multi-fandom oneshots

you call me baby (bucky barnes)

summary: there's a whiny assassin in your bed.

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

genre: fluff 

word count: 993

warnings: light suggestion OwO

"Baby..."

The Fist of Hydra, veteran of World War 2, internationally renowned and feared assassin, the owner of a vibranium left arm that could literally crush your neck without much effort – is whining. Like a child. And for you.

He lays in bed under the bunches of thick woolen blankets you had insisted you needed. (You didn't need them, not really, but you know the cold bothers him even when he makes an effort not to show it – too many bad memories of frosty glass and icy skin and...)

Your own wakening must have roused him from his sleep; eyes half-lidded and hair mussed, arm glinting in the gentle morning sun. He is an image that you want to paint, though you don't suppose he'd let you be so close yet so far for very long.

"What?" You say teasingly, slinging his discarded Henley over your very naked torso. You catch glimpses of bruises between your thighs and on the curve of your breasts, where he had spent hours the night before slumped over your body, drawing sighs of elation and moans from your lips, his arousal prodding against your stomach. He had promised to take his time, and he had seen it through.

"Back to bed," he says, leaning his head back onto the pillow tiredly. His voice is a grumbly, husky morning mess, but you'd be lying if you said it wasn't one of your favourite sounds. He runs a hand over his eyes. "'S too early."

"Gimme a second." You stand and hobble over towards the bathroom, stepping over his discarded pants and your lace panties (ripped in two, as most ended up). "Have to pee."

You spend maybe two minutes more than planned in the bathroom, brushing your teeth and splashing water over your face and briefly considering if you should take a quick shower before you were due for work in a few hours.

In those 120 seconds Bucky must decide that 2 minutes is too long a time to be away from you, and so just as you're about to turn on the shower he appears behind you, slinking his arms around your waist.

"Thought you'd only be a second," he grumbles into your shoulder, swaying you back and forth to a tune neither of you can hear but still dance to.

"Yeah, my toothpaste is out to get you," you say, lifting a hand momentarily to touch his hair. "Took an extra 3 seconds to take off the cap."

"Shuddup." But he's smiling against your skin, and he laughs that short, breathy laugh under his breath.

"You wanna take a shower with me, baby?" You ask, switching on the water. He makes a vague noise of disgruntlement, tightening his hold around your waist.

"Wanna go back to bed," he murmurs, and you know he's trying to coerce you when he kisses your shoulder once, twice, three times, humming lowly against your skin. "Cuddle my best girl. Take care of her real good..."

You tightly clasp the hand that's slowly inching lower, stopping it from travelling any further past your bellybutton.

"You could do that in the shower too, mister."

"I could," he agrees, pressing his nose deeper against your neck. "But there's just somethin' about havin' you in my bed, doll. Pressin' you down into the mattress and havin' my way with you–"

Your inhale is shaky and he can tell.

"It is–" You contort in some unhuman way to glance over his shoulder and out at the face of the clock that's just barely legible through the narrow sliver in the door– "9:37. Much too early for sex, I'm afraid."

"Hasn't stopped you before."

"M-maybe so," you say, clearing your throat. "But before I didn't have a briefing at midday. And you're an insatiable little shit who doesn't do single rounds."

"I can do it this time," he says, drawing out his words. He sounds on the verge of begging, voice whiny and warm in your ears. It's a stark contrast to the domineering, commanding man he becomes in bed. "I'll do it in the shower, then, even. C'mon, baby. Lemme make you feel good..."

Christ on a bike. He's wearing your resistance away. It didn't take much, of course; a squeeze of his large biceps, a nuzzle against your pulse point, his voice a husky drawl. He was letting his accent slink in, as well, and he knows damn well what it does to you.

"I don't know," you say, although you've ready made up your mind and now solely want him to suffer a bit more. "Maybe if you get on your knees and beg?"

And you're joking – really, you are, but he wastes no time in spinning you to face him and lowering to his knees. He nips at his shirt that hangs off of you as he passes it, winding his arms around your waist and pulling you close, hands rested underneath the fabric and firmly on your ass.

His eyes are so dark that they remind you of how he looked when you first met; war paint smeared across eyelids and lashline, serving only as a backdrop for those blinding blue irises. This time, though, he's not filled with a painful, murderous rage, a need to kill and a need to serve those who had hurt him.

You look into his eyes and see adoration, loyalty; he stares at you like you hung the stars and moons of every galaxy and you have no doubt that you gaze upon him in the same way. Lust, desperation. A need to control and dominate, but also a need to care for you that he balances with no trouble.

He exhales, nose brushing against your lower stomach. His lips part, and then they're on your skin, warm and wet and enough to send shivers up your spine.

He looks up, and you see mischief in those stupidly blue eyes.

"Please?"