#i refuse to believe steve went back in time for some 1940s kitty kat and left his best friend behind

[ev-pierce-writes]

Doll

Pairing: Bucky Barnes (Winter Soldier) x F!Reader

Words: 7.7K

Rating: Very much 18+

Warnings: P in V, oral (fem receiving), light (consensual) choking, praise, James Buchanan Barnes is a sad boy and only you can make him happy, mutual therapy over past trauma, a couple light spanks, and some sexy sparring

Note: Reader had a run-in with Hydra that gave you invisibility powers. Bucky is tasked with training you. Totally not canon, I just kept the parts I liked. Got the idea from a tiktok but I can't find it anymore oops. I'm thinking of turning it into a series of all the places you can fuck Bucky Barnes at Avengers HQ. Enjoyyyyyy....

---

"Alright, so I'm thinking absolutely the first thing you need is a suit. Because we can't have you sneaking around in clothes that give you away."

Tony Stark and Peter Parker stand before you at Avengers HQ, furiously tossing ideas back and forth, trying to come up with ways to build you the best possible suit. Last night had been...interesting, to say the least.

"Who's that?" Stark had said when you appeared all of a sudden from your room. "Come on Agent Hill, don't tell me you're taking in lost kids nowadays."

Your mother had only laughed, slightly inebriated and feeling loose because of all the drinking that was going on in your penthouse apartment. She was hosting one of those parties where too many superpowers drank too much alcohol and got a little too rowdy. "That's my daughter."

Usually, you stay away from such events, go out with friends, and avoid the house until it's all over. For the past four years, you hadn't even been in the house to need to avoid it. But now you're 22 and a recent college graduate and something about the party was drawing you in so you had emerged from your hideaway to join in the fun.

"Alright, Maria, how'd you manage to keep that one a secret?" Romanov spoke up.

Until this point, you'd remained silent, in shock at the sudden attention a group of superheroes had focused onto you. But you couldn't help yourself from responding now. You'd managed to hide away long enough. It was time to come into the open.

"I'm a ghost," you said jokingly, approaching the couch and stealing the drink your mother had been drinking to take a sip. It was strong and burned on the way down. The group laughed at your words, unaware of how true they really were.

It was then that you'd performed your little trick, the one that only a few of your closest friends had ever seen. You became invisible.

The laughter had immediately stopped. The girl who suddenly appeared out of thin air had disappeared right back into it. They could still tell where you were of course. The glass in your hand remained visible, floating in mid-air, giving away your position. And your clothes were still perceptible, not being able to change with you. But your features were otherwise undetectable, not even a shimmer revealing your face. You took another sip of the drink, liquid disappearing into an invisible mouth.

"I want her. On the team," Stark had said.

And that was it. The start of your superhero career.

"Explain again exactly how this works?" Parker asks.

You sigh and start from the beginning, again. "I can distort the absorption wavelengths of my cells so that the reflected light is in the invisible range, usually infrared."

"And how long can you hold it for?"

"About seven minutes now," you explain. "It's sort of like holding your breath. You can go underwater for a while, and you can practice holding your breath longer and longer, but eventually, you need to come up for air. Eventually, I have to 'recharge.' But I've been working on extending it."

Stark turns to one of the many holograms of his supercomputer, working with Friday to design a brand new suit to accommodate your skills. You're so engrossed in watching his process you don't even notice the shadowy figure appear in the doorway that leads to the training facilities.

"How'd you get these powers? Agent Hill isn't lacking in skill but it certainly isn't supernatural."

You knew Stark's question would come up eventually. It always did. Over time, it became easier to tell the story, but now you really don't feel like explaining fully, so you tell the short version.

"Hydra. When I was seventeen. They used me as a bargaining chip against my mom in a mission gone wrong and decided to experiment on me in the process. Left me with a lot of scars and a lot of therapy. Almost dropped out of school."

You don't remember much from the experience. But enough for it to leave lasting damage.

"Hydra?" a familiar voice asks behind you. Only now do you notice that Barnes is behind you. How long has he been watching?

You remain silent, just like you did the night before when he'd arrived late to the party, unable to speak under his gaze.

You had planned to leave not long after you joined the festivities. But when the elevator doors opened, a pair of blue eyes halted you in your path. James Buchanan Barnes, the Winter Soldier. You'd recognize those eyes anywhere. Crystal clear and icy, freezing you under their gaze. He wore a leather jacket and leather gloves, concealing his metal arm, but you knew it was there, hiding behind the layers.

Barnes had always been the one that caught your eye during your mother's briefings. His transition from the greatest warrior Hydra had to offer, and thus S.H.I.E.L.D.'s greatest enemy, to the trusted companion of Captain America and official Avengers member intrigued you. At first, he had been more of a schoolgirl crush, the little girl grappling with her new powers seeking guidance in someone who didn't even know she existed. But age had not reduced your admiration of him. Barnes' face was hard set in serious determination and his glance barely grazed over you before turning to the rest of the group. He paid you not a single ounce of attention, yet you felt dumbstruck in his presence.

But Bucky had noticed you that night. Noticed you in a way he wanted desperately to hide, so he disallowed his eyes from lingering on you. Who were you and why were you wearing pajamas at a party and how did you make them actually look good?

And not only did he notice you, but he recognized you. He wasn't sure how, but something at the back of his head buried beneath decades of blurred half-memories told him he knew you. It was a stupid thought, though. How could he know you?

From the doorway, his eyes narrow in concern, making you feel smaller than ever beneath him. How is that 5 o'clock shadow so enticing? You just want to run your fingers across--

Stark gestures at Barnes, completely ignoring his comment. "Good, you're here. Our young Agent Hill needs to get started with her training immediately. I want her in the field but she can't be going in inexperienced. Teach her the works."

It's rather bold of Stark to assume you have no combat skills. And to assume you even want to go into the field. But you follow behind Barnes in silence anyway toward the training facilities. It doesn't matter what you know and don't know. He's going to kick your ass anyway.

"Feet wider," he says, coaching you on your swing. His blue eyes have somehow darkened, and along with the faint beard, he looks positively dangerous. "Not too wide."

"I know how to punch, Barnes," you whisper under your breath. He's not meant to hear your words, but he does anyway.

"Oh yeah? Punch me then. Go for it." His voice is challenging in the way that reveals he knows he could block any swing that comes at him. But he wants to see what will happen. Your mention of Hydra loosened a memory in his brain somewhere, and though he can't quite place his finger on it, the memory told him you're anything but the kid he's treating you like. He wants to know what you really have inside you.

Your annoyance gets the best of you. You aim for his face, the way your mother taught you. And she taught you well, teaching you all the self-defense skills you might need moving through the world as a woman. But she did not teach you how to fight super soldiers. That's an entirely different world.

Unsurprisingly, Barnes predicts your move and his metal arm comes up to meet your human one, halting your punch mid-swing. His palm fully engulfs your fist, your knuckles slamming into the metal with a ringing sound.

"Fuck, that hurt," you seethe through your teeth, gripping your hand in pain. And yet, you still smile. You mean for your words to sound irritated, but they betray how much you enjoy getting a swing in. "Didn't have to do me like that, Barnes."

He ignores your pain, though secretly it pleases him to find how much force is truly behind your punch. Nothing, of course, his metal arm can't take, but strong enough. "Language, kid. Go again. And this time, try not to be so obvious."

Despite his advice, it's impossible. He predicts every one of your strikes and counters them with four times as much strength as you possess. You give him everything you have, and nothing lands.

"This would be a lot easier if you let me use my powers."

So far, Barnes has refused to let you fight invisible, not that it would have done you much good without a proper suit. But you're tired and sweaty, your hair falling from its ponytail and sticking to your face, your muscles aching and your heart beating fast. Barnes hasn't even broken a sweat.

"Unless you learn to fight without your powers, they'll do nothing more than level the playing field. You need to be at an advantage if you're going to survive."

Survive. You've done plenty of that already. You want better than survival. Barnes recognizes the look on your face, the one that expresses the desire plainly. He knows the feeling, drifting from one day to the next and wanting more than that.

His voice softens a bit. "We can call it quits for the day. Get some rest. We'll go again tomorrow."

He didn't intend to be so kind. It just sort of happened, drawn out of him by the not-so-innocent girl who still has a lot to learn but can hold her own better than most.

---

Tomorrow. Tomorrow's8 like the day before, 9 am at HQ, wait for Parker to get his ass up the elevator so Stark can begin, get sidetracked by coffee, and then finally return to the task at hand.

"Give this a shot," Stark says, handing you what looks like nothing more than a vaguely human-shaped paper suit. "Not exactly protective, but it's a new technology. Should conform to your abilities."

"You did this overnight?"

"Of course. Get changed."

The suit has little support and definitely no protection. You feel like a fingernail could rip a hole through it if you pull on it wrong, let alone a knife coming at you from an angry enemy. But it's a start. An impressive start. You stare at yourself in the mirror of the bathroom as you shift, the suit shifting along with you.

Back in the training facilities, where you know Stark and Parker will be waiting, you remain in your shifted form. They don't look up as you enter, somehow having not heard you, and instead are engaged in a heated discussion with Barnes about something you don't understand. So you creep up behind Parker, lean in, and whisper into his ear.

"I think it works."

You feel a little bad, but only for a moment. Parker jumps straight out of his skin, screaming a scream you didn't know was possible from the kid. Stark lets out a laugh as you rematerialize, and Barnes even cracks a smile at your prank.

"Yeah, yeah, I'd say so." Parker's voice quivers.

"Well, what do you think?" Stark asks.

"Very thin," you say, aware that much more is visible than you really want. "I feel like it's going to rip at any moment. And there's not a whole lot of support in this area."

You gesture vaguely at your chest, not knowing how best to explain to a group of men that a sports bra is a necessity for fighting, but knowing you have to make them aware all the same. You can feel Barnes' eyes on you, a little less polite than the others, and you find you like the way he eyes you up, a bit like a puzzle to be solved or a strategy to be devised.

"Right, right, I'll get on that. Only a prototype anyway," Stark responds nervously. "Back to work, Parker. Hill, Barnes, back to training."

Bucky tries his best not to picture what you might look like without that suit, but it leaves little to the imagination as you saunter away to change again.

And so the days move forward. You've never before been so busy or exhausted in your life. You just graduated college, which is a feat in itself, but all the training, all the work, keeps you on your toes so that by the end of the day, both your brain and your body are tired.

Still, you improve and get better at sparring Barnes, even taking him down a couple of times on your own, though you suspect he's going easy on you.

"Again." Barnes is already on his feet and helping you to yours. Today the sparring room is particularly warm, and you've long forgone your sweats for shorts and a sports bra. Barnes has lost the shirt as well, and his chest glistens with sweat beneath the fluorescent lights. Maybe it's the heat or maybe it's him, but the whole thing feels a bit dreamlike. Here you are, sparring with a man who could take you to the ground with one arm alone, and he's letting you kick his ass every once in a while.

But there's no way you can do it again. You feel destroyed by all the slamming onto the mat.

Barnes is doing his best not to be distracted as well, but those tight shorts and the top that reveals your midriff have to be on purpose. It's easy to admit to himself that he likes you, might even be attracted to you. You fight hard and relentlessly, rising to every one of his challenges and not backing down even when you're tired. You've already come a long way since that first encounter, and Barnes has come to look forward to the two hours a day you spend together in the gym. He had tried to tell himself it was the fun of having a new sparring partner, but in truth, he knows it's the determined glint in your eyes, the way you bounce on your feet in excited anticipation of the fight, the way you collapse on the mat after a hard session, chest heaving deep breaths in and out. But what he likes most is your heated gaze when he pins you to the ground, or even better, you pin him.

"Knock me down one more time and you can be done," he challenges. The familiar determination returns, though a flicker of doubt remains behind your eyes. He can tell you need encouragement. "Remember to use your size to your advantage. Don't let me get ahead of you. Keep me guessing."

You do your best. You really do. You hold your own for almost two minutes, but it's obvious you're only barely staying ahead of him. As soon as you falter, Barnes has you flat on your back on the mat without much resistance, immobilized by a knee on your thighs and his metal arm trapping your hands over your head. His free hand plants by your head and holds him up to prevent him from actually hurting you.

You gasp underneath him, trying to disguise the weird flicker of desire with breathlessness. He looks good from down here, all sweaty and dark and serious. But you're also a bit too tired to care. "I'm out, Barnes. Let me go."

Let me go. Please.

And that's when the memory returns. The full, real memory, the one that has been tickling the edges of his brain since he first saw you. You, a kid, his mission. Kidnap, don't kill. A small voice, your voice, begging. Please, let me go. What has he done?

"Fuck," he curses under his breath, standing up quickly.

"Language, Barnes," you say teasingly. But he doesn't laugh, simply exits the sparring room, abruptly leaving you, speechless and alone on the floor. What just happened?

After a moment of confused silence on the mat, you brush it off and stand, heading to your room for a shower. Stark offered you a place to stay at HQ, and you happily agreed. Though you loved being back with your mother after four years away at college, you cherish your independence. A room at HQ offered you just that.

A nice shower would certainly make you feel better after that confusing interaction. You pull on your robe and shower shoes, leaving your clothes behind so as to carry one less thing. But as you pass down the hall toward the showers, you can hear Barnes' voice drift through the slightly open door to his room.

"I remembered," he says. "It was her. I'm the reason she's--" He cuts off, appearing to be interrupted by whoever he's talking to on the phone. You pause by the open door.

"I know that's not me anymore but I'm still responsible," he continues. "I have to tell her."

Again a pause. By now it's apparent he's talking about you.

"No, Steve, we aren't a team. We aren't partners. I'm helping Tony out. I don't care if she doesn't want to work with me anymore, this is part of my redemption. I have to tell her."

The conversation seems over. You rush to the showers, not wanting Barnes to realize you were listening the whole time. Apologize, he said. Apologize for what? You've known him for a whole of four days and he's been nothing but polite to you. Cold, at first, but he warms upon acquaintance. And then he's downright sweet.

So sweet, you realize, for someone so damaged. He has every right to hate the world, and though he walks through it with a healthy dose of cynicism, he never lets that cynicism touch you. If anything, he's outright positive around you, an undeserving brat. A kid, really, though you don't like when he calls you that. You know you can be naive, positive on the verge of artificiality, and yet he never tries to burst your bubble. In fact, he seems to relish it.

The shower feels nice, but it does nothing to assuage your fears. Maybe it's you who has done something wrong? Now you're spiraling. You have to find out what's going on or it's going to drive you crazy.

You know what you have to do. You have just about seven minutes of invisibility before your shifting gives out. In those seven minutes, you can duck from the showers, sneak into Barnes' room, snoop around, and make it back to the showers unseen. Plenty of time. But you have to go nude. Now would be a great time for the suit, but no such luck. Naked it is.

Out in the hallway, all is quiet. Barnes' door is still ajar, but when you peek your head in, the room is empty.

Easy.

Where to start? His phone is a dead end, being one of those ancient flipping kinds rather than a new, high-tech smartphone. He has few personal belongings, the bed is made perfectly, and his closet contains only clothes.

The drawers of the nightstand are empty. Or nearly empty. At the back of the top drawer is unceremoniously shoved a small booklet with a pen stuck between the pages. It's worn and supple, as though held a thousand times and read a thousand more. You flip through, finding a list of names, some crossed out, others not. Your name does not appear, but something about the list tells you these are not ordinary names. These are the names of his victims, people Barnes hurt as the Winter Soldier. Your heart aches and your stomach clenches, the reminder of his past jarring against the kind demeanor you've come to know. But deep down, you know this isn't him, know he's a good man, despite it all.

You know better than most the first-hand horrors of Hydra's super-soldier experiments. Of anyone, you can relate best to the experience Barnes has been through. Your memories of that long week are blurry, but the pain remains, forever seared into your mind. You can only imagine a lifetime of that pain.

The sound of the door opening jolts you from your reverie and you close the drawer quickly. But you soon realize your mistake. Barnes would know he left the door open, would know exactly how he placed his book in the drawer, would recognize something was off. Unfortunately, you're right.

"Hello?" he calls into the darkening room. The evening is coming on fast and the sun dims to barely glimmer, casting the space in shadow despite the large windows on the south wall.

Bucky knows something is off the moment he finds your room unoccupied, having gone there with the express purpose of confronting you about his actions earlier in the afternoon. And though he has no way of truly knowing, he suspects you are now here, in this room with him, invisible to his gaze. Bucky shuts the door behind him and waits.

You're trapped. You don't have long before your powers give out; already the suffocating feeling that begs you to take a breath is coming on. And Barnes has closed the door, effectively sealing you in, as you can't open it without him knowing for sure that you're here. On top of that, you're clothingless. You've run out of options and Barnes seems to sense this. So, he waits, drawing out the moment of tension, building the suspense.

"I know you're here," he says finally, his voice soft and barely audible. "You can't hide that well. Next time, dry your feet off before you go leaving wet footprints all over the place."

Oops.

"I--" you begin, and immediately Barnes' eyes snap to where your voice originates from. "I'm sorry. I overheard your conversation with Rogers. I shouldn't have but I know it was about me."

Barnes sighs, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Yeah, you're right. I have some things to explain. Though I'd much prefer talking to you if I could see you."

You hesitate. "Only a slight problem there. I'm not wearing any clothes."

If it had been any lighter in the room you would have seen Barnes blush. Instead, you watch him pull his shirt over his head. He hands it to you blindly, the shirt off his own back, soft with wear and long enough to cover the tops of your thighs. It smells of him, salty with sweat and sweet with the scent you've come to recognize only as him. You shrug it on and shift back.

"I'm sorry," you say again, having trouble concentrating with Barnes' bare chest at your eye level. Is that an old bullet wound on his shoulder? The reminder of a knife across his stomach? You can't look away, even at the seam where man meets metal.

Barnes shakes his head. "No, I should be the one apologizing."

He pauses for a moment and tries to begin several times before finally forming a complete sentence.

"It's my fault you're like this, that Hydra tested on you. It was me who kidnapped you, it was me who followed orders, it was me who completed the mission and got you hurt. And I'm so sorry."

You're so frozen in shock that the absurdity of the situation doesn't even register. There's nothing under this shirt, no underwear, no pants, no bra. And here you are standing in the bedroom of your greatest inspiration, listening to him apologize for being the one that facilitated your kidnapping, for being responsible for all the injury, the pain, the nightmares, the isolation, the...

It all comes flooding back, the things you had forgotten, or simply chose to not remember, and one of those things is his face.

You thought you'd dealt with impact. So many hours with a therapist, and you realize all you did was suppress the feelings, not confront them. And then you break, all the anger and sadness and frustration flowing from you at once.

"You piece of shit." Your voice begins as a whisper but soon amplifies nearly to a shout. "You monster, you bastard, how could you? How could you?"

All this time you forgave him for the damage he'd done, excused it as brainwashing and manipulation from Hydra. But now that it's you he's involved, you have somewhere to direct your anger, and you take it out as a shove straight to his chest.

He didn't expect that one. The words he understood. He accepted those, accepted that you would hate him forever. But then you're pushing and hitting him with all your force. Barnes could fight back, could hold his ground. But you need this, so he lets you shove him into the wall with a newfound strength. Finally against the wall, with nowhere left to go, you turn to pummelling his chest with your fists, repeating the words over and over, how could you, how could you, how could you.

For a moment, he lets it happen. But eventually, Barnes reacts, grabbing your wrists and holding them to his chest in an attempt to calm the fury that rages inside you. Surprisingly, at his touch, you still, slumping against him once the anger is replaced with nothing but sadness. That anger, one you never truly realized you'd harbored since your capture, bled from you all at once, leaving you exhausted.

You don't notice you're crying until a soft thumb wipes a tear from your cheek. Barnes releases your hands and wraps his arms around your sobbing body, pulling you close. "I'm so sorry," he repeats in your ear, his words a whisper against the rage inside your head.

Is it hours, or only minutes, standing like that, wrapped up in him, his skin so soft against your cheek? Time has ceased to exist, melting into the nighttime that encompasses the room in near pitch-black darkness. Your breath calms, your heart rate slows, the tears dry. He's only a man, a broken, misplaced, lost man. But he's also impossibly kind to you, caring enough to train you day after day, to pick you up when you fall down, to ensure you're happy here at all times. That's the man you know and rest your cheek against and seek out for comfort in this moment, despite him being the reason for your anger. But he's not truly the reason for your anger, only an easy outlet standing right before you.

This is not how Bucky had expected this to go. Perhaps to never see you again, yes. But to hold you in his arms, certainly not. And not just hold you, but comfort you. It surprises him how much he finds he likes it. And he can't ignore the fact that you're here in his room, wearing his shirt and only his shirt. He doesn't try anything improprietous, just wraps his arms around your waist, but it's not lost on him that your supple chest is pressed against him and the delicious scent from your still wet hair is filling his brain with a flowery cloud. His stomach clenches at the thought of burying his face in that smell for the rest of the night but he pushes it aside. That's not why you're here. That's not what you want.

But your next words surprise him. You pull slightly away, tilting your splotchy face upward towards his to look him in the eye. You take a ragged breath and speak.

"I forgive you."

Bucky is taken aback. That's not why he made this confession, not to seek your forgiveness. "You don't have to do that."

"I know. But I do. And I know you think I'm just a kid--"

Barnes lets out a short laugh, cutting you off immediately. "Jesus Christ, that's not true. You're not a kid. You're smart and strong and capable. And you've seen the ugly world for its true self and choose to remain good and happy all the same. I'm not like that and that makes you wiser than I'll ever be."

He takes a deep breath, unsure if he should admit to the feelings he desperately wants to express to you. The way you're looking at him, with a mixture of hesitation and admiration, makes the words tumble from his mouth without a second thought.

"But somehow being around you makes me want to be good again. Not for my sake, but for yours."

"James, I--" You've never used his first name before, but it falls deliciously from your lips, the sound of it nearly distracting him from the finger you run across the stubble on the cleft of his chin. Nearly. He captures that hand in his own, holding it there against his face.

"You don't have to forgive me. I don't deserve it," he repeats, eyes falling shut to the feeling of your thumb pressed to the corner of his lips. He still holds you close, the other arm wrapping tight around you, and though verbally he rejected the comfort your warmth offered, his body says otherwise, desperate for the acceptance his brain refuses to give into.

"Stop punishing yourself," you whisper. For a moment, he almost feels that he could.

And when your lips find his, soft and delicate, he forgets why you're even here in the first place, forgets his guilt and your anger, forgets even to react.

His lack of response has you pulling away, worried you've done something wrong, but then he's chasing your lips with his own, leaning forward to meet you halfway, gathering you impossibly tighter to his chest. He pauses, mouth mere centimeters from yours, eyes still shut, a deep breath heaving from his chest. He wants more, wants to kiss you again in all the places that count, but he can't quite yet.

"What was that for?" The question's not an accusatory one but simply curious. Have you always looked at him in this light since day one? Has he just not noticed?

"Are you blind, Barnes?"

He laughs and shakes his head. "None of that last name shit, doll, we've moved on to a first-name basis."

But your words are enough to surge him forward, this time capturing your lips in a dominating kiss that leaves you gasping for air. He takes advantage of your open mouth and presses his tongue to yours, seeking to fill his soul with your all-consuming warmth, to wrap it around him like a cocoon of your scent. His fingers slide down your back and slip under the shirt you wear, his shirt, grasping at the bare skin of your ass, filling his hands with your supple flesh.

You moan softly under his touch, relishing in the feeling of being encompassed by someone so large and so strong. The vibranium arm, which you expected to be harshly indelicate against your relative fragility, caresses you with the same gentility of the other. The intense contact sends your heart racing like it did all the times you were pinned below him on the sparring mat. Will he pin you like that in bed? Hold you down while he fucks you within an inch of your life?

The thought rouses a heat between your legs and stirs butterflies in your tummy. You don't even know if that's where this is going, but it invades your brain anyways. You're sure Barnes can feel your racing pulse beneath his lips when he kisses your neck, sending your nerves haywire as he creeps toward the neckline of your shirt. He inhales your scent, the hot air of his breath fanning your cool skin.

Everything about this is sloppy, the wet kisses dragged across your skin, his tongue tangled with yours, your fingers tugging at the hair that brushes the nape of his neck. Even his hips against yours are messy and rough, the heat of him leaving your core feeling slick, the wetness of it rubbing between your naked thighs. And then Barnes is sliding his hands back up your body, this time under your shirt, and tugging it over your head, his lips leaving your skin just long enough to toss the item to the ground.

You expect him to keep surging forward, to lift you in his arms and take you to bed like you want him to. But he pauses instead, hands cradling the back of your head, his eyes staring intensely into yours. Or you think he's staring into your eyes.

"Are you okay? Is this okay?" His voice is full of concern but raspy with arousal all the same.

"Yes, James, yes, I need more."

"Well, I would, it's just that you've disappeared on me again." One look at your hands and you know he was looking right through you, not at you. The swirl of emotions--pleasure, arousal, timidity even--sent you shifting without your knowledge. You can't help but laugh.

"Let me see you, doll," he groans, sounding exasperated that he can't rake his gaze across your naked flesh or find all the places he wants to touch you because they're invisible.

"You first."

A heated understanding lights up his eyes, still vibrant in the darkness of the room. Slowly, he releases his grip on you, relenting to not knowing where you are in space. You take an invisible step back to get a better view of the specimen before you. With one hand, he unbuckles his belt, sliding the leather from his pants and dropping it to the floor with a thunk. And then his pants are gone and he's left in his boxers, tight against the bulging muscles of his thighs.

And other bulging things. He doesn't hide his attraction to you. But still, you do not reappear.

Bucky begins to worry you're never going to, that maybe he's taken things too for. But then, a soft finger trails across his neck and he jerks in surprise. You're tracing the plain of his chest with a feather-light touch, dipping into the indent between his collarbones, feeling along the puckered scar of a bullet wound and the long slice of a knife. He feels healed beneath your touch, but it's not enough to satisfy the insatiable hunger building in the tightness of his groin. This entire evening has been a long, drawn-out, build-up of tension, and if he doesn't release it soon, it will snap like an overstretched rubber band.

He makes his move.

Apparently, Bucky's senses are just as perceptive here as they are on the sparring mat. His metal hand shoots up and wraps around the wrist of the hand on his chest, despite being unable to see it. The other reaches out and grapples at your invisible body in the dark, somehow finding your waist. He doesn't need to see you to manage to flip you around and press your back against his chest. In your surprise, your invisibility falters, and you flicker out of your shifted form with a flustered squeak, one hand suddenly pinned between your back and Bucky's rock-hard chest.

He holds on with an iron grip and walks you toward the bed, holding you up to prevent you from tripping in your ruffled state.

"You're taking too long, doll," he mumbles into your ear, and you feel his chest rumble with the vibrations. Your free hand flies to the one around your waist, which is slowly creeping upward toward your breast to twist at the sensitive nipple. "I know you like it when I pin you on the sparring floor. I can see it in your eyes. I'll take you like that right now if you give me the word."

Fuck, you want nothing more but you can't breathe enough to get the words out, opting for nodding vigorously instead. But Bucky wants words, gently prodding you forward to get a verbal commitment out of you. He will never take you against your will again. So you manage a long, drawn-out please and suddenly you're face-first in the sheets, bent halfway at the waist, your ass grinding against the delicious bulge pressed against your aching cunt. It pleases you that he has been thinking the same wicked thoughts as you when he slams you to the mat over and over again in training.

Bucky pulls your arm out from underneath you, joining it with the other and holding them together with his metal fist at your lower back, forcing your chest further into the mattress and your ass higher in the air. There's no way for you to move, no matter how hard you try. But you don't try, won't try. Bucky has you right where you want to be.

"Tell me if it's too much," he murmurs in your ear and you breathe an affirmation. His teeth nibble suddenly at your ear lobe and you squirm, the sensation of his breath fanning your skin sending goosebumps along the trail of kisses he leaves down your spine. Somehow, you know this is only the calm before the storm, the gentle caresses of a man who's about to rearrange every organ in your body, all the way up to your heart if you aren't careful.

It doesn't matter to you that it's pitch black in the room; you wouldn't have been able to see anything with your face shoved into the comforter, even if the lights were on. But Bucky's starting to regret having left the lights off, wishing he could better see the curve of your hips, the swell of your thighs, or the bloom of his handprint on your ass when his hand comes down with a smack. He resigns to being satisfied by the mewling gasp that escapes your lips and your soft pleas to Do it again, harder.

So he does. Smack.

And then he's sinking to his knees and you can tell because he leaves a wet stripe of skin with his tongue over the globe of your ass and blows a shock of cool air across the rawness of your skin.  He replaces the sting of his hand with the bite of his teeth and then a kiss to soothe you again. The rollercoaster of sensations has you moaning against the mattress and rocking your hips toward his face and Barnes chuckles at your movement, your actions giving away the desperation you feel to have his tongue move to more sensitive places.

He is happy to oblige. You hadn't even noticed you'd been squeezing your thighs together until he slid a hand up between them, forcing them apart. It's a blessing your legs aren't doing any work to keep you up anymore because they feel like jelly under his touch. The hand between your thighs moves higher still until you feel his thumb pressed to your sensitive clit, warm and twitching with anticipation, desire coursing through your veins and dripping from your wet cunt. Your ears barely register that he's speaking, the blood is pumping so hard in your ears, but his words are exalting.

"Look at you, so wet for me." The hand around your wrists tightens just slightly. You are surprised by the extreme control he has over the cool metal fingers, and you almost wish he'd use those on you instead. And then he says, "you like it, don't you, doll, being at my mercy," and you forget all about the arm and decide it doesn't matter what hand presses down with a gentle strength on your clit as long as he doesn't stop. And he doesn't. Doesn't move, doesn't flinch or twitch or falter, just holds steady until your gasping mewls die down just enough for you to say, "yes, all for you, all for you, all..."

With those words, his thumb slips, between your slick folds into your pussy, finding the soft spongy flesh and pressing down again and you cry out with a careening moan that tapers off into a silent sob. He's taking his time, picking you apart, pulling at the laces that bind you together, and undoing them to release the tension he knows you harbor. But what about him? Is it not torture for him?

You breathe in a rough gasp, enough to squeak out a few more words. "I thought we were going too slow for you."

He laughs, he actually laughs, at your words, but relents.

"I hear you, doll."

I hear you. Oh wow. His tongue replaces his finger and you lose all coherence, able only to blubber some iteration of his name as the smooth muscle traces circles around your clit, finally allowing your orgasm to build with a steady contraction in your pelvis. Barnes moans between your legs like he's never tasted chocolate or buttercream or any of those other wondrous flavors and there's only you. And that moan sends you overboard, the vibrations diffusing down your legs and you tremble into your first orgasm. Your first orgasm.

He keeps going, riding out the waves of your high until you're crying that it's too much, James, too much and he pulls his tongue away from your oversensitized clit only to move down your legs. He's working you up again, teasing the smooth skin of your inner thigh with gentle nips and kisses until your body is craving release again, your cunt clenching around nothing but the memory of his mouth. He is deliberate in his ministrations, methodical in the way he must be with his missions. The flood of your first orgasm has dripped steadily down your thigh and he cleans you with his tongue, dragging upward along the sticky trail of your musky release until his tongue makes contact again and he pulls an orgasm from your desperate body once more.

He still hasn't released your arms.

"You know how long I've wanted to do this?" he groans, as you shudder again into the pleasure of his touch. He kisses back up the length of your spine while you twitch under him, his free hand dragging shock wave after shock wave from your cunt. It strikes you that this man is truly 106, not 26 like his body suggests, and you absentmindedly wonder if that's why he's so good at it, that he's had years to practice. And then his cock is pressing against your folds and you forget the notion halfway through thinking it. "You're so good to me doll, so good for opening up for me. Wanna feel your tight pussy around me."

You push backward, or do your best to without the employment of your arms, wanting desperately to feel him inside you. He is warm and all-encompassing and part of you thinks his cock spilling his seed inside of you would complete you like nothing else. But you know that's a bad idea and you can hear him already unwrapping a condom (where did he get that from?) and your body trembles with the anticipation. You haven't even seen him yet but you know he must be big, the way he grunts when the tip of his erection teases your entrance.

When he enters you it isn't gentle like the stroke of his tongue. It splits you open with a rough thrust, the laces of your heart fully undone and releasing you from their confinement. You choke on your own air.

And then he's releasing your arms, and before you can react, Barnes has you lifted, your back to his chest, your knees shoved roughly into the mattress so he can stand and fuck you from behind. The metal arm finds your neck and forces your head back, his lips dragging hot against your soft skin and muttering filthy praise into your ear, his hand gently on your throat to hold you there. Your hands fly to his, not to pull him away, but to convince him to squeeze, just a little bit harder. The pressure is grounding, and then the hand around your waist is trailing toward the bud of your clit and rubbing in urgent circles and you let out a silent gasp as he thrusts into you at a pace astounding for the position you're in.

You come hard, over his hand, around his cock, and for the first time Barnes falters, stunned by the intensity with which you clamp around him and if he hadn't made you come two times already he might have held out a bit longer to pull another one of those stunning orgasms from your slick cunt. But you're sagging, using him to hold you up against the exhaustion of repeated abuse so he releases, riding the wave of pleasure you started. Bucky groans out your name, surprising you with the gentleness of it on his tongue despite the rough hand around your neck.

When he releases you softly back onto the bed, you sink heavily into the mattress, feeling high on pleasure and drunk on his hands. He pulls away and shuffles around the room, and if you had had any energy left you might have complained at the loss of him but as it sits nothing will rouse you from the intense desire to simply fall asleep.

He continues to move about and then... the lights go on? You groan at the harsh treatment of your eyes as they adjust. But Barnes returns and pulls you against him and apologizes for the rude awakening.

"Sorry, doll," he mutters. "Wanted to get a better look at you." His fingers glide along your back and his face nuzzles into the top of your head, breathing into your hair as you press your forehead into his chest. Despite being exhausted himself he trails his hands all over your body, exploring the side of you that has been shoved into the sheets for the better part of the evening. You let him, although your nerves feel fried and oversensitive to touch.

"Watch what you do with those hands," you giggle as his fingertips brush over a nipple, "unless you're ready to go again."

"Already looking forward to next time?"

"You wish," you tease, but already you know for certain that there will be a next time.

#bucky barns x reader #bucky barnes #winter solider fanfiction #bucky barnes smut #winter solider smut #definitely not canon #i refuse to believe steve went back in time for some 1940s kitty kat and left his best friend behind #tony and nat are alive bc they are the only truly valuable characters #sebastian stan #also youre the daughter of agent hill #bucky fanfic #bucky x reader #winter soldier #wEiNeR sOlDiEr

[ev-pierce-writes]

The Challenge

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader

Words: 5 k

Rating: 18+ only (here children have a fruit snack *yeet*)

Summary: It's been a while (aka a few days) and you're both getting antsy. So it becomes a competition, of course.

Warnings: various forms of dirtiness, light choking (because he has a metal arm why not), and... self-denial? Idek if that's a thing but it is now.

A/N: This is technically a continuation of "Doll" but you don't really need to read it first (that's how little plot there is in this). Reader has invisibility powers.

___

Is this what withdrawal is? Barnes usually can't keep his hands off you but it's been six days since he touched you in any meaningful way and it's driving you mad.

It's not because you and Barnes haven't fucked since that night. It's because you have. The more nights he spends in your bed and the more nights you spend in his, the harder it gets to spend them alone.

And the withdrawal is not for lack of trying. He corners you in the hallway and slides a hand up your thigh only to have some member of IT walk by and ruin the moment. Or he follows you to the showers after your workout just to find it already occupied and giving neither of you privacy. And every night there's been something--Stark needing your help, Parker with a million questions, an errand for your mom--and every night you go to bed exhausted but so very unsatisfied. It's almost as if at the very moment you fall into an easy rhythm with someone the universe decides it's too much and you need to pay for the pleasure she's given you.

Sparring releases about half the tension that sparks between you two like an electrical cloud. It threatens to shatter the windows with shockwaves if it isn't tended to immediately. But the sparring is only just barely enough to tide you over until the next day.

Now that he knows, has confirmation of the fact, that you think about the way he fucks you into the mattress every time he pins you to the mat, Barnes has stopped letting you win. You barely get the opportunity to stand before he slams you to the ground again in some position or another, either with your hands pinned overhead or your face shoved into the ground.

"Again," he says, "again," disguising his intentions with thinly veiled excuses that you need to level up your training.

Eventually, it makes you tired. Not muscle tired, that would come regardless, but brain tired, from the thoughts of him constantly battering to the forefront of your mind with no outlet for release. When you're apart you wonder when you'll see him next and when you're near you wonder when you'll get to fuck him again. You're not exactly sure how it got to this point but his hunger is as insatiable as yours without that release.

Which is why it shouldn't surprise you when he finally breaks. Is it smackdown number six? Or is it seven, when he lands a blow to your stomach, knocks you forward off your feet, and rolls you onto your back to immobilize you? You groan in pain and frustration, your heavy breath puffing across Barnes' face.

He closes his eyes tight like he's the one in pain. "You have to stop making those sounds, doll. Driving me mad with that pretty mouth of yours."

"You're the one knocking me down, Barnes. I've got so many bruises I can't even count them  anymore."

"I thought you liked getting a little rough."

You flush pink, dazed and speechless as his eyes open again and bear down into yours with a familiar intensity. You wiggle your hands to test the strength with which he's holding your wrists but they don't budge, only succeeding at making you squirm like a dying fish.

"This is crazy."

"Yeah, it is," he says, and then his gaze is flickering to your lips and it gives you just enough warning to suck in an anticipatory breath before Barnes is crashing his lips to yours and unleashing the beast of temptation. You respond, just as greedy, with a bite to his lower lip that pulls a growl from his hungry mouth.

He wastes no more time in holding you down; instead, he lets go of your hands to push roughly at your sports bra, lips still locked to yours. Barnes doesn't even remove the thing, just shoves it far enough up to reveal your chest and trap your arms overhead with the unyielding material. His hands are everywhere at once, spreading across your stomach, cupping the soft tissue of your breast, twisting one nipple and then the other. He leaves your lips behind to latch on, nibbling and sucking at the tender buds of flesh to make you squirm even more.

A choked cry leaves your lips. If anyone were to walk in right now...

And then a hand is down the front of your spandex where you know you aren't wearing underwear, because who wears underwear under spandex, and his fingers are gliding through your folds. Barnes sucks in a ragged breath at finding you so wet and warm from the exercise and he starts finger fucking you right there, in the middle of the training room, like he's willing to risk getting caught if it means he can make you orgasm.

This time it's quick and rushed but no less glorious, the way he expertly circles your clit with a finger and attends to the sensitive peaks of your chest with his tongue. He matches every one of your moans with one of his own, so lost in the thrill of finally touching you again that he doesn't care if you're being loud. Swiftly and suddenly you're coming hard around his fingers, gasping his name, eyes rolled to the back of your head. You're gorgeous, he thinks.

Barnes pulls his hand away once you've stopped bucking beneath him and looks into your eyes. He shoves his fingers in his mouth and sucks at the slick remnants of you, groaning with delight like your taste is enough to satisfy his insatiable hunger, and then kisses you to share in the ecstasy.

And then he stands, helping you to your feet and readjusting your clothes.

"I'll see you later," he says and leaves you standing alone on the sparring mat.

"You don't--that's...what?" You're left speechless and dazed for the second time today and it's only eight in the morning. What the fuck just happened?

---

You find Barnes at the breakfast counter, swallowing down what looks like half a dozen eggs and four pieces of toast before heading out into the field to do... well actually you don't know what he does between breakfast and lunch. Something classified.

He doesn't notice you until you reach out, grab his arm, and pull out a sharpie. Before he can demand to know what you're doing, you've drawn something, dropped his arm (the real one, of course), and left the way you came.

He studies your marking. It's nothing more than a single tally, small and black, on his inner forearm.

---

When Barnes gets back you're waiting. Not that he can see you. But he can see the indent of you on his bed where you must be laying.

"Not doing such a good job at hiding. We'll have to work on that one," he says while he unloads a surprising number of guns from an even more surprising number of places all over his body. And a knife.

"Not trying to hide," you say.

"Oh? Did Stark make you a better suit?"

"Not wearing a suit."

That gets him. Barnes turns with a sly smile on his face, momentarily frozen as you shift back into the visible spectrum. And then he's raking his eyes over the deliciousness of you, those curves a full course meal, and his stomach starved for a week straight. His cock twitches at the reminder that despite giving you an earth-shattering orgasm at eight o'clock this morning, he did nothing about his own needs.

You beckon him onto the bed with one finger.

"I have fifteen minutes until Parker needs my help."

Barnes doesn't care. He'll take fifteen minutes. Damn, he'll take two if it means touching you until you scream his name. It's more than he's had all week. He's devouring your lips in seconds, your hips melting to his touch as you roll over to straddle him, knees gripping his waist seeking out any kind of pressure you can find. You're conveniently naked and he's far too dressed but you don't need anything but his shirt off and his pants at his knees to make this worth your while.

You're sinking down around him before he can even ask to go down on you, your tight pussy fluttering around the rock-hard length of his cock. From this angle, you can feel his tip push against the sensitive tissue of your cervix, and it forces a curse from your mouth. You don't move but Barnes does, using his impossible strength to lift you by your hips and slam into you, leaving more bruises on your hips that you gladly add to your collection.

You rock when he rocks, meeting each of his grinding thrusts with a cry, your hands on his chest to give you support. He can feel you tighten around him, your walls contracting with each slam of his hips to yours, so he rests one hand flat on your pelvis, grounding you and rubbing at your clit with his thumb. The other presses to the small of your back, stabilizing you to hit that same spot you like so much over and over again.

"Come for me baby," he groans, the words smooth in the languid air of this shared moment.

"No," you manage to say, and it's like a punch to the chest. No? Why the fuck not? And suddenly he feels your resistance, you holding out against rapture, against the inevitable. "You first."

Your eagerness abruptly takes on a competitive tone and he can't know for sure what your intentions are but Barnes can picture them. This is no longer a shared moment but a one-on-one match that ends in sudden death.

"Not until you do."

You can't hold out. Not when he touches you like that. When you orgasm all over his cock his movements stutter and he joins you, pulling out just in time to spill his seed over the two of you. You finish it off with a desperate kiss that feels more like the start of something than the end of it.

"What the fuck was that?" he says as you pull away with a giddy smile, more confused than angry, relenting to the gentle touch of your hands smoothing across his chest after having driven into you like a railroad spike.

"A challenge," you giggle, and then he pulls you to his chest and you slump forward, entwining yourselves in one another's limbs to seek that extra bit of skin-to-skin contact that you're both fortunately so fond of. You glance over at the clock on his nightstand, only 12:23. Seven more minutes to snuggle. Seven minutes for Barnes to contemplate your sudden change in behavior and wonder if it has anything to do with his own actions this morning.

Finally, you get up to leave without having provided any reasoning. You simply peel your sweaty chest away from his. And then, strangely, the sharpie is back and you take his arm to add another little tally to the first. And then you add a single one to your own arm and suddenly he understands.

This isn't just a challenge. It's a game. He's in the lead and you're one behind, but if there's anything he can count on it's that you like a challenge and always rise to meet it.

He's fucked.

---

Then there's the broom closet. Barnes wasn't aware Avengers HQ even had these. He thought it was far too high-tech for regular old cleaning supplies.

But inside, you even the score, sinking to your knees and sucking him dry before he can protest. You're sure by now he's figured out the game so you don't mask the glee on your face as he spills hot and thick down your throat. You love the weight of his balls in your palm as they twitch and contract, the way Barnes gathers your hair away from your face to watch you better and kisses you deep afterward to get a taste of himself. But you pull away quickly and slip right back out the closet door before he can get any ideas.

---

What are the rules? There are no rules, really. No indication of how long this could go on and no idea of what the prize might be at the end. It's competition for competition's sake, something you're both far too good at. That means it's not possible to cheat. No rules mean nothing's off the table.

And that's why it confuses you that Barnes lets you pull ahead in the game with not one, but two, handjobs, book-ending dinner with the Stark-Parker joint family dinner in Peter's apartment. Somehow, no one's noticed the absurd amount of time you and Bucky spend together, if they had Aunt May would have said something at the table, let alone your little charade of sneaking off to the bathroom together while the others do the dishes.

So what's his ploy? It worries you. Sure, Bucky's supersoldierness gives him stamina, but it also reduces his refractory period to nothing. He'd tried to had that fact for a bit, worried it might scare you or pressure you but it turns out it's just another one of the reasons this is so fun.

So again, you ask yourself, what's his ploy?

"Give me a hand, kid, will you?" Stark requests that evening. You're more than slightly annoyed at having to delay, or possibly fully cancel, the much more exciting events you had planned after dinner, though you're also indebted to Stark at this point.

"Why can't Parker?"

"He's got school in the morning."

Parker's the real kid. School. Seriously? But Stark has started treating you more like a daughter than anything else. Morgan takes up most of his attention but he makes an effort to check in on you, despite your disappearing acts.

Tonight, he wants to work on his car. Or one of his many cars. The man has access to the most high-tech, brand-new robotic engineering machinery in the world and he still decides to do this by hand. You'll never understand.

"Wrench," he says, and you pass it to him dutifully before he disappears back under the car.

"Look, Agent Hill Junior," you know you're going to get a lecture whenever he starts his talks this way, "I want you to know that if you need anything I'm here for you."

You don't respond, too confused by the sudden expression of concern for you. Stark is the kind of man who makes his intentions obvious, not through words, but actions. It's strange for him to speak to you directly.

"You can tell me if working with Barnes is too much. We can always take your training down a notch. You just need to tell me if you're getting hurt."

You just barely manage to suppress a laugh. So that's what this is about? A one-on-one chat about the collection of bruises you've acquired in the past month? Sure, some of them are from "training" as Stark calls it. But most of them...are not. You can only imagine how much Stark would flip if he knew the extent of your private activities.

"I'm fine, really," you say. "The training is good. I need to get good at hand-to-hand before I can move on to other things."

That seems to appease Stark enough for now. Surprisingly, he lets you go, although it's already nearly midnight by the time you leave the workroom. And you still want to shower, so you debate your options about doing it now or in the morning.

But the decision is made for you. Suddenly, a hand is grabbing your wrist, hauling you along the hallway, and into the elevator that leads out of Stark's workshop. The doors slide open with a ding and immediately you're shoved inside, falling back against the mirrored wall as Barnes joins you. He punches the door closed button aggressively.

When he gives you that look, hungry and insatiable, your hands grab the handrail behind you with more force than necessary to steady the fluttering arousal that spreads through your body.

"What took you so long?" he growls, caging you against the back wall with his metal hand on your chin. The pressure is just light enough to let you speak.

"You're two points down, James. I'm surprised you have anything left in you. Are you sure you aren't ready to give up yet?"

He chuckles at your response, though he isn't amused by your joke. He's amused that you're talking back to him, and he likes it because it means he can punish you for it.

"You know well enough I can fuck you all night," he says lowly in your ear. "But what about you? How many times can I make you come before you beg me to stop? I like a challenge, doll, and you've set one up nicely."

A warmth spreads through your core at the realization that this is why he let you take the lead. He wants to follow one orgasm with another and another and another.

He must know the effect he's having on you because Barnes' face breaks into a sly, lopsided grin that tells you everything you need to know about what he's up to. He's claimed you, claimed your bed, claimed your evening, claimed your thoughts. Now he's even claiming victory. Premature victory.

As the elevator shifts into motion, rising toward the residential floors, Barnes lurches against you, a little rougher in his movements than necessary. He waits, silently, as you breathe in the heat of each other's arousal.

"You're talking some mad talk for a man in second place," you manage to say, your voice coming out much softer than you intended. He's pinned up against you with an unreadable face, the kind he's probably practiced a million times so as not to give away his thoughts to the enemy. Yet, you can't think about anything but the hard length pressed to your thigh, so you release one of your hands from its iron grip on the handrail and reach out to touch it. His cock twitches beneath your palm and the facade falters. Barnes steadies his breath with his eyes closed.

"Not for much longer. I hope you've got that goddamn sharpie because we're making plenty of marks tonight."

The elevator doors open and you're very glad no one's around to see Barnes lift you roughly over one shoulder and carry you straight to his room, not stopping to put you down until the door is closed and you're against it. He must really love pinning you to various surfaces, one knee between your thighs to hold your legs apart.

Immediately, his lips are on yours and he's kissing you in the way that swallows your breath until he's the only air that matters.  And then he's dragging his mouth over every inch of exposed skin he can find, pulling off your shirt to give him more space to work with as you gulp down air to stay alive.

The question becomes not where he kisses you but where he does not.

If you're being honest with yourself, half of you wants to just let this happen, let him make you come over and over again, and screw the game. Screw denying your pleasure, screw forgoing your inner instincts, let the way your body responds to his dark gaze, your chest heaving against the thin lace of your bra, convince you to abandon all hope of winning this challenge. As if sensing you edging closer toward defeat, Barnes' hands wrap tightly around your waist, arching your back, pushing your chest forward so he can graze his teeth over the tender bud of your breasts. His hands slide up your spine to release the clasp that contains them.

The other half of you wants to be a little brat.

"You're never going to win fully clothed, James," you tease. Your words are breathless and a little less than confident, and, okay, maybe you just said that to get a rise out of him, but his thigh between yours shifts almost imperceptively in reaction. Almost. That slight movement is enough to push the seam of your pants against the tender bud of your clit, even through your panties, and you realize instigating him is only going to make him push harder against your resistance.

So you push back, hooking the fingers of one hand through his belt loops and resting the other on the bulge in his pants. Barnes doesn't even respond to your touch, just grinds his thigh between yours again, his mouth still abusing the sensitive skin of your nipples. But two can play this game. You squeeze lightly as you run your hand down his length, stopping only when you reach the heaviness of his balls that twitch in your palm.

He's barely reacting, though the weight of him is hot and hard. Yet the rough fabric of his jeans between your legs alone is able to make you tremble, even as he uses his grip on your waist to control the motion. You didn't expect to be so sensitive, but it seems the harder you resist the more torture is inflicted and you can feel the flood of your arousal soaking through the layers of fabric between you. If he keeps this up, Barnes is going to take the lead.

You harden your resolve, suppress your sighs of arousal, but it's so fucking hard. His movements are hypnotic and you find yourself not even paying attention to what he's doing with his mouth. A whimper escapes your lips despite all your effort and he looks up with a smile.

"Fuck, I love that sound," he says. "Do it again."

"Make me."

Bad idea. Very bad idea. He does make you, your whimpers echoing out over and over again until you can't resist the heavenly pleasure of riding his thigh, and your cunt clenches around nothing and you come. It hits you so suddenly, creeps up on you so quietly in spite of your resistance, you don't even know it's happening until it's over and the heat of your orgasm has soaked into his jeans and left a dark imprint of you on his thigh.

"I don't need to be naked to make you come, doll," he chokes out, partly in awe at how beautiful your face is when it contorts into an 'o' of pleasure and partly because your grip on his length has tightened as you came and now he's the one having trouble resisting.

But you don't even get a chance to react to his words before Barnes has your pants on the floor and panties flung somewhere over his shoulder. His mouth is on your pussy, hands spreading your legs even further apart, nose pressed to the curls at the apex of your thighs. Your hands fly to his hair and somehow you can only think about how soft and fluffy it is until his teeth graze against that tight bundle of nerves and you're leaning into him just to stay on your feet.

You'd curse him to high heaven for already closing the distance if your brain could just form the words. To hell if you're going to let him make you immediately come again, though a muttered, fuck you Barnes is all you can squeak out.

"Language," he grunts from between your legs, doing his best to coax you out of your struggle and into surrender. He can feel the tension between your desire to relinquish and your desire to fight when you clamp your thighs around his ears, feel your resistance on his tongue as he savors you bit by bit, feel you torture yourself for the pleasure of the competition. "Relax, doll, let me make you feel good."

"No, not yet, no--"

But your protests die on your lips. This time, your orgasm doesn't surprise you; you feel it coming every step of the way like trying to outrun an avalanche until it swallows you whole. The back of your head thunks against the door and you begin to slide down it as your legs lose their stability with the force of the spasms wracking your body. You only realize when Barnes is standing again and leaning his forehead against yours that he's holding you up.

"I believe that makes it a tie game." And it dawns on you why he likes this challenge so much. You're already wrecked, too exhausted to make much of an effort to try to take control. And he's only just begun. He has you alone, all to himself, and he won't stop until he's done.

Fuck.

Already Barnes is attacking your lips with his again, his hands roaming wherever they please, and you protest your inability to resist his charms with a half-hearted groan.

"Don't give me that, doll. You asked for a challenge so you'll get one."

You want to scream at him that you know you can't resist him, but that would be conceding to the fact, and really, a part of you wants him to push you as far as you can go. Off the fucking edge if he has to. So your tone remains defiant.

"Gonna get creative, James? Maybe move me to the bed instead of fucking me against a door?"

Barnes laughs but there's no warmth in it, only the sensation of his cool metal hand sliding up your sternum, inching toward your neck, sending goosebumps across your chest.

"Just for that, I will fuck you against this goddamn door until you come, screaming my name."

And then he squeezes and your eyes roll back and you nearly lose it again. It takes all your concentration to reel in your orgasm, but he waits. Waits for the surge of pleasure to overtake you, for you to acquiesce to the pressure around your neck, for you to give him that look that begs him to fuck you.

But it doesn't come.

Again, you push back, deny him the pleasure of your orgasm, but it only serves to increase his desire to please you. Suddenly his demeanor shifts, you can see it in his eyes when he stares straight into yours. The look on Barnes' face has changed. It's almost... imploring. When he kisses you again, it's different, no longer commanding and in control, but simply searching for a way to make you happy. He can't stand that you're torturing yourself, can't stand enjoying himself so much while you fight against your own satisfaction. He wants you to come under the skill of his mouth, to tremble and shake against his face as he tastes your orgasm on his tongue, and he wants you to love it, to enjoy it while it happens. Fuck the game, fuck the challenge. You can do whatever you want to him just for a single moment in heaven between your thighs.

"Please, baby, let me take care of you. Whatever you want, you can have. Whatever you want, just take it. But let me do this for you. Let me be your release."

You don't know what to say. A moment ago he was ready to fuck you so hard you forgot your own name and now he's begging you to let him please you. So you don't say anything, just tug on the button of his pants, slide the zipper down, and release his hard cock from the confines of his pants. He tries to help you, tries to remove his own clothes, but you stop him.

"You can do that later. Just follow through and fuck me against the door like you promised."

He doesn't need to be told twice. One leg is hiked up around his waist and then he's slamming into you with no preamble. Barnes is no longer concerned with kissing you or tasting you or restraining you by your neck. He is only concerned with driving into your sweet cunt, slick with two orgasms, and muttering how gorgeous you are, how fucking gorgeous against your neck until you're digging your nails into his back to take hold of him.

But he's not deep enough and suddenly your other leg is also around his waist and you know for certain there will be bruises on your back and thighs in the morning from the beating you're taking. But the fire in his soul is back and Barnes wants to hear his name on your lips.

"Does that fucking feel good? Is that what you need, doll?" he questions through clenched teeth, his words punctuated with desperation. You manage to gasp out a confirmation between the involuntary cries that escape your mouth every time he hits your g-spot.

"Who makes you feel this way baby? Who fucks you this good?"

"You, James. Only. You." Your thighs tighten around his waist and the blood rushing in your ears makes it difficult to concentrate on the sound of his voice guiding you through your orgasm, but he keeps going, keeps slamming into you, keeps speaking, say it again, baby, say it again.

James, James, James, Jam--

You barely remember the rest, your staggering orgasm, his release inside you, and somehow making it to bed. You just know it feels so good to let go and fall asleep in his arms.

You slip in and out of the fuzzy warmth of sleep to kisses across your chest and down your stomach, not stopping until his mouth is cleaning your thighs and tasting the sweetness of your cunt and pulling one more, languid, idle release from you, and you stay awake just long enough to ask Barnes what he's doing.

"I win, doll."

The bastard.

#bucky barns x reader #bucky barnes #winter solider fanfiction #bucky barnes smut #avengers #winter solider smut #definitely not canon #i refuse to believe steve went back in time for some 1940s kitty kat and left his best friend behind #oh my god #sebastian stan #man oh man you're looking good #bucky x reader #winter soldier #wEiNeR sOlDiEr