Your heart beats erratically as obscenely erotic images of his large hands on your body, touching every part of you and claiming you as his own flash in your mind.

"I'll think about it," you concede, trying to apparent unaffected by the massive man on his knees for you.

If he hears the breathy waver in your tone, sees the faint hint of excitement and nerves in your pretty eyes, he doesn't say anything. He could tease you about the way your thighs are trembling under his hold but he doesn't.

But after he wins, after you discover what he has planned for the two of you, he's going to show you how much fun begging and teasing can be.

“Insert motivational quote here”

reckless- b. barnes

pairings: bucky barnes x reader, platonic!sam wilson, platonic!natasha romanoff, platonic!steve rogers

warnings: mentions of injuries, descriptions of fighting, angry bucky, a horrible ending, i kind of really hate this

about: “the things i feel for her are unlike anything i’ve ever felt before.” for a sleepover!

i actually wrote another one with the same quote but i didn’t think it fit so i changed it (that one will be posted tomorrow or the day after so i can edit it)

you’re annoyingly reckless to a point where it gets dangerous.

he’s told you this a thousand times before but you don’t listen- aren’t listening at the moment.

he knows it’s ironic that he’s being reckless by not paying attention to what’s going on, too concentrated on you- even if you’ve told him countless times that you literally can’t die (to which he responds with a “you never know!” because, really do you?)- but he has a metal arm and sam, who’s been hovering around him like a vulture after noticing his lack of concentration.

Keep reading

this is facts

I- This is the only way i want to apologies from here on out. Esp from our captain 🫡

#steverogersmakesmypussythrob. #nowait #steverogersbythiswritermakesmypussythrob.

Tease Me, Take Me

Title: Tease Me, Take Me

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Female Reader

Summary:  Steve's been bossy all week, pushing you just a little too far- so you decide to push back. But teasing him quickly turns into something much more when he decides to remind you exactly who's in charge.

Word Count:  2.7K (I know I said they’d all be under 2k but this one.. well happened)

Warnings:  / Explicit Content /18+, Minors DNI, Smut, Unprotected Sex, Established relationship, Brat taming, Slight/softdom!Steve, dirty talk, mild restraint (hands held)

A/N: ‘just the tip’ Steve’s our last one!

Steve had been bossy all week- giving orders, correcting your form, acting like Captain America even in your most casual moments. But what really did it?

That morning at the gym.

"That’s too much, sweetheart. Can’t have my little lady hurting herself."

In front of everyone.

The way Sam smirked, the way Natasha gave you that pointed look, it burned hot in your chest. It was fine when Steve called you 'little lady' behind closed doors. After all, compared to him, you were. But in front of the others? No. No, no, no.

Now? You were going to teach him a lesson.

Steve was stretched out beneath you, broad back pressed against the headboard, hands resting at his sides, his body relaxed- for now. His big blue eyes flicked over your body as you settled in his lap, confidence rolling off him in waves. He thought this was going to be easy. He thought he knew how this would go. That you’d sink down onto him, take him nice and deep, let him roll you onto your back and fuck you into the mattress like he always did.

Oh, he had no idea.

You straddled him, your knees framing his thighs, feeling the heat of him pressing against your slick folds. His cock twitched as you rubbed yourself over him, dragging your wetness along his length, getting him nice and messy. Steve groaned, the sound deep and satisfied, his hands lifting from the sheets to grip your waist. "That’s it, sweetheart. You’re so ready for me, aren’t you?"

You hummed in agreement, letting your lips brush along his jaw as you shifted, rolling your hips until his thick tip caught at your entrance. "Oh, baby," you cooed, letting just the head push in, stretching you just enough to make your breath hitch. *"*You got her so soaked for you…"

Steve let out a deep groan, gripping your hips tighter, ready to guide you down onto him, but you pressed a firm hand to his chest, pushing him back into the pillows. Not yet.

You rocked against him, teasing, letting his tip slide in and out, feeling the way your body clenched down, desperate for more- but you weren’t going to give in that easily. Not when you had a point to make. His eyes stayed locked on yours, expectant, patient. He still thought he was getting what he wanted. What you both craved. 

You smirked, dragging your nails across his shoulders, watching the muscles in his chest tense beneath your touch. You let yourself sink down just enough to make him groan, your walls fluttering around his thick tip before you clenched intentionally, making him feel just how tightly you could hold him. Then, you lifted again, leaving him achingly empty.

"Oh no," you pouted dramatically, cocking your head in faux innocence. "I don’t think I can take all of you, Stevie… I mean, I am just such a 'little lady', right? Guess we’ll have to stay like this."

His growl was deep, low, frustrated, his hands twitching on the bedspread, itching to grab your hips and force you down onto him the way you both knew you could take it. His fingers flexed, chest heaving, his self-control hanging by a thread.

"Honey, please…" he groaned, sweat beading at his temples, his blue eyes dark with tension and something deeper- need, desperation, an ache that throbbed as you hovered above him, keeping him right on the edge without letting him have anything. “I said I was sorry. It was just a slip-up..”

You tsked, pressing a finger to his lips, enjoying the way his jaw clenched at the interruption. He had apologized over lunch, once he realized you’d been upset about the ‘little’ comment. Earnest and sweet, telling you he hadn’t meant to embarrass you, that it had just slipped out. But that didn’t mean he was getting off easy.

"Uh-uh. I don’t wanna argue with a big, strong man like you, Stevie..”

His nostrils flared as he sucked in a sharp breath, his fingers gripping the sheets instead of you. You watched the war play out on his face, the tension in his shoulders, the controlled restraint in the way he stayed still even as his body begged him to move. Muscles coiled tight, every inch of him on the brink of breaking. His cock pulsed against your entrance, leaking against your folds, desperate for more, for everything.

"You wouldn’t want me to hurt myself," you murmured, shifting just enough to make him gasp, feeling how desperately he wanted more. “Not after you made such a point of making sure I was careful today."

He let out a slow, controlled sigh through his nose, but you could see it- the tight clench of his jaw, the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. His chest rose and fell in quick, uneven breaths, betraying just how much he was struggling. His hands trembled at his sides, fingers twitching, his veins standing out along his forearms as he gripped the sheets like they were the only thing keeping him from breaking completely. He was barely holding on.

"Sweetheart, if you don’t sit that pretty li- ass down- "

Your smirk widened, but before you could tease him again. 

"No can do, Captain."

You slid back up, slow and deliberate, grinding yourself along his length, letting his cock drag against your slick folds, smearing your arousal over him, making sure he felt every aching second of how much he'd worked you up. His cock twitched beneath you, straining for more, and you smirked, dragging yourself along his length again, never giving him what he really wanted. Just enough friction to drive him insane.

Steve groaned, head tipping back against the headboard, his fingers twitching in the sheets as he fought not to grab you. His restraint made it even better, watching him hold on when every muscle in his body was screaming for him to take control. You could feel the way he was pulsing, heavy and hot beneath you, his slick length gliding against your folds, teasing your clit with every slow movement.

"You like that, don't you, baby?" you murmured, rolling your hips again, dragging your heat along him. "Feeling how wet you got me... knowing you can't have me yet?"

Steve let out a sharp breath, his knuckles white against the sheets, his jaw clenching and unclenching as if he was physically forcing himself to stay still. You could feel it in the way his muscles tensed beneath your touch, in the way his thighs flexed under yours, in the way his cock twitched, hot and slick, as you coated him in your arousal.

You pressed a soft kiss to his jawline, your lips barely grazing his skin as you whispered, "Mmm... poor thing."

His restraint wavered. One hand lifted, hesitated in the air for just a second, before he gave in. His large, calloused palm landed on your hip, not gripping, not forcing- just guiding as he tried to coax you down onto him.

"Please, sweetheart," he ground out, voice thick with need. "Enough. Okay?"

You could hear it, the desperate edge creeping into his tone, the breaking point hovering just out of reach. His fingers tightened, his hips shifting up just slightly, just enough to feel you without taking what he wanted.

"I'm trying to be a gentleman here," he bit out, his control fraying, breath shuddering as he dragged you along his length, spreading your slick over every aching inch of him.

But you didn't relent. You kept your movements excruciatingly slow, letting yourself sink down just a little more before pulling back up, keeping him teetering on the edge without ever giving in. His breath hitched, his grip tightening, and you could feel the tension in his body- the push and pull between holding back and snapping.

"You feel that, Stevie?" you whispered, trying to keep control, but your voice wavered as your body clenched around his tip. "That's all you. You got me this wet, got me dripping all over you... and you’re not even inside me."

His cock throbbed beneath you, thick and aching, his self-control hanging by a thread. His chest heaved, his blue eyes dark and hooded with lust. But even through the haze of desperation, his lips curled into a smirk of his own now.

"You're such a little brat," he murmured, voice low and rough. "You're playing with fire, sweetheart. And you know it."

Then, with a frustrated noise, Steve let go of your hip entirely. His hands retreated up to his head, fingers threading into his own hair, nails scratching against his scalp as he exhaled sharply. His biceps flexed, elbows splaying out against the headboard as he forced himself to stay put, his entire body taut with restraint.

"Jesus Christ, you're killing me," he groaned, head tipping back, exposing the tight line of his throat. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Now can we please move past this?"

You let out a soft hum, trailing your fingers down his chest, feeling the way his muscles flexed beneath your touch. Then, with a wicked little smirk, you leaned in, lips grazing his ear as you whispered, "How do I know you're sorry?"

His breath hitched, his hands clenching into fists against the headboard before he forced them open, palms flattening as he exhaled a shaky breath. Steve’s smile changed- slow, knowing, cocky. You knew that look. That was the smile of a man who had just found a loophole. His whole body seemed to relax, the frustration rolling off him in waves as if he had finally figured out exactly how to turn the tables. The tension in his shoulders melted, replaced by something far more dangerous- certainty.

"If you won’t forgive me," he murmured, voice thick with heat and amusement, "I bet she will."

Before you could even process what he meant, his hands were on you. Not forcing, not demanding- authoritative. He collected your wrists, guiding them behind your back, holding them in one strong hand as he leaned in, lips pressing hot and firm against your throat.

The tip of his cock still sat right there, lodged just at your entrance, teasing, pulsing, waiting for you to finally give in. His breath fanned over your skin as he kissed along your neck, his free hand skimming down your side, teasing the curve of your waist, making you shiver under his touch.

Steve’s smirk deepened, his grip steady but teasing as he leaned in closer. "Bet I can think of all sorts of things to make her forgive me..."

His hand slid between your bodies, wrapping around himself as he pulled back, his thick, weeping tip slipping from your entrance only to drag slow and deliberate against your swollen clit. The slick pressure sent a shudder through you, heat curling low in your stomach as he rubbed against you, coating himself in your arousal some more, making sure you felt every aching second of it.

"You're not just being mean to me, sweetheart," he murmured, kissing along the side of your neck, his voice warm and indulgent, like he was enjoying this just as much as he would finally being inside you. "You're being mean by spoiling her fun, too."

Steve suddenly went quiet, his voice dropping into something lower, smoother- dangerous in its calm.

"Now," he murmured, his hand leaving the space between you to brush your hair back over your shoulder, fingers trailing lightly over your skin as he leaned in closer, lips ghosting over your ear. "Be my best girl and accept my apology."

His other hand slid down to your shoulder, his grip steady but unrelenting as he slowly pushed you down onto him, guiding you inch by inch, the silent command to take all of him.

Steve let out a deep groan, the tension that had coiled inside him finally snapping as he held you there, his fingers flexing against your skin. "That's it," he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction. "And you said I wouldn’t fit." The brat in you had been smoothed away, replaced with something softer, something pliant as more of him pushed deeper, your body yeilding. He could feel it in the way your body trembled around him, your breath coming in shallow gasps, your forehead dripping to his chest as you tried to adjust to the overwhelming fullness. He felt deep like this- so deep it knocked the air from your lungs, making you struggle to do anything but take it.

He exhaled slowly, savoring the way you clenched around him, the way your thighs trembled as you sank fully onto his lap. His hand letting go of your wrists to smoothed up your back, grounding, firm, but there was no teasing left in his voice now. Just something warm, possessive.

"That's better, isn't it, honey?" he murmured against your skin, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he settled you deeper, like you hadn’t already taken all of him. "All full up. Just how we both like it."

One of his hands drifted back to your hips, fingers tightening, holding you there, keeping you seated on him even as your body twitched, adjusting to the sheer size of him. His grip flexed, steady, as he rocked his hips ever so slightly, just enough to remind you of exactly how deep he was buried inside you.

"Can you feel how sorry I am?" he murmured, his voice smooth, controlled, sinking into you like warmth spreading through your bones.

Then, he started to move you.

His hands guided you, tilting your hips, shifting you ever so slightly as the sensation overwhelmed you- lifting you just enough before sinking you back down, stretching you all over again. The feeling was intoxicating, unbearable in its depth, in the way he filled you so completely.

Then, he took more.

His grip tightened, fingers flexing against your hips, holding you exactly where he wanted as he rolled his hips upward, thrusting slow and deep, driving himself further inside you. The shift sent a shockwave through you, your breath catching, hands gripping onto his shoulders, but he didn’t let up.

"See, honey," he breathed against your ear, each thrust deliberate, sending pleasure curling up your spine, "I take real good care of my girl. Even when she’s being a handful."

"Yes, Captain," you whimpered, your voice breaking as Steve made you take everything he gave.. The pressure built, every movement teasing a spot so deep it left you gasping, helpless against the sensation. Your hands pressed to his chest, fighting against the pleasure threatening to consume you too fast. Steve hummed in satisfaction, feeling you melt into him, the last shreds of your resistance fading away.

"Now, that’s my best girl," he whispered, his lips brushing over your jaw. "So sweet for me now, aren't you? Such a perfect girl. You forgive me yet?" His grip on your hips tightened, slowing his movements until they were nothing more than a deep, teasing grind. "I can't let you come unless you forgive me."

A low whimper slipped from your lips, your nails pressing harder into his chest as your body clenched around him involuntarily.

"I forgive you," you gasped, voice breathless, desperate, finally giving in.

Steve groaned, the sound low and satisfied, like he'd been waiting for it. "Atta' girl."

His grip on your hips tightened as he took over completely, guiding you up and down in a steady, relentless rhythm, pulling you onto him in deep, fluid strokes. Each movement sent pleasure coiling tighter, your body surrendering fully to his control. 

“I- oh god, Steve- ” His pace quickened, your breathy moans breaking apart as he drove into you, keeping you exactly where he wanted. You couldn’t do anything but take it, your body trembling in his grasp as he worked you over that edge.

"That's it, honey. Fuck yes that's it." 

The tension snapped, pleasure ripping through you like a live wire, raw and uncontrollable. Your walls clamped tight around him, pulling him with you. Steve groaned, thrusting up hard, his grip bruising as he buried himself deep, his release spilling into you in thick, hot waves. 

His breathing was heavy, his forehead dropping against yours as the aftershocks rolled through you both, your bodies tangled together, spent and satisfied.

Steve let out a deep, satisfied chuckle, pressing a lazy kiss against your lips. "Now that- that was an apology, sweetheart."

new year, better boyfriend- b. barnes

pairings: bucky barnes x reader, unnamed ex x reader warnings: cheating, a break up, friends to lovers, fighting, blood, bucky breaking your ex’s nose lol about: a request! DF 41 or DA 19?(DF41) “are you going to cry? please don’t cry.” (DA19) “touch her, and i’ll murder you.”

letters blur together as you stare at the text on your phone. sweet, undeserving words concerned over your boyfriend sent hours ago, offering to bring soup and take care of him because nobody deserves to be alone on new year’s day; a response you’d thought representative of who you thought he was following only a few seconds after. you figure your boyfriend didn’t want you to arrive at his lonely house to discover his lies.

ex-boyfriend. right.

you sniffle when you remember, pressing the back button to go back to your message list, only to receive another reminder of the betrayal as you see the apologies from your friends, the girl who had sent you the video of him making out with another girl only a string of numbers with a gray sentence underneath reading i’m sorry.

you roll your eyes at everything—him, you being so upset, the entirety of your relationship—trying to pretend like you aren’t as hurt as you are; as if you cared about him about as much as he cared about you. tears rush to your eyes before you can help it, your racing mind bringing up thoughts all too sadly realistic for you right now. trying to concentrate on anything else, your eyes only gravitate towards the piece of cake you’d wrapped in tinfoil to bring him later today, all of the things on your desk that showed that you cared so much more than he cared about you.

you uselessly wipe at your nose when you hear your door being pushed open, shoving your phone underneath your thigh as you look up to meet baby blue.

“hey, doll,” bucky starts, voice soft. “are you okay? i saw you rush out earlier after you got a message, ‘nd i wanted to see if you were okay.”

your bottom lip juts out without your permission, the lump that had been lodged in your throat growing far enough to hurt your jaw when you think back getting the text in the middle of celebrating. the mere act of coming to see if you were okay—of noticing, just makes you feel dumber because he never did that and you feel like you should’ve known. how must the girl who sent the video of it feel about you?”

“y/n?” bucky asks apprehensively, “sweetheart, are you okay?” worry threaded in his words, rooted deep enough for you to never doubt if it’s real. “are you gonna cry? oh, honey, please don’t cry.”

you feel the warmth of tears as they slide down your cheeks, shoulders slumping, exhausted from faking it even if it was just for a few moments. bucky’s has shown more care than your ex has shown you in a month, and the honey of it begins to drip down your face. bucky steps towards you in quick, long strides until he’s in front of you.

“he cheated on me,” you admit, feeling ashamed even though you’re not the one who it should be put on. he should be embarrassed, he should be crying. “god, i’m so stupid,” you cry, dropping your head into your hands. bucky bends down to his knees.

“what?” bucky whispers, confusion clear in his tone and the pinch of his features, “how could he… you’re not—you’re not stupid, dolly, he is. he is the stupidest man in the universe for doing that to you.”

“he told me he was sick. i made him fucking chicken soup while he was with some other girl,” you snivel. bucky gives you a tissue you didn’t notice he grabbed from your dresser, using another one to gently dab underneath your eyes.

“he’s so stupid, y/n. i wish i could do something. i’m so sorry, doll.”

you shake your head, “it’s not your fault.”

“it’s not yours, either.” bucky’s voice is strained with his truth, begging for you to believe him. it only makes the lump swell larger, your chin tilting up. bucky takes away the tissue to wrap his arms around your abdomen, laying his head on your lap as he feels you accept his comfort, your chin on his head.

“i just don’t get it,” you mumble tearily, “i’m a good girlfriend.”

“you are,” bucky affirms, “you don’t know how many people would die for you to be their girlfriend. you are the best girlfr—the best girl.”

you shut your eyes, tears continuing to slide down your cheeks, darkening the color of bucky’s hair. “then why do i get the worst boyfriends?”

“because the ones that would treat you like you deserve can’t get the gall to tell you. ‘m sorry, that’s on me.”

you finally huff something other than a sob, a gentle laugh that still accompanies salt slipping from cracked lips, “it’s my fault, too.”

bowing your chin into your neck, you nuzzle your nose into the strands of bucky’s hair, inhaling the sweet scent of his shampoo, familiar, safe.

your phone breaks the moment with a vibration, a notification from the contact name you still haven’t brought yourself to change with frantic words underneath it. you roll your eyes, leaning further into bucky.

“s’that him?” bucky asks.

you nod bitterly, “he probably found out i know. i don’t care what he’s saying.”

your phone continues to vibrate, low music eventually accompanying it when he begins to call. you can feel yourself beginning to get frustrated, your sadness beginning to burn away to anger. nevertheless, it continues to weigh you down enough to hesitate yelling at him at the risk of hearing his voice, the sweet apologies bouncing off the same tongue that was in another girl’s throat just a few hours prior.

your phone goes silent after a minute, but it continues to vibrate ever few seconds until the music begins to chime again.

annoyed, you sit up, glaring at your phone but not wanting to touch it.

bucky seems to read your mind, reaching for it to silence it, but at the opportunity, his finger hovers over the answer button, looking up at you for confirmation. at the stretch of your hand toward it, he hands it to you. you take a deep breath before answering,

your entire body seems to slump in the exhaustion of listening to his strung sorries, the only words you offer being arguments that you saw it with your own eyes, asking him if he’d like to see the video in case he somehow forgot living it.

at some point, you drop your phone on your thighs, your fingers massaging your temples.

bucky grabs it without a second thought, “hey, asshole. shut the fuck up or i will go to your house to snap your neck..”

he hangs up, red tinging his skin, enough anger running through his veins for you to hear the vibranium plates of his arm as they shift.

“thank you,” you say.

at the sound of your voice, bucky’s tense jaw begins to relax, the fury that managed to slip past his exterior immediately easing back when he looks up at your soft eyes.

“i’m so tired,” you admit, squeezing the fingers that wrap around your own. “will you just… lay with me for a little? please?”

bucky isn’t sure if the possibility of saying no even exists, raising your hand to his lips so he can press a kiss to your knuckles, “whatever you want, sweetheart.”

-

the both of you don’t wake up again until the next morning, too wrapped up in each other to pay attention to anything else. only few more tears were shed, all more of anger than the sadness still weighing down your heart. bucky blinks himself awake before you do, a stupid smile tugging at his lips when he notices you're in his arms.

you seem so much calmer as you sleep, the stress lines that decorate your forehead disappearing with your even breaths. tear stains aren’t as prominent, especially after bucky tenderly brushes some away with his thumb, unable to help the little smile that peeks out when you lean into his touch.

you don’t seem as troubled, which makes it even worse when harsh knocking interrupts the peace of your room, a loud voice calling for you which bucky instantly recognizes as your ex-boyfriend’s. you snap awake, blinking disorientedly, “what… is that—what is he doing here?”

“do you want me to deal with it?” bucky asks you, his words laced with please let me deal with it, but you refuse, shaking your head to wake yourself up and wiping at your cheeks.

“what are you doing here?” you question angrily once you open the door, only to have it pushed open completely, your ex barging inside.

“you weren’t answering, and this guy answered your phone, i wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“if i’m okay? that is so—you have to be kidding. get out.” you go to shut the door, feeling all the sadness that was left in you leave your body when you see the guy you were feeling it over.

“y/n,” he sighs, a hand reaching out for you when bucky intercepts it, suddenly next to you.

“touch a hair on her head and i will murder you. i promise you.”

he freezes, retracting his hand, but decided he still has a chance, “who is this?”

“don’t tell me you’re—you are ridiculous! get out!”

seeing your ex with no intention of leaving, bucky decides his patience has run out, already able to see the headlines as he shoves him out of your room roughly until he’s in the elevator, “‘think she said to leave.”

sensing an argument, bucky rolls his eyes and decides fuck it. for you, he’d do anything, breaking the guys’ nose is nothing.

bucky throws a punch that makes your ex’s eyes roll back. he hears you exclaim his name in surprise.

“stay away from y/n.”

bucky pushes the first button on the elevator before stepping out, breathing heavily.

“bucky!” your eyes are wide, “you didn’t—he wasn’t worth it.”

“but you are,” bucky states, “anything for my girl.”

the pull of your cheeks is involuntary, you think vaguely that you shouldn’t be able to smile after th enight you had, but bucky’s words continue to echo in your mind, only widening the small smile on your face, “your girl, huh?”

bucky blushes, looking down. “uh huh.”

“i think i like the sound of that.”

i just want him to fuck me

---