luxeavenger
luxeavenger
I Remember All Of Them
Evie/Evelyn • She/Her • 43 • Writer • QueerFull time hoe for Bucky and SteveThis blog is 18+ ONLY • VERY NSFWMASTERLIST • Ao3Asks are always welcome <3
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luxeavenger · 31 minutes ago
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Bucky Barnes in The Falcon and The Winter Solider ep. 2 The Star Spangled Man : a summary
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luxeavenger · an hour ago
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bucky barnes in “what if…?”
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luxeavenger · an hour ago
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Random Sebastian Stan Edits (x)
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luxeavenger · 2 hours ago
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luxeavenger · 3 hours ago
@wintersschildrenn fluff fluff fluff ☁️
it’s been raining loads in England and I can’t help but keep thinking about cuddling up to beefy!Bucky on rainy days 😭
its about to storm really badly here too, so this is a perfect time to write this little headcanon because same, i think about it all the time. also anytime i think of beefy bucky, its usually with his long hair like in the gif, or what he looked like in destroyer, short hair and a full beard
if you want to be added to my taglist, fill this out!
warnings: none! just super fluffy
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Bucky knew that you hated when it stormed outside, the thunder that clapped outside above you and he always cracked a joke that it was thor who was mad at loki once again for his antics
while it made you laugh, you still cuddled with the blanket he would wrap around your shoulders, youre nerves calming as he rubbed his hand on your leg and watched you as you trained your eyes on the tv
"do you want to play a board game?" he asked, looking over the shelf that held the board games you two have collected over the years. you shook your head, crawling into his lap, his arms wrapping themselves under your blanket and under your shirt, touching your skin
you shuddered at the touch, leaning your head against his shoulder as he peppered kisses against your clothed collarbone
“my baby just wants to cuddle?” you nodded your head, as he leaned the two of you over so you were laying on the couch, legs in between his, his vibranium arm under your neck since it wouldn’t lose feeling
he pressed kisses over your forehead and brought the blanket around the two of you, his other hand reaching up to caress your cheek, admiring you as you had your eyes closed
“did you know, that you are the most stunning person i have ever laid eyes on?” you looked up at him, a soft smile brushing your lips. thunder clapped outside making you jump, but you weren’t as scared as you thought when your eyes were trained on his
“no way” he scoffed, nodding his head, brushing a piece of hair behind your ear
“yes way. i look at you, and i think damn, i’ve never been more lucky” you blush, pressing your forehead into his chest as he wraps his arm around your waist and pulls you closer to him, the space between the two of you closing where you were just touching each other
he gave you a sense of warmth, safety, something you hadn’t felt for a long long time
you knew he only wanted to protect you, and if he could he would tell loki to stop being such a dick to thor because he’s scaring his girl
you always tried to thank him for everything he did for you, wanting to make sure you showed your appreciation in anyway you could
and while he usually declined all the expensive gifts you got him, he would still accept them because he never had the heart to make you sad
he wouldn’t ever want his girl sad
the two of you laid in silence as you listened to the rain, his arms wrapped tightly around you, listening to the heartbeat behind his rib cage and the slow rise and fall of his chest
occasionally he would press kisses against the top of your head, nudging his nose on your forehead as he did so
“fo r a big beefy guy like you buck, i would’ve never pegged you for a snuggler” he chuckled, and got you would do anything to listen to him laugh
“don’t tell sam, sweetheart. he wouldn’t stop making fun of me if he knew”
taglist: @scorpioaes | @comfortbucky | @buckys-short-idiot | @ratedrkohardychick91 | @stark107 | @spideybb
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luxeavenger · 3 hours ago
@wintersschildrenn fluffffff jaimee. the flufffff
Hi my lovely friend! I have another request if that’s ok, please and thank you❤️❤️How about from teaching ideas- “How do you spell it?” With either Bucky and reader or even Bucky and Steve (either is totally fine) and you can add an AU if you like! Could be like college AU or something or regular! Yay! Thank you! Hugs and love❤️
Can’t Take My Eyes off of You
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Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader (College AU!)
Summary: You’ve been infatuated with a boy in your class for quite some time. This time all the seats are taken and he’s sitting next to you, making it harder for you to concentrate on the lesson. Bucky asks for help with spelling, not that he really needs it but it’s an excuse to hear your voice.
Word count: 1,625
Author’s Notes: My sweetie pie @jobean12-blog ❤️ I can’t thank you enough for being so incredibly kind and sending me requests 🥺 they make me truly so happy and I’m so honoured to write something for you! Hugs to you my beautiful friend ❤️❤️❤️
Warnings: Fluff, crushes, Bucky is a little sassy towards the Professor, Professor Wilson, mild language (one or two words of fuck), crushes to lovers implied.
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If it was under any other circumstances, you would be positive that it was the heatwave outside that caused you to sweat profusely and your clothes to stick to your skin. You would blame it on the sun that was far too hot combined with the speed walk you did across campus just so you wouldn’t miss your class. You would blame it on any other reason apart from the true reason as to why you were currently sitting in your seat with your heart pounding out of your chest, covered in sweat with your hands shaking and unable to grip your pen.
And the real reason wasn’t because of the summer heatwave, the sun or the unbearable and sticky humidity. Your current state is all because of one boy; A top A student in all of his classes, a boy who makes all the girls and even some of the boys swoon just because of his existence. A boy, who loves his leather jackets - even in the scorching heatwave - likes to keep his hair tied back into a bun or low ponytail. A boy who loves to wear his dark jeans and dogtags. An almost 19 year old boy named Bucky Barnes, who you also happen to have a very big crush on. The same boy who was currently sitting right next to you because he was late to class and all the other seats were taken.
This lesson wouldn’t be easy. You were just so infatuated by him. Everything Bucky did fascinated you and you often found yourself staring at him in a dreamlike state when the two of you had the same classes. Watching the way he would roll his toothpick between his teeth, the way he would hold his pen and letting the tip of it glide smoothly across the paper to write down notes. The way he would swing back dangerously in his chair only to be told off by Professor Wilson because, “boy, you could swing back so much your head would crack against my floor and I’m not cleaning it up. Sit properly!”
Bucky even smelled so good, like soo soo good. A sandalwood scent mixed with sweat and something else permeated the dusty air around you that tickled your nostrils that you were sure you would be smelling for days. Not that you would ever complain about that. Being this close to him was a once in a lifetime opportunity and you would make the most of it.
“Y/N?” His voice rang through your ears, snapping you out of your current thoughts. His voice was deep for a college boy, his blue eyes watching you carefully.
You cleared your throat and shifted awkwardly in your chair. Your damp clothes from the sweat squeaked against the hard plastic, causing your cheeks to heat up in embarrassment. If Bucky heard, he didn’t comment on it. That was the other thing you liked about him. Bucky was mostly polite, unless you crossed him, in which his ex-girlfriend caused a scene in the cafeteria one time and Bucky came prepared with his colourful language. They had been having problems for quite some time according to his other friend, Wanda who filled you in on all the gossip. “I- yes?” You stuttered, shaking your head as though it might just shake your nerves away.
“I said, can I borrow a pen? I gave mine to Steve who is currently holding it hostage…” he chuckled nervously, scratching the back of his neck. Wait, why was he nervous?
You nodded and pulled a spare black pen from your pencil case. From your observations, you learned he loved to write in black ink only and that’s what you gave him with shaky hands, you pushed it towards him and smiled.
“Thanks, doll! I owe you one!” He smirked, plucking the toothpick from his mouth and licking his plump pink lips.
Oh Jesus Christ.
You knew this would be impossible. Everything Professor Wilson was teaching right now went right over your head. You just knew it was something something about dinosaurs. No information was registering and trying to concentrate just wasn’t going to happen. Not when your crush was right next to you, anyway. The veins in his hands were prominent and the temptation was strong to run your fingertips over the lines. His other hand was moving quickly as he jotted down notes, already halfway down the page. You blinked and stared down at your blank page. Your mind refusing to soak in what’s being taught and your hand refusing to lift your pen and write. Something would be better than nothing, you tell yourself but you’re nervous. Bucky is more interesting than the lesson.
Bucky stops writing for a few seconds to look at you. He frowns, curious if something is going on because from his own observations he knows this is one of your favourite lessons and you’re always keeping up.
Bucky leans in, his breath fanning against the shell of your ear sends a shiver down your spine. “Are you okay?” He smiles, his shirt too tight for his body, you notice.
You nod and smile awkwardly. “Yeah, I’m fine, just finding it difficult to catch up this time.” You sigh, your racing heart still pounding in your chest. The room feels much hotter than it was when you first arrived, even with the air conditioning cranked up.
“Okay, doll. Just checking.” He smirked and started to swing back on his chair as the professor started the second half of his lesson.
Professor Wilson walked around with his hands behind his back as he talked about fossils and mammals that existed almost 169 million years ago. “Mr Barnes! Put your legs on the ground in this instance!” Professor Wilson lectured him and shot him a stern warning look.
“They are on the ground.” Bucky sassed back, rolling his eyes and earning giggles from girls a couple of desks away. Professor Wilson sighed and shook his head.
“If you fall and crack your head I-”
“Yeah, yeah. You won’t clean it up, I know.” Bucky dismissed Professor Wilson’s worries with a wave of his hand and started to take notes once again as soon as the professor carried on with his lesson.
“And the Tuojiangosaurus was found in China 157 million years ago. It was known to be 7.0m in length and weighed a hefty 1500kg.” Professor Wilson brought up slides of what the dinosaur would have looked like.
“What a fuckin’ beast.” Bucky murmured under his breath, “how do you spell whatever he just said?”
A breathy laugh escapes you and you scratch an itch on your nose. “Uh so, TUOJIANGOSAURUS.” You spelled out for him slowly.
“Thanks doll. I thought you weren’t paying attention to the lesson.” He teases, a sly smirk on his face.
“I remembered the spelling from my spelling bee test.” You grow shy under his now intense and impressive stare.
“Well, he should have these in big letters on the board.” He scoffed and you giggled.
“He… does…” you point to writing under the pictures, the names of the dinosaurs in big black bold letters. A shade of pink dusts Bucky’s cheeks and he dips his head with a smile.
“I know, I just like hearing your voice. You sound really sweet. S’like music to m’ears.”
Oh my goodness. This couldn’t be happening, right?
“Oh I uh- really?” You stammered, mesmerised by his homely blue eyes.
“Really doll, I’ve wanted to ask you-”
“Barnes! Since you’re distracted. Tell the class about the Triceratops. We’re waiting.” Professor Wilson stands in front of your desk, his arms folded over his chest and his foot taps impatiently against the tiled floor. All eyes are on Bucky as he sighs and subtly rolls his eyes under his eyelids.
“The- whatever you just said is a horny dinosaur with teeth.”
“Correction. He has a horny beak.”
“That’s what I said.”
“Please elaborate next time Barnes.” Professor Wilson shakes his head and his eyes narrow on your blank page. “Miss y/l/n? Why have you not been taking notes?!”
Your voice was lost, what could you tell him? That you were too busy watching your crush and not paying attention?
“She’s not feeling well and she can copy my notes. S’no big deal.” Bucky spoke and you felt so relieved. Professor Wilson seemed to be satisfied with that answer and went back to finish up his lesson.
“Thank you.” You leaned in and whispered, sighing when things didn’t feel any better for you. Your heart rate was still out of control and you’re pretty sure there might be a damp spot on your seat.
“It’s okay, doll face. You can copy my notes and be my study buddy in the library if you want to.”
If you want to? Of course you want to!
“Yes- I’d like that!” You smiled and pulled your lip between your teeth. “What were you going to say earlier? Before Professor Wilson interrupted?”
Bucky’s cheeks turned from a light shade of pink to a crimson red. He chuckled quietly and nervously.
“You’ll say no!” He chuckled, his eyes darting from your eyes to your lips.
“Try me.” You challenge, mimicking his movements with your eyes.
“I’ll tell you when we’re at the library. Deal?” He winks, and shushes you as he writes down his final notes, catching the slight nod of your head.
Your mind went into a frenzy. All it took was for all the seats to be taken and for Bucky to sit next to you this once to escalate things. You wished he was late sooner. What was he going to say to you earlier? You couldn’t wait to find out as you sunk back in your chair with the biggest smile on your face, feeling like the happiest person in the world.
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luxeavenger · 3 hours ago
MY SWEETIE THAT MAKES ME SO HAPPY.
i’m so glad you got some quality self care time in today. 💜💜💜
i don’t know that i’ve read any fluffy!bucky fics recently, but imma go digging for some now. did you read this one yet? (i think you did, but it’s fluffy af and has alpine in it so it’s extra squishy)
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i’m adding this gif because it lives in my head rent free 😘 🤌🏻
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i hope you’re feeling better today bby
💜💜💜
MY LOVE i am feeling tons better! i went on a walk and sweated my ass off. now i’m gonna take a cold shower and try to sleep! or maybe watch a few movies or read some fanfics so if you know of any comfort!bucky or fluffy!bucky fics send em my way ☺️☺️☺️ I LOVE YOU TO THE MOON AND BACK ♡
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luxeavenger · 4 hours ago
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i’ve seen the gif of Ransom eating cookies on my feed a dozen times today
so i added biscoff cookies to my grocery order for tomorrow 😬
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luxeavenger · 4 hours ago
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steve getting sensory overload on a mission and bucky noticing him shutting down and wordlessly handing him ear plugs send tweet
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luxeavenger · 5 hours ago
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Fave Colour: my hair is pink rn, so i’ll go with that
Currently Reading: Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep by Philip K. Dick
Latest Song: Halloweenie iii: Seven Days by Ashnikko
Latest Movie: Fido
Latest Series: i’m rewatching Titans. getting ready for the new season
Coffee or Tea: coffee most of the time
Currently Working: i’ve got 3 wip’s for Backstage Pass, and two others i haven’t quite fleshed out yet, but the reader is an avenger in both of them
tagging: anyone who wants to do it 💜
Tagged by - @kthynes
Fave Colour: mint green
Currently Reading: Currently reading through a Brian Froud faerie book, looking for something😏😏 
Latest Song: listening to Fleetwood Mac Rumors album
Latest Movie: The Iceman
Latest Series: Supernatural *AGAIN*
Coffee or Tea: Both…I’m from the south so we drink a ridiculous amount of sweet tea, but I’m more partial to Lyons Irish tea.  However I NEED coffee everyday, sometimes multiple times a day.  Starbucks knows my ridiculously specific drink order by heart.
Currently Working: Captain/Soldier, developing a prequel/sequel to Mr. Freezy Pops where Cherry is the lead, and developing something fae based
No pressure tags:   @donutloverxo @thedarkplume, @chrisevansgoodgirl, @chrisevanisliterallysir, @helahades, @luxeavenger, @harrys-whore-ficrecs @geminixevans @jeanieeelopezreads @yeolliedokai @tinawritesstuff
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luxeavenger · 8 hours ago
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that’s so sweet. thank you 💜
Bucky deserves the world, and i love being able to give it to him 💜
Tie My Feet To Rocks And Drown
Paring: Bucky Barnes x female!reader
Words: 4841
Warnings: NSFW (18+ only), light angst, pining, falling in love, love confessions, blood and injury, canon typical violence, frottage, oral sex (f receiving), sex (piv), Bucky Barnes''s metal arm (it's a warning, okay?)
NOT FOR CONSUMPTION BY MINORS.
Masterlist
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You’d take him any way you could get him.
Sometimes that means opening your door at 3am to find the soldat leaning against your doorframe. Long hair matted with blood, sweat soaked into his leathers, and a grimace on what you can see of his face. You quickly become an expert at removing his leathers, with their many buckles and hidden snaps. When he shows up like this you don’t let him peel his clothes off by himself, because he’s usually been shot or stabbed. Blood is the currency he’d have to pay to undress himself. He says he can afford it, but you refuse to let him try.
So you have a new hobby. Collecting surgical instruments, little packets of suture, lap sponges, a cautery pen. You hoard thick gauze pads, cloth tape, wound wash, bandages. Your first aid kit is massive now, because you worry if you use the needle and thread out of your sewing kit he’ll end up with an infection, even though he quietly insists that isn’t even possible.
He peeks through your curtains into the pitch black night and tells you he’s hiding from his handlers. He’s gotten good at hiding, but they’ll find him eventually, because they aren’t the kind of people who leave weapons lying around. You don’t know who these people are, or what will happen if they find him, but whoever the bastards are, they keep him muzzled. He calls it a mask, but you know a muzzle when you see one. When you take it off of him his pupils blow wide, he breathes heavier. It’s as if simply exposing the bottom of his face is an act more intimate than sex.
He begs in a soft voice for you to fuck him. He’s always so careful with you, but he insists that you bitemarkscratchbruise, because it’s the only way he knows how to be touched. His unique brand of tenderness. He needs permission to be someone other than the soldat. To be treated as someone other than the asset. To forget who the Winter Soldier is. To feel something other than the violent and uncaring touch of strangers. You give him that permission with your lips, your tongue, and your teeth. Still, you sneak in little drips of devotion. You feed him microdoses of affection. You sew him up, then you ride his cock while he holds you with hands stained in blood that isn’t his. He whispers promises that he’ll never forget you, even if his handlers force him to. When dawn comes he disappears quick as a whisper in the wind.
Every single time you wake to find him gone, you’re left wondering if you’ll ever see him alive again.
You’d take him any way you could get him.
Sometimes that means you’re at the market about to start your car and the passenger door opens and closes and he’s there beside you. He wears civilian clothes now: jeans, a faded hoodie, a trucker hat pulled low on his forehead, and broken in shitkickers, leather soft and soles worn from all the time he spends running. They’re the armor that hides how hard he’s become in exile. His sad, stained-glass eyes never stop darting back and forth, even when he has you doing 80 down the interstate, running away from someone only he can see.
This man has no name. You greet him as soldat the first time he appears next to you in the car and he flinches as if you’d struck him. He softly replies I don’t do that anymore, and motions for you to drive. You ask him what to call him and he won’t say anything besides I can’t and it’s not safe. This man is obsessed with keeping you safe. Just by virtue of knowing him, he insists you aren’t, though he never says from whom.
This Bucky never comes to you hurt. Not on the outside anyway. This man comes to you hunted. He comes to you haunted. He comes to you when he needs to hide but he’s too afraid to hide alone. He has spent too long in exile, and sometimes the quiet makes him wish for death. It’s impossible to forget the things he’s done when the only voice he hears is his own.
This man is harder than the soldat. He’s corded thick with muscle. Swollen and heavy and solid as stone, like a feral animal that knows nothing but the constant fight to stay alive. You wonder how he came by his new thickness. Certainly not a gym, he can hardly stand to be indoors, so being in a gym surrounded by strangers would make him crawl right out of his skin. This man uses his muscle in a way the soldat never would. He’s rough. He devours your pussy, supporting your entire body, perching you on his biceps, he holds you to his face with nothing but his preternatural strength. Fucking you with his tongue until the front of his henley is soaked with your juices, and your voice is hoarse from crying out your pleasure. He manhandles you onto his cock, giving you what you’re desperate for, and taking what he needs. Squeezing your hips until they bruise, curling a shiny silver hand around your throat, sucking and biting marks into your neck and chest.
He can’t bear to leave you unless he also leaves something to remember him by.
You’d take him any way you could get him.
Sometimes he doesn’t come to you at all. Half the world vanishes and you are left alone. You wait for him. You hope for as long as it makes sense to hope. But he never comes. You break a thousand times a day because that’s how often you think about him since he stitched himself into your heart. You refuse to consider that he may be dead, because without him the whole world is full of pins and needles that pierce and bleed you with every movement you make. You refuse to entertain the thought that he’s still alive, because that would mean his absence is self-imposed, intentional, like the empty hole in a noose just waiting for you to slip your neck inside.
On the days where you feel like you’ll drown in your tears, you idly wonder if anyone else is out there missing the man with the chestnut hair and ocean eyes.
You’d take him any way you could get him.
Joy bubbles in your heart when, out of the blue, there’s a knock on your door at 3am. Your pulse gallops because your heart and soul knows it’s him—he’s finally come back to you. He hasn’t forgotten you after all. Seeing him here, far away from where you were the last time you looked upon his fine face, comes as no surprise. No matter where you go, he can find you, it’s one of the many gifts he possesses. You fling open the door with tears in your eyes. Your face is cradled against a familiar shoulder, your lungs fill with a familiar scent, you’re crushed against a broad chest, and spun around in strong arms. Your eyes aren’t the only ones that sting with tears. God, doll. How I’ve missed you, his laugh is full of joy like straw spun into gold. You haven’t heard his voice in years, but it slips back around you like a second skin, comforting, warm, familiar.
His dark hair is short now, and his prosthetic arm is shiny and new. He doesn’t mumble or mutter anymore. Now, he looks at you when he speaks, smiles with his eyes, and laughs with his whole heart. Without reservation, he finally gives you his real name: James Buchanan Barnes—Bucky. At last you have a word for him that isn’t some transient alias, temporary terms for a man who never sits still. When you call him by his name his delight is etched into every line of his face.
Bucky tells you everything. He tells you all of his names—all of the men he’s ever been—all of whom add up to be James Buchanan Barnes. It takes the better part of the morning for him to go through it all. While he talks in his deep, gentle voice, you get glimpses of all the men you remember: the soldat, the nameless man; along with ones you’ve never met before, the impulsive old soul, the good man who belongs to a long ago war, the one who turned to ash at the feet of a great man. He speaks through the dark, well into the day. He shows you a notebook, reverently pinched between the fingers of his new vibranium arm. He tells you about his therapy, and his new friend Sam, and the whole new family he has because of Sam. Unburdening himself takes years of worry off his handsome face, and decades of guilt off his shoulders.
You hold him and whisper soothing words when PTSD flashbacks lock up his muscles and strand him in the past, where the sky is full of fire, and the air is pregnant with bullets. You trace questing fingertips over areas where you’d lovingly stitched up perforations in his pale skin, searching for scars but finding none. He speaks in languages you don’t understand, words that mean longing and rusted and furnace and daybreak, words that make him tremble as hot tears shine in his eyes and scorch trails down his cheeks. He paints pictures with his words of a place he calls Wakanda, but he makes it sound a lot like heaven. Where he was called White Wolf by people who had no reason to respect him but did anyway, and had the source of his greatest shame—the gravest violation foisted upon him in all of his long years—plucked carefully from his head by one woman and was confidently declared a cured and free man by another.
He tells you about the one he loved more than anyone else. A life stretched unnaturally long like his own, but walked on a vastly different path. Steve held Bucky’s heart in his hands, and was oh so gentle with it, until he wasn’t. Bucky talks of the stinging pain of a betrayal he’d never dare name as such in the light of day, and of love and the bitter pain of love’s loss. He sobs until his knees buckle and bile claws its way out of his throat until he’s retching in your kitchen sink. He doesn’t understand how it’s possible to love someone with such fervor, and survive not being loved like that in return. A thin layer of resentment festers below the surface; an infection he’s slowly tweezing out from under his skin with the help of his therapist. He stares at his hands, and talks in fits and starts about the man who tore his heart out of his chest, and left him with nothing but a ragged hole, full of raw meat and splintered bone, that tore and bled with every agonizing breath.
He tells you he’s slowly putting all those fractured pieces back together, but these things take time.
When you reach out to hold his hand, he smiles at you, kissing your knuckles and holding tight to you. He calls you petal, doll, and peach. He calls you by your name, and his face lights up from within when he does. His stained-glass eyes change color with his moods, a shifting prism filled with so many blues you couldn’t name them all if you tried. His body language is different, because Bucky isn’t hiding any of himself from you anymore.
When he finally sighs, and looks at you with eyes that hide no secrets, you stretch. It’s almost lunchtime, and you offer him coffee and lunch.
‘Sure doll, I’d love that.”
Your back is to him, so you can’t see the soft look of love that falls over his face as he watches you putter around your kitchen. Just one side of you he’s never met before, because he was always running. You hum quietly to yourself while the coffee maker spits and sputters in the background. His heart aches for this domesticity. Mornings sleeping in, late nights watching movies, dinners, parties. Peace. He wants all of it. And he wants it with you, but he’s never learned the words to ask this of anyone.
You slide a plate onto the table with a stack of sandwiches on it. He smiles at you, creases crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Thank you,” he says softly, shyly.
“Of course,” you smile back at him, radiant as a sunbeam, he’s blinded in the face of such light.
The ghost of something mars his features, just an instant, gone as quickly as it appeared. Anxiety? Worry? Pain?
“Is everything okay?” you ask, smoothing a calming hand over his shoulder.
Bucky licks his bottom lip between his teeth, and chews on it before nodding. His eyes dart away from yours, but he immediately brings them back, like he’s been working on making eye contact along with everything else.
His eyes are soft, vulnerable, “I just really want to kiss you.” His eyes flit away again. He’s worried you won’t want this Bucky as much as you’ve wanted the others.
His eyes go wide when you plop down into his lap and wrap your arms around him. He kisses you with abandon, and you yield to him. Pulling you against him, and framing your face with his hands, he licks his way into your mouth, and tangles his tongue with yours. He kisses you like he has all the time in the world for you. His full, soft lips turn up at the corners, smiling into the kiss.
You have no idea how long you and Bucky kiss. You’re making up for all the years of rushed embraces, sparse kisses, and quickies. He doesn’t want to rush with you anymore, and you’re delighted to indulge him.
Eventually you break the kiss to tug at his shirt. You try to pull it over his head, but he grabs the hem to stop you.
“Are you sure, peach? You don’t have to,” his eyes clearly communicate that he doesn’t think he deserves what you’re offering him.
“James Buchanan Barnes,” you start, using his full name, not to scold, but because you love the way it sounds and you love knowing it at last, “I have wanted you since the first time I scooped you up from the side of the road, when you were soaked in blood, but refused to let me take you to a hospital. I’ve driven 300 miles away from my home just to help you run from the men who hurt you. I’ve cried over you, sewn you up, worried about you every moment of every day you weren’t in my life. Of course I want this. I’ll always want it—want you—no matter who you are. It’s always you, and it’s only you. Please believe me when I say I want you, Bucky. All of you.”
His eyes search your face, and you let the truth of what you’ve said show on your features. Apparently he’s satisfied with what he sees, because he helps you lift his shirt off. You move to straddle him so you can smooth your hands over the broad expanse of his chest. Bucky’s eyes flutter shut and he hums a happy noise. You pepper his lips, neck, and scruff-covered cheeks with kisses until he’s smiling again.
You shrug out of your shirt, and reach behind you to unhook your bra. Bucky’s hands stop you. “No, doll. Let me do it, okay?”
Your hands go back to Bucky’s chest, leaning into him as he unclasps your bra and slides it down your arms. Your nipples pebble in the cool kitchen air. Bucky palms your breasts, thumbs teasing the stiff peaks, pinching and tugging them until you’re shuddering and moaning.
His hands float down to the front of your shorts. He pops the button and rakes the zipper down, sliding his hands down the back of your shorts to cup your ass while he kisses you breathless.
You’re eager to have him inside of you again, so soon you’re standing to shimmy out of your shorts and panties. Bucky eyes you with hunger, his eyes sporting lust-blown pupils, and the outline of his stiff cock obvious in his jeans. He looks more confident now, finally convinced that he need not be so delicate with you.
He pats his leg, “Can you ride my thigh, petal? Wanna see you come apart for me.”
You sink down to straddle his thick thigh. His vibranium hand automatically goes to your neck. You’re plenty wet already, and your juices soak into his jeans.
He hisses a curse, “Fuck. Already so wet for me. Need you to soak my thigh, kitten. Do that for me, and I’ll fuck you so good.”
You grind down onto him with a groan. The metal hand on your neck squeezes gently but firmly. You start to rock your hips and his hand presses you down onto him without impeding your movements. His right hand tangles in your hair, and he devours your mouth with an aggressive kiss.
You’re whimpering into his mouth while the wet spot on his leg grows. The rough denim on your sensitive clit is inexorably dragging you toward an orgasm. Little electric shocks zing through you with every roll of your hips. Your orgasm coils in your guts like a spring, until it finally snaps. Your thighs tremble as you thrust and shake your way through the spasms.
“I forgot how gorgeous you are when you come, petal. Thank you for helping me remember.”
He stands, wrapping your legs around his waist. You point him through the house until he finds your bedroom. He tosses you onto the bed, quickly stripping off his jeans and boxer briefs and climbing onto the bed.
He settles between your thighs. Big hands pushing them wide. He kisses over the soft skin, making his way to your cunt. He licks a slow stripe up your slit, savoring the taste of you.
“So fucking sweet, doll. Always taste so sweet.” He pushes two warm fingers into you, languidly thrusting and twisting them while he teases your clit with his agile tongue.
You groan, twisting your fingers into his short hair. “Oh, Buck. You feel so good.”
Steve’s nickname for him falls easily from your lips. It rankles him when people use Steve’s nickname. But when you say it, it heals a small piece of his heart. Of course the two people he loves most—in this world, or any other—would call him Buck. It makes him giddy, and goosebumps crawl over his skin.
He sucks your clit, rolling it on his tongue, until you tug his hair to get him even closer to you. A deep growl bubbles up out of his chest, and it goes right to your pussy.
“Oh fuck, Bucky,” you gasp, “harder. More. God, please. Feels so good.”
He pulls his fingers out of your cunt, using them to spread your lips open and spears his tongue into your slit. His cool metal thumb moves to your clit, and the cold is a completely different sensation, though not unpleasant, and your hips buck.
“Fuck, yes. That feels so good. Don’t stop.” You tug his hair again to make him stay, as if there was a snowball’s chance in hell that he’d be anywhere else right now.
His scruffy beard burns your thighs and pussy lips, making you squirm. He snakes his arms around your thighs, and presses his palms over your stomach, holding you still so he can tongue fuck you with vigor.
You gasp and moan and curse, and it sounds like music to him. His cock is twitching and leaking, trapped between his stomach and your blanket, a hot, sticky puddle forming under him.
His tongue traces back up to your clit, making you whine, “Jesus, Bucky. I’m so—fuck—I’m so fucking close. God, ‘m gonna come,” you chant, “please, please, please.”
He slips three thick fingers into your pussy, and it pushes you over the edge. Your back bows up off the bed, and you fall apart, choking on his name, and coming on his fingers and face with a slick rush of fluid.
He finally comes up for air with a passionate curse. “Jesus fuck, kitten. Almost forgot how fucking pretty you sound when you come.”
Everything from his nose down is soaked and shiny with your juices. His hair is a mess from your fingers carding through it. He looks completely sinful when he crawls up your body, and it’s all manner of sexy when he captures your mouth in a kiss, and the taste of you fills your senses.
He takes his cock in hand and drags it through your folds. He growls at how hot and wet you are for him. He slowly starts pushing in, and you realize you’d forgotten how thick he was. Your eyes roll back in your head with a long groan as he stretches you. Your cunt makes the filthiest noise, and slick dribbles down your crack to soak into your bedspread as he fills you.
You’re both panting and sweaty by the time he bottoms out. You clench around him to relish the burn, and he growls a curse.
“Feel so full, Buck. God, you feel so amazing. So good. Please just move. Fuck me.” You know you’re babbling, but you’re powerless to stop while you’re impaled on Bucky’s dick like this.
He draws out of you slowly, making sure you feel every raw inch of his shaft, until it’s just the tip of his cock resting inside your entrance. He pushes back in hard and fast, slapping his hips against your ass, splitting you open and making you cry out his name.
He hooks your legs over his shoulders, and the new angle makes him feel even bigger, like you can feel him all the way in your throat. Each time his cock punches into you it knocks the breath out of your lungs, and all you can do is hold on for dear life while you melt underneath him.
He’s pounding into you, and everything is so intense you can’t form a coherent thought. Bucky's cock is driving plenty of noises out of you, but you couldn’t form words right now if you wanted to. He is not similarly afflicted though. He’s grunting all sorts of filth into your ear.
“Fuck kitten. So goddamn tight. Squeezing my cock so hard.”
“Fucking drenched, peach. My soaking wet fuck toy.”
“Taking my cock like a good girl.”
“Keep screaming for me, kitten. Gonna fill you fulla come.”
“Cunt feels so good. Want you to come on my cock,” the last one doesn’t feel like a statement, and when his thumb goes to your clit you know it for what it is—an order. “Now, Y/N. Come for me.”
You fall apart for him wailing his name so loud you’re glad you don’t have any neighbors close by. Your pussy gushes, soaking you and Bucky, filling the room with slick squelching sounds.
Bucky looks between your bodies, groaning at the way his cock is all shiny with your wetness.
“You got one more for me, doll?” he urges, “come one more time for me, like a good girl, and I’ll let you rest.”
You whimper, “‘S too much. I can’t.”
“You can. You’re such a good girl, I know you can.”
You whine a curse, and nod at Bucky. He smirks and coos praise at you. “There’s my girl. So good for me. Gonna make you drown my cock, kitten.”
Bucky rolls you both over so you’re above him. Now every roll of your hips drags his cock over your g-spot and immediately you feel a heaviness starts to settle in your core.
“Oh fuuuuuuck,” you groan. Hands going to Bucky’s chest to steady you, you sink your nails into his pectorals just to hear him hiss.
Bucky growls, “Mine. Fuck, kitten. You’re mine.”
The building weight crescendos and you orgasm sweeps over you, and you come all over Bucky, soaking his stomach and thighs with a hot rush of slick, and you keen, “Yours, yours, yours, oh fuck, ‘m yours.”
Your pussy clenches around him, sucking him back into your body, and he fucking whimpers, and the sound nearly makes you come again.
He plants his feet on the mattress, grabs your hips with a bruising grip, and fucks up into you hard and fast. Finally his hips falter, his rhythm stutters, and his cock swells and bucks inside of you, drenching your slick channel with come. Bucky fucks you through his orgasm, pushing cream out around his cock.
He pulls you down onto his chest and wraps himself around you, planting gentle kisses over your face and shoulders, whispering soft words of praise, punctuating each compliment with a kiss.
Eventually he rolls you over onto your pillow, and scoots off the bed, disappearing into the adjoining bathroom. He cleans himself up in the sink, and wets a washcloth with warm water. He uses the washcloth to gently clean you up, wiping sweat and come off your skin with the tenderest touch. Then he scoops you up with his vibranium arm so he can toss back the blankets with his other hand. He slides you in the bed and chases after you, wrapping the blankets around you both.
He’s on his side with the blanket tucked under his prosthetic arm. It’s not the first time you’ve seen it, but it’s the first time where you’ve felt comfortable enough to really focus on it.
“Y/N, why are you crying? Did I do something? Did I hurt you?” The flash of fear you see looks out of place in his cerulean eyes.
“No. You didn’t do anything wrong at all, Buck. It’s just-” you gesture at his shoulder, “Can I?”
“Of course,” his relief is nearly palpable, “anything you want, doll.”
You’ve got this brand new ache in your heart. You trace gingerly along the mass of scar tissue that surrounds his prosthetic shoulder joint. The scar is raised, and pink, and still so angry looking after all this time.
Quietly you ask, “Does it hurt?”
He confesses, “Sometimes. But it also lets me help people.” He tells you about how he ripped the door off an armored police van recently. People inside would have died without him, and it tested the limits of his endurance, but in the end, any discomfort he’d felt disappeared in a wash of relief when everyone inside of the van emerged unharmed because of him.
He cups your face with his vibranium hand and, for the first time, you notice the nearly imperceptible humming and whirring noises that issue from the arm.
He flexes, showing how the individual plates on the arm were able to reconfigure, to make the artificial muscles appear to flex, and how the plates are able to interlock in a way that make it nigh impossible to break his grip unless Bucky wills it.
“It’s really beautiful, Bucky. Truly a work of art.”
“Shuri really knocked it out of the park when she designed it. I’m not sure what I did to deserve the help of the Wakandans-”
“Bucky Barnes, listen to me,” you interject, taking his face in your hands, “you deserve the world. Do you hear me? I’ve thought so since the very first time I stitched you up, and my opinion about that hasn’t changed a single time in the last decade. And if you promise not to run away from me again, I’ll spend every moment we’re together making sure you don’t forget it.”
His eyes have gone a pure crystalline blue, and they’re filled with naked adoration. “No, petal. ‘M not going anywhere. Not anymore. I’m here as long as you’ll put up with me.”
Tears bite at your eyes, and you laugh past the lump in your throat. “How’s forever sound?”
“Pretty great, actually.” A smile breaks over his face like a wave. His eyes are a startling sky blue, and you’ve never seen him look this… happy.
You smooth a hand over his scruffy jaw, “I love you, Bucky.”
He leans into your palm, “I never thought I’d hear those words again, never thought I deserved to. I love you, Y/N. I’ve loved you since the first time I laid eyes on you.”
A heaviness is lifted from your heart, and replaced with the bright, earnest light of Bucky’s love and adoration. You see tears gather in his eyes and wonder if he feels similarly.
“So, petal, I hope you don’t have plans tomorrow.”
“Why? Are we going somewhere, Buck?”
“Delacroix, Louisiana. I’ve got some family I want you to meet.”
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luxeavenger · 9 hours ago
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she wasn’t a friend. she was 832 red flags in a trench coat 🚩
Do u ever look back on a friendship with someone you’re no longer friends with and marvel at all the red flags you somehow didn’t process as red flags
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luxeavenger · 10 hours ago
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telling teenagers it doesn’t get better is so cruel and irresponsible. you’re suppose to be the adult stop trying to get doomer cred and act like a sympathetic human being
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luxeavenger · 12 hours ago
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I’m not about that “no feelings” shit. Fuck that. I feel deeply. I have a heart. I’m human. Things affect me dude.
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luxeavenger · 13 hours ago
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Florence Pugh in Finish the Sentence - The Sunday Times STYLE
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luxeavenger · 14 hours ago
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💗daddy💗💗daddy💗💗daddy💗💗daddy💗💗daddy💗💗daddy💗💗daddy💗💗daddy💗💗daddy💗
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luxeavenger · 14 hours ago
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♫I’ll touch you once, I’ll touch you twice. I won’t let go at any price. If you leave…♫ Here we go! ♫Don’t look baaaaack!♫
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luxeavenger · 14 hours ago
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Tie My Feet To Rocks And Drown
Paring: Bucky Barnes x female!reader
Words: 4841
Warnings: NSFW (18+ only), light angst, pining, falling in love, love confessions, blood and injury, canon typical violence, frottage, oral sex (f receiving), sex (piv), Bucky Barnes''s metal arm (it's a warning, okay?)
NOT FOR CONSUMPTION BY MINORS.
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You’d take him any way you could get him.
Sometimes that means opening your door at 3am to find the soldat leaning against your doorframe. Long hair matted with blood, sweat soaked into his leathers, and a grimace on what you can see of his face. You quickly become an expert at removing his leathers, with their many buckles and hidden snaps. When he shows up like this you don’t let him peel his clothes off by himself, because he’s usually been shot or stabbed. Blood is the currency he’d have to pay to undress himself. He says he can afford it, but you refuse to let him try.
So you have a new hobby. Collecting surgical instruments, little packets of suture, lap sponges, a cautery pen. You hoard thick gauze pads, cloth tape, wound wash, bandages. Your first aid kit is massive now, because you worry if you use the needle and thread out of your sewing kit he’ll end up with an infection, even though he quietly insists that isn’t even possible.
He peeks through your curtains into the pitch black night and tells you he’s hiding from his handlers. He’s gotten good at hiding, but they’ll find him eventually, because they aren’t the kind of people who leave weapons lying around. You don’t know who these people are, or what will happen if they find him, but whoever the bastards are, they keep him muzzled. He calls it a mask, but you know a muzzle when you see one. When you take it off of him his pupils blow wide, he breathes heavier. It’s as if simply exposing the bottom of his face is an act more intimate than sex.
He begs in a soft voice for you to fuck him. He’s always so careful with you, but he insists that you bitemarkscratchbruise, because it’s the only way he knows how to be touched. His unique brand of tenderness. He needs permission to be someone other than the soldat. To be treated as someone other than the asset. To forget who the Winter Soldier is. To feel something other than the violent and uncaring touch of strangers. You give him that permission with your lips, your tongue, and your teeth. Still, you sneak in little drips of devotion. You feed him microdoses of affection. You sew him up, then you ride his cock while he holds you with hands stained in blood that isn’t his. He whispers promises that he’ll never forget you, even if his handlers force him to. When dawn comes he disappears quick as a whisper in the wind.
Every single time you wake to find him gone, you’re left wondering if you’ll ever see him alive again.
You’d take him any way you could get him.
Sometimes that means you’re at the market about to start your car and the passenger door opens and closes and he’s there beside you. He wears civilian clothes now: jeans, a faded hoodie, a trucker hat pulled low on his forehead, and broken in shitkickers, leather soft and soles worn from all the time he spends running. They’re the armor that hides how hard he’s become in exile. His sad, stained-glass eyes never stop darting back and forth, even when he has you doing 80 down the interstate, running away from someone only he can see.
This man has no name. You greet him as soldat the first time he appears next to you in the car and he flinches as if you’d struck him. He softly replies I don’t do that anymore, and motions for you to drive. You ask him what to call him and he won’t say anything besides I can’t and it’s not safe. This man is obsessed with keeping you safe. Just by virtue of knowing him, he insists you aren’t, though he never says from whom.
This Bucky never comes to you hurt. Not on the outside anyway. This man comes to you hunted. He comes to you haunted. He comes to you when he needs to hide but he’s too afraid to hide alone. He has spent too long in exile, and sometimes the quiet makes him wish for death. It’s impossible to forget the things he’s done when the only voice he hears is his own.
This man is harder than the soldat. He’s corded thick with muscle. Swollen and heavy and solid as stone, like a feral animal that knows nothing but the constant fight to stay alive. You wonder how he came by his new thickness. Certainly not a gym, he can hardly stand to be indoors, so being in a gym surrounded by strangers would make him crawl right out of his skin. This man uses his muscle in a way the soldat never would. He’s rough. He devours your pussy, supporting your entire body, perching you on his biceps, he holds you to his face with nothing but his preternatural strength. Fucking you with his tongue until the front of his henley is soaked with your juices, and your voice is hoarse from crying out your pleasure. He manhandles you onto his cock, giving you what you’re desperate for, and taking what he needs. Squeezing your hips until they bruise, curling a shiny silver hand around your throat, sucking and biting marks into your neck and chest.
He can’t bear to leave you unless he also leaves something to remember him by.
You’d take him any way you could get him.
Sometimes he doesn’t come to you at all. Half the world vanishes and you are left alone. You wait for him. You hope for as long as it makes sense to hope. But he never comes. You break a thousand times a day because that’s how often you think about him since he stitched himself into your heart. You refuse to consider that he may be dead, because without him the whole world is full of pins and needles that pierce and bleed you with every movement you make. You refuse to entertain the thought that he’s still alive, because that would mean his absence is self-imposed, intentional, like the empty hole in a noose just waiting for you to slip your neck inside.
On the days where you feel like you’ll drown in your tears, you idly wonder if anyone else is out there missing the man with the chestnut hair and ocean eyes.
You’d take him any way you could get him.
Joy bubbles in your heart when, out of the blue, there’s a knock on your door at 3am. Your pulse gallops because your heart and soul knows it’s him—he’s finally come back to you. He hasn’t forgotten you after all. Seeing him here, far away from where you were the last time you looked upon his fine face, comes as no surprise. No matter where you go, he can find you, it’s one of the many gifts he possesses. You fling open the door with tears in your eyes. Your face is cradled against a familiar shoulder, your lungs fill with a familiar scent, you’re crushed against a broad chest, and spun around in strong arms. Your eyes aren’t the only ones that sting with tears. God, doll. How I’ve missed you, his laugh is full of joy like straw spun into gold. You haven’t heard his voice in years, but it slips back around you like a second skin, comforting, warm, familiar.
His dark hair is short now, and his prosthetic arm is shiny and new. He doesn’t mumble or mutter anymore. Now, he looks at you when he speaks, smiles with his eyes, and laughs with his whole heart. Without reservation, he finally gives you his real name: James Buchanan Barnes—Bucky. At last you have a word for him that isn’t some transient alias, temporary terms for a man who never sits still. When you call him by his name his delight is etched into every line of his face.
Bucky tells you everything. He tells you all of his names—all of the men he’s ever been—all of whom add up to be James Buchanan Barnes. It takes the better part of the morning for him to go through it all. While he talks in his deep, gentle voice, you get glimpses of all the men you remember: the soldat, the nameless man; along with ones you’ve never met before, the impulsive old soul, the good man who belongs to a long ago war, the one who turned to ash at the feet of a great man. He speaks through the dark, well into the day. He shows you a notebook, reverently pinched between the fingers of his new vibranium arm. He tells you about his therapy, and his new friend Sam, and the whole new family he has because of Sam. Unburdening himself takes years of worry off his handsome face, and decades of guilt off his shoulders.
You hold him and whisper soothing words when PTSD flashbacks lock up his muscles and strand him in the past, where the sky is full of fire, and the air is pregnant with bullets. You trace questing fingertips over areas where you’d lovingly stitched up perforations in his pale skin, searching for scars but finding none. He speaks in languages you don’t understand, words that mean longing and rusted and furnace and daybreak, words that make him tremble as hot tears shine in his eyes and scorch trails down his cheeks. He paints pictures with his words of a place he calls Wakanda, but he makes it sound a lot like heaven. Where he was called White Wolf by people who had no reason to respect him but did anyway, and had the source of his greatest shame—the gravest violation foisted upon him in all of his long years—plucked carefully from his head by one woman and was confidently declared a cured and free man by another.
He tells you about the one he loved more than anyone else. A life stretched unnaturally long like his own, but walked on a vastly different path. Steve held Bucky’s heart in his hands, and was oh so gentle with it, until he wasn’t. Bucky talks of the stinging pain of a betrayal he’d never dare name as such in the light of day, and of love and the bitter pain of love’s loss. He sobs until his knees buckle and bile claws its way out of his throat until he’s retching in your kitchen sink. He doesn’t understand how it’s possible to love someone with such fervor, and survive not being loved like that in return. A thin layer of resentment festers below the surface; an infection he’s slowly tweezing out from under his skin with the help of his therapist. He stares at his hands, and talks in fits and starts about the man who tore his heart out of his chest, and left him with nothing but a ragged hole, full of raw meat and splintered bone, that tore and bled with every agonizing breath.
He tells you he’s slowly putting all those fractured pieces back together, but these things take time.
When you reach out to hold his hand, he smiles at you, kissing your knuckles and holding tight to you. He calls you petal, doll, and peach. He calls you by your name, and his face lights up from within when he does. His stained-glass eyes change color with his moods, a shifting prism filled with so many blues you couldn’t name them all if you tried. His body language is different, because Bucky isn’t hiding any of himself from you anymore.
When he finally sighs, and looks at you with eyes that hide no secrets, you stretch. It’s almost lunchtime, and you offer him coffee and lunch.
‘Sure doll, I’d love that.”
Your back is to him, so you can’t see the soft look of love that falls over his face as he watches you putter around your kitchen. Just one side of you he’s never met before, because he was always running. You hum quietly to yourself while the coffee maker spits and sputters in the background. His heart aches for this domesticity. Mornings sleeping in, late nights watching movies, dinners, parties. Peace. He wants all of it. And he wants it with you, but he’s never learned the words to ask this of anyone.
You slide a plate onto the table with a stack of sandwiches on it. He smiles at you, creases crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Thank you,” he says softly, shyly.
“Of course,” you smile back at him, radiant as a sunbeam, he’s blinded in the face of such light.
The ghost of something mars his features, just an instant, gone as quickly as it appeared. Anxiety? Worry? Pain?
“Is everything okay?” you ask, smoothing a calming hand over his shoulder.
Bucky licks his bottom lip between his teeth, and chews on it before nodding. His eyes dart away from yours, but he immediately brings them back, like he’s been working on making eye contact along with everything else.
His eyes are soft, vulnerable, “I just really want to kiss you.” His eyes flit away again. He’s worried you won’t want this Bucky as much as you’ve wanted the others.
His eyes go wide when you plop down into his lap and wrap your arms around him. He kisses you with abandon, and you yield to him. Pulling you against him, and framing your face with his hands, he licks his way into your mouth, and tangles his tongue with yours. He kisses you like he has all the time in the world for you. His full, soft lips turn up at the corners, smiling into the kiss.
You have no idea how long you and Bucky kiss. You’re making up for all the years of rushed embraces, sparse kisses, and quickies. He doesn’t want to rush with you anymore, and you’re delighted to indulge him.
Eventually you break the kiss to tug at his shirt. You try to pull it over his head, but he grabs the hem to stop you.
“Are you sure, peach? You don’t have to,” his eyes clearly communicate that he doesn’t think he deserves what you’re offering him.
“James Buchanan Barnes,” you start, using his full name, not to scold, but because you love the way it sounds and you love knowing it at last, “I have wanted you since the first time I scooped you up from the side of the road, when you were soaked in blood, but refused to let me take you to a hospital. I’ve driven 300 miles away from my home just to help you run from the men who hurt you. I’ve cried over you, sewn you up, worried about you every moment of every day you weren’t in my life. Of course I want this. I’ll always want it—want you—no matter who you are. It’s always you, and it’s only you. Please believe me when I say I want you, Bucky. All of you.”
His eyes search your face, and you let the truth of what you’ve said show on your features. Apparently he’s satisfied with what he sees, because he helps you lift his shirt off. You move to straddle him so you can smooth your hands over the broad expanse of his chest. Bucky’s eyes flutter shut and he hums a happy noise. You pepper his lips, neck, and scruff-covered cheeks with kisses until he’s smiling again.
You shrug out of your shirt, and reach behind you to unhook your bra. Bucky’s hands stop you. “No, doll. Let me do it, okay?”
Your hands go back to Bucky’s chest, leaning into him as he unclasps your bra and slides it down your arms. Your nipples pebble in the cool kitchen air. Bucky palms your breasts, thumbs teasing the stiff peaks, pinching and tugging them until you’re shuddering and moaning.
His hands float down to the front of your shorts. He pops the button and rakes the zipper down, sliding his hands down the back of your shorts to cup your ass while he kisses you breathless.
You’re eager to have him inside of you again, so soon you’re standing to shimmy out of your shorts and panties. Bucky eyes you with hunger, his eyes sporting lust-blown pupils, and the outline of his stiff cock obvious in his jeans. He looks more confident now, finally convinced that he need not be so delicate with you.
He pats his leg, “Can you ride my thigh, petal? Wanna see you come apart for me.”
You sink down to straddle his thick thigh. His vibranium hand automatically goes to your neck. You’re plenty wet already, and your juices soak into his jeans.
He hisses a curse, “Fuck. Already so wet for me. Need you to soak my thigh, kitten. Do that for me, and I’ll fuck you so good.”
You grind down onto him with a groan. The metal hand on your neck squeezes gently but firmly. You start to rock your hips and his hand presses you down onto him without impeding your movements. His right hand tangles in your hair, and he devours your mouth with an aggressive kiss.
You’re whimpering into his mouth while the wet spot on his leg grows. The rough denim on your sensitive clit is inexorably dragging you toward an orgasm. Little electric shocks zing through you with every roll of your hips. Your orgasm coils in your guts like a spring, until it finally snaps. Your thighs tremble as you thrust and shake your way through the spasms.
“I forgot how gorgeous you are when you come, petal. Thank you for helping me remember.”
He stands, wrapping your legs around his waist. You point him through the house until he finds your bedroom. He tosses you onto the bed, quickly stripping off his jeans and boxer briefs and climbing onto the bed.
He settles between your thighs. Big hands pushing them wide. He kisses over the soft skin, making his way to your cunt. He licks a slow stripe up your slit, savoring the taste of you.
“So fucking sweet, doll. Always taste so sweet.” He pushes two warm fingers into you, languidly thrusting and twisting them while he teases your clit with his agile tongue.
You groan, twisting your fingers into his short hair. “Oh, Buck. You feel so good.”
Steve’s nickname for him falls easily from your lips. It rankles him when people use Steve’s nickname. But when you say it, it heals a small piece of his heart. Of course the two people he loves most—in this world, or any other—would call him Buck. It makes him giddy, and goosebumps crawl over his skin.
He sucks your clit, rolling it on his tongue, until you tug his hair to get him even closer to you. A deep growl bubbles up out of his chest, and it goes right to your pussy.
“Oh fuck, Bucky,” you gasp, “harder. More. God, please. Feels so good.”
He pulls his fingers out of your cunt, using them to spread your lips open and spears his tongue into your slit. His cool metal thumb moves to your clit, and the cold is a completely different sensation, though not unpleasant, and your hips buck.
“Fuck, yes. That feels so good. Don’t stop.” You tug his hair again to make him stay, as if there was a snowball’s chance in hell that he’d be anywhere else right now.
His scruffy beard burns your thighs and pussy lips, making you squirm. He snakes his arms around your thighs, and presses his palms over your stomach, holding you still so he can tongue fuck you with vigor.
You gasp and moan and curse, and it sounds like music to him. His cock is twitching and leaking, trapped between his stomach and your blanket, a hot, sticky puddle forming under him.
His tongue traces back up to your clit, making you whine, “Jesus, Bucky. I’m so—fuck—I’m so fucking close. God, ‘m gonna come,” you chant, “please, please, please.”
He slips three thick fingers into your pussy, and it pushes you over the edge. Your back bows up off the bed, and you fall apart, choking on his name, and coming on his fingers and face with a slick rush of fluid.
He finally comes up for air with a passionate curse. “Jesus fuck, kitten. Almost forgot how fucking pretty you sound when you come.”
Everything from his nose down is soaked and shiny with your juices. His hair is a mess from your fingers carding through it. He looks completely sinful when he crawls up your body, and it’s all manner of sexy when he captures your mouth in a kiss, and the taste of you fills your senses.
He takes his cock in hand and drags it through your folds. He growls at how hot and wet you are for him. He slowly starts pushing in, and you realize you’d forgotten how thick he was. Your eyes roll back in your head with a long groan as he stretches you. Your cunt makes the filthiest noise, and slick dribbles down your crack to soak into your bedspread as he fills you.
You’re both panting and sweaty by the time he bottoms out. You clench around him to relish the burn, and he growls a curse.
“Feel so full, Buck. God, you feel so amazing. So good. Please just move. Fuck me.” You know you’re babbling, but you’re powerless to stop while you’re impaled on Bucky’s dick like this.
He draws out of you slowly, making sure you feel every raw inch of his shaft, until it’s just the tip of his cock resting inside your entrance. He pushes back in hard and fast, slapping his hips against your ass, splitting you open and making you cry out his name.
He hooks your legs over his shoulders, and the new angle makes him feel even bigger, like you can feel him all the way in your throat. Each time his cock punches into you it knocks the breath out of your lungs, and all you can do is hold on for dear life while you melt underneath him.
He’s pounding into you, and everything is so intense you can’t form a coherent thought. Bucky's cock is driving plenty of noises out of you, but you couldn’t form words right now if you wanted to. He is not similarly afflicted though. He’s grunting all sorts of filth into your ear.
“Fuck kitten. So goddamn tight. Squeezing my cock so hard.”
“Fucking drenched, peach. My soaking wet fuck toy.”
“Taking my cock like a good girl.”
“Keep screaming for me, kitten. Gonna fill you fulla come.”
“Cunt feels so good. Want you to come on my cock,” the last one doesn’t feel like a statement, and when his thumb goes to your clit you know it for what it is—an order. “Now, Y/N. Come for me.”
You fall apart for him wailing his name so loud you’re glad you don’t have any neighbors close by. Your pussy gushes, soaking you and Bucky, filling the room with slick squelching sounds.
Bucky looks between your bodies, groaning at the way his cock is all shiny with your wetness.
“You got one more for me, doll?” he urges, “come one more time for me, like a good girl, and I’ll let you rest.”
You whimper, “‘S too much. I can’t.”
“You can. You’re such a good girl, I know you can.”
You whine a curse, and nod at Bucky. He smirks and coos praise at you. “There’s my girl. So good for me. Gonna make you drown my cock, kitten.”
Bucky rolls you both over so you’re above him. Now every roll of your hips drags his cock over your g-spot and immediately you feel a heaviness starts to settle in your core.
“Oh fuuuuuuck,” you groan. Hands going to Bucky’s chest to steady you, you sink your nails into his pectorals just to hear him hiss.
Bucky growls, “Mine. Fuck, kitten. You’re mine.”
The building weight crescendos and you orgasm sweeps over you, and you come all over Bucky, soaking his stomach and thighs with a hot rush of slick, and you keen, “Yours, yours, yours, oh fuck, ‘m yours.”
Your pussy clenches around him, sucking him back into your body, and he fucking whimpers, and the sound nearly makes you come again.
He plants his feet on the mattress, grabs your hips with a bruising grip, and fucks up into you hard and fast. Finally his hips falter, his rhythm stutters, and his cock swells and bucks inside of you, drenching your slick channel with come. Bucky fucks you through his orgasm, pushing cream out around his cock.
He pulls you down onto his chest and wraps himself around you, planting gentle kisses over your face and shoulders, whispering soft words of praise, punctuating each compliment with a kiss.
Eventually he rolls you over onto your pillow, and scoots off the bed, disappearing into the adjoining bathroom. He cleans himself up in the sink, and wets a washcloth with warm water. He uses the washcloth to gently clean you up, wiping sweat and come off your skin with the tenderest touch. Then he scoops you up with his vibranium arm so he can toss back the blankets with his other hand. He slides you in the bed and chases after you, wrapping the blankets around you both.
He’s on his side with the blanket tucked under his prosthetic arm. It’s not the first time you’ve seen it, but it’s the first time where you’ve felt comfortable enough to really focus on it.
“Y/N, why are you crying? Did I do something? Did I hurt you?” The flash of fear you see looks out of place in his cerulean eyes.
“No. You didn’t do anything wrong at all, Buck. It’s just-” you gesture at his shoulder, “Can I?”
“Of course,” his relief is nearly palpable, “anything you want, doll.”
You’ve got this brand new ache in your heart. You trace gingerly along the mass of scar tissue that surrounds his prosthetic shoulder joint. The scar is raised, and pink, and still so angry looking after all this time.
Quietly you ask, “Does it hurt?”
He confesses, “Sometimes. But it also lets me help people.” He tells you about how he ripped the door off an armored police van recently. People inside would have died without him, and it tested the limits of his endurance, but in the end, any discomfort he’d felt disappeared in a wash of relief when everyone inside of the van emerged unharmed because of him.
He cups your face with his vibranium hand and, for the first time, you notice the nearly imperceptible humming and whirring noises that issue from the arm.
He flexes, showing how the individual plates on the arm were able to reconfigure, to make the artificial muscles appear to flex, and how the plates are able to interlock in a way that make it nigh impossible to break his grip unless Bucky wills it.
“It’s really beautiful, Bucky. Truly a work of art.”
“Shuri really knocked it out of the park when she designed it. I’m not sure what I did to deserve the help of the Wakandans-”
“Bucky Barnes, listen to me,” you interject, taking his face in your hands, “you deserve the world. Do you hear me? I’ve thought so since the very first time I stitched you up, and my opinion about that hasn’t changed a single time in the last decade. And if you promise not to run away from me again, I’ll spend every moment we’re together making sure you don’t forget it.”
His eyes have gone a pure crystalline blue, and they’re filled with naked adoration. “No, petal. ‘M not going anywhere. Not anymore. I’m here as long as you’ll put up with me.”
Tears bite at your eyes, and you laugh past the lump in your throat. “How’s forever sound?”
“Pretty great, actually.” A smile breaks over his face like a wave. His eyes are a startling sky blue, and you’ve never seen him look this… happy.
You smooth a hand over his scruffy jaw, “I love you, Bucky.”
He leans into your palm, “I never thought I’d hear those words again, never thought I deserved to. I love you, Y/N. I’ve loved you since the first time I laid eyes on you.”
A heaviness is lifted from your heart, and replaced with the bright, earnest light of Bucky’s love and adoration. You see tears gather in his eyes and wonder if he feels similarly.
“So, petal, I hope you don’t have plans tomorrow.”
“Why? Are we going somewhere, Buck?”
“Delacroix, Louisiana. I’ve got some family I want you to meet.”
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luxeavenger · 14 hours ago
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MCU cast incorrect |58|
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