Charmed, I'm Sure

“Baby, you’re doing so good,” you purred, stroking his cheek as yet another shudder wracked his body.

Peeking over his shoulder at Steve, you winked. Steve’s smile bloomed, his hand resting at the small of Bucky’s back gently steadying him.

“You good, Buck?”

There was a sound somewhere between a grunt and a whimper, and you held back your giggle.

Ghosting kisses against his lips, his cheeks, and his damp forehead, you ran your fingers carefully through his hair, nails scraping against his scalp just the way he liked.

His cock hung heavy between you, untouched, bobbing against your stomach with every thrust he took. You ached to press up against him—but that wasn’t what tonight was about.

Shuffling further up the bed from where Bucky knelt on all fours over you, you carefully took his shoulders in your hands and encouraged him to lay his head down in your lap.

Steve took the opportunity to drive deeper, a slow grind that pressed Bucky’s face against the curve of your belly, his guttural moan into your plush soft skin making you bite your lip.

“I know, darling,” you murmured, stroking his hair back from his forehead in time with the tortuously slow strokes of Steve’s cock inside him. “You needed this, didn’t you, hm?”

Bucky huffed a soft yes against your skin, pressing open mouthed kisses into your body.

Above him, Steve breathed out a groan, his dark eyes flicking between where he fucked Bucky deep and where Bucky’s head lay.

“So pretty,” he grunted. “So damn pretty, punk.”

Groaning long and deep at the praise, Bucky’s teeth scraped against you, lips closing on a light nip at your skin, and you couldn’t control the way you jerked up into him.

The rasp of his stubble against your belly, your thighs, and the sensitive skin between drove you wild. You rocked beneath him again, hand at the back of his head urging him lower, until finally his chin brushed against your mound and you sobbed in near-relief.

Bucky caught on quick. He pushed lower, tongue searching for your clit. Your hand in his hair clenched hard, angling him just so, until—there.

Your strangled cry when his tongue pressed and curled matched his low groan at the tangy taste of you.

Bucky ate at you greedily, tongue lapping at your aching folds, drool dripping down his chin to mix with your slick.

“Is he—?”

“Yes,” you hissed, and Steve’s jaw clenched.

His pace never changed, rhythm holding steady, but you felt the shift in power when every driving thrust forward sank him deeper inside Bucky’s body, and Bucky’s face deeper into you. Your hips caught the rhythm, pressing up into his tongue, moaning over the sound of skin on skin.

Your hands stayed woven in Bucky’s hair, keeping him buried deep in your cunt.

He groaned into your flesh when Steve rutted deeper, hummed against you, sending tingling lightening over your skin, but never did he give you his fingers. Your pussy clenched around nothing, aching to be filled, but Bucky knew better.

After all, that wasn’t what tonight was about.

He only pulled away once.

“You gonna cum?”

“Yes,” you and Steve groaned in unison.

Steve fell first. He lost all rhythm, rutting into Bucky with singleminded determination, hands gripping his hips and face scrunched in desperate concentration. Until finally, pressing deep, he came hard with a gasp, pulling Bucky’s hips back tight against him.

Slumping forward the weight of Steve’s body pressed that delightful tongue deeper, Bucky’s nose grinding down onto your clit, and you jerked in his grasp as your orgasm flooded over you.

Your keening cry sent Bucky over the edge and with a shuddering groan he finally came, spilling into the sheets.

Bucky lapped greedily at everything you gave, moaning at the taste, prolonging your pleasure with every swipe of his tongue. You were a quivering mess, moaning helplessly beneath him.

When he slowed, pressing a last precious kiss into you, he rolled to the side, taking Steve with him, using your sweat-slicked thigh as a pillow.

Somewhere between the tangle of bodies, Steve’s hand snaked up to capture yours.

. . . Well, let’s be honest, he still would’ve rolled his eyes and told them to fuck off.

But hey! At least this time they wouldn’t be wrong, but he’d never admit that to their face. Or to anyone else’s for that matter.

The first time Bucky meets you, you almost slice his ear clean off.

Honestly? That’s the moment he thinks he fell in love with you. Love at first sight. . . or possible ear amputation, in this situation.

It was his own error. He was walking in the gym, too in his own head and oblivious to his surroundings to notice you and walked right in front of the target you were hurling throwing knives at. They were all crammed around the center. Defenitely could've got him if you wanted to.

There’s no panic, there’s no loud dramatics like gasps or hands flying to mouths in shock, you're not rushing to take a look and see if he’s okay and spewing out apologies.

You just stand there and narrow your eyes with a head tilt that doesn’t say you’re concerned, but rather you’re lucky.

“You good?” You ask simply.

Bucky's mouth goes dry, and he finds himself being able to only nod in response.

He was doomed from the very start.

———

After your first encounter, he kept running into you.

In the gym (again), the kitchen, the common room. He seemed to gravitate towards you like there was something nudging him in your direction.

Bucky’s the one to ask you on a date. No grand gestures, just a simple question in the hush of the quinjet on your way back from a mission. Broken, bloody and bruised, the sun setting behind you.

This was one of the moments where you were at your softest. You were exhausted, your arm resting in Bucky's careful palms so he could stitch together a small gash on your arm.

“This is gonna hurt.” He says softly.

“I’ve had worse.” You whisper gently. No flat tone or sarcasm falling from your mouth like usual. Just you, tired and recovering.

He cleans it with antiseptic, and you welcome the sting with a shaky inhale, eyes fluttering shut.

The silence stretches between you. Steve controls the jet upfront, taking the three of you back to compound. That’s when Bucky asks you on a date.

And to his surprise? You say okay.

He blinks like he heard you wrong, his gentle grasp on your wounded arm going slack, "Really?"

You shrug, "Sure, why not."

His mouth stays a little agape, and you shake your head softly and rest your head back against your seat. Your eyes flutter shutter, tapping his chin, "Close your mouth, Barnes. You'll catch flies in that trap."

Bucky blinks again, and then his mouth shuts promptly.

The date is nothing overly fancy, an Italian restaurant somewhere in downtown Manhattan because he overheard you in conversation with Natasha once about it and how much you liked their tiramisu.

You wear jeans, a simple top and a pair of heels, all various dark colours, hair pulled away from your face. When Bucky hears you coming he turns opens his mouth like a fish out of water when he catches sight if you. He stumbles over his words, shooting up from the couch and almost tripping over his own feet.

"With limbs flailing like that, no-one would ever believe you were the Winter Soldier," You quip with an unimpressed arch of your eyebrow, "Just a man with bad coordination."

"You, uh— you look, uh, really nice." He chokes.

"You don't look so bad yourself, Barnes." You reply, already sashaying your way to the exit, "Are you just going to stand there or am I going on my own?"

Bucky prays for strength and to not make an absolute fool of himself, scoops up his car keys, and then jogs after you.

———

Ever since that first date, and the dates that followed, Bucky has been so totally whipped, and he knows that.

Sam says that to his face at least three times a day.

Bucky doesn’t deny it, not once— he can't. 

You spar one time just for fun, and you told him not to take it easy on you. You both pounce at each other, hitting and deflecting like you were practicing choreography, like you had memorised what comes next after he swung his arm in a low arc.

You catch him off guard at one point, and suddenly your swinging up and around his neck before he can blink, thighs squeezing either side of his throat.

And he. . . doesn’t do anything.

Brain short circuits.

Bucky.exe has stopped working.

What a good way to go, is about the only thing rolling around in his brain.

“You’re distracted,” You pant as he sets you down, sweat dripping from your temples and wisps of hair sticking to your forehead.

“No shit,” Bucky huffs, his eyes lingering on you for longer than necessary, “Kinda what happens when you wrap your legs around my head.”

You shake your head, exasperated, “Always thinking with your downstairs brain.”

Bucky grins, “Only when it’s you.”

You give him a sharp stare that would probably unsettle anyone else. It just makes Bucky melt like ice-cream left in the sun.

Only you would wrap your legs around your boyfriend’s head and expect him not to be completely distracted by that. . . or maybe you do, and you’re messing with him. He can’t be sure, and your expression doesn’t give anything away.

All Bucky knows is if it’s psychological warfare you’re playing at?

He’ll never win.

———

You're stood at the foot of the bed, sorting your clothes, a basket of Bucky's waiting on the floor for its own turn to be sorted after.

“Sam says I dress like I’m going to a funeral,” You grumble, folding clothes with more vigour than necessary, “Who the fuck wears dark green to a funeral?”

Bucky approaches you from the doorway, pushing the door gently behind him. He wraps his arms around your waist, and you tense for a moment before letting yourself relax into him.

A kiss is pressed to the back of your neck, soft and gentle, “Think he just means you wear a lot of dark clothes, baby.”

“I know what he meant,” You mutter, folding socks over each other so you don’t lose the pair, “The comment was uncalled for.”

Bucky huffs a laugh into your shoulder. You squirm like you hate it, but Bucky knows you don’t. He nuzzles into, thumbs running in soothing circles over your hipbones. 

"Since when have you ever listened to Sam?" He murmur, peppering kisses against the soft skin behind your ear and trailing them down neck.

"I don't listen to Sam," You mumble, eyebrows furrowed and your lips pursed.

"He's trying to get under your skin."

"He's annoying."

"Aggravatingly so."

You lean into his touch as his hands curl around your hips to hold gently instead, until your eyes lock onto a basket of clothes that're pink and your body goes still.

"Bucky?" You say softly.

That tone of voice is never good.

That tone of voice means he's in trouble. 

He doesn't register it though, he only hums noncommittally. You feel the vibration against the sensitive skin of your neck that makes you flinch before you can try to stop yourself from reacting. 

Bucky grins, happy with himself, and lifts his head from your neck. He kisses your cheek, "Yeah, baby?"

You point at the basket of clothes he left on the floor, "What is that?"

His eyebrows furrow, looking at where your pointing, "My clean clothes?"

You grit your teeth and turn your head just enough to catch him in your peripheral, "Yes, but why are they pink?"

Bucky does a double-take, blinking at his clothes. He picks up the basket and sets it on the foot of the bed next to your neatly folded clothes. 

He chews on his bottom lip, "They looked white in the washing machine."

You scoff, "Oh, so the air made them pink?"

Bucky doesn't say a word.

You rummage through his clothes, dress shirts and t-shirts and vests and socks, until you find the culprit. You hold it up slowly, dangling it in front of him.

The look on your face says he's fucked up.

"Are you gonna kill me?" He blurts out.

"I might've if it was my clothes, but you did this to yourself," You huff, gesturing at the ruined pile of his clothes, "How do you even do this, Bucky?" 

He shrugs, "Wasn't paying attention."

You hold the offender in your hand— a single red sock. Not even a pair.

"I can see that," You deadpan, "Now your whites are all. . . pastel pink."

At least he has the audacity to look a little sheepish.

"You had one job," You continue, "Just one."

Bucky nods solemnly.

"I did."

"You failed. . . how do you fail washing clothes, Bucky?"

"I didn't fail washing them," He corrects, "They're clean, aren't they?"

You blink at him, "They're pink. They're supposed to be white!"

"I just— I missed the red sock!"

"You have pristine vision!" You exclaim, "You're a super-soldier, it's part of the package!"

"Yeah, but I don't have x-ray vision!"

You huff, shaking your head and muttering about your useless 106 year-old super-soldier boyfriend who can't wash clothes correctly under your breath.

You're complaining, but it still has the corners of Bucky's mouth upturn fondly.

He guides your hips to turn you around, wrapping his arms back around your waist, one hand splayed across your lower back, the other coming up to knead the back of your neck gently.

Your jaw grinds, and you stare at him, that same stare from the first day he saw you in the gym, but this time there's something else there. 

Love.

And it's for him.

And isn't that something special in itself?

"I'm sorry," He whispers softly, brushing hair from your face, "I'll never touch the washing again."

You try not to smile at that. It's a failing task.

"I'm an 106 year-old man, we didn't have washing machines," Bucky exaggerates a long sigh, "All this technology. . .”

"Alright, old man." You roll your eyes, patting his chest.

He grins, a thumb stroking over your cheek before leaning in to kiss you— slow and soft, a kiss that warms you on the inside and makes you melt. 

Something that makes you feel safe, cared for, loved.

Everything the two of you deserved to be.

"I love you," Bucky murmurs against your lips, soft like a prayer, his hand cradling your cheek.

"I love you too," You sigh in a rare defeat, nipping at his lower lip in warning, "But if you ever do that to my clothes, Bucky. . ."

"Told you, I'll never touch the washing machine again," He offers quickly, "Or try to be helpful."

You roll your eyes with a lingering smile, "Might be for the best."

You can still feel the honeyed trace of his lips that had just been pressed to yours, residual warmth still seeping into your skin like sunlight. 

If he's going to kiss you like that? You ought to have to him apologising more often.

He tilts your head just enough to kiss you a second time, pouring love into you as if it comes from an endless source that lives in his chest. 

Your eyes flutter shut, hands coming up to cup his cheeks, and suddenly the reason why you were mad at him in the first place slowly begins to fade away.

Later, he'll buy you flowers as an apology. A small bunch of red roses and he'll make a silly joke about the two of you and true love. You'll scoff and give him a playful shove, but you'll take the bouquet and inhale the floral scent. You'll gingerly untie the ribbon and put it in your pocket, filling a vase with water and placing the flowers inside with the utmost care.

But for right now? You can settle for this.

———

Some of Bucky's favourite moments with you is in the morning, specifically when the sun is rising and shines through your bedroom window.

Hues of orange and yellow bleed into the darkness of the room, slithering through the gaps in the curtains that had been haphazardly drawn the night prior.

Your face, illuminated by the rising sun from its golden light spills into the room and streaks across your face, will be an image he will never be able to rid from his mind.

In your sleep you had always looked serene, as though the traumatic weight you carry on your shoulders doesn't exist at all. The wrinkle between your usually furrowed eyebrows is smooth and that flat, unimpressed look you usually wear is nowhere to be seen.

It's just you, stripped of that façade you wear like armour. 

Sometimes, he can't believe that he's lucky enough to see you just as you are.

Bucky tucks hair that had fallen in your face behind your ear, and the soft sweep of his fingertips against your skin has your face twitch, the corners of your lips quiver at the fleeting touch.

"Shhh," He hushes softly as you shift, seeking him out with a deep sigh.

That alone could've made him melt.

His grumpy girl, searching for him even when she was asleep. 

Your hand settles against his chest and a leg weaves between his. Bucky watches the tension that had started to rise in your body slowly dissipate until you were pilant against the sheets once more. 

He smiles, his metal arm enveloping your back, and curls his free hand over yours where it rests against his heart.

———

You in your element is something that Bucky will never quite get over.

He watches you move— dangerous and deadly, your body twisting fluidly and your limbs swing in arcs meant to deliver heavy blows to take down men that're twice your size.

Bucky sighs wistfully.

Sam blinks, looking both mildly frustrated and slightly horrified at his reaction.

“She’s doing her job, Buck.”

Bucky huffs, “Yeah, but she looks good doing it.”

“Are you two finished with your mother's meeting or what?" You yell, glancing over your shoulder at them with a withering stare.

Someone takes this as the chance to try and rush you.

You curse under your breath, exasperated and utterly irritated, jaw clenched as your body moves fluidly, whirling around on your heel and swinging your leg in the air. The heel of your boot connects with his face, a sickening crunch under it where his nose snaps to the side. 

He staggers from the force of it and swears, trying to grasp clumsily at your leg in his disorientation. You grab him by his shoulders and smack his head against your knee hard, and he falls like a sack of potatoes— unconscious.

"Seems like you have it handled." Sam quips.

You roll your eyes, pointing a throwing knife at him, "Careful, Wilson, or it'll be you next."

"What about me?"

"You're such a machochist, dude." Sam huffs with a shake of his head, following redwing down one of the corridor's that'll hopefully lead you all where you need to go.

"If you want a punishment, James, you know where to find me." You tease with a roll of you eyes, but there's a hint of a smile there.

And that's for him.

When he doesn't move from his spot, you huff softly and take his wrist to drag him along with you to follow Sam, still failing to hold off that smile, "C'mon, old man."

Bucky grins and trails behind you like a puppy.

There's no place he'd rather be.

Because Bucky is prepared.

He’s done research. He’s read articles. He’s even asked Sam, who laughed so hard he had to sit down before offering any advice. Bucky doesn’t get it. He has enhanced strength, enhanced speed, enhanced reflexes. There is quite literally no version of this where he loses control of the situation.

Your daughter—small, sweet, curls bouncing, shoes that light up when she stomps—grins up at him like she knows something he doesn’t.

“Ready, Sergeant?” he teases, holding out his hand.

She takes it. For exactly twelve seconds.

The park is calm when they get there. Kids on swings, parents on benches, a couple dogs trotting around. Bucky does a quick scan out of habit, cataloging exits, possible hazards, anything that might pose a threat. Everything is under control.

He looks down at her. She’s staring at a group of ducks by the pond, eyes wide, completely transfixed.

“Those are ducks,” he explains, because apparently that’s what parenting is. “They’re—”

She lets go of his hand.

It’s subtle at first. Just a shift. A tiny tug of her fingers slipping free.

Bucky barely registers it.

And then she’s gone.

Not gone gone—but running.

Running like her life depends on it. Like she’s been training for this exact moment since birth. Her little legs pump with terrifying efficiency, light-up shoes flashing like warning signals as she makes a beeline straight for the ducks.

“Hey—hey!” Bucky calls, startled for half a second before instinct kicks in and he's moving fast.

He's faster than any normal person is; however, your daughter is faster.

Or maybe not technically faster, but unpredictable. Chaotic. She zigzags with absolutely no pattern, giggling as the ducks scatter, her delighted squeal carrying across the park. Bucky adjusts his path, calculating angles, intercept points—

She ducks under a hedge.

A hedge.

Bucky skids to a stop at the edge of it, staring down like it personally offended him.

“How—” he mutters, blinking.

There is no logical reason for this. The opening is small. The hedge is dense. He is a super soldier.

And yet his toddler has just disappeared into shrubbery like a fugitive.

On the other side, her laughter rings out, bright and unbothered.

“Quack quack!” she yells, chasing after a very confused duck.

Bucky exhales slowly through his nose, crouching down to peer through the leaves. He can see flashes of her jacket, those blinking shoes, the absolute chaos of her tiny form barreling forward without a single ounce of hesitation.

“Doll,” he calls, attempting calm. “We do not chase wildlife.”

She shrieks in delight.

Not listening.

Of course she’s not listening.

Why would she listen?

Bucky drags a hand down his face, then stands, quickly moving around the hedge to cut her off on the other side. This time, he’s ready. He positions himself perfectly, steps wide, arms out—

She runs straight past him.

Not even a pause. Not even a glance. Just pure, unfiltered toddler rebellion as she darts in a completely new direction, laughter bubbling out of her like this is the greatest game ever invented.

Bucky turns, stunned.

“What the hell,” he breathes, before taking off after her again.

It becomes a cycle.

She runs.

He catches up.

She slips away.

He recalculates.

At one point, he manages to grab the back of her jacket—victory, finally—but she twists in his grip with the determination of someone who has never known defeat, dropping to the ground and wriggling free like a tiny, giggling escape artist.

“Absolutely not,” he says, half exasperated, half impressed.

She’s already back on her feet, sprinting toward a new target—this time a squirrel.

Bucky stares at the sky for a brief moment, like he’s asking for strength.

“This is not a fair fight,” he mutters.

Because it isn’t.

Not when she has no fear, no strategy, no concern for consequences. Just joy. Just curiosity. Just the overwhelming need to run and explore and chase anything that moves.

Eventually—eventually—he catches her properly.

It takes a well-timed scoop, a quick lift that brings her up into his arms mid-run. She squeals, kicking her legs, still laughing like she hasn’t just put him through tactical warfare.

“Got you,” he pants, holding her close.

She beams at him, cheeks flushed, eyes bright.

“Again!” she demands, like this was all just a game he willingly participated in.

Bucky stares at her.

Then he huffs out a laugh, shaking his head as he presses a kiss to her hair.

“You are unbelievable,” he tells her, voice soft despite the exhaustion creeping in. “I fought trained assassins with less trouble than you.”

She pats his cheek, entirely unconcerned.

“Dada slow,” she says, with absolute confidence.

Bucky barks out a laugh, loud and helpless, pulling her closer as he starts the walk back home.

“Yeah,” he admits, adjusting her on his hip. “Guess I am.”

Wthen she leans her head against his shoulder, finally still for more than three seconds, he can’t help the small, fond smile that tugs at his lips.

Because maybe he didn’t win.

It started innocently enough that first morning back at the safehouse.

You and Steve had barely finished coffee when Bucky’s hand found your waist, tugging you back against his chest with that needy little whine already building in his throat.

“Missed you,” he murmured, lips brushing your neck.

But the way his hips rolled forward, hard and insistent against your ass, said more than words ever could.

Steve raised an eyebrow from across the kitchen, smirking, but didn’t stop him.

None of you could ever really stop Bucky when the hunger hit.

Within minutes, he had you both in the bedroom, clothes half-shoved aside because he couldn’t wait.

You ended up on your back with Bucky between your thighs, Steve’s hand tangled in Bucky’s hair, guiding him down.

The first slide of Bucky’s cock into you dragged a shattered moan from deep in his chest—raw, helpless, loud.

His head dropped to your shoulder, metal arm braced beside your head as he rocked forward again, another broken sound tearing free.

“F-fuck—so warm,” he gasped, voice cracking. “Missed this. Missed you squeezing me like that—ahh—”

He was already trembling, oversensitive from years of nothing but cold and silence.

Every thrust punched another cry out of him: high, needy whimpers when you clenched around him, guttural groans when Steve leaned down to bite at his shoulder.

Bucky tried to muffle himself against your neck, but it was useless.

He couldn’t stay quiet.

Not when you felt this good.

Not when Steve’s fingers joined the rhythm, pressing into him from behind and making Bucky’s whole body jerk.

You loved it.

Loved how he fell apart so easily now, how the Soldier’s control shattered the second pleasure touched him.

You rolled your hips up to meet him and Bucky sobbed, hips stuttering.

“Too much—please—don’t sop, don’t—”

Steve chuckled low, voice rough with affection.

“Easy, Buck. We’ve got you.”

By the time he came the first time—shaking, loud, spilling deep inside you with a wrecked shout that echoed off the walls—Bucky was already trying to catch his breath for round two.

He didn’t get it.

You and Steve traded a look and gently pinned him down instead, taking turns drawing more of those delicious sounds from him until he was a sweaty, oversensitive mess between you.

That was just breakfast.

By lunch, he was pulling you into the hallway closet like a man possessed.

“Just need a minute,” he lied, voice already breathy as he dropped to his knees.

His mouth was hot and eager, tongue working you open while he moaned around you like you were the one doing him a favor.

Every little hum and whimper vibrated through you until you were gripping his hair and coming with his name on your lips.

Bucky followed seconds later, untouched, grinding against your leg with a muffled cry.

Steve found you both there, flushed and half-dressed, and simply shook his head fondly before dragging you to the couch for round three.

Bucky rode him slow and filthy, head thrown back, moans pouring out unrestrained—Steve’s name, yours, curses in at least three languages.

The neighbors probably hated you.

None of you cared.

Afternoon found him cornering you in the laundry room while Steve was on a quick supply run.

Bucky bent you over the humming dryer, metal hand gentle on your hip even as his thrusts grew frantic.

“Can’t—fuck—can’t help it,” he panted against your ear, voice cracking on every other word. “Been empty for so long. Need you. Need to feel you—oh god—right there—”

He came so hard he nearly collapsed, legs shaking, loud enough that Steve heard him from the driveway and came running—only to join in the second he realized what was happening.

Evening blurred into night.

Dinner was abandoned halfway through when Bucky pulled you into his lap at the table, grinding you down with soft, desperate noises.

You ended up on the floor, Steve fucking into Bucky from behind while Bucky buried his face between your thighs, moaning and licking and whimpering the whole time.

Every time you praised him—

“Such a good boy, Buck, so loud for us, let us hear you.”

—he’d shudder and get even louder, until the room was filled with the wet sounds of sex and Bucky’s broken, beautiful cries.

Later, when the three of you finally collapsed into bed, tangled and sticky and sated (for now), Bucky curled between you like he belonged there.

His voice was hoarse from use, but he still whispered, almost shyly,

“Didn’t mean to be so… much.”

You kissed his temple, Steve’s hand stroking down his back.

“We love you like this,” you murmured. “Needy. Loud. Ours.”

Bucky’s breath hitched, a tiny needy sound escaping before he could stop it.

His cock twitched against your thigh, already half-hard again.

“Give us ten minutes,” Steve teased, grinning.

Bucky groaned, hiding his flushed face in your chest, but his hips rolled forward anyway.

“Can’t help itt,” he mumbled, voice muffled and already thickening with want. “Missed feeling alive.”

You smiled into his hair, fingers threading through Steve’s where they met over Bucky’s waist.

The Soldier had decades of silence to make up for.