Tumgik
dirtyhelen · 2 years
Text
Thank you for reading!! Glad you enjoyed it ☺️
we will be together (in my mind you’re mine forever)
Tumblr media
Pairing: Dark!Alpha!Bucky Barnes x Omega!Reader
Rating: Explicit (18+)
Featuring: Dark A/B/O Dynamics; Dubious Consent; Oral Sex (F!Receiving); Vaginal Sex; Knotting; Creampie; Biting; Cum Marking; Light Breeding Kink; Your typical hallmarks of A/B/O fic + kidnapping
Words: 6015
Summary: Bucky knows your heat is the right time to bond you, the best chance of it taking, but he has to time it right. Right now your body is being flooded with hormones telling you to find an alpha, to get knotted and bred. He’s been laying the groundwork these past months, easing you off your suppressants and retraining you so that your heat can take care of the rest. Your stubborn will weakened by thousands of years of biology to finally accept him as your mate. 
It’s your first heat since Bucky kidnapped you and took you to his den, and the perfect opportunity to make you his forever.
A/N:  Please mind the Featuring section! This is (my first!) dark!fic. I would categorize this as dark!fic-lite, but YMMV so take care, and see the end note for more details if you’re unsure 😊 Title from Mine Forever by Lord Huron.
Tumblr media
Keep reading
1K notes · View notes
dirtyhelen · 2 years
Text
Ahhh, thank you so much!!! I love anything that switches up Steve from dom to sub haha so this was a fun one to write. I'm so glad you enjoyed, thanks for reading!
oh, poor atlas (the world’s a beast of a burden)
Tumblr media
Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader
Rating: Explicit (18+)
Featuring: Dom/Sub; Femdom; Sub!Steve; Established Relationship; Under-negotiated Kink; Dirty Talk; Face Slapping (Once); Mild Painplay; Oral Sex (M/F Receiving); Face Sitting; Vaginal Sex; Creampie
Words: 5105
Summary: Steve comes home looking for a fight; he gets one, but not how he expected.
A/N: Please note the Under-negotiated Kink tag. Nothing sexual happens in this fic that the characters don’t enthusiastically enjoy but there is no discussion beforehand so it’s not good real-life behaviour.
Keep reading
64 notes · View notes
dirtyhelen · 2 years
Text
Thanks for reading, I'm glad you enjoyed!!
get your knuckles bloody for me
Tumblr media
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader
Rating: Explicit (18+)
Featuring: Kidnapping; Violence (Canon Typical); Rough Sex; Protective!Bucky
Words: 4300
Summary: You’ve seen Bucky spar before, and you’ve seen shaky cellphone footage online or on the news after the action has passed. You’ve never seen him like this. It’s not the Winter Soldier, that much is clear. This is all Bucky Barnes. All fury and rage and ruthlessly efficient skill.
It should be frightening. But what you feel now, watching him rip his way through every man stupid enough to step between him and you—it’s not fear.
Or: Reader is kidnapped; Bucky comes to the rescue with unexpected (read: horny) results.
A/N: Absolutely no research on realistic combat (or anything else!) went into this fic. It’s all just an excuse for protective!Bucky porn. Hope you enjoy! Title is from exile (feat. Bon Iver) by Taylor Swift.
Tumblr media
It’s dark when you open your eyes, so thick and inky you can’t see even a hint of light. At first, before your brain catches up with your body, you think you must have fallen asleep at home—one of those accidental, too-long naps—and woken up in the middle of the night. There’s that familiar groggy feeling, like weights attached to your limbs and a fog over your mind, but that’s all gone when you notice you’re sitting up, and when you realize you can’t move. Then it hits you—the memory. Walking to your car, digging for the keys in your overcrowded bag, when a man appears as if out of nowhere. There’s a pinch at the back of your neck, and then nothing.
And now this.
Panic floods you as you begin to thrash, feeling something thin and sharp digging into your wrists and ankles. There’s no give, despite your efforts. Even the chair seems secured to the floor. Your heart pounds in your chest, hummingbird-fast, and an icy feeling spreads through your limbs unrelated to the damp chill of the air around you.
Just as you feel the terrifying breathlessness of a panic attack starting, the darkness lifts. A door you couldn’t see before is pushed open with a screech of old, rusty hinges, spilling harsh fluorescent light from the other side, broken by a dark silhouette. The person flips a switch and the room is flooded with flickering light, blinding you temporarily. You hear the creak of the door shutting again, trapping you alone with this stranger, whoever they are.
When your eyes adjust you finally get a good look at your surroundings. A large, windowless room. Concrete walls and floors. Underground, maybe. Moisture drips down the walls and gathers in dark pools in the corners, explaining the damp, dank feeling in the air. A shiver runs through you. You’d dressed for an afternoon in the warm summer sun, not whatever this is, and you feel frighteningly exposed in the light cotton sundress you’d chosen.
The silhouette, it turns out, belongs to a man, wearing a dark suit and a greasy smile that does nothing to put you at ease. He steps forward and you shrink back—as much as you can, pinned as you are, like an insect for his inspection.
“Hello,” he says, greeting you by name. You almost can’t hear him over the blood rushing in your ears. You don’t recognize him, that much you’re sure of. Questions form in your mind—who is he, how does he know you, or is this completely random and your name was just pulled from your license? But fear clogs your throat and nothing comes out. “Did you sleep well?” he asks.
You almost nod reflexively, almost ask him the same before you catch yourself. A million scenarios from movies and TV shows and true crime podcasts, each more terrifying than the last, flash through your thoughts as the man waits for your reply, seemingly content to let the silence stretch. You try to remember anything useful from the dozens of self-defence tutorials you’ve scrolled past on social media over the years. All those tips and tricks no woman should ignore, they all said in big, bold letters. You come up blank. It’s too late now anyway, you think. Those tips probably weren’t designed for use when you’re already tied to a chair in someone’s basement—if that is where you are.
“What is this?” you manage to croak, voice rough, but working at least.
“A trap.”
Oh.
Oh, of course. This isn’t some random, meaningless crime, but it isn’t about you either. He wants Bucky. Maybe this is the price you pay for being someone Bucky Barnes loves. Unfortunately, the clarity doesn’t exactly make you any less afraid. Now you’re afraid for Bucky and yourself because you know he’ll come for you, and you don’t know what he’ll be facing when he does.
“What do you want with Bucky?” you ask.
“‘Bucky?’ Is that what you call him? What a stupid little nickname. Winter Soldier suits him so much better, don’t you think?” He practically spits the words. It’s clear there’s some history there, whether real or imagined.
“Is that what this is about? Did the Winter Soldier do something to you? Because that wasn’t Bucky, he was brainwashed by Hyd—” You’re interrupted by the sound of a phone ringing. The man takes a breath, any visible emotion evoked by Bucky’s former title locked away behind a calm exterior. He holds up a finger, taking a phone from his jacket pocket and checking the screen.
“Perfect timing,” he says. “Let’s put it on speaker, shall we?” He swipes his thumb to answer the call. “Is he here?”
A man answers. “Yeah, boss. And Captain America, too.” He sounds young, or maybe that’s just the thread of panic you think you hear in his voice. “I’m watching on the cameras. They just took out all our guys on the wall and they’re making their way inside now.” Definitely panic.
“Shit,” your kidnapper hisses, taking the call off speakerphone. “Tell them to lay down their weapons and surrender, or the woman dies,” he orders. He looks you straight in the eyes as he says it, but that air of slimy authority he’d carried seems to falter.
You can’t hear exactly what the other man says, but the frantic tone comes through loud and clear. The gunfire a few seconds later even clearer. Based on your captor’s expression, you don’t think the young man on the other end of the call got a chance to relay his message.
The crack in the man’s smooth exterior gets a little wider and lets you see through to something less than impressive inside. There’s no evil genius pulling the strings here, just some garden variety asshole with a villain complex and too much disposable income. You wonder what exactly he was expecting would happen. That Bucky would come alone and unarmed and just allow himself to be traded for you with no objection? He clearly knows nothing of any value about Bucky Barnes—or Sam Wilson, for that matter.
“Bucky and Sam aren’t big on the whole ‘surrendering’ thing,” you say, emboldened by your assessment and the knowledge that they’re already here.
The man takes another step toward you, so close now you have to crane your neck to look him in the eye. Your attention is caught by the tight clench of his jaw, the unravelling of his control, and you don’t see it coming.
He slaps you, hard. You yelp at the shock of it, at the sting, fading quickly into a dull burn under your skin. You’re stunned for a second—you’ve never been hit before, and you don’t know how to react. You slide your tongue along your bottom lip and taste blood, and a flash-fire fury burns through your body until you tremble with it.
How fucking dare he?
Before any words can leave your mouth, two men, big and broad, burst through the door. “They just blew through the last blockade!” one of them says, huffing through heaving lungs.
“They killed fucking everyone!” the other shouts.
Your lips curl into a smirk. Good, you think.
It’s only moments before the sounds of gunfire and shouting reach you, echoing down empty corridors. The room quickly becomes crowded, as what must be every remaining lackey fills the space, surrounding you and blocking your view. You can’t see the door anymore—just the backs of men in black armour.
Your kidnapper swears again, and you see the façade fall away completely, leaving only cornered-animal panic behind. He pulls a gun from his waistband and steps behind you. You hear the click of the gun being cocked, then the cold press of metal against your temple, and any confidence you’d felt disappears. This is the closest to death as you’ve ever been. With just one touch of one finger, everything could be over for you. Forever.
For a moment, everything is still and quiet as everyone waits. You’re frozen in your fear, afraid to even breathe too deeply, feeling the slight tremble of the gun against your head.
Then in an instant, everything comes unstuck. They’re here.
There’s a flurry of gunshots and shouting, so close it’s deafening. You can’t see anything except frantic movement, can’t hear anything except indistinguishable noise. Can’t feel anything except your pounding heart, adrenaline flooding your veins.
Then dark-clothed bodies start to drop, and you finally have a clear view—you see Sam first, catch the bright colours of the shield in his hand—and then you see Bucky and everything else fades away—the gun against your head, the man holding it. Even Sam. Even your fear, for Bucky and for yourself.
You’ve seen Bucky spar before, and you’ve seen shaky cellphone footage online or on the news after the action has passed.
You’ve never seen him like this.
In his right hand, there’s a handgun; his left is empty but no less dangerous for it. He throws a man as easily as tossing a ball and the body hits the wall with a sick crunch you can feel. Bucky aims and fires his gun seemingly without conscious thought and his shots never miss. He fires at a man who steps—foolishly—in front of him, but the gun just clicks, mag empty. He flips it and whips the man brutally across the face with the grip, knocking him down, then throws the gun at another man who falls to the ground with the force of it. In a flash, there’s a knife in Bucky’s hand instead.
Watching him move is mesmerizing. It’s as though the knife is an extension of his arm, just as deadly as the gun had been. He stabs and slashes, flicking the knife from one hand to the other, flipping and spinning it as bodies fall around him. The expression on his face is almost hard to look at, but you can’t look anywhere else. It’s not blank or emotionless—this isn’t the Winter Soldier, that much is clear. This is all Bucky Barnes. All fury and rage and ruthlessly efficient skill.
It should be frightening. It should be monstrous, seeing the man you love, the man you lie beside at night, like this.
But what you feel now, watching him rip his way through every man stupid enough to step between him and you—it’s not fear. No, you feel a heat in your cheeks that has nothing to do with fury or fear and a tightness in your belly, a catch in your breath.
Quicker than you think should be possible and even faster than it feels, Bucky and Sam have cleared everyone in the room except the man in charge. The man standing behind you with a gun to your head and a hand gripping your shoulder.
“You move,” he says, voice shaking, “she’s dead.”
Bucky looks directly at you for the first time since he entered the room. You feel the weight of it as his eyes scan your face and you see the tick of his jaw when he spots the cut on your lip. His eyes flash back to the man. He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t hesitate. He moves so fast you can’t track the movement until it’s over. There’s a flash of black and gold, and then the gun at your temple and the grip on your shoulder are gone as the man falls to the ground beside you. You look down and there’s Bucky’s knife, driven to the hilt neatly in the centre of his forehead.
It's over.
Bucky is at your side in an instant, pulling another knife from somewhere and cutting the ties binding your wrists and ankles. The sight of the knife in his clever hand, easily maneuvering between the ties and your skin without you even feeling a touch of the blade, sends a spark through your core. Bucky runs his fingers where the ties pressed into your skin, checking for cuts as his eyes trace over the rest of your body.
His entire demeanour has changed, almost unrecognizable from the man you just saw, just moments ago, brutally fighting his way to you.
This is the Bucky who always walks closest to the street when he’s with you; who tells you to text when you get home, and calls to check in if you forget; who puts his jacket around your shoulders before you can so much as shiver from the cold.
Or it’s almost that Bucky, anyway. If not for the blood on his clothes, the busted knuckles, and the bruise blooming on his cheekbone.
“Hey,” he says, so soft, as he holds your face in those bloody hands. “Are you hurt?” He ever so gently touches his thumb to your split lip and for a moment a touch of that unleashed fury darkens his features.
“I’m okay,” you tell him. And you are, surprisingly. Maybe it’s shock, or maybe there’s something wrong with the wiring of your brain, but you feel fine, except for the growing heat in your core, only getting hotter with Bucky’s hands on your skin and his eyes on yours.
You’re mesmerized, caught in his stare, in the knowledge of what those hands, so tender and soft on you now, are capable of. Of what Bucky will do for you, to keep you safe.
Sam clears his throat, jolting you. You’d almost forgotten he was there. “Not to break up this nice moment you’re having, but maybe we should take this somewhere else. Like, anywhere else.” The tunnel vision you’ve had since you first laid eyes on Bucky lifts, and you finally notice the state of the room you’re in. Sam’s right. It’s time to leave.
Bucky grunts his acknowledgment. He pulls you up, gives you a once-over, seems to silently decide you’re okay to walk on your own, then takes your hand and puts it on the back of his jacket. He tells you to, “hold on, and don’t let go,” then turns and leads the way out of the building. Sam takes up the rear.
You discover, as Bucky leads you down wide hallways and up several sets of stairs, that it’s an old warehouse of some sort, long gone unused and left in disrepair. Exactly the place a would-be supervillain would get his start, you think. Bucky keeps one arm stretched behind him, keeping you close to his back, and you keep your grip on his jacket. You pass bodies, lots of them, slumped and motionless on the floor, some seemingly unconscious, others clearly dead, blood pooled on the ground underneath them.
“Don’t look,” Bucky tells you grimly, so you keep your face turned to his back and follow where he leads.
Finally, after too many crumbling steps and long, identical hallways, you reach the main entrance to the building. Lights flash through the wide-open doors, and you can hear voices shouting commands outside. The boys must have called for backup before they stormed the place.
Sam confirms it. “I’ll deal with the cleanup crew,” he says. “You two go on, I’ll meet you on the jet.”
“Thanks, Sam,” you say.
Sam shrugs it off. “No thanks required, just glad you’re alright. Now see if you can get this one,” he nods to Bucky, “to lighten up. You know he’s unbearable when he broods.”
You huff out a laugh, then Sam and Bucky share one of those long looks you can only sometimes interpret, and Sam goes off to coordinate with the soldiers milling outside while you and Bucky head for the jet.
He stays by your side while a medic checks you over, always with a hand on you, apparently unwilling to let go of you for even a minute. You feel his hand on your bare skin like a brand, and you wonder if that’s how it feels to him, too. A reminder, to anyone who might think differently, of who exactly you belong to, even though the threat has passed. He brushes off the offer to be looked over himself, only accepting a pack of wipes to clean the blood from his hands.
The medic declares you physically fine and leaves you and Bucky alone on the jet again, and you sit in silence for a minute. He’d been quiet while you were being examined, too. He breaks the silence the same time you do, and you speak over each other.
“I’m sorry you—” he starts, just as you blurt, “Fuck me.”
You look at each other, then again you speak at the same time, both asking, “What?” Bucky with eyebrows raised, you with feigned innocence.
He shakes his head, seemingly choosing to ignore your outburst. “I’m sorry you had to see me like that,” he continues, voice low. “Sorry I put you through all this. I never wanted you to be in that position, never wanted you to see that side of me.” His jaw clenches. “I should have protected you, done a better job keeping you safe.” You nod along like you’re listening, like anything he’s saying is sinking in. “Did you say—”
“I said, ‘fuck me,’” you nod.
Bucky stares at you, expression gone blank.
 “Yeah,” you start with a shrug, and then it all comes rushing out. “I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me, but you were so hot back there, and I heard what you said and we’re definitely going to talk more about that because you have nothing to apologize for and I love you no matter what, but God, I’m so fucking turned on right now and I just need you to—”
“Fuck,” he breathes.
“Yes. That.”
There’s a pause, then Bucky’s expression darkens, intense and aroused as he holds your gaze and you feel it in your core. Then he glances around and pulls you into the tiny bathroom on the plane.
The minute the door slides shut you’re on each other. Bucky easily hoists you onto the narrow sink and you spread your legs for him, wrap them around his waist to pull him in. You tip your face toward his and his mouth finds yours, hungry and open, a brutal, graceless kiss, more passion than pleasure. His tongue licks into your mouth and you taste copper from your split lip, while his right hand rucks up the skirt of your dress and works into your underwear, finding your dripping cunt.
He hisses a curse into your lips as he slips a finger inside, slick and easy. “You weren’t lying, huh? Fucking soaked.”
“Told you,” you gasp, when that finger crooks up and rubs. “Maybe I’m sick, but I liked it.” Bucky leans back as far as he can in the tiny space and catches your stare, holds it. “I like that you did it for me.”
He nods, eyes dark and burning all at once. “I did,” he tells you, working a second finger inside. “All for you, honey, and I’d do it again. I’d burn the whole fucking world down if it’d keep you safe.” It’s not just a line; you can see the truth of it in his eyes—hungry and sharp. It’s Bucky who says it and means it, just like it was Bucky who tore all those men apart in the warehouse. There was a brutality in James Barnes long before Hydra ever leashed it and twisted it to their purpose.
You surge up against him, meeting his lips with yours, taking that brutality inside yourself, trading it back and force on your tongues. Your hands work frantically at his belt. “Fuck me,” you breathe, beg. “I need it, Bucky. Need you in me now.” He pulls his fingers from your cunt and tugs your panties to the side just as you get his pants and underwear down enough to free his cock.
He doesn’t pause to slick himself up or check if you’re ready, just lines up and pushes inside with one hard thrust, covering your mouth with his metal hand just in time to muffle your cry. There might not be anyone on the jet, but they’re not far, and Sam will be back any minute. It hurts, two fingers not enough to dull the stretch, but you’re plenty wet and it’s a good hurt. The kind of hurt that reminds you you’re alive to feel it.
Bucky muffles his own groan against your neck, teeth clamping down just the right side of too hard. The distant sounds of soldiers shouting outside and the hum of engines fade away until it’s just you and Bucky all alone in the world.
He fucks you deep and mercilessly, like he’s trying to dig inside your body and reshape it to fit him. It’s a welcome intrusion. Each hard thrust shoves you back into the wall and you hold onto the sink with one hand to keep your balance, the other wrapped around Bucky’s back to hold him close. You pant against the hand over your mouth, the faint scent of metal filling your nose. You lick at his palm, tasting it in your mouth like blood.
There are no more words, just muffled breaths and bodies moving together. It’s over fast. You come with one hand working at your clit and the other gripping the sink so hard there’d be nothing left if you had Bucky’s strength. Bucky follows you a moment later, thrusts so hard it’s almost painful as he fills you up.
For a few, long moments neither of you moves, pressed tight to each other in the burning afterglow as the sound of blood rushing in your ears dissipates. Finally, Bucky’s hand slips from your mouth and you feel his tongue smooth over the sting his teeth left on your neck. You relax your grip on the sink’s edge and the stiffness in your fingers snaps you back into your body, reminding you where you are. A laugh bubbles up your throat and out of your mouth at the absurdity of the entire day.
You’d woken up that morning with nothing more exciting in mind than some window shopping downtown, and now you’re in an airplane bathroom with your boyfriend’s cock softening inside you because it got you hot watching him violently rescue you for an abduction. You start to laugh in earnest—big, rib-shaking laughs. You were so scared when you first opened your eyes in that dark warehouse. A primal, animal fear you’ve never known, couldn’t even have imagined. Like a child that knows with every certainty there’s a monster hiding under her bed and there’s nothing she can do about it. Except the monster wasn’t hiding, it was standing right in front of you, teeth bared.
You don’t realize you’re crying until Bucky’s hands are on your cheeks and his thumbs slide wet through the tears. He pulls you in, pressing kisses to every inch of skin he can reach as he gently hushes you with slow, soothing sounds until your shoulders stop shaking with sobs and the tears slow.
Bucky tips your chin up. “Look at me,” he tells you and waits for you to hold his eyes. “I will always come for you. Always.” He doesn’t lie, doesn’t say it’ll never happen again, that no one will ever try to hurt you because of him, and somehow that’s just as comforting as the promise.
You nod, taking a deep, shuddering breath.
“I know. I know. I was just really scared.” You smile shakily through the tears. “But hey, if this is the result,” you nod down at where you and Bucky are still joined, “maybe I should get kidnapped more often.”
Bucky scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Maybe I’ll have to kidnap you myself then. Keep you tied up in my bed so no one else can get their hands on you.” It’s a joke—he says it with a teasing smirk—but there’s an edge to his voice that makes your cunt clench around his cock even as you smile back at him. 
“Yeah, maybe you should.” You’re joking, too, of course.
The moment breaks, and you separate to sort yourselves out, trying to look like you didn’t just fuck. You turn to splash some water on your face and catch the imprint of Bucky’s teeth on your neck. He ducks his head to kiss the other side, watches your fingertips trace over the marks and doesn’t apologize for leaving them. They’re not deep; they’ll fade away to nothing in a few minutes. You’re almost disappointed.
He gives you his jacket to wear and helps you into it. “Now,” he tells you, adjusting the collar so it covers the marks, “try and look traumatized so Sam thinks I was just comforting you in here.” He must have heard him get on the jet while you were too distracted to hear anything.
With your eyes still red-rimmed and swollen you don’t think that’ll be an issue, provided he wasn’t too close to the bathroom door, but you press tight to Bucky’s side when he walks you out anyway, ducking under his arm as soon as you’re seated so you can press your face to his chest.
If Sam thinks anything of your leaving the bathroom together, he doesn’t say it, but you think you catch him sharing a knowing look with Bucky out of the corner of your eye. You’re too exhausted to think anything of it anyway, and as you take off the thrum of the airplane lulls you to sleep with your head on Bucky’s chest and his arms wrapped warm and tight around you. Exactly where you belong again.
Tumblr media
A/N: Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed!! If you have any thoughts, and/or noticed any typos/errors, feel free to let me know 😊
488 notes · View notes
dirtyhelen · 2 years
Text
Hahaha I felt the same when the inspiration hit me after watching a video of Bucky beating the shit out of people 😂🙈 Thanks so much for reading!!
get your knuckles bloody for me
Tumblr media
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader
Rating: Explicit (18+)
Featuring: Kidnapping; Violence (Canon Typical); Rough Sex; Protective!Bucky
Words: 4300
Summary: You’ve seen Bucky spar before, and you’ve seen shaky cellphone footage online or on the news after the action has passed. You’ve never seen him like this. It’s not the Winter Soldier, that much is clear. This is all Bucky Barnes. All fury and rage and ruthlessly efficient skill.
It should be frightening. But what you feel now, watching him rip his way through every man stupid enough to step between him and you—it’s not fear.
Or: Reader is kidnapped; Bucky comes to the rescue with unexpected (read: horny) results.
A/N: Absolutely no research on realistic combat (or anything else!) went into this fic. It’s all just an excuse for protective!Bucky porn. Hope you enjoy! Title is from exile (feat. Bon Iver) by Taylor Swift.
Tumblr media
It’s dark when you open your eyes, so thick and inky you can’t see even a hint of light. At first, before your brain catches up with your body, you think you must have fallen asleep at home—one of those accidental, too-long naps—and woken up in the middle of the night. There’s that familiar groggy feeling, like weights attached to your limbs and a fog over your mind, but that’s all gone when you notice you’re sitting up, and when you realize you can’t move. Then it hits you—the memory. Walking to your car, digging for the keys in your overcrowded bag, when a man appears as if out of nowhere. There’s a pinch at the back of your neck, and then nothing.
And now this.
Panic floods you as you begin to thrash, feeling something thin and sharp digging into your wrists and ankles. There’s no give, despite your efforts. Even the chair seems secured to the floor. Your heart pounds in your chest, hummingbird-fast, and an icy feeling spreads through your limbs unrelated to the damp chill of the air around you.
Just as you feel the terrifying breathlessness of a panic attack starting, the darkness lifts. A door you couldn’t see before is pushed open with a screech of old, rusty hinges, spilling harsh fluorescent light from the other side, broken by a dark silhouette. The person flips a switch and the room is flooded with flickering light, blinding you temporarily. You hear the creak of the door shutting again, trapping you alone with this stranger, whoever they are.
When your eyes adjust you finally get a good look at your surroundings. A large, windowless room. Concrete walls and floors. Underground, maybe. Moisture drips down the walls and gathers in dark pools in the corners, explaining the damp, dank feeling in the air. A shiver runs through you. You’d dressed for an afternoon in the warm summer sun, not whatever this is, and you feel frighteningly exposed in the light cotton sundress you’d chosen.
The silhouette, it turns out, belongs to a man, wearing a dark suit and a greasy smile that does nothing to put you at ease. He steps forward and you shrink back—as much as you can, pinned as you are, like an insect for his inspection.
“Hello,” he says, greeting you by name. You almost can’t hear him over the blood rushing in your ears. You don’t recognize him, that much you’re sure of. Questions form in your mind—who is he, how does he know you, or is this completely random and your name was just pulled from your license? But fear clogs your throat and nothing comes out. “Did you sleep well?” he asks.
You almost nod reflexively, almost ask him the same before you catch yourself. A million scenarios from movies and TV shows and true crime podcasts, each more terrifying than the last, flash through your thoughts as the man waits for your reply, seemingly content to let the silence stretch. You try to remember anything useful from the dozens of self-defence tutorials you’ve scrolled past on social media over the years. All those tips and tricks no woman should ignore, they all said in big, bold letters. You come up blank. It’s too late now anyway, you think. Those tips probably weren’t designed for use when you’re already tied to a chair in someone’s basement—if that is where you are.
“What is this?” you manage to croak, voice rough, but working at least.
“A trap.”
Oh.
Oh, of course. This isn’t some random, meaningless crime, but it isn’t about you either. He wants Bucky. Maybe this is the price you pay for being someone Bucky Barnes loves. Unfortunately, the clarity doesn’t exactly make you any less afraid. Now you’re afraid for Bucky and yourself because you know he’ll come for you, and you don’t know what he’ll be facing when he does.
“What do you want with Bucky?” you ask.
“‘Bucky?’ Is that what you call him? What a stupid little nickname. Winter Soldier suits him so much better, don’t you think?” He practically spits the words. It’s clear there’s some history there, whether real or imagined.
“Is that what this is about? Did the Winter Soldier do something to you? Because that wasn’t Bucky, he was brainwashed by Hyd—” You’re interrupted by the sound of a phone ringing. The man takes a breath, any visible emotion evoked by Bucky’s former title locked away behind a calm exterior. He holds up a finger, taking a phone from his jacket pocket and checking the screen.
“Perfect timing,” he says. “Let’s put it on speaker, shall we?” He swipes his thumb to answer the call. “Is he here?”
A man answers. “Yeah, boss. And Captain America, too.” He sounds young, or maybe that’s just the thread of panic you think you hear in his voice. “I’m watching on the cameras. They just took out all our guys on the wall and they’re making their way inside now.” Definitely panic.
“Shit,” your kidnapper hisses, taking the call off speakerphone. “Tell them to lay down their weapons and surrender, or the woman dies,” he orders. He looks you straight in the eyes as he says it, but that air of slimy authority he’d carried seems to falter.
You can’t hear exactly what the other man says, but the frantic tone comes through loud and clear. The gunfire a few seconds later even clearer. Based on your captor’s expression, you don’t think the young man on the other end of the call got a chance to relay his message.
The crack in the man’s smooth exterior gets a little wider and lets you see through to something less than impressive inside. There’s no evil genius pulling the strings here, just some garden variety asshole with a villain complex and too much disposable income. You wonder what exactly he was expecting would happen. That Bucky would come alone and unarmed and just allow himself to be traded for you with no objection? He clearly knows nothing of any value about Bucky Barnes—or Sam Wilson, for that matter.
“Bucky and Sam aren’t big on the whole ‘surrendering’ thing,” you say, emboldened by your assessment and the knowledge that they’re already here.
The man takes another step toward you, so close now you have to crane your neck to look him in the eye. Your attention is caught by the tight clench of his jaw, the unravelling of his control, and you don’t see it coming.
He slaps you, hard. You yelp at the shock of it, at the sting, fading quickly into a dull burn under your skin. You’re stunned for a second—you’ve never been hit before, and you don’t know how to react. You slide your tongue along your bottom lip and taste blood, and a flash-fire fury burns through your body until you tremble with it.
How fucking dare he?
Before any words can leave your mouth, two men, big and broad, burst through the door. “They just blew through the last blockade!” one of them says, huffing through heaving lungs.
“They killed fucking everyone!” the other shouts.
Your lips curl into a smirk. Good, you think.
It’s only moments before the sounds of gunfire and shouting reach you, echoing down empty corridors. The room quickly becomes crowded, as what must be every remaining lackey fills the space, surrounding you and blocking your view. You can’t see the door anymore—just the backs of men in black armour.
Your kidnapper swears again, and you see the façade fall away completely, leaving only cornered-animal panic behind. He pulls a gun from his waistband and steps behind you. You hear the click of the gun being cocked, then the cold press of metal against your temple, and any confidence you’d felt disappears. This is the closest to death as you’ve ever been. With just one touch of one finger, everything could be over for you. Forever.
For a moment, everything is still and quiet as everyone waits. You’re frozen in your fear, afraid to even breathe too deeply, feeling the slight tremble of the gun against your head.
Then in an instant, everything comes unstuck. They’re here.
There’s a flurry of gunshots and shouting, so close it’s deafening. You can’t see anything except frantic movement, can’t hear anything except indistinguishable noise. Can’t feel anything except your pounding heart, adrenaline flooding your veins.
Then dark-clothed bodies start to drop, and you finally have a clear view—you see Sam first, catch the bright colours of the shield in his hand—and then you see Bucky and everything else fades away—the gun against your head, the man holding it. Even Sam. Even your fear, for Bucky and for yourself.
You’ve seen Bucky spar before, and you’ve seen shaky cellphone footage online or on the news after the action has passed.
You’ve never seen him like this.
In his right hand, there’s a handgun; his left is empty but no less dangerous for it. He throws a man as easily as tossing a ball and the body hits the wall with a sick crunch you can feel. Bucky aims and fires his gun seemingly without conscious thought and his shots never miss. He fires at a man who steps—foolishly—in front of him, but the gun just clicks, mag empty. He flips it and whips the man brutally across the face with the grip, knocking him down, then throws the gun at another man who falls to the ground with the force of it. In a flash, there’s a knife in Bucky’s hand instead.
Watching him move is mesmerizing. It’s as though the knife is an extension of his arm, just as deadly as the gun had been. He stabs and slashes, flicking the knife from one hand to the other, flipping and spinning it as bodies fall around him. The expression on his face is almost hard to look at, but you can’t look anywhere else. It’s not blank or emotionless—this isn’t the Winter Soldier, that much is clear. This is all Bucky Barnes. All fury and rage and ruthlessly efficient skill.
It should be frightening. It should be monstrous, seeing the man you love, the man you lie beside at night, like this.
But what you feel now, watching him rip his way through every man stupid enough to step between him and you—it’s not fear. No, you feel a heat in your cheeks that has nothing to do with fury or fear and a tightness in your belly, a catch in your breath.
Quicker than you think should be possible and even faster than it feels, Bucky and Sam have cleared everyone in the room except the man in charge. The man standing behind you with a gun to your head and a hand gripping your shoulder.
“You move,” he says, voice shaking, “she’s dead.”
Bucky looks directly at you for the first time since he entered the room. You feel the weight of it as his eyes scan your face and you see the tick of his jaw when he spots the cut on your lip. His eyes flash back to the man. He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t hesitate. He moves so fast you can’t track the movement until it’s over. There’s a flash of black and gold, and then the gun at your temple and the grip on your shoulder are gone as the man falls to the ground beside you. You look down and there’s Bucky’s knife, driven to the hilt neatly in the centre of his forehead.
It's over.
Bucky is at your side in an instant, pulling another knife from somewhere and cutting the ties binding your wrists and ankles. The sight of the knife in his clever hand, easily maneuvering between the ties and your skin without you even feeling a touch of the blade, sends a spark through your core. Bucky runs his fingers where the ties pressed into your skin, checking for cuts as his eyes trace over the rest of your body.
His entire demeanour has changed, almost unrecognizable from the man you just saw, just moments ago, brutally fighting his way to you.
This is the Bucky who always walks closest to the street when he’s with you; who tells you to text when you get home, and calls to check in if you forget; who puts his jacket around your shoulders before you can so much as shiver from the cold.
Or it’s almost that Bucky, anyway. If not for the blood on his clothes, the busted knuckles, and the bruise blooming on his cheekbone.
“Hey,” he says, so soft, as he holds your face in those bloody hands. “Are you hurt?” He ever so gently touches his thumb to your split lip and for a moment a touch of that unleashed fury darkens his features.
“I’m okay,” you tell him. And you are, surprisingly. Maybe it’s shock, or maybe there’s something wrong with the wiring of your brain, but you feel fine, except for the growing heat in your core, only getting hotter with Bucky’s hands on your skin and his eyes on yours.
You’re mesmerized, caught in his stare, in the knowledge of what those hands, so tender and soft on you now, are capable of. Of what Bucky will do for you, to keep you safe.
Sam clears his throat, jolting you. You’d almost forgotten he was there. “Not to break up this nice moment you’re having, but maybe we should take this somewhere else. Like, anywhere else.” The tunnel vision you’ve had since you first laid eyes on Bucky lifts, and you finally notice the state of the room you’re in. Sam’s right. It’s time to leave.
Bucky grunts his acknowledgment. He pulls you up, gives you a once-over, seems to silently decide you’re okay to walk on your own, then takes your hand and puts it on the back of his jacket. He tells you to, “hold on, and don’t let go,” then turns and leads the way out of the building. Sam takes up the rear.
You discover, as Bucky leads you down wide hallways and up several sets of stairs, that it’s an old warehouse of some sort, long gone unused and left in disrepair. Exactly the place a would-be supervillain would get his start, you think. Bucky keeps one arm stretched behind him, keeping you close to his back, and you keep your grip on his jacket. You pass bodies, lots of them, slumped and motionless on the floor, some seemingly unconscious, others clearly dead, blood pooled on the ground underneath them.
“Don’t look,” Bucky tells you grimly, so you keep your face turned to his back and follow where he leads.
Finally, after too many crumbling steps and long, identical hallways, you reach the main entrance to the building. Lights flash through the wide-open doors, and you can hear voices shouting commands outside. The boys must have called for backup before they stormed the place.
Sam confirms it. “I’ll deal with the cleanup crew,” he says. “You two go on, I’ll meet you on the jet.”
“Thanks, Sam,” you say.
Sam shrugs it off. “No thanks required, just glad you’re alright. Now see if you can get this one,” he nods to Bucky, “to lighten up. You know he’s unbearable when he broods.”
You huff out a laugh, then Sam and Bucky share one of those long looks you can only sometimes interpret, and Sam goes off to coordinate with the soldiers milling outside while you and Bucky head for the jet.
He stays by your side while a medic checks you over, always with a hand on you, apparently unwilling to let go of you for even a minute. You feel his hand on your bare skin like a brand, and you wonder if that’s how it feels to him, too. A reminder, to anyone who might think differently, of who exactly you belong to, even though the threat has passed. He brushes off the offer to be looked over himself, only accepting a pack of wipes to clean the blood from his hands.
The medic declares you physically fine and leaves you and Bucky alone on the jet again, and you sit in silence for a minute. He’d been quiet while you were being examined, too. He breaks the silence the same time you do, and you speak over each other.
“I’m sorry you—” he starts, just as you blurt, “Fuck me.”
You look at each other, then again you speak at the same time, both asking, “What?” Bucky with eyebrows raised, you with feigned innocence.
He shakes his head, seemingly choosing to ignore your outburst. “I’m sorry you had to see me like that,” he continues, voice low. “Sorry I put you through all this. I never wanted you to be in that position, never wanted you to see that side of me.” His jaw clenches. “I should have protected you, done a better job keeping you safe.” You nod along like you’re listening, like anything he’s saying is sinking in. “Did you say—”
“I said, ‘fuck me,’” you nod.
Bucky stares at you, expression gone blank.
 “Yeah,” you start with a shrug, and then it all comes rushing out. “I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me, but you were so hot back there, and I heard what you said and we’re definitely going to talk more about that because you have nothing to apologize for and I love you no matter what, but God, I’m so fucking turned on right now and I just need you to—”
“Fuck,” he breathes.
“Yes. That.”
There’s a pause, then Bucky’s expression darkens, intense and aroused as he holds your gaze and you feel it in your core. Then he glances around and pulls you into the tiny bathroom on the plane.
The minute the door slides shut you’re on each other. Bucky easily hoists you onto the narrow sink and you spread your legs for him, wrap them around his waist to pull him in. You tip your face toward his and his mouth finds yours, hungry and open, a brutal, graceless kiss, more passion than pleasure. His tongue licks into your mouth and you taste copper from your split lip, while his right hand rucks up the skirt of your dress and works into your underwear, finding your dripping cunt.
He hisses a curse into your lips as he slips a finger inside, slick and easy. “You weren’t lying, huh? Fucking soaked.”
“Told you,” you gasp, when that finger crooks up and rubs. “Maybe I’m sick, but I liked it.” Bucky leans back as far as he can in the tiny space and catches your stare, holds it. “I like that you did it for me.”
He nods, eyes dark and burning all at once. “I did,” he tells you, working a second finger inside. “All for you, honey, and I’d do it again. I’d burn the whole fucking world down if it’d keep you safe.” It’s not just a line; you can see the truth of it in his eyes—hungry and sharp. It’s Bucky who says it and means it, just like it was Bucky who tore all those men apart in the warehouse. There was a brutality in James Barnes long before Hydra ever leashed it and twisted it to their purpose.
You surge up against him, meeting his lips with yours, taking that brutality inside yourself, trading it back and force on your tongues. Your hands work frantically at his belt. “Fuck me,” you breathe, beg. “I need it, Bucky. Need you in me now.” He pulls his fingers from your cunt and tugs your panties to the side just as you get his pants and underwear down enough to free his cock.
He doesn’t pause to slick himself up or check if you’re ready, just lines up and pushes inside with one hard thrust, covering your mouth with his metal hand just in time to muffle your cry. There might not be anyone on the jet, but they’re not far, and Sam will be back any minute. It hurts, two fingers not enough to dull the stretch, but you’re plenty wet and it’s a good hurt. The kind of hurt that reminds you you’re alive to feel it.
Bucky muffles his own groan against your neck, teeth clamping down just the right side of too hard. The distant sounds of soldiers shouting outside and the hum of engines fade away until it’s just you and Bucky all alone in the world.
He fucks you deep and mercilessly, like he’s trying to dig inside your body and reshape it to fit him. It’s a welcome intrusion. Each hard thrust shoves you back into the wall and you hold onto the sink with one hand to keep your balance, the other wrapped around Bucky’s back to hold him close. You pant against the hand over your mouth, the faint scent of metal filling your nose. You lick at his palm, tasting it in your mouth like blood.
There are no more words, just muffled breaths and bodies moving together. It’s over fast. You come with one hand working at your clit and the other gripping the sink so hard there’d be nothing left if you had Bucky’s strength. Bucky follows you a moment later, thrusts so hard it’s almost painful as he fills you up.
For a few, long moments neither of you moves, pressed tight to each other in the burning afterglow as the sound of blood rushing in your ears dissipates. Finally, Bucky’s hand slips from your mouth and you feel his tongue smooth over the sting his teeth left on your neck. You relax your grip on the sink’s edge and the stiffness in your fingers snaps you back into your body, reminding you where you are. A laugh bubbles up your throat and out of your mouth at the absurdity of the entire day.
You’d woken up that morning with nothing more exciting in mind than some window shopping downtown, and now you’re in an airplane bathroom with your boyfriend’s cock softening inside you because it got you hot watching him violently rescue you for an abduction. You start to laugh in earnest—big, rib-shaking laughs. You were so scared when you first opened your eyes in that dark warehouse. A primal, animal fear you’ve never known, couldn’t even have imagined. Like a child that knows with every certainty there’s a monster hiding under her bed and there’s nothing she can do about it. Except the monster wasn’t hiding, it was standing right in front of you, teeth bared.
You don’t realize you’re crying until Bucky’s hands are on your cheeks and his thumbs slide wet through the tears. He pulls you in, pressing kisses to every inch of skin he can reach as he gently hushes you with slow, soothing sounds until your shoulders stop shaking with sobs and the tears slow.
Bucky tips your chin up. “Look at me,” he tells you and waits for you to hold his eyes. “I will always come for you. Always.” He doesn’t lie, doesn’t say it’ll never happen again, that no one will ever try to hurt you because of him, and somehow that’s just as comforting as the promise.
You nod, taking a deep, shuddering breath.
“I know. I know. I was just really scared.” You smile shakily through the tears. “But hey, if this is the result,” you nod down at where you and Bucky are still joined, “maybe I should get kidnapped more often.”
Bucky scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Maybe I’ll have to kidnap you myself then. Keep you tied up in my bed so no one else can get their hands on you.” It’s a joke—he says it with a teasing smirk—but there’s an edge to his voice that makes your cunt clench around his cock even as you smile back at him. 
“Yeah, maybe you should.” You’re joking, too, of course.
The moment breaks, and you separate to sort yourselves out, trying to look like you didn’t just fuck. You turn to splash some water on your face and catch the imprint of Bucky’s teeth on your neck. He ducks his head to kiss the other side, watches your fingertips trace over the marks and doesn’t apologize for leaving them. They’re not deep; they’ll fade away to nothing in a few minutes. You’re almost disappointed.
He gives you his jacket to wear and helps you into it. “Now,” he tells you, adjusting the collar so it covers the marks, “try and look traumatized so Sam thinks I was just comforting you in here.” He must have heard him get on the jet while you were too distracted to hear anything.
With your eyes still red-rimmed and swollen you don’t think that’ll be an issue, provided he wasn’t too close to the bathroom door, but you press tight to Bucky’s side when he walks you out anyway, ducking under his arm as soon as you’re seated so you can press your face to his chest.
If Sam thinks anything of your leaving the bathroom together, he doesn’t say it, but you think you catch him sharing a knowing look with Bucky out of the corner of your eye. You’re too exhausted to think anything of it anyway, and as you take off the thrum of the airplane lulls you to sleep with your head on Bucky’s chest and his arms wrapped warm and tight around you. Exactly where you belong again.
Tumblr media
A/N: Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed!! If you have any thoughts, and/or noticed any typos/errors, feel free to let me know 😊
488 notes · View notes
dirtyhelen · 2 years
Text
Oh wow, thank you so much for reading!!! I'm so glad you enjoyed 😊😊😊
get your knuckles bloody for me
Tumblr media
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader
Rating: Explicit (18+)
Featuring: Kidnapping; Violence (Canon Typical); Rough Sex; Protective!Bucky
Words: 4300
Summary: You’ve seen Bucky spar before, and you’ve seen shaky cellphone footage online or on the news after the action has passed. You’ve never seen him like this. It’s not the Winter Soldier, that much is clear. This is all Bucky Barnes. All fury and rage and ruthlessly efficient skill.
It should be frightening. But what you feel now, watching him rip his way through every man stupid enough to step between him and you—it’s not fear.
Or: Reader is kidnapped; Bucky comes to the rescue with unexpected (read: horny) results.
A/N: Absolutely no research on realistic combat (or anything else!) went into this fic. It’s all just an excuse for protective!Bucky porn. Hope you enjoy! Title is from exile (feat. Bon Iver) by Taylor Swift.
Tumblr media
It’s dark when you open your eyes, so thick and inky you can’t see even a hint of light. At first, before your brain catches up with your body, you think you must have fallen asleep at home—one of those accidental, too-long naps—and woken up in the middle of the night. There’s that familiar groggy feeling, like weights attached to your limbs and a fog over your mind, but that’s all gone when you notice you’re sitting up, and when you realize you can’t move. Then it hits you—the memory. Walking to your car, digging for the keys in your overcrowded bag, when a man appears as if out of nowhere. There’s a pinch at the back of your neck, and then nothing.
And now this.
Panic floods you as you begin to thrash, feeling something thin and sharp digging into your wrists and ankles. There’s no give, despite your efforts. Even the chair seems secured to the floor. Your heart pounds in your chest, hummingbird-fast, and an icy feeling spreads through your limbs unrelated to the damp chill of the air around you.
Just as you feel the terrifying breathlessness of a panic attack starting, the darkness lifts. A door you couldn’t see before is pushed open with a screech of old, rusty hinges, spilling harsh fluorescent light from the other side, broken by a dark silhouette. The person flips a switch and the room is flooded with flickering light, blinding you temporarily. You hear the creak of the door shutting again, trapping you alone with this stranger, whoever they are.
When your eyes adjust you finally get a good look at your surroundings. A large, windowless room. Concrete walls and floors. Underground, maybe. Moisture drips down the walls and gathers in dark pools in the corners, explaining the damp, dank feeling in the air. A shiver runs through you. You’d dressed for an afternoon in the warm summer sun, not whatever this is, and you feel frighteningly exposed in the light cotton sundress you’d chosen.
The silhouette, it turns out, belongs to a man, wearing a dark suit and a greasy smile that does nothing to put you at ease. He steps forward and you shrink back—as much as you can, pinned as you are, like an insect for his inspection.
“Hello,” he says, greeting you by name. You almost can’t hear him over the blood rushing in your ears. You don’t recognize him, that much you’re sure of. Questions form in your mind—who is he, how does he know you, or is this completely random and your name was just pulled from your license? But fear clogs your throat and nothing comes out. “Did you sleep well?” he asks.
You almost nod reflexively, almost ask him the same before you catch yourself. A million scenarios from movies and TV shows and true crime podcasts, each more terrifying than the last, flash through your thoughts as the man waits for your reply, seemingly content to let the silence stretch. You try to remember anything useful from the dozens of self-defence tutorials you’ve scrolled past on social media over the years. All those tips and tricks no woman should ignore, they all said in big, bold letters. You come up blank. It’s too late now anyway, you think. Those tips probably weren’t designed for use when you’re already tied to a chair in someone’s basement—if that is where you are.
“What is this?” you manage to croak, voice rough, but working at least.
“A trap.”
Oh.
Oh, of course. This isn’t some random, meaningless crime, but it isn’t about you either. He wants Bucky. Maybe this is the price you pay for being someone Bucky Barnes loves. Unfortunately, the clarity doesn’t exactly make you any less afraid. Now you’re afraid for Bucky and yourself because you know he’ll come for you, and you don’t know what he’ll be facing when he does.
“What do you want with Bucky?” you ask.
“‘Bucky?’ Is that what you call him? What a stupid little nickname. Winter Soldier suits him so much better, don’t you think?” He practically spits the words. It’s clear there’s some history there, whether real or imagined.
“Is that what this is about? Did the Winter Soldier do something to you? Because that wasn’t Bucky, he was brainwashed by Hyd—” You’re interrupted by the sound of a phone ringing. The man takes a breath, any visible emotion evoked by Bucky’s former title locked away behind a calm exterior. He holds up a finger, taking a phone from his jacket pocket and checking the screen.
“Perfect timing,” he says. “Let’s put it on speaker, shall we?” He swipes his thumb to answer the call. “Is he here?”
A man answers. “Yeah, boss. And Captain America, too.” He sounds young, or maybe that’s just the thread of panic you think you hear in his voice. “I’m watching on the cameras. They just took out all our guys on the wall and they’re making their way inside now.” Definitely panic.
“Shit,” your kidnapper hisses, taking the call off speakerphone. “Tell them to lay down their weapons and surrender, or the woman dies,” he orders. He looks you straight in the eyes as he says it, but that air of slimy authority he’d carried seems to falter.
You can’t hear exactly what the other man says, but the frantic tone comes through loud and clear. The gunfire a few seconds later even clearer. Based on your captor’s expression, you don’t think the young man on the other end of the call got a chance to relay his message.
The crack in the man’s smooth exterior gets a little wider and lets you see through to something less than impressive inside. There’s no evil genius pulling the strings here, just some garden variety asshole with a villain complex and too much disposable income. You wonder what exactly he was expecting would happen. That Bucky would come alone and unarmed and just allow himself to be traded for you with no objection? He clearly knows nothing of any value about Bucky Barnes—or Sam Wilson, for that matter.
“Bucky and Sam aren’t big on the whole ‘surrendering’ thing,” you say, emboldened by your assessment and the knowledge that they’re already here.
The man takes another step toward you, so close now you have to crane your neck to look him in the eye. Your attention is caught by the tight clench of his jaw, the unravelling of his control, and you don’t see it coming.
He slaps you, hard. You yelp at the shock of it, at the sting, fading quickly into a dull burn under your skin. You’re stunned for a second—you’ve never been hit before, and you don’t know how to react. You slide your tongue along your bottom lip and taste blood, and a flash-fire fury burns through your body until you tremble with it.
How fucking dare he?
Before any words can leave your mouth, two men, big and broad, burst through the door. “They just blew through the last blockade!” one of them says, huffing through heaving lungs.
“They killed fucking everyone!” the other shouts.
Your lips curl into a smirk. Good, you think.
It’s only moments before the sounds of gunfire and shouting reach you, echoing down empty corridors. The room quickly becomes crowded, as what must be every remaining lackey fills the space, surrounding you and blocking your view. You can’t see the door anymore—just the backs of men in black armour.
Your kidnapper swears again, and you see the façade fall away completely, leaving only cornered-animal panic behind. He pulls a gun from his waistband and steps behind you. You hear the click of the gun being cocked, then the cold press of metal against your temple, and any confidence you’d felt disappears. This is the closest to death as you’ve ever been. With just one touch of one finger, everything could be over for you. Forever.
For a moment, everything is still and quiet as everyone waits. You’re frozen in your fear, afraid to even breathe too deeply, feeling the slight tremble of the gun against your head.
Then in an instant, everything comes unstuck. They’re here.
There’s a flurry of gunshots and shouting, so close it’s deafening. You can’t see anything except frantic movement, can’t hear anything except indistinguishable noise. Can’t feel anything except your pounding heart, adrenaline flooding your veins.
Then dark-clothed bodies start to drop, and you finally have a clear view—you see Sam first, catch the bright colours of the shield in his hand—and then you see Bucky and everything else fades away—the gun against your head, the man holding it. Even Sam. Even your fear, for Bucky and for yourself.
You’ve seen Bucky spar before, and you’ve seen shaky cellphone footage online or on the news after the action has passed.
You’ve never seen him like this.
In his right hand, there’s a handgun; his left is empty but no less dangerous for it. He throws a man as easily as tossing a ball and the body hits the wall with a sick crunch you can feel. Bucky aims and fires his gun seemingly without conscious thought and his shots never miss. He fires at a man who steps—foolishly—in front of him, but the gun just clicks, mag empty. He flips it and whips the man brutally across the face with the grip, knocking him down, then throws the gun at another man who falls to the ground with the force of it. In a flash, there’s a knife in Bucky’s hand instead.
Watching him move is mesmerizing. It’s as though the knife is an extension of his arm, just as deadly as the gun had been. He stabs and slashes, flicking the knife from one hand to the other, flipping and spinning it as bodies fall around him. The expression on his face is almost hard to look at, but you can’t look anywhere else. It’s not blank or emotionless—this isn’t the Winter Soldier, that much is clear. This is all Bucky Barnes. All fury and rage and ruthlessly efficient skill.
It should be frightening. It should be monstrous, seeing the man you love, the man you lie beside at night, like this.
But what you feel now, watching him rip his way through every man stupid enough to step between him and you—it’s not fear. No, you feel a heat in your cheeks that has nothing to do with fury or fear and a tightness in your belly, a catch in your breath.
Quicker than you think should be possible and even faster than it feels, Bucky and Sam have cleared everyone in the room except the man in charge. The man standing behind you with a gun to your head and a hand gripping your shoulder.
“You move,” he says, voice shaking, “she’s dead.”
Bucky looks directly at you for the first time since he entered the room. You feel the weight of it as his eyes scan your face and you see the tick of his jaw when he spots the cut on your lip. His eyes flash back to the man. He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t hesitate. He moves so fast you can’t track the movement until it’s over. There’s a flash of black and gold, and then the gun at your temple and the grip on your shoulder are gone as the man falls to the ground beside you. You look down and there’s Bucky’s knife, driven to the hilt neatly in the centre of his forehead.
It's over.
Bucky is at your side in an instant, pulling another knife from somewhere and cutting the ties binding your wrists and ankles. The sight of the knife in his clever hand, easily maneuvering between the ties and your skin without you even feeling a touch of the blade, sends a spark through your core. Bucky runs his fingers where the ties pressed into your skin, checking for cuts as his eyes trace over the rest of your body.
His entire demeanour has changed, almost unrecognizable from the man you just saw, just moments ago, brutally fighting his way to you.
This is the Bucky who always walks closest to the street when he’s with you; who tells you to text when you get home, and calls to check in if you forget; who puts his jacket around your shoulders before you can so much as shiver from the cold.
Or it’s almost that Bucky, anyway. If not for the blood on his clothes, the busted knuckles, and the bruise blooming on his cheekbone.
“Hey,” he says, so soft, as he holds your face in those bloody hands. “Are you hurt?” He ever so gently touches his thumb to your split lip and for a moment a touch of that unleashed fury darkens his features.
“I’m okay,” you tell him. And you are, surprisingly. Maybe it’s shock, or maybe there’s something wrong with the wiring of your brain, but you feel fine, except for the growing heat in your core, only getting hotter with Bucky’s hands on your skin and his eyes on yours.
You’re mesmerized, caught in his stare, in the knowledge of what those hands, so tender and soft on you now, are capable of. Of what Bucky will do for you, to keep you safe.
Sam clears his throat, jolting you. You’d almost forgotten he was there. “Not to break up this nice moment you’re having, but maybe we should take this somewhere else. Like, anywhere else.” The tunnel vision you’ve had since you first laid eyes on Bucky lifts, and you finally notice the state of the room you’re in. Sam’s right. It’s time to leave.
Bucky grunts his acknowledgment. He pulls you up, gives you a once-over, seems to silently decide you’re okay to walk on your own, then takes your hand and puts it on the back of his jacket. He tells you to, “hold on, and don’t let go,” then turns and leads the way out of the building. Sam takes up the rear.
You discover, as Bucky leads you down wide hallways and up several sets of stairs, that it’s an old warehouse of some sort, long gone unused and left in disrepair. Exactly the place a would-be supervillain would get his start, you think. Bucky keeps one arm stretched behind him, keeping you close to his back, and you keep your grip on his jacket. You pass bodies, lots of them, slumped and motionless on the floor, some seemingly unconscious, others clearly dead, blood pooled on the ground underneath them.
“Don’t look,” Bucky tells you grimly, so you keep your face turned to his back and follow where he leads.
Finally, after too many crumbling steps and long, identical hallways, you reach the main entrance to the building. Lights flash through the wide-open doors, and you can hear voices shouting commands outside. The boys must have called for backup before they stormed the place.
Sam confirms it. “I’ll deal with the cleanup crew,” he says. “You two go on, I’ll meet you on the jet.”
“Thanks, Sam,” you say.
Sam shrugs it off. “No thanks required, just glad you’re alright. Now see if you can get this one,” he nods to Bucky, “to lighten up. You know he’s unbearable when he broods.”
You huff out a laugh, then Sam and Bucky share one of those long looks you can only sometimes interpret, and Sam goes off to coordinate with the soldiers milling outside while you and Bucky head for the jet.
He stays by your side while a medic checks you over, always with a hand on you, apparently unwilling to let go of you for even a minute. You feel his hand on your bare skin like a brand, and you wonder if that’s how it feels to him, too. A reminder, to anyone who might think differently, of who exactly you belong to, even though the threat has passed. He brushes off the offer to be looked over himself, only accepting a pack of wipes to clean the blood from his hands.
The medic declares you physically fine and leaves you and Bucky alone on the jet again, and you sit in silence for a minute. He’d been quiet while you were being examined, too. He breaks the silence the same time you do, and you speak over each other.
“I’m sorry you—” he starts, just as you blurt, “Fuck me.”
You look at each other, then again you speak at the same time, both asking, “What?” Bucky with eyebrows raised, you with feigned innocence.
He shakes his head, seemingly choosing to ignore your outburst. “I’m sorry you had to see me like that,” he continues, voice low. “Sorry I put you through all this. I never wanted you to be in that position, never wanted you to see that side of me.” His jaw clenches. “I should have protected you, done a better job keeping you safe.” You nod along like you’re listening, like anything he’s saying is sinking in. “Did you say—”
“I said, ‘fuck me,’” you nod.
Bucky stares at you, expression gone blank.
 “Yeah,” you start with a shrug, and then it all comes rushing out. “I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me, but you were so hot back there, and I heard what you said and we’re definitely going to talk more about that because you have nothing to apologize for and I love you no matter what, but God, I’m so fucking turned on right now and I just need you to—”
“Fuck,” he breathes.
“Yes. That.”
There’s a pause, then Bucky’s expression darkens, intense and aroused as he holds your gaze and you feel it in your core. Then he glances around and pulls you into the tiny bathroom on the plane.
The minute the door slides shut you’re on each other. Bucky easily hoists you onto the narrow sink and you spread your legs for him, wrap them around his waist to pull him in. You tip your face toward his and his mouth finds yours, hungry and open, a brutal, graceless kiss, more passion than pleasure. His tongue licks into your mouth and you taste copper from your split lip, while his right hand rucks up the skirt of your dress and works into your underwear, finding your dripping cunt.
He hisses a curse into your lips as he slips a finger inside, slick and easy. “You weren’t lying, huh? Fucking soaked.”
“Told you,” you gasp, when that finger crooks up and rubs. “Maybe I’m sick, but I liked it.” Bucky leans back as far as he can in the tiny space and catches your stare, holds it. “I like that you did it for me.”
He nods, eyes dark and burning all at once. “I did,” he tells you, working a second finger inside. “All for you, honey, and I’d do it again. I’d burn the whole fucking world down if it’d keep you safe.” It’s not just a line; you can see the truth of it in his eyes—hungry and sharp. It’s Bucky who says it and means it, just like it was Bucky who tore all those men apart in the warehouse. There was a brutality in James Barnes long before Hydra ever leashed it and twisted it to their purpose.
You surge up against him, meeting his lips with yours, taking that brutality inside yourself, trading it back and force on your tongues. Your hands work frantically at his belt. “Fuck me,” you breathe, beg. “I need it, Bucky. Need you in me now.” He pulls his fingers from your cunt and tugs your panties to the side just as you get his pants and underwear down enough to free his cock.
He doesn’t pause to slick himself up or check if you’re ready, just lines up and pushes inside with one hard thrust, covering your mouth with his metal hand just in time to muffle your cry. There might not be anyone on the jet, but they’re not far, and Sam will be back any minute. It hurts, two fingers not enough to dull the stretch, but you’re plenty wet and it’s a good hurt. The kind of hurt that reminds you you’re alive to feel it.
Bucky muffles his own groan against your neck, teeth clamping down just the right side of too hard. The distant sounds of soldiers shouting outside and the hum of engines fade away until it’s just you and Bucky all alone in the world.
He fucks you deep and mercilessly, like he’s trying to dig inside your body and reshape it to fit him. It’s a welcome intrusion. Each hard thrust shoves you back into the wall and you hold onto the sink with one hand to keep your balance, the other wrapped around Bucky’s back to hold him close. You pant against the hand over your mouth, the faint scent of metal filling your nose. You lick at his palm, tasting it in your mouth like blood.
There are no more words, just muffled breaths and bodies moving together. It’s over fast. You come with one hand working at your clit and the other gripping the sink so hard there’d be nothing left if you had Bucky’s strength. Bucky follows you a moment later, thrusts so hard it’s almost painful as he fills you up.
For a few, long moments neither of you moves, pressed tight to each other in the burning afterglow as the sound of blood rushing in your ears dissipates. Finally, Bucky’s hand slips from your mouth and you feel his tongue smooth over the sting his teeth left on your neck. You relax your grip on the sink’s edge and the stiffness in your fingers snaps you back into your body, reminding you where you are. A laugh bubbles up your throat and out of your mouth at the absurdity of the entire day.
You’d woken up that morning with nothing more exciting in mind than some window shopping downtown, and now you’re in an airplane bathroom with your boyfriend’s cock softening inside you because it got you hot watching him violently rescue you for an abduction. You start to laugh in earnest—big, rib-shaking laughs. You were so scared when you first opened your eyes in that dark warehouse. A primal, animal fear you’ve never known, couldn’t even have imagined. Like a child that knows with every certainty there’s a monster hiding under her bed and there’s nothing she can do about it. Except the monster wasn’t hiding, it was standing right in front of you, teeth bared.
You don’t realize you’re crying until Bucky’s hands are on your cheeks and his thumbs slide wet through the tears. He pulls you in, pressing kisses to every inch of skin he can reach as he gently hushes you with slow, soothing sounds until your shoulders stop shaking with sobs and the tears slow.
Bucky tips your chin up. “Look at me,” he tells you and waits for you to hold his eyes. “I will always come for you. Always.” He doesn’t lie, doesn’t say it’ll never happen again, that no one will ever try to hurt you because of him, and somehow that’s just as comforting as the promise.
You nod, taking a deep, shuddering breath.
“I know. I know. I was just really scared.” You smile shakily through the tears. “But hey, if this is the result,” you nod down at where you and Bucky are still joined, “maybe I should get kidnapped more often.”
Bucky scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Maybe I’ll have to kidnap you myself then. Keep you tied up in my bed so no one else can get their hands on you.” It’s a joke—he says it with a teasing smirk—but there’s an edge to his voice that makes your cunt clench around his cock even as you smile back at him. 
“Yeah, maybe you should.” You’re joking, too, of course.
The moment breaks, and you separate to sort yourselves out, trying to look like you didn’t just fuck. You turn to splash some water on your face and catch the imprint of Bucky’s teeth on your neck. He ducks his head to kiss the other side, watches your fingertips trace over the marks and doesn’t apologize for leaving them. They’re not deep; they’ll fade away to nothing in a few minutes. You’re almost disappointed.
He gives you his jacket to wear and helps you into it. “Now,” he tells you, adjusting the collar so it covers the marks, “try and look traumatized so Sam thinks I was just comforting you in here.” He must have heard him get on the jet while you were too distracted to hear anything.
With your eyes still red-rimmed and swollen you don’t think that’ll be an issue, provided he wasn’t too close to the bathroom door, but you press tight to Bucky’s side when he walks you out anyway, ducking under his arm as soon as you’re seated so you can press your face to his chest.
If Sam thinks anything of your leaving the bathroom together, he doesn’t say it, but you think you catch him sharing a knowing look with Bucky out of the corner of your eye. You’re too exhausted to think anything of it anyway, and as you take off the thrum of the airplane lulls you to sleep with your head on Bucky’s chest and his arms wrapped warm and tight around you. Exactly where you belong again.
Tumblr media
A/N: Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed!! If you have any thoughts, and/or noticed any typos/errors, feel free to let me know 😊
488 notes · View notes
dirtyhelen · 2 years
Text
Thanks for reading!! I'm glad you enjoyed 😊
get your knuckles bloody for me
Tumblr media
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader
Rating: Explicit (18+)
Featuring: Kidnapping; Violence (Canon Typical); Rough Sex; Protective!Bucky
Words: 4300
Summary: You’ve seen Bucky spar before, and you’ve seen shaky cellphone footage online or on the news after the action has passed. You’ve never seen him like this. It’s not the Winter Soldier, that much is clear. This is all Bucky Barnes. All fury and rage and ruthlessly efficient skill.
It should be frightening. But what you feel now, watching him rip his way through every man stupid enough to step between him and you—it’s not fear.
Or: Reader is kidnapped; Bucky comes to the rescue with unexpected (read: horny) results.
A/N: Absolutely no research on realistic combat (or anything else!) went into this fic. It’s all just an excuse for protective!Bucky porn. Hope you enjoy! Title is from exile (feat. Bon Iver) by Taylor Swift.
Tumblr media
It’s dark when you open your eyes, so thick and inky you can’t see even a hint of light. At first, before your brain catches up with your body, you think you must have fallen asleep at home—one of those accidental, too-long naps—and woken up in the middle of the night. There’s that familiar groggy feeling, like weights attached to your limbs and a fog over your mind, but that’s all gone when you notice you’re sitting up, and when you realize you can’t move. Then it hits you—the memory. Walking to your car, digging for the keys in your overcrowded bag, when a man appears as if out of nowhere. There’s a pinch at the back of your neck, and then nothing.
And now this.
Panic floods you as you begin to thrash, feeling something thin and sharp digging into your wrists and ankles. There’s no give, despite your efforts. Even the chair seems secured to the floor. Your heart pounds in your chest, hummingbird-fast, and an icy feeling spreads through your limbs unrelated to the damp chill of the air around you.
Just as you feel the terrifying breathlessness of a panic attack starting, the darkness lifts. A door you couldn’t see before is pushed open with a screech of old, rusty hinges, spilling harsh fluorescent light from the other side, broken by a dark silhouette. The person flips a switch and the room is flooded with flickering light, blinding you temporarily. You hear the creak of the door shutting again, trapping you alone with this stranger, whoever they are.
When your eyes adjust you finally get a good look at your surroundings. A large, windowless room. Concrete walls and floors. Underground, maybe. Moisture drips down the walls and gathers in dark pools in the corners, explaining the damp, dank feeling in the air. A shiver runs through you. You’d dressed for an afternoon in the warm summer sun, not whatever this is, and you feel frighteningly exposed in the light cotton sundress you’d chosen.
The silhouette, it turns out, belongs to a man, wearing a dark suit and a greasy smile that does nothing to put you at ease. He steps forward and you shrink back—as much as you can, pinned as you are, like an insect for his inspection.
“Hello,” he says, greeting you by name. You almost can’t hear him over the blood rushing in your ears. You don’t recognize him, that much you’re sure of. Questions form in your mind—who is he, how does he know you, or is this completely random and your name was just pulled from your license? But fear clogs your throat and nothing comes out. “Did you sleep well?” he asks.
You almost nod reflexively, almost ask him the same before you catch yourself. A million scenarios from movies and TV shows and true crime podcasts, each more terrifying than the last, flash through your thoughts as the man waits for your reply, seemingly content to let the silence stretch. You try to remember anything useful from the dozens of self-defence tutorials you’ve scrolled past on social media over the years. All those tips and tricks no woman should ignore, they all said in big, bold letters. You come up blank. It’s too late now anyway, you think. Those tips probably weren’t designed for use when you’re already tied to a chair in someone’s basement—if that is where you are.
“What is this?” you manage to croak, voice rough, but working at least.
“A trap.”
Oh.
Oh, of course. This isn’t some random, meaningless crime, but it isn’t about you either. He wants Bucky. Maybe this is the price you pay for being someone Bucky Barnes loves. Unfortunately, the clarity doesn’t exactly make you any less afraid. Now you’re afraid for Bucky and yourself because you know he’ll come for you, and you don’t know what he’ll be facing when he does.
“What do you want with Bucky?” you ask.
“‘Bucky?’ Is that what you call him? What a stupid little nickname. Winter Soldier suits him so much better, don’t you think?” He practically spits the words. It’s clear there’s some history there, whether real or imagined.
“Is that what this is about? Did the Winter Soldier do something to you? Because that wasn’t Bucky, he was brainwashed by Hyd—” You’re interrupted by the sound of a phone ringing. The man takes a breath, any visible emotion evoked by Bucky’s former title locked away behind a calm exterior. He holds up a finger, taking a phone from his jacket pocket and checking the screen.
“Perfect timing,” he says. “Let’s put it on speaker, shall we?” He swipes his thumb to answer the call. “Is he here?”
A man answers. “Yeah, boss. And Captain America, too.” He sounds young, or maybe that’s just the thread of panic you think you hear in his voice. “I’m watching on the cameras. They just took out all our guys on the wall and they’re making their way inside now.” Definitely panic.
“Shit,” your kidnapper hisses, taking the call off speakerphone. “Tell them to lay down their weapons and surrender, or the woman dies,” he orders. He looks you straight in the eyes as he says it, but that air of slimy authority he’d carried seems to falter.
You can’t hear exactly what the other man says, but the frantic tone comes through loud and clear. The gunfire a few seconds later even clearer. Based on your captor’s expression, you don’t think the young man on the other end of the call got a chance to relay his message.
The crack in the man’s smooth exterior gets a little wider and lets you see through to something less than impressive inside. There’s no evil genius pulling the strings here, just some garden variety asshole with a villain complex and too much disposable income. You wonder what exactly he was expecting would happen. That Bucky would come alone and unarmed and just allow himself to be traded for you with no objection? He clearly knows nothing of any value about Bucky Barnes—or Sam Wilson, for that matter.
“Bucky and Sam aren’t big on the whole ‘surrendering’ thing,” you say, emboldened by your assessment and the knowledge that they’re already here.
The man takes another step toward you, so close now you have to crane your neck to look him in the eye. Your attention is caught by the tight clench of his jaw, the unravelling of his control, and you don’t see it coming.
He slaps you, hard. You yelp at the shock of it, at the sting, fading quickly into a dull burn under your skin. You’re stunned for a second—you’ve never been hit before, and you don’t know how to react. You slide your tongue along your bottom lip and taste blood, and a flash-fire fury burns through your body until you tremble with it.
How fucking dare he?
Before any words can leave your mouth, two men, big and broad, burst through the door. “They just blew through the last blockade!” one of them says, huffing through heaving lungs.
“They killed fucking everyone!” the other shouts.
Your lips curl into a smirk. Good, you think.
It’s only moments before the sounds of gunfire and shouting reach you, echoing down empty corridors. The room quickly becomes crowded, as what must be every remaining lackey fills the space, surrounding you and blocking your view. You can’t see the door anymore—just the backs of men in black armour.
Your kidnapper swears again, and you see the façade fall away completely, leaving only cornered-animal panic behind. He pulls a gun from his waistband and steps behind you. You hear the click of the gun being cocked, then the cold press of metal against your temple, and any confidence you’d felt disappears. This is the closest to death as you’ve ever been. With just one touch of one finger, everything could be over for you. Forever.
For a moment, everything is still and quiet as everyone waits. You’re frozen in your fear, afraid to even breathe too deeply, feeling the slight tremble of the gun against your head.
Then in an instant, everything comes unstuck. They’re here.
There’s a flurry of gunshots and shouting, so close it’s deafening. You can’t see anything except frantic movement, can’t hear anything except indistinguishable noise. Can’t feel anything except your pounding heart, adrenaline flooding your veins.
Then dark-clothed bodies start to drop, and you finally have a clear view—you see Sam first, catch the bright colours of the shield in his hand—and then you see Bucky and everything else fades away—the gun against your head, the man holding it. Even Sam. Even your fear, for Bucky and for yourself.
You’ve seen Bucky spar before, and you’ve seen shaky cellphone footage online or on the news after the action has passed.
You’ve never seen him like this.
In his right hand, there’s a handgun; his left is empty but no less dangerous for it. He throws a man as easily as tossing a ball and the body hits the wall with a sick crunch you can feel. Bucky aims and fires his gun seemingly without conscious thought and his shots never miss. He fires at a man who steps—foolishly—in front of him, but the gun just clicks, mag empty. He flips it and whips the man brutally across the face with the grip, knocking him down, then throws the gun at another man who falls to the ground with the force of it. In a flash, there’s a knife in Bucky’s hand instead.
Watching him move is mesmerizing. It’s as though the knife is an extension of his arm, just as deadly as the gun had been. He stabs and slashes, flicking the knife from one hand to the other, flipping and spinning it as bodies fall around him. The expression on his face is almost hard to look at, but you can’t look anywhere else. It’s not blank or emotionless—this isn’t the Winter Soldier, that much is clear. This is all Bucky Barnes. All fury and rage and ruthlessly efficient skill.
It should be frightening. It should be monstrous, seeing the man you love, the man you lie beside at night, like this.
But what you feel now, watching him rip his way through every man stupid enough to step between him and you—it’s not fear. No, you feel a heat in your cheeks that has nothing to do with fury or fear and a tightness in your belly, a catch in your breath.
Quicker than you think should be possible and even faster than it feels, Bucky and Sam have cleared everyone in the room except the man in charge. The man standing behind you with a gun to your head and a hand gripping your shoulder.
“You move,” he says, voice shaking, “she’s dead.”
Bucky looks directly at you for the first time since he entered the room. You feel the weight of it as his eyes scan your face and you see the tick of his jaw when he spots the cut on your lip. His eyes flash back to the man. He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t hesitate. He moves so fast you can’t track the movement until it’s over. There’s a flash of black and gold, and then the gun at your temple and the grip on your shoulder are gone as the man falls to the ground beside you. You look down and there’s Bucky’s knife, driven to the hilt neatly in the centre of his forehead.
It's over.
Bucky is at your side in an instant, pulling another knife from somewhere and cutting the ties binding your wrists and ankles. The sight of the knife in his clever hand, easily maneuvering between the ties and your skin without you even feeling a touch of the blade, sends a spark through your core. Bucky runs his fingers where the ties pressed into your skin, checking for cuts as his eyes trace over the rest of your body.
His entire demeanour has changed, almost unrecognizable from the man you just saw, just moments ago, brutally fighting his way to you.
This is the Bucky who always walks closest to the street when he’s with you; who tells you to text when you get home, and calls to check in if you forget; who puts his jacket around your shoulders before you can so much as shiver from the cold.
Or it’s almost that Bucky, anyway. If not for the blood on his clothes, the busted knuckles, and the bruise blooming on his cheekbone.
“Hey,” he says, so soft, as he holds your face in those bloody hands. “Are you hurt?” He ever so gently touches his thumb to your split lip and for a moment a touch of that unleashed fury darkens his features.
“I’m okay,” you tell him. And you are, surprisingly. Maybe it’s shock, or maybe there’s something wrong with the wiring of your brain, but you feel fine, except for the growing heat in your core, only getting hotter with Bucky’s hands on your skin and his eyes on yours.
You’re mesmerized, caught in his stare, in the knowledge of what those hands, so tender and soft on you now, are capable of. Of what Bucky will do for you, to keep you safe.
Sam clears his throat, jolting you. You’d almost forgotten he was there. “Not to break up this nice moment you’re having, but maybe we should take this somewhere else. Like, anywhere else.” The tunnel vision you’ve had since you first laid eyes on Bucky lifts, and you finally notice the state of the room you’re in. Sam’s right. It’s time to leave.
Bucky grunts his acknowledgment. He pulls you up, gives you a once-over, seems to silently decide you’re okay to walk on your own, then takes your hand and puts it on the back of his jacket. He tells you to, “hold on, and don’t let go,” then turns and leads the way out of the building. Sam takes up the rear.
You discover, as Bucky leads you down wide hallways and up several sets of stairs, that it’s an old warehouse of some sort, long gone unused and left in disrepair. Exactly the place a would-be supervillain would get his start, you think. Bucky keeps one arm stretched behind him, keeping you close to his back, and you keep your grip on his jacket. You pass bodies, lots of them, slumped and motionless on the floor, some seemingly unconscious, others clearly dead, blood pooled on the ground underneath them.
“Don’t look,” Bucky tells you grimly, so you keep your face turned to his back and follow where he leads.
Finally, after too many crumbling steps and long, identical hallways, you reach the main entrance to the building. Lights flash through the wide-open doors, and you can hear voices shouting commands outside. The boys must have called for backup before they stormed the place.
Sam confirms it. “I’ll deal with the cleanup crew,” he says. “You two go on, I’ll meet you on the jet.”
“Thanks, Sam,” you say.
Sam shrugs it off. “No thanks required, just glad you’re alright. Now see if you can get this one,” he nods to Bucky, “to lighten up. You know he’s unbearable when he broods.”
You huff out a laugh, then Sam and Bucky share one of those long looks you can only sometimes interpret, and Sam goes off to coordinate with the soldiers milling outside while you and Bucky head for the jet.
He stays by your side while a medic checks you over, always with a hand on you, apparently unwilling to let go of you for even a minute. You feel his hand on your bare skin like a brand, and you wonder if that’s how it feels to him, too. A reminder, to anyone who might think differently, of who exactly you belong to, even though the threat has passed. He brushes off the offer to be looked over himself, only accepting a pack of wipes to clean the blood from his hands.
The medic declares you physically fine and leaves you and Bucky alone on the jet again, and you sit in silence for a minute. He’d been quiet while you were being examined, too. He breaks the silence the same time you do, and you speak over each other.
“I’m sorry you—” he starts, just as you blurt, “Fuck me.”
You look at each other, then again you speak at the same time, both asking, “What?” Bucky with eyebrows raised, you with feigned innocence.
He shakes his head, seemingly choosing to ignore your outburst. “I’m sorry you had to see me like that,” he continues, voice low. “Sorry I put you through all this. I never wanted you to be in that position, never wanted you to see that side of me.” His jaw clenches. “I should have protected you, done a better job keeping you safe.” You nod along like you’re listening, like anything he’s saying is sinking in. “Did you say—”
“I said, ‘fuck me,’” you nod.
Bucky stares at you, expression gone blank.
 “Yeah,” you start with a shrug, and then it all comes rushing out. “I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me, but you were so hot back there, and I heard what you said and we’re definitely going to talk more about that because you have nothing to apologize for and I love you no matter what, but God, I’m so fucking turned on right now and I just need you to—”
“Fuck,” he breathes.
“Yes. That.”
There’s a pause, then Bucky’s expression darkens, intense and aroused as he holds your gaze and you feel it in your core. Then he glances around and pulls you into the tiny bathroom on the plane.
The minute the door slides shut you’re on each other. Bucky easily hoists you onto the narrow sink and you spread your legs for him, wrap them around his waist to pull him in. You tip your face toward his and his mouth finds yours, hungry and open, a brutal, graceless kiss, more passion than pleasure. His tongue licks into your mouth and you taste copper from your split lip, while his right hand rucks up the skirt of your dress and works into your underwear, finding your dripping cunt.
He hisses a curse into your lips as he slips a finger inside, slick and easy. “You weren’t lying, huh? Fucking soaked.”
“Told you,” you gasp, when that finger crooks up and rubs. “Maybe I’m sick, but I liked it.” Bucky leans back as far as he can in the tiny space and catches your stare, holds it. “I like that you did it for me.”
He nods, eyes dark and burning all at once. “I did,” he tells you, working a second finger inside. “All for you, honey, and I’d do it again. I’d burn the whole fucking world down if it’d keep you safe.” It’s not just a line; you can see the truth of it in his eyes—hungry and sharp. It’s Bucky who says it and means it, just like it was Bucky who tore all those men apart in the warehouse. There was a brutality in James Barnes long before Hydra ever leashed it and twisted it to their purpose.
You surge up against him, meeting his lips with yours, taking that brutality inside yourself, trading it back and force on your tongues. Your hands work frantically at his belt. “Fuck me,” you breathe, beg. “I need it, Bucky. Need you in me now.” He pulls his fingers from your cunt and tugs your panties to the side just as you get his pants and underwear down enough to free his cock.
He doesn’t pause to slick himself up or check if you’re ready, just lines up and pushes inside with one hard thrust, covering your mouth with his metal hand just in time to muffle your cry. There might not be anyone on the jet, but they’re not far, and Sam will be back any minute. It hurts, two fingers not enough to dull the stretch, but you’re plenty wet and it’s a good hurt. The kind of hurt that reminds you you’re alive to feel it.
Bucky muffles his own groan against your neck, teeth clamping down just the right side of too hard. The distant sounds of soldiers shouting outside and the hum of engines fade away until it’s just you and Bucky all alone in the world.
He fucks you deep and mercilessly, like he’s trying to dig inside your body and reshape it to fit him. It’s a welcome intrusion. Each hard thrust shoves you back into the wall and you hold onto the sink with one hand to keep your balance, the other wrapped around Bucky’s back to hold him close. You pant against the hand over your mouth, the faint scent of metal filling your nose. You lick at his palm, tasting it in your mouth like blood.
There are no more words, just muffled breaths and bodies moving together. It’s over fast. You come with one hand working at your clit and the other gripping the sink so hard there’d be nothing left if you had Bucky’s strength. Bucky follows you a moment later, thrusts so hard it’s almost painful as he fills you up.
For a few, long moments neither of you moves, pressed tight to each other in the burning afterglow as the sound of blood rushing in your ears dissipates. Finally, Bucky’s hand slips from your mouth and you feel his tongue smooth over the sting his teeth left on your neck. You relax your grip on the sink’s edge and the stiffness in your fingers snaps you back into your body, reminding you where you are. A laugh bubbles up your throat and out of your mouth at the absurdity of the entire day.
You’d woken up that morning with nothing more exciting in mind than some window shopping downtown, and now you’re in an airplane bathroom with your boyfriend’s cock softening inside you because it got you hot watching him violently rescue you for an abduction. You start to laugh in earnest—big, rib-shaking laughs. You were so scared when you first opened your eyes in that dark warehouse. A primal, animal fear you’ve never known, couldn’t even have imagined. Like a child that knows with every certainty there’s a monster hiding under her bed and there’s nothing she can do about it. Except the monster wasn’t hiding, it was standing right in front of you, teeth bared.
You don’t realize you’re crying until Bucky’s hands are on your cheeks and his thumbs slide wet through the tears. He pulls you in, pressing kisses to every inch of skin he can reach as he gently hushes you with slow, soothing sounds until your shoulders stop shaking with sobs and the tears slow.
Bucky tips your chin up. “Look at me,” he tells you and waits for you to hold his eyes. “I will always come for you. Always.” He doesn’t lie, doesn’t say it’ll never happen again, that no one will ever try to hurt you because of him, and somehow that’s just as comforting as the promise.
You nod, taking a deep, shuddering breath.
“I know. I know. I was just really scared.” You smile shakily through the tears. “But hey, if this is the result,” you nod down at where you and Bucky are still joined, “maybe I should get kidnapped more often.”
Bucky scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Maybe I’ll have to kidnap you myself then. Keep you tied up in my bed so no one else can get their hands on you.” It’s a joke—he says it with a teasing smirk—but there’s an edge to his voice that makes your cunt clench around his cock even as you smile back at him. 
“Yeah, maybe you should.” You’re joking, too, of course.
The moment breaks, and you separate to sort yourselves out, trying to look like you didn’t just fuck. You turn to splash some water on your face and catch the imprint of Bucky’s teeth on your neck. He ducks his head to kiss the other side, watches your fingertips trace over the marks and doesn’t apologize for leaving them. They’re not deep; they’ll fade away to nothing in a few minutes. You’re almost disappointed.
He gives you his jacket to wear and helps you into it. “Now,” he tells you, adjusting the collar so it covers the marks, “try and look traumatized so Sam thinks I was just comforting you in here.” He must have heard him get on the jet while you were too distracted to hear anything.
With your eyes still red-rimmed and swollen you don’t think that’ll be an issue, provided he wasn’t too close to the bathroom door, but you press tight to Bucky’s side when he walks you out anyway, ducking under his arm as soon as you’re seated so you can press your face to his chest.
If Sam thinks anything of your leaving the bathroom together, he doesn’t say it, but you think you catch him sharing a knowing look with Bucky out of the corner of your eye. You’re too exhausted to think anything of it anyway, and as you take off the thrum of the airplane lulls you to sleep with your head on Bucky’s chest and his arms wrapped warm and tight around you. Exactly where you belong again.
Tumblr media
A/N: Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed!! If you have any thoughts, and/or noticed any typos/errors, feel free to let me know 😊
488 notes · View notes
dirtyhelen · 2 years
Text
Ahh thank you so much!! This is indeed possibly the filthiest thing I've posted so far 🙈 I'm glad it resonated hahah 😂
mess me up (yeah, no one does it better)
Tumblr media
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader Rating: Explicit (18+) Featuring: Smut; Established Relationship; Daddy Kink; Dirty Talk; Pet Names; Briefly Implied Past Rape/Non-Con (Not of Reader)*, Blowjob; Cock Slapping (As In Slapping Your Face); Grinding; Facial; Vaginal Fingering; Vaginal Sex; Creampie; Aftercare Words: 6249 Summary:  This is why you love this particular game. It’s Bucky’s ability to clear your mind of everything – anxiety and insecurity and shame – until all that’s left is him. Until all you want, all you need, is to please him. When you’re overwhelmed with the stress of just existing – all the choices, all the consequences – he makes it simple. A/N: Please mind the tags, and see the end-note for a more detailed warning of the Past Rape/Non-Con tag if you would like to know before reading… “Is the smut sexy or just long and extremely vulgar?” A question I asked myself often while writing this, that you may also be asking yourself while reading. If you find the answer, feel free to let me know ‘cause I’m still not sure! Title from Make Me Feel by Janelle Monae. ________________________________________________________________
“On your knees, bunny,” Bucky orders, his voice soft. You sink obediently down to the pillow laid out for you on the floor, resting your hands on your thighs as you look up at him expectantly.
Keep reading
95 notes · View notes
dirtyhelen · 2 years
Text
get your knuckles bloody for me
Tumblr media
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader
Rating: Explicit (18+)
Featuring: Kidnapping; Violence (Canon Typical); Rough Sex; Protective!Bucky
Words: 4300
Summary: You’ve seen Bucky spar before, and you’ve seen shaky cellphone footage online or on the news after the action has passed. You’ve never seen him like this. It’s not the Winter Soldier, that much is clear. This is all Bucky Barnes. All fury and rage and ruthlessly efficient skill.
It should be frightening. But what you feel now, watching him rip his way through every man stupid enough to step between him and you—it’s not fear.
Or: Reader is kidnapped; Bucky comes to the rescue with unexpected (read: horny) results.
A/N: Absolutely no research on realistic combat (or anything else!) went into this fic. It’s all just an excuse for protective!Bucky porn. Hope you enjoy! Title is from exile (feat. Bon Iver) by Taylor Swift.
Tumblr media
It’s dark when you open your eyes, so thick and inky you can’t see even a hint of light. At first, before your brain catches up with your body, you think you must have fallen asleep at home—one of those accidental, too-long naps—and woken up in the middle of the night. There’s that familiar groggy feeling, like weights attached to your limbs and a fog over your mind, but that’s all gone when you notice you’re sitting up, and when you realize you can’t move. Then it hits you—the memory. Walking to your car, digging for the keys in your overcrowded bag, when a man appears as if out of nowhere. There’s a pinch at the back of your neck, and then nothing.
And now this.
Panic floods you as you begin to thrash, feeling something thin and sharp digging into your wrists and ankles. There’s no give, despite your efforts. Even the chair seems secured to the floor. Your heart pounds in your chest, hummingbird-fast, and an icy feeling spreads through your limbs unrelated to the damp chill of the air around you.
Just as you feel the terrifying breathlessness of a panic attack starting, the darkness lifts. A door you couldn’t see before is pushed open with a screech of old, rusty hinges, spilling harsh fluorescent light from the other side, broken by a dark silhouette. The person flips a switch and the room is flooded with flickering light, blinding you temporarily. You hear the creak of the door shutting again, trapping you alone with this stranger, whoever they are.
When your eyes adjust you finally get a good look at your surroundings. A large, windowless room. Concrete walls and floors. Underground, maybe. Moisture drips down the walls and gathers in dark pools in the corners, explaining the damp, dank feeling in the air. A shiver runs through you. You’d dressed for an afternoon in the warm summer sun, not whatever this is, and you feel frighteningly exposed in the light cotton sundress you’d chosen.
The silhouette, it turns out, belongs to a man, wearing a dark suit and a greasy smile that does nothing to put you at ease. He steps forward and you shrink back—as much as you can, pinned as you are, like an insect for his inspection.
“Hello,” he says, greeting you by name. You almost can’t hear him over the blood rushing in your ears. You don’t recognize him, that much you’re sure of. Questions form in your mind—who is he, how does he know you, or is this completely random and your name was just pulled from your license? But fear clogs your throat and nothing comes out. “Did you sleep well?” he asks.
You almost nod reflexively, almost ask him the same before you catch yourself. A million scenarios from movies and TV shows and true crime podcasts, each more terrifying than the last, flash through your thoughts as the man waits for your reply, seemingly content to let the silence stretch. You try to remember anything useful from the dozens of self-defence tutorials you’ve scrolled past on social media over the years. All those tips and tricks no woman should ignore, they all said in big, bold letters. You come up blank. It’s too late now anyway, you think. Those tips probably weren’t designed for use when you’re already tied to a chair in someone’s basement—if that is where you are.
“What is this?” you manage to croak, voice rough, but working at least.
“A trap.”
Oh.
Oh, of course. This isn’t some random, meaningless crime, but it isn’t about you either. He wants Bucky. Maybe this is the price you pay for being someone Bucky Barnes loves. Unfortunately, the clarity doesn’t exactly make you any less afraid. Now you’re afraid for Bucky and yourself because you know he’ll come for you, and you don’t know what he’ll be facing when he does.
“What do you want with Bucky?” you ask.
“‘Bucky?’ Is that what you call him? What a stupid little nickname. Winter Soldier suits him so much better, don’t you think?” He practically spits the words. It’s clear there’s some history there, whether real or imagined.
“Is that what this is about? Did the Winter Soldier do something to you? Because that wasn’t Bucky, he was brainwashed by Hyd—” You’re interrupted by the sound of a phone ringing. The man takes a breath, any visible emotion evoked by Bucky’s former title locked away behind a calm exterior. He holds up a finger, taking a phone from his jacket pocket and checking the screen.
“Perfect timing,” he says. “Let’s put it on speaker, shall we?” He swipes his thumb to answer the call. “Is he here?”
A man answers. “Yeah, boss. And Captain America, too.” He sounds young, or maybe that’s just the thread of panic you think you hear in his voice. “I’m watching on the cameras. They just took out all our guys on the wall and they’re making their way inside now.” Definitely panic.
“Shit,” your kidnapper hisses, taking the call off speakerphone. “Tell them to lay down their weapons and surrender, or the woman dies,” he orders. He looks you straight in the eyes as he says it, but that air of slimy authority he’d carried seems to falter.
You can’t hear exactly what the other man says, but the frantic tone comes through loud and clear. The gunfire a few seconds later even clearer. Based on your captor’s expression, you don’t think the young man on the other end of the call got a chance to relay his message.
The crack in the man’s smooth exterior gets a little wider and lets you see through to something less than impressive inside. There’s no evil genius pulling the strings here, just some garden variety asshole with a villain complex and too much disposable income. You wonder what exactly he was expecting would happen. That Bucky would come alone and unarmed and just allow himself to be traded for you with no objection? He clearly knows nothing of any value about Bucky Barnes—or Sam Wilson, for that matter.
“Bucky and Sam aren’t big on the whole ‘surrendering’ thing,” you say, emboldened by your assessment and the knowledge that they’re already here.
The man takes another step toward you, so close now you have to crane your neck to look him in the eye. Your attention is caught by the tight clench of his jaw, the unravelling of his control, and you don’t see it coming.
He slaps you, hard. You yelp at the shock of it, at the sting, fading quickly into a dull burn under your skin. You’re stunned for a second—you’ve never been hit before, and you don’t know how to react. You slide your tongue along your bottom lip and taste blood, and a flash-fire fury burns through your body until you tremble with it.
How fucking dare he?
Before any words can leave your mouth, two men, big and broad, burst through the door. “They just blew through the last blockade!” one of them says, huffing through heaving lungs.
“They killed fucking everyone!” the other shouts.
Your lips curl into a smirk. Good, you think.
It’s only moments before the sounds of gunfire and shouting reach you, echoing down empty corridors. The room quickly becomes crowded, as what must be every remaining lackey fills the space, surrounding you and blocking your view. You can’t see the door anymore—just the backs of men in black armour.
Your kidnapper swears again, and you see the façade fall away completely, leaving only cornered-animal panic behind. He pulls a gun from his waistband and steps behind you. You hear the click of the gun being cocked, then the cold press of metal against your temple, and any confidence you’d felt disappears. This is the closest to death as you’ve ever been. With just one touch of one finger, everything could be over for you. Forever.
For a moment, everything is still and quiet as everyone waits. You’re frozen in your fear, afraid to even breathe too deeply, feeling the slight tremble of the gun against your head.
Then in an instant, everything comes unstuck. They’re here.
There’s a flurry of gunshots and shouting, so close it’s deafening. You can’t see anything except frantic movement, can’t hear anything except indistinguishable noise. Can’t feel anything except your pounding heart, adrenaline flooding your veins.
Then dark-clothed bodies start to drop, and you finally have a clear view—you see Sam first, catch the bright colours of the shield in his hand—and then you see Bucky and everything else fades away—the gun against your head, the man holding it. Even Sam. Even your fear, for Bucky and for yourself.
You’ve seen Bucky spar before, and you’ve seen shaky cellphone footage online or on the news after the action has passed.
You’ve never seen him like this.
In his right hand, there’s a handgun; his left is empty but no less dangerous for it. He throws a man as easily as tossing a ball and the body hits the wall with a sick crunch you can feel. Bucky aims and fires his gun seemingly without conscious thought and his shots never miss. He fires at a man who steps—foolishly—in front of him, but the gun just clicks, mag empty. He flips it and whips the man brutally across the face with the grip, knocking him down, then throws the gun at another man who falls to the ground with the force of it. In a flash, there’s a knife in Bucky’s hand instead.
Watching him move is mesmerizing. It’s as though the knife is an extension of his arm, just as deadly as the gun had been. He stabs and slashes, flicking the knife from one hand to the other, flipping and spinning it as bodies fall around him. The expression on his face is almost hard to look at, but you can’t look anywhere else. It’s not blank or emotionless—this isn’t the Winter Soldier, that much is clear. This is all Bucky Barnes. All fury and rage and ruthlessly efficient skill.
It should be frightening. It should be monstrous, seeing the man you love, the man you lie beside at night, like this.
But what you feel now, watching him rip his way through every man stupid enough to step between him and you—it’s not fear. No, you feel a heat in your cheeks that has nothing to do with fury or fear and a tightness in your belly, a catch in your breath.
Quicker than you think should be possible and even faster than it feels, Bucky and Sam have cleared everyone in the room except the man in charge. The man standing behind you with a gun to your head and a hand gripping your shoulder.
“You move,” he says, voice shaking, “she’s dead.”
Bucky looks directly at you for the first time since he entered the room. You feel the weight of it as his eyes scan your face and you see the tick of his jaw when he spots the cut on your lip. His eyes flash back to the man. He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t hesitate. He moves so fast you can’t track the movement until it’s over. There’s a flash of black and gold, and then the gun at your temple and the grip on your shoulder are gone as the man falls to the ground beside you. You look down and there’s Bucky’s knife, driven to the hilt neatly in the centre of his forehead.
It's over.
Bucky is at your side in an instant, pulling another knife from somewhere and cutting the ties binding your wrists and ankles. The sight of the knife in his clever hand, easily maneuvering between the ties and your skin without you even feeling a touch of the blade, sends a spark through your core. Bucky runs his fingers where the ties pressed into your skin, checking for cuts as his eyes trace over the rest of your body.
His entire demeanour has changed, almost unrecognizable from the man you just saw, just moments ago, brutally fighting his way to you.
This is the Bucky who always walks closest to the street when he’s with you; who tells you to text when you get home, and calls to check in if you forget; who puts his jacket around your shoulders before you can so much as shiver from the cold.
Or it’s almost that Bucky, anyway. If not for the blood on his clothes, the busted knuckles, and the bruise blooming on his cheekbone.
“Hey,” he says, so soft, as he holds your face in those bloody hands. “Are you hurt?” He ever so gently touches his thumb to your split lip and for a moment a touch of that unleashed fury darkens his features.
“I’m okay,” you tell him. And you are, surprisingly. Maybe it’s shock, or maybe there’s something wrong with the wiring of your brain, but you feel fine, except for the growing heat in your core, only getting hotter with Bucky’s hands on your skin and his eyes on yours.
You’re mesmerized, caught in his stare, in the knowledge of what those hands, so tender and soft on you now, are capable of. Of what Bucky will do for you, to keep you safe.
Sam clears his throat, jolting you. You’d almost forgotten he was there. “Not to break up this nice moment you’re having, but maybe we should take this somewhere else. Like, anywhere else.” The tunnel vision you’ve had since you first laid eyes on Bucky lifts, and you finally notice the state of the room you’re in. Sam’s right. It’s time to leave.
Bucky grunts his acknowledgment. He pulls you up, gives you a once-over, seems to silently decide you’re okay to walk on your own, then takes your hand and puts it on the back of his jacket. He tells you to, “hold on, and don’t let go,” then turns and leads the way out of the building. Sam takes up the rear.
You discover, as Bucky leads you down wide hallways and up several sets of stairs, that it’s an old warehouse of some sort, long gone unused and left in disrepair. Exactly the place a would-be supervillain would get his start, you think. Bucky keeps one arm stretched behind him, keeping you close to his back, and you keep your grip on his jacket. You pass bodies, lots of them, slumped and motionless on the floor, some seemingly unconscious, others clearly dead, blood pooled on the ground underneath them.
“Don’t look,” Bucky tells you grimly, so you keep your face turned to his back and follow where he leads.
Finally, after too many crumbling steps and long, identical hallways, you reach the main entrance to the building. Lights flash through the wide-open doors, and you can hear voices shouting commands outside. The boys must have called for backup before they stormed the place.
Sam confirms it. “I’ll deal with the cleanup crew,” he says. “You two go on, I’ll meet you on the jet.”
“Thanks, Sam,” you say.
Sam shrugs it off. “No thanks required, just glad you’re alright. Now see if you can get this one,” he nods to Bucky, “to lighten up. You know he’s unbearable when he broods.”
You huff out a laugh, then Sam and Bucky share one of those long looks you can only sometimes interpret, and Sam goes off to coordinate with the soldiers milling outside while you and Bucky head for the jet.
He stays by your side while a medic checks you over, always with a hand on you, apparently unwilling to let go of you for even a minute. You feel his hand on your bare skin like a brand, and you wonder if that’s how it feels to him, too. A reminder, to anyone who might think differently, of who exactly you belong to, even though the threat has passed. He brushes off the offer to be looked over himself, only accepting a pack of wipes to clean the blood from his hands.
The medic declares you physically fine and leaves you and Bucky alone on the jet again, and you sit in silence for a minute. He’d been quiet while you were being examined, too. He breaks the silence the same time you do, and you speak over each other.
“I’m sorry you—” he starts, just as you blurt, “Fuck me.”
You look at each other, then again you speak at the same time, both asking, “What?” Bucky with eyebrows raised, you with feigned innocence.
He shakes his head, seemingly choosing to ignore your outburst. “I’m sorry you had to see me like that,” he continues, voice low. “Sorry I put you through all this. I never wanted you to be in that position, never wanted you to see that side of me.” His jaw clenches. “I should have protected you, done a better job keeping you safe.” You nod along like you’re listening, like anything he’s saying is sinking in. “Did you say—”
“I said, ‘fuck me,’” you nod.
Bucky stares at you, expression gone blank.
 “Yeah,” you start with a shrug, and then it all comes rushing out. “I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me, but you were so hot back there, and I heard what you said and we’re definitely going to talk more about that because you have nothing to apologize for and I love you no matter what, but God, I’m so fucking turned on right now and I just need you to—”
“Fuck,” he breathes.
“Yes. That.”
There’s a pause, then Bucky’s expression darkens, intense and aroused as he holds your gaze and you feel it in your core. Then he glances around and pulls you into the tiny bathroom on the plane.
The minute the door slides shut you’re on each other. Bucky easily hoists you onto the narrow sink and you spread your legs for him, wrap them around his waist to pull him in. You tip your face toward his and his mouth finds yours, hungry and open, a brutal, graceless kiss, more passion than pleasure. His tongue licks into your mouth and you taste copper from your split lip, while his right hand rucks up the skirt of your dress and works into your underwear, finding your dripping cunt.
He hisses a curse into your lips as he slips a finger inside, slick and easy. “You weren’t lying, huh? Fucking soaked.”
“Told you,” you gasp, when that finger crooks up and rubs. “Maybe I’m sick, but I liked it.” Bucky leans back as far as he can in the tiny space and catches your stare, holds it. “I like that you did it for me.”
He nods, eyes dark and burning all at once. “I did,” he tells you, working a second finger inside. “All for you, honey, and I’d do it again. I’d burn the whole fucking world down if it’d keep you safe.” It’s not just a line; you can see the truth of it in his eyes—hungry and sharp. It’s Bucky who says it and means it, just like it was Bucky who tore all those men apart in the warehouse. There was a brutality in James Barnes long before Hydra ever leashed it and twisted it to their purpose.
You surge up against him, meeting his lips with yours, taking that brutality inside yourself, trading it back and force on your tongues. Your hands work frantically at his belt. “Fuck me,” you breathe, beg. “I need it, Bucky. Need you in me now.” He pulls his fingers from your cunt and tugs your panties to the side just as you get his pants and underwear down enough to free his cock.
He doesn’t pause to slick himself up or check if you’re ready, just lines up and pushes inside with one hard thrust, covering your mouth with his metal hand just in time to muffle your cry. There might not be anyone on the jet, but they’re not far, and Sam will be back any minute. It hurts, two fingers not enough to dull the stretch, but you’re plenty wet and it’s a good hurt. The kind of hurt that reminds you you’re alive to feel it.
Bucky muffles his own groan against your neck, teeth clamping down just the right side of too hard. The distant sounds of soldiers shouting outside and the hum of engines fade away until it’s just you and Bucky all alone in the world.
He fucks you deep and mercilessly, like he’s trying to dig inside your body and reshape it to fit him. It’s a welcome intrusion. Each hard thrust shoves you back into the wall and you hold onto the sink with one hand to keep your balance, the other wrapped around Bucky’s back to hold him close. You pant against the hand over your mouth, the faint scent of metal filling your nose. You lick at his palm, tasting it in your mouth like blood.
There are no more words, just muffled breaths and bodies moving together. It’s over fast. You come with one hand working at your clit and the other gripping the sink so hard there’d be nothing left if you had Bucky’s strength. Bucky follows you a moment later, thrusts so hard it’s almost painful as he fills you up.
For a few, long moments neither of you moves, pressed tight to each other in the burning afterglow as the sound of blood rushing in your ears dissipates. Finally, Bucky’s hand slips from your mouth and you feel his tongue smooth over the sting his teeth left on your neck. You relax your grip on the sink’s edge and the stiffness in your fingers snaps you back into your body, reminding you where you are. A laugh bubbles up your throat and out of your mouth at the absurdity of the entire day.
You’d woken up that morning with nothing more exciting in mind than some window shopping downtown, and now you’re in an airplane bathroom with your boyfriend’s cock softening inside you because it got you hot watching him violently rescue you for an abduction. You start to laugh in earnest—big, rib-shaking laughs. You were so scared when you first opened your eyes in that dark warehouse. A primal, animal fear you’ve never known, couldn’t even have imagined. Like a child that knows with every certainty there’s a monster hiding under her bed and there’s nothing she can do about it. Except the monster wasn’t hiding, it was standing right in front of you, teeth bared.
You don’t realize you’re crying until Bucky’s hands are on your cheeks and his thumbs slide wet through the tears. He pulls you in, pressing kisses to every inch of skin he can reach as he gently hushes you with slow, soothing sounds until your shoulders stop shaking with sobs and the tears slow.
Bucky tips your chin up. “Look at me,” he tells you and waits for you to hold his eyes. “I will always come for you. Always.” He doesn’t lie, doesn’t say it’ll never happen again, that no one will ever try to hurt you because of him, and somehow that’s just as comforting as the promise.
You nod, taking a deep, shuddering breath.
“I know. I know. I was just really scared.” You smile shakily through the tears. “But hey, if this is the result,” you nod down at where you and Bucky are still joined, “maybe I should get kidnapped more often.”
Bucky scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Maybe I’ll have to kidnap you myself then. Keep you tied up in my bed so no one else can get their hands on you.” It’s a joke—he says it with a teasing smirk—but there’s an edge to his voice that makes your cunt clench around his cock even as you smile back at him. 
“Yeah, maybe you should.” You’re joking, too, of course.
The moment breaks, and you separate to sort yourselves out, trying to look like you didn’t just fuck. You turn to splash some water on your face and catch the imprint of Bucky’s teeth on your neck. He ducks his head to kiss the other side, watches your fingertips trace over the marks and doesn’t apologize for leaving them. They’re not deep; they’ll fade away to nothing in a few minutes. You’re almost disappointed.
He gives you his jacket to wear and helps you into it. “Now,” he tells you, adjusting the collar so it covers the marks, “try and look traumatized so Sam thinks I was just comforting you in here.” He must have heard him get on the jet while you were too distracted to hear anything.
With your eyes still red-rimmed and swollen you don’t think that’ll be an issue, provided he wasn’t too close to the bathroom door, but you press tight to Bucky’s side when he walks you out anyway, ducking under his arm as soon as you’re seated so you can press your face to his chest.
If Sam thinks anything of your leaving the bathroom together, he doesn’t say it, but you think you catch him sharing a knowing look with Bucky out of the corner of your eye. You’re too exhausted to think anything of it anyway, and as you take off the thrum of the airplane lulls you to sleep with your head on Bucky’s chest and his arms wrapped warm and tight around you. Exactly where you belong again.
Tumblr media
A/N: Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed!! If you have any thoughts, and/or noticed any typos/errors, feel free to let me know 😊
488 notes · View notes
dirtyhelen · 2 years
Text
oh, poor atlas (the world’s a beast of a burden)
Tumblr media
Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader
Rating: Explicit (18+)
Featuring: Dom/Sub; Femdom; Sub!Steve; Established Relationship; Under-negotiated Kink; Dirty Talk; Face Slapping (Once); Mild Painplay; Oral Sex (M/F Receiving); Face Sitting; Vaginal Sex; Creampie
Words: 5105
Summary: Steve comes home looking for a fight; he gets one, but not how he expected.
A/N: Please note the Under-negotiated Kink tag. Nothing sexual happens in this fic that the characters don’t enthusiastically enjoy but there is no discussion beforehand so it’s not good real-life behaviour.
Tumblr media
Later, Steve won’t remember how exactly it started. How could he, when what came after was so much more memorable. All he knows when he walks through the door is screaming civilians and his teammates’ voices, loud and frantic in his ears, and washing someone else’s blood off his face in the back of the quinjet. Even his usual method of letting off steam—spending hours at the gym destroying half a dozen punching bags until his skin finally breaks—isn’t enough to drown out the noise and it’s no surprise he finds a way to keep the fight going once he finally gets home, peeling skin and bloody knuckles already healed.
So he makes a handful of cutting comments over the next few hours that you graciously shrug off, refusing to give him the fight he’s looking for. Until the last one. He doesn’t even remember what he said, he never does when he’s in this mood. It was something stupid, he’s sure. Something controlling and possessive because he just can’t seem to help himself. Because he feels like he’s losing control everywhere else and he can’t lose you. You’ve been down this road with him before, a few too many times maybe. And maybe another night you’d just cut him a glare and leave him alone. Or you’d gently herd him through his own emotions, so much kinder than he deserves. But whatever’s going through your head tonight, that’s not what happens.
What happens is this: Steve, arms crossed and committed to wallowing in his own misery and dragging you down with him, and you, standing in front of him, refusing to be pulled in. Unstoppable force meets immovable object.
Because you’re quiet and kind, but solid steel at the core and stubborn enough to match even him. You’re not letting him have his way tonight, not when it only leads to more self-loathing, more misery for him and you both.
“I don’t know what the fuck your problem is tonight,” you tell him, looking up at him but seeming somehow taller, “but in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not an Avenger and you’re not Captain America in here. I don’t answer to you.”
He’s expecting the immediate rush of anger that curls around his tongue, ready to fire back in defence. What he’s not expecting is the kick of arousal that follows on its heels, keeping any sharp words lodged firmly in his throat as blood rushes to his face, and lower.
It’s a confusion of feelings but the twitch of his dick hints at which one is winning. It must be written all over his face—or maybe it’s that seconds have passed and he hasn’t shot back at you yet—because you’re quick to catch on. There’s an upward twitch of your eyebrows and a hitch in your breath just before you settle on a caught-canary grin.
Fuck. He has no idea where this is going, what you’ll do with the sudden power he’s dropped in your lap.
“I think you owe me an apology, Rogers.”
He offers up sincerity first because he is sorry. He just doesn’t know how to stop (and hasn’t that always been his problem). “I know. I’m sorry. It was a bad mission, but I shouldn’t take it out on—”
“Uh-uh,” you interrupt. “That’s not the apology I want.” Oh. Jesus Christ, is this going where he thinks it’s going? “No,” you shake your head slowly, “I think you should show me how sorry you are.” Jesus Christ, yes, it is. “On your knees.”
He can’t resist an unimpressed arch of his eyebrows—that part of him that can’t stand to back down from a fight shoving against the blockade—even as another part of him is rock fucking hard at the pure command in your voice.
You shrug a little in response like it doesn’t matter to you what he chooses. Get on his knees and be rewarded with the taste of your cunt, or stay on his feet and sleep alone on the couch.
(There’s a third option, he knows. Stop this game in its tracks and try talking instead. But he’ll take playing the submissive for a change over talking about his feelings any day.)
With a shake of his head, he goes with option number one and sinks to his knees, chin tipped up to look at you. He catches the slight surprise in your expression like you weren’t expecting him to go along with this. Your mask slips a little, heat melting some of the ice as you look down at him. He hasn’t given up all the power yet, it seems.
He ducks his head, smirking as his fingers reach for the hem of your dress. He’s just starting to inch it up your thighs when he feels the sharp kiss of your palm against his cheek. A warning, more pressure than pain, but it sends a dark thrill through him, and the shock of it has him gasping.
Like that sharp sting of his fist against the punching bag or those long-ago blows in back alleys, but the pain is so much better when it’s your hand doing the hurting.
You grip his jaw, turning his face up to yours, steely and cool again, but still a little uncertain—this is new for both of you. “Did I give you permission to touch?” You are God, surveying her creation and finding it wanting, and Steve suddenly wants nothing more than to earn your approval.
So he drops his hands back to his sides, shakes his head with a silent look of apology. Your lips twitch with the hint of a smile and you release your hold on his jaw to reach up under your dress and pull down your underwear, tossing them aside. Using him for balance, you hook a knee over his shoulder. “Now you can touch.”
Steve wastes no time, fits his hands to the curve of your ass and pulls you close, nuzzling his nose into the wiry hair framing your cunt, breathing you in for a long moment. Whatever has passed between you tonight, he has missed you while he was away. Missed this.
The insistent press of your heel on his back reminds him he has a job to do here and he settles in, taking one hand to spread you open for his mouth.
He licks into your opening, collecting hints of tangy slick on his tongue then lapping over your clit. Steve loves this act, always has, ever since the first time Peggy showed him what his mouth could do, hidden away in an army tent with her skirt rucked up around her waist and her stockinged thighs pressed to his ears.
He knows from experience you won’t be able to come in this position, so he doesn’t try to bring you off yet, just uses the time you’re giving him to work you up. To do as you’ve asked and apologize with actions and not words because he truly is sorry. He tongues over your folds, turning his head occasionally to press kisses to the inside of the thigh slung over his shoulder.
Your breathing changes as he works. Gets heavier, little moans slipping out when his tongue presses against your clit. The scent of your arousal fills his nose as it begins to spill from you, slicking his lips and chin.
After a while, your fingers sink into Steve’s hair, pulling him away from your pussy. He can’t help but groan, reluctantly leaning back, but the tightening of your grip on his hair reminds him he’s not in charge tonight.
“Let’s finish this in the bedroom.” Your face maintains a sense of calm, but the breathlessness in your voice shows his effect on you, and he feels a hint of pride.
Steve feels the weight of your stare as you follow behind him. You don’t enter the room immediately after him though. He stops in front of the bed, turns to wait, and almost starts to undress on instinct when he remembers this isn’t just sex. There are rules tonight, though they haven’t been spoken out loud. He places his hands at his sides and waits for your instruction.
It’s a little uncomfortable, a little unnerving. But the prize seems like it might be worth it so he’s willing to wait and see.
You enter the room and stand in front of him, looking him over for a moment before your hands press against his chest and push. Steve lets you move him, falling back on his elbows so he’s looking up at you again.
“Strip,” you order, stepping back to observe. He follows your command, a little less easily than he would if he was on his feet. He suspects that’s the point. He’s supposed to be off-kilter here, unsure. He’s not devising the strategy, he’s just taking orders. Tossing aside the last of his clothing, he is laid bare before you, and his cock—softened since you pulled him from your cunt—hardens again at your careful, assessing gaze.
You may be playing a role—though maybe it’s less a performance and more allowing a different part of you to take control of the rest—but this goes beyond that. He knows you’re looking for injuries. You’d be cataloguing every bruise and scrape to fuss over later, if there were any left on his body.
Finding him unharmed, your stare takes on more heat, moving over the muscles of his chest, his thighs, lingering on his cock where it curves up against his belly. You’re considering your next move; he recognizes the look of a general preparing her battle plan.
You fiddle with the thin straps of your dress. He can tell by the way it hangs that it’s already unzipped and he wonders briefly if that’s what you were doing out in the hallway. It wouldn’t do for you to fumble and stretch for the zipper in front of him when you’re supposed to be the commander.
Any thoughts of the strategy behind your actions fall away when you sweep the straps off your shoulders and your dress falls to the floor.
Steve is vastly familiar with your body by now—has spent hours and hours learning every inch of you—but it still feels like a privilege every time he gets to see you this way.
You let him admire you for a few moments. His eyes trace over your breasts, your belly, the hair between your legs, but then you start to shift, uncomfortable with the undivided attention and ready to move on to the next part.
“Lie back,” you tell him. “Head against the pillows.” You watch as he settles himself, your eyes slipping slowly down his form. So many people have looked at him and seen only his body, from the moment he stepped out of Howard Stark’s machine. Eyes shamelessly crawling over his chest and arms before ever looking at his face. It’s never felt that way with you and it doesn’t now. There’s too much love in your expression, even under the stern façade you wear, for him to ever feel like an object, or a tool to be used.
Once your eyes have had their fill, you climb onto the bed, straddling his legs and crawling up his body to kneel astride his ribs. You trace a finger along his jaw, stroke the pad of your thumb over his bottom lip where hints of your slick still linger.
“I’m going to ride your face now, and you’re going to make me come.” You say it easily, decisively. It’s not a question.
You’ve tried this before, once or twice, at Steve’s request, but something is different this time. There is no tentative settling of your weight over him, no hesitancy. You are shameless, grinding against his lips and tongue, forcing him exactly where you need him. Steve wonders if this exchange is affecting you as much as it is him. If power is as freeing for you as the opposite is for him.
Steve is single-minded in his focus on making you come. You’ve told him what he’s going to do and he won’t prove you wrong. He skips the teasing of before and focuses his attention on your clit, flicking his tongue in fast, firm strokes and sucking it into his mouth as you press down on him.
Your thighs tremble and shake as you near your end, spreading wider, more and more of your weight pressed against him as he is surrounded and consumed by you, even as it’s his tongue doing the tasting. With a final, shuddering moan, your thighs clench tight around his ears as his tongue works you through your orgasm. He doesn’t have to see your face to know your head is thrown back, eyes clenched shut in blissful pleasure. He makes sure to keep his tongue on you, moving away from your oversensitive clit to trace around your folds, drinking up the wetness spilling out of you and feeling your empty cunt pulse against his lips.
Your hips give a handful of aftershock rocks before you pull away from his mouth and slide back down his body, wet cunt pressed against his belly, smearing slick onto his skin. Your eyes trace over his face with a look of admiration for the mess you’ve made of him. Steve can feel you on his face and he knows his mouth and chin, even his cheeks, must shine with it.
You grin—that new sharp smile he’s never seen before tonight and finds he likes very much indeed. “You look like a fucking mess. If only everyone could see you now, huh?” You’re gleeful and delighted, and Steve feels his cheeks flush at the thought. Your eyes soften just a touch. “But this is just for me, isn’t it? All mine.” You don’t wait for an answer. You lean down, press a kiss to his glistening lips and slip your tongue inside. Steve licks into your mouth, gladly sharing the taste of you.
You pull back, lips tracing teasing trails down his neck, over his chest, with flashes of teeth and tongue both. You spend some time at his nipples, sucking and flicking with your tongue. You tug, just slightly, with your teeth and Steve can’t help the gasp and the sharp shock of pleasure it sends straight to his dick.
There’s a look in your eyes he’s never seen before when you mouth down his belly, dragging your teeth across his skin. He can’t look away, can barely breathe the closer you come to his cock, hard and dripping now.
You pause when you get there, lips just an inch away from the swollen head. With your lips split in a tantalizing smirk, you blow out a forcefully heavy breath. He’s so turned on, so desperate for your touch that he almost feels like he could come just from that. His cock jumps, nearly hitting your mouth and you huff out a laugh.
He watches your tongue slide along your lips, so close to him he can practically feel the slick slide and then you pull away. He can’t help but cry out in frustration. He’d like to say it was a groan, but what comes out is undeniably a whimper that only earns him an arched brow and a shit-eating grin.
Sitting back on your heels, your hands trace over the path your mouth took just moments ago. You pinch at his nipples, not gently, and Steve arches up into your hands. Fingernails drag down his belly and thighs, skipping over his cock entirely. You alternate in touches so soft he can barely feel them, and sharp, dragging strokes, until there are pink lines scored across his skin and he’s choking out wordless noises, the pain only furthering the pleasure. You keep on until he feels almost mindless with it, cock twitching and jerking, blurting out drops of pre-cum with every press of your nails into his flesh.
You hook one finger under his cock, pulling it up and away from his body, and even that slight touch is enough to have his hips rolling. Your other hand swipes at the mess of pre-cum gathered on his belly and you bring it to your mouth, flicking your tongue out and smiling around the taste before your slicked-up palm grips his cock for a single, firm stroke. You stop at the base and squeeze hard, keeping him from coming.
For what feels like hours to Steve but is probably only a few minutes, you toy with his cock, giving him glimpses of the touch he needs then taking it away. He feels the ghost of sensation as your fingertips trace along his length before your hand circles him and he thinks, finally, but your grip is so loose it’s almost nothing. You work him up so long he thinks he’ll come with one good squeeze. All the while your lips spill filth like he never imagined coming out of your mouth.
“Fuck, baby, want it so bad, don’t you?” you croon. “Your cock is weeping. Making such a goddamn mess and you haven’t even come yet. You could take it, you know. You’re big and strong; you could throw me off so easily. Flip me over and fuck me hard like I know you want to. Just use me. But you’re not gonna do that, are you?” He shakes his head, half out of his mind. “That’s right. Because you know it doesn’t matter how big and strong you are. I’m in charge, and you do exactly what I want.”
“Yes, yes, yes.” He chants it like a prayer, like counting Hail Mary’s on a rosary.
And then finally, when he could almost cry with the desperate longing, your barely-there grip tightens and your other hand cups his balls, holding them in your palm. Steve is coming before you can even give his cock one full stroke, moaning and bucking his hips as paints his own skin white with cum.
His eyes are clenched shut with pleasure but they snap open when he feels the wet heat of your mouth on the head of his cock, sucking hard and catching the last spurts of cum in your mouth with a hasty swallow.
There’s no cool-down, no break to catch his breath, just your mouth, wet and hot and sucking up and down his length, steady and firm. One hand works the base while the other plays with his balls, rolling and squeezing them and it’s so much. Too much.
He feels lit up, so oversensitive it’s like his body is one single, exposed nerve leading directly to his cock.
Steve’s refractory period is enviously short thanks to the serum, but even he can’t come again this quickly so it’s just pure, agonizing pleasure, almost unbearable without the relief of orgasm to break it. Tears gather in his eyes and all he can do is whimper and moan. He’s not entirely sure but he thinks he might be pleading, though he’s not sure for what.
Then he feels one of your knuckles nudging at his perineum, sending a bright burst of pleasure through his balls and into his cock. He comes the moment your finger stretches out, just one light circle around the tight ring of his hole. The surprise of it, the flashing thought that you could, and it would hurt but he wouldn’t stop you because it’s you and he would do anything for you, with you, because he trusts you entirely, completely.
You take mercy on him this time and let him come down easy, just holding his cock in your mouth as you swallow him down, gliding your hand to squeeze out those last pulses of pleasure.
After, he’s wrung out and raw. His face feels wet and he’s not sure if it’s from tears or sweat or both.
“Not so tough now, huh, Cap?” You say it in that same teasing tone you’ve had all night, dark and heavy and entirely without malice, but something about it hurts this time, pulls at his insides where he’s already broken open and raw and he flinches away from it. He doesn’t know why, but the reminder of his title, of who he is outside this room, feels suddenly unbearable.
“Hey.” Your hands hold tight to his face, forcing him to look you in the eye. You see it, of course you see it. You see him. You’re one of the very few people who ever really has. “Look at me. No, you’re not tough at all,” you say, with so much love in your face it’s almost overwhelming to see. “You’re soft as a kitten and Cap’s got nothing to do with it. It’s just me and you, and Steve Rogers is the one I want.”
He lets loose a deep, shuddering breath and you catch it in your mouth, kissing him long and deep and senseless as you shift to straddle his hips, grinding the wet heat of your cunt against his cock until he’s hot and hard again against your folds and his head is empty again, except for you and him.
“My turn,” you say softly, reaching back to guide him to your opening. You sink onto him in a single, smooth slide until he’s all the way inside you. And God, but he’ll never get tired of the sight of you on top of him, taking him into your body. Letting him make a home for himself inside you. The almighty, holy gift of it.
You lean back, hands behind you on his thighs for leverage, torso stretched long as you start to ride him, slow and steady, adjusting to the fullness.
“God, Steve. You feel so good. You fill me up so fucking good.”
Your cunt grips his cock in a smooth, frictionless slide. Steve’s nowhere near close to coming so he can just enjoy the easy warmth of it, drink in the sight of your hips rolling, the way your pussy clings to his cock on every upstroke and leaves it glistening and wet.
After a while you reach up and grab his hands, settling them at your hips. He keeps them where you put them, not gripping or pulling, just holding you steady as you take his cock just how you want it.
Gradually your pace increases, your breath getting heavier as you work yourself up, and you lean forward, resting your hands on his chest instead. You fuck yourself faster and harder on his cock, breaths turnings to gasps and moans, and Steve feels another orgasm building in his core as you chase yours.
Your hands pull at his, forcing them by his head, holding him down with your fingers wrapped around his wrists.
The angle of your body has your breasts, swaying in time with the bounce of your hips, so temptingly close to his lips. “Mouth,” you gasp, as though thinking the same thing, an order and a plea all at once. Immediately Steve is lifting his head to catch one of your nipples in his mouth, sucking hard. He’s rewarded with a moan and a clench of your cunt around his cock.
You’re getting close, he can tell—your hips losing that smooth rhythm even as you struggle to fuck yourself harder, faster, taking him in short, shallow thrusts. The room is filled with breathless moans, his and yours, and the filthy wet sound of you taking his cock as your slick drips and gathers on his groin, the slap of skin against skin.
“Doing so good for me, Stevie,” you praise. “Letting me use your cock like this, fuck. I’m gonna come.”
You lean back, releasing your hold on his wrists as you start to rock your hips in a rolling grind, his cock not leaving your body at all anymore. You reach out a hand and two fingers tap against his lips. Steve lets his mouth fall open without being asked and you slip your fingers inside, press against his tongue.
You rock your fingers in and out of his mouth to match the rocking of your hips and Steve does his best to lick and suck at your fingers, teasing traces of cum and slick and sweat on his tongue.
“Thank you, baby,” you breathe, seemingly satisfied as you pull your fingers from his mouth and place them directly on your clit, rubbing little circles as you grind on his dick.
Steve gets the privilege of watching you come apart, gets the fierce pride of knowing he played a part in getting you there. Your rocking motion stops as you rub your clit, just holding him inside you.
He watches your face as your eyes clench shut, mouth open as you breathe in shallow pants and keening moans, your cunt gripping his cock like a vice. And then you’re coming, all the tension draining from your face as your pussy pulses around his cock in waves. Your hips jerk and twitch with every shock of pleasure and it takes everything in him not to buck up into your body and come too.
You recover slowly, fingers and hips working to pull every last inch of pleasure before finally your eyes open and your hand falls away from your body.
There’s a softness in your face now as you look down at him, the sweet openness he’s used to. You press forward, hands cupping his cheeks as you kiss him, sweet and slow and deep as your body comes down from its high.
You pull back just enough to speak, so close he can feel your lips brush against his with each word. “You’re so good, Steve. Did so well for me. And now it’s your turn again.”
You plant your knees wide at his sides, lifting your hips until only half his cock is inside you. You lean back, one hand gliding down his cheek to wrap around his throat in a loose grip, not choking him, but holding him, tethering him to you. The other hand braces against his chest as you hold in a slight bend.
“Make yourself come,” you order, and he’s helpless—happy—to comply.
He bends his knees, plants his feet firm against the mattress. He was good. He was good and now he gets rewarded. He has paid his penance and now he is absolved. He gets to fuck up into your perfect body, warm and wet and open just for him, all for him. Gets to fill you with his cum.
He’s frantic, thrusting fast and hard as you pant encouragement, praise. Fuck, yes, yes. That’s it, Steve, come on, baby. Come for me.
His hands grasp at your hips, dragging you down as he thrusts up, burying himself as deep inside you as he can get as his cock pulses out an orgasm that feels almost blinding.
He can do nothing but hold you against him and let the pleasure course through his body, muscles tensed, hips twitching with every aftershock.
You hold steady above him, fingers still circling his neck, holding him inside his body, inside your body.
Eventually, his muscles relax, tension leaving him along with everything else it seems. Shame and fear and weakness and the constant rushing roar of strategy and battle plans and guilt. He is cleaned out and empty. Immaculate.
Your lips press to his forehead, his eyelids, his cheeks. Your hands smooth down his neck, and shoulders and arms, coming to rest on his hands where they grip your hips.
You murmur soothing words, as gentle as your hands and lips on his heated skin. You fill him up again with praise and sweet affection, still holding him inside the warmth of your body.
Finally, he opens his eyes and there you are; God surveying her creation with benevolent warmth.
“Hey, gorgeous,” you whisper, smiling softly.
“Hey,” he replies, dumbstruck and awed still.
“You with me?”
“Mm, always,” he mumbles.
“Not exactly what I meant, but I’ll take it.”
“Holy shit,” he breathes.
“I know.”
“That was… a lot.”
Your nose scrunches. “I know. Too much?”
“No, it was—” he doesn’t have words right now for how very much not too much it was. “I didn’t know you had that in you.”
There’s silence for a long moment. “Sorry, I was trying to think of a joke to make about you being in me since your dick is literally still inside me.”
He laughs, rolling his eyes but he can’t help but groan in complaint when you move, his cock slipping out of you as your weight lifts off his body. He reaches for you, wanting to just curl into you and fall asleep.
And later, when you’ve both washed up, he gets exactly that—your warm skin pressed against his back, your hand pressing firm against his chest.
“I am sorry,” he says. “About earlier. And about the times before that.” It’s easier to speak this way, without having to face you.
“I know.”
“I think, maybe, there’s some stuff I should talk about with someone. Some issues I should probably work through. This—tonight—it was really good. I feel lighter, empty in a good way. But before—being so shitty to you, I don’t like doing that. I don’t want to be that way, I just…” he trails off, head too empty to grapple with the tangled web of emotions inside him tonight.
You hum in acknowledgment and press a kiss between his shoulder blades. “I know, Steve. And you’re right. This was fun—and we’re definitely doing it again—but sex isn’t therapy. I think you carry around a lot of shit you shouldn’t have to. You don’t have to carry everything by yourself.”
He nods. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” you reply, lips curving in a smile against his back, “always, even when you’re being a little shit.”
Steve knows he can’t solve his problems with anything so simple and (surprisingly) pleasant as giving up control during sex, but it feels like a start. A new honesty and understanding of himself, and of you. And it has to be healthier than beating his fists bloody after every bad call or failed mission.
Outside, he is Captain America, steadfast and strong because that’s what the world needs. The world doesn’t want Steve Rogers and all his hurt and frustration and fear—all his messy, complicated humanity. It has enough of its own.
But here, with you, he is wanted and needed and loved, just as himself. And that’s enough for now—or it will be.
A/N: A longer version of this had been almost-finished for months and months and months but I could never get it all to work right together. So I cut out a lot from the top that I still really like but can’t get to fully go with everything else, et voila! I still don’t love this entirely, but I am happy enough with it to post so I can release it from my drafts/head LOL. Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed!!
64 notes · View notes
dirtyhelen · 3 years
Link
Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Natasha Romanov/Reader Characters: James "Bucky" Barnes, Natasha Romanov (Marvel), Reader Additional Tags: Reader-Insert, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Established Relationship, Threesome - F/F/M, Age Play, Mommy Kink, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Vaginal Sex, Light Bondage, Blow Jobs, Snowballing, Creampie, POV Natasha Romanov, Dom Natasha Romanov, Dom Bucky Barnes Summary:
Natasha knows how people expect her to behave in bed. She’s heard them speculate in SHIELD break rooms, on chat shows, in the common room of Avengers Tower after they’ve all had a few too many drinks. No one’s ever gotten it quite right, gotten the whole truth. No one she hasn’t shown, anyway, and that is a number she can count on one hand with fingers left over. She imagines the looks on their faces—strangers and friends alike—if they could see her now.
57 notes · View notes
dirtyhelen · 3 years
Text
Omg thank you so much!! It was so fun doing Bucky’s POV bc I got to focus on the softness and his emotions and history vs. the reader’s (which would definitely be a lot more conflicted lol) and I couldn’t resist throwing in the hints of Stucky once I got going hahah bc I my heart was like “What about Steeeeeeve????” 😂 World-building is my favourite part of A/B/O fics and the part that was probably the funnest to write for me. Thank you so so much for reading and leaving this lovely comment 😊😊😊
we will be together (in my mind you’re mine forever)
Tumblr media
Pairing: Dark!Alpha!Bucky Barnes x Omega!Reader
Rating: Explicit (18+)
Featuring: Dark A/B/O Dynamics; Dubious Consent; Oral Sex (F!Receiving); Vaginal Sex; Knotting; Creampie; Biting; Cum Marking; Light Breeding Kink; Your typical hallmarks of A/B/O fic + kidnapping
Words: 6015
Summary: Bucky knows your heat is the right time to bond you, the best chance of it taking, but he has to time it right. Right now your body is being flooded with hormones telling you to find an alpha, to get knotted and bred. He’s been laying the groundwork these past months, easing you off your suppressants and retraining you so that your heat can take care of the rest. Your stubborn will weakened by thousands of years of biology to finally accept him as your mate. 
It’s your first heat since Bucky kidnapped you and took you to his den, and the perfect opportunity to make you his forever.
A/N:  Please mind the Featuring section! This is (my first!) dark!fic. I would categorize this as dark!fic-lite, but YMMV so take care, and see the end note for more details if you’re unsure 😊 Title from Mine Forever by Lord Huron.
Tumblr media
Keep reading
1K notes · View notes
dirtyhelen · 3 years
Text
Thank you so much!! I really loved writing from Bucky's POV bc he doesn't know he's the bad guy lol and I loved digging into the A/B/O world-building -- I've been reading *a lot* of non-reader omegaverse lately and it's been very inspiring. I definitely left this one open to return to, so maybe we'll see how Steve fits in! Thank you so much for reading and commenting ☺️☺️☺️
we will be together (in my mind you’re mine forever)
Tumblr media
Pairing: Dark!Alpha!Bucky Barnes x Omega!Reader
Rating: Explicit (18+)
Featuring: Dark A/B/O Dynamics; Dubious Consent; Oral Sex (F!Receiving); Vaginal Sex; Knotting; Creampie; Biting; Cum Marking; Light Breeding Kink; Your typical hallmarks of A/B/O fic + kidnapping
Words: 6015
Summary: Bucky knows your heat is the right time to bond you, the best chance of it taking, but he has to time it right. Right now your body is being flooded with hormones telling you to find an alpha, to get knotted and bred. He’s been laying the groundwork these past months, easing you off your suppressants and retraining you so that your heat can take care of the rest. Your stubborn will weakened by thousands of years of biology to finally accept him as your mate. 
It’s your first heat since Bucky kidnapped you and took you to his den, and the perfect opportunity to make you his forever.
A/N:  Please mind the Featuring section! This is (my first!) dark!fic. I would categorize this as dark!fic-lite, but YMMV so take care, and see the end note for more details if you’re unsure 😊 Title from Mine Forever by Lord Huron.
Tumblr media
Keep reading
1K notes · View notes
dirtyhelen · 3 years
Text
Hahahah I hope you enjoyed! And kudos for your self-control and responsible reading practices lolol!
we will be together (in my mind you’re mine forever)
Tumblr media
Pairing: Dark!Alpha!Bucky Barnes x Omega!Reader
Rating: Explicit (18+)
Featuring: Dark A/B/O Dynamics; Dubious Consent; Oral Sex (F!Receiving); Vaginal Sex; Knotting; Creampie; Biting; Cum Marking; Light Breeding Kink; Your typical hallmarks of A/B/O fic + kidnapping
Words: 6015
Summary: Bucky knows your heat is the right time to bond you, the best chance of it taking, but he has to time it right. Right now your body is being flooded with hormones telling you to find an alpha, to get knotted and bred. He’s been laying the groundwork these past months, easing you off your suppressants and retraining you so that your heat can take care of the rest. Your stubborn will weakened by thousands of years of biology to finally accept him as your mate. 
It’s your first heat since Bucky kidnapped you and took you to his den, and the perfect opportunity to make you his forever.
A/N:  Please mind the Featuring section! This is (my first!) dark!fic. I would categorize this as dark!fic-lite, but YMMV so take care, and see the end note for more details if you’re unsure 😊 Title from Mine Forever by Lord Huron.
Tumblr media
Keep reading
1K notes · View notes
dirtyhelen · 3 years
Text
we will be together (in my mind you’re mine forever)
Tumblr media
Pairing: Dark!Alpha!Bucky Barnes x Omega!Reader
Rating: Explicit (18+)
Featuring: Dark A/B/O Dynamics; Dubious Consent; Oral Sex (F!Receiving); Vaginal Sex; Knotting; Creampie; Biting; Cum Marking; Light Breeding Kink; Your typical hallmarks of A/B/O fic + kidnapping
Words: 6015
Summary: Bucky knows your heat is the right time to bond you, the best chance of it taking, but he has to time it right. Right now your body is being flooded with hormones telling you to find an alpha, to get knotted and bred. He’s been laying the groundwork these past months, easing you off your suppressants and retraining you so that your heat can take care of the rest. Your stubborn will weakened by thousands of years of biology to finally accept him as your mate. 
It's your first heat since Bucky kidnapped you and took you to his den, and the perfect opportunity to make you his forever.
A/N:  Please mind the Featuring section! This is (my first!) dark!fic. I would categorize this as dark!fic-lite, but YMMV so take care, and see the end note for more details if you’re unsure 😊 Title from Mine Forever by Lord Huron.
Tumblr media
Bucky can smell it the moment he opens the door to the cabin. The thick, heady scent of heat rushes out and surrounds him immediately, your natural sweet peach turned overripe, full and heavy, ready to fall from the tree and begging to be eaten. He’s been expecting this for days now, noticing the gradual change in your scent and your listlessness—your body conserving energy, preparing itself for the coming days of frantic breeding—but even so, the reality of it is still overwhelming. That damn scent. It’s like a siren call, like a rope around his neck pulling him to you. A tighter leash than Hydra’d ever had on him. If you were still in that cramped little apartment in the city there’d be alphas circling your door like vultures, Bucky’s sure of it.  As it is, he’s glad for the miles and miles of wilderness between his den and the rest of the world.
He’s ready for this, has been preparing for weeks—months, really. Since the moment he saw you, scented you, sweeter than the apples you’d been putting in your bag at the market, even dulled by the suppressants you’d been taking. All the books and articles and papers he’d read said the first heat or rut after coming off suppressants is always strong, like the body is compensating for those lost opportunities to breed. And judging by the waves of scent drifting down the hall and hitting Bucky like a fucking tidal wave, they were right.
Bucky hasn’t been around an omega in heat in over seventy years, as far as he can remember, and his hindbrain threatens to take over with every lungful of your scent, urging him to soothe, knot, breed. But there’s no distress in your scent, no danger, so he forces himself to relax, reminding himself he has a job to do, a responsibility to take care of you, not just rut away at you like some green alpha pup who just popped his first knot. He takes measured steps across the short distance from the front door to the kitchen, setting down bags of groceries—electrolyte drinks and pre-chopped fruits and vegetables, all easily fed to an exhausted omega from the comfort of their nest—and puts them away, even as his cock starts to swell in his jeans and his own brown sugar scent turns heated and hungry. But he didn’t work all these months watching you, learning you, training you, to throw it all away so close to the finish line.
And it has been work. Hard days and long nights and sacrifices. There’d been the weeks of preparation, finding and arranging the perfect den all while trying to keep an eye on you, keep you safe from other alphas until Bucky could take you home. And that had been the easy part. It’s been months since Bucky took you to his den and he hasn’t so much as kissed you the entire time—and not for lack of wanting. He’s been too occupied getting you settled. Easing you off your suppressants and dealing with the mood swings and sickness. Helping you unlearn all those twisted beliefs ingrained in you about an omega’s place in the world. Teaching you about pack, about how a real alpha should behave.
He’s even maintained his own suppressants—the ones Hydra kept him on whenever he was in use—despite the way they make him feel stretched too tightly over his bones, his instincts dulled. But without a pack, it just wouldn’t be safe for both of you to go without them. The last thing you’re ready for right now is an enhanced alpha you still don’t fully trust to go into a super-strengthened rut, and neither of you is ready for pups.
There are so many things Bucky hates about modern society but the way they’ve turned away from packs has to be the worst. Packs are seen as old-fashioned now, in the way arranged marriages are old-fashioned; an understandable phenomenon, but one society has naturally outgrown for the betterment of all and should not look back on fondly. The alphas, beta, and omegas of today have no idea what a pack is, but Bucky can’t dwell on those frustrations right now.
Setting the last of the groceries in the fridge, he finally makes his way to the source of all that overwhelming sweetness, adjusting his cock in his jeans on the way. Months of sleeping chastely beside you, scenting you tenderly each morning and night, and stripping his cock raw in the shower are about to pay off. Bucky’s always understood the value of the long game, of lining up the perfect shot and waiting for the right moment to pull the trigger—and that moment has arrived.
Bucky unlocks the bedroom door with the key hanging on a string nailed to the doorframe—you’re so much better behaved now, but he still relies on the old precautions when he has to leave you—and he nearly knots in his fucking jeans at the sight that greets him.
You’re almost exactly where he’d left you, nestled among the pillows and blankets of your nest in the corner of the room—you’d insisted on sleeping in your nest the night before, tugging at Bucky’s arm when he’d tried to get you into bed, further evidence of your coming heat and what had prompted Bucky’s last-minute grocery run. When he’d left you this morning you were sleeping so deeply you hadn’t so much as twitched when he’d scented you. You’re not sleeping peacefully anymore. You’re on your side facing away from the door, completely naked, face pressed into one of the pillows from the now stripped-bare bed—and Bucky would lay money that it’s his pillow, that you’re instinctively seeking out the scent of your alpha. The other pillow is clutched between your thighs as you grind against it, a large, dark spot the evidence of your arousal as you keen, desperate for relief.
Bucky can’t help but growl at the sight and it alerts you to his presence; so lost in the first of your heat you hadn’t even noticed him opening the door. You turn your head, looking over your shoulder at him. “Alpha,” you gasp and Christ, but maybe that’s even nicer than the sight of your hungry cunt rocking against a pillow like it can give even close to what you need. It’s the first time you’ve said his designation that way—with awe and reverence, how Bucky’d always imagined when he was a pup. The way he’d seen in the movies, the way his dad said it to his ma. The closest he’d gotten from you ‘til now has been begrudging yes, alpha’s and no, alpha’s and only with a hard look from Bucky first.
There’s no hint of that defiance in you now as you immediately roll onto your belly and tug in your knees to present, legs spread wide on the cushions of the nest, your face turned so you can look at you’re alpha. Bucky feels his cock twitch at how your glossy cunt spreads open for him, slick dripping down your folds and onto your thighs in gossamer webs. The scent of it, earthy and heat-sweetened nearly knocks him down. He has to get his mouth on you.
Bucky steps into the nest, tugging off his shirt and socks as he goes, releasing his scent into the air, brown sugar and peach mixing into the scent Bucky can only think of as den, as home. He can see its effect on you in the way the arch of your back deepens, the way your knees spread even wider, the scent telling you alpha is here, urging you to make yourself as appealing as possible, an easy mount. He crawls up behind you and tugs your hips against his groin, pressing against you in a quick, dirty grind. You keen at it, begging, “Please, please, alpha.” Pushing back on him and darkening the front of his jeans with your slick.
“Shh, omega,” Bucky hushes you, pressing in over your bare back, turning your head to rub the scent glands at his neck along yours one side at a time as his wrists cover yours, the closeness and scent-marking soothing you slightly, taking away the tinge of panic that’s started to creep in the longer your alpha is near but doesn’t mount you. “That’s it, honey, that’s good,” he praises gently, easing you enough that he can get you on your back, and Jesus, that’s another sight.
All that flushed, glistening skin laid bare for him. His eyes trail a path from the swell of your breasts, down your belly—picturing them both swollen and full, nourishment and a home for his pups—to where you need him most. He knows your body is craving his knot and he’ll give it to you—oh, will he give it to you—but he wants something else first, something he’s been craving since that very first day.
You squirm under his focused attention. “Bucky, please.” There are fat tears gathering in the corners of your eyes, your sweet bottom lip trembling and it sets something burning in him, something dark and mean. All that desperation for him; pure, unbridled need, and maybe if you weren’t in heat he’d tease you with it. See if he could get those pretty tears to spill before he touched you. See if he could get you sobbing with it.
As it is, he’s got enough control to push that desire down to be examined another time. “I know, omega.” He adds a little rumble to his voice that has you melting into the nest as his hands spread your legs for him. “I know what you need and you’ll get it, promise, honey,” he says, pressing a kiss to your knee. He mouths his way down, scenting at the glands at the insides of your thighs as you gasp and moan. His mouth waters the closer he gets to the source of all that intoxicating scent.
Finally, he’s nosing into damp curls as his tongue presses flat against your hole, immediately coated in bittersweet slick. You keen at the contact, thighs flexing against Bucky’s grip where he holds you open. He laps at your pussy in long, wide licks, trying to get as much of that taste in his mouth as he can, wanting you in him like he’ll be in you. He lets the rumble build in his chest as he switches to flick at your clit and slides two fingers into you to quell that urge to be filled. The combination of it all has you mindless. Easy and boneless and garbling out nonsense that might be his name, or alpha, or please in between keening whimpers and moans.
Bucky curls his fingers as his tongue works at your clit and it’s only moments until you’re coming, slick squeezed from your cunt as it pulses around his fingers, dripping until his palm and wrist are soaked with it, and fuck, he can’t wait to feel that around his knot. “Yeah, that’s it,” he coos, teasing out the last aftershocks of your orgasm. Bucky looks up from between your thighs to see your eyes shut, mouth open as you pant. He kisses his way back up your body and licks into your open mouth. The first time he kisses you, and it’s with the slick of your cunt on his tongue, on his cheeks and chin and now on yours, too.
You kiss back lazily, pulling away after a moment to scent at his neck again, purring quietly. “Yeah, that’s better, huh?” he chuckles, and you nod, nuzzling into him. Bucky feels his heart clench, feels a lump in his throat at how nice it is. How good it feels to be sweet to you, to have you purring against his chest and smelling of safety and comfort, as well as heat and desire. He was so lost and lonely and afraid for so long. Since he left Steve (you’re my friend, I’m with you ‘til the end of the line) on the riverbank and fled DC. Since he fell from the train, or before that, strapped to a metal table (32557038, 32557…) and wanting his pack or wanting to hurry up and die.
So many months on the run, trying to figure out this strange new world, scribbling down the memories that burned through his broken brain like fever dreams, and packing up and running again whenever he caught wind of Steve, not ready yet to reckon with his last, failed mission despite the desperate longing in his gut that screamed pack every time he so much as thought of the man. The flashes of golden hair and fresh, clean beta-scent. Of fair skin under his lips, packmates fumbling through alpha-pup ruts turning into something more, something deeper. It was too much, too soon and he could only run from it.
And then you.
With that sweet peach scent that reminded him of those rare occasions his father could get his hands on fresh fruit; an image of him and Steve standing outside the kitchen as the smell of peach cobbler filled the apartment flashing up in his mind unbidden. He’d followed the scent to its source and there you were, giving the apple vendor a big bright smile and then you’d turned that smile on Bucky, standing there next to you like a dolt. And that was it; he knew.
And now here you are, safe and warm and denned and it’s just good in a way that almost hurts in its utter, overwhelming simplicity.
You’re content to curl up in his arms for a few more minutes but eventually you start to whine, hips shifting a little. You need more than a single orgasm and a couple of fingers tucked inside your cunt. You need Bucky’s knot, need to be fucked full of his seed, over and over until your body is satisfied, claimed. Bucky rumbles again and reaches down to undo his jeans. The moment you notice, your hands are fluttering down from his back and tugging at his waistband. His helpful little omega, he thinks, grinning at the look of concentration on your face as your clumsy hands fumble at his jeans.
“How ‘bout you present for me, omega?” he suggests instead and you nod eagerly, rolling over and getting into position next to him as Bucky finally works his legs out of his jeans and underwear—no easy feat while half-lying in a sea of pillows and blankets. “Good girl,” he praises you. “So good for me, such a good omega.” You are good for him, the perfect mate, despite the challenges he’s had with you. It’s not your fault you were brought up wrong and Bucky’s never held it against you, has always known there were good instincts beneath all that attitude and disobedience. He’s seeing them now, in the deep arch of your back, in the scent of pride in your scent when he compliments you. And now he finally gets to make you his.
Bucky settles behind you and wastes no time; his own instincts are screaming at him and he can’t ignore them any longer. He grips the base of his cock, knot just starting to plump, and slides into your cunt in one long thrust, immediately setting a furious pace, fucking into you fast and hard. His hands clutch at your hips, moving you with his body. You come in the first handful of thrusts and Bucky isn’t far behind. This first time won’t last long; the first fuck of a heat or rut never does, and Bucky wishes he could take his time and savour it, but he knows waiting for your heat was the right call. You have the rest of your lives to take your time with each other, and with the feeling of your pussy, wet and gripping his cock so tight, clenching around him in orgasm—he’s not sure he’d have been able to last even if your heat-scent wasn’t filling his lungs.
The room is filled with the slap of his thighs against yours, the filthy wet noise of his cock moving inside you, and your whimpers and gasps and moans as you take everything Bucky’s giving you.
It’s only a few more thrusts before his knot starts to catch, pulling at your opening each time he pulls out and forcing inside when he thrusts back in. Your voice grows even wilder, more desperate, as you feel his knot swell until finally Bucky comes, pushing in hard as his knot pops, locking him inside you and stretching your pussy wide as he fills you with cum. It’s heaven, bliss, so much better than he ever imagined—and he imagined a lot. You come again while he does, pulsing around his knot, your body milking his, your empty womb begging to be filled.
Breathing hard, Bucky presses close over your back, wrapping his arms around your body and rolling you both onto your sides to ride out the tie. He mouths at your scent gland, licking and sucking, unable to resist teasing with just the lightest drag of his teeth that has you shivering, cunt squeezing his knot. But he won’t bite you yet, despite his hindbrain urging him to claim you, mark you on the outside like his cum is marking you inside. He lets the sniper’s instincts win out over the alpha’s—play the long game, wait for the right moment.
He noses at the nape of your neck, presses kisses behind your ear and you wiggle back against him, purring again and providing sensation to his knot. No words are exchanged, just the silent communication of your scents pumping out smug brown sugar-peach into the air. You feel so good in his arms like this, all warm, bare skin pressed along the length of his body, as close as it’s possible to be. He can’t help but rock his hips a little, pulling out just enough to see how the thin skin of your cunt clings to him, stretched wide around the bulk of his knot. It doesn’t take long to grind both of you to another orgasm, even more slick and cum added to the mess inside you.
You’re nearly asleep by the time Bucky’s knot shrinks. He pulls out, shifting you gently onto your back to watch the mess drip from your pussy. Instinct guides him to reach down and slide his fingers through your folds, getting them wet with mingled slick and cum before rubbing it into the scent glands on your neck. You rouse a little, moaning lightly, your own instincts pleased at the way your alpha marks you with his scent. Bucky repeats the process on your inner thighs and then over your cunt, lazily circling your clit to another shuddering orgasm.
He presses those fingers to your lips after, and you open automatically, sucking off the taste and fuck, he wants to get those lips around his cock. He wants to keep you like this forever. Easy and eager and docile for him. You’re drifting again, eyes shut and breath evening out as you doze. Bucky presses a kiss to your forehead and tugs a thin blanket over you before leaving the nest.
“I’m gonna bring you some food, honey. Be back in a minute,” he tells you, though he doubts you’re aware enough right now to even hear it.
He leaves the bedroom door open and tries to prepare a plate as quickly as possible, uneasy to leave you alone for even a few minutes. Once again he wishes he had a pack. Omegas aren’t supposed to be left alone during a heat, despite what modern society seems to think. If this were Bucky’s day, even a bonded omega would have at least two heat-partners so they would never be alone, never left wanting. Now everyone is so obsessed with independence, individuality. They’ve abandoned community but they call it liberation.
Bucky is just grateful for the serum. If he were a normal alpha he’d have a hard time keeping up with you. Modern alphas, he’s learned, usually have to rely on medications or toys just to get their omegas through their heats. Or suppressants, of course, which seems to be given out like candy.
The future’s not all bad though, Bucky has to admit, as he prepares a plate for you. He remembers crowding into their tiny kitchen with Steve and Becca as pups, making watery broth out of whatever vegetables they could get their hands on during his dad’s heats. Remembers how Sarah would take extra shifts before his mother’s ruts so they could afford a few decent cuts of meat. A plate piled high with fresh fruit, and no scrimping or saving to get them, is a luxury Bucky could only have dreamed of as a pup.
He notices the change in your scent just as he’s putting the last of the containers back into the fridge. Calm and content soured by fear and confusion. He picks up the platter of food and hurries back to the bedroom.
You’re shivering, curled on your side with your knees pulled to your chest. Bucky sets the plate on the floor and climbs into the nest again. He kneels at your side, reaches down to rub his wrist against your neck but you flinch away, the frightened-peach scent spiking. “Shh, shh,” he hushes you. “What’s wrong, baby?”
“This is wrong. I-I—I don’t want this. I—” you speak the words to your knees, haltingly, like it’s a struggle to get them out, your eyes screwed shut tight.
It’s not uncommon for omegas to experience anxiety and distress during a heat, Bucky knows. Hormones are running wild, emotions are heightened, and the overwhelming desire to be bred makes them especially vulnerable.
Bucky immediately starts up a strong rumble and tries to forcefully put out a calming scent to counter your bitter unhappiness. He can see you fighting it, shrinking into yourself, his stubborn little omega, but the effect on you is almost instant. Your eyes open, glossy and lidded, as the rumble empties your mind and Bucky’s scent fills it up with warm safety and comfort.
He pulls you into his lap, pressing your head to his chest. You’re no longer on the edge of panic, but your scent is still tinged with fear and confusion—your mind fighting the needs of your body, your natural desires, and twisting you up inside as you struggle to reconcile them both. It’s what Bucky’s spent the last several months trying to help you untangle, and he’s proud that these moments are getting fewer and farther between as he teaches you to take pride in your nature, to embrace your instincts. He’s not surprised you’d have another moment of struggle now, though.
He speaks in low, soothing tones as takes your wrists one at a time and presses them to the scent glands in his neck, spreading his safe-comfort brown sugar scent. “I’m here, you’re safe, omega. You’re in your nest, in our den, and you’re safe. Alpha is here. We’re both safe.”
You squirm a little, brow furrowing. Your mouth opens twice before you manage to get out any words against the weight of Bucky’s rumble and scent. “I’m not safe. I don’t want this.” You speak slowly, forcefully, even as you nuzzle your cheek against his chest.
He shakes his head at you for the millionth time, he’s sure. So stubborn, his little omega. Hurting no one more than yourself and thinking it’s strength. “You don’t have to fight so hard, honey. It’s okay to listen to your body. It’s okay to like it.” He slides a hand between your thighs where you’re still dripping slick, despite your protests. “And it’s pretty clear you liked it, omega.”
You whine and Bucky can see tears forming in your eyes but you don’t speak again. He’s had this conversation with you before, so many times, but it gets shorter every time as your ability to argue weakens, as you learn to accept what you are. Who you belong to, who you belong with. How many times have you snarled and spat and fought only to end up curled against Bucky’s chest, clinging to him as you cried? The picture of a difficult omega who just needs the right alpha. Back in Bucky’s day, you would’ve ended up starving on the streets, or worse. Or committed to an Omega Asylum, a ward of the state until some half-rate alpha who couldn’t get an omega on their own agreed to take you in—to bond you or beat you into submission.
Bucky’d always hated those alphas and their lazy, weak excuses. His ma always told him—and Steve and Becca, betas needed to take care, too—that an alpha who could only keep their mate in line with their fists didn’t deserve to have a mate at all. That a real alpha knows there’s no such thing as too much work for the right omega; no omega so difficult they can’t be tamed by the right alpha.
And the proof of it is curled against Bucky’s chest. Not tamed yet, not completely, but almost there, and without a single hand raised to you in anger to get you there.
Bucky reaches for the plate of food and feeds you and himself until the plate is empty, your mouth opening sweetly for each portion of fruit he places at your lips, speaking soothing sweet nothings until you’re boneless against his chest, eyes closed and nearly asleep, all bitterness gone from your scent. He lays you down, pulling you back against his front and tugs at pillows and blankets until you’re completely surrounded, safe and warm, your mingled peach and brown sugar scents filling every breath.
+++
The next two days are a blur of fucking and feeding and resting. Bucky sleeps when you do and wakes to your hips grinding back into his or your lips mouthing along his neck, his sweet omega trying to gently ease him away to take care of her.
There are brief moments of struggle, usually shortly after a knotting when the heat-haze is lightest, but he manages to keep you easy and sweet for him so long as he stays by your side, rumbling and soothing when your scent starts to turn. Distracting you with food or pleasure; your base urges overpowering everything else.
He's managed not to bite you yet, though it hasn’t been easy. The day before he’d coaxed you gently into riding him—and hadn’t that been a sight: your tits bouncing as you moved on his cock, fingernails digging divots into the sweat-slick skin of his chest as you scrabbled for purchase, shameless and desperately chasing your own pleasure, all nerves and insecurity swept away by your alpha’s praise. You’d tired quickly, leaning down against Bucky’s chest and licking at his scent glands as you rolled your lips in clumsy circles. It had your neck perfectly placed for him to sink his teeth into your own scent glands. He’d had to hold himself back with all his will, reminding himself of the consequences of a failed bond. Your orgasm had been a good distraction, at least. The squeeze of your cunt urging him toward his own climax. He’d flipped your positions with a growl, furiously thrusting into your wet heat until his knot popped, starting the feed-rest-fuck cycle over again, getting ever closer to the finish line.
Bucky knows your heat is the right time to bond you, the best chance of it taking, but he has to time it right. Right now your body is being flooded with hormones telling you to find an alpha, to get knotted and bred. He’s been laying the groundwork these past months, easing you off your suppressants and retraining you so that your heat can take care of the rest. Your stubborn will weakened by thousands of years of biology to finally accept him as your mate.
After days wrapped around his knot, his scent and hormones soaking your insides and smoothed into your skin, his praise and comfort and support, giving you everything your body needs, showing his worth as a mate—any omega would be hard-pressed to resist a bonding bite after all that. There’s a reason heats are supposed to be spent with trusted packmates. A heat-frenzied omega might go off with any alpha in that state, might bond and be tied to them until death.
But if the bond does fail, Bucky will have to start practically from scratch. A failed bonding bite will tell your body he’s not a worthy alpha and he’ll have to build your trust all over again. So he knows his best chance is to ride out your heat as long as possible and make sure you’re satisfied in every way the entire time.
By the fourth day, the heat-scent is dissipating. Still sweet and alluring, but not so heavy and thick it overwhelms everything else. Bucky’s actually managed to wake before you for once—another sign that your heat is nearly finished—and he takes the brief respite to enjoy the chaste sweetness of your sleeping body on his chest. Your cheek is pressed up against his heartbeat and your legs are tangled with his. He can feel the damp heat of your cunt against his hip and his cock hardens in response but there’s no immediacy to it, the arousal is just warm and easy.
Early morning sunlight filters through the gap in the curtains, catching dust motes in the air and casting the room in a clean, bright glow. The room itself is a mess of pillows and blankets and Bucky’s own clothing, items discarded and replaced by some internal omega logic of yours as the days passed. Your voice, imperious and precise as you’d ordered Bucky around the room to fetch this pillow or that shirt, then painstakingly arranging them in the nest.
Bucky tightens his arms around you and presses a kiss to your head, breathing in the scent of your hair. Something about the peace of this moment has a part of him locking into place that had felt unmoored before now. An image pops into his head—you and him, just like this. Your pups safe and sleeping in the other room. It’s a fantasy and promise and the certainty of it fills him up with a feeling of safety and strength like he hasn’t known since he was a little kid in Brooklyn, surrounded by his pack and knowing nothing of pain or war or death.
He feels your head shift on his chest and looks down to find you looking back at him. The expression on your face is soft and open, made all the more meaningful for the clarity in your eyes, bright and alert.
“Good morning,” he says, so softly it’s almost silent.
“Good morning.” You shift so you’re held above him a little, palms pressed to his chest. Bucky sees a handful of undiscernible emotions play across your face as you look down at him, eyes sweeping over his own face. You lean your head down in a stuttering motion and pause with your lips just an inch from his. Your scent is steady and clear; no bitter, all sweet, and you close the gap, slotting your mouth against Bucky’s in the softest, gentlest kiss you’ve shared yet.
In a matter of wordless, unhurried moments Bucky is rocking into you slow and lazy and deep, nestled close in the cradle of your hips. Your chests are pressed close, hardly any room between you at all, with his forearms bracketing your head, fingers interlocked above you. There’s a scant inch or two between his mouth and yours, close enough he can lean in and kiss you just by tilting his chin.
“So good, omega.” Soft praise falls from Bucky’s lips like the breath forced from his lungs. “You feel so good. Gonna fill you up, huh?” He shudders out of a moan at how you tighten around him at that.
“Alpha,” you gasp. “Want your knot—need it.”
“Fuck.” Bucky’s thrusts pick up speed and you keen, legs tightening around him as you mouth at his neck. “Gonna give you my knot, omega, give you my pups. Gonna be so pretty with your belly all full of me, honey.” It’s all fantasy for now, but he sees it so clearly, crystalized in his mind—your body rounded and heavy—and the way your scent spikes, flooding the air with arousal and desire tells him you see it, too. Tells him it’s time.
Bucky’d always imagined the moment he bonded you as some passionate, frantic moment. Pictured you on your knees in presentation for him as he thrust away behind you, like the first time, hard and fast, fingers gripping your hips as his teeth gripped your neck. But as he fits his mouth to your neck, kisses and licks his way to your scent gland as the two of you continue to rock together in a smooth rhythm, pressed together face-to-face, he thinks this is so much better and no less passionate.
He nips as your skin a couple times in warning, curious to see how you’ll respond—he’s only gotten so close as dragging his teeth along the spot so far, nothing approaching a bite—and you tilt your head back for him, moan out, “Alpha.” No defiance or fear or anything in your scent except safety and want and trust.
Bucky’s teeth pierce the tender skin of your neck and his cock thrusts deep, knot popping as he comes instantly, all white-hot sensation, bright and raw and endless. You gasp and he feels your cunt clenching around him in tight, squeezing waves. There aren’t words for the way he feels. Everything he’s ever heard or read or imagined couldn’t have prepared him for the all-consuming, overwhelming closeness and trust and love and affection—everything—he feels for you in this moment. He can only imagine your own emotions with the last of your heat still burning through your body.
He practically collapses on top of you in the aftermath, pressing his mouth to yours in a messy, bloody kiss, pulling away to lick at the bite, sending waves of bonded brown sugar-peach into the air.
“Mine, mine, mine,” he growls it into your throat as he grinds his knot inside you, the pleasure almost too much, an endless wave of sensation as his cum fills you up.
“Yours, alpha.” You’re trembling, tears spilling down your cheeks and Bucky licks them up—he wants all of you now, he has all of you, everything, always. “I’m yours,” you breathe, repeating it softly.
By the time Bucky’s heart rate has slowed and he’s regained control of his body you’re nearly asleep, exhausted and sated, the last of your heat-scent drifting away. You’ll sleep for most of the day now, recovering your strength. He wraps his arms around you and carefully turns so you’re resting on top of him, still tied at his knot for a long while yet.
With the certainty of his claim on you and the safety of having you in his arms, Bucky just enjoys the closeness, nosing into your hair and taking in your bonded scent. You nuzzle into him even in your sleep, a purr building in your chest. For the first time in far, far too long, Bucky feels true, unwavering happiness. And he knows with sudden, perfect, certainty that he’s ready for the next step for him and his omega. The next step to having everything he’s always wanted; everything he’s determined he’ll finally have now that he’s free.
It’s time to find Steve—or maybe finally let Steve find him—and be a pack again. It’s time to go home.
+++
A/N: If you’re familiar with dark!fic I don’t think there’s anything in here that’ll shock you, but if you’re not: the concept is Bucky has kidnapped the Reader and Stockholm-Syndromed her into relative compliance with his own in-world old-fashioned preferences, plus the dubious consent inherent to how I’ve chosen to depict heats in this fic. I’ve labelled this dubious consent bc that’s a thing that exists in the fanfiction world, but obviously this would all be straight rape/non-con IRL, so read at your own risk. There’s no physical violence, but there is a brief moment where the Reader verbally expresses discomfort with what’s happening and Bucky basically gaslights her, plus mentions of him “retraining” her during her captivity.
Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed my first (completed, anyway) foray into dark!fic 😊
Modern views on packs inspiration from here and here!
1K notes · View notes
dirtyhelen · 3 years
Text
Thank you so much for reading and commenting!! I'm glad you enjoyed ☺️
with you, a girl could get bolder (i just wanna be a little bit closer) - part three (final)
Tumblr media
PART THREE: don’t go, the night’s not over
Series Masterlist
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader
Rating: Explicit (18+)
Featuring: Fluff; Smut; Blowjob; Vaginal Fingering; Vaginal Fingering; Creampie
Words: 5767
Summary: Six months later, you and Bucky are ready for a second try at your first time.
A/N: “Part 3 won’t take this long, I promise!” she said. “Part 3 will be up in a few days!” she said. She LIED. (I’m she and I’m very sorry 😂🙈) Thank you again to everyone who liked/replied/reblogged Parts 1 and 2. You are all lovely, wonderful people and I hope you enjoy the final part of this little series 😊
Keep reading
137 notes · View notes
dirtyhelen · 3 years
Text
Tumblr media
🤣🤣🤣 That's exactly what I was going for!! Thank you for reading!!
i’ve got the girl on my mind (all the time)
Tumblr media
Pairing: Carol Danvers x Reader
Rating: Explicit (18+)
Featuring: Smut; Humour; Light D/S; Vaginal Fingering; Oral Sex
Words: 4299
Summary: Carol’s wearing a suit. Black, tailored to perfection, but not feminine. The top two buttons of her stark white shirt are undone and her tie is loose around her neck. Her eyes scan the room absently until her gaze lands on you and she’s smiling even wider, lifting her glass and giving you a wink. 
“Oh my God, Bucky, she’s coming over here. Go away.” 
“What—why?” 
“Because I’m either about to embarrass myself or get seduced and I don’t want you here for either.” 
(Spoiler alert: it’s the second one.)
A/N: Woman Cozily Cupping Mug Secretly Thinking About Getting Absolutely Railed by Carol Danvers. This is just a silly little smutfic that I had way too much fun writing. Hope you enjoy! Title from Girls by Beatrice Eli.
Tumblr media
Keep reading
163 notes · View notes
dirtyhelen · 3 years
Text
The Most Annoying Accidental Co-Worker in the World: The Bucky Barnes Story
AKA 1000 words of not!fic rambly nonsense of how the Bucky and Reader from i've got the girl on my mind (all the time) became slightly antagonistic BFFs.
(This is the backstory I alluded to in my author's note on that post and it turns out all I needed was one (1) request to feel compelled to share it with "the world". The target audience of the following 1000 words is specifically me so please do not feel obligated to read!)
Tumblr media
Okay so basically, i've got the girl on my mind (all the time) takes place in a post-CA:TWS canon divergence where Bucky comes home with Steve at the end and they move to Avengers Tower with everyone else like it's 2012.
Except it's less “moving to the Tower” and more Bucky is technically an international criminal and the Tower is the most secure place to keep him while the rest of the team pretends they have no idea where he is and tries to convince the US government he’s not a terrorist. At which point they will be like, “Wow he was here the whole time? Wild!”. (Ignore unimportant things like how The Law works.)
So Bucky is grounded and not allowed to leave the Tower and definitely not allowed to go on missions with the rest of the Avengers. Except Bucky might not know much (including his own name sometimes and dumb shit like what year it is) but he knows this: Steve Rogers Is To Be Protected (And Cannot Protect Himself).
Bucky experiences intense anxiety whenever Steve is away because he can’t stand not knowing if he’s alive or dead, and not being around to watch his back. Steve tries to alleviate this by telling Bucky he's got a whole team of people to protect him, including analysts in the Tower. Bucky's like, “Yeah, yeah, yeah, Steve, you're so dumb--WAIT! Analysts in the Tower?”
So the next time Steve goes on a mission, Bucky breaks out of Steve’s floor (which he’s known how to do since the first week he got there and he’s gonna have a word with Stark Jr. after he’s done exploiting his security failings) and finds his way to the analysts’ offices.
They all know about Bucky’s existence because they hear the Avengers talking over comms and Steve is obsessed with Bucky and won’t shut the fuck up about him. They’re mostly ex-SHIELD and they’ve been sworn to secrecy by ironclad NDAs that basically promise to drone strike them and everyone they love if they even breath a word of top-secret shit so hiding a maybe-terrorist is really just a regular Tuesday.
Picture the Winter Soldier wearing his Murder Face and Captain America pajama pants (Nat thought it was funny) going door-to-door to figure out which analyst is on the current mission until he finds You.
He Murder Struts (you know the one) into your office, hauls a chair around your desk so he can sit next to you, and does a finger-to-his-lips shhh motion all while you just sit there staring at him, cup of coffee halfway to your mouth while the Avengers babble in your ear.
That first mission you’re too shit-scared to do anything (except your job, very nervously) but you seem to pass the test because when the mission is over and the Avengers have disconnected comms, Bucky looks at you, nods, and leaves your office. (As soon as he’s gone everyone on your floor piles in to your office to ask what the fuck just happened. You have no idea.)
And thus begins Accidental Co-Worker Bucky "The Winter Soldier" Barnes.
You get comfortable with each other very quickly after that because it’s hard not to get comfortable around someone when you spend several hours every week or so sitting inches apart in a confined space, under high-pressure situations.
You become so comfortable around him, in fact, that any fear you once had of the fearsome Winter Soldier becomes pure, unadulterated annoyance instead.
Bucky doesn’t always agree with your calls, and he makes it very clear when that happens.
(This is how the Avengers finally figure out Bucky's been listening in on missions. Mid-mission Bucky tries to wrestle your mouse out of your hand without breaking your hand (or the mouse) and you forget to mute yourself when you shout, “Bucky, if you don't fuck off I SWEAR TO GOD.”)
He also frequently steals your coffee (sometimes right out of your hand) and one time you unlocked your office door and turned on the light to find him sitting behind your desk and it scared the shit out of you and he laughed when you screamed.
At first, he’d leave as soon as the mission was wrapped, with not even a single word thrown in your direction. But as time goes on, he starts to stick around after, since the Avengers still have to fly back from wherever they’ve been. Then, when the secret’s out, he just comes by your office whenever he’s bored, or you hang out at his and Steve’s apartment when you’re off.
It’s during these times that you start to talk to each other and get to know each other.
You talk about Steve, and movies, and music, and Steve, and the cute girl in Accounting you have a crush on, and the best way to break someone’s neck (“The way Steve did it on that last mission was totally wrong, doll, that’s why he needs me around!”), and how sad you are that the cute girl in Accounting cheated on you (“You want a practical demonstration on that neck-breaking technique?”). You introduce Bucky to Naruto because Naruto reminds you of Steve and Bucky becomes obsessed. His favourite character is Hinata.
(Yes, I’m watching Naruto right now and yes, I’m projecting my favourite character onto Bucky, what about it?)
And then somehow months have gone by and you’re best friends now.
(Headcanon—of my own fanfiction so I guess just “canon?”—that Bucky remembers having little sisters and this is part of why he is naturally just the Most Annoying to you but also super protective. 
He may or may not have broken into Accounting Girl’s house and stolen literally all of her shoes because she broke your heart, but also one time he spent an entire meeting throwing tiny paper balls at you when no one was looking.)
And then Bucky’s name is cleared and he’s allowed to go on missions, so you get less of his backseat driving, and for a minute you kind of think maybe you won’t be friends anymore but you’re dead wrong because Bucky is a ride and/or die bitch and you’re besties for life now.
Plus he still makes sure to sit in on any missions Steve is on without him (which basically only happens when Bucky is injured). 
And there you have it! 1000 words of rambly backstory for a 4000-word fic that isn’t even about Bucky because I wrote like three lines of dialogue between him and the Reader and became obsessed with a non-existent fictional relationship of my own creation.
5 notes · View notes