#sub!bucky

Now he’s pinned beneath you, your knees caging his shoulders, your slick heat hovering just above his mouth. His hands rest lightly on the backs of your thighs, gentle, soothing circles with his thumbs even though his pulse is hammering in his ears and his cock is straining painfully against his boxers.

He’s been at it for a long time already. Long, dragging licks. Slow, open-mouthed kisses. Sucking your clit softly until your hips buck, then easing off before starting again. He’s trying to pace you, trying to stretch it out so you don’t crash too hard too fast.

But you’re not interested in pacing.

You’re feral.

Your fingers twist tight in his hair, yanking his head exactly where you want it. Every time he tries to pull back, even half an inch to drag in a proper breath, you haul him right back with a broken, needy sound.

“Baby,” he rasps against your folds, voice thick and wrecked, lips swollen and glistening. “Baby- fuck- my jaw’s killing me. Just- give me a second, yeah? Please.”

You make a sound that’s half sob, half snarl. Your thighs clamp harder around his ears.

“No,” you gasp. “No, Buck, I need more. I’m so close- please-”

He groans, the vibration rolling straight through your clit. His hands flex on your thighs, torn between holding you steady and trying to ease you off just enough to breathe.

“Doll,” he tries again, words muffled and slurred. “Sweetheart, I’m tryin’- I swear I’m tryin’- but I can’t- can’t keep goin’ like this forever. My tongue’s numb, my jaw’s locked up-”

You lean forward, one hand braced on the headboard, the other still fisted in his hair. Your hips roll in a slow, deliberate grind, dragging your slick over his lips, his chin.

“I know,” you whisper, voice shaking with want. “I know it hurts. But I need you to let me fuck myself on your tongue, Bucky. Just- open your mouth and let me ride it. Hard. Please. I need to come like that. I need it so bad.”

His eyes flutter shut for a second. A low, helpless sound rumbles out of his chest.

“Baby… Christ.” His voice cracks. “I want to- fuck, you know I want to- but I’m already hangin’ on by a thread here. If you start ridin’ my face like that, I’m not gonna last. I’m gonna- shit- I’m gonna come in my pants like some fuckin’ teenager if you keep goin’.”

You whimper at the confession, thighs trembling harder.

“That’s okay,” you breathe, rocking just enough to tease the tip of his tongue against your entrance. “I want that. I want you to lose it. Please, Buck. Open up. Let me take it. Let me use you.”

He’s panting now, hot little bursts of air against your soaked skin. His fingers dig into your thighs, not to stop you but like he’s bracing himself.

“Fuck- doll, you’re gonna ruin me,” he chokes out. “I’m beggin’ you. Just- slow down. Give me a minute. I can’t- I can’t hold it-”

But you’re already moving.

You sink down, slow at first, letting his tongue slide inside you. Then faster. Harder. Fucking yourself on it in short, greedy thrusts while his muffled groans vibrate through you.

His hands scramble up to grip your hips, not to control, just to hold on. His whole body is shaking under you now, muscles locked tight, breath coming in ragged, desperate bursts against your cunt.

“Baby- please-” he manages between thrusts, voice wrecked and pleading. “Slow- fuck- slow down or I’m gonna- gonna come- can’t stop it-”

You don’t slow down.

You grind harder, chasing the angle that makes stars burst behind your eyes, using his tongue like it’s the only thing that matters. His pleas turn into broken, garbled sounds- half curses, half whimpers- muffled against your heat.

And then you feel it.

His hips jerk upward, helpless, once, twice and a low, guttural groan tears out of him as he comes untouched, soaking through his boxers, body shuddering beneath you while you keep riding his face.

The sight, the sound, the feel of him losing it completely sends you over.

Your thighs lock around his head, a sharp cry ripping from your throat as you clench hard around his tongue, pulsing, shaking, drenching his face all over again. He keeps his mouth open, keeps his tongue flat and steady even as he’s trembling through the aftershocks of his own release.

When it finally eases, you collapse forward, forehead pressed to the headboard, chest heaving. Only then do you loosen your grip on his hair.

He sucks in his first real breath in forever, face a wrecked, shiny mess, lips puffy, chin dripping, eyes glassy and dazed. But he’s smiling, soft and stupid and so fucking in love.

You slide down his body until you’re sprawled across his chest. His arms wrap around you instantly, one hand rubbing slow circles on your back, the other cradling your neck.

“Thought you said you couldn’t hold it,” you murmur, voice hoarse.

He huffs a wrecked laugh, voice raw. “Yeah, well… I tried warnin’ you.”

You nuzzle into his throat, already going boneless. “Worth it.”

He presses a shaky kiss to your hairline, still catching his breath.

“Yeah,” he whispers, lips brushing your temple. “Worth every goddamn second.”

He’s still catching his breath underneath you, arms tight like he never wants to let go. And you know he’ll be right back down there the second you ask again.

— yours truly, ѕℓυtdιεr.

masterlist | bucky version

Now, fresh from your shower, skin still warm and dewy, you slipped into them—nothing on but a towel draped over your hair, drying off the ends. The hard click of the heel echoed sharply as you stepped across the hardwood floor of your walk-in, then paused to study your reflection in the full-length mirror.

The shoes made your legs look longer. Firmer. Every shift of your weight made your muscles flex just right—like danger incarnate wrapped in nothing but bare skin and sleek edges. You turned slightly, admiring the clean line of your thigh from the back, the curve of your ass lifted just right by the height of the heels.

You took a few steps—slow and experimental—toward the mirror. Click. Click. A small smile played on your lips. Powerful. That’s how they made you feel.

You didn’t realize you weren’t alone.

Bucky had been standing just past the doorway—towel slung low around his hips, hair damp, chest still glistening from the aborted mission to shower. But now he was behind you, watching silently.

In the mirror, you saw him—towering behind you like some kind of storm barely held back. His jaw was tight. His cock already twitching beneath the towel.

“Jesus,” he muttered, voice low and wrecked.

You startled slightly, catching his reflection. “Buck?”

“I—” he dragged a hand down his face. “Don’t move.”

You arched a brow, amused. “Why?”

“Because I can’t stop staring. You—fuck, sweetheart…” His eyes raked your reflection, wide and hungry. “You look like a fucking vision. I can’t—your legs. Tight. Flexed. Those fucking heels…”

You shifted again, subtle, letting the pose change slightly. “It’s just heels.”

“You’re naked in heels,” he rasped, stepping forward like gravity reeled him in. “Clicking around like it’s nothing. And you didn’t even know I was here. That’s fucking criminal.”

He stopped just behind you—close enough that you could feel the heat of him, his towel brushing your skin. You met his gaze in the mirror as he stared over your shoulder, utterly entranced.

“I was testing them out.”

“Yeah?” His voice dipped again. “I’m testing my fucking limits.”

Still, he didn’t touch. His breath ghosted across your neck as he whispered, “You look like you could slit throats and make a man thank you for it.”

You chuckled, soft and sultry. “That’s a compliment?”

“Sweetheart, that’s a confession.”

Then his hands finally found your hips. He pressed himself to your back, hard and hot, his cock fully erect beneath the thin towel. His mouth brushed your ear.

“You ever see yourself like this?” he murmured. “Legs flexed. Shoulders bare. Looking at me in the mirror like that?”

“I see you too,” you whispered, shifting your weight just slightly so your heel lifted. “And I see what this is doing to you.”

Bucky groaned, the sound dark and low in his throat. His grip tightened, and then—slowly—he turned you in his hands. Gently, reverently. Until you were facing him.

His eyes were glazed, jaw tight, towel strained over how badly he wanted you.

Then, with one hand, he reached down and curled his fingers behind your knee.

“Lift it,” he said, voice a raw rasp.

You obeyed, placing your hand on his shoulder for balance as you raised your leg.

He caught it easily—guided your stiletto up onto his thigh, right against the heat of him.

And just like that… you understood.

You shifted your angle slightly, just enough to let the sharp point of your heel drag slowly across the inside of his thigh. He gasped.

You did it again. Slower this time. Closer.

He bit his bottom lip, eyes fluttering half-shut.

“Think I just found a new kink,” he groaned. “You, wearing those heels. Me just… watching you use ‘em like this.”

“You’d let me tease you like this?” you asked, voice teasing, hungry. “Keep you hard with just my heels and no hands?”

His hips jerked forward instinctively.

“You’d do that to me?”

You smiled, head tilting slightly. “I’d make you beg, Bucky. Tell you how pretty you look, all desperate. Maybe even let you rut up against my foot a little. But only if you ask nicely.”

“Fuck.” His voice cracked. “You could ruin me.”

You stepped in closer, both hands pressing gently to his chest now.

“Then let me.”

And with one slow, confident push, you backed him until his shoulders met the cool surface of the mirror behind him—still watching, still reflected.

Bucky exhaled a shaky breath, letting his towel fall.

And you dropped to your knees.

You were just getting started.

—

You looked up at him, cock flushed and twitching in front of you, chest rising and falling like he was holding on by a thread.

“Say please,” you murmured, fingers gliding up his thigh as you leaned in.

Bucky moaned—low and wrecked—his head falling back to thump softly against the mirror.

“Please. Just—baby, please.”

You didn’t give him what he wanted. Not yet.

Instead, you reached down and pressed your heel between his thighs again—light, teasing, right to that sensitive spot that made him jolt.

“The gala might have to wait.”

His breath stuttered hard, hands twitching at his sides. His hips rolled instinctively toward you, seeking contact—anything—but you just leaned back slightly, keeping your eyes on his.

“God,” he whispered, voice frayed. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You smiled sweetly and slid your palm up his length in a slow stroke—then let go completely.

“Not until I’m done with you.”

“You’re so hard,” you whispered. “And I’ve barely done anything to you.”

You watched him—so big, so ready to fall apart for you—and felt a flicker of nerves beneath the thrill. You weren’t used to this. Not like this. But the way he looked at you?

Like you hung the moon.

You straightened your shoulders slightly. Let the confidence follow your voice.

Instead, you slowly stepped back, out of his hold. The sharp click of your stilettos on the hardwood made him visibly flinch, like even the sound of them had power over him now.

“Down,” you said softly, letting the word hang in the air like smoke.

You weren’t sure what you expected. But the way he froze—chest rising, mouth parted—told you everything.

He wanted this. Wanted you like this.

His brows drew together—hesitant, breathless.

“Kneel for me, James.”

You didn’t say it again.

You didn’t need to.

He sank slowly, towel loosening around his hips as he dropped to his knees in front of you. You stood tall above him, completely bare but for the heels and the towel draped across your damp hair. One step forward, and he was level with your thighs—your heat, your scent—everything.

“Look at you,” you murmured, tilting his chin up with your fingers. “Big, dangerous super soldier, and yet you’re right here. On your knees. Just ‘cause I told you to.”

His eyes were wide, lips parted. You watched his cock twitch again, hard and leaking against his stomach.

You shifted your weight, lifting one leg slowly and placing the pointed tip of your heel right between his thighs. Just beneath his balls.

“God—” he gasped, hands twitching on his thighs, unsure where to place them. “You’re gonna fucking destroy me.”

You didn’t answer.

You dragged the heel up lightly—slow, deliberate—over the sensitive skin of his inner thigh. His breath hitched. The sharp press made the muscles in his thighs jump, like his body couldn’t decide if it wanted more or to pull away.

“You like this?” you whispered, eyes locked on his.

He whimpered. Whimpered.

You did it again—just a graze, the tip of your heel trailing up to the crease of his hip before you slid it back down. His cock twitched again, leaking now, desperate.

“Your cock’s such a slut for me,” you said, voice dipped low and cruel-sweet.

You didn’t even know you had that tone in you. But the way he whimpered—his thighs trembling, breath stalling—it did something to you.

He squeezed his eyes shut, chest heaving. “Please—”

“Aw, baby,” you cooed, tilting your heel just enough to press into the tender flesh inside his thigh. “Didn’t know you liked being teased like this. Thought you were the one who liked calling the shots.”

His throat bobbed, lips trembling with restraint. “I didn’t know I’d like you like this.”

Your smile was pure wicked delight. “Poor thing.”

You grazed the heel up again—closer this time, letting the tip ghost along the underside of his cock. Just a whisper of contact.

His whole body jerked. A cracked, broken moan slipped from his lips.

“Needy little thing,” you muttered, stepping closer, letting your calf brush his shoulder. “You wanna come already, don’t you?”

He nodded—frantic, wrecked.

You stood tall behind him, watching the muscles of his back flex as he breathed hard, towel barely hanging on. He was beautiful like this. Obedient. Thighs tense. Cock flushed, twitching, untouched.

But your confidence flickered—just for a moment. Your power felt so sharp, so new.

Your voice softened. “Bucky…”

He turned slightly to glance at you over his shoulder. “Yeah, sweetheart?”

You swallowed, heel tapping lightly against the floor behind him.

You didn’t mean to sound unsure, but it slipped out anyway.

“What… what do I do next? If I wanted to really ruin you?”

His eyes nearly rolled back at that. “Fuck,” he groaned. “You say shit like that and I’m close already.”

That response? That gave you permission to keep going.

You stepped in front of him again, brow furrowed, lips parted with the weight of wanting. “Tell me.”

Bucky’s breath hitched. He sat back on his heels, looking up at you like worship. “Start slow. Use your hands. Don’t let me finish.”

You blinked. “That’s mean.”

He smiled weakly. “Exactly.”

You knelt—carefully, heels still on—sitting with your thighs spread just enough for him to see how wet you were already. His gaze dropped instantly, groaning again.

“You want me to just… touch you?” you asked, hand reaching out toward his flushed, aching cock.

“Please,” he whispered, desperate. “Just not enough. Just enough to make me lose my fucking mind.”

You wrapped your fingers around him gently—slow, reverent. His hips bucked, and he hissed through his teeth.

“God,” you whispered. “You’re so hard…”

You stroked him slowly, deliberately, eyes wide and focused on the way he twitched in your grip. His cock pulsed with every pass of your hand, leaking at the tip. He moaned low, broken, head falling back.

“You look so pretty like this,” you murmured, voice growing steadier as you watched him unravel. “On your knees, begging.”

“Don’t stop,” he groaned.

But you slowed. Thumb grazing under the head, teasing the slit. He cried out softly, hips jerking again.

“Sweetheart, please—don’t play fair. Ruin me.”

You leaned forward and dragged your tongue slowly up the underside of his cock—one long, deliberate stroke, just to taste him.

Bucky choked on a moan. “Fuck, fuck, do that again—”

You licked again, kittenish and slow, then placed a kiss to the flushed head. He whimpered.

Then stopped.

“Wait—baby—” His voice cracked. “Don’t… don’t let me come. Not yet. Please—keep me there. Just right there.”

You pulled back instantly, lips slick, eyes wide. “Like… this?”

You stroked him again, faster now—then stopped just as he started to pant.

He looked wrecked. Eyes glassy. Lips swollen from biting them. Chest heaving.

“Yes. Just like that,” he gasped. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“Think I like seeing you like this,” you murmured, brushing your heel against his thigh again. “Whimpering. Barely holding on.”

His cock jerked helplessly. “I can’t—baby, I can’t take it—”

You leaned in, whispering at his ear, stroking him again just to the edge. “No coming, Bucky. Not until I say.”

He nodded helplessly. “Yes. Yes, ma’am.”

Your breath hitched. You felt that.

He was shaking now. Begging under his breath. You watched every muscle in his body tense and tremble—every pulse of his cock in your hand.

And still, you denied him.

“You wanna come so bad,” you whispered. “But I’m not done watching you beg.”

He looked up at you—face flushed, jaw slack, eyes half-lidded.

“Please,” he breathed. “Tell me what you want. I’ll do anything.”

You stroked him once more—firm and slow—then let go completely.

His hips twitched. A full-body jolt. His breath hitched on a raw, cracked moan.

You tilted your head. “You’re leaking again.”

He looked down, eyes wide with humiliation—because yeah, he was. The flushed head of his cock was glistening, dripping onto his own thigh like his body couldn’t hold it back anymore.

“I haven’t even touched you in a minute,” you whispered, awe curling around your voice. “You’re just leaking for me.”

His chest heaved. “I—I can’t help it—”

“Oh, I know you can’t.” You leaned in close, lips brushing his ear. “Look at you. All this from me in heels and a few soft strokes? That’s all it took to get you like this?”

He whimpered. Fucking whimpered. Shoulders hunched like the shame turned him on even more.

“I didn’t know you could get this pathetic,” you whispered, trailing a fingertip up the underside of his cock—barely touching. “But I like it.”

He gasped.

You watched in real time as another thick bead of precum dripped down his length—unprompted, untouched. His thighs were trembling now, muscles strained from trying to hold back the orgasm clawing its way up his spine.

“I feel like I’m gonna come,” he groaned, broken and frantic.

You leaned back, watching every desperate twitch. “You’re not allowed.”

“I know,” he choked. “I know, I know—but baby, please—”

His whole body was shaking. Cock flushed, painfully red at the tip. He was grinding the air just barely, involuntarily chasing friction he knew he wasn’t allowed to have.

Then you saw it—another thick drip of precum pulsing from him. His voice was wrecked now, barely intelligible.

“I’m gonna—fuck, I’m leaking—I can’t stop—baby, I can’t—”

His head dropped forward, resting between your thighs as he moaned—low and hoarse. He was panting like a man being edged at gunpoint—back arched, cock jerking helplessly, tip leaving wet trails across his own abdomen.

You didn’t let him come.

You just held his face, gently, fingertips brushing his stubble as he trembled between your legs.

“You’re so good for me,” you whispered. “Look at you. You haven’t even come, and you’re already falling apart.”

His hands clutched at your thighs like a lifeline.

“Say it,” you murmured, thumb brushing his cheekbone.

He looked up at you, red-faced, eyes glossy.

“I’m yours,” he breathed. “Fuck—I’m yours. Ruin me however you want.”

You smiled.

You didn’t expect to love this—holding him like this, guiding his pleasure like it belonged to you.

But you did.

“Good.”

Your thumb brushed along his jaw as he panted, face still buried against your thigh, cock pulsing and flushed, still leaking.

“Hey,” you whispered softly, voice different now—lower, steady. “You’ve been so good.”

Bucky whimpered.

You tipped his face up gently. “You wanna come, baby?”

His eyes fluttered open—wet and desperate, like he didn’t believe you yet.

“Yeah?” you asked again, more tender now. “You want me to let you?”

His lips parted. “Please. Please, sweetheart—I need it. I need to come so bad, it hurts.”

You kissed his forehead.

“Then do it,” you whispered. “Come for me.”

He didn’t even need to touch himself.

Just your voice—just that permission—was enough.

He groaned, head falling forward again as his hips jerked once, then twice, and—

“Fuck—fuck—I’m coming—”

Thick pulses of hot cum spilled across his belly, each wave shaking his thighs. His whole body shuddered from it, like the dam had snapped wide open and he couldn’t stop if he tried. You held his jaw, watched him fall apart so sweetly—muttering your name under his breath like it was the only thing he remembered how to say.

And when it was over—when the last twitch left his muscles and he sagged against you, boneless, breathing hard—you whispered,

“You okay?”

His breath hitched with something like a laugh. He leaned his head against your chest, still catching up.

“I think I just found religion.”

You smiled, threading your fingers through his damp hair. “You liked that.”

“I loved that,” he whispered, still dazed. “Didn’t know I needed it—being owned like that. You… making me hold back, making me ask for it?”

He looked up at you, cheeks flushed and glowing, a little awestruck.

“Felt like I gave you everything,” he said. “And you took care of it.”

You kissed him again, softer this time. “I did.”

WEEK 1 — Soft Hands, Hard Rules

Good Morning, Sergeant — You kiss him awake, slow and deep… then roll out of bed and leave him aching.

Coffee and Control — You sit on his lap while he drinks; the only thing hotter than the mug is his temper.

Count to Ten — Each number earns him one slow stroke; if he moans, you start over.

Cold Front — He’s not ready for the ice cube tracing your throat—and definitely not for where it goes next.

Mission Brief — You call mid-meeting with nothing but a whimper and his name.

Hands On — A massage turns filthy when your thumbs slide too low; his orders dissolve into begging.

Permission Denied — “Touch yourself,” you whisper, “but stop when I say.” He lasts fifteen seconds.

WEEK 2 — Public Enemy

8. Dinner Disaster — Your hand under the restaurant table ruins his appetite and his composure. 9. Gym Rules — You squat in front of the mirror; he forgets every rep. 10. Steam Test — You leave the shower door cracked—fog, reflection, and a soldier’s restraint. 11. Off Limits — “You can look,” you murmur, “but you can’t taste.” 12. Knee Jerk Reaction — You ride his thigh until he’s shaking; still, he’s not allowed to finish. 13. Open Secret — Whispering filth in public is one thing; doing it at Stark’s gala is another. 14. Lights Out — You strip down in candlelight, blow them out, and leave him hard in the dark.

WEEK 3 — Break Him Beautifully

15. Blind Obedience — Blindfolded, he flinches at every touch of your feather. 16. Rope Lesson — You tie him to the chair, kiss him once, and walk away. 17. Numbers Game — “Count every edge, baby.” By ten, his voice is wrecked. 18. Halfway There — Your tongue finds him; he swears he’ll behave if you just don’t stop. 19. Fragile Thing — He trembles when you whisper, “You like being ruined, don’t you?” 20. Mirror Image — You make him watch what he can’t have. 21. Start Over — He breaks a rule—so you start the night from scratch.

WEEK 4 — The Final Countdown

22. Slow Vibration — You set the remote vibrator to low and send him to work. 23. Beg Properly — “Try again, soldier. That didn’t sound like begging.” 24. Taste Test — You ride his face till dawn, never letting him come. 25. Edge Drill — You time him with military precision; his discipline collapses first. 26. Hands Behind Your Back — He obeys perfectly until you praise him for it. 27. Overload — A single fingertip, over and over, until he’s incoherent. 28. The Offer — “You’ve earned one release—if you can last through it.” 29. Slip-Up — He breaks. You make him confess every filthy second." 30. Punishment or Reward? — At midnight, he finally comes—on your terms.

i did not include my permanent taglist on this series as i didn't want to annoy with 30 micro fics🫣 HOWEVER, if you would like to be tagged, please comment below or send me a message!!

Of all the people to freeze to death alongside, it just had to be Bucky Barnes. 

You’re shivering so hard, you feel like you could come apart if your arms weren’t wrapped around your torso, holding you together. The storm of the century roars outside. It's getting harder and harder to remain optimistic that Bucky can fix the generator, that you’ll be defrosting anytime soon.

You tap your foot impatiently against the dirt floor of the basement while Bucky fusses with the generator battery. The tension winds tighter in his shoulders with every passing second, with every tap of your foot.

Eventually, he tosses the battery to the side with a heavy sigh, scrubbing a hand over his face. “It’s dead. won’t charge.”

“I thought you said you could fix it,” you snap, trying to keep your teeth from chattering. These New-Avengers-branded winter tactical suits that R&D pushed on the two of you are far more fashion than function, and you’re starting to lose feeling in your toes.

“Can’t fix a battery that won’t charge,” Bucky grumbles as he gets to his feet. “It needs a replacement, which we don’t have.”

You groan, rubbing your temple with a gloved hand. “This is just perfect, Barnes."

And then the bickering starts, as usual. It’s the same old song and dance routine that happens every time the two of you are forced onto a mission together.

“Oh, so this is my fault. How was I supposed to know?”

“You said this safehouse was fully equipped!”

“I got bad intel,” he growls, more frustrated by the second. “Can you cut me some slack?”

You clutch your arms tighter around your body, trying to preserve what little warmth you have. “I’m freezing my ass off because of your bad intel. How long are we gonna have to wait this out?”

Bucky glances down at his comms display. “Val said extraction is at dawn. Earliest they can get here.”

“Great,” you huff, stomping up the stairs and out of the basement. “Eight more hours in a freezing cabin with you. It must be my birthday or something.”

Wishful thinking, to hope he wouldn’t follow you, that he’d give you space to be angry. You hear his footsteps behind you, hear him mumble something about ‘dramatics’ under your breath, and you resist the urge to throw something at him.

“Dramatics?” you whirl around, indignant. He's not shivering one bit. It makes you want to punch him.

“Not all of us have super serum to stave off frostbite. I'll be lucky if I make it to morning with all my toes.”

Bucky frowns at this, brows furrowing, but you’ve decided not to care about what he thinks anymore. You're too cold for that. You unfurl the ancient sleeping bag you procured from a storage closet and lay down on the dingy hardwood floor.

“I’m going to bed,” you declare as you cocoon yourself. “If I freeze to death in my sleep, it’s on you.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and sits against the wall, dejected. “Fuck’s sake.”

Your teeth are chattering so loud, Bucky's surprised that it doesn’t give away the safehouse’s location to every hostile in a five mile radius.

He had peeled off his snowsuit and laid down almost an hour ago to sleep, but he’s still staring at the ceiling, listening to your shallow, shivering breath. Annoyance and fatigue mixes with a hint of guilt — because you’re right. It was his bad intel that brought the two of you here, and now you’ll be borderline hypothermic for another six hours at least.

Bucky can’t in good conscience allow this to go on. He sits up in his sleeping bag and runs a tired hand through his hair. “Okay, that’s enough. Get over here.”

“What?” you mumble, raising your head.

“I can’t sleep with all the shivering and teeth chattering going on over there.” He pulls open his sleeping bag and gestures for you to approach. “You’ll be warmer if we share.”

Despite the lack of color in your face, you still manage to give him a withering look. “N-no way.”

Bucky sighs. “Will you stop being so damn stubborn, for once?”

“Why do you c-care?” you shoot back.

“I can’t sit here and pretend to sleep while you’re suffering like this.” Something happens to his voice, an involuntary softening, and he clears his throat quietly to banish it. “Just come here.”

Your eyes flick from his face, to the sleeping bag, to his broad chest — he’s just wearing a t-shirt and he’s still not shivering. He's the closest thing to a functioning radiator in this run-down shack. 

You decide that you’ve spent worse nights in worse ways.

Disentangling yourself from your sleeping bag, you shuffle across the room and slip into his, trying to look dignified as you wriggle into position.

“If you tell anyone about this, I will kill you dead,” you warn.

“Agreed,” he replies. “We never speak of this.”

You nearly jump out of your skin when you feel a hand at the zipper of your snow jacket, pulling it downwards. “What the hell are you doing?” you nearly yelp.

Bucky tries not to roll his eyes at your reaction and eases the jacket off your shoulders, leaving you in your thermal top and tac suit pants. “You wanna get warm or not?”

Before you have time to protest, he throws the sleeping bag over you and pulls you until your back is flush against his chest. Warmth envelops you immediately, pulling a shudder from your freezing body.

“Christ, you’re like a furnace,” you mutter, burrowing closer to him before your brain can think better of it.

“Just relax,” he rumbles, his real arm circling around you as your shivers begin to slow. “I’ve got you.”

It’s far too intimate of a moment for the kind of relationship you have with each other — all bark and occasional bite. But your body doesn’t care about that. It just cares that you can finally feel your fingers again. You would never admit it to yourself, but it was sort of nice, being held by him. Because of the warmth, of course. Not because of the familiar scent of cedar and gun oil, or the steady and sure sound of his breath, or the way you can feel every twitch of the muscles in his arm.

He’s just warm, that’s all.

After a moment of quiet, during which you realize the quiet is due to your teeth no longer clattering against one another, you sigh and whisper, “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” he mumbles. 

Not fucking likely.

When you finally fall asleep, it’s bliss. The insulation of the sleeping bag keeps you wrapped in Bucky’s warmth, sending you drifting off into peaceful sleep.

You think you’re dreaming at first, when something stirs you awake. Breath, hot against the back of your neck. A quiet, rumbling groan from behind you. A strong arm draped loose around you, and the slow grind of something hard against your backside.

You’re barely awake, registering sensation before context, so you mindlessly press back into it, a sigh breaching your lips. It's only when you feel the scratch of stubble against your shoulder, inhale the familiar scent of him that you realize where you are, and who you’re with.

You freeze, eyes snapping wide open.

For a moment, you’re still not entirely sure if you’re dreaming, because this is a highly unlikely turn of events. Is Bucky Barnes, of all people, making a move on you? 

He shifts again, another lazy grind of his hard cock against the curve of your ass, and he mumbles something soft and incoherent. Your brain does the math instantly.

He’s dreaming.

“Barnes.” Your voice is weak as you speak up to — to what, exactly? Wake him, stop him? With each uncoordinated, needy press of his hips against you, you’re less and less sure that you want him to. The sound of his dreamy pleasure in your ear, the warm press of his body against yours… they’re affecting you more than you’d like to admit. You can feel a growing damp patch between your legs that no squeeze of your thighs is going to relieve anytime soon.

The rules of consent here are shaky at best. You should stop this. You really should stop this.

Bucky murmurs something against the back of your neck, that underneath the rumble of sleepy desire, sounds suspiciously like your name. It sends your brain reeling, torn between shoving him awake and pulling him against you until there’s no space left between your body and his.

His arm tightens around your waist, his cock pressing insistently against you even in sleep. Something close to a whimper resonates in his throat, and the sound of it travels straight between your legs.

“Barnes,” you gasp, embarrassingly loud in the quiet of the room.

Suddenly, he stops moving, awareness seizing him. The two of you grow very still, the sound of breath the only thing breaking the silence. 

“Fuck. Sorry. I'm… I was dreaming.” His voice shakes a little, laden with guilt and shame. His arm retreats from its hold around you, his hand finding your waist, trying to ease himself away from you. “Christ, I’m sorry, I’ll—“

When you speak, it surprises even you.

“Don’t stop.”

You can almost picture the stunned look of surprise on Bucky's face as he freezes in place once again. “Wh-what?”

Well, you’ve already said it. There's no pretending that you didn’t. In for a penny, in for a pound.

“I said don’t stop,” you repeat emphatically, pressing your hips back against him for good measure.

Bucky hisses, his grip on your waist tightening, discouraging you from moving again, but also not pushing you away. “Fuck, don’t do that.”

“Why not?” you ask, breathless.

“I — it’s been a while, and I— jesus.” He groans like a man being tortured when you grind back against him again. “Don't tease me, doll.”

“Who says I'm teasing?” 

You cover your hand with his and drag it forward, upward, until it sneaks beneath the hem of your thermal shirt and rests against the warm skin of your upper abdomen. His fingers graze against the underside of your breast, and you arch back against him, seeking the feel of his cock between your layers of clothing. 

A soft, needy sound slips out of you, and in an instant, Bucky's composure unravels completely, like he’d been waiting for permission.

His arm flexes, pulling you tight against him, and he ruts desperately against you. “God, please.”

That ‘please’ absolutely ruins you. You can hear the anguish, the need laced through it. The super soldier, the assassin of legend, so starved for touch that he’s reduced to a begging, whimpering thing just from the feeling of your body against his. You press your thighs together uselessly, soaked at the thought.

“Please what?” you reply. Okay, now you might be teasing him. But it’s only because you want him to ask, so you can give it to him.

“I— I don't know. I need…” His thrusts against you increase in rhythm, and his hand closes the distance to palm at your breasts, almost mindless in his urgency. “Fuck, I’m sorry, I just need this,” he murmurs against your neck. “Need you.”

Your body hums with pleasure and possibility, and you grind back encouragingly when he rolls your nipple between his fingers. 

“Yeah? You wanna get off like this?” you ask as gently as you can manage under the circumstances. “Or do you want more?”

Bucky gasps sharply against your shoulder, like he hadn’t even considered that a possibility, still rutting restlessly against you. 

“More. Please.” His hand grasps your hip, gathering a fistful of the fabric of your tactical pants. A plea just as ardent as the one that he spoke aloud. 

Quick and decisive, you unbutton your pants, shoving them down your thighs along with your underwear, kicking them away. His large, rough hands knead the newly exposed flesh and he groans again, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

“Come on, baby,” you murmur, reaching back to weave your fingers into his hair. “Show me how bad you need it.”

Baby. That's new. Before you have time to parse your own words, Bucky frantically shoves his own clothes out of the way, freeing himself. You feel the warmth of his cock against your asscheek, the smear of his arousal against your skin. Lifting your leg and draping it over his thigh, you open yourself to him, your chest heaving with anticipation. He slides his cock through the wetness between your legs, barely choking back a moan.

You tug at his hair softly, a silent encouragement, and he sinks into you in one urgent thrust.

You inhale sharply at the stretch, at the sensation of being filled so completely. The instant Bucky is inside you, he’s completely gone — panting, gripping your hips like a lifeline, grinding against your cervix like he’s trying to crawl inside of you and live there.

“God, you feel… you feel so good,” he mutters helplessly.

Your hand finds his again, guiding it between your legs. “Touch me,” you whisper, a shuddering gasp leaving your lips when his fingers brush against your clit and circle there. “Yeah, like that, fuck.”

Bucky begins to thrust from behind you, and his fingers find the perfect pressure against the bundle of nerves. Your body responds by clenching around him, a breathy moan escaping you.

He whimpers again, his forehead pressing against your shoulder. “Sweetheart, if you do keep doing that, I'm not gonna last.”

“Then hurry up and make me come, Barnes," you reply, deliberately squeezing him again.

Something halfway between a chuckle and a moan pushes out of his lungs, and Bucky begins to move in earnest, thrusting deep and desperate into you.

You wish you could see his face, but you hear plenty, because Bucky Barnes is surprisingly vocal in bed. You would have thought him to be stoic and silent, but every thrust is accompanied by a grunt, a moan, a gasp, sometimes even a whine. It turns you on even more, to hear so clearly what you’re doing to him.

Another unfortunate consequence of being in this position is that you can’t kiss him. You surprise yourself by wanting to, wishing to feel those delicious moans buzzing against your lips, to hear what sound he might make when your tongue flicks into his mouth. 

Still, you can’t really complain in this position, not when the drag of his cock lights you up so deliciously, hitting your g-spot on every stroke. It doesn't take long for you to wind you up, not when he sounds like that, right in your ear.

“C-close,” he chokes out, his pace turning fevered and uncoordinated. 

“Me too,” you pant in reply. 

“Sweetheart, please,” he begs, his voice strained like it costs him to ask, “please, don’t make me stop. You feel so good, I wanna come inside you so bad—”

The request, and the desperation in it, pushes you over the edge. As your body seizes with pleasure, you thread your fingers into his hair again, tugging sharply.

“Yes, Bucky, yes.”

If your words weren’t enough permission, your cunt clamps tightly around him, and all the willpower in the world couldn’t make Bucky pull out now. He comes inside you with a strangled cry, his forehead pressed to your shoulder blade. He shudders and thrusts shallowly as your muscles draw every last spasm and twitch and drop of cum from his cock until it’s completely spent, until both of your cries of pleasure taper off to shallow breaths of recovery.

Once again, neither of you move for a good, long moment. Bucky is the first to shift, pulling out of you reluctantly with a labored sigh. 

“That was…” He trails off, because he doesn’t quite have the words yet.

You roll over in his arms, and the blissed out expression in his face says it all for him. “Yeah, you agree. “That was.”

He looks at you, utterly bewildered. An unexpected wave of something close to tenderness washes over you, and you find yourself pushing his sweaty hair out of his eyes. “You okay?”

Bucky looks just as surprised at the gesture as you feel to be doing it. “Yeah, I just… I thought you couldn’t stand me.”

You smile, in spite of yourself. “To be fair, that’s true. Some of the time,” you concede. “Other times, you’re not so bad.”

Bucky's eyes flicker down to your mouth, and he inches towards you until his nose nudges against yours. “And now?”

“Now…” you pry your arm out of the sleeping bag to check your watch. “We have two hours until extraction.”

Eager to get a taste of what you were missing when he was at your back, you brush your lips across his teasingly. “You wanna make ‘em count?”

He wastes no time, pulling you flush against him and slotting his mouth over yours. You moan appreciatively into the kiss, and you can already feel the first twitches of renewed interest from where his cock is pressed to your thigh.

His lips drag across your jaw, the column of your throat, and he growls, “We are definitely not telling anyone about this.”

“What, you don’t want me to tell the team about how you beg when I touch you?” you whisper in his ear, your hand sliding down to wrap around his now half-hard cock. 

“Fuck, you’re evil,” he whimpers, already wrecked again under your hand.

God bless super soldiers and their short refractory periods, you think to yourself.

“Say ‘please’ again,” you tell him, your teeth grazing the shell of his ear.

Bucky doesn’t hesitate for a second, complying immediately. “Please.”

It’s music to your ears.

You reward him with an agonizingly slow stroke along the length of him, and whisper experimentally, “Good boy.”

To your delight, he hardens completely at the sound of your praise, nearly choking on a groan as he presses his forehead to yours.

Your grin is absolutely wicked. “Oh, that is interesting.”

“Doll…” he protests, ears turning red, his expression so hopelessly turned on that it almost makes you laugh.

“Don’t worry, baby,” you murmur, lazily stroking him again. “I won’t tell anyone about that, either.”

He was supposed to tell them his wildest sex story with you? What was going on? Bucky’s mind was racing. “What’s your poison? You a voyeurism guy, maybe? Edging? Toys?” Walker asked.

Bucky stuttered, trying to get out just one coherent word— he was failing. “Awww you look so embarrassed. Are you just into vanilla? I wouldn’t have expected it with the metal arm and everything.” Ava said.

“I have to go.” Bucky grabbed his book and stormed off to your room.

You jumped in surprise as Bucky slammed your door open and came into your room. His face was bright red, and his hair looked disheveled like he’d been running his fingers through it.

“You alright, honey?” You asked, pausing the show you were watching.

He crawled in next to you in your bed, pulling you into his lap. “Do you think I act like a grandpa?” He asked you, softly.

You’d never seen Bucky look so defeated or insecure. “Only in the best way,” you said, trying to cheer him up. You peppered kisses across his face.

Normally, that was the easiest way to make Bucky smile— but it didn’t work.

“I don’t want you to leave me because you think I’m stuck in the past.” He admitted. His head hung low as he refused to look you in the eyes.

You brushed his hair out of his face. “You definitely have a unique life experience, but I love you for you. I don’t want you to pretend to be anything you’re not.” You told him, kissing his cheek.

He finally looked at you. Your words brought him peace— if only a little.

“Besides, if you start trying to act hip to get along with the kids, I will have no choice but to leave you.” You teased, finally earning a chuckle from Bucky.

He rested his face on your shoulder, letting you continue to caress his hair. “What are you feeling so anxious about?” You asked. He shifted under you.

He couldn’t shake that 1940s sense of shame. Why was he so embarrassed to talk about sex with you?

“Heard the others talking about sex stuff, and I just felt so old.” He mumbled against your skin.

You felt your heart melt at how genuine his concern was. “Was there something they mentioned that you wanted to try?” You asked, testing the waters.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw his cheeks flushed pink. “I wouldn’t even know where to start. I didn’t know half of what they were talking about.” He said, bashfully.

“What things did they mention?” You asked, curiously.

He hesitated— trying to find the best way to not sound like an awkward idiot.

“They talked about toys, but I know about that. And then, they talked about edging…which I think I know what that is.” He started to explain. He looked to you for reassurance and to stop him from rambling.

“Edging is when you get the point where you’re about to cum, and then you stop. And then, you get to that point again, and stop. And so on.” You explained.

He nodded along attentively. “What else?” You asked, knowing there was more just from the expression on his face.

He stalled— looking at the floor, his hands, anywhere but at you.

He scratched at the back of his neck. “They mentioned something called voyeurism.” He said, sheepishly.

You giggled at how red his face was. He felt like his skin was on fire and if he looked into your eyes, he’d combust into flames.

“Baby, voyeurism is when you like to watch somebody getting off.” You told him. He gulped nervously as your fingers trailed down his arm.

“You want to try?” You asked him, trying to judge his reaction.

“I…I wouldn’t know how.” He mumbled.

“How about I’m in charge this time? I’ll tell you what to do and you have to focus on feeling good?” You proposed. His eyes went wide— excited by the possibility. “That sounds nice.” He said.

“I have something I’ve wanted to try with you.” You said, walking over to your closet and grabbing something out of a drawer.

You returned to the bed with a black satin piece of fabric. “Take off all your clothes for me, honey.” You instructed him.

Bucky quickly obliged, tossing all his clothes on the floor. He laid on your bed, waiting for your next move. This was completely outside his comfort zone, but seeing you take charge made Bucky’s stomach do flips.

You straddled his hips, grabbing his wrists and then tying them both to your bedposts.

“Such a pretty boy, you gonna be a good boy for me?” You asked, brushing his hair out of his face.

He furiously nodded. “Whatever you want,” he responded.

You pressed a quick kiss against his lips— pulling away before he could kiss you back. “I bought something that I’ve been wanting to show you. Stay here, and I’ll be right back.” You said, going back into your closet and closing the door.

He groaned and moved restlessly on the bed. He needed you bad. The anticipation of waiting for your surprise was going to kill him.

He was already painfully hard— precum leaking out of his tip.

You emerged from the closet in a short black nightgown that had an intricate lace trim. “Woah,” Bucky mumbled, his eyes going wide as he stared at you.

“You like what you see?” You asked as you crawled onto the bed. He swore under his breath. He caught a glimpse between your legs and realized you weren’t wearing panties.

“You’re being such a patient boy. I think you deserve a little treat.” You said, your tone was slow and seductive.

“Yes, please,” Bucky begged for you.

You wrapped your hand around his cock, running your thumb over his tip. He squirmed against your hand— trying to get more contact as you teased him.

You slowly moved your hand up and down his length at an agonizing pace. Stuttered moans fell from his lips. “You look so pretty like this, you know that? My pretty little soldier being so good for me.” You praised him.

This time a higher pitched moan came out of him. You looked up at him, a smirk growing on your face. “You like that? My pretty little soldier loves to be told he’s doing a good job?” You repeated, knowing the nickname would turn him on.

His cock was throbbing in your hand, but you refused to speed up your pace. His head hung back against the headboard, grunts falling from his lips.

It was too much. Your hand on him. The way your nipples were poking through your nightgown. The soft praises that you gave him.

“I’m think I’m close…” Bucky mumbled, his eyes fluttering shut.

You quickly removed your hand from him. He whined, thrusting up against the empty air.

“C’mon, baby. Remember our little vocab lesson. What does edging mean?” You asked him, running your fingers down his chest.

“It means…uhhh…gotta wait to cum.” He answered, finding it hard to remember or focus on anything other than the need deep in his belly.

“Yes, good job. That’s my good little soldier.” You said, kissing his shoulder. He took deep breaths, trying to recover. All he could think about was feeling your hand on him again.

“Thank you for being so patient. Just remember what your prize is, if you keep following my directions, sweet boy.” You said, lifting your nightgown up and exposing the wetness between your thighs.

He nodded his head, biting down on his bottom lip. He wanted to behave so bad, but all his body wanted was to cum.

“Time for another little treat?” You asked him, batting your eyelashes.

He tried to steady his breath as you placed yourself between his legs. Keeping your eyes glued on his, you slowly sunk down until your lips were millimeters from his cock.

You placed soft kisses up and down his shaft. Each time you did, Bucky let out a small groan. You ran your tongue along the bottom of his cock. He called out your name, tugging his wrists against the restraints.

“Such a well-behaved boy,” you praised, wrapping your lips around his tip. Your name fell from his lips— repeating it like a prayer. You slowly and teasingly licked around his cock. He bucked his hips up into your mouth.

“I can’t…can’t take anymore. I’m gonna—” he moaned. He felt all his muscles contradict as he tried to hold off his orgasm.

You pulled away, sitting up in front of him. He clenched his eyes shut. “What’s wrong, baby?” You asked, resting your hand on his thigh.

“Can’t even look at you in that dress. I’ll cum just from lookin’ at ya.” He said, keeping his eyes shut as tightly as he could.

You ran your fingers up his thigh, teasing him as his body tensed. “I think you can be a brave little soldier for me. Be strong, baby.” You encouraged him.

He slowly opened his eyes to find you slipping your hand in between your thighs. The hem of your dress kept your cunt hidden from Bucky’s gaze. But, he could hear how wet you were as your fingers pushed in and out of you.

“Can’t see, wanna watch,” he begged. His hair was clinging to his sweaty forehead. You could see his desperation in his eyes.

You sat down on the bed, spreading your legs as wide as you could and bending your knees. Bucky couldn’t help the shudder that rolled through him as he saw your arousal dripping out of your folds.

You resumed your previous movements, plunging your two fingers deep into your cunt and curling them inside you. He bucked his hips up desperately against nothing.

Your mouth hung open, softly whining as you started grinding your hips against your hand. You let your thumb find your clit, drawing circles.

Bucky whined, calling your name over and over. “Please, honey,” he begged, he was desperate. More desperate than you’d ever seen him.

“Shhh, my pretty little soldier. Wait your turn. Be a good boy.” You teased.

You noticed how quickly his chest was rising and falling. “Fuck, please, honey. I’m gonna cum. Can’t hold it any longer,” Bucky swore.

You both were close to the edge. There wasn’t much holding Bucky back from falling over that edge.

Before he could say anything else, you straddled his hips. You quickly sunk down onto his cock.

He moaned at the contact, sinking his nails into the palms of his hands. His hips jutted up against yours and his seed came shooting out inside of you. That was enough to push you over the edge.

“Oh, fuck, such a good job, my sweet boy. Filling me up so well,” you praised, sealing Bucky’s lips in a kiss. He hungrily kissed you back as you slowly rolled your hips against his, coaxing you both down from your highs.

You carefully untied Bucky’s wrists, and he wrapped his arms around you and buried his face in your chest. “Did you like that?” You asked, scratching your fingers through his hair.

He nodded, still breathless. “I love you.” He mumbled, kissing you again.

“Next time you want to learn something new, all you have to do is ask.” You said, kissing him back.

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She laughed under her breath; Bucky flipped him off without looking.

The briefcase was waiting by the couch, matte black, secure enough to survive a plane crash. Bucky kicked it closer with the toe of his boot.

"You know," Sam said, hefting it. "This wouldn’t even be necessary if a certain someone didn’t hulk out on Redwing."

Bucky shrugged, deadpan. "It was an accident."

"Bullshit," Sam barked, half-laughing. "You aimed at him!"

"He was in the way."

"He was flying surveillance, you jackass!"

Bucky shrugged again, more theatrical this time, and a sly twist tugging at his mouth. "Collateral damage."

Sam muttered something vile, but the edge was missing, worn down by exhaustion and familiarity. They circled each other like two old dogs too stubborn to admit they were friends.

"You owe me," Sam called over his shoulder, stepping through the door.

Bucky didn’t answer, just kicked the door shut behind him with a solid, decisive slam.

Three long strides, and he was in her space. He bent his head, digging his forehead into the curve where her neck met her shoulder, banding his arms around her like he could fold himself into her skin if he just held tight enough.

He shuddered once -just once- and then he went still, breathing her in like she was air after drowning.

Already feeling the shift in his mind -the slow melt of tension into something heavier, darker- she cupped the back of his head and murmured, "What's wrong, Jamie?"

His voice was a rasp against her throat. "Don't wanna talk about it, Mommy."

There it was. The tremor under the words. The old damage rising from the depths, thick as smoke, inescapable.

It was going to be one of those weeks.

Bucky was gone. Not dead, not disappeared. Just… buried.

His mind, fractured and fragile, bore scars deeper than any bullet wound. Years of physical torture, mind control, chemical sedation, and that damned chair had left behind something that could never be stitched whole again, only nurtured, only loved in all its brokenness.

"Alright," she whispered, smoothing her palm along the nape of his neck, tangling her fingers lightly in his hair. "You don't have to, sweetie."

Bucky clung harder and shifted his weight, nudging her backwards, steering her without words. The backs of her knees bumped the armrest of the couch, catching her off guard- and then he was pressing, urging, laying her down like something loved but urgent, needing her pliant and beneath him.

She let herself fall back, and her body sank into the cushions.

Bucky climbed after her, sprawling his massive frame above her, caging her in, shuddering like the weight of the world was slipping down his spine.

He buried his face against her chest, moving his mouth blindly, mouthing her through the thin cotton of her pajama top. Desperate, clumsy, a low whine slipping from his throat when the fabric denied him skin.

Frustrated, he nosed under the hem, catching it with his teeth, tugging upward -an animal trying to shed the barrier himself- and she lifted her arms in silent permission, helping him strip the top away.

"There you go, baby," she cooed, cradling the back of his head, guiding him.

Bucky latched greedily onto her breast the second he could. His tongue flicked rough and desperate, the suction was almost bruising, pulling at her with the kind of force that spoke of starvation, not hunger.

She cradled him close, slightly rocking them as soft, wet sounds filled the quiet room. The metal plates of his hand pressed cold against her waist as he shifted his hold, needing the contact. He suckled hard -harder than he usually allowed himself- losing himself in the mindless rhythm of the process, soothed only by her scent, her heartbeat, the feel of her skin in his mouth.

She only held him tighter, whispering into the crown of his head, "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

But it wasn't enough. She felt it, the restless grind of his hips against her leg, the low, helpless groan deep in his chest.

The tremors in his body grew worse. He needed more. More skin, more warmth, more of her wrapped around every broken part of him he didn’t know how to fix.

He whimpered around her nipple, the sound was pitiful, hungry, broken. His hips jerked forward in clumsy, desperate thrusts, rubbing his heavy cock against her leg, the friction too little, too clothed, too maddening.

One of his hands fumbled down between them, pawing clumsily at her waistband, frustrated when the fabric of her pajama shorts didn’t yield. She lifted her hips, helping, soothing, letting him peel the barrier away.

The second her shorts were gone, he was there, grinding harder, the rough denim of his fatigues rasping against the tender, slick heat between her legs. His mouth never stopped, suckling greedily and wet at her breast, the noises were animalistic, wet, and obscene. Her thighs fell open to give him more, to give him everything he was silently begging for.

"That's it, baby," she murmured against his temple, her voice thick with love and aching need. "Take it, Jamie. Take what you need."

He shuddered at her words, and with a low growl, he fumbled at his belt, nearly tearing it open in his frantic need. The sound of the zipper rasped loud in the thick, humid air between them, and then he was pushing his pants and boxers just far enough down to free himself, his cock flushed dark and leaking, throbbing with every erratic beat of his heart.

He didn't even line himself up properly at first, just thrusting blindly, rutting against her belly, her hip, lost in pure instinct. She reached down, gentle but firm, guiding him lower, dragging the head of his cock through her slick folds, and he gasped, a desperate, wounded noise, like she'd just torn open his chest and touched his heart.

He pushed forward in a single, shaking thrust, sinking inside her inch by inch, whimpering her name, clinging to her body.

"Mommy... Mommy, please..." he sobbed into her skin, fucking desperately into her, like he couldn't get deep enough, close enough, like he needed to crawl inside her and never come out.

She wrapped her arms and legs around him, holding him tighter, whispering praises and love into his hair, rocking her hips up to meet each frantic thrust, giving him everything, everything he needed.

Bucky's rhythm faltered almost immediately, embarrassingly fast, his whole body went rigid, and a broken cry tore from his throat as he came hard, pulsing deep and warm inside her.

Her fingers never stopped stroking his scalp, the curve of his neck, the tense line of his back where sweat glued his shirt to his skin. He whimpered low in his chest, a sound that made her thighs clench around his waist instinctively, holding him there, inside her, where he belonged.

"You did so good for me." she murmured again, threading the words right into his marrow, "filled me up so good, sweetheart."

His hips gave a weak jerk, as if his body was trying to answer even while spent. He nosed deeper into the crook of her neck, and his hands roamed frantically on her hips like he didn’t know whether to stay still or start again. A needy little whimper bled out of him, wet and desperate.

"Shh, you're perfect," she soothed, rocking her hips just the slightest bit, enough to make him groan, low and wrecked.

But Bucky needed more. Shame and hunger twisted together in his mind, his need to please her, to earn the sweetness of her praise. His hand scrabbled down her body, pushing his shaking fingers between them, seeking out where they were still joined, sticky and wet.

"I can-" he mumbled into her neck, his voice hoarse and cracked, "I can make you come, Mommy... lemme... please, lemme-"

She caught his wrist, soft but firm, guiding him, showing him without words. Her own fingers slipped down, spreading herself open for him, letting him feel the slick heat, her throbbing clit, how ready she was, how close she'd been even from his desperate rutting.

"Alright," she breathed, her voice breaking into a moan when his thumb brushed clumsily over her clit. "Let Mommy remember you how."

He chased every stuttered gasp, every little roll of her hips, with awkward but hungry movements, so eager to please that he trembled. He kissed her neck, her collarbone, and nuzzled helplessly against her, feeding off every moan, "Tell me, Mommy... wanna make you feel good... please..."

"You're doing so good, baby," she cooed, rolling her hips into the clumsy circles he traced against her swollen clit, feeling sparks skittering up her spine. "My big strong boy... that's it, sweetie, just like that."

His breath hitched sharply. She felt him throb inside her, half-hard but growing, so easily aroused by her praise.

"M- more," she whispered into his hair, guiding his hand with gentle, insistent pressure. "Mommy needs more, Jamie... you can give it to me, can't you, baby?"

A shattered little sound broke out of his throat. He latched onto her neck, sucking greedily, slipping his fingers faster, finding the rhythm she loved without even realizing it, simply because she wanted it, because she told him he could.

"Yes... yes, I can-" he gasped, nearly crying it, driving his hand harder against her, frantic, devoted.

She moaned shamelessly, grinding softly against his hand, feeling the wet slide of his cock thickening again between her slick folds. She angled her hips to grind against him, smearing herself all over him, and he nearly sobbed.

"Such a good boy," she panted, dragging her fingers across his scalp, tugging his hair just enough to make him moan. "Making me feel so good... my perfect boy..."

Bucky's whole body shuddered. He humped against her without rhythm, desperate, straining toward the heaven of her approval.

She was so close, the pleasure was burning tight and high, and when he whined brokenly, "Need you to cum Mommy, need it so bad," she ground against him harder, her and breath hitched. The tension snapped through her body as she came around his already hard cock, writhing, crying his name, clamping her thighs tightly around his waist.

His hips moved before thought could catch them, pure instinct, pure need. She gasped sharply, her body so sensitive, still riding her orgasm, and he let out a strangled moan, pressing his forehead hard against hers, as his arms shook where they caged her in.

"Jamie," she whimpered, reflexively wrapping her legs tighter around him, holding him there, where he belonged.

He groaned, trying to last, trying to hold back -but the heat of her body and the clutch of her inner muscles around him milked another low, broken cry from his throat.

"Can't-" he choked out, as his hips twitched. "Mommy, I- fuck-, I can't-"

"You don't have to, baby," she whispered against his lips, "Just let go."

The second the words left her mouth, Bucky shattered. His rhythm was frantic and short-lived, sloppy little thrusts, his whole body spasming, jerking helplessly. His face twisted into a tortured, beautiful grimace, mouth open in a silent cry as he came again, flooding her, so raw, so painfully intense it stripped the breath from his lungs.

She held him through it, both hands threaded in his hair, pulling his weight down onto her so he could sob against her throat, every breath a broken thing.

"Good boy," she murmured, cradling him, rocking him gently even as he trembled and gasped, as if the orgasm had unraveled something too dark inside him.

"My sweet, perfect Jamie..."

He clung to her, gasping, as the aftershocks racked his body. His cock throbbed weakly inside her, spent but refusing to soften, desperate to stay part of her, to never be alone again.

"Love you," he rasped, barely louder than a breath. "I love you so much..."

She kissed his temple, his wet lashes, the corner of his mouth. "I love you too, sweetheart."

He whimpered again, softer this time, more at peace, and his breathing began to slow down as she stroked his spine. It was a mindless comfort, just the warmth of her body, her scent, the surety of being wanted exactly as he was, no masks, no shame.

She felt him trembling against her, as small broken hitches of breath ghosted hot over her collarbone, and she knew he wasn’t done needing her yet. Gently, she threaded her fingers through his hair again, scratching lightly at his scalp until he made a soft, choked sound, half-whine, half-moan.

"Jamie, baby," she whispered, kissing his ear, feeling the damp strands of hair clinging to his temple. "I need you to sit up for me, alright? Just for a minute. Let Mommy take care of you."

He whined again, burrowing his face harder against her skin, refusing. His cock twitched uselessly inside her, spent but stubborn, like his body was terrified of losing contact.

She cupped his jaw, brushing her thumb along the sharp plane of his cheekbone. "Sweetheart, please. Just a little shift, then you can cuddle all you want. Promise."

That promise cracked through the fog in his mind. Bucky lifted his head, blinking slowly and heavy with glazed blue eyes, and his lip caught in his teeth in a desperate little bite. Wordless, he obeyed, pushing himself up on shaking arms and pulling out of her with a reluctant, shuddering moan.

She winced a little at the loss but sat up quickly, nudging his hips to guide him back onto the couch cushions. His tactical pants were still around his thighs, boots still muddy and scuffed from the mission, whole body a mess of tension and need.

She kissed his knee through the fabric, soothing him. "Good boy. Stay still for me, alright?"

He nodded, but his hands twitched like he didn’t know what to grab onto, finally fisting the fabric of her discarded pajama top like a lifeline.

With quick hands, she unlaced and yanked off his boots, tossing them without care. His socks followed, peeled off with a little tug. Then she shimmied the ruined pants down his thighs, down past his knees, ankles, freeing him completely.

Bucky whined low in his throat, and his thighs trembed where they spread for her, his cock flushed dark, twitching weakly against his belly, glistening with the mess of what they’ve made.

"There we go, baby," she murmured, stroking his trembling thighs, letting him feel her loving hands on him. "I got you."

He looked like he wanted to fold in on himself, humiliated and desperate, as his chest heaved.

She pressed a soft kiss to his navel, another just above his hipbone. "You did so well for me, Jamie. Gave Mommy everything she needed.”

He tensed beneath her mouth, breath hitching like he wanted to protest. “That’s not true, I couldn’t-”

She kissed the top of his thigh, firmer this time. “Shhh. No, baby. No more of that.” Her hand smoothed over his stomach. “You did. You gave me what you could. That’s everything.”

Her kiss, her words, seemed to reach him. She felt the tension in his grip easing, not gone, but yielding enough for her to slip from his hold.

“I’ll be right back, baby,” she murmured, brushing one last kiss to his thigh before pulling away slowly.

He gave a faint whimper but let her go, slumping back into the couch, with his legs still spread, and arms loose and heavy at his sides. Vulnerable. Waiting.

She moved quickly, finding a clean cloth and dampening it with warm water, squeezing it out until it streamed between her fingers. When she returned, he hadn’t moved, and his eyes were glassy, staring somewhere past the ceiling, lost somewhere she couldn’t follow, breathing slowly but not relaxed.

She knelt between his thighs and began wiping him with slow, tender strokes, the warm cloth gliding over his softening cock and the skin of his inner thighs. He let her do, as always.

Then, in a voice so quiet it was almost a breath, he said, "There was a chair."

Her hands froze for just a second before she moved again, softer now, like she was tending a wound she couldn’t see. He didn’t have to explain. That phrase -the chair- floated between them, thick and poisonous.

She kissed tenderly the inside of his knee and crawled up to straddle his lap without hesitation, wrapping him up in her arms. His flesh hand immediately latched onto her waist, the metal one curling over her back like he could mold her into himself.

"It was supposed to be another kind of mission," she said tentatively.

"The growing organization... Sam said... they were forming from scraps. Vestiges. Hydra info." His breathing hitched. "We thought... we thought there would be intel to scrap. Maybe... maybe a serum, old samples. Destroy it before it can spread. But they had it. They had the chair."

He choked the last word out like it tasted like blood.

She cradled his face between her hands. “They can’t hurt you anymore, sweetie. You’re free, remember? Remember how they made it all better in Wakanda?” he only nodded, hiding his face on one of her palms.

She threaded her fingers slowly through his hair, feeling the tension beneath his scalp like a live wire still sparking. “Are you hungry, Jamie?” she whispered against the shell of his ear.

There was a small, reluctant pause before he nodded against her chest. "Yeah. But... I can't-" he clutched her tighter, as if her body might dissolve if he let go.

"I know," she soothed. "Come with me, then. We'll stick together."

She coaxed him to stand, his heavy steps were sluggish, clumsy, almost childlike in his exhaustion. He shadowed her across the room, never more than an inch away, his hand curled tight at her waist. While she pulled things from the fridge and stacked a couple of fast sandwiches, Bucky wrapped around her from behind, big and unyielding, pinning her gently against the counter with his weight.

He buried his face in her neck, breathing her scent.

"I'm sorry I'm like this," he mumbled, with a raw, scratchy voice against her skin. "I’m sorry my head's so messed up."

She stilled her hands, the sandwich forgotten half-built, and cupped his forearm where it pressed across her middle, squeezing him hard.

"No," she said firmly, tipping her head back against his shoulder to make sure he heard every word. "You survived what would have killed anybody else. You’re not messed up. You're my Jamie. That's all that matters."

Bucky let out a low, broken sound, something between a sob and a sigh, and hug her tighter like he might fuse himself into her bones if he could.

"Now eat a little, sweetheart," she whispered. "Then I'll tuck you into bed, yeah?"

He nodded mutely against her neck, still clinging, letting her finish fixing the sandwiches one-handed while he melted against her.

"Need me to cut them small for you, or are you good to grab the knife?" she asked gently, tilting her head to catch his expression.

Bucky hesitated, and his eyes flickered uncertainly to the counter, then back to her. "I'll eat them whole," he said finally. "With my hands."

"That's so good, baby," she praised, brushing her fingers over his knuckles. "Wanna eat them on the bed?"

He only nodded, letting her gather the plate and then reach for his hand, guiding him through the hallway like leading a wounded animal.

"Alright. Shirt off, sweetheart," she murmured when they reached the bedroom, giving a little tug at the hem of his tactical top. "Don’t want that messy thing on the sheets."

"Sorry," he mumbled, brow crumpling. His fingers fumbled at the fabric, uncertain. "Should I shower too?"

"Do you want to?" she asked.

"The sheets-"

"Bucky," she cut him off. Not Jamie this time, but Bucky, to wise him up. His breath caught in his chest.

"Do you want to?" she repeated, slower, softer.

"...not right now," he confessed.

"Then get in the bed and eat the sandwiches," she ordered gently, brushing her palm over his stomach in passing.

He obeyed without argument, pulling the shirt clumsily over his head and leaving it crumpled on the floor. His body was flushed and tight with leftover adrenaline, his scars standing out against his skin. He climbed onto the bed, sitting cross-legged like a great, awkward boy, with the plate balanced in his lap.

She settled beside him, smoothing her hand up and down his back in slow, rhythmic strokes as he tore into the first sandwich with trembling fingers, chewing dutifully.

Every time he took a bite, she murmured something soft near his ear: "That's it, baby." "You're doing so good." "My sweet boy."

Bucky shivered every time, eating faster, desperate for her approval, for the tone of her voice wrapped around him.

When he finished, he wiped his hands clumsily on the sheet. She would’ve scolded him, but when he turned toward her, his eyes were huge and glassy, and desperate, his mouth trembling like he might cry if she said even one word wrong, she couldn’t.

Instead, she only smiled, lifting the plate from his lap and setting it aside.

"C'mere," she whispered, opening her arms.

She eased them down into the mattress, coaxing him to lie with his head against her chest. His hair -brushing past his jawline in dark, tangled waves- spilled over her skin. She threaded her fingers through it without urgency, combing gently through the snarls, almost worshipfully.

Bucky let out a low, shaky exhale against her skin, the sound was so raw it made her chest ache. Each slow stroke of her fingers through his hair unspooled knots buried far deeper than the ones at his scalp, memories of fists twisting in his hair to punish, to control, to bend him to grotesque, degenerate wills. Those hands had ripped at him like he was a mindless beast, but hers... hers just held, adored, cherished.

She waited, giving him time to soften under her touch, before she murmured, her voice barely a ghost against the crown of his head.

"Do you have to go tomorrow?" Her fingers combed slowly, untangling another small knot. "You just got here. Can't Clint count on someone else?"

He shook his head against her chest, dragging his hair across her skin in a silky brush. "They need me," he rasped, his voice hollowed out by guilt. "My strength. My hands. Can't just leave 'em hanging."

She kissed the top of his head, brushing her lips in the softest spot where his hair parted. "Rest then, handsome," she breathed into him. "I'll guard your sleep."

----

She woke slowly, feeling him before she even turned her head down. Bucky was draped half over her, his chest pressed to her side, with one heavy arm hooked around her waist. His face was nuzzled into her breast, his wet, warm mouth suckling in soft, absent pulses around her nipple. Not truly awake. Not truly dreaming. Just clinging. Needing.

Nuzzled in like a child too big to be held, too broken not to need it anyway.

She said nothing. Would never say anything. Just slid her hand through his long hair, slow and tenderly, letting him have whatever peace he could steal from her body.

Later, after he finally stirred with a grumble and a heavy, embarrassed sigh, she helped him to the bathroom, guiding him under the shower. She washed his hair carefully, then his body. Dressed him piece by piece in a fresh set of tactical clothing with a lover’s hands.

They sat side by side at the kitchen table, with their knees bumping occasionally, plates between them. Bucky picked at his toast, sluggish but obedient, while she fussed with a napkin, sweeping a streak of jam from the stubble along his jaw. He tilted his head toward her touch like a sleepy cat, eyes half-lidded, savoring every second. Then-

The doorbell rang, sharp and sudden.

Bucky stiffened immediately. His fork clattered onto the plate as he straightened, with a frown etching deep between his brows.

"Early," he muttered. "Wasn’t supposed to be here 'til later."

"I’ll get the door. Finish your breakfast," she said, squeezing his hand before rising.

As she crossed the living room, she could already hear Clint's muffled voice behind the door, some cheery nonsense about coffee and ‘no rest for the wicked.’ She shook her head fondly and reached for the handle, casting one last glance back at Bucky, still sitting hunched at the table, tense, his eyes dark with the weight of parting.

Clint stepped inside with a gust of morning air, scrubbing a hand through his messy hair. He sniffed exaggeratedly, with a wide grin breaking over his face.

"Smells delicious in here. You mind if I munch on something? Didn’t have time at home, kids were playing tug-of-war with my socks."

Bucky froze for a breath mid-bite. Then, without missing another beat, the switch flipped, and he slipped the mask into place. His scowl was automatic, familiar, almost rehearsed.

"Comin’ early and stealing my food," he muttered, jerking his chin toward the table in a rough invitation.

Clint chuckled, taking it for what it was and flopping into the nearest chair.

She hid her little sigh behind a smile, moving to pour Clint some coffee and pulling extra toast and eggs from the warming plate on the stove. As she set them down in front of him, she cast a glance at Bucky.

The mask wasn’t how he lived day to day. Most of the time, he was a functional, competent, and reliable partner. Not the trembling boy who'd wept against her chest, mourning a harsh treatment he hadn’t had in years but still felt in his bones.

When something triggered the trauma, he regressed for days. And those days were… well, manageable inside the house. But when the outside world needed something of him, when he couldn’t just pass those days at peace, the mask appeared. He wore it every time he left home. To go on missions, to stand across from bureaucrats and therapists, to smile awkwardly when a stranger said "thank you for your service," but looking at him like he was a monster.

Now he lounged in his seat, with an elbow propped on the table, coffee in hand, boots crossed at the ankles, looking confident.

Clint wolfed down half a piece of toast, talking around it. "So, mission details got updated late last night," he said, crumbs flying. "Turns out the warehouse’s not just full of spare parts and wannabe Zemo cosplay rejects. They’ve got a shipment of experimental tech stashed in a sublevel. Pressure sensors on every door, that kind of shit. Trip one, and the whole place locks down."

Bucky barely lifted his brows. Sipped his coffee like Clint was telling him the damn weather. "I'll handle that alone," he said flatly. "You just focus on fucking up their electric system."

Clint grinned around his coffee mug. "Pfft. It's like you don’t even need me there."

Bucky gave him a slow, unimpressed look that said exactly that.

Clint clutched his chest theatrically. "Rude."

They bickered, sharp-edged and kind of amicably, but beneath the noise, Bucky’s left hand slid across the seat instinctively until his fingers found hers under the table.

He squeezed her, firm and self-soothingly. She squeezed back, not even glancing down, not making a big thing of it.

----

By the time Clint was asking for seconds, Bucky had drunk all his coffee and finished wiping his plate clean with a torn piece of toast.

"You should see what Lila pulled on Laura last week," Clint said between mouthfuls. "Whole laundry room filled with packing peanuts. Packing peanuts. I swear, that kid’s got a future in psychological warfare."

Bucky huffed -the closest thing he gave to a laugh most days- and leaned back in his chair.  His hand didn’t leave hers under the table. Not once.  When he stood, he tugged gently, silently asking her to follow.

"Be right back," she said casually to Clint, who just waved her off, too busy scraping jam onto another slice of toast.

In the hallway, Bucky didn’t speak. He just brushed his arm against hers, subtly, before nudging open the door to the gear room.

Everything was already half-packed, and she moved to help without him asking. Slid ammo clips into pouches, folded the spare jacket, and zipped compartments closed. Behind her, Bucky stripped off the sweatshirt he'd thrown on for breakfast, revealing the tight black compression shirt beneath it.

"Are you good on suppressors?" she asked, checking the side pouches.

"Yeah." His voice was rough, but controlled. "Packed two."

She smoothed her hand over the thick strap of his tac belt as she adjusted it on the table, brushing her thumb over a scuff mark near the buckle.

His body brushed hers again, slow and heavy, with a silent gratitude he never put into words.

From down the hallway, Clint's voice floated: "-and then she glued all my arrows together. Like some evil arts and crafts project-"

Bucky huffed another low sound, a little closer to amusement this time.

His arm bumped hers again.

He just kept finding ways to stay in her space, pressing close like something small burrowing under a blanket, chasing the comfort only she could give him.

She worked around him like a second skin, slipping the knives into their sheaths behind his waist, across his thighs, securing the flashbangs to the front clips.

He stood still for her, obedient, letting her dress him for war, like he couldn't do it himself.

Not today.

His hands twitched at his sides when she brushed too close to his belt, reaching for the magazine pouches. When she fastened the vest across his chest, his fingers tangled briefly in the hem of her shirt, clutching, small, desperate. She pressed a kiss just below his collarbone in answer, right over the faint scar where a bullet had once shattered bone. He exhaled roughly. Still trembling. Still pretending otherwise, because Clint was just down the hallway.

She buckled the side straps and slotted the heavier grenades at his hip. Checked the sidearm holsters, one after the other. He didn't even try anymore, just let her do it. Let her carry the ritual when he couldn't. It broke her heart every time, how he still wanted to be the strong asset everyone expected him to be, even when the man inside it had been splintered into pieces.

She knelt to strap his boots tighter, double-knotting the laces with a tug. When she stood up, Bucky was already sinking to his knees in front of her. He pressed his face against her belly, wrapping his arms around her waist in a crushing grip.

She just threaded her fingers through his hair, those longer, wild locks he never let the stylists touch, combing slow, soothing strokes from root to tip.

He breathed against her. Ragged. Needy.

A few years ago, when she'd found him curled in a corner after a nightmare so bad he couldn't even speak, she'd dared to ask him, "How did you deal with it… before?"

It had taken him three tries to answer. Finally, he'd muttered: "I... hurt myself. Until I could function again." Like it was normal. Like it was the best strategy. Damage the body to break the mind out of a loop.

Pain instead of panic.

She cradled him closer, stroking the nape of his neck with her thumb.

Never again. Not under her watch.

She motioned for him to stand up. "You’re geared up, Jamie," she murmured against his temple when he pressed his body against her again. He nodded but didn't move. Just hold her closer, breathing the scent of her skin, sensing the fabric of her shirt, the pulse of life he always chased in her when the world tried to smother him.

Only when she whispered, "Come on, handsome. Let’s not keep Clint waiting," did he finally push himself up with a soft grunt, rubbing his face against her like he could take a piece of her with him.

He took a deep breath, still trembling faintly, but standing straighter now.

Still fractured, but held together by her hands, her patience, and her love.

And that was enough.

It was always enough.

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