Unexpected behaviour — fratboy!sukuna x shy!reader
summary: a long week passed and your new “friend” felt ignored
𐙚 ̊| jjk!masterlist — <<previous chapter - next chapter»>
The late afternoon sun cast long, amber shadows across the cracked concrete pavement, stretching the silhouettes of the campus buildings into distorted shapes as you walked home from school. Your backpack felt unusually heavy today, the straps digging mercilessly into your shoulders—a physical manifestation of the exhaustion clinging to you after a grueling, sleepless week of midterms. Clutching the nylon straps tightly against your chest, you kept your head down, focusing entirely on the rhythmic movement of your sneakers. You tried your best to tune out the ambient noise of the bustling college town: the distant rumble of traffic, the chatter of students celebrating the end of exams, and the clinking of glasses from the nearby campus strip.
You weren't exactly looking to run into anyone, let alone him.
This would be the fourth time. You had been keeping precise track in your head, mostly because encounters with Ryomen Sukuna were not the kind of events one easily forgot or brushed off. He was the campus's most notorious fraternity president, a legendary senior whose reputation for absolute hedonism, unpredictable temper, and borderline psychopathic arrogance preceded him everywhere he went. He was entirely selfish, wildly sadistic in his humor, and lived exclusively for his own amusement, treating the university like his personal playground and the student body as his willing audience.
A sudden, massive shadow fell over your path, blocking out the fading warmth of the sunlight and plunging you into a chill.
"Hey. Moving kind of slow today, aren't we?"
You froze mid-step, your heart doing a sudden, violent flip in your chest before hammering rapidly against your ribs. The voice was unmistakable—deep, gravelly, and dripping with an effortless, condescending authority. Slowly, almost reluctantly, you tilted your head up.
It was Sukuna. He was leaning casually against a weathered brick wall that bordered the very edge of the campus quad, one foot propped up against the masonry. He wore a backwards black baseball cap and an oversized, loose-fitting crimson varsity jacket with leather sleeves that did absolutely nothing to hide the broad, intimidating frame beneath it. Because he was currently in control of his unfortunate freshman vessel, a well-meaning athlete named Ryomen Sukuna he possessed the same spiked pink hair, though it was pushed up aggressively today, completely free of the usual fringe.
But the most striking—and terrifying—difference lay in the stark markings. Jet-black lines encircled his wrists, ankles, and upper arms in thick, flawless double bands. A sharp, jagged horizontal line crossed the bridge of his nose, and a complex, crown-like symbol sat squarely in the middle of his forehead, stark against Yuji's fair skin. As you stared, the second pair of eyes—usually just dark, dormant slits beneath his primary ones—snapped wide open. They gleamed with a malicious, highly amused crimson light as they locked onto your trembling form.
"S-Sukuna," you stammered, the syllables catching in your throat as you instantly took a frantic step backward. Your social anxiety was already a heavy burden to manage on a normal day, but dealing with a literal force of nature clad in a frat jacket was entirely overwhelming.
"The one and only," he smirked, his lips curling back to reveal a flash of sharp teeth as he stepped away from the wall.
The sheer, oppressive presence he radiated was suffocating, altering the very air pressure around you. He didn't just walk; he took up space with an absolute, unshakeable certainty that the entire world belonged to him by right. He closed the distance between you in two long, predatory strides, immediately cutting off your direct path forward.
"You know, for someone who claims to want absolutely nothing to do with me, you keep walking right into my territory," he noted, tilting his head back slightly to look down his nose at you.
"I'm just... I'm just walking home from the library," you murmured, your eyes darting frantically to the left and right, desperately calculating an escape route through the narrow alleyways. "The sidewalk is public property. I have a right to be here."
"Everything around here is my property if I say it is," he retorted smoothly, his voice dropping into a dangerous, silken register. He towered over you, his egocentric nature practically dripping from his posture as he crossed his massive arms over his chest. He looked down at your small frame, his primary and secondary eyes narrowing in tandem as he evaluated your pale face and nervous demeanor. He found your profound shyness utterly hilarious—and highly entertaining. "Do you honestly think a little piece of city zoning law means anything to me, brat?"
"I really should go," you whispered, your voice trembling as you attempted to take a wide step around his right side.
"Not so fast."
In a flash of movement almost too quick for the human eye to track, his hand shot out, his thick fingers gripping the canvas strap of your backpack with vice-like strength. He didn't pull you backward, but the sudden, rigid restriction made you halt entirely, nearly losing your balance.
"You've dodged me three times this week now," Sukuna said, his tone shifting from playful to slightly sharper, his gaze boring into yours. "I don't like being ignored. Especially not by someone who looks like they're about to faint just from looking at me."
"I'm not ignoring you," you lied, your voice cracking slightly as you gripped your straps for dear life. "I've just been... incredibly busy. With school. Midterms just ended, and I have essays due..."
Sukuna let out a sharp, mocking laugh that echoed off the brick walls around you. "School. Right. Because staring at dead pieces of paper and listening to boring old men lecture is way more interesting than spending time with me. You're a terrible liar, you know that? Your pulse is jumping right through your neck."
He stepped even closer, completely invading your personal space until you were forced to tilt your chin up just to keep him in view. The scent of expensive, smoky cologne mixed with a faint, metallic edge of something entirely otherworldly washed over your senses. Up close, the black markings on his neck, partially obscured by the collar of his shirt, seemed to pulse with a strange, chaotic energy.
"You're shaking," he observed, a slow, sadistic grin stretching across his sharp features. He loved the visceral effect he had on people, especially someone as fragile and quiet as you. It fed his ego in a way that regular compliance never could. "What exactly are you so afraid of? I haven't even done anything to you yet. You act like I'm going to tear you apart right here."
"Please just let me go home," you pleaded softly, your knuckles turning white as you held onto your bag. "I'm tired."
"Hmm. Let me think about it..." Sukuna feigned a look of deep contemplation, tapping a tattooed finger against his chin before his expression hardened into something far more intense. "No. I don't think I will."
His hedonistic impulses always drove him to take exactly what he wanted, whenever the whim struck him, consequences be damned. And right now, looking at your flushed, terrified face and the way your lips parted in a soft gasp, he decided he wanted a reaction. A real, unfiltered one that shattered your quiet exterior completely.
Before your exhausted brain could even process the shift in his weight, his free hand came up. His large, warm fingers gently but firmly cupped your jaw, his thumb brushing roughly over the soft skin of your cheek. The sudden, intense skin-to-skin contact sent a jolt of pure, electric adrenaline straight through your veins, completely freezing the breath in your lungs.
"You're always running away," he murmured, his voice dropping a full octave, losing every ounce of its casual frat-boy bravado and taking on a heavy, hypnotic edge that made your knees feel weak. "Let's see what happens if you actually stay for once."
He began to lean down, his broad shoulders blocking out the remaining fragments of the afternoon sky. His eyes drifted deliberately down to your lips, his intention entirely transparent, devoid of any hesitation. Ryomen Sukuna was going to kiss you, right here on a public sidewalk in broad daylight, simply because the thought had crossed his mind and he possessed the power to do it.
Panic flared brightly and violently inside your chest. In that split second, your deeply ingrained instinct for self-preservation kicked into overdrive, entirely overriding your usual paralyzed shyness and social anxiety.
Just as his face neared yours—close enough for you to feel the hot, uneven warmth of his breath against your skin and see the individual flecks of crimson in his eyes—you ducked your head sharply to the left. At the exact same moment, you brought both of your hands up and shoved his chest with every remaining ounce of strength you had left in your body.
It felt like pushing against a solid, unyielding marble wall, but the sheer, unprecedented audacity of your physical resistance caught him completely off guard. Your sudden downward movement caused him to miss his mark entirely, his lips brushing harmlessly against the empty air near your ear instead of your mouth.
Taking immediate advantage of his momentary shock, you wrenched your backpack strap out of his loosened, surprised grip with a violent tug. You turned sharply on your heel and bolted down the sidewalk, your sneakers slapping against the pavement as fast as your legs could possibly carry you.
Sukuna stood frozen in place for a long, quiet second, his right hand still raised and shaped as if it were holding your jawline. He blinked once, then twice, his lower set of eyes widening in genuine, unadulterated disbelief. No one—*absolutely no one* in the history of his time at this university—had ever rejected him so bluntly, let alone physically dodged him, shoved him away, and fled the scene.
Slowly, his hand dropped back down to his side, his fingers flexing against the fabric of his jacket. He turned his head, watching your rapidly retreating figure disappear around the far corner of the residential street, your bright pink backpack bouncing wildly against your spine as you sprinted for safety without once looking back.
A heavy, tense silence hung over the empty sidewalk for a moment, the golden hour light glinting off the brick walls.
Then, a low, rumbling chuckle started deep within Sukuna's chest. It vibrated outward, gradually building in volume until it erupted into a loud, echoing laugh that caused a few passing underclassmen across the street to stop dead in their tracks and look at him in sheer terror. He reached up, running a heavily tattooed hand through his spiked pink hair, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous, sharp, and entirely renewed interest.
"Well, well," Sukuna muttered to himself, a dark, incredibly pleased smirk spreading across his face as he stared at the empty corner where you had just been. "The brat's actually got a spine after all. This just got a whole lot more fun."
hi sweets new chapter is finally out!! thank u for ur patience! hope u like my work ◝(ᵔᗜᵔ)◜
ა ˙˖ summary → there’s no one you hate more than satoru gojo. he’s arrogant and entirely too full of himself. when you agree to be strictly enemies with benefits, gojo takes this as the perfect opportunity to finally make you his.
⤳ warnings: this mini series will feature adult content and is not recommended to anyone under the age of 18
intro
❦ chapter one: the fuck buddy proposal
❦ chapter two: you're not my type!
❦ chapter three: the conclusion
꒰ I've already got a taglist going but you can also sign up for tags here! under others just type in: the arrangement series ꒱
summary: You are the kindhearted third grade teacher who brings baked goods to the local fire station every Saturday. Bucky, the retired vet only eats the things he makes. Until one day he eats one of your pastries.
word count: 19.0k+
pairing: firefighter!bucky barnes x fem!reader
notes: thank you to that big, beefy firefighter i saw at walmart with my mom that inspired this fic. you will not be forgotten🫡also, GO LISTEN TO MADISON BEER OR I WILL HEX YOU!!!
edit: this fic has been done since i think november, and it's finally being released from it's cages! enjoy :)
warnings/tags: no use of y/n, firefighter!bucky, teacher!reader, teacher!wanda, firefighter steve, sam, natasha, and joaquín, fluff, slow burn - once again, I LIVE AND DIE SLOW BURN. IF I DON'T THEN AM I REALLY ME??, reader bakes, grumpy!bucky, grumpy x sunshine, touch starved!bucky, bucky is soft only for you
The fire station always smells faintly of coffee, soap, and smoke. Not the harsh, burnt kind that clings to memories, but the faint ghost of long days and habit—people who spend their lives surrounded by heat, yet somehow still manage to make the place feel cold. You’ve been bringing desserts here every Saturday for almost six months now, and every single time, it’s the same: Joaquín greets you like sunshine just walked through the door, Natasha waves from wherever she’s buried in paperwork, and then there’s Bucky—sitting at the far corner table, stainless steel mug in hand, watching the world with that low, unamused scowl that never quite reaches his eyes.
You set the covered tray down on the counter, the tin still warm through the towel you wrapped it in, and start unpacking the brownies you stayed up too late baking. You’d told yourself you weren’t doing it for him, but you’d still checked three times that they weren’t too sweet. He never eats anything you bring, not once, but you keep hoping. Not because you need him to like your desserts—but because every week you see the smallest shift in his shoulders when you arrive, like the world gets a fraction lighter for him, even if he’d never admit it.
Sam’s the first one over, of course. “If these are anything like last week’s lemon bars, I’m declaring you honorary station chef,” he says, already stealing one. You laugh, shaking your head, sliding the foil aside. The sound makes Bucky glance up from his coffee. Just a glance—barely half a second—but it catches you. His gaze is steady, unreadable, the color of blue steel and morning smoke. You smile at him out of habit, soft and polite. He looks away like he didn’t see you at all.
You tell yourself you imagined it—the way his jaw moved like he was fighting back a smile. Maybe you want to imagine it. Maybe that’s why you keep coming back, tray after tray.
The station is quieter today, a rare lazy Saturday afternoon. Someone’s got the radio humming low, a classic rock station playing something worn and comfortable. You pour coffee for whoever’s around and settle by the counter, chatting with Sam about the upcoming charity event for the school. The talk is light, easy—exactly the kind of thing you love about this place. Then you catch Bucky’s reflection in the glass cabinet door across the room; he’s watching the tray.
It’s subtle, barely there, but his eyes linger. Not on you—on the food. You hold your breath, pretending not to notice, but Sam does notice. You can tell because he suddenly stops talking mid-sentence, and his grin grows almost mischievous. “Hey, Buck,” he says casually, “you sure you don’t want to try one? These got your name written all over them.”
“Don’t trust other people’s cooking,” comes the same gruff answer, quiet but final. You don’t miss the faint flush at the top of his ears though, and it’s enough to make something warm unfurl in your chest.
“Suit yourself,” Sam shrugs, but when he turns back to you, his eyes sparkle. You both know that was progress.
After a while, you find yourself leaning against the counter beside the coffee pot. Bucky’s still there, half in shadow, flipping through a newspaper that hasn’t been printed in years. You don’t try to talk to him—you’ve learned not to force conversation. Instead, you slide one brownie from the tray and wrap it in a napkin, setting it on the table near him without a word. It’s not an offering, not really, just a quiet, small gesture.
You’re halfway through cleaning up when you hear the softest sound—a fork scraping across foil. You look up without meaning to. Bucky’s still reading, still silent, but the brownie’s gone from the napkin. His shoulders are looser now, the tiniest bit of tension drained from his posture, and you swear, just for a second, his lips twitch like the start of a smile.
You don’t say anything. You just pack up the empty containers and hum under your breath, the tune quiet and content. The song fades into the murmur of the radio, into the hum of the refrigerator, into the rhythm of a place that, for all its noise and steel, suddenly feels a little softer around the edges.
When you finally head toward the door, Sam calls after you. “See you next week, sunshine!” You grin and wave. You expect Bucky to ignore you—he usually does, but as you step outside, his voice follows, low and gruff.
“Thanks for the… whatever that was.”
You turn, surprise flickering through you. “Brownies,” you say, smiling. “And you’re welcome.”
He nods once, barely meeting your eyes, and then goes back to pretending he didn’t say anything at all. But you see it—the faintest smudge of chocolate on the corner of his thumb.
And maybe, just maybe, next Saturday, you’ll make something just for him.
By the next Saturday, you’ve talked yourself out of caring. You told yourself you wouldn’t overthink it—that the brownie probably just looked good, that he might’ve been hungry, that it didn’t mean anything. But when you catch yourself checking the oven timer more times than necessary while your new batch of blondies bakes, you already know you’re lying to yourself.
You tell yourself you’re doing it for everyone. For Sam, who’ll inhale anything with sugar; for Joaquín, who always pretends to ration his desserts but ends up sneaking seconds; and for Natasha, who’s too polite to take one until you practically shove the container toward her. You’re doing it because you like baking, because the kids at school drive you to the edge by Friday, and this has become your calm. But somewhere in the middle of folding in the white chocolate chips, you add a pinch more brown sugar, just in case someone else decides to try one again.
The air outside carries that quiet, late-autumn chill that makes the world feel still. When you step into the station, the warmth hits instantly—coffee brewing, the faint scent of detergent and pine cleaner. You hear laughter before you even see anyone. Sam’s voice, low and teasing, followed by Steve’s steady calm trying to reel him in.
“Morning, teacher,” Sam greets as soon as he spots you, grinning like always. “You’re about to save our Saturday again, I hope.”
You hold up the container. “Blondies. And I brought apple muffins too, for breakfast since you people apparently eat nothing but caffeine.”
Natasha snorts from the couch. “That’s an exaggeration. Sometimes we eat protein bars.”
You laugh, and the sound fills the kitchen easily. You catch a glimpse of Bucky at the back table, leaning against the counter with a coffee mug that looks practically welded to his hand. He doesn’t speak, but you feel his attention like static in the air—muted, cautious, curious. You smile at him and keep moving, setting out plates, napkins, and paper cups. He watches every motion, pretending he isn’t.
Steve ambles closer, taking a muffin and murmuring his thanks, and then, as he’s biting into it, says casually, “Bucky told me your brownies were good.”
You nearly drop the lid. “He what?”
Steve’s eyes crinkle in quiet amusement. “He didn’t say it exactly like that, but I’ve known the man long enough to translate. You made an impression.”
You glance over again, Bucky’s pretending to read something on his phone, and there’s no chance he can’t hear you, but the faint color on his ears tells you he absolutely can. You bite back a smile, warmth blooming under your ribs.
It’s a calm day again, paperwork and banter, the radio humming. Joaquín’s sitting at the kitchen table fiddling with some gadget; Natasha’s nursing a mug of coffee while half-listening to Sam’s story about a neighborhood dog that keeps chasing their truck down the street. You take the seat beside her, listening, laughing, and slowly you notice the smallest thing—Bucky doesn’t leave. The last few weeks, he’d always disappear to the garage or the supply room when the noise started. But today, he lingers.
He doesn’t say much, just throws Sam a deadpan look when the man starts exaggerating, or mutters a dry comment that makes Steve choke on his drink. And somehow, those tiny, reluctant pieces of his personality make you grin more than you mean to.
Eventually, when the laughter quiets and the others drift toward chores or calls, you find yourself cleaning up the kitchen. You hum a little tune under your breath as you stack plates and rinse cups. The sound feels at home here now, tucked under the low buzz of fluorescent light.
Behind you, there’s a shuffle of movement. “You don’t have to clean all that,” Bucky says, voice low but clear enough to make you turn. He’s standing a few feet away, drying his hands on a towel, expression unreadable but not cold.
You smile, shaking your head. “I don’t mind. I made the mess.”
He hesitates, then steps closer. “You make a mess every week.”
The words might sound gruff, but his tone isn’t sharp. It’s teasing in the smallest, clumsiest way, like he’s trying it on for size. You laugh quietly. “You keep inviting me back.”
“That’s Sam.”
“I don’t remember him being the one who ate a brownie last week.”
That earns you a look—one brow slightly raised, the hint of embarrassment tightening his jaw. He doesn’t deny it. He just exhales through his nose and mutters, “you caught that, huh?”
You shrug lightly, rinsing another cup. “It was hard to miss.”
There’s a beat of silence. You can hear the creak of the building settling, the hum of the fridge, the soft tap of his mug setting down beside the sink. And then, unexpectedly, he starts helping. Drying dishes beside you, movements neat, efficient. You glance up, and for a moment, the light hits his face just right—soft edges, tired eyes that look less guarded, mouth relaxed. “You bake every week?” he asks.
You nod, setting another cup in the rack. “Usually. It’s how I unwind after teaching. My kids are… a lot. It’s nice to do something that doesn’t talk back.”
He huffs out a short laugh—barely a sound, but genuine. “Can’t argue with that.”
The air between you shifts. Not heavy, not awkward, just quiet and comfortable. When you reach for the towel he’s holding, your fingers brush his. It’s nothing—just the lightest contact—but his hand goes completely still. You feel it immediately, the static between skin and skin. He doesn’t pull back right away, his eyes flick up to yours, and for half a heartbeat, neither of you move.
Then you take the towel, pretending not to notice the way his shoulders straighten again. “Thanks,” you say softly.
He nods once. “Sure.”
When you finish, he walks you to the door. It’s unnecessary, but he does it anyway, holding the door open with a quiet sort of courtesy that feels almost shy. You turn back before stepping out, smiling at him again. “See you next Saturday?”
He leans against the frame, eyes flicking to your container. “You bring those blondies again, maybe.” It’s the closest thing to a smile you’ve seen on him yet.
And as you step out into the crisp afternoon air, the thought sticks with you the whole walk home—that maybe this time, you’re not the only one waiting for Saturday.
The third Saturday starts gray and cool, the kind of morning that feels like it’s been steeped in fog. You pull your sweater tighter around your arms as you balance two containers in your hands—one with your usual dessert, the other with something new. You’d made cinnamon rolls this time, because Sam had mentioned missing his mom’s recipe, and because you’d caught yourself wondering if Bucky liked cinnamon. You’re not sure why that thought stuck with you all week, but it did.
When you walk into the station, the smell of coffee is already there to greet you, warm and grounding. The radio hums somewhere in the background, and you can hear Sam’s voice echoing down the hall—loud, teasing, familiar. You smile before you even see them. “Morning, sunshine!” Sam calls, appearing around the corner. “Tell me you brought somethin’ good.”
“Always do,” you say, lifting the containers. “Cinnamon rolls and some kind of experiment involving brown butter and chocolate chips. No guarantees.”
“Brown butter’s never a mistake,” Natasha says from the couch, flipping a page of her magazine. She glances up, offers one of her rare, knowing smiles. “Good morning.”
“Morning,” you echo, setting the boxes down on the counter.
Steve’s at the stove making another pot of coffee—he always makes the second one too strong—and Joaquín is balancing on a chair trying to fix the overhead light again. Bucky’s there too, sitting at the table near the back, sleeves rolled up, forearms braced against the wood as he scrolls through his phone. He looks up once when you arrive, just once, then goes right back to whatever he was doing.
You pretend not to notice, but you do.
You start plating the cinnamon rolls, their warm scent filling the kitchen. Sam is the first to steal one, no surprise there. Joaquín jumps down from the chair, swiping his own before Sam can hog them all, and Steve gives you that gentle, polite “thank you” that always makes you feel like you brought something meaningful instead of just sugar and flour. Natasha takes one, too—eventually—and hums quietly after the first bite, which feels like a glowing five-star review coming from her.
Bucky doesn’t move. He never does, not right away. But he’s watching.
You can feel it in the way his gaze lingers just past you, pretending to be indifferent but landing too often on the tray. You could call him out on it, tease him the way Sam would, but you don’t. Instead, you just slide one of the rolls onto a small plate and set it at the corner of the table near him, like always. He glances at it, then at you. “What’s the trick this time?” he asks, voice low, almost cautious.
“Brown butter in the icing,” you say, smiling a little. “And extra cinnamon.”
He studies the plate for a moment, then his fingers curl around the fork. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t make a show of it—just cuts off a piece and takes a bite. The world doesn’t stop, the room doesn’t go silent, but you swear you feel it. Like something subtle and quiet shifting.
He chews slowly, expression unreadable, and then—barely, almost imperceptibly—his mouth twitches.
You keep your smile to yourself, pretending to busy your hands with cleaning up a bit of icing from the counter. Natasha sees it though, the faint curve of your lips, and you catch her smirk from across the room.
“Good?” you ask, when you can’t take the silence anymore.
Bucky’s gaze flicks up to yours. “Not bad.” It’s the gruffest possible compliment, but it makes your heart skip anyway. He finishes the rest without another word, and when he’s done, he stands, rinses his plate, and sets it neatly in the drying rack. You’re pretty sure that’s the closest thing to a thank you you’re ever going to get, but then he hesitates by the door, mug in hand. “You teach third grade, right?” he asks suddenly, eyes still on the floor.
You blink, caught off guard. “Yeah. I do.”
He nods once, still not looking at you. “That’s… brave.”
You laugh, startled. “Brave?”
He looks up then, just a little, the corner of his mouth lifting. “I couldn’t handle that many eight-year-olds. One of ‘em would start talkin’ back, and I’d lose my job before lunch.”
“Occupational hazard,” you say, grinning. “You get used to it.”
“I don’t think I would.”
There’s a hint of amusement in his voice now, something warmer threading through the usual gravel. He takes a sip of his coffee, leans against the counter, and you realize this is the first time you’ve actually seen him stay in a conversation. Not just endure it, stay.
The others drift in and out of the kitchen as the day stretches lazily on. Joaquín heads out to run errands, Natasha disappears into the office, and Steve starts sorting some equipment by the back door. Sam’s napping on the couch, his snores filling the otherwise calm space. And still, Bucky’s there.
You find yourself sitting across from him with your own mug of coffee, talking about small, ordinary things. The town fair that’s coming up. The school’s bake sale. His very strong opinions about the superiority of homemade coffee over anything from a café. It’s not deep conversation—it’s easy, simple. But for Bucky, it’s a start.
You watch the way he relaxes as he talks, his voice softening, hands moving just slightly when he describes something. He still avoids too much eye contact, still glances down often, but his walls are lower today. You can feel it.
Eventually, Steve calls something from across the room about checking a delivery in the garage, and Bucky pushes his chair back with a low grunt. You gather your empty mug, standing too. When he reaches to take it from you, your fingers brush for a second, not even a full second—but long enough.
His touch is rough, calloused, but careful. You notice the way his hand pauses, the faint inhale that catches in his chest. It’s nothing, really, just contact, but it’s the first real one, and you both feel it. He clears his throat softly, taking the mug from you like it’s fragile. “Got it.”
You murmur thanks and smile—gentle, easy. “See you next week?”
“Yeah,” he says, almost before he can stop himself. Then, quieter, “bring those rolls again.”
You walk out of the station with that small sentence echoing in your head. It shouldn’t feel like anything. But it does. It feels like the first crack in the armor. And when you glance back through the door before leaving, you catch him watching you go, a faint, unguarded look in his eyes that tells you exactly what you hoped—it wasn’t just about the food anymore.
You wake early the next Saturday with a kind of energy you pretend is just normal weekend motivation, but you know better. You replay that moment—bring those rolls again—more times than you’d ever admit. You tell yourself not to romanticize it, not to interpret it like something bigger, but your hands are already moving before you’re even fully awake, kneading dough, rolling butter and cinnamon into spirals, letting the house fill with that warm, sweet smell that feels like comfort itself.
These rolls aren’t for the whole station this time. They’re for him.
You still make a second dessert, because you don’t want anyone calling him out, not yet. Sam would tease him into hiding, and Natasha would smirk and Bucky would retreat behind a wall so fast you’d never climb over it again. So you make blondies for the group—easy, reliable, a crowd favorite, and definitely not something Bucky also liked—and you pack the cinnamon rolls in a smaller container, frosting separate so they won’t get soggy. Bucky deserves them really good, better than the first time. You don’t want to mess up the first thing he actually asked you for.
When you walk into the station, a wave of warmth and familiar noise greets you immediately. The TV is on, Sam and Joaquín are arguing about who should get credit for winning last week’s pool game, and Natasha is leaning back in her chair looking like she has already judged both of them twice before breakfast. Steve’s by the coffee machine again, he’s always by the coffee machine.
They all greet you, except Bucky. He’s there—but he doesn’t look up right away. He’s sitting at the table cleaning his gloves, movements precise, meticulous. You set the blondies on the main counter first, letting Sam pounce like he always does. Natasha takes one too, slow and deliberate. You laugh with them, talk lightly, and the dynamic is familiar and effortless.
But there’s a second moment happening under that. You move to Bucky’s table. He finally looks up when you stop in front of him, eyebrows lifting just slightly—not irritated, not cautious, but expectant.
You set the smaller container down in front of him. You don’t open it, you just slide it across the table gently, giving him space to choose. He glances at the way it’s packaged—different container than the blondies—like he knows immediately.
“These are the rolls,” you say softly.
He holds your gaze for a slow, solid second, then he closes his cleaning kit, pushes it aside, and pulls the container toward him. He opens it with careful fingers, like he wants to savor this. You hand him the small jar of frosting without even thinking and he takes that too, almost gently. “You made extra icing,” he says, tone unreadable.
“You asked for them again,” you answer, smiling. “Felt right to get it perfect.”
He doesn’t comment on that. But he coats the top of one roll and takes a bite, in front of everyone this time. No hiding, no pretending. The room keeps going around you, Sam still talking, Joaquín still pretending he’s above stealing another blondie, Natasha sipping her coffee—but it feels like time pauses around that single bite.
Bucky closes his eyes just barely for half a heartbeat. Then he exhales like that first taste knocked some weight off his ribs. “This is…” he starts, then stops. You wait, heart thudding quietly against your ribs. He tries again, voice lower. “It’s really good.”
You don’t tease him. You don’t downplay it. “Thank you,” you say. “I’m glad you like them.”
He eats another bite before speaking again. “You didn’t have to make these just for me.”
There’s no accusation in it. Just quiet, vulnerable acknowledgement. You soften a little, leaning a hand on the back of the chair across from him. “You asked me to. That was enough.”
His throat works like he wants to say something else—like he wants to say a dozen things—but instead he just nods. Then he gestures at the seat beside him with the smallest tilt of his head, like an invitation. You sit next to him easily, not making a big deal of it, and he doesn’t move away. His knee stays close to yours, his arm resting comfortably where it is instead of shifting away to protect some kind of invisible line.
The others absolutely notice. Steve glances once over the rim of his mug, faint amusement playing at the edge of his mouth. Sam looks confused for a second, then like he’s silently screaming in victory. Joaquín smirks, nudging Natasha, who simply lifts an eyebrow like she called this three Saturdays ago.
But they don’t say anything out loud, they let him have this moment.
You and Bucky sit there together, legs nearly touching, sharing quiet conversation while he eats something you made, openly, without hesitation, like a small ritual that belongs only to the two of you.
It starts with the smallest things. It isn’t cinematic. It isn’t some dramatic shift. It’s quiet. It’s domestic. It’s the kind of change that sneaks up on both of you without either realizing it until it’s already inside the ribcage, forcing breath to come different.
You start noticing it because he sits closer now, not directly next to you every time, but close enough that you feel the warmth of him. When you speak, he leans in slightly like the world between you is somehow always shorter than it appears. His attention isn’t lazy anymore—it’s tuned in, like he’s cataloguing you the way he does storms and weather patterns he trusts from decades of instinct. He doesn’t look away when you talk now. He actually listens.
And for Bucky, the noticing becomes almost unbearable in a way that’s brand new.
The first time it happens, you don’t even think about it. You were reaching behind him for the sugar jar in the station kitchenette because it somehow always ends up behind his mug, and your fingers brush briefly over his forearm. Just a soft, passing graze of your fingertips to warm skin through fabric. Nothing intentional, nothing suggestive, but Bucky goes still like something hit him point blank. The sensation lingers under his skin like heat that won’t dissipate. He stands there after you’ve already moved away, hand flexing unconsciously at his side, eyes a little distant.
That touch lives rent-free in his head all week.
He tries to ignore it, pretend it meant nothing, pretend it didn’t short-circuit something in him to feel such uncomplicated, gentle contact for no reason beyond necessity. He tries to move on, but it’s the only thing he thinks about when he’s lying in bed at night staring at the ceiling, trying to remember the last time someone touched him without expectation, without noise, without motive. The memory of your fingers feels soft enough to unspool him.
By the next Saturday, something shifts in how he moves around you. It’s small, almost invisible, but you feel it.
When you hand him a container lid, his fingers brush yours intentionally this time. Barely. Just enough that you feel the ghost of contact. When you walk past him in the hallway, he steps a little closer so your shoulders graze. When you sit beside him at the table with your coffee, his knee rests against yours for a breath too long before shifting like he’s convincing himself it was an accident.
You don’t call attention to it. You just quietly validate it by not pulling away. And that choice… that tiny, shared permission… is how the fixation begins.
One afternoon, you’re leaning in to show Natasha a little video clip your student sent you of their class hamster “learning math,” which is basically the hamster running across number tiles. You’re laughing, shoulder slightly turned, and Bucky stands behind you to look over your shoulder. His hand—hesitant yet pulled by instinct—settles lightly on your upper arm to balance himself for just a moment.
It should be nothing, it should be casual, it should be something people don’t think twice about. Except Bucky feels everything about it. The softness of your cardigan, the warmth beneath it, the way you didn’t flinch or stiffen or look uncomfortable. You just kept laughing with Natasha, leaning back into the space without even thinking.
He withdraws a second later, but he spends the next hour replaying that single point of contact in his head like a song loop. Sam tries to get him into a debate about which action movie trilogy is superior, and Bucky answers all wrong because he’s barely registered actual words. Steve gives him a suspicious side-eye when he zones out while cleaning equipment.
He is a grown man knocked absolutely senseless by a hand on an arm. You don’t see that happening inside him, but you feel the aftereffects slowly appear. He starts finding reasons to stand beside you rather than across. When passing you utensils or napkins or tupperware, his fingers linger those fractions longer than needed. When you take a seat at the table, he takes the chair next to yours without hesitation now, casual like it’s obvious that’s where he belongs.
And every single touch is feather light, polite, testing, non-assuming, but dripping with meaning. He never demands, he never grabs, he never rushes. He just lets himself slowly relearn the language of contact.
The station doesn’t tease him about it. Somehow, collective unspoken agreement settles that nobody should scare him back inside his armor. Not when he’s finally stepping out piece by piece. Natasha catches a few moments between you two, her eyes sharper than anyone else’s, but she simply smirks to herself because she sees the blessing of quiet healing when it’s right in front of her.
And you… you find yourself anticipating those small touches as much as he does. You don’t chase them, you don’t force them, you just gently meet them halfway every time he reaches.
And in the slow, silent corners of the station, where coffee steam curls in the low kitchen light and cinnamon and sugar linger in the air from last week’s rolls, you watch a man rediscover something he hasn’t allowed himself to want in years, the simple luxury of being touched without fear.
And Bucky learns—one soft brush of skin at a time—that he wants more.
The next two Saturdays become this quiet study of small proximity—like the space between you is its own gravity field and Bucky’s learning the pull of it in real time. It never happens in big gestures, never anything dramatic that would make the guys at the station crack jokes or ruin the fragile pace the two of you have found.
One Saturday you bring blueberry crumble bars. Natasha eats two, Sam tries to pick at the entire tray before Steve smacks his hand away like a disappointed parent. And Bucky sits next to you like that is the most natural place in the world to sit.
He doesn’t even think about choosing another chair anymore. His body makes the decision before his mind can get in the way. His arm rests on the back of your chair—not wrapped around you, but behind you.
He doesn’t even seem aware he’s doing it until halfway through your story about one of your students making up a conspiracy theory about why pencils exist, which was unhinged and adorable and your favorite thing all week, and then you see him slowly realize how close he actually is.
He should move, he knows he should move, but he doesn’t.
You feel the warmth of him at your back, the way his presence curls lightly around your spine like a secret he forgot to keep hidden. You don’t call it out, you don’t flinch or shy away. You just stay exactly where you are—and you watch the moment he realizes you’re not pulling from him. His shoulders settle like a slow exhale.
Later, when Steve asks you to grab something from the supply closet, Bucky follows without thinking. He insists he needs to get new gloves too, though you’re almost positive every glove in that closet is alphabetized by size and condition like his personal religion. But he’s there, standing behind you as you reach for the plastic bin on the second shelf. You stretch a little further and lose your balance by just a degree—not even enough to cause chaos—just enough for your feet to shift.
Bucky catches your elbow. Not a reflex of panic, but a reflex of instinct. His palm slides warm and steady around the bend of your arm, fingers wrapping gently just above your wrist, grounding you with more tenderness than pressure. The touch is nothing more than support—but the gentleness in it makes your breath catch mid-inhale. “You good?” he asks, voice low.
“Yeah,” you say, turning toward him slightly with the bin held against your chest. Your arm is still in his hand. “Just misjudged how far back they shoved this.”
He doesn’t drop your arm right away. His thumb shifts—just once—in a tiny, unconscious sweep. It’s barely movement, but it feels like a full sentence. And Bucky looks like he realizes in that exact millisecond that he’s gotten used to touching you. That he wants more of it.
He clears his throat and drops his hand, stepping back a respectable amount—but the air between you stays charged. You don’t push it, you just smile at him and head back out into the kitchen like nothing monumental happened, even though both of you are now thinking about nothing but that touch.
When you leave that evening, Bucky walks you to the door again. He always does now. No one calls attention to it. It’s just routine. Your routine. At the door, you shift your bag higher on your shoulder and his hand rises automatically—like he’s going to take it from you—like he’s ready to help you carry it without thinking—but he catches himself halfway and lets his hand fall back down. It’s so small. So ordinary. So charged. You give a soft smile, almost teasing, but not quite. “See you next week?”
There’s no hesitation anymore. “Yeah,” he says, eyes warm in a way that’s new, edges less sharp. “I’ll save you a seat.”
You don’t know if he realizes how much more intimate that sounds compared to anything else you’ve shared—but you leave with that sentence echoing through you the entire walk home.
By the next Saturday, Bucky starts waiting for the sound of your footsteps before you’ve even parked your car outside. He doesn’t tell anyone that, of course—he sits at the kitchen table with his mug like always, pretending he’s been there all morning, pretending he doesn’t check the clock every five minutes. Sam catches him glancing toward the door once and smirks, but he doesn’t say a word. No one does anymore. The teasing stopped the moment they realized something was happening quietly between the two of you—something delicate and steady that didn’t need noise.
You always come in the same way: soft knock on the frame, a smile first, your voice warm with that teacher-bright tone that seems to filter out the station’s gray edges. The kitchen fills with you as soon as you enter, like you bring your own weather with you. Today, your hair smells faintly like sugar and butter, and Bucky feels that scent settle somewhere low and calm inside him.
He greets you now, which still surprises you a little every time. “Hey,” he says, voice still rough but softer around the vowels. He stands up when you walk in—not because he means to, but because it feels wrong to stay seated while you’re carrying something heavy. You hold up your containers and he reaches automatically, taking them from your hands before you can protest. The brush of fingers is so casual now that neither of you pause, but the quiet electricity is still there, pulsing underneath everything.
“Got your favorite,” you tell him, pointing to the smaller container. “Cinnamon rolls. The others get the cookies this time.”
He gives a small nod, lips twitching at the corner. “You really don’t have to—”
“You said to bring them again,” you interrupt, teasing. “You can’t take it back now.”
“Didn’t say I was takin’ it back,” he mutters, and you catch the faintest ghost of a smile. It’s there and gone in an instant, but it’s real.
You unload the cookies while Bucky takes the rolls to the far counter. He doesn’t let anyone else near them until you’ve had your share. Sam groans dramatically when he notices. “Oh, so the rolls are exclusive now? Is that it?” Sam says, eyeing the container like he’s preparing for a heist.
“Yeah,” Bucky says simply, not even looking up. “They are.”
The room falls into a stunned silence for half a beat before Sam bursts out laughing, shaking his head. Natasha smirks from her corner with a knowing hum, and Steve hides his grin behind his coffee mug. You’re half-laughing, half-embarrassed, warmth spreading through your chest like sunlight. Bucky doesn’t even seem embarrassed about claiming them—or you—in that small, quiet way. He just sits down, pulls the lid off, and starts spreading frosting over one like it’s his ritual.
When you join him at the table, he slides the second roll toward you without looking, like it’s already decided. “Made sure I saved you one before Wilson tried to steal it.”
You take it with a small laugh. “Thank you.”
The rest of the morning unfolds gently, the rhythm familiar now. You all linger in the kitchen longer than necessary, talking about nothing important—school stories, local events, the fair coming up in a few weeks. Natasha mentions volunteering for the kids’ safety booth, and Bucky glances up when you say you’ll be helping there too. He doesn’t comment, but you see the flicker in his eyes—interest, curiosity, something softer you can’t quite name yet.
After a while, Sam and Steve head out to check equipment, and Joaquín leaves to run errands, leaving just you, Bucky, and Natasha in the kitchen. She excuses herself after a few minutes, mumbling something about needing peace before the chaos returns. That leaves the two of you alone at the table, the low hum of the fridge filling the quiet between sentences.
You start to stand to wash a few dishes, but Bucky’s hand finds your forearm before you can move. It’s the lightest touch—barely there—but his thumb brushes once against your sleeve. “Leave it,” he says. “You cooked. I’ll clean.”
You freeze for half a second, not at the words, but at how naturally he touched you. He doesn’t even seem to realize he’s done it until you look at him. His fingers stay there a second longer than they need to, warm and steady, before he lets go and reaches for the plates instead. You sit back down, quiet, watching him.
He’s methodical when he cleans—careful and exact. You catch the way he hums softly under his breath, a habit you’ve never heard from him before. It’s low and tuneless, but peaceful. When he turns to grab a towel, you stand and move beside him to help, not saying anything. The two of you move around each other easily, unspoken choreography. At one point, your hand reaches for the same mug he’s drying, and your fingers brush again. He doesn’t freeze this time; he looks at you instead, his eyes flicking up, blue and tired and open.
“Thanks,” you murmur, taking the mug.
“Anytime,” he says quietly.
You finish cleaning in silence, but it’s comfortable—the kind of silence that feels shared rather than empty. When you finally pack up to leave, he’s leaning against the counter again, towel slung over his shoulder, hair a little damp from running his wet hands through his hair. He looks at you for a long moment before speaking. “You always bring something,” he says, almost like he’s thinking out loud. “Even when you’ve got a long week. Even when you look tired.”
You shrug, smiling a little. “It’s my way of winding down. And you all appreciate it. Mostly Sam,” you add with a laugh.
He huffs a laugh too, short but genuine. “I appreciate it more than I say.”
That catches you off guard, but you meet his eyes and see that he means it, completely. “I know,” you say softly. “I can tell.”
He nods once, then takes a breath like he’s going to add something else but decides against it. Instead, he steps closer and opens the door for you. You pass him on the way out, the scent of soap and cinnamon filling the small space between you. He doesn’t move right away. The side of his arm brushes yours, just a whisper of contact, but the simplicity of it makes the moment feel big. “See you next Saturday?” you ask, tilting your head slightly toward him.
His mouth quirks, barely a smile but enough to feel like one. “Yeah. Wouldn’t miss it.”
As you walk away, he lingers by the doorway for a moment, watching you until you turn the corner. When you’re gone, he looks back at the kitchen—the empty mugs, the faint traces of cinnamon on the counter, the chair you always sit in—and for the first time in a long while, he realizes the week ahead feels like the wait between good things instead of the grind toward the next shift.
Saturday used to be just another day in the rotation. Now it feels like the only one that matters.
You show up to the station one Saturday and the kitchen is already… set up. Someone went and made space on the counter, like they’d been expecting you and your containers. Someone laid out the cutting board, the butter knife, the napkins. Someone rinsed out the carafe and made a fresh batch of coffee thirty minutes before you arrived, just to make sure it would be hot when you walked in.
It’s Bucky. Obviously.
He pretends he didn’t. Pretends that’s just how the kitchen always is. But Sam catches your eye and mouths you did this to him the moment Bucky walks away to grab mugs.
You hide your smile in your sleeve.
When you open your container today, you notice Bucky doesn’t wait. He doesn’t hang back like he needs to “pretend to think about it.” He comes to the counter first. He claims his plate first. He doesn’t bother letting anyone else investigate what you brought before he does. He scoops icing and spreads it over his cinnamon roll with the same careful concentration you’ve come to adore—like food is a language too, and slow is how he honors it.
No flashy commentary. No teasing. Just soft ownership. He bites in, eyes shuttering, jaw going slack for a millisecond before he pulls it back under control. You see his shoulders drop a fraction, like sweetness somehow releases tension in his spine. And then… he actually speaks before anyone else does. “These are even better than last week.”
Sam nearly chokes on his coffee, Natasha quietly grins behind her cup like she just saw a planet finally rotate into alignment, and Steve pretends he’s not impressed, but he looks away to hide the way he’s smiling too hard.
And you just stand there, your heart doing something absurd, gentle, and painfully tender in your chest. Because he didn’t say it begrudgingly. He didn’t say it like he was forced or pushed, he offered praise—volunteer level, willingly.
You hand him a fork but he doesn’t take it the regular way anymore. He takes it from your fingers directly, brushing skin intentionally this time. That subtle slide of his fingertip across yours is deliberate. It lingers a half beat longer than necessary. He could easily avoid contact but he chooses not to.
You sit beside him with your own roll, and for a good twenty minutes the room just fills with quiet chatter and slow chewing and contentment. It feels absurdly domestic, like a messy little chosen weekend breakfast you don’t want to end. He doesn’t fidget. He doesn’t armor himself from the world. He doesn’t isolate from the noise of his friends. He sits with you—like this is where he fits.
At one point you’re telling him a story about a field trip your class is taking to the petting zoo and how you’re worried about one particular child trying to smuggle out a goat. He listens, leaning his chin into his palm, eyes on you the entire time like nothing else competes for his attention. Every few sentences he makes these tiny reactions—lips pursing when you mention chaos, eyes softening when you describe their excitement, a quiet huff laugh when you mention bribes in the form of stickers.
It’s this subtle emotional matching that sneaks up on you.
He isn’t just listening.
He’s attuning.
When your plates are empty, he takes them from you automatically to rinse and dry. You don’t even have to ask. You don’t even have to offer. That’s just the role he takes now, unspoken. You cook. He cleans. It’s the smallest domestic ecosystem that somehow feels like the most intimate thing you’ve ever built with someone.
On your way out hours later, Steve and Joaquín are arguing about grill season, Natasha’s flipping through her paper, and Sam is half-dozing on the couch. It’s loud but warm. Familiar but safe.
Bucky walks you out like always.
And this time, when you turn to say goodbye, he doesn’t hover awkwardly or shove his hands into his pockets to protect himself. He stands a little closer and his eyes find yours without darting away. And in that space between breath and reason, his fingers catch the strap of your bag gently—just hooking it in place as if helping settle it on your shoulder is second nature now. It’s nothing dramatic. It doesn’t send shockwaves. It’s just… soft. “You drive safe, alright?” he says, quiet but earnest.
You nod once, smiling. “I will.”
He lets his fingers slide away slowly. Not rushed. Not nervous. Because somewhere between cinnamon and quiet mornings, you’ve become part of his weekend. You’ve become the only break in his routine he actually looks forward to.
And when the door closes behind you, the entire station sees the way he lets out a breath like holding himself together took effort he didn’t want to spend anymore. Sam doesn’t tease, Natasha doesn’t smirk, and Steve just claps him once on the shoulder on his way past.
Bucky doesn’t say it out loud, but everyone knows. Saturday is no longer just the day he endures. It has become the day he lives for.
By the time the school fair starts creeping closer on your calendar, you’ve gotten comfortable in the routine. Saturdays are Bucky days now. They’re warm and easy and slow in a way that feels almost sacred—like everything else in the week exists just to lead toward them. You don’t say this out loud to anyone, obviously, not even Wanda, even though she definitely sees something changing. She sees it before you are ready to claim it.
It’s Wednesday afternoon and you’re both in your classroom after dismissal. Wanda is perched on your desk, sipping from her tea, grading spelling tests and occasionally laughing under her breath at some of the answers. You’re organizing your materials for the spring fair games, sorting little giveaway bags, taping up the poster that says “FOLLOW THE FOOTPRINTS FOR PRIZES”—all glitter marker and 3rd grade chaos charm.
You think about the fair and immediately think about Bucky.
It pops into your head so naturally that it catches you off guard. Before, it would’ve felt like a stretch… like worlds couldn’t possibly overlap. But now, your worlds have already started to bleed into each other. He knows about your classroom, he knows your kids’ nicknames, he knows your habit of stress-baking. And more importantly, he listens. That’s the part you can’t let go of. The part where this man, who trusts almost nothing outside his own hands, trusts you.
Wanda glances over and catches that particular expression on your face—that soft internal conflict hovering at the edges of possibility. “You’re thinking about something,” she says knowingly.
You blink. “What makes you say that?”
“You’ve been staring at the same sticker sheet for two full minutes,” she says with a little smirk. “And you only do that when you’re overthinking something.”
You look down and yeah, you are literally holding the same sheet of star stickers, frozen mid-air like your brain has been suspended in amber. You try to look casual, not suspicious. “I was just thinking… maybe I should ask someone to come. You know. Just for moral support. It’s going to be chaos and—”
Wanda doesn’t even let you finish. “You should invite Bucky.”
You inhale sharply. “I didn’t say it was Bucky.”
“You didn’t need to.” She laughs softly, finishing her tea before setting the mug down. “Every time you talk about him you smile like someone just lit a candle inside you.”
You open your mouth to deny it, but she raises an eyebrow. The kind of eyebrow that says don’t insult both of us by pretending. You sigh then, leaning back against the wall beside the glitter poster. “It’s different with him,” you admit quietly. “I don’t… want to push him. He’s slow. He’s careful with everything.”
“And you already match him there,” Wanda says gently. “You’re not rushing him. You’re just… letting something grow.”
You chew your lip for a moment. “Do you think he’d even want to go? It’s a school event. Loud kids, small town noise, crowds.”
“Maybe that’s exactly the kind of trust bridge this kind of thing needs,” she counters, eyes soft. “It’s safe, it’s you. And he likes spending time with you, he lights up on Saturdays. I’ve literally seen it happen.” You flush, warm, because hearing it aloud makes your chest ache in a good way. Wanda leans closer, lowering her voice like this is a secret spell she’s whispering just for you. “Invite him out of his world… and into yours.”
You look down at your glitter poster again, the little stars catching the classroom lights. You imagine him here, awkward but warm, secretly charmed by the kids, maybe helping you hold things or laughing at their terrible knock-knock jokes. You imagine his hand brushing your wrist as he hands you a prize bag. You imagine just… existing with him outside stainless steel tables and cinnamon rolls.
And suddenly it doesn’t feel impossible. It feels… right. You exhale, steadying your voice. “Okay,” you say quietly. “I’ll ask him on Saturday.”
Wanda smiles like she already knew you were going to say that. She reaches for her grading stack again, finalizing her last test. “Good. Because I think he needs to see that he belongs somewhere outside that station. And I think he deserves to see where you shine.”
You don’t say anything for a moment. You let those words sink deep. And for the rest of the afternoon, while you staple more posters and prep game bins, your heart feels different. Lighter. Braver. The idea of inviting him doesn’t feel terrifying anymore.
It feels hopeful. It feels like the next natural step in the slow burn you’ve been building together—one cinnamon roll at a time.
Saturday comes, and you spend the morning trying not to overthink the invitation. It’s ridiculous, really—you’ve spent months in the same room with Bucky, talking, laughing, baking, brushing hands and pretending it’s casual. You’ve built a rhythm. But this feels different. Asking him to the fair means stepping out of that familiar bubble. It means letting your two worlds touch. It means giving him a window into the life you built before he was part of it.
You bake early to keep yourself busy. Chocolate chip muffins this time—simple, comforting, impossible to mess up. You tell yourself you’ll just see how the day goes. If it feels right, you’ll ask. If not, no harm done. But even as you think it, you’re already choosing which words to use, rehearsing them under your breath while the muffins rise.
The station hums like always when you walk in—low music, the sound of someone sweeping, laughter echoing from the common room. You’re met with the same warmth that’s become ritual, the same voices calling your name, the same easy energy that makes you feel like you belong.
But Bucky’s the first person you see. He’s standing at the counter, sleeves rolled to his elbows, forearms dusted with flour. He’s cooking—actually cooking—something in a skillet. The sight freezes you in place for a second. It’s not because he’s cooking, though that’s impressive enough, but because it’s the first time you’ve ever seen him share that space the way you do. “Morning,” he says, glancing up from the pan. His voice is rougher than usual, but softer somehow. “You’re early.”
“So are you,” you tease, smiling. “Didn’t peg you as the Saturday morning pancake type.”
He smirks faintly. “I’m not, but Sam’s been bragging about his cooking all week, so I thought I’d remind him what good actually tastes like.”
From the table, Sam yells, “you’re using my recipe!”
Bucky’s smirk grows. “And somehow still making it better.”
You laugh, moving to set down your container of muffins. He looks at it, then at you, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes. “Those for us?”
“Always,” you say. “Figured you might need something to go with your… culinary competition.”
He takes one of the muffins without hesitation. It’s something you’ll never stop noticing—that small act of trust, how it still feels like a quiet miracle each time. He breaks it in half, steam curling up, and nods in quiet approval. “Good,” he says simply, like it’s law.
You help with the dishes while he finishes cooking, falling into that easy rhythm again. You hand him a towel, he hands you a spatula, the two of you brushing against each other in that familiar, subtle orbit you’ve built. Every accidental touch feels intentional now. Every small space between you feels electric.
When everyone sits down to eat, you slide into the chair beside him automatically. It’s become your seat; no one questions it. Bucky makes a show of setting your plate in front of you first, then his own. You catch Natasha watching him, her smirk small and secret, and you fight the urge to hide your smile behind your fork.
The conversation flows as it always does—banter, teasing, casual updates. You wait for the right moment, the right lull in the noise. When Steve gets up to grab more coffee and Sam starts talking about a neighborhood dog that won’t stop following their truck, you finally look toward Bucky. “Hey,” you say quietly, just enough for him to hear over the chatter.
He glances at you, eyes steady. “Yeah?”
“So, my school’s having its spring fair next weekend,” you start, picking at your napkin. “It’s kind of a big thing for the kids. Games, food, chaos—good chaos. I usually work one of the booths, but it’s a lot of running around.”
He listens closely, nodding a little. You can tell he’s trying to picture it.
You take a breath, deciding to just jump. “I was thinking… maybe you could come? You don’t have to stay long, I just thought you might like to see it. Wanda’s volunteering too—you’d like her, she’s great.”
Bucky’s brow furrows slightly. “You want me to come to a school event?”
There’s no teasing in it—just genuine surprise, a soft disbelief that someone would want him there. “I do,” you say simply. “You’re good with people, even if you think you’re not. And I think you’d enjoy it. Plus, you’ve heard about these kids for months, feels only fair you meet the legends.”
His mouth curves, small but real. He looks down at his plate, then back up at you. “You really want me there?”
“Yeah,” you say softly. “I do.”
He studies you for a long moment, like he’s trying to make sure this isn’t pity or obligation. When he finally nods, it’s slow, thoughtful. “Alright,” he says. “If you’re sure, I’ll come.”
You smile, warmth blooming in your chest. “Good. I’ll save you some cotton candy.”
He huffs out a quiet laugh. “Not sure I trust fairground food.”
“Then I’ll bring snacks,” you counter easily. “My snacks. You trust those.”
His eyes linger on you, and something flickers there—something softer, something that looks dangerously close to fond. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I do.”
The rest of the day passes like it always does, filled with chatter and work and the easy rhythm of routine. But beneath it, something new hums. You can feel it every time he looks at you, every time his hand brushes yours as you move around the kitchen.
And later, when you leave, he walks you to your car like he always does. The afternoon sun is soft on the pavement, the world unhurried. You turn to him before getting in, hand resting lightly on the door. “Thanks for saying yes,” you say quietly.
He shrugs, but his voice is warm when he answers. “Couldn’t let the kids down, could I?”
You grin. “Or me?”
He doesn’t answer right away, just gives a small, almost shy smile. “Yeah,” he says finally. “Or you.”
When you drive away, you see him still standing there in the rearview mirror, hands in his pockets, head tilted slightly like he’s still watching you go. And as you turn the corner, your chest feels full in a way that’s new and familiar all at once.
He’s coming into your world next week.
The fair day dawns bright and loud, the kind of spring morning that feels like sugar in the air—kids’ laughter already echoing down the main street, vendors setting up booths, music floating from the community speakers. The smell of kettle corn and fried dough hangs over the whole town like a promise. You arrive early, wearing one of the school T-shirts with your name on the back, arms already full of poster boards and tickets. It’s chaos, and you love it.
You help Wanda set up the game booth—ring toss, bean bags, a giant jar of jellybeans for kids to guess at. She’s wearing sunglasses, sipping tea, looking like she owns the place, and occasionally humming in amusement every time a student runs up to greet you like you’re a celebrity. “They worship you,” she says, adjusting the rings on her table. “You know that, right?”
“They’re eight,” you laugh. “They worship whoever gives them stickers and sugar.”
Still, the affection warms you. You love your kids, the energy, the noise, the chaos. But as the crowd thickens, a part of you can’t stop flicking toward the street, scanning faces as if you’re expecting someone—hoping, really. Wanda catches the motion. “You’re looking for him,” she says without even pretending it’s a question.
You shrug, trying to seem nonchalant. “He said he’d come. He doesn’t have to, though. I wouldn’t blame him if—”
Wanda interrupts you with a small smile. “He’ll come. He’s a quiet one, not a liar.”
You try not to overanalyze it, you focus on your booth, the crowd, the small joys of the morning. You laugh with your students, cheer when they win prizes, and help clean up spilled lemonade. It’s easy to get lost in the noise, the blur of color and movement.
And then—there he is.
You don’t see him approach right away. You feel him first, a subtle shift in the air behind you, the quiet weight of someone standing close but not too close. You turn, and Bucky’s there at the edge of the booth, one hand shoved into his pocket, the other holding a small brown paper bag. He’s dressed differently than usual—still simple, still him, but softer somehow. Jeans, a plain gray henley, sleeves pushed to his elbows. The sunlight catches in his hair, a faint breeze teasing it.
You freeze for a beat, because something about seeing him here, in your world, out of uniform and duty, hits deeper than you expected. “You came,” you manage finally, voice caught between surprise and warmth.
He gives a small, lopsided smile. “Told you I would.” He holds up the paper bag. “Brought backup snacks, just in case fair food’s as bad as I think it is.”
You laugh, the sound bubbling out of you too easily. “You really didn’t trust my cotton candy plan?”
“Didn’t say I don’t trust you,” he counters, and the way he says it—steady, quiet, completely earnest—makes your chest tighten.
Wanda materializes beside you like smoke, smiling at Bucky with that curious teacher’s-eye look she gives to every new person she meets. “So you’re the infamous firefighter,” she says, extending her hand. “She’s told me about you.”
Bucky shakes her hand politely, shooting you a look that’s equal parts suspicion and amusement. “All good things, I hope.”
“Mostly,” Wanda says, smiling. “You’re taller than I pictured.”
He huffs a soft laugh. “I get that a lot.”
You glare at her playfully, but she just waves and says, “I’ll go check the dunk tank before the kids decide to flood it early,” before wandering off.
The two of you stand there, momentarily caught between laughter and quiet. Around you, the fair buzzes—kids running past, someone yelling about funnel cake, the smell of caramel apples thick in the air. But somehow, it feels like it’s just the two of you. “Want me to show you around?” you ask, trying to keep your voice steady.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “Lead the way.”
You walk through the fair together. He doesn’t talk much at first—he doesn’t need to. He listens, hands in his pockets, occasionally making some dry comment that makes you laugh. You take him past the art booths, where your students’ projects hang in rows of color, and he stops in front of one labeled with your name. It’s a collage your class made—a field of handprints in paint, each signed by a child, surrounded by cut-out letters that spell The Best Teacher Ever! It’s uneven and smudged and perfect.
Bucky studies it longer than you expect him to, a faint softness pulling at his mouth. “They really love you,” he says quietly.
You shrug, embarrassed. “They’re good kids.”
He glances down at you, something thoughtful in his eyes. “You’re good with them,” he says simply. “It shows.”
The compliment lands heavier than he probably intended. It isn’t the words—it’s the way he says them, steady and sincere, like it’s not even a question, like it’s a fact.
You move on, showing him everything—your favorite stall for handmade candles, the game where the kids always cheat, the bake sale Wanda and the PTA moms are running. At one point, you find yourself next to him in front of the cotton candy machine, and you laugh as a gust of wind blows sugar threads into your hair. Without thinking, he reaches out and brushes them away.
The touch is brief, featherlight, but his fingers linger at your temple for half a second before dropping. His breath catches. Yours does too. “You’ve got, uh,” he mutters, clearing his throat. “Sugar in your hair.”
“Tragic,” you say, your voice a little too soft.
“Catastrophic,” he agrees, mouth twitching.
You both laugh, a little shy, a little stunned, and move on. But the touch stays, and it hangs there like a memory neither of you wants to disturb.
Later, as the afternoon fades and the crowd begins to thin, you sit on the curb with a paper cup of lemonade, your knees almost touching. The air smells like sun and sugar and pavement. You don’t talk much, you don’t have to, the silence feels full instead of empty.
“You were right,” Bucky says finally, nodding toward the fairgrounds. “Wasn’t so bad.”
You smile at him, eyes squinting against the last bit of light. “Told you.”
He looks at you then—not the quick glances he used to give, not the cautious observation from behind a wall, but openly, with quiet awe. Like he’s finally seeing how you look in your own world. Surrounded by color, laughter, tiny sticky hands tugging your sleeves, your voice still warm even after hours of talking.
For Bucky, something settles deep in his chest that he can’t name. It’s not attraction—he’s already been living in that. It’s something deeper, more domestic. It’s the feeling of home.
You notice the look but don’t name it either. You just smile back, soft and unguarded. “Thanks for coming,” you say quietly. “It meant a lot.”
He shrugs, but there’s no deflection in it this time. “Anytime,” he says, voice low. “I liked seeing your world.”
You sit there a little longer, until the lights start flickering on and the first stars slip out behind the clouds. And when you finally stand to leave, he offers his hand—not out of obligation, not because it’s polite, but because it’s instinct now. You take it without hesitation. His palm is warm, steady, a little calloused. You hold on just a heartbeat longer than necessary.
And when you walk back through the fairgrounds, side by side, your hands brush again and again until they finally stay that way. Fingers linked loosely, not claiming, not rushing. Just… together.
The crowd hums around you, the night growing soft, and Bucky realizes something simple and terrifying all at once:
He doesn’t just like your Saturdays anymore.
He likes you everywhere.
He starts showing up in small ways outside Saturdays. You’ll be in your classroom after school prepping next week’s math centers and there will be a knock at the door. You look up and he’s leaning in the doorway, one hand tucked in his jacket, holding a thermos of coffee like it’s the most casual thing in the world. He pretends he’s dropping it off because Steve accidentally made too much at the station—not because he just wanted to see you.
But the second he steps into your room and sees your kids’ artwork taped to the walls and your desk covered in glitter glue and fidget toys and half laminated name tags, he looks around like he’s inside something he never imagined existed: harmless chaos. “You deal with this every day?” he murmurs, stunned but not mocking, eyes darting around like he’s trying to translate children in their natural terrain.
“And willingly,” you tease, passing him a marker so he has something to do with his hands before he overloads. “Some people like adrenaline. I like sticker negotiations and ‘please stop licking the book’ diplomacy.”
He huffs out that tiny almost laugh he does—the one at the edge of softness—and helps you hang up a few more student drawings without saying anything else. And it’s the way he stands next to you, shoulder brushing yours every so often, that tells you he didn’t come here because of extra coffee at the station at all. He came because he wanted to be here. Because being near you doesn’t drain him—it restores something.
He starts noticing when you’re tired now, too. Not in a pitying way—he doesn’t talk to you like you need fixing. He just quietly slides a container of his meal prep toward you when you mention skipping lunch. He brings extra apples one day and tosses one to you without even looking up from the newspaper. He casually hands you his jacket when you shiver taking trash out to the dumpster behind the station, acting like it’s not a big deal while his eyes track you the entire way back inside.
And you start to see how much he craves small, steady connection—even if he doesn’t know how to ask for it. When you walk beside him now, he reaches for your arm lightly—not tight, not possessive, just guiding. When you laugh, he leans in closer, almost subconsciously. When you hand him a napkin or utensil or anything at all, he always touches your fingers first before taking it from you. Like contact is becoming a language.
Sam notices before you do. One afternoon at the station, you reach across the table to pass Bucky a spoon and his hand slides along yours like muscle memory, like instinct, and Sam chokes mid swallow until Steve kicks his ankle under the table with military precision. Natasha doesn’t say a word—she watches with narrowed amusement like she always knew this was exactly where the slow burn was heading.
And Bucky? He just keeps doing it. Little touches. Little claims disguised as casual nothing gestures. He doesn’t call attention to them and neither do you. You just lean in gently, matching his pace, letting him guide in the small quiet ways he’s comfortable with.
The first time you walk outside together after a long Saturday shift and the night air settles cool against your skin, he reaches out and hooks his hand lightly behind your elbow—barely pressure at all—but you can feel how deliberate it is. You can feel that he wanted that contact. That he wanted you closer. “You okay?” you ask softly, turning toward him.
He takes a slow breath before answering, looking almost surprised at himself. “Yeah.” His voice is quiet, steady-sincere. “Just… making sure you don’t get lost on the sidewalk.”
The excuse is thin. Laughable. Ridiculous. And when you look up at him with that sunshine softness he pretends doesn’t undo him, he tries to scowl and fails. You don’t call him out, you don’t burst his cover. You just lean closer and bump your shoulder into his gently. “Guess I’m lucky you’re here to keep me on track,” you say.
And he breathes in slow like your words went somewhere deeper than lungs. Because that’s the part that’s melting him the most. Not the baking, not the quiet weekends, not the familiar routine. It’s the fact that when he reaches for you—however small, however hesitant—you reach back without fear. And that kind of safety is something he hasn’t let himself want in a very, very long time.
The kids were wild because it’s almost spring break, you spilled half your coffee down your front before first bell, and someone tried to feed the classroom fish a Cheez-It. Upstairs chaos and glitter. But you got lucky—this week the lunch schedule shifted because of standardized testing, so you have a full, rare, unheard-of long lunch break. Wanda gives you a lazy little smirk and a sing-song “use it wisely” before disappearing to the teacher’s lounge.
You’re sitting at your desk when you hear the soft knock on your door. You don’t even look up at first—expecting a student who forgot a water bottle or who needs a pencil sharpened even though class ended twenty minutes ago.
Then his voice fills the doorway, that calm, low, gravelly voice that already lives in your body now. “You free?”
You look up so fast your neck might actually crack. Bucky stands just inside the threshold, one hand shoved in his jacket pocket, the other holding his helmet. A motorcycle helmet. He looks like the kind of trouble that’s good for a soul no matter how you try to reason yourself out of it. You blink at the helmet, then at him. “What are you doing here?”
He shrugs, like it’s the most normal thing in the world that a stoic firefighter has just casually appeared in your classroom like he belongs there. “Natasha said you had a long lunch today. Thought I’d steal you.”
You stare for a second and it’s embarrassing how warm your face gets. “Steal me?”
“Borrow,” he corrects, pushing off the doorframe and stepping deeper into the room. His eyes scan the chaos—markers everywhere, spelling posters half laminated, glitter flakes stuck to the tile floor, handprint art drying on the window sills. He takes it all in like he always does, curiosity softening him around the edges. “Lunch?”
“Yeah,” you breathe out, still a little startled. “Yeah, I’m free.”
He walks toward your desk slowly, eyes holding yours the entire time. “I brought the bike,” he says, lifting the helmet slightly so the light catches on the visor. “Hope you’re not scared of motorcycles.”
You don’t even hesitate. “I’m not.”
Something flickers across his face then—something predatory but soft, like he just discovered a shared secret before it’s spoken. He holds out the helmet. You step around your desk and take it from him, fingers brushing over his as you do. His hand lingers against yours a second longer—small, steady contact—and your pulse kicks up instantly. “You ready?” he asks, voice lower now. Warmer.
You grab your sweater, turn off your overhead lights, and slip out the door beside him. He rests his hand at the small of your back as you exit the building, guiding you gently—not pushy, not claiming, but protective in a way that feels instinctive and natural.
The bike is parked right outside the staff lot. Sleek, black, and intimidating in a beautiful way. You put the helmet on and he adjusts the strap for you—careful thumbs brushing your jawline as he tightens it. His fingers tremble just slightly, barely there. “Trust me?” he asks.
You don’t look away. “Yeah. I do.”
The answer lands between you like something more binding than a promise.
He swings on first and you climb behind him, your hands hovering awkwardly for a half second before he reaches back and taps your thigh. “Hold on,” he says quietly. You slide your arms around his waist, fitting against his back, cheek brushing between his shoulder blades. His muscles go taut, breath catching like that single contact might overload him. Then he settles, breathing you in slowly.
And then you’re moving.
The wind hits your body, the speed curling around your legs, your arms tightening instinctively around him, your cheek pressing into the soft worn cotton of his shirt. You feel the rumble of the bike beneath you, the warmth of his torso under your palms, the faint scent of woodsmoke and soap and something inherently him. It feels like flying through something you’ve been waiting for without knowing it.
He takes you to a small diner on the edge of town—quiet, low key, with mismatched mugs and the best grilled cheese on the planet. He orders for both of you, gently nudging your knee under the table like he’s testing another version of contact he’s still learning he can have.
You talk about the fair again. You talk about his last call where nothing big happened and how Sam nearly got into a verbal duel with a neighborhood terrier. You tell him about a kid in your class who keeps trying to prove he can talk to worms. He listens like he’s cataloguing every detail, like your words are safely being stacked and labeled inside him.
When the check comes, you try to grab it but he gives you a look that says don’t. You let him. And when you climb back onto the bike, he doesn’t need to say hold on this time—you just do, arms sliding around him naturally.
The ride back is slower. He’s not showing off this time—he’s savoring the closeness. Back at the school parking lot, he helps unbuckle your helmet, fingers brushing your cheek, eyes locked on yours like the world shrank to three inches of space between you.
“That was nice,” you say quietly.
He nods, voice low and certain. “Yeah, we should do that again sometime.” A beat. “Not just Saturday.”
You feel it settle warm in your chest—this gentle shift into something that looks and feels dangerously real. You smile. “I’d like that.”
He steps back reluctantly, like he doesn’t actually want to put space back between you yet. But he does. Slowly. Respectfully. He tilts his head toward the school doors. “Go teach the tiny chaos gremlins,” he says, almost smiling. “I’ll see you this weekend.”
You watch him leave on the bike, wind whipping his hair as he pulls away. And as he disappears down the street, you press your palm to your sternum and realize something with bone-deep certainty, he didn’t steal you from school for lunch. He brought you into his world and let himself into yours again. And these small worlds are starting to not feel so separate anymore.
He doesn’t tell Sam, or Steve, or anyone really. But little shifts start to happen when you’re not around. One day he shows up to the station with a different creamer in his bag—one he’d seen you use in your coffee at the diner. He puts it in the fridge under the guise of “someone left it at the store cheap” but Sam wasn’t born yesterday.
Another day, he spends an hour quietly fixing the hinge on the supply cabinet at your classroom when he stops by after a run—not because it was broken in any way that mattered functionally, but because you were frustrated with how it squealed every time you opened it. He doesn’t tell you until you open it and it swings smoothly and you’re staring at him, dumbfounded.
“Oh,” he says, shrugging like he didn’t just spend his entire break doing it. “Just needed tightening.”
You start realizing he shows up when you need someone without you ever asking. And he doesn’t make a spectacle of solving problems. He doesn’t announce his presence or his help like some kind of performative hero thing, he just does it. And that quiet reliability begins to sink into you in a way that feels deeper than just comfort.
One afternoon after school, you’re sitting on the floor of your classroom grading math quizzes. Wanda is stapling a bulletin board. You’re telling her about the lunch day with Bucky—the motorcycle, the diner—and you’re trying to say it calmly, rationally, like it’s not burning itself into your skin in the fondest way possible. Wanda just smiles a little, shaking her head as she aligns the border at the corner of the board. “You’re already in it,” she says.
“Already in what?” you ask, though your pulse spikes because you know. You absolutely know.
“The middle of it,” Wanda says. “Whatever this is with him. You’re already there.”
You want to deflect. Or joke. Or hide behind sarcasm. But instead, you sit back on your palms, expression softening. There’s no dramatic “aha moment.” It’s just the quiet acknowledgment that she’s right. You’re already in it.
Later that week, Bucky ends up at the station kitchen with Steve late at night—quiet, low music humming through the empty room. He sits with a mug between his hands, thumb brushing the rim in slow thought. Steve washing out a pot stops and just regards him for a moment. “You really like her,” Steve says suddenly, not unkind, just observant.
Bucky doesn’t look up right away. He stares down at the mug like it holds the answer. He doesn’t smirk. He doesn’t deflect. He doesn’t growl his way out of it. He just breathes once through his nose and lets the truth exist between them. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I do.”
Steve smiles faintly, shaking his head. “I haven’t seen you this relaxed with anyone in years.”
“It’s different,” Bucky says, still not meeting his eyes. “She’s… soft. And steady. Doesn’t push. Doesn’t expect anything from me I can’t give.”
Steve leans back against the counter, arms crossed. “She’s good for you.”
Bucky’s jaw works for a second. He finally looks up, blue eyes tired and open. “I think I want to be good for her too.”
Steve doesn’t tease him for it. He doesn’t smirk or make a comment about feelings. He just nods once. “Then let it happen. Don’t think your way out of it.”
Bucky sits there long after Steve heads to bed—hands cupped around warm ceramic, staring into nothing—realizing there was no wall left to pretend to hide behind. Because somewhere between cinnamon rolls and motorcycle rides and tiny classroom repairs… he already stepped out of it.
And on the other side of town, you lay in bed later that night under the soft glow of your bedside lamp, re-reading your lesson plan, unable to fight the quiet smile that keeps pulling at your mouth every time you remember how he looked at you today. How he stood closer. How he listened with that focus of his like you were the only thing he wanted to absorb in the room.
This isn’t an almost-crush anymore. This isn’t “something’s maybe happening.” This is real. This is slow and gentle and certain. And both of you—without ever saying it out loud—finally understand it.
One Saturday morning at the station, you’re helping Sam chop fruit for some post-cleaning brunch and Bucky walks in, hair still wet from his shower. You smell the cedar shampoo on him before he even speaks. Without hesitating, he comes to stand beside you at the counter, close enough that his arm presses firmly against your side. He doesn’t move away. Doesn’t pretend he didn’t notice. His shoulder stays flush with yours while you slice strawberries, like touching you is now his default starting point instead of a privilege that surprises him.
Sam glances at the way your bodies align and mutters something dramatic about “the universe shifting” before Bucky casually kicks his shin under the island counter, not even looking up from the fruit bowl. Sam hobbles away laughing to himself and Natasha smirks from the corner because she’s been waiting for this exact evolution.
Later, when you and Bucky take a break outside, you’re leaning against the front of the firetruck, sipping iced tea from a plastic cup. The early spring sun is warm against your skin. Bucky stands close—close enough that when the breeze hits, your sleeve brushes his forearm. He doesn’t shift away like he used to; instead, he rests his hand lightly against the small of your back.
Your breath catches—not because you weren’t expecting it, but because it feels so wonderfully normal. Instinctive. You don’t even look at his hand; you just lean gently into the contact, letting your body melt into that simple warmth like it belongs. “You got any plans later?” he asks, voice rough from the cool air.
“Just grading and laundry,” you answer. “Not exciting.”
He hums, thumb stroking the back waistband seam of your jeans in a small unconscious arc. “I could come by after shift. Fix that shelf you said was wobbly. We could order something in.”
You turn your head toward him, heart thudding slow and heavy. “I’d like that.”
He nods, eyes soft. No tease, no guard, just quiet meaning sitting heavy in the air between you. When you part ways later, his fingers trail gently along your wrist before letting go. It’s not accidental. It’s not subtle. And the feeling stays in your skin the entire drive home.
A few days later, it happens again—this time in your classroom when he stops by with coffee. You’re busy sorting folders and he leans against your desk, watching with that soft, observant attention he’s only ever given you. When you reach for the stack beside him, his hand covers yours and he holds it there—not just a brush of fingertips, but a slow, deliberate press. “Take a break,” he murmurs.
You look up at him, pulse fluttering under his palm. You don’t pull away and he doesn’t either. The stare lasts longer than it ever has—no one darting their eyes away this time. He lifts your hand slightly, thumb brushing small circles into your skin, almost reverent in how gentle it is. Like he’s memorizing the shape of you by touch alone.
And then, one night after dinner at your place—he’s fixing that shelf just like he said he would—you end up sitting on the floor organizing books and he ends up sitting beside you. The shelf is done, but neither of you move. His knees are bent, long legs stretched out in front of him, and your hip leans against his thigh where you sit shoulder to shoulder.
At one point, you shift to reach for a new stack of books… and he catches your hand again. But this time he doesn’t release it. This time his fingers slide slowly, intentionally between yours, interlacing like it’s the most natural progression in the world. Both of you freeze—not in panic or shock—but in sudden, quiet awareness.
The world goes gentle around the edges. His thumb strokes the inside of your hand again, slow and almost absent-minded like this is something he’s been wanting to do for weeks. You watch his eyes drop to your joined hands before lifting back to yours—open, calm, quiet.
No one speaks first because this moment doesn’t need narration. It is already declaration. Your head tilts slightly into his shoulder, and he exhales slow against your hair—like every tension he used as armor for years is starting to melt.
This isn’t guiding. This isn’t accidental. This isn’t helping. This is wanting. And for the first time, Bucky isn’t afraid to show that he wants you.
It’s a Tuesday. The school is hosting a district-wide teacher workshop, and you’re surrounded by colleagues you only see a few times a year. There’s a lunch spread in the library—half sandwiches, fruit, and cookies that look far better than they taste. Bucky had texted you that morning to tell you he was swinging by later with a container of stew, “real food,” he called it, so you’re in good spirits.
That’s when Adam—the new P.E. teacher—walks in. He’s all easy smiles and too much cologne, with that comfortable charm that gets him volunteered for every fundraiser and assembly. You know him in passing; he’s nice enough, good with the kids, harmless in the way men who haven’t been hurt often are. He waves when he sees you and walks right over.
You chat politely—just small talk about class schedules, the fair last month, his new after-school soccer program. It’s perfectly innocent. But when he leans closer to joke about your third graders and the “mystery glitter epidemic,” his hand brushes your elbow in a way that’s friendly but too familiar. You don’t think twice about it, laughing it off.
Except that’s the exact moment Bucky walks into the library.
You spot him over Adam’s shoulder instantly—dark jacket, thermos in one hand, that quiet confidence he wears like second nature. He was supposed to wait in your room, but of course he found you first. He always does. His expression is unreadable at first, all neutral and calm, but then his gaze dips to where Adam’s hand lingers near your arm before you move away.
It’s barely a flicker—a tightening of his jaw, a small stillness in his body—but you feel it. You know him well enough now to recognize the quiet current under the surface.
You excuse yourself from Adam politely and cross the room to meet Bucky halfway. His eyes soften as soon as you’re close, like the act of you coming to him defuses whatever sparked that flash of heat in his chest. “Hey,” you say gently, smiling. “You found me.”
He nods, voice low. “Yeah. Library wasn’t hard to guess.”
You glance down at the thermos and laugh. “You brought lunch.”
“Stew,” he says simply. “Didn’t want you living off whatever those are.” He nods toward the sad sandwiches, and you grin.
“You’re my hero.”
He tries to hide the faintest twitch of a smile, but it’s there. The jealousy isn’t ugly in him—it’s quiet, protective, edged in something vulnerable. You see it in the way he stands slightly closer to you than usual, the way his hand finds the small of your back while you walk toward an empty table, a small gesture that says you’re mine, right? without words.
You sit together, sharing his stew from the same thermos, and the world narrows until it’s just you and him. He doesn’t bring up Adam, doesn’t say a word about what he saw, but it’s in the way his fingers brush yours when he hands you the spoon, lingering a little longer than necessary. It’s in the way he looks at you when you laugh, softer now, calmer.
“Thanks for this,” you say, blowing on your spoon. “I’d be starving without you.”
“Can’t have that,” he mutters.
The silence after that isn’t awkward—it’s thick with unspoken things. You can practically feel what he’s thinking. Later, when the workshop ends and you’re walking him out to the parking lot, you bump his arm lightly. “You okay?” you ask.
He glances at you, startled by the question. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You’ve been quiet.”
He exhales through his nose, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Just… didn’t like seeing that guy touch you, that’s all.”
You stop walking, blinking up at him. His tone isn’t sharp—it’s hesitant, almost sheepish, as if he’s embarrassed by his own honesty. You step a little closer, voice gentle. “It wasn’t anything. He’s just friendly.”
“I know.” He shrugs, half-smiling but not looking at you. “Still. Didn’t like it.”
You study him for a moment—this big, careful man who’s spent years keeping everything locked up tight—and your heart squeezes. You reach out, curling your fingers around his wrist until his hand relaxes in yours. “You can tell me stuff like that,” you say softly. “You don’t have to swallow it.”
His gaze lifts slowly to meet yours. “You don’t think it’s… too much?”
You shake your head. “I think it’s kind of sweet, actually.”
That earns a small, reluctant grin from him—half relief, half self-deprecation. He looks down at your joined hands, turning them slightly so his palm faces up and your fingers slide together more naturally. “Guess I’m bad at playing it cool,” he admits.
You smile. “I like you better when you’re not trying to.”
Something warm flickers in his eyes at that, something unguarded and bright. He squeezes your hand once, firm and sure, and you both start walking again. And later that evening, when he drops you off at home, he doesn’t just walk you to the door. He hesitates there, hand still in yours, thumb tracing your skin like he’s memorizing it. “Just so you know,” he says, voice quiet but steady, “I’m not going anywhere. Even if there’s a line of guys waiting to bring you sandwiches.”
You laugh, soft and easy, leaning into him slightly. “I think I’ll stick with the guy who brings real food.”
That earns you his real smile—the one that breaks slow and a little shy before it settles into something sure. He bends just enough to press a light kiss to your forehead, lingering there for one heartbeat longer than he should. And when he pulls back, his voice drops to a whisper meant only for you. “Good. ‘Cause I don’t plan on sharing.”
It’s not possessive, not sharp. It’s gentle, warm, threaded with affection that’s been waiting months to breathe. And as you stand there with his hand still holding yours and the faint smell of stew and smoke between you, you realize something simple and certain—Bucky Barnes may not know how to be loud about his feelings, but when he loves, he does it with his whole, careful, deliberate heart.
His place is small, warm, and lived-in in a way that feels startlingly intimate without being messy. You notice instantly that the kitchen is the heart. Sharp knives hung neatly, cast iron pans seasoned black from years of use, spice jars lined and labeled by hand.
He hands you a wine glass the moment you shrug your coat off and hangs your cardigan himself—casual, like he’s always done that. The steady domesticness of it hits you like a soft weight in the chest.
“What’re we making?” you ask, leaning against his counter, watching the way he moves around his kitchen.
“Something simple,” he says, pulling out vegetables like it’s second nature. “Roasted chicken thighs, potatoes, salad. Nothing fancy.” Then a tiny ghost of a smirk. “Don’t wanna scar you with my seasoning ratio math first round.”
You laugh, take a sip of the wine, and step beside him. “You seriously think I’d be scared?”
“You saw Sam try to replicate my marinade,” he says dryly. “It traumatized him.”
Cooking together becomes its own language. When he hands you ingredients, his fingers linger along yours instinctively. When you reach for a bowl beside him, his arm brushes yours and he doesn’t pull away. You chop alongside him at the butcher block and there’s something about the quiet, rhythmic slide of the knife and the way he nudges your hip lightly with his own that feels almost like dancing.
He moves around you with this ease that tells you he memorized your presence already—adjusting without thinking, making space for your elbows, brushing his knuckles against your arm occasionally as if grounding himself. The silence isn’t empty. It’s that warm kind that fills the walls with comfort.
Halfway through seasoning the chicken, you catch him watching you. Not intensely like he does sometimes when he studies you… but soft. Affection written plain across his face. He realizes he’s staring and blinks, looking down like he’s embarrassed, but you reach out and touch his wrist gently.
You don’t say anything. You don’t need to.
When the food goes into the oven, he pours you both fresh wine and you settle on the couch while the kitchen timer ticks quietly in the background. The moment you sit down, he hesitates only a second before sitting beside you—not at the other end like he might’ve weeks ago. He sits close. Knee against your thigh. Shoulder brushing yours.
The TV hums some sitcom rerun neither of you actually watch. You talk about small things—your terrible indoor plant survival rate, his disdain for store bought marinades, a kid from your class who insisted Jupiter is a portal to a toy dimension. He listens, relaxed and open, eyes slipping lower and lower the longer you talk.
Then, not suddenly but naturally, he lets his head rest against the back of the couch closer to you. He’s angled toward you, body soft, guard down. His hair brushes your shoulder and you feel this tug—this impulse that you’ve been resisting for months.
You lift your hand and brush a stray strand behind his ear and he goes still immediately. You pause. “Okay?”
He swallows once, nods once, slow. “More than okay.”
So you let your fingers slowly slide through his hair—soft, deliberate, carding through it gently. He exhales like it pulled breath from somewhere deep inside his sternum. His eyes flutter shut, jaw slackening, posture melting deeper into the couch as if his body doesn’t remember how to hold tension with you touching him like this.
He leans into your touch. Not subtly. Fully. His head tips closer to your shoulder, his hand finds your knee lightly—just resting there, warm and steady. There’s this magnetic, quiet honesty in the way he seeks contact now. He’s not shy about wanting more time in your hands. “This feels… good,” he murmurs, voice rough with something vulnerable, something unused. “Haven’t had someone touch me like that in… I don’t even know.”
You slow your fingers slightly, cupping the back of his head gently. “I like doing it,” you whisper. “You can ask for this anytime.”
His hand tightens a fraction on your knee. He turns his head a little toward you—not kissing you, not rushing anything—but close enough that you feel his breath soft against your collarbone. And when he opens his eyes again, the softness in them is so intense it makes your heart stutter.
The oven timer breaks the moment—but even when he stands to go check the food, he does it reluctantly, like he’s leaving something warm and important behind on that couch.
Dinner is cozy and quiet and shared from the same side of the table like that closeness is the new normal. And afterwards, when he walks you to the door and helps you into your coat, his fingers slide up your arms, gentle and warm and slow—like he’s memorizing the shape of you again before you step away. “You coming by Saturday?” he asks softly, thumb brushing your wrist one last time before he lets go.
You nod, leaning a little closer because you don’t want to leave that softness behind yet. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
He opens the door, but before you step out, he brushed his knuckles lightly across your cheek. The smallest gesture. But it feels like he just placed something inside your ribs that’s going to keep burning all week until you see him again.
The station usually rotates who does the big supply run for the week—mostly because Sam buys random snacks he wants, Steve buys everything organic like a betrayed suburban mom, Joaquín buys the weird cereal no adult should ever want, and Bucky considers grocery ingredients sacred resources not to be compromised by chaos.
This week, Sam insisted it was a “team building group outing” and for reasons unknown to humanity… they all agreed. And you ended up coming along because Natasha texted you casually that morning: bring Bucky snacks and come entertain me, I don’t want to shop with these idiots alone.
You show up to the station first, in soft jeans and a sweater that Bucky immediately notices because he looks up from tying his boots and does a slow blink like his brain took a picture of you before he remembered to breathe. He doesn’t say anything—he just gives a barely-there smile and murmurs, “hey,” like the word feels different when it’s directed at you.
The grocery store is busy the way Saturday late morning always is—families, couples, old women with coupon binders, teenagers attempting independence with energy drinks and frozen pizza.
Natasha pairs off with Joaquín because she doesn’t trust him not to buy “experimental spicy cereal” and Steve and Sam argue over protein shakes. Which leaves you and Bucky in produce.
You’re holding the list Sam scribbled and reading out loud, “two bags spinach, bell peppers, potatoes, berries, sourdough—” He’s already grabbing things methodically, moving with quiet focus. And you follow along beside him, gently teasing him about being aggressively efficient. “You plan grocery trips like tactical missions,” you comment, watching him inspect potatoes like they might carry classified intel.
“Bad produce ruins meals,” he says simply, shrugging as he rolls a potato in his palm. “Can’t risk it.”
You laugh, shaking your head. “You’re such a snob.”
His eyes flick toward yours and warm slightly. “You like that I’m picky with food.” Your heart does that absurd jump again. Because he’s right—you absolutely do.
At one point, you reach up to grab something from a higher shelf, coffee beans that Sam wrote three underlines under, and Bucky steps behind you automatically—not hovering, not crowding—but close enough you feel his presence like a shield. His hand settles briefly at your waist as if steadying you. Just a moment. But long enough for warmth to spread through your body.
You don’t rush away from the contact this time, you lean back slightly into it, and he doesn’t pull his hand away as fast as he used to. Instead, he lets it linger. His thumb brushes, deliberately gentle, like a silent word.
When you turn toward him again there’s something new in his face—soft certainty. You move further down the aisle together, the list half done, and somewhere between yogurt and granola bars, a toddler in a dinosaur hoodie barrels past you both and nearly knocks into you. Bucky’s reflex is instant—he reaches out, steadying your elbow, guiding you smoothly aside before the tiny chaos tornado continues screeching toward frozen waffles.
You laugh, a little breathless. “Wow. Good reflex.”
He hums, unconsciously stroking your arm once before letting go. “Years of dealing with Sam.”
You start walking again, your fingers brushing his at your side. And this time when they touch… he turns his hand palm-up.
Offering.
Not an accident, not a hesitant brush disguised as movement. He wants you to take it.
And you do.
You slide your fingers into his slowly, threading them together, palm against palm, skin warm and certain. His grip tightens—not forceful, but firm. Intentional. Claiming in the quietest, softest way. He looks down briefly, as if memorizing the sight of your hands together, then looks forward again like he’s grounding himself in this moment.
There’s no panic in his breathing. No tension in his shoulders. Just that gentle steadiness he’s slowly letting himself have with you.
And he doesn’t let go the entire rest of the store trip.
Not while you check out. Not while you help load groceries in the cart. Not even when Sam comes back and does a double take so dramatic Steve smacks him in the back of the head and says, “don’t scare it, let it happen naturally.”
Natasha doesn’t even react. She just gives you this tiny knowing smirk when she sees your joined hands like she’s been waiting for this exact beat for weeks. When you all walk out of the store, Bucky carries the heavier bags and keeps your hand in his free one like it’s just what his body does now. Like this is a new base state.
When you get to the cars, before anyone else climbs in, he shifts closer, thumb brushing along your knuckles as the morning sun warms the pavement between you. “That alright?” he asks quietly, nodding toward your hand in his. “This?”
You squeeze his hand once, soft and certain. “Yeah. More than alright.”
And the look he gives you then—open, relieved, a little overwhelmed and entirely devoted—tells you everything you need to know, hand holding wasn’t a milestone for him. It was him choosing you openly, without fear.
It’s late, the station’s been busier than usual that week, and Bucky’s more tired than you’ve ever seen him. You’d stopped by with dinner—homemade soup, still warm in the container—and stayed to help clean up after the team’s shift meal. The others trickled out one by one, voices fading upstairs or into the night until it was just you and him left in the kitchen.
The lights are low, humming quiet. The sink runs with a steady rhythm while he dries a pan, towel slung over his shoulder, sleeves rolled to his forearms. You’re leaning against the counter beside him, sipping tea from one of the chipped mugs they all use. It’s comfortable, easy silence—the kind that fills up a room instead of emptying it.
He glances sideways at you occasionally, eyes softer than the dim light should allow. “You didn’t have to stay,” he says finally, setting the pan on the rack.
You shrug, smiling into your cup. “Didn’t want you cleaning up alone.”
He hums in quiet agreement, folds the towel carefully. “You always stay.”
“Guess I do,” you murmur. “You mind?”
Bucky turns toward you then, leaning against the counter with his hip, one arm resting loosely over the edge. “No,” he says. Then, after a beat, “I think I’ve started counting on it.”
The air thickens—not heavy, but aware. You set your mug down, fingers curling around the edge of the counter to keep them busy. He’s close enough that you can feel the heat off him, the faint smell of cedar and smoke that always clings to him. Your heart beats a little too loud for the quiet in the room.
His gaze drops briefly—to your hands, then to your mouth—and that’s when something in your chest breaks open. He doesn’t move closer yet, but you feel the intent in him. The restraint, the quiet question that’s been there for months.
You don’t answer with words. You step forward, just a fraction, until you’re standing directly in front of him. His hand, resting on the counter, twitches once. His throat works in a slow swallow. “Bucky,” you whisper, voice barely carrying.
“Yeah?” he answers, the word soft and hoarse, like it’s dragged up from somewhere deep.
“I think I’ve started counting on it too.”
For a heartbeat, neither of you move. The air feels like it’s holding its breath with you. Then his hand lifts—hesitant but deliberate—fingers brushing along your jaw, thumb grazing the corner of your mouth. It’s reverent, almost uncertain. You can feel him trembling faintly, not from nerves but from the sheer weight of wanting and the fear of breaking the moment.
You lean into his touch, just enough to let him know it’s okay.
That’s all it takes.
He leans forward, slow, eyes flicking between your eyes and lips until the space between you collapses. The first touch of his mouth is so soft it barely registers as a kiss—more like an exhale, a testing of pressure, a question whispered against your skin. He starts to pull back, unsure, but you chase him forward, catching his bottom lip between yours and answering the question he didn’t dare ask.
The second kiss isn’t hesitant.
It’s slow, yes, but sure—like something he’s been building toward for months. His hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck. Your hands find his shirt, gripping lightly at his chest as if to steady yourself against the quiet, dizzying rush of it all. He tastes faintly like coffee and something darker, something entirely him. He kisses like he touches—gentle but grounding, all patience and careful strength.
When he finally pulls back, he doesn’t move far. His forehead rests against yours, his breath warm and uneven. You stay like that, neither of you ready to break the fragile stillness. He’s the first to speak, voice low and rough at the edges. “Been wantin’ to do that for a while.”
You smile, still breathless. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I know.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, the sound vibrating where his chest meets yours. His thumb traces a slow path along your jaw, memorizing. “Didn’t think I’d get here. Not really.”
You pull back just enough to meet his eyes—those tired, storm-blue eyes that have softened into something that feels like home. “You’re here now,” you say softly. “That’s what matters.”
He nods once, eyes still locked on yours, and you can see the truth settle into him. Whatever walls he’s spent years holding up, they’ve finally stopped being barriers between you. Now they’re just background—the ruins of something that doesn’t need rebuilding because what you’re creating together is better.
He leans in again, kissing you slower this time, longer, his hand splayed against your back, anchoring you both in that quiet, golden kind of certainty that doesn’t need words. And when you finally part, the clock ticks softly in the background, the world outside the station hushed and distant.
He brushes his thumb across your bottom lip, voice barely more than a whisper. “I want this. I want you.”
You nod, heart full enough to hurt. “Then you’ve got me.”
He doesn’t say thank you, he doesn’t need to. He just smiles—small, real, a little dazed—and presses one last kiss to the corner of your mouth before pulling you gently against his chest.
And for the first time in years, Bucky lets himself simply exist in the quiet peace of being held.
One Year Later
The first thing Bucky notices when he wakes is the space beside him. It’s warm but empty, the sheets folded back, the soft indentation still in the pillow where you’d been. His hand finds that spot instinctively, fingers brushing over the cotton like maybe you’d only just left. He breathes in once—slow, easy—and the faint smell of something buttery and sweet reaches him before he even opens his eyes.
He knows where you are. He always does on Saturdays.
The clock on the nightstand reads a little past seven, sunlight already spilling through the curtains in pale ribbons. He stretches, lazy and slow, rubbing at the back of his neck before swinging his legs off the bed. The floorboards creak softly under his bare feet as he stands, tugging on the flannel pants he left draped over the chair last night. The air smells like sugar and pastry, something faintly tart beneath it—raspberry, he realizes—as he heads down the short hallway toward the kitchen.
You’re there, exactly where he expected, standing at the counter in one of his old shirts, with the sleeves rolled up. The radio hums softly from the windowsill, some old song you probably found in one of those “weekend morning” playlists you love. The kitchen is alive with the sound of it—metal trays clinking, the gentle hum of the oven, your quiet hum matching the music as you drizzle chocolate over neat, golden pastries cooling on a wire rack.
He stops in the doorway, leaning a shoulder against the frame. For a long moment, he doesn’t say anything. He just watches you, watches the way your body moves so easily in this space that used to be only his. The way the light catches on your hair and the corner of your smile when you hum along to the song. The way this apartment smells like home now, like you.
“Smells dangerous,” he finally says, voice still gravelly from sleep.
You turn, eyes lighting up instantly when you see him. “You’re up.”
“Couldn’t sleep through that.” He gestures toward the pastries, walking over until he’s close enough to rest a hand on the small of your back. “You’re making the station spoiled.”
“They asked for raspberry this time,” you say, grinning up at him. “And I couldn’t say no.”
“You never do.” His thumb brushes along your spine, slow and absent, a quiet kind of affection that’s become as natural as breathing.
You lift one of the pastries carefully from the tray, holding it toward him. “Quality control,” you offer.
He leans in to take it but stops halfway, eyes glinting as he murmurs, “you sure this isn’t bribery?”
“Maybe a little,” you admit.
He huffs a laugh, low and warm, and takes a bite. The pastry flakes against his lips, sweet and tart, the chocolate melting just enough to coat his tongue. “Yeah,” he says after a moment, voice thoughtful. “That’ll do.”
You roll your eyes, laughing softly as you turn back to the tray. “High praise, chef.”
Bucky steps closer behind you, hands sliding around your waist until his chest presses lightly against your back. You let yourself lean into him, the rhythm of his breathing syncing with yours as he rests his chin on your shoulder. He smells like sleep and warmth, and his voice when he speaks next is soft enough that it feels like part of the morning air. “You gonna take all these to the guys?”
You nod. “Most of them. I promised Natasha a box but I thought I’d save a couple for us.”
He hums approvingly, lips brushing against your temple. “Good plan. Joaquín’ll inhale his before you even park.”
You laugh quietly, shaking your head. “That’s why I make extras.”
For a while, neither of you speak. The oven ticks as it cools, the radio shifts to another song, and his hands stay splayed comfortably against your stomach, fingers tracing small, slow circles through the fabric of his shirt that you’re wearing. When you finally turn in his arms, your palms slide up his chest until they rest against his shoulders.
He looks down at you, eyes half-lidded, the kind of soft he only ever gets with you. You rise onto your toes and kiss him—nothing rushed or desperate, just the familiar, grounding kind of kiss that feels like a language you both invented together. When you pull back, he follows slightly, just enough that your noses brush. “Morning,” you whisper.
“Morning,” he echoes, voice low, a tiny smile tugging at his mouth. “You got flour on your face.”
You laugh, rubbing at your cheek. “Do I?”
He leans in and kisses the spot instead, the faintest graze of lips against skin. “Got it,” he murmurs.
You shake your head, grinning, and reach up to ruffle his hair—something you do every time he gets too serious. He catches your wrist gently before you pull away, turning your palm so he can press a kiss into the center of it. Then he lets go, stepping back just enough to look around the kitchen. “Need help packing these?”
“Yeah, actually,” you say, reaching for the containers. “If you can box up the ones for the guys, I’ll do Nat’s.”
He nods, already moving toward the counter. “You sure you trust me not to eat ‘em?”
“I’ll count them before we leave,” you tease, bumping his hip with yours.
He chuckles, grabbing a pastry anyway and taking another bite before you can protest. “You didn’t count this one,” he says around a mouthful.
You swat at him with the edge of a towel and he laughs—really laughs, the sound filling the whole apartment until it feels like the walls themselves are smiling. It’s easy, this life with him. Easy in the way mornings like this feel endless. The light through the window. The smell of raspberries and coffee. His hand brushing yours as you both reach for the same pastry box.
When everything’s packed and you’re slipping your shoes on by the door, he comes up behind you again, arms wrapping around your waist from behind, chin resting in the crook of your neck. “You sure you don’t wanna stay here?” he asks softly. “We could keep the raspberry ones hostage.”
You tilt your head just enough to brush your cheek against his. “Tempting,” you say. “But I already promised. And besides—” you turn, smiling up at him, “—I like bringing them something sweet.”
He smirks, kissing your forehead before letting go. “Yeah. They’re lucky to have you.”
You pick up the pastry box, glancing back at him. “You ready?”
“Always,” he says, and means it. He takes the keys from the counter, holds the door open for you, and when you step out into the hallway, he reaches for your hand without even thinking—his fingers finding yours like they always do.
And as the door closes behind you both, the scent of raspberry and sugar lingers in the air, curling softly through the quiet apartment that’s no longer just his, and never will be again.
pairing: brother's best friend!bucky barnes x f!reader, AU setting
summary: It doesn't matter that you're obsessed with your brother's best friend - the one you have had a very complicated relationship with since childhood. It doesn't matter that you fantasise about him, nor does it matter that you keep a diary of all your dirty thoughts because he will never, ever know.
warnings: 18+ mdni!!, smut with minor plot, childhood frenemies to lovers, fingering, unprotected p in v, dumbification, creampie, dacryphilia, mean bucky, size kink, brat taming, bigdick!bucky, tummy bulge, general filth and debauchery, jealousy, use of petnames (sweetheart, baby, angel etc.), reader described having hair bucky can twirl and as being smaller than bucky, no use of y/n, lots of cursing, bucky convinces reader to let him hit it raw (idk if that's a warning lol), moodboard pics do not depict reader
word count: 11.1k
a/n: idk if this is deranged in a hot way or just deranged but i hope you enjoy lmao. bucky is very mean in this and invades reader's privacy so stay away if that's not your thing!!
The abrasive, thrumming buzz of the lawnmower lets you know he’s back. You stop tapping on your phone, pausing for just a moment while you try to resist the urge. You fail. You pull up to your knees and peer out the window beside your bed.
Bucky is in your back garden, driving forward the shabby rusted lawnmower that lives in your shed. The one that has likely never been used by anyone but him. He’s not shirtless like he sometimes is - he’s in a black t-shirt - but you swear you can make out the muscles of his strong back even from this distance. The way they clench and tense with mild exertion. A heat settles low and deep in your stomach.
He’s waving before you realise you’ve been caught. You roll your eyes - exaggerate it a bit so you know he can see - and slump down on your bed again when he gives you a slanted smile.
The air around you feels damp and raw now in a way that has very little to do with the early summer heat. You force yourself onto your stomach and stuff your face into your pillow.
You can’t keep doing this to yourself.
Or, rather, he can’t keep doing this to you. However excruciating his presence is when your family is around, it’s so much worse when they’re not.
Most of the time you want to throttle him. It had been that way since you were kids. You can still feel the grovelling embarrassment of being somewhere close to ten years old and begging him and your brother to let you tag along with them to do something stupid like peeking through the dirt-grimed windows of a neighbour’s house or sneaking into a derelict, moss-eaten hotel until someone called the cops. In defiance of all stereotypes, your brother never had a problem with it. He has doted on you since you were in the cradle.
Bucky, though. He was never receptive to it. He would let you make your case, watching you humble yourself with calculating, amused eyes that looked slightly wrong on a boy of only twelve years. You can still remember how he would make a big show of deliberating, before simply handing out a ‘no’, and moving away. Your brother would shoot you a remorseful grin but always followed after him without hesitation.
On the rare occasions he did let you trail after them, he made you regret it. He would poke and prod at you, pulling lightly at your hair or making fun of you until big, fat, brutally-resisted tears would well up in your eyes. Oh, you remember how much he used to enjoy that - the mean smile he wore while he called you a crybaby. It always ended with your brother sternly telling him to lay off, before walking you home.
Your parents refused to hear a bad word about him. They still won’t.
You’re not really sure what is up with Bucky’s family and his home life. You just know that he had always spent more time at your house than his own. Once summer rolled around, it was like he forgot he even had a house of his own to begin with.
Your parents treat him less like a guest and more like a favourite son. The guest bedroom became Bucky’s room when you were eleven. When he tinkers around and puts together your mom’s overly-complicated coffee machine or fixes the hot water or - the very worst - mows the lawn, your parents treat him like a king. They rave in public and private about how they don’t know what they would do without him. When you had tried to tattle as a kid, the most you would get was a patient rub on the back.
It was a push and pull between the two of you. Always had been. Bucky was either acting bothered at your presence, poking and prodding at you cruelly - or irritating you with his own presence and annoying taunts.
And all of that was annoying. Is annoying. But nothing compares to that feeling. The one you’re experiencing right now.
It started when you were pushing sixteen. You had stopped asking to tag along a few years ago but that summer was different. Bucky was told by your brother, firmly and categorically, that you would be hanging out with them whether he liked it or not. He stared at you with odd fixity but made no protests and suddenly you were part of the friend group. Your brother had a crush on your best friend Wanda, who was also hanging around a lot that summer. That played into it. But you took it as a win regardless.
You spent most of your time that summer hanging out in a clearing in the woods by your house. There was nothing else to do and even if there was, you had no money to do it. Most of the details of the day itself now evade you - they’re blurry around the edges. There was a new addition to the group whose name you cannot now remember. A persistent, uncomfortable pass made for you. Your brother distracted by Wanda. A few coarse comments made, before the new guy began to touch.
What you do remember - what you well and truly cannot forget - is what happened after that touch. The way Bucky propelled up from where he sat on tree branches and lichen. How he grabbed the collar of What’s-his-name and flung him to the ground with one heavy, solid punch. The silence afterwards. The crawling shameful pang of excitement in your gut.
You never looked at him the same.
It’s not for lack of trying.
God - you try. You try so hard. You have tried for so many years. But every fling you had in college ended up wearing his face when you closed your eyes.
Thoughts of him run through your mind while you fill your pillow up with gasps. You’re sure that if you wrung out the fabric or pressed down hard, those sighs would have to spill back out, surround the room with breathless cries of his name.
But you have graduated now. You’re back home until you find a full-time job and this childhood crush will no longer do. It’s remarkably inconvenient, the way your knees go weak and wobbly when he walks in the room, even while you paint a snarl on. The way a hot, sticky warmth begins to flood the space between your thighs when you watch him work like he is today.
And you’ve tried everything there is to try. You’ve tried dating other people - it usually ends sour. You made a trip or two to the counsellor on campus. You had even left stop-sign stickers around your dorm room as a reminder to snap out of it when you are thinking about him.
At Wanda’s recommendation, you have started a diary. Every time you think about him or let yourself get stupidly, fantastically turned on by him, you create a new entry. Not all of the entries are about him - some are flimsy little notes to distract yourself - but they all lead back to him one way or another. Once the book is full, you will burn it. You started it just before you left campus three weeks ago and the book is almost half-way full.
You know it’s a stupid idea. It won’t work, which is why you have already sought out a witch on Etsy for when this fails.
The deep, low tingle at the bottom of your stomach hasn’t ceased, because even while deep in thought, the image of Bucky’s strong back and his bold, lopsided smile are still running behind your eyes. You become suddenly aware that you’re lightly sweating. Your underwear is warm and damp.
You glance over at your diary on your bedside table - most recent entry late last night, courtesy of your traitorous imagination. You sigh and pick it up.
Bucky sees you in the window to your bedroom. You’re just a little floating head above the window sill. He can’t make out an expression very clearly. He waves and forces back a laugh when he sees your bratty eye-roll, the way you flop away dramatically.
You’re back home. For the summer, at least. Until all those fancy graduate jobs in New York or Boston or Philly start opening up.
He doesn’t need to be here, if he’s being honest. Has no reason to be. The lawn has no need for mowing and there’s not a damned thing left in the house to be fixed. His own apartment isn’t exactly a paradise, but it’s not bad either.
You won’t be here forever, though. He’ll take what he can get in the meantime.
He likes how it feels to annoy you without a buffer. With no parents to be on his best behaviour in front of, no brother to shoot him warning glances when he pokes too hard.
He regresses slightly every time he floats back into your orbit. Falls out of adulthood and back into the familiar rhythm. The push and pull.
His childhood crush has matured into something deeper, but his actions haven’t. He still tugs your pigtails in a metaphorical sense. It’s much too late to get you to see him as anything but an annoying, big brother-type figure now, but he can deal with that. He likes watching you get riled up, anyway.
You regress around him too. He takes great satisfaction in that. You walk into the house after months of being away, haughty and put-together, like you had finally done all your growing up in college. A few grating words from him can make you twitch a little bit while you fight the urge to snap, irritation spilling through the cracks. And you eventually do crack. All the way. Every single time.
He mows until the short tufts of grass turn to clippings. He spares no blade, weed or flower and thinks about you, lying up on your bed. Probably doing something dumb. Probably scrolling on your phone or flipping through some magazine. He remembers when you were thirteen and he found that stash of teen-pop magazines in your room, the pages with boyband members dog-eared, hearts circled around their pictures. He smiles, thinking about the way you screamed when you caught him red-handed. How you told him to “stop being such a pain in my ass”, pushing him out your bedroom door and slamming it shut behind him while he laughed. You were sulky at dinner afterwards.
He rolls the mower back into the shed, ties the padlock and tugs at it twice before walking into the house through the sliding glass doors.
He’s sweating lightly. He takes a quick swallow of water from the glass on the counter - whether it’s yours or his, he can’t remember - and licks a few beads of moisture from his upper lip. He feels good.
He flops down on the couch, puts on some show indiscriminately and wonders what you’re doing right now. He wonders if you’re on the phone with your college friends. Or with that Matt guy he had heard about through the grapevine. He wonders if you’re wearing the same tight shorts you had on yesterday.
He considers going upstairs to annoy you but thinks better of it. He will wait a while to see if you come downstairs on your own.
He imagines Matt as some football player. He can’t picture a face - just some obscure blur - but he’s probably handsome. Definitely blonde. Social butterfly. Good grades. He can’t see you going for someone without good grades.
Bucky’s grades were never great, but you were such a little swot. He used to sit alongside you while you did your homework. When you would tell him to get lost, he would shoot back that he had homework to do too. It’s probably the only reason he graduated high school.
Matt is probably biding his time right now until you both have steady jobs so he can propose. He’s probably boring as shit. Fucks you missionary for thirty seconds before rolling over onto his back. He probably asks you whether you came afterwards, and you probably talk to your stupid college friends about how much he cares and how respected you feel.
But that’s a dangerous avenue to walk down. Because now he’s thinking about how you would look afterwards, naked and unsatisfied. Would you ever think about shooting him a text when Matt drifts off to sleep after getting his rocks off? See if he could sort you out any better than your boring fuck of a boyfriend?
Obviously not. But it’s a nice thought.
You probably don’t do any of the things that Bucky would want to do with you - and definitely not with Missionary Matt. You’re too fucking prissy. No way in hell are you letting anyone take you the way Bucky wants to.
He doesn’t even understand why his brain has chosen you of all people to be the star of every daydream he has had since he was old enough to know what a crush was. You’re arrogant and spoiled and you think that just because you attract men like flies to shit that you can bat your eyes and get whatever you want. (You absolutely can. Bucky has tried to be the one exception to that rule, but he’s also just a man.)
Unfortunately, he knows all of this and still desires you desperately. And the want that pours out of him in waves isn’t strictly sexual - in fact, it’s mostly something else - but he’s not sure how to define it. He likes you, except ’like’ doesn’t seem strong enough to cover all he feels. So it’s easier to focus on the sex. Maybe that way he can convince himself it’s all he wants.
He has run out of patience. You still haven’t come downstairs and he can only deny himself for so long.
He takes the stairs two-at-a-time, but paces himself so you don’t hear his footsteps and think he’s eager. Your bedroom is at the very end of the hall. When he approaches your white door - still adorned with stickers and tags from every phase you ever went through - he thinks about knocking. He doesn’t.
He can’t remember the last time that he was in your room, but it is exactly as it always was. Pink wallpaper. A white desk in the corner armed with perfectly positioned sticky notes and neat, alphabetised folders. Stuffed animals perched in a line atop your bed like marching soldiers. Posters on the walls from films you thought made you seem edgy when you were fifteen, in direct opposition to the frilly pink decor of the room.
The only thing missing is you, but he can hear the shower going in your ensuite.
He goes to sit down on your bed and focuses deeply on not getting a hard-on while he watches the bathroom door. But he lands on something solid.
Reaching underneath his thigh, he picks up a little pink notebook, turns it over in his hands. More little stickers plastered to the front, hearts scribbled onto it with a pink gel pen. He knows instantaneously that he has gold dust in his goddamn hands. He expects to feel at least a little guilt or shame for what he is about to do and is mildly surprised to find he doesn’t.
This is your diary.
The first entry is from three weeks ago.
22 May
I just broke up with Matt. It was awful. He kept asking me why. I had to say that I didn’t want to live in Boston like him. He said he would find a different internship and we could go to New York instead, and then I really had no idea what to say. It’s not like I could tell him the real reason. He cried. I’m just glad it’s over.
I think I should feel at least a little bit sad about it, but I don’t. I’m just relieved and feeling awkward. I don’t think I could let him fuck me one more time without going out of my mind. This really is a curse. I hope he moves on quickly. I think Suzy is into him.
Bucky can’t help the stupid grin that breaks out across his face. Looks like Missionary Matt was too boring, even for prim little you. No engagement on the horizon after all. He shifts around slightly on the bed in the guest bedroom and tries not think about what might have been so lacking in the bedroom with Matt for you.
23 May
My family are ditching me. They’re all heading off to the south of France for three weeks, but I won’t be home from college early enough. They fucking suck. I wonder if Bucky will still be hanging around. Three weeks of torture incoming.
He laughs, loud and long, at that. What a spoiled little brat. Still, it’s kind of cute.
Bucky was asked to join your family on their holiday and declined. Partially because he still, after all this time, doesn’t quite believe them when they say it’s not a bother. But it was mostly because of a selfish hankering to be able to hang out with you alone. To not have to check himself when his gaze lingers a little too long or when he presses you a bit too hard to be able to convincingly feign disinterest. He reads on.
23 May
Now that I have thought about it, I can’t stop. Bucky is going to be hanging around the house. He always hangs around the house, even when nobody else is there. Dad said he’s going to help him with building a new shed outside. I wonder if he will be doing that while they’re gone. I remember that one time he helped Dad with that old vintage car he bought on a whim. I could see him from my window. He was shirtless and working under the car from a skateboard like something out of a goddamn porno. I think I’ll die if I have to see him do something like that again.
Bucky’s grin is frozen on his face, skin heating up around his bones. The shed would be a good excuse to stick around now that he’s done everything else - he had forgotten about that.
He wasn’t aware you had been watching him fix up that car from your window. That must have been, what - two? three? - years ago. Old Pontiac runs like new now. His eyes catch on the word ‘porno’, scribbled in your pink, curly writing. He thinks about you watching him from above.
24 May
I might be going insane. I shouldn’t have let myself think of the visual of Bucky under that stupid car last night. I think it’s a good thing I dumped Matt. I would have let him fuck me and felt so guilty afterwards for imagining someone else. I handled it myself but I woke up feeling just as riled up. My fingers aren’t big enough. Maybe I should buy a dildo or something. Bucky’s fingers are huge. One time he put his hand over my mouth because he said I was whining too much and it covered more than half of my face.
The blood rushes to his cock so fast it leaves him lightheaded. He has to read the entry twice to make sure he didn’t black out and invent something out of wishful thinking.
25 May
This stupid diary isn’t doing shit. It’s making it worse. Every time I write something down, it just makes me think about it more. I spent all of yesterday thinking about Bucky’s stupid fingers. I hate him so much. I want him to bend me over something and fuck me until I’m an inch from passing out. Maybe that’s all I need to get this out of my system.
26 May
Today I thought about that time last summer when we were at the bonfire and I made out with that guy in the Bulls jersey and snapback. I forget his name.
Bucky looked so angry. I think that’s why I did it. I think I wished he was jealous, even though I know he was just pretending he’s my fucking brother or something. It made me think of that time he punched that other guy in the clearing in the woods just for touching me. I forget that guy’s name too.
Bucky hasn’t forgotten either of their names. The bonehead from the bonfire was Jon and the asshole from the woods was Robby. And he was jealous. He was so fucking jealous. His dick is hard as a rock in his jeans, head spinning.
28 May
Yesterday was ok. I kept myself busy. Today has been terrible. Mom sent me a group picture of everyone eating dinner out in the back garden and Bucky was wearing a tight, white t-shirt. He looked so big, even bigger than when I last saw him. I just kept wondering if his cock would be big too. I zoomed in and took a screenshot like some fucking pervert. I got myself off so many times and I still feel like I haven’t gotten it out of my system. I literally fingered myself until my sheets were-
“Fuck,” he grunts, strained even to his own ears. His eyes squeeze shut and his dick throbs violently at the idea of your little fingers pushing themselves into your pussy at the thought of him. He’s not sure how much more of this he can read before jizzing in his pants like some kind of virgin.
Who knew? Who fucking knew? His stuck-up little priss isn’t so prissy after all. He’s a bit dizzy with want and some other unidentifiable sensation. Something warm and gooey in his chest.
He almost likes how ashamed you are of it. It makes it that much more satisfying - like he’s won some game that he didn’t even know he was playing. He’s dimly aware of the fact that he lost the very same game himself, but he ignores it.
You would be so embarrassed to find out he is reading this. You would yell and scream and throw shit around the room in a tantrum like a toddler. You might never speak to him again. Even so, he can’t help himself but flick over the pages to the most recent entry. It feels like a spoiler to a book he hasn’t finished.
14 June
He came around with the lawnmower again. It’s getting harder every day not to get myself off to the thought of him-
He clearly missed that part. He wonders how long ago you made that resolution. He will find out soon enough.
-when he looks that good. I could literally see the fucking muscles in his back through his t-shirt and it was black. I’m so fucking wet. I’m going to have a long, cold shower and tonight I’ll cum to the thought of someone else. Literally anyone else.
Then and there, Bucky decides that won’t be happening.
You feel better after your laborious shower but only for a matter of minutes. You walk into your room wrapped in your bathrobe and notice that you can no longer hear the lawnmower. Bucky must have finished the job. He’s probably in the shower now, washing off the pollen and sweat.
And that does it. You sigh at the stickiness forming between your legs and reach over to your bedside table for your diary.
Except it’s not there.
You open and close the small drawer underneath. Ruffle around in your sheets and pick up your stuffed animals one-by-one to look make sure they’re not sitting on it. Eventually you get up and remove the duvet from the mattress, pull the bed frame away from the wall, crawl to the floor. You even go to the bathroom to make sure you didn’t carry it in with you. It’s not there. It’s not anywhere.
You must have left it lying out somewhere outside. Your stomach lurches into your throat. Except that’s not possible, because your last entry was written right here on this bed just before you went in for your shower. You had left your room to get a towel and steal some of your mother’s hair stuff - maybe you had inadvertently carried it out with you. You had been severely distracted.
You dress as quickly as you can physically manage, ignoring the way your wet hair is soaking through your cotton sweatshirt, but when you leave your room your footsteps are hesitant and careful. The idea of Bucky picking up your diary somewhere and deciding to give it a browse sends a cold sweat of terror up the knobs of your spine. Oh god, don’t let him find it. Please don’t let him find it.
You tear the linen closet apart. You even pick up the piles of towels that you know you didn’t touch and shake them out. Nothing. You fold them in a way that would make your mother wince and put them back.
Your parents’ room wields no results either. You run your fingers over the wooden bannister faintly while you walk down the stairs. Bucky isn’t there - thankfully - but neither is your diary. You hadn’t even come downstairs between writing your last entry and going for your shower. That, you’re absolutely certain of. But you’re running out of options.
You have one room left to check, but you will have to play your cards carefully. One wrong move, a bit too much information, and you could find yourself on the receiving end of questions that you would really prefer not to be asked. Or of a bit too much curiosity for your liking.
Your fingers linger over the wood of Bucky’s bedroom door for a whole minute before you can bring yourself to commit to a small, tentative knock. Bucky grunts on the other side and it’s untranslatable but you take it to be an in invite.
He’s lounging on his bed, one ankle hooked over the other, head reclined back to rest lazily on the headboard. He doesn’t move his bored gaze from the television, where some reality television documentary about the daily lives of zoo veterinarians is playing. You’re distracted by it momentarily. You didn’t think this would be his sort of thing.
“What’s up?” he asks you, still not looking your way. He didn’t shower. He’s still sweaty and tense, the smell of grass sticking to his clothes and skin. You try not to look.
“Just saying hi,” you say, shifting feet. You look at the door for a brief moment before deciding to close it awkwardly behind you.
He looks at you then, one eyebrow and one side of his lip quirking upwards in tandem. “Just saying hi.”
You nod. His smile breaks free then, but it’s not altogether a nice one. “Well, hi,” he says.
“Hi,” you mumble back. You continue to look at each other while you fidget, stepping forward cautiously until your knees hit his bed. You look at him expectantly and he rolls his eyes before moving his own legs so you can sit.
“What’s got you all buggy?” he asks sardonically, giving you a light tap on the side with his foot. He’s not wearing his boots anymore, but some grass still rubs off on you somehow. You rub your side and shoot him a look as if it hurt, even though it didn’t.
“I’m not buggy.”
“Yeah y’are. You got bugs.”
“You got bugs,” you snap. “I’m perfectly fine.”
He laughs. “Alright, you don’t got bugs. I have bugs ‘cause I was out there mowing all day. Now what do you want?”
Your stomach gives an odd jerking motion at the memory of him out there mowing the lawn. You try to keep any guilt from showing on your face. “Maybe I just wanna talk to you.”
“Oh yeah?” He doesn’t seem convinced. You nod.
“Yeah,” you say, picking at a loose thread his bedsheet. “So what have you been up to?”
“Sweetheart, what’s goin’ on?” he chuckles, turning slightly on his side so he can see you. “You know what I’ve been up to. You saw me out there.”
“Duh,” you say. You roll your eyes again and you can feel him laugh more than you can hear it - the minute little vibration through the sheets. His skin is inches away from yours. If you reached out just a little bit, you could touch his hand.
“Duuuhhh,” he mimics you with an exaggerated Valley-girl drawl. “Why’d you ask then, smartass?”
“I meant, like, after that.”
“After I finished the lawn?”
You nod. You are so desperately bad at this.
“Not much. Watched this,” he says, pointing at the TV. He gets distracted by something there and begins to watch it again. “Did a bit of light reading. What about you?”
Your heart is moving up in a slow but steady elevator to the base of your neck. “I’ve been in the shower,” you say casually. “What are you reading?”
“Long shower,” he says.
“Well it was an everything-shower,” you say defensively, forgetting yourself for a moment.
“The hell is an everything shower?”
“Don’t be dense. It’s literally in the name. It’s called an everything shower because you do everything in the shower.”
His gaze flies back to you then, dark and questioning, eyebrows raised slightly. It takes for his lip to twitch into a small smile before you come to your senses.
“A-as in,” you stammer. “You do all your self-care stuff. Like shaving and exfoliating and hair masks. That kind of everything.”
His smile widens and he nods, half sarcastically. “Right. That kind of everything.”
Your face heats up. There’s a brief pause.
“So what are you reading at the mo-”
“Y’know I think you’d like this,” he says, pointing over to the TV again. You glance over distractedly. A giraffe is giving birth standing up. You can’t help the way your nose twitches slightly as you take in all the blood and goo onscreen.
“Why is that?” you ask.
“There’s this one girl who cries every time an animal dies. She’s been working there five years and she still cries every time. She’s like you.”
“I’m not like that.”
“Yes you are,” he laughs and the sound travels through you. “Remember that one time you cried because your dad asked me to catch and kill that mouse?”
You do. He had been strangely nice about the whole thing. He made a makeshift humane trap and brought it to the old railway line a few miles away instead.
“I was sixteen-”
“And if you’re tryna tell me you wouldn't react the same way right now, I say you’re full of shit.”
You look at him resentfully. “Like you’re any tougher. You’re the one who saved him.”
“Well you know I can’t help but give you what you want once the waterworks start. You’re a pretty crier, sweetheart.”
You just look at him, feeling a bit dazed and uncomprehending. Saliva floods your mouth and you’re forced to swallow. He just glances over at you for the smallest of instances. You like the handsome, self-satisfied smile he gives himself before turning back to his programme, even though it’s at your expense. You know instinctively that you’ll be failing at your new resolution tonight.
“Shut up. Don’t be weird,” you say, because you can think of nothing else. He huffs with humour and there’s something in his expression that you don’t like.
“So you said you were reading something?” you say. You’re aiming for a casual tone but you think you might be overselling it.
“Mhm,” he says, nodding once. The programme can’t be that interesting, but he seems absorbed in it.
“I didn’t think you liked reading.”
“I have a newfound appreciation for it.” He smiles at the screen and maybe you’re feeling a little jealous. You snatch the remote out of his hands, careful not to let your fingers brush, and blackness eats the image of a family of monkeys. His eyes snap to you with amused surprise.
“What are you reading?”
Your heart is pumping while Bucky appraises you for a second, eyes sliding their way around your flustered face. He licks his bottom lip slowly before sucking it into his mouth. He speaks low.
“Don’t worry about it. ’S’too dirty for you, sweetheart.”
You really fucking hope that doesn’t mean what you think it does. He has the book. Oh dear god, don’t let him have the book.
Your voice comes out weak and fractured. “Are you… reading smut?”
He laughs again, face lit up. Eyes still on you. “That what you call it? Sure. Something like that, at least.”
“Bucky,” you say, voice no more than a horrified whisper. There’s a brutal heat curling in your gut - embarrassment and something else. “What are you reading? Please.”
He looks at you for just a second longer before reaching under the blanket beside him. His hand reaches out again, fingers curled around a book that looks incredibly small in his large palm.
You blink at it for just a second, as if concentrating hard enough might make it disappear. Please make it disappear. Please make it nothing at all.
But then you’re rolling forward, hardly aware of what you’re doing until your back is bowed, a low, despairing groan escaping you while your limbs slip away from you. Eventually you’re played across the bottom of the bed, face firmly pressed to the soft memory foam. If you stay here long enough, your face might imprint itself there. A garbled, monotonous litany is spilling from your lips. You’re not even sure what you’re saying.
Your stomach is going haywire. Bucky is laughing like you knew he would - you fucking knew he would be an asshole about this - and you would go running from the room if it didn’t mean that you would have to move your face from the bed and look at him.
You suppose it’s better that he’s laughing than looking at you with the raw kind of disgust that you had pictured whenever you imagined him finding out about your feelings towards him. Maybe it means that you two can go back to normal at some point, even if the humiliation raging through your body begs to differ.
“Don’t be such a baby,” Bucky says and you hate him. Your face pops up to look at his. Still amused. Still wicked and gleeful.
“Where did you get that?” you bark.
“Your room,” he says, as if it should be obvious. “Interesting read. You should be a writer with that vivid imagination. What did you call it, smut?”
“Fuck you!” you screech, and Bucky physically recoils at the loud noise, irritation crawling onto his features for the first time in this interaction. “You had no right to go into my room and invade my privacy. What the hell is wrong with you? You are such a piece of shit!”
Bucky rolls his eyes while you make your way up the bed and take a swing for his chest. He catches your wrists in time and your traitorous body pauses at the touch.
“Like I said,” he says sternly. “Don’t be such a baby. You need me to help you get this out of your system? What was it you said again? Bend you over and fuck you until you’re an inch from passing out?”
You give one last valiant jerk to break free, but he has a death grip with seemingly minimal effort. You go still while the fight leaves you. Hot humiliation and more than a little arousal course through you.
“Fuck you,” you say again with considerably less vitriol.
“I will,” he says, eyes locked on yours punishingly. “If that’s what you want.”
Your breath stutters, heat rising up the length of your face. You’re not sure if he’s messing with you, but the words are having the intended effect regardless. Your thighs press together gently to alleviate some of the pressure that his words and his eye-contact are creating. His eyes flicker down quickly, following the movement, before moving back up to meet your own gaze.
“Got nothing to say now? That’s ok, baby. I saw enough in that little book. Let’s look.”
He lets go of your wrists and you immediately lurch forward to grasp the diary, but he gets there first. He opens it at a random page.
“I came home from college today,” he starts to read, voice low. “Everyone else was gone, but Bucky was here. I don’t know how it’s possible but he’s so much hotter since I last saw him. He wears a bit of stubble now and his muscles were almost bursting out of his t-shirt. We bickered a little bit in the evening, but the whole time I was just wondering what he’s like in bed. I don’t think he would be sweet and soft all the time, like Matt. Maybe sometimes but I think he would be so mean and rough most of the time. He seems like he knows how to make a girl cum.”
He looks up at you. You feel tears prickle behind your eyes, shame steamrolling through you. You reach for the book again but he moves it out of your reach effortlessly.
“You’re goddamn right I do,” he says, smiling as if he’s talking about something totally innocent. “You want me to show you, sweetheart?”
Your brain is scrambled and the only thing escaping your lips is a garbled mess of vowels. You’re still suspicious. It wouldn’t be entirely unlike him to get you to admit to this and then pull the rug out from under you a moment later.
He huffs an impatient sigh. “Don’t go dumb on me already, silly girl.”
He flicks to another page in the book, smiles, and finally hands it over to you. You take it uncertainly.
“Why don’t you read that for me? Out loud. Jog your memory a bit.”
You’re not sure what you’re doing, but at this point it’s easier to follow instructions than to figure out what to do yourself. You look down, take another hesitant glance at an encouraging Bucky and begin to read with a sheepish, shameful tone. Your face is burning.
“I want him so bad. I think I’ll die if I don’t have him. The orgasms I’m giving myself aren’t enough. I need him to fuck me, even just one time. I’ll never ask for anything else again in my life if I can get his cock inside me just once. I’m going so deranged, I actually pictured him choking me yesterday with those huge hands and it made me cum so hard.”
Your own words have done a number on you. You are stupidly, ridiculously turned on by his eyes on you and your own words echoing around the room. You raise your eyes slowly and sheepishly to meet his and the look on his face is nothing short of starving.
“Fuck it,” he breathes, pulling you forward and into a kiss.
Your unsuspecting mouth meets his with short, stabbing gasps. His right arm moves to the back of your neck, pulling you against him firmly, while the prosthetic arm pulls you onto his lap. His lips move against yours and the only word to describe it is filthy. His lips are still wet from licking them and his tongue is sliding over yours delicately but expertly.
You’re in a state of euphoria. Part of you always wondered whether you had played this up too much in your head. You wondered - if you were given the chance to finally touch him like this, whether it might be a bit disappointing after all you had imagined.
If possible, it might be the opposite. Your body is shaking with adrenaline. Without thinking too much about it, you grind down on his lap and feel his hard length through his jeans. A bolt shoots up your spine. Has he been hard this whole time?
He grunts at the friction, calloused fingers tightening their hold on you. His hand glides slowly down from your neck, through the valley of your breasts and over your stomach, playing with the waistband of your cotton shorts. You’re already so riled up, it makes you press down on him again, clutching at his shoulders as if you could possibly pull him any closer. You’re high off the feel of him when he pulls away, just a few inches.
“You ready to admit it yet? That you want me?”
“I want you,” you breathe. It’s almost embarrassing how automatic the response is. How little you even have to think about it.
You feel his smile spreading against your own face. “I know, sweetheart. Of course I know. Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of you.”
Bucky is on the warpath, tearing your sweatshirt and his t-shirt off in quick succession. He takes a second to zero in on your breasts and you feel mildly self-conscious about your plain black bra, but he seems adequately distracted by them.
He slows down. Unclips your bra with languor. You shove away the sick, jealous feeling that creeps up when he doesn’t fumble even remotely with the clasp.
Once you’re bared to him, he seems to move slower. His hands go up to fondle them with uncharacteristic gentleness and you suck in a breath. His eyes darken to black, shiny knobs at your reaction and he maintains eye-contact with you while he presses a gentle kiss over your nipple, pulling it into his mouth.
A moan slips out at the sensation. So that’s what that should feel like.
“Wanna know a secret?” he murmurs between kissing and sucking, moving over to your other breast. You nod, uncertain whether or not he can see you.
“Want you too. Wanted you since we were kids.”
You look down at him. He is seemingly avoiding your eyes. Your brain is a little hazy but still operational for the most part.
“Since when?”
“Just fuckin’ told you,” he says, moving a warm hand up your thigh. It’s a distraction tactic.
“No but when? What age?” Your voice is coming out breathy with the way his thumb is creeping underneath your shorts, stroking the sensitive crease between your thigh and the hem of your underwear. You wonder with some apprehension if his fingers can sense the warmth radiation from you. You’re soaked through.
“Doesn’t matter,” he says, moving back up to kiss you. His thumb strokes over your panties now and you gasp into his mouth.
“Yes it does. Tell me,” you say. Because you’re muddled and jittery and incredibly fucking worked up, but more than all of that - you’re stubborn.
He gives you a hard look for a second, likely deciding whether he will be able to get you to let this go. You’re not.
“Was sweet on you when I was ten,” he says, rubbing you over your underwear harder now. Stars are exploding in your eyes, but the heavy, sluggish machinery that is your brain in its current state still chugs along at its steady, slow rhythm.
“Isn’t that when we first-”
“Yes.”
The shock almost overrides the sensation of his thumb slipping under the waistband of your underwear. But not quite. A loud, whining moan makes Bucky smile, but you still haven’t lost your head completely.
“You’ve liked me since we first met as little kids?”
He makes a loud, frustrated noise that vibrates through you and flips you over so you’re on your back. It happens so quick that it makes you dizzy. He folds himself over you and presses a vigorous kiss to your lips.
“Can you shut the hell up for two seconds?” he grunts, yanking your cotton shorts and underwear over your legs until you’re completely bare underneath him. “Tryna do something here.”
You laugh at him, but it doesn’t last long. He palms your breast briefly before trailing his fingers down, down, down. His fingers just barely graze over your clit and you buck up with a moan. All the humour is gone - you’re struggling to remember what you even found funny in the first place.
He brings his fingers up then to show them to you, glistening with your wetness. “You see how fucking desperate you are?” he asks. “Barely touched you and look how you’re reacting. Nobody’s ever touched you right, have they?”
You shake your head unthinkingly and his smile widens. It’s almost predatory.
“Poor thing,” he says with a smirk, lowering his hand once again to stroke over your clit. “I can tell. All jerky and twitchy. Just wait ‘till I get my cock in you.”
The whine you emit at his words slowly turns itself into a moan as he dips a finger into you. Slow, just feeling. He adds another when he sees how easily you accept the first. You had been right in everything you had ever thought about his fingers and how good they would feel inside you, how much they would stretch you out. Except it didn’t quite cover it.
None of the other college boys you had fucked had fingers like this. Calloused and big and rough. You clench around him when he begins to stroke, expertly curling into the perfect angle to hit that spongey spot inside you. Where the fuck did he learn to do this?
He presses you down with his other hand splayed over your stomach, stopping your hips which are moving down, trying to meet the rhythm of his fingers. The pressure it puts on your lower stomach makes you clench around him.
“Y’feel so fucking tight,” he grunts, eyes on your lips. “This what you wanted, huh? This what you touched yourself thinking about?”
You nod, but it’s not enough. He pauses his ministrations and raises his eyebrows for an answer.
“Yes, I- fuck, yes keep going - I thought about this when I got myself off.”
“For how long?” he demands.
“I- what?” you ask, feeling a bit dumb. His lip twitches impatiently.
“How long have you been thinking about me like this? With my fingers stuffing your tight little pussy?”
Your face heats up with shame, but you know if you don’t answer him, he will stop again. And that’s a lousy deal.
“A long time,” you say, hoping he will accept it as an answer. Thankfully, he does.
“Fuck, sweetheart. Should’ve told me. Wouldn’t have let you go unsatisfied like all these other assholes. Would’ve kept this pussy so busy, you wouldn’t have had the time to write in that silly little book. Would’ve put you in your place.”
“Put me in my place?” you spit, dragged out of the floaty headspace you had been in. Unfortunately you can’t concentrate too much on your anger and indignation. The pleasure he’s giving you is too much to hold on to anything else but him. It does nothing to stave off your incoming orgasm - if it wasn’t so fucked up, you might admit that it probably brings you closer to the edge. His fingers push into you smooth and hard. He grinds his palm against your clit.
“Yeah, put you in your place. Such a fucking spoiled brat, always throwing tantrums and bitching. Whole time you just needed a good fuck. Well I’ll give you plenty, baby. Sort you right out. Your family can thank me for your good behaviour when they’re home.”
There’s something fucked up about the way his mean - and undoubtedly problematic - words push you over the edge. You clench down and all but explode over his fingers, bright spots in your eyes. You’re not sure if you’ve ever come so fast before, or so intensely. Your head is still spinning while you come down, twitching around his fingers until he draws them back out.
Your vision is still slightly blurred, but you see Bucky sliding his fingers into his mouth. He doesn’t even make a show of it - he’s not even trying to make you watch him. He’s just tasting you for the pleasure of it. Your pussy jumps.
When he kisses you, you can taste yourself on his tongue. You should be spent by now, or at least somewhat less horny but you’re not. Your brain and body have clearly made a pact to make the most of your time with the man who has been driving you crazy for years. You begin to gush again when he bites your bottom lip. He releases a smoky chuckle against your mouth when your hips twitch against him.
He pulls up, standing over the bed to unbutton his jeans.
You’re still a little mad at him over that boorish ‘putting you in your place’ comment, but it does not stop you from getting dizzy when his cock is bared to you.
He’s the biggest you’ve ever seen and it’s not even close. Part of you knew he would be, but you didn’t think it would be this pretty. You didn’t even know a cock could be pretty.
It’s huge and rock hard where it presses up on his stomach. It’s very slightly curved with veins running up the flushed, heavy length. Your arm raises upwards unconsciously just to see how it would look in your hand, but you think better of it and quickly tuck it away again.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” he asks and you realise he has been watching your reaction the whole time. Your face burns. “Feelin’ shy?”
Your mouth opens and closes. “I don’t know how much…” you trail off, uncharacteristically nervous. You’ve never had a problem butting heads with Bucky before. Why is he so intimidating like this?
“Y’don’t know if it’ll fit?” he asks. You nod lightly and watch his cock give a small, light twitch. He takes it in his hand and gives it one slow pump. It makes your mouth hang open.
“Don’t worry, angel, we’ll take it slow. Don’t want to break you. Not this time, anyway.”
Feeling brave, you reach forward and take his warm, heavy cock in your fingers. It looks so much bigger in your hand than it does in his own and the sight makes your gut curl in both dread and excitement. He throws his head back, eyes half-lidded and dazed.
You give him one small pump and he grabs your wrist, shaking his head at you. You glare up at him.
“What the hell, Bucky? Don’t-”
He leans forward, grabbing your jaw in his hand roughly. “I know you wanna play with it so bad, sweetheart, but you can do that later. I’ll let you play with it as much as you want. But I’ve waited long enough and I’m not wasting another second. Gonna fill that tight cunt now. You hear me?”
You’re back in that floaty headspace, body feeling light, head feeling dreamy. You nod.
He smiles, using his leverage on your jaw to bring you in for a kiss while he climbs on top of you. You can feel the head of his hard cock pressing against your stomach.
“Good girl,” he says, moving away to lather kisses over your neck. His hips move to press the tip of his cock against your clit and you gasp. “My good girl You’re so sweet when you’re doing what I tell you to. Wish I’d known I could shut you up like this.”
You’re trying to be pissed off. You really are. But if you can be completely honest with yourself, it’s just turning you on more.
Your brain is almost gone, but you have one last spark of sentience. “Condom,” you gasp. “In my room.”
Bucky laughs against your neck. “You think I’m wearin’ a rubber with you?”
“Wha- yes?”
“Don’t fuck with me, sweetheart, I know you’re on the pill. Seen it in your bathroom.”
“What were you doing in my-”
“I’m clean, just got checked. And I’m willing to bet you’ve never let anyone use this prissy little pussy without a condom before.”
You take a second, trying to assess how you feel about this. He really is such a douchebag, but he’s a douchebag you know incredibly well - he wouldn’t lie to you about this. You’re sure you could talk him into wearing a condom, but it might take a lot of back-and-forth. And his cock is teasing your hole now, and you’re squeezing around nothing, trying to suck him in. His cock is fully lubricated, all from the wetness between your thighs. You don’t say anything, but your body goes a bit limp.
“Yeah?” he says, celebrating his victory with a smile. You feel it against your collarbone. “You gonna let me skip the rubber?”
“Yeah,” you breathe. “Just stop fucking around Bucky. Please.”
He laughs lightly and begins to press in, the tight ring of muscle protesting against his size. You seize up while he stretches you out. It’s leaving a tight and uncomfortable sensation in your abdomen and you let out a quiet yelp.
“Such a good girl,” he says, reaching down to stroke your clit. He’s thrusting in slow, giving you just a little bit more with every press. His voice is low, as if he’s trying to comfort you, but it’s still coming across slightly patronising. “Letting me fuck you raw. Gonna take my cum like the good girl you are.”
You’re loosening up with the help of his dirty words and his fingers on your clit, drawing tight circles. It’s starting to feel good - more than good. But he’s still not in all the way. You have no idea how you’re going to take him.
His cock is insistent inside you, pressing in further and further while he whispers filthy praises and encouragements on your sweat-glistening skin. You brain is becoming jumbled with pleasure and the overwhelming sensation of fullness.
“This what you pictured when those other limp-dick assholes used to fuck you?” he grunts, bottoming out. You yelp at the angle he hits, body squirming around him. You thought you knew what getting fucked deep felt like, but you had never felt this.
He pulls out and presses another punishing thrust into you. You gasp. “Answer.”
“Yes,” you say and you might be on the verge of tears. You can’t wrap your head around what’s happening. Everything feels a little blurry and his finger on your clit is still drawing tight circles. You just know that you need him to move. “Pictured you every time.”
He rewards you by beginning to slowly pull out and in, gently getting you used to his size. You’re filled to the brim with him. “I know. Read all about it in that dirty little book. Made them take you doggy so you could pretend it was me. So fucking desperate.”
Shame and pleasure are amalgamating in your stomach. It’s creating something more powerful than just the feeling of him moving inside you. It’s all becoming a bit too much, but in a way that you can’t help but love.
“It’s okay, angel. I’m no better than you. You turn me into such a fucking creep. Picking up girls who look like you. Leaving the dinner table to jerk it in the bathroom when you get all bratty and whiny.”
Just the thought of that makes you startle, pussy clenching around him. He looks so pretty, blue eyes dark with want, pink lips crushed between his teeth, gaze zeroed in on where you’re taking him, the light imprint in your tummy. The pleasure of it - the culmination of all your want - has you gasping, tears leaking from your eyes and trickling down your cheeks.
He sees it and startles. You can read it all on his face now - the awe and adoration.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he cooes, thumb reaching up to brush a fat tear from the corner of your eye. “Always been such a crybaby. You’re so pretty like this, such a pretty crier.”
It makes the tears puddle faster, the pleasure bordering on too much.
“I know, baby. It’s so much, isn’t it? I know,” he soothes you, while his hips work in direct opposition - fucking into you with brutality. It’s not just the pleasure, but the overwhelming emotion. You can’t work out exactly what you’re feeling, and you know that now isn’t the time to figure it out anyway.
Instead, you just let yourself feel it. The way his hips grind against yours, the feeling of him stretching you out, the crescendo of all that pent-up want finally bursting into song. You can’t stop looking at him, how pretty and fucked-out he is above you, even when he’s still pretending he hasn’t lost an ounce of control.
“Stop with those fuckin’ eyes,” he grunts, catching your gaze. You’re still teary-eyed and pouty. “Gonna make me lose it early.”
The thought of him spilling inside you does nothing to curb the feeling. Your eyes widen and he grunts, pulling out of you and sitting up with his eyes squeezed shut. He takes a deep, dogged breath.
“Turn around,” he bites out.
With the way his face is pinched, eyes squeezed tight, he might be greatly suffering or experiencing a euphoria of pleasure. You don’t disobey a man at either point.
You spin around, face-down on the bed. You can hear him shuffle around, but seconds pass where you don’t feel his skin on yours. The anticipation makes you shiver.
When you finally do feel his touch, it’s his two hands slowly stroking down your hips. You lean backwards into his touch, whimpering just a little.
“What you whining for now?” he asks from behind you. You hear the smile in his voice.
“Put it back in,” you moan, pushing back on him until you feel his cock prod against your ass. You’re no longer feeling any shame at your desperation. You’re too far gone.
He takes your hip firmly with his prosthetic hand, the other moving down to give your ass a loving pat. “You need it that bad?”
“Don’t be a dick.”
He laughs low. “Still so fucking bratty. Think I can fuck it outta you?”
You can do nothing but nod, head rolling forward while the thick tip prods your entrance, sliding in slowly once more.
“That’s it,” he groans. He feels so much deeper like this. You can feel him all the way up your stomach to your throat. “Knew you’d take my cock like this. Knew you’d feel this good, just didn’t think you’d be this fucking dirty.”
“Fuck, Bucky, I need you,” you moan. You’re obscurely aware of the fact that you’ll probably be cringing at the memory of saying those words later, but it matters very little to you in this moment. “Needed you so bad.”
“Yeah?” he grunts. “Why don’t you tell me what you needed so bad?”
Your brain is moving like slow, heavy machinery again - too slow to come up with anything. “I- no, Bucky, I can’t-”
“Let me help you out.”
His arm reaches out in front of you, pulling out the godforsaken book that started this entire mess in the first place. You’re still a bit dumb, watching him pull open the book and flick to a page he has ear-marked - like a significant page in his favourite book. He slams it in front of you palm pressing it open until you take it from him cautiously. You look down at the book uncomprehending, body still jostling with the force of his thrusts.
“Read.”
Your head spins back, even though you can’t see him from this angle. He can’t be serious.
One firm pinch to your ass confirms that he is.
Face burning and stomach clawing with shame and arousal, you clear your throat. Your voice comes out breathy and high.
“Matt always wore a condom but I think Bucky would be such a jerk about it. I wouldn't even mind. The thought of him coming inside me turns me on so- ooh!”-
Bucky’s hand reaches down below you, stroking at your clit.
“- so much. I really want him to fill me up. I wonder if he - fuck, Bucky - cums a lot. Whenever I think about him fucking me, I picture him filling me up to the brim until I’m dripping with his…”
You can’t go on any more. It just gets filthier from then on and you’re already on the verge of coming again. Thankfully, that seems to do enough for him.
“Jesus, you have a thing for this shit? That’s real fucking dirty, sweetheart. I promise I got a big fucking load for you. You’re the only one who is gonna take it from now on.”
You want to snap that he clearly has a thing for it too, judging by how riled up he is. He’s panting behind you, losing his rhythm. But you can’t do any such thing. All you can do is moan unintelligibly. You feel the familiar prickle behind your eyes, tears spilling out while you sniffle.
“Aw angel, you know what those tears do to me. Can’t help but give you what you want. You want my cum?”
You nod enthusiastically, spasming around him. You just wish you could see his face right now, but you can picture it.
“Fuck, yeah you do,” he growls. “Such a good girl for me. My good girl, all mine. Gonna give you my cum now, never gonna let you go empty from now on.”
With a firm hand between your neck and shoulder, he drags you upright against him. Your hands reach out to balance yourself against the headboard and he moves your jaw back until your mouth meets his. The kiss is brutal and sloppy, the angle not-quite-right, but just the feeling of his lips on yours and the movement of your tongues against each other makes you tumble off the edge.
A surge of unbridled want courses through you. You cry into his mouth, tears spilling between your lips until you can taste the salt. It’s either the taste of your tears or the sensation of your walls fluttering around him that causes Bucky to grunt, dick twitching once before spilling deep inside.
You had thought about this almost obsessively since you were old enough to understand the possibility. Somehow, you underestimated what it would do to you.
You might be floating or flying or drifting out of consciousness, but you are very conscious of the fact that you had never really known what it means to experience true pleasure until this moment. The noises he makes are filthy while he pumps you full of him, but you’re sure you’re likely giving as good as you’re getting. Not that you have the faintest awareness of what you’re saying.
Bucky wasn’t lying. You can feel his heavy load dripping out of you you, messing your thighs and the sheets. He continues to bounce you on his cock slowly and gently even after you have both come down from your highs. You’re sensitive and sore, but there’s something comforting about small, shallow thrusts, even if the squelching noises it’s making are obscene.
Eventually, he slides himself out of you and wraps himself around you instead. He envelopes you in a sort of gentle tackle, pulling your exhausted body with him deeper into the sheets.
“You still with me, sweetheart?” he asks, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. You can feel his stubble against your temples, his breath on your skin.
“Uh huh” you try. It comes out as more of a garble. He laughs, light and airy.
You open your eyes, take in his tired, happy grin. His blue eyes have gone bright again.
“Thought you said you weren’t gonna break me,” you say sardonically.
He plays with your hair, twirls it around a finger. “Might have gotten carried away.”
You roll your eyes. He does a poor imitation of you, rolling his eyes all the way back into his skull in mockery. You try to glare but it doesn’t work against your smile. You settle back down against his chest. Feel it vibrate while he laughs.
“You really meant that?” you ask after a moment. You cough away a scratch in your voice. “About wanting me since we were kids?”
“Hell yeah,” he chuckles. Your head bounces against his chest lightly. “I was so crazy about you when we were kids. Can’t believe you didn’t know.”
“How could I know? You were always so mean to me.”
“Don’t tell me you don’t know what that means in kid-language.”
“You still are. Sometimes.”
He raises his head to look down at you, searching your face. “Old habits.”
You nod, but you’re still working through everything in your head. Your post-orgasmic brain is working no faster than it was ten minutes ago.
“I’m sorry for reading your diary,” he says after a few seconds and you swear you might see the raw edge of panic sitting somewhere there on his face. “It was a shitty thing to do. I don’t regret it, because I don’t know that I would have ever had the balls to make a move otherwise, but I am sorry.”
It’s so bizarre, so completely unexpected, you can only stare. He’s looking back at you with an uncharacteristic nervousness that makes you slightly uncomfortable. Truthfully, you had forgotten you were even mad about the privacy violation in the first place. Maybe it’s the two orgasms.
You still don’t want to have a heart-to-heart with Bucky - that might be pushing things a bit too far, a bit too early. Instead you lean forward to give him a small, chaste kiss. He smiles.
“I’ll make it up to you,” he says, pressing small kisses to your lips, moving down your cheek and on to your neck. “Just wait ‘till I get my tongue on you.”
You tense up, resolutely ignoring the heat pooling low in your stomach. There is no way in hell you can endure another round right now. Your limbs are still shaking.
Whatever expression is on your face makes Bucky laugh. “Don’t look at me like that. I’ll give you a couple hours. We got two long weeks in this house by ourselves.”
a/n: the diary entries are basically just my dms with my moots lmao
✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦
✦summary: you and Bucky have been at odds since you first met. he can't stand you. you pretend you can't stand him. and if Bucky ever knew how you really felt, you think you might die. not when there's no chance he'd ever feel the same way. right?✦
✦warnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, modern!au, drinking, no use of y/n, mutual pining, no description of reader (pictures for aesthetic only), fluff, angst, drunken and sober love confessions, little plot to get to all that porn, feral level smut, (dirty talk, mean bucky but you're into it, teasing, possiveness, pussy spanking, praise kink, manhandling, sex toys, overstimulation, squriting, bucky's packing, p in v sex, creampie, breeding kink), soft!bucky outside of smut✦
✦wc: 13.5k✦
✦Author's Note: i think i got possessed with this one. was barking to myself writing. Enjoy!✦
He’s the kind of beautiful that makes you want to strangle him.
Bucky walks around your apartment like he owns it, laughing all loud and musical, smiling like he fell out of a movie, running a hand through his hair and forcing you to see his sculpted torso and tanned skin. He barely fits in his shirt as it is, there’s no need for him to show off about it.
You’ve pressed yourself right to the corner of you couch, watching him silently. Watching all of them, but mostly Bucky. And his shining eyes and full lips and thick arms. Those things should be classified as weapons, or at least hazards. It’s too easy to imagine him wrapping them around you, pining you to the couch, handling you like a doll but still so gently-
“You’re staring at me again.” He drawls, and you start.
You give him an unimpressed glare, hoping your flush stays hidden in the low light of the room. “Shut up.”
“So nice to me, sweetheart.” He mocks, leaning a little further down. “Bet you dream about me, don’t you. Up all night with that rabbit Nat got you-“
You shove your foot up, slamming it square on his chest. He’d been getting too close. You’d been able to smell his cologne, and it made your head spin like opium. Bucky laughs again, walking away like you’re not even worth the argument. Your heart stings, but you ignore it. It’s an old bruise. You’re usually good at not pressing it, at pretending it doesn’t exist.
But Bucky exists only to torture you. So it never fully heals.
He’d been teasing about the rabbit thing. It had been a gag gift for secret Santa, and after Nat had even gotten you a very nice pair of shoes when you were in private. But Bucky’s clung onto it, like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever thought of. You, with a vibrator. You possibly being able to get off, when you’re the uptight little prude. The one who never brings back hookups, never dates, just sits in corners like an ivy, clinging to the shadows and watching everything else live around her.
You’ve never been fun. Never been someone Bucky would’ve chosen to know. He didn’t choose to know you. You knew a girl who worked with another girl, and that girl had a boyfriend who knew a girl who needed a roommate. You needed a roommate. You had good credit—because you’re boring—and the girl interviewing you had taken a liking to you.
Natasha rode a motorcycle. She worked in a job she was allowed to tell you about—something in black ops, that explained all the wigs in her closet—and spoke five languages. She baked calm down, and went to shooting ranges to calm down, and insisted on getting you a gun license so she’d feel more comfortable with all the hidden guns in the house.
“Hidden guns?” You’d asked, feeling your face blanch. She’d just smiled.
“You’ll never find them all. Let’s go, it’ll be easy.”
It had not been easy. But you understood how—to someone like Nat—it might be. She’d never lost patience with you, but she’d still made it look easy. When you’d gotten home and mumbled that you needed to go shower for an hour, she’d just patted your head like you were a bunny and smiled.
She might’ve been your first real friend in a while. Because it’s not that you’re not… personable. You’re just a little mean tongued. And nervous. And boring, and blunt, and you don’t like leaving the house unless someone grabs the scruff of your neck and drags you. You go to work, and you go home, and that’s mostly it. Your closest friends before Natasha had been co-workers. And you’d been really, truly happy with that.
But interesting people have interesting friends.
Natasha had a lot of friends. And they moved in and out of your apartment like they lived there.
Tony was a tech titan who you used to watch on the news, and now he left crumbs all over your couch. Wanda was a refugee and artist, and Clint worked in that same black ops thing Nat did. Steve had worked in it, but left to start his own non-profit with Sam. They all went far back, to elementary schools and playgrounds and clubs. They had history, but they were kind to you. Treated you like your little bachelor’s degree and normal person job fit in with their grand showmanship and large personalities that had been sucked right off the movie screen.
Most of them treated you like that.
Bucky didn’t.
Before you’d been introduced to him, Nat had described his as basically Steve’s brother, and it had been a striking endorsement. Steve had been kind to you. He brought you to a movie you’d really wanted to see, and never made fun of your stuffed animal collection. No brother of his could be all that bad, certainly not one even Nat described as charming and kind and not bad on the eyes.
Only one of those things was true.
Bucky Barnes is not bad on the eyes. You’d classify as maybe a medicine for the eyes, a miracle for the eyes, a blessing on a weary and tired viewer. He works in security or something, and it shows in his body. Sometimes he lets his hair grow out, and it’s frames his strong jaw and nose perfectly, all while making you want to run your fingers through each lock. You’re sure it would be like petting a very well-kept dog. He cares for it better than you care for yourself.
He’s got those eyes that knocked all the thoughts out of you, the moment you saw him. They’d sparkled and shone with his polite, white smile, and you’d just been swaying there like a lost scarecrow in a tornado. Your brain had been reduced to a fuzzy TV static and loud blaring noise, like you’d lost your own connection. Bucky had flexed his hand, a silent reminder you were supposed to shake it, and you hadn’t been able to get enough control over your body to even smile back.
His hand had been big. Calloused, with thick fingers and a lot of tiny scars. You’d shivered just at the idea of his touch. It might’ve been warm.
Might’ve been.
If Bucky had ever bothered to touch you at all.
By the time you’d dragged control back into your body, Bucky had given up and moved on. His ears had been a little red, in the moments after. You’d opened your mouth to apologize, make any excuse that would get him to offer a hand again.
He’d turned and walked away. Hadn’t looked at you for the rest of the night.
And when he looks at you now, it’s with something sharp behind his gaze. He never looks at anyone else like that. Never teases or mocks them, either. Acting like their mere presence in the room is a plague on his refined, perfect existence. He certainly never suggests they won’t be able to make it up five flights of stairs or asks if they’re sure they want to go out for the night.
You hate stairs. And you don’t want to go out for the night.
There’s only one thing more powerful than your picky little aversions, though.
The petty, blistering feeling at the top of your chest, that refuses to let Bucky win.
“You’re really coming with us?” Bucky calls your name from the kitchen, and you lift your chin, trying to look down your nose at the massive man.
“I was invited.”
“You’re always invited, you never actually get off the damn couch-“
“Barnes.” Nat walks past him, whacking his arm. “Don’t question miracles.”
You roll your eyes. “It’s not a miracle-“
“Yes it is.” She grabs your arm, hauling you off the couch like you weigh nothing. “I’ve been asking you to do this for years, I’m not letting Bucky frighten you off with his Buckying.”
That makes you giggle, and Bucky frowns. You catch him shooting Steve a look you can’t really read, and Steve just shrugs in return.
“I’m not trying to ruin it.” Bucky says, lofty and bored. “I’m just sayin’ she never comes out with us, and it might be a lot for the little doe to be shoved into the jungle or whatever-“
“You’re a poet.” Natasha says, giving him a flat glare. “Go wait in the car.”
Bucky scowls. “The car-“
“If you act like a dog, you wait in the car.”
“I am not acting like a dog-“
Sam raises his hand. “I caught him humping the furniture this mornin’ when he heard about it-“
“Sam.” Bucky hisses. “Shut the hell up before I knock your teeth out-“
“Steven.” Nat gives him a firm nod, and he sighs.
“Yeah, I got it.”
Bucky and Sam aren’t small men, but Steve grabs them by the collar and drags them out of the room without breaking a sweat. Leaving you and Nat in a suddenly very quiet apartment, a lingering smell of spice and pine still clouding the air.
Another reason you hate Bucky coming over. He’s mean to you, and he’s nice to everyone else, and he questions you then leaves the whole room stained in his presence.
“Ignore Barnes.” Natasha says it like an order, and it probably is.
You smile at her. “I always do.”
You think it comes off airy and convincing. Nat looks at you like she’s trying not to either scoff, or laugh. Before you can insist on anything, she’s grabbing your hand and dragging you into the bathroom. You did promise you’d let her get you ready. When you’d told her you could do makeup and prep yourself, she’d snorted and said maybe, but I’ll do it better.
One of the first lessons you learned was not to argue with Natasha when she’s sure of something. You let her sit you on the counter and sort through your makeup bag, finding everything she deems worthy of being on your face tonight. Your outfit hangs on the door, and you did choose that, but after Nat vetoed three others.
It’s nothing special. A short dress and heels that will blend right in a club. It hadn’t been that different from your other suggestions. But it had gotten a curt nod of approval and smirk from Nat, so it had something. You’re smarter than to question what.
“You should talk to Bucky tonight.” Nat says suddenly, and you blink at her in surprise.
“I- What?”
“Make him apologize. For being an ass to you.”
“That’s- It’s fine-“
“No, it’s not.” Nat gives you a firm look, and you sigh.
“I know, but- I don’t really care, okay? That’s just- It’s Bucky, right?”
You give her a weak smile, and this one doesn’t even convince you.
It is just Bucky. He’s charming and sweet and handsome, and he hates just you. So you hate him in return, just for being so perfect and deciding you’re the only person in the world not worthy of his attention. It would be easier if he really was a bad man. If you didn’t know he volunteered with kids and Steve’s foundation, if he didn’t advocate for his fellow veterans, if he hadn’t made his ma’s chicken soup when you and Nat had both caught something last winter, and taken the time to drop it off in person.
For Nat.
Because you’re just… Not worth it for him. Not worth his time, not worth his smiling, barely worth anything more than glowering stares and taunting words. And you’re not weak. You fight back every day, and keep all of your desires and affection buried deep in the pit of your stomach and swollen like an infection around your heart.
He never has to know that you think about him all the time. That you feel yourself bloom whenever your eyes meet, then wither when his gaze snaps away. Whenever he presses his body over yours just to tease you, the heat of his body makes your breath hitch. You spend long days daydreaming about how good a boyfriend he’d be, if he didn’t hate you. Attentive and caring and giving.
Every night you think about how giving he’d be. Flowers and coffee like he brings Wanda for galleries, or for Nat or Clint when they’ve been working late night shifts. He likes watching TV, you know, because he spends a lot of time sitting next to you on the couch and loudly making comments until you threaten to force-feed him bleach. But if that wasn’t the blunt and unforgiving knife of reality, you could just lay in his arms forever.
He could pick you up and carry you to bed. The same bed that you put that accursed vibrated between your legs, close your eyes, and dream of him railing you into the mattress. Fucking you until you can’t stand, until you can’t speak or thing, until your eyes are rolling back and your mouth can’t even figure out how to close, so he kisses you possessively or gives you some of those thick fingers to suck on-
“You should still talk to him.” Natasha’s words are blunt. If she’s noticed how you’ve been working yourself up, she doesn’t say a single word. “Before he does something stupid.”
You snort. “Bucky always does something dumb-“
“No. He does a lot of dumb things. Close your eyes.” Nat picks up an eyeliner, and you obey. “But there’s a difference between dumb and stupid. Stupid is harder to take back.”
You grunt, and you don’t think anything stupid Bucky does is going to have anything to do with you. But something scratches at your brain, and it’s green and bitter. Your fingers fidget in your lap, and you shouldn’t ask, but-
“Is he bringing someone?” You blurt, and just the idea makes you sick. Bucky with some model-type, holding her hips while she grinds onto him, all the honey he’d pour into her ears and down her throat while you just hugged yourself in the corner of the room. Her sitting on his lap in your apartment, you trying to hide the ugliness of jealousy but never being able to spare her more than a crude sneer. It’s the only reason Nat would possibly want you to talk to him. You and Bucky’s childish game of pulling each other’s hair and biting without teeth and seeing who breaks first, it ruins his picture of the perfect suitor. If you keep it up, you’ll ruin this for him, and he deserves to be happy but the thought of him being happy while you just sink into yourself like quicksand makes you want to die-
“Jesus, no.” Nat laughs. “That’s- Never mind.” She shakes her head, still chuckling about some secret you apparently don’t get to be a part of.
“What?” You try to push. “I’ve heard about his- You know. Promiscuity.”
Nat snorts. “From who?”
“Sam.”
“Sam’s an idiot.” She dismisses plainly, and you frown.
“Tony’s mentioned it too-“
“They’re both idiots.”
“Bucky’s told me, he said he leaves all his girls satisfied-“
“Bucky is the biggest idiot of all of them. Open.”
You listen again, and find Nat smiling at you with a strangely soft affection. Like you’re some wet kitten she rescued off the street.
“Put on your dress.” She says, wiping the corners of your slightly pouting lips. “Talk to Barnes.”
At the very least, you manage to follow one of those orders.
The dress is a little shorter than you thought it would be. It rides up your thighs, forcing you to pull it down with every step. In the car you cross your legs and stare at the floor, grounding yourself in the bass of Nat’s loud music as your heartbeat starts to pick up. You’re going out. You’re going out. Spiting Bucky was not a good enough reason to do this, it’s going to be loud and you can dance but not in front of strangers, and you’re going to be even more boring than usual and you feel like a fraud.
“Nice dress.”
Bucky’s voice is a low behind you, his breath fanning on your neck. You almost scream.
“Christ, calm down.” He’s grinning when you whip around, leaning forward in his seat to whisper. Sam and Steve are next to him, one very pointedly staring out the window, the other looking at something on his phone and humming like he’s already trying to drown out you and Bucky’s fighting.
“You scared me-“
“You saw me get in the car, sweetheart. Not my fault you’re jumpy-“
“I am not jumpy-“
“You are. Like a bunny.” His grin widens, and you scowl.
The shifting streetlamps make him look like an angel. Golden halo rays behind his head, long shadows that make him look even more rugged than usual. His lips look fuller, softer, eyes glimmering like a floodlight through the dark, and-
“Shut up.” You snap, turning back around. You can’t keep looking at him. It’s dangerous.
“I was just saying your dress was nice.” Bucky’s breath tickles your neck. You wrap your arms tight around your stomach.
“You also called me a rabbit.”
“Called you a bunny-“
“That’s the same thing.”
“No, it’s-“ He sighs, shaking his head. “You’re impossible, you know that?”
You flip him off over your shoulder, glaring firmly out the windshield. You can feel him retreat, but the closeness had lit up your nerves, and now they’re buzzing with hope that he’ll return.
Stupid fucking body. Stupid fucking Bucky.
You refuse to look at him when you arrive. You stumble a little bit in your heels—Natsha insisted on six inch, which is far too tall for anyone—and Bucky catches your arm, holding you upright. You brush his hand off like a fly and march on, refusing to give him the satisfaction of some other comment about how you’re like a baby deer.
When you get inside, you can smell it. The stench of sweat and alcohol and something fruity they probably use to cover the first smells. You cling to Natasha, letting her guide you through the crowd to the bar. She orders you two shots because you need them, and you don’t argue. Between Bucky and the club, you do.
You down them both without flinching, and Sam whistles from behind you.
“Damn, you took those like a champ.”
You shrug, and Sam elbows Bucky.
“You see that, Buck-“
“Yeah. I saw it.”
Bucky’s voice is lower than usual. Almost sullen. You’d examine him, try to figure out what’s wrong with him, but you’re not supposed to be letting yourself care. He’s not your problem tonight. You’re here to indulge in fun.
You’re already not very good at that as is. Bucky’s consuming presence isn’t going to help.
Another drink might.
You’re three shots in when Nat brings you out to the dance floor. The liquor is pulling you lose, the frayed knot that’s always in your chest going slack enough to allow you to dance. You’re smiling and laughing like a normal person, almost completely able to forget to check where Bucky is in the room.
Near the edge of the crowd, drinking and talking to Steve.
A fourth shot might be needed.
You’re smiling like a fool now. The room is tilted a little, all the colors neon, but they blind out your usual worried and the tilt helps your worries slide off your body. You’re able to forget about Bucky until you notice a girl talking to him, and you take a fifth shot. A sixth, when he vanishes for nine and a half minutes, and your brain starts to map everything he might be doing to that girl.
Seven, when the first stranger asks you to dance and you’re not drunk enough to forget about Bucky and say yes.
Eight, when he tries to kiss you and you shove him away, because his lips aren’t pink enough and he’s not broad enough for you to every pretend.
Nat tries to cut you off there. You slip past her, and take a ninth. The room is just a blur now. You can’t fully remember who Nat is, and why you’re trying to avoid her. There’s a man with his hands on your hips, and he’s got dark hair that looks too greasy for you to touch. Another man calls you sweetheart, but he says it a little wrong and it makes you want to cry. None of them have the right eyes, and the ones that are closer don’t have the right smile.
You feel like you’re going to cry, by the time you’ve rejected the eleventh man. Or only fourth. Numbers don’t feel real right now. Most everything doesn’t feel real.
Everything except Bucky.
Because your own name is just a sound in your head that sounds foreign, but Bucky says it and you know to turn around.
It’s less because it’s your name. More because Bucky called you.
You smile, swaying on your feet, and you’re not even sure where you are anymore. It’s somewhere with a lot of people. Loud music. It’s dark, but bright at the same time, and Bucky looks like a walking dream as he moves towards you. Your vision swims, but he’s made of clear lines and a stern expression.
He’s mad at you. Your face falls, lip wobbling, and you take a step back. You don’t want him to be mad at you. Your heart is already beating in your ears, Bucky’s anger or distain might make it burst.
“Where the hell did you go?” He snaps, and you bow your head.
“I- I dunno-“ You hiccup, hugging yourself tight.
“Nat’s been looking for you, Steve barely stopped her from trying to make the building go into lockdown, and I-“ He cuts himself off, running a hand over his face, and you blink the tears away.
You’re looking up at him under your lashes, and he’s still angry. Some distant voice in your head tells you it’s your fault entirely. That he must’ve been about to go home with someone when they lost you, and now he’s pissed he had to pause his night to find you. You sniff, wiping your nose with your arm.
Bucky’s frown deepens. He takes a step forward, and you try to step back but balance feels like an Olympic feat right now.
His arm loops around your waist, pulling you right against his chest. You stare up at him, tears streaming down your cheeks from feelings you can’t even name anymore. They’re hollow and big and full and made of a million little cuts. They burn in your heart and through your blood, but also freeze in your throat and muscles. You can’t move. You don’t want to move.
Bucky’s big hand is splayed on your back, and you don’t want to go anywhere you can’t feel him.
That voice from before reminds you that’s not allowed, so you wiggle a little.
Bucky holds you tighter, and you surrender in a split second. His frown deepens, and you think you’re still crying. Your cheeks are certainly burning, and your throat feels oddly tight.
Gentle fingers brush under your eyes, and you hum softly. Bucky’s nostrils flare, those fingers brushing hair from your face before cupping the back of your head, forcing your gaze onto his.
“Jesus, woman.” He mutters, those beautiful eyes scanning over your slack face. “How much did you have to drink.”
“I dunno.” You breathe. His brow furrows.
“Best guess.”
You shrug, shaking your head, and Bucky sighs. You want to shrink and hide from him, from his obvious annoyance and disappointment. It’s nothing new, but it’s raw like this. You can’t figure out anything, let alone how to pretend like his hatred doesn’t bother you. You try to turn and hide your face, but Bucky just pulls it right back.
“Over five?” He prompts, and his voice is so soft. Like he’s trying to coax the answer out of you.
“I- I don’t know.” You whine slightly, and he sighs.
“Yeah. Alright.” Bucky’s throat bobs, and he looks up. Glances around you, his hands never leaving your body.
You stare up at him in the dark. You’re not supposed to be looking at him, but it’s impossible. He’s magnetic, and beautiful, and you’ve never been this close to him without one of you trying to claw at the other.
But your fingers cling to the fabric of his shirt, and it’s not to draw blood. You just don’t think that if he walks away you’re going to be able to stand up.
Bucky looks back down at you, and his tongue flicks over his lips. His thumb drags slowly over your cheekbone, leaving a little trail of fire in its wake. Your breathing gets shallow, your eyes fluttering. Everything feels like a lot. Like you’re so high in the atmosphere the air is starting to get thin. Bucky’s brow furrows, and he works his jaw like he does when he’s thinking.
You’ve always wanted to reach up and touch the lines that form on his face, when he worries. They’re deep, and still handsome, but they only ever mark that he’s stressed. He shouldn’t be. It’s only you, and you’re nothing to him.
He lets out a heavy breath through his nose, his hand dragging down to cup the back of your neck. You tip your head back, waiting for him to do something. Kiss you. Bite you. Slam you back against the wall and relieve the ache, building up between your thighs. Maybe just smell you and let his lips brush over a sensitive spot on your neck, teasing you like always until you’re crying and begging for him.
Instead, Bucky just sighs. He pulls you forward, twisting you until you’re in front of him. His arms cage you to his chest, and he’s almost herding you down the hall.
“Where’re we going?” You tip your head back, and find him glowering at everyone around you.
They’re all moving so fast, stumbling in your path then scrambling away under Bucky’s glower. His eyes flick down to yours for a second, and maybe it’s the delusions of grandeur and liquor, but you could swear they soften slightly.
“We’re gettin’ you home.” He mutters, shouldering the door open. “You need to sleep this off.”
You wrinkle your nose as the chill of night air hits you. “But it’s cold-“
“Car will be warm.”
“But we don’t have a car-“
“We’re taking Nat’s.”
You scoff. “Nat would never give you her car-“
“Well, she did.” He grunts, voice dropping under his breath. “You’d never give me your car.”
“I don’t have a car.” You snap, and Bucky chuckles dryly.
“Yeah, I know.” He opens the door, giving you an amused look. “Up and in, baby.”
Your whole world stops for a second. You feel like you’re floating, a ditzy smile crossing your face, and you start to giggle because he called you baby. Bucky called you baby, like you matter to him, and he’s touching you.
Bucky sighs when you don’t move, and bends down. He scoops you up and drops you in the car like you weigh nothing. You’re still giggling when he closes the door and walks around the hood, sliding into the driver’s seat. For a second you stop, looking out the club with a frown. The world is still hazy, but you can see the neon sign, and it feels like you’re forgetting things that are very important-
“They’re all goin’ back to our place.” Bucky grunts, and you look over to find him staring at you with one of those stone-faced, unreadable expressions that he only uses around you. “It’s closer, cab will be cheaper.”
You frown. “Why aren’t they riding with us?”
“’Cause we’re going back to yours.”
“Why?”
“’Cause.” Is all Bucky offers. He starts the car before you can ask another question, and puts his arm around your seat to back out of the spot.
Nat has a back cam. He just always does it like this, and you’ve always chalked it up to his big, responsible man thing. Usually when the arm is around you, you glare out the window and pretend you can’t feel how close he is. How his fingers brush your upper arm, or how his smell gets stronger.
Tonight you can’t really remember why you do that. And Bucky does really smell good.
You turn your cheek, pressing it into his bicep. Bucky freezes, the car jerking to a stop, and you can feel his attention. It sparks a tiny fire in your core, and seeps down between your thighs. Your lips graze his skin, and he coughs.
His fingers dip down, brushing near your collarbone. You hum happily, and the car starts moving again.
When you’re out of the parking lot, Bucky doesn’t remove his arm like usual. You’re grateful. If he did, you might have chased it right into his lap.
“You have fun?” Bucky breaks the silence, voice gruff.
You nod, turning to watch him drive. He always does it in a way that’s almost unfairly attractive. He holds the wheel lazily, like he knows it’s under his control. You want him to hold you like that.
Bucky clears his throat. “You, uh- You did good.”
“Good?” You murmur, not fully understanding the praise.
You know it makes you throb, and press your thighs together. Bucky’s eyes flick to the motion, and his throat bobs.
“Yeah.” His grip on the wheel is white knuckled. “Good.”
Silence settles again, and you let yourself stare at him. He’s beautiful. So beautiful it makes you unsure that he’s real. You’d like to trace the line of his jaw, hear his smooth, deep voice again. Hear it say your name, because it’s the only thing that reminds you that you’re real. You can’t remember why you ever deprived yourself of this. Of him, and all his quiet glory. He’s a loud man, but never boastful.
He’s only really boastful to you. When he fixes the shower for Nat or someone brings up his army service, he waves them off and laughs, and you’ve always loved that about him. You love most things about him, even when he’s being insufferable. You sort of love that he’s insufferable, too. You’re not that easy either. And if you wrapped around him, you’re hoping he’d be too chivalrous to cut you off. He could mock you all he wants, you’d just hide your face in his neck and breathe him in. Grounding. Handsome. Impossible to resist.
Your fingers are itching, to touch that sad little furrow. There’s nothing for him to worry about. The world revolves around him.
“Saw you got some numbers.” He grunts suddenly, and you pause.
“Numbers?”
“Phone numbers.”
“Oh.” You reach for you bag, checking that the hard line of your phone is still there. It is. You don’t know what he’s talking about.
“You gonna call any of them?”
“Any of who?”
Bucky gives you an exasperated look, then double takes slightly. His worry lines deepen. It makes you pout, grabbing at your own hands to stop them from reaching for him.
“The guys.” He says slowly, frowning at the road. “That you were talkin’ to.”
Oh. Phone numbers. “No.”
His brows raise. “No?”
You shake your head, and Bucky prompts you with an oddly tight voice.
“Why?”
They’re not you. Even your drunk brain seems to know it’s bad idea to say that. “I didn’t want them.”
“Hm.” Bucky taps his hand on the wheel, shooting you a strange look. “Why?”
You can’t tell him that, but you also can’t think of a good excuse this time. You make a lame, half-hearted sigh, and turn your face back into his arm.
He doesn’t push it. He doesn’t talk for the rest of the drive. His thumb drags little circles on your upper arm, lulling you into a half-sleep only interrupted by the bump of the road. You’re not sure how much longer you’re in the car, and when it stops you can’t really remember what you’re supposed to do now.
Bucky helps. He slides away from you, squeezing your thigh in a silent reassurance before he steps out of the car. Your hand traces over where he’d touched you. Bare skin on skin, hands still light and gentle. He seems to have burned his handprint into you, and it spreads until you’re tingly and weak-kneed.
The door on your side opens, and his voice is low in your ears.
“C’mon, pretty girl.” A strong arm loops around your stomach, pulling you back. “Let’s get you in bed.”
You hum, and let Bucky guide you. You trust him completely, with all your heart and not a single question.
He handles you carefully. Guides you inside, holds you steady in the elevator, takes your keys from your shaking fingers and opens the door. You’re sent to take a shower, but start to trip over nothing the moment Bucky lets go of you, so he sighs and draws you a bath.
“How am I gonna stand?” You mumble, sitting on the toilet while he runs the water. “Or rinse.”
Bucky grunts. “I’ll help.”
You hum in approval, and start to pull off your dress. Bucky makes a strangled sound, eyes flying up to the ceiling, and you’ve never seen his face so red.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Getting ready for a bath?” You frown at him, and he groans.
“You- Fuck.” He takes a heavy breath through his nose, closing his eyes. “Just- Keep your underwear on, alright?”
You nod, trying to ignore the heavy sting that he doesn’t want to see you naked. Bucky won’t even fully look at you as he helps you into the tub. He leaves the room while you sit helplessly in the water, barely moving until he returns. You wrap your arms over your chest, suddenly consciously that maybe you’re not pretty enough for him to look at you. You pull your knees to your chest and sniffle, just waiting for him. You don’t even know why he left in the first place. You wanted him here.
Bucky sighs, when he opens the door to find you crying.
“Christ, I leave you alone for five seconds- Hey, woah-“ He kneels on the bathmat, hand flexing before he reaches out and wipes away your tears. “It’s alright, you’re alright. Don’t cry, sweetheart, you’re okay-“
You bite down a sob and turn your face, pressing it right into his shoulder. Again, Bucky stiffens. His arms hover for a second, breathing shallow, and you think he’s going to shove you away.
But he doesn’t. After that single, million year heartbeat of a moment, he grabs you. Holds you tight into his body, cradling your head and rocking you back and forth. The water flows under you, pushing up on the lip of the tub. A little bit flows over, splashing his pants.
He doesn’t seem to mind.
“C’mon, baby.” He murmurs, slowly starting to rise. “Let’s get you to bed.”
You nod, wrapping your arms tight around his neck. When he gets you on your feet, he stops for a second. His lips brush near your ear, and an electric rush dart through you. Then, fast but certain, he kisses the side of your head.
It’s so quick you’d think you imagined it, if you couldn’t feel the burn of his lips long after he pulls away. You reach up to brush it, when Bucky deposits you on your bed. You watch him move around the room like he belongs there.
He does.
He’d belong with you, if he wasn’t such a massive butt about your existence.
“It’s your fault, you know.”
Bucky glances up from your dresser, fisting a shirt in his hands. “What?”
“You.” You say, because it’s that simple.
He’s the reason you’re drunk. That you didn’t score tonight, that you’d been crying, that you have to be coddled like a baby.
Not that you mind that last one. It’s wonderful, having him touch and speak to you like he cares.
It’s still all his fault.
“What’s me?” He says, and you roll your eyes at the ceiling.
“All of it.”
Bucky says your name, and you wave him off with a dramatic sigh. You can hear him pad slowly across the room, and when he pulls you up gently you flop over his body. A useless ragdoll he’s trying to get a shirt onto.
But the harder you make it, the longer he’ll stay. The longer he’ll be nice, and touch you, and-
“I love you.”
Bucky stills. Your words hang in the air, but you don’t understand why. You’ve said far worse things to him, and he must have known. You know. You’re pretty sure Nat does too, with all the looks she’s always giving you after Bucky teases you and you flush, or you bicker and he marches away with a scowl.
It’s not some grand confession. You love him like the seasons turn and the sun always rises. It’s a deep, mechanical part of you that can’t be rewired, and you know because you’ve tried. But Bucky’s leans back and stares at you like the sky is falling.
“What?”
His voice is a croak, and you frown at him.
“I love you.” You say it slower this time. Maybe you’d slurred the words, and he hadn’t understood. “It’s your fault, because I love you and you’re just… There.”
He blinks at you slowly, obviously still not understanding. You roll your eyes, and flop back down.
Bucky coughs, grabbing your knee as if to steady himself. He’s sitting down, and it’s not like he’s in love. The world is perfectly under his feet. You’re the one suffering.
“I’m here?”
“All the time.” You whine, and his grip on your knee tightens.
“But you love me.”
“Mhm.”
“So why’s it problem that I’m here-“
“Because you never do anything.”
You can hear the frown in his voice. “I do things. I do lots of things-“
“You never touch me.” You prop yourself on your elbows, glaring down at him. “You just- You’re there, and you don’t like me and it- It makes me-“
“Makes you what.” Bucky’s voice is deep, his eyes dark on yours, and you stick your tongue out at him.
“You don’t get to know.”
“I don’t get to know?” He snorts. “No, you can’t just- You can’t say that kinda stuff then-“
“I wish you’d touch me.” You tell the ceiling.
Bucky grunts. “Yeah, I’ve heard. But-“
“Think I could cum just from listening to you talk.” You hum, your voice sounding like a faraway dream.
Your eyes are getting heavy, and Bucky’s gone completely silent. The words start to float out of you, like steam escaping through windows, into the warm, open sky.
“I’d like to touch you, too. Put you in my mouth, or just- ride you.” You sigh. “I want everything. I’d do- Do anything you told me too if you asked. Anything.” You look back up at him, your lip wobbling again. “But you never ask me. Why don’t you ever ask me?”
Bucky’s gaping at you, and he shakes his head, his voice a low croak. “I, uh- You’ve never-“
He swallows, glancing down, and you follow his gaze.
He’s straining through his jeans, shifting uncomfortably. You giggle, flopping back down. Your eyes start to droop, the room fading in and out. Bucky rises over you with a sigh, pulling the blankets up.
“’S nice.” You murmur. “You. Bein’ here.”
You yawn, and Bucky’s laughs. Under his breath, like an inside joke he won’t bring you into.
“Yeah. I know.” His hand grazes over your cheek, and you hum sleepily, eyes closing.
His lips press to your forehead, and it’s like a spell. The world, slowly and easily, starts to slip away.
“Sleep well, baby.” He mutters, and under that command, you do.
He’s not there when you wake up, and you have to be okay with that.
You don’t know how you’re ever going to face him again anyway. There’s a fog hanging over your brain, but it’s not thick enough that you can’t remember last night.
Bucky saw you naked. He was in your room, and put you to bed, and you-
You told him you loved him.
That you wanted him. That you could cum just from him talking to you.
You have to move. You have to change your name and move as far away as possible. Maybe Siberia, or Russia, or Romania, or somewhere he’ll never find you again. Because you told him you loved him, and now he’s gone.
He left a water on your bedside table. Mocking you with the fact that last night was real.
You force yourself to sit up, rubbing your temples, and take the glass. If you’re never going to see Bucky again, and you don’t plan to, there’s no need to spite him with ignoring it.
When you stand up, it takes a few deep breaths to start moving. Nat isn’t home yet, and she probably won’t be for a while. That gives you plenty of time to wallow before you vanish forever. You can spend the morning moping and cursing yourself, then worry about consequences.
You make cereal and put on coffee. Stare at the little bits floating through the milk, and try not to think about Bucky. If he’s thinking about you.
If he is, you don’t want to imagine what. That you’re a whore for throwing yourself at him, a fool for think he’d be open to such a confession—from you of all people—or maybe just the same as he always did. Maybe he’d known the whole time, and he just thinks you were gutsy to say it aloud when he so clearly wants nothing to do with you.
Nothing at all, but taking care of you while you’re drunk. Giving you a bath and putting you to bed, handling you like something precious and kissing the side of your head.
That could have been just more mocking. The same game he’s always played, accusing you of wanting him then laughing. Like he’d already known.
But playing that game while you’re out of it isn’t Bucky’s style. He likes you biting back, sometimes he dangles comments over your head and grins when you snap at them. So there’d be no reason for him to play when you weren’t even able to a join him. But then there’s no reason for him to act like that at all.
It’s too early to be thinking this much. You put all your hopeful bets on Bucky having somehow forgotten everything, so you don’t have to move.
The door opens down the hallway, and you glance up. It’s early for Nat to be back.
But it’s not Nat that calls your name through the house.
“Where’d you- Hi.”
Bucky walks into the kitchen, and you stare at each other. He’s wearing his clothing from last night, his hair mussed, two paper coffee cups in his hands. You swallow, and he coughs, glancing around the kitchen.
“I got you coffee.” He mutters a little bitterly, and you follow his gaze to the rumbling coffee machine.
“Oh.”
“You don’t have to- It’s here.” He puts it on the counter, and you nod, focusing back on your cereal.
You’re both silent for another long moment. There air is thick, like a swamp at the height of summer. You’re not sure how you remember to speak.
“How’d you know I was up?”
“Your door was open.” He mutters. “Made sure it was closed before I went out.”
“Did you-“
“On the couch. Just, uh-“ He rubs the back of his neck, eyes locked onto yours. “I wanted to make sure you weren’t alone, and- I think we, uh- You said some things. That we should talk about.”
You rip your gaze away as you flush, but if you’d had any hope of pretending you’d been too drunk to retain the night and just hoping he’d leave you be, that ruins it.
Bucky’s eyes narrow. He walks forward, until he’s right at your side. You can feel his presence buzzing through you, and swallow.
“You remember.” His voice is low, and he leans further down before you can protest. “Don’t lie to me. We’ve both been lyin’ way too much.”
You don’t dignify him with an answer. With even a glance.
Bucky leans closer.
“You said you wanted to touch me.” He’s almost growling in your ear. “You said you wanted me in your mouth, that you wanted me to ride you, that you’d do anything I told you-“
“James.” You hiss, twisting to glower at him.
Mistake.
He looks hungry. His eyes are blown out, only inches from yours, his tongue darts over his lips when you look down at them. He’s watching you like a dog that’s finally been told it can have its bone. Your grip on the counter tightens. It’s hard to stay upright.
“Full name.” He hums, the corners of his lips tugging up. “I’m in trouble.”
“You’re being a dick-“
“Yeah, but you like it.”
“I- You-“
“You love it.”
You freeze at that word. The air feels thin now. Your face is burning, and Bucky’s as collected as ever. Like this is all still just a game to him.
“Fuck you.” You spit. It takes everything you have.
Bucky doesn’t even flinches. “Yeah, you want to.”
Your mouth falls open, and he leans in closer.
“You meant it, right? Everything you said?”
Denying seems pointless. You try to anyway, but your lips barely prepare for the word no before Bucky’s giving you a stern look—don’t lie to me—and your voice dies.
He says your name, and it’s the same voice he used last night. Lighter, gentler, man trying to tend instead of force. You weren’t any match for it last night, but that doesn’t seem to be the drink’s fault. You give in just as easily right now.
“Yes.” You breathe.
Bucky’s eyes flash. “All of it?”
“Bucky…”
“Do you want me.” His voice is demanding now, and you try to look away.
He catches your chin, pulling you back. Forcing your gaze onto his, onto those beautiful, enchanting eyes.
You nod, and he hums in approval. The sound settles, molten and warm in your tummy.
“Do you love me?”
His words sound so sincere and taunting at the same time. You can’t look away, so you glare, and he chuckles.
“Come on, baby.” He brushes his lips over yours, his voice becoming something low. Something dangerous.
You don’t even bother to move away this time. You’re breathing in your chest, your stomach filled with too much desire to do much else. The brush of his lips let you taste coffee and mint, and his grip on your chin is commanding. You’re only putty in his hands. A lost cause that doesn’t really want to be found.
“Don’t make me fuck it out of you.”
Bucky’s eyes gleam, and he’s playing again. He knows he has you, that you want to be had.
His hand drags slowly, gently, on your waist. His fingers dip under your shirt, the soft touch making you gasp. You lean forward, and Bucky leans back. He tilts his head slightly, something stern still in his gaze. You blink hopelessly, trying to figure out what, and he squeezes your hips. It’s grounding and electric, and he presses back forward as you go still below him.
“Do you want me to fuck it out of you.” He growls, and your mouth falls open with a whimper.
Permission. He was holding himself on a leash for your permission.
Doubt drains from your head, far down south where a warm, summer storm is brewing between your thighs.
You spread your legs slowly, and grab his hand on your hips. Push it slightly down, until his attention follows.
Bucky’s jaw clenches, and his hand on your chin drops. You watch as he moves so tantalizingly slow, brushing the band of your panties before dragging down the seam at the apex of your thighs. He rubs you over the fabric, and your hips buck into the touch.
“Fuck.” Bucky hooks two of his fingers, tearing your underwear in one rip. “You’re so wet. Soaked through the panties, soaking my fucking fingers.”
You moan, pressing your face into his shoulder. Bucky dips his fingers into your heat, smearing the arousal all over your pussy, and you shake.
“Bucky-“
“You got this,” he spanks your pussy, then drags the mess down your inner thighs. “’Cause I’m here? Or just from thinking about me?”
“B- Both.” You mumble, trying to keep still as the broad pads of his fingers find your clit, rubbing in slow, tantalizing circles.
He hums. “You think about me a lot?”
Pressing hard on the sensitive button. Your knees give out, and you’re only caught by his arm around you’re lower back.
“Careful, baby-“
“All the time.” You whimper the confession, looking up at him with big, teary eyes. “Think about you all the time, Bucky, you’re- You’re so- Oh my god-“
Bucky yanks his hand from your pussy, grabbing your jaw and angling it back for a kiss.
It’s slower than you thought it would be, with how he crashed over you. You’d been expecting rough and harsh, all spit and ownership. Instead there’s a certainly behind it—a rough passion that’s demanding and hot—but it’s slow. Bucky doesn’t use his tongue until you open your mouth, and he hums in satisfaction when you grab at his hair, tugging slightly.
He grabs your ass, hauling you up on the kitchen counter. His hands wander your body lazily, tracing the softness of your hips and curve of your spine. He chuckles when you arch into the touch, deepening the kiss. Stars swim behind your eyes, and you realize you’re still grinding up into his torso.
“Bucky.” You plead, and he presses another tiny kiss to your lips, taking his sweet damn time.
“Off.” He tugs at the hem of your shirt, and you lift your arms to help him.
He leans back when you’re uncovered, and this time he isn’t trying to cover anything else. He palms one of your breasts, licking his lips before he takes the nipple between his fingers and rolls it. You squeak and his eyes dart up, almost studying how you shiver and blink at him.
“So reactive.” He switches to the other breast, and your fingers dig into the nape of his neck. “Almost came before I even really touched you, sweetheart. If you can’t hold it, you’re gonna be a fuckin’ wreck before I’m even done with you.”
You shake your head, face heating further. “It- It’s been a long time-“
“Yeah, but that’s not it.” He drags his hand down, over your abdomen. Back between your thighs. “You got that little toy keepin’ you satisfied-“
“Not satisfied.” You breathe, head lolling to the side as Bucky resumes his tight circles on your clit. “Not you, Bucky, fuck-“
He groans, dragging you back into a deep kiss. You give him everything you have in return, nipping at his lips and yanking his hair. Bucky groans and picks you fully off the counter, walking you both to your room and kicking the door shut.
“You drive me fuckin’ crazy.” He grunts between kisses, his own steps getting a little uneven. “The stuff I wanna do to you, no way we’re covering it in one night. Years to make up for, gotta ration it.”
“Years?” You pull back, and Bucky grins.
“Oh yeah. You’re not the only one who’s not satisfied, babydoll.”
“But-“
“Ah.” He kisses you, lowering you onto the bed. “Nope. Not now.”
You frown up at him. “Bucky, you said we needed to talk-“
“And now I’m sayin’ not now. And if my memory’s right,” he grins down at you. “You’re the one who said she’d do whatever I want.”
You flush, crossing your arms over your chest, and Bucky laughs. He pulls his shirt off, and you almost fall backwards on the sheets like it’s an atomic blow.
There have been glimpses. Moments. You’ve been to the pool with him before, and he’d been shirtless there too.
But he hadn’t been standing over you, massive and radiating power. You hadn’t been close enough to trace your fingers over the scars littering his muscle, remnants from his time in the army. You reach up in a trace, tracing one closer to his pant line, and he flexes under your touch. A low sound rumbles through him, and he catches your wrist with a warning look.
You giggle. “You’re not the only one who’s sensitive.”
Bucky’s eyes flash, his voice dropping impossibly low. “I’m gonna fuck you until you can’t speak.”
Your shift in the sheets, more desire building in your already aching pussy. Bucky’s attention darts to the movement, and his throat bobs. Every muscle in his body strains, and you give him a sweet smile.
“Prove it.”
Bucky makes that deep, growling sound again and grabs your face between his hands. He presses over you, shoving his tongue down your throat, and this is the kiss you’d been expecting from before. Rough and starved, almost marking you as much as kissing you. He bullies you down into the mattress with his weight, and you spread your legs wide to accommodate him.
“You’re so soft.” He mutters, kneading your thighs as his mouth starts to trail hot kisses down your neck. “Thought about touchin’ you like this forever, about how beautiful you’d be under me. And let me tell you, baby,” he nips under your jaw. “Better than I managed to dream.”
You grind up below him, trying to chase a little more friction. You keep meeting the rough fabric of his jeans, and the drag is beautiful, but it’s still not enough.
“Needy girl.” Bucky drags your legs apart, pressing his hips firmly over your core. The sudden pressure does the trick, and you moan, tipping your head back in brief relief. “Yeah, you like that. Feels so good and I’m not even doin’ anything.”
“Bucky, don’t- Don’t tease-“
“But it’s so fun.” He coos, kissing the corner of your mouth. “You get all nervous, makes me want to stuff you up with cock and see how you squirm-“
You make a loud, wanting sound, trying to fuck your hips up into the air. But Bucky’s heavy. You can only claw at his shoulders, and it just makes him tease more.
His rolls his hips, dragging the bulge in his jeans over your burning core. Your mouth falls open, and he kisses you, sneaking and arm tight around your back.
The forced arch of your back makes your legs open widen, giving him further access. He starts to rut against your bare pussy, and it’s perfect torture. Your arms are tight enough around him to choke, but it doesn’t slow him down. Bucky dry fucks you, your pussy throbbing desperately for release, arousal trickling down your ass and every thrust filling you with a burning pleasure.
You hadn’t been lying. It’s been a long time. But that’s not the only reason why you’re already so close to the edge again. Bucky’s body is everywhere around you, his thick arms holding you tight, his lips wandering over your neck and cheeks, leaving sloppy, open-mouthed kisses. The friction is everything, he’s everything, and you don’t have enough restraint to fight it.
The orgasm is sudden and harsh, shaking your whole body. You claw at his back, twitching and whining in his ear. You didn’t know you could cum that hard, hard enough to make eyes close from the overwhelming sensation, and it’s just from dry humping.
Bucky groans in your ear and pulls back suddenly. His eyes are lidded, expression lustful, and his palm flexes near his bulge like he’s forcing himself not to rub it. Your breathing is uneven, your pussy still aching, and you reach down to try and rub your clit until he collects himself.
He catches your wrist and pins it to the mattress, shaking his head. “You just fuckin’ came, baby.”
“I- I know- I just-“ You try to turn, and Bucky slaps your cheek lightly. Forces your attention back to him.
“You’re a big girl. Use words.”
You want to glare at him, but something about the slightly mocking order makes your pussy throb. Bucky raises his brows, and you barely manage not to drool.
“Want more.” You mumble, and he grins.
“And?”
“And?”
“You what?”
You stare for a second, then roll your eyes. “Oh, fuck off.”
Bucky smirks, squeezing his hold on your wrist. “’S alright. We’ll get there.”
You stick out your tongue, and he hums.
“That’s not very nice, baby. Think we need to work on your manners.”
“My manners are fine-“
“You’re a brat.” He teases, and you flush.
“I am not-“
“Yeah, you are. You’re a wet, needy little fuckin’ brat.” Bucky starts to move your hand between your legs, and you pretend to try and pull away.
He sees the challenge, and yanks it down. Presses it against your core, making you shake. Your eyes flutter, and Bucky laughs.
“Look at you.
“You really still got that vibrator?”
You nod, and he pulls your hand up. kisses your knuckles, eyes sparkling.
“Grab it.”
You scramble up the moment he lets go of you, yanking open your bedside drawer and pulling out the pink rabbit. Bucky grabs your hips before you can roll back over, pulling you backward with your ass in the air. You twist to look at him and find his attention entirely fixed on your core. On the mess between your legs.
He’s almost in a trance, as he drags two fingers through your pussy lips. You flutter, overly sensitive from before, and Bucky shoves his fingers right into your pussy.
You go limp, at the sudden stretch. Bucky’s fingers are everything you’d imagined they’d be, and more. Rough in all the right place, deft and thick, crooking right at the edges as he finds your g-spot faster than even you can sometimes. He hums like he’s figured out something interesting and kisses the curve of your ass. He starts to rub the tips of his fingers, massaging that happy, spongey place inside you, and you moan into the sheets.
“Bu- Bucky-“
“You’re tight.” He mutters, kissing between your ass and pussy, the tiny patch of skin that sends a shiver up your spine. “And wet. Gonna feel real good around my cock, babydoll. Got a perfect pussy for me to fill up.”
You make another desperate sound, and Bucky presses further in.
“Oh, that sounds good to you, doesn’t it. Getting stuffed full of my cum, being my pretty cockslut. I’d make you walk around with it after, wear a skirt so I can fuck you again whenever you run out. Fuck you until it’s stained on your legs, until everyone can fuckin’ smell it. ‘Till they know you’re mine.”
Your pussy clenches at the possessive promise, and Bucky groans.
“You wanna be mine, don’t you sweet girl.”
“Ye- Yes-“
Bucky yanks his fingers out of you unexpectedly, and you almost scream in frustration. You try to twist around again to chew him out, but he grabs the back of your neck and shoves you into the sheets. You go limp, trembling as tears prick at your eyes. Bucky arms snakes around your stomach, his thumb resting under your clit. Never touch it, or where your pussy is fluttering, desperate to be filled.
“Say it.” He grunts, and you shake your head. You’re not that easy.
Bucky doesn’t seem in any rush to give up though. He spanks your pussy, and you cry out in a mix of pain and delight.
“Say it.” He orders, and your hands fist in the sheets as he spanks your pussy again. You grind against him, chasing more, and he pinches your clit hard.
You almost fly out of your skin, a lewd, garbled plea escaping your lips as another orgasms rushes through you. This one is shorter, but no less consuming. You clench around nothing, mouth hanging stupidly open, and Bucky sucks near your throat, his teeth brushing and making the pleasure all the more intense.
“Fuckin’ brat.” He mutters, awe almost coating his voice. “I’m a damn saint, making you cum again when you’re so greedy. When you got this hungry little pussy, begging to be stuffed with cock, and I’m letting you go first.”
“Please,” you try to flip over, but Bucky’s hold on you is too strong. “Bucky, please- Please just fuck me.”
“Oh, I will.” He kisses under your ear, voice silken and taunting. “But not now, babydoll. Then we would’ve brought this out for nothing.”
“What’s-“
A buzzing sound fills the air, and your eyes widen.
“Bucky, wait-“
“You know, you get more sensitive after you cum.” Bucky drawls, dragging the thick tip of the rabbit up and down your pussy. You try to focus on your breathing, squeezing your eyes shut as your body starts to get swept away in a wildfire.
“God, fuck-“
“Quiet.” He grunts. “I’m trying to talk, sweetheart. Be good.”
You nod, biting on your lower lip, desperate to listen well. To be good.”
“Like I was saying.” Bucky drawls, shoving the vibrating dildo up against your clit, then yanking it away. “You get more sensitive. And I was thinking all night about your little confession. That you can cum just from listening to me talk.” Bucky hums, dragging the head down to rest right over your entrance. “I like a challenge, but I’m got enough on my hands with you today. And since I’m so nice.” He pushes the thick length a little inside you, and your pussy clenches around it. “I’m gonna give you some extra hands. Extra sensitive,” he gives your clit a series of tiny hits, shoving the rabbit in deeper. “Some fake fuckin’ cock to get you ready for the real thing, and me.”
Bucky drags you back into his lap, right as he shoves the dildo home. You almost scream as the smaller bit presses over your clit, the thicker part driven right against where Bucky already knew your g-spot was.
“Bucky- Holy shit-“
He pulls your face to the side, silencing you with a deep kiss as you shake. You’ve already cum twice. That’s more than usual, and you’re not sure if you’ve got another.
You don’t get to tell him that, though. You don’t think he’d care to hear it right now, and fuck, do you want to see him try.
“I said quiet.” He growls when he pulls away, and before you know what’s happening he’s shoving the same fingers that had been in your pussy into your mouth.
You melt immediately, sucking on them as your eyes flutter. Bucky groans in your ear, moving his free hand to hold the rabbit inside your gushing, oversensitive pussy.
“Good girl.” He drawls in your ear. “Didn’t even have to ask, you just knew didn’t you. Fuck, you suck my cock half this good I’m not gonna be able to last ten minutes.”
You moan, and Bucky kisses the corner of your jaw before continuing.
“I know you’d like that. What was it you said? That you wanted to touch me? When this is done we can get you on your knees. If you behave.” He nips at your sweaty skin. “I’ll let you suck my dick. I’ll even fuck your face if you ask real nice. I hope you’re nice, baby, cause I can imagine it. You crying, lips around me, fucking your fingers while you choke on my cock. My pretty baby, my sweet fuckin’ doll loving me so much.”
You slump back against him fully, hips rolling uselessly, and it’s more subtle this time. The heat building at the bottom of your tummy, winding tight and made of a strange pressure.
“You’re gonna say it.” He coos in your ear, and your pussy starts to fight against the rabbit. Like it knows you can barely take it.
But you can’t lend it much energy. You like this position well enough.
“After you cum for me again, I’ll fuck you. Fuck you properly like the brat that you are.” Bucky groans, pressing his nose into your hair. “Walking around, making me feel like I’m the asshole for wanting you, for loving you when you’re snapping off at me,you’re a mouthy fuckin’ thing, aren’t you babydoll. Lotta bark but,” he pushes his fingers further into your mouth. “Not even a little bit of bite.”
Your eyes roll back, head pressing into his shoulder, and you give him a silent look of pleading that’s only met with a mocking grin.
“So pretty like this, sweetheart. Stupid and quiet, I ain’t even fucked you yet. Won’t clean you up after you’re done, just let you walk around with it dripping. Maybe I’ll fuck you until it sticks. Until you’re mine.”
Your back arches, and you’re so close. You can feel Bucky’s dick twitch against your ass, and somewhere in the distance your thoughts manage to collect enough to tell you that he removed his bottoms at some point.
“Fuck, ‘course you’re into that. Shouldn’t have expected more from you, with how much you love this. You’re close, baby.” His lips tease the shell of your ear. “So close.”
You whimper, grinding down onto him as the dildo vibrates, and Bucky groans. He pins you down to his lap with a hiss, fingers flexing on your stomach.
“Shit- You can’t just-“
He presses his mouth where your neck meets your shoulder, kissing and sucking as his dick throbs against you, and his dirty talk becomes mumbled and deep.
“My pretty fuckin’ girl, can’t even wait for it, cum for me, babydoll, come on, fuckin’ show me how much your greedy pussy wants my dick-“
The pressure breaks like a flood. Your pussy gushes so hard it pushes out the rabbit, and your head flies back as you grind into the air. Bucky moans, fully moans, and starts to rub your clit back and forth with the palm of his hand. You grab his wrist, spasming and trying to chase it and escape all at once. You whine as it becomes all too much, batting at Bucky’s hand.
He stops, collecting your release on his fingers.
When he presses them against your lips, you open. Hum as he feeds your own juices to you. All you can do is lap at his fingers and look at him under fluttering lashes, and he smiles.
“Good girl.” He coos, and your body seizes up again. You moan around his fingers, and Bucky laughs.
He pulls them out, turning your head for a gentle, deep kiss. You’re boneless and cockdrunk, only able to let him give and give whatever he’s willing. You can’t even try to drag him close.
Bucky rolls you over, making sure your back is pressed into the mattress as he kisses you lazily. He rises up after a few moments, his gaze raking down your body, and you flush. If you had more strength, you’d cover yourself. You’ve never been good at being looked at.
But there’s nothing expect awe and affection in Bucky’s eyes. He traces a hand over your every curve and softer spot, rising slowly on his knees to part your legs.
“You’re a miracle, baby.” He murmurs, pumping his cock in his hands and for once, you feel like one. “Look at what you do to me.”
You do, and you might be about to burst into flames.
Bucky’s thick. Long, but not enough to worry you, and thick. He’s going to drag, be able to get balls deep and make you feel him everywhere.
You’re drooling, and he sees it. He smirks knowingly, and you wrinkle your nose.
“Come on.” He teases. “Say it, and it’s all yours.”
You shake your head, and Bucky hums. Crawls back over your body, notching his cock right at your entrance. His hovers his lips over yours, not quite fully kissing.
“Say it.”
When you find your voice, it’s raspy and broken.
“No.”
“But you know you want to.” He presses the first inch inside, and if you’d had any worries about not being able to take more, they’re knocked away with how good he feels.
You were right. He’s an even bigger stretch than his two fingers, and it perfect. There’s a slight ache, but it’s overwhelmed by the closeness. By how well he fits, how much you need more of this brimming, explosive pleasure already threating to take you over.
“Just say it, pretty girl. Say it for me.”
You shake your head, and Bucky pushes further in, and your hands fly into his hair like they were pulled there.
He groans, rutting into you, and bottoms out. You didn’t know you could feel this good. Be this full. Bucky moans in your ear, and you breath slowly, trying to adjust.
“You feel so good.” He smashes his lips over yours, the kiss demanding and long. “Knew you’d feel this good, always knew you’d feel this good, Christ-“
You roll your hips up, and it makes Bucky jerk. He slams into you, knocking the air from your lungs, and your toes curl in delight.
He barks your name, grabbing your jaw, and you beam at him.
“More.” You breathe, and Bucky’s eyes widen in slight surprise.
He recovers fast.
“Yeah?” He pulls out slowly, then slams back in, his tip kissing your cervix. “You like that? Like being fucked like a toy?”
You moan happily, and Bucky laughs.
“Thought you might surprise me, babydoll, but no.” He taps your cheek, and you open without a thought. “You’re just the pretty cockslut I thought you were.”
He drags all the way out again, but this time pushes in slower. You whine, but he doesn’t even acknowledge you, setting a slow pace that feels good, but is far too much. The roughness made you numb with a good, fuzzy sensation, but this makes you feel it. Bucky’s cock dragging against your gummy walls, the press of him over your g-spot and heat of him, right over your clit.
You can barely take it. You’re already so fucked out from the other orgasms, you’re barely able to hold onto Bucky properly. You think you might be about to black out from pleasure, but no part of you wants him to stop altogether, and how you’re trapped somewhere between paradise and hell.
“Look at you.” He grabs one of your breasts, palming it as he thrusts smooth and deep. “Nobody else does this to you, do they. Makes you feel so good, gets you so stupid on their cock.”
You shake your head, and Bucky taps your mouth again.
“Words.”
“Bucky…”
“Want to hear you, sweet girl.” He kisses your cheek, words pure filth in your ears. “Here you scream for me while I fuck you, hear how much you love it.”
“Can’t-“
“Yes, you can.” He slams a little firmer, giving you a pointed look. “Good girls listen. And when they listen,” he repeats the motion, holding your gaze. “They get filled up.”
You whimper, but nod. Bucky smiles in satisfaction, returning to his torturous speed from before.
“Anyone else do this to you?” He grunts, and you shake your head.
“No- No. Never, Bucky, only you-“
He groans, picking up his pace. “That’s fuckin’ right. No one fucks you like this, I’m gonna ruin you. If you wanna cum you’ll have to find me, I’m the only one who plays this perfect fuckin’ pussy- Shit-“ He groans, jaw clenching as he hits a little deeper than before. “Nobody takes care of you like me-“
“No one.” You echo, and you’re rewarded with another rough slam. “No one, Bucky, only- Only wanted you, needed you- Fuck-“ You cry out, pressing your cheek into his jaw. “You and your thick cock, needed you so bad-“
“I know. I know, babydoll, but I’m here now.” He kisses you quickly, speeding up again.
It’s enough to make you start to feel it again. Not slowly building, but being dragged out. The tip of Bucky’s cock drags through you, and that hot feeling in your core starts to fill up again.
“Wanted to do this for so long.” He groans in your ear, and a loud moan escapes your lips. “You really got no idea, I thought I was gonna lose it every time I saw you, thought you’d never let me- God-“
You clench around him, and Bucky angles your hips up, allowing him to hit deeper. You moan, and he kisses the back of your neck, sucking a dark mark.
“My girl.” He mutters possessive, and you babble an agreement. “My smart, mean fucking baby, drunk on my cock. Prettiest girl in the world, mine-“
You moan, and Bucky cuts himself off with a groan. He kisses you again, then rises over you. Bracing his arms on either side of your head as he looks to where he’s fucking into you. Your gaze follows, and the warmth in your gut flares at the sight.
It’s the most vulgar, pornographic thing you’ve ever seen. Bucky’s thick cock, sliding in and out of you with ease. Precum and your own need for him shining on the thickness of him, his chest flexing with restraint as he forces himself to keep the same pace. You watch his cock vanish into your body, and feel him deep inside you, and God-
You look up, checking if Bucky’s as strangely moved by that as you are, and find him staring at you. The moment your eyes meet, he grabs your jaw, pressing you back down into the pillows with a rough kiss. You’re unable to do anything but take it all. Bucky’s tongue pressing down your throat, his lips moving expertly over yours, his cock fucking every word but his name out of your head.
“Look at me.” He rasps when he pulls away, and you nod.
His eyes are almost wholly black, and shining. Tears prick at yours, but Bucky leans down, kissing them away before going faster again.
His balls start to slap on your ass, his cock pumping in and out of you until it’s all you can think about. Bucky deep inside you, lighting you up, how you can feel a rush up your spine with his every thrust. A lewd, wet sound is filling the room as he pounds into you. Your pussy burns and spasms every time, but it’s too good to fight.
Bucky’s too good to fight. You don’t know why you tried for so long.
“Bucky-“ You breathe, and he grunts.
“You’re close, sweetheart.” He mutters, and you don’t know how he knows, but he’s right.
You’re about to snap again. To lose it from how he’s fucking you like you’re a doll and the love of his life, all at once. You grab his wrist, squeezing tight.
“Pretty girl,” he teases. “Gonna soak this cock like a good girl, aren’t you. Give it to me, baby, show me how much you love it-“
“Love you.” You breathe out, and Bucky freezes.
Balls deep, he stills. His cock throbs in protest, but he doesn’t seem to care.
You blink at him, praying you didn’t ruin it. Bucky swallows, and rasps out your name.
“What?”
“I- I love you- Oh.”
He jerks into you when you say it, and you almost fly out of your skin.
“Fuck, Bucky- I- I love you-“
It happens again, but you don’t think he’s doing it to mess with you. He can barely seem to control himself, his attention almost feral as his cock jumps inside you.
“I- I love you- Oh my god-“
Bucky dives over you, kissing you like he’s trying to steal the words from your mouth. Like he can taste them.
“Damn right you do.” He grunts, cock dragging inside you as he starts to fuck you, shallow and brutal. “Love you, love you so much, you’re-“
He kisses you, and somewhere through the floating, hazy dreamworld his cock is fucking you into, you think he’s run out of words.
Bucky’s fucking you like an animal, because there’s nothing left for either of you to say. He pulls your hips back up to that angle from before, returning to that pace from before that pulled the confession out of you. You’re in incoherent, babbling mess, tugging at the sheets and watching Bucky above you like he’s God.
“Good girl.” Is all he’s grunting out, but it’s deep and every word of a noise than anything else. “Mine, my good fucking girl, gonna fill you up, you’re-“ He moans, doubling over your body as his thrusts become short and harsh. “You’re perfect-“
From nowhere, you find the strength to reach up and grab Bucky’s face. You pull it down, kissing him with every word you’re too ruined to say, and he moans.
Bucky slams home, muttering your name against your lips like a prayer. You can feel him everywhere. Hot and sticky, pumping deep into your own heat, coating your walls, dripping out and running down your ass. When Bucky starts to move again, slow and lazy, he presses it deeper, spreads it everywhere.
It’s hot on your clit, and Bucky’s still jerking and spraying inside of you. You’ve never been this full, it’s addicting. Your brain is empty, body alight with the feeling, Bucky’s cum so thick and demanding that you could swear you feel it washing through your whole body.
He reaches between your legs to rub your clit.
You get there all on your own.
Your vision goes white, as you cum. You’re so out of it you feel it the same way you feel a cool breeze. Light and relieving, washing over the heat inside you and pulling a happy sigh from your lips.
Bucky kisses you, and this time it’s only sweet. All his mean words and taunts so easily dissolve as you reach up, running your fingers through his hair. He smiles against your lips, and you smile back.
“Told you I’d do it.” He mutters, and you shove his chest with a weak laugh.
“Shut up.”
He grins, moving up to kiss your brow, then the side of your face. He’s still buried inside you. Neither of you are in a rush to move any time soon.
“You mean it, though.” He pauses, moving back over your body.
There are those worry lines again. You reach up with a tiny smile, and soothe your fingers over them. Bucky hums, leaning into your touch, and you smile.
“Yeah.” You whisper, and his shoulders sag.
“Thank god.” He presses his face between your breasts. “That would’ve been bad.”
You laugh, running your fingers through his hair, and he wraps his arms around your body. He’s slid out a little, but you’re still connected to him, and you never want to move again.
“How long?” He mutters against you, tilting his head to meet your gaze. “Cause mine was when I saw you.”
You flush stupidly—he’s inside you—and mumble, “Me too.”
Bucky frowns. “But you were always- “
“And were you any better?”
He snorts, leaning up to peck your cheek. “Fair shot.”
“I know.” You snip, then, “You- You meant yours, right? I mean- What you said while…”
You trail off, because you didn’t imagine it. I love you and mine, too sincere to just be dirty talk.
Bucky rises back over you, gently guiding your gaze back to his. He smiles when your eyes meet, and kisses the tip of your nose.
“With everything I fuckin’ got.” He mutters, and you smile.
“Good.”
“I know. I mean, I did really well for myself- I’m complimenting you, woman!”
You’d shoved him, and Bucky grabs your wrists, wrestling them down into the mattress. He looks at you with a rough, fond exasperation.
“You’re a gremlin.”
“You like it.” You beam up at him, and he lower back down, kissing you lightly.
“Tough curse.” He mutters. “But I’m enjoying it.”
You roll your eyes at him, and he grins. Beautiful and all yours.
“Can we stay here for a while?” You ask, just because you want to have this, and sit in it. “Please.”
Bucky nods, and you feel your heart shine like it’s been given new batteries. Beating out of your chest and comfortably all at once, as Bucky rolls you both onto your sides, wrapping tight around you.
“We can do whatever you want.” He mutters, rubbing your hips and kissing the marks on your neck.
You relax, because you believe him. About all of it.
And now, you have him with you for all the time in the world.
✦End note: big fan of that horny old man in every universe.✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
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✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦
✦summary: you and Bucky have been at odds since you first met. he can't stand you. you pretend you can't stand him. and if Bucky ever knew how you really felt, you think you might die. not when there's no chance he'd ever feel the same way. right?✦
✦warnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, modern!au, drinking, no use of y/n, mutual pining, no description of reader (pictures for aesthetic only), fluff, angst, drunken and sober love confessions, little plot to get to all that porn, feral level smut, (dirty talk, mean bucky but you're into it, teasing, possiveness, pussy spanking, praise kink, manhandling, sex toys, overstimulation, squriting, bucky's packing, p in v sex, creampie, breeding kink), soft!bucky outside of smut✦
✦wc: 13.5k✦
✦Author's Note: i think i got possessed with this one. was barking to myself writing. Enjoy!✦
He’s the kind of beautiful that makes you want to strangle him.
Bucky walks around your apartment like he owns it, laughing all loud and musical, smiling like he fell out of a movie, running a hand through his hair and forcing you to see his sculpted torso and tanned skin. He barely fits in his shirt as it is, there’s no need for him to show off about it.
You’ve pressed yourself right to the corner of you couch, watching him silently. Watching all of them, but mostly Bucky. And his shining eyes and full lips and thick arms. Those things should be classified as weapons, or at least hazards. It’s too easy to imagine him wrapping them around you, pining you to the couch, handling you like a doll but still so gently-
“You’re staring at me again.” He drawls, and you start.
You give him an unimpressed glare, hoping your flush stays hidden in the low light of the room. “Shut up.”
“So nice to me, sweetheart.” He mocks, leaning a little further down. “Bet you dream about me, don’t you. Up all night with that rabbit Nat got you-“
You shove your foot up, slamming it square on his chest. He’d been getting too close. You’d been able to smell his cologne, and it made your head spin like opium. Bucky laughs again, walking away like you’re not even worth the argument. Your heart stings, but you ignore it. It’s an old bruise. You’re usually good at not pressing it, at pretending it doesn’t exist.
But Bucky exists only to torture you. So it never fully heals.
He’d been teasing about the rabbit thing. It had been a gag gift for secret Santa, and after Nat had even gotten you a very nice pair of shoes when you were in private. But Bucky’s clung onto it, like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever thought of. You, with a vibrator. You possibly being able to get off, when you’re the uptight little prude. The one who never brings back hookups, never dates, just sits in corners like an ivy, clinging to the shadows and watching everything else live around her.
You’ve never been fun. Never been someone Bucky would’ve chosen to know. He didn’t choose to know you. You knew a girl who worked with another girl, and that girl had a boyfriend who knew a girl who needed a roommate. You needed a roommate. You had good credit—because you’re boring—and the girl interviewing you had taken a liking to you.
Natasha rode a motorcycle. She worked in a job she was allowed to tell you about—something in black ops, that explained all the wigs in her closet—and spoke five languages. She baked calm down, and went to shooting ranges to calm down, and insisted on getting you a gun license so she’d feel more comfortable with all the hidden guns in the house.
“Hidden guns?” You’d asked, feeling your face blanch. She’d just smiled.
“You’ll never find them all. Let’s go, it’ll be easy.”
It had not been easy. But you understood how—to someone like Nat—it might be. She’d never lost patience with you, but she’d still made it look easy. When you’d gotten home and mumbled that you needed to go shower for an hour, she’d just patted your head like you were a bunny and smiled.
She might’ve been your first real friend in a while. Because it’s not that you’re not… personable. You’re just a little mean tongued. And nervous. And boring, and blunt, and you don’t like leaving the house unless someone grabs the scruff of your neck and drags you. You go to work, and you go home, and that’s mostly it. Your closest friends before Natasha had been co-workers. And you’d been really, truly happy with that.
But interesting people have interesting friends.
Natasha had a lot of friends. And they moved in and out of your apartment like they lived there.
Tony was a tech titan who you used to watch on the news, and now he left crumbs all over your couch. Wanda was a refugee and artist, and Clint worked in that same black ops thing Nat did. Steve had worked in it, but left to start his own non-profit with Sam. They all went far back, to elementary schools and playgrounds and clubs. They had history, but they were kind to you. Treated you like your little bachelor’s degree and normal person job fit in with their grand showmanship and large personalities that had been sucked right off the movie screen.
Most of them treated you like that.
Bucky didn’t.
Before you’d been introduced to him, Nat had described his as basically Steve’s brother, and it had been a striking endorsement. Steve had been kind to you. He brought you to a movie you’d really wanted to see, and never made fun of your stuffed animal collection. No brother of his could be all that bad, certainly not one even Nat described as charming and kind and not bad on the eyes.
Only one of those things was true.
Bucky Barnes is not bad on the eyes. You’d classify as maybe a medicine for the eyes, a miracle for the eyes, a blessing on a weary and tired viewer. He works in security or something, and it shows in his body. Sometimes he lets his hair grow out, and it’s frames his strong jaw and nose perfectly, all while making you want to run your fingers through each lock. You’re sure it would be like petting a very well-kept dog. He cares for it better than you care for yourself.
He’s got those eyes that knocked all the thoughts out of you, the moment you saw him. They’d sparkled and shone with his polite, white smile, and you’d just been swaying there like a lost scarecrow in a tornado. Your brain had been reduced to a fuzzy TV static and loud blaring noise, like you’d lost your own connection. Bucky had flexed his hand, a silent reminder you were supposed to shake it, and you hadn’t been able to get enough control over your body to even smile back.
His hand had been big. Calloused, with thick fingers and a lot of tiny scars. You’d shivered just at the idea of his touch. It might’ve been warm.
Might’ve been.
If Bucky had ever bothered to touch you at all.
By the time you’d dragged control back into your body, Bucky had given up and moved on. His ears had been a little red, in the moments after. You’d opened your mouth to apologize, make any excuse that would get him to offer a hand again.
He’d turned and walked away. Hadn’t looked at you for the rest of the night.
And when he looks at you now, it’s with something sharp behind his gaze. He never looks at anyone else like that. Never teases or mocks them, either. Acting like their mere presence in the room is a plague on his refined, perfect existence. He certainly never suggests they won’t be able to make it up five flights of stairs or asks if they’re sure they want to go out for the night.
You hate stairs. And you don’t want to go out for the night.
There’s only one thing more powerful than your picky little aversions, though.
The petty, blistering feeling at the top of your chest, that refuses to let Bucky win.
“You’re really coming with us?” Bucky calls your name from the kitchen, and you lift your chin, trying to look down your nose at the massive man.
“I was invited.”
“You’re always invited, you never actually get off the damn couch-“
“Barnes.” Nat walks past him, whacking his arm. “Don’t question miracles.”
You roll your eyes. “It’s not a miracle-“
“Yes it is.” She grabs your arm, hauling you off the couch like you weigh nothing. “I’ve been asking you to do this for years, I’m not letting Bucky frighten you off with his Buckying.”
That makes you giggle, and Bucky frowns. You catch him shooting Steve a look you can’t really read, and Steve just shrugs in return.
“I’m not trying to ruin it.” Bucky says, lofty and bored. “I’m just sayin’ she never comes out with us, and it might be a lot for the little doe to be shoved into the jungle or whatever-“
“You’re a poet.” Natasha says, giving him a flat glare. “Go wait in the car.”
Bucky scowls. “The car-“
“If you act like a dog, you wait in the car.”
“I am not acting like a dog-“
Sam raises his hand. “I caught him humping the furniture this mornin’ when he heard about it-“
“Sam.” Bucky hisses. “Shut the hell up before I knock your teeth out-“
“Steven.” Nat gives him a firm nod, and he sighs.
“Yeah, I got it.”
Bucky and Sam aren’t small men, but Steve grabs them by the collar and drags them out of the room without breaking a sweat. Leaving you and Nat in a suddenly very quiet apartment, a lingering smell of spice and pine still clouding the air.
Another reason you hate Bucky coming over. He’s mean to you, and he’s nice to everyone else, and he questions you then leaves the whole room stained in his presence.
“Ignore Barnes.” Natasha says it like an order, and it probably is.
You smile at her. “I always do.”
You think it comes off airy and convincing. Nat looks at you like she’s trying not to either scoff, or laugh. Before you can insist on anything, she’s grabbing your hand and dragging you into the bathroom. You did promise you’d let her get you ready. When you’d told her you could do makeup and prep yourself, she’d snorted and said maybe, but I’ll do it better.
One of the first lessons you learned was not to argue with Natasha when she’s sure of something. You let her sit you on the counter and sort through your makeup bag, finding everything she deems worthy of being on your face tonight. Your outfit hangs on the door, and you did choose that, but after Nat vetoed three others.
It’s nothing special. A short dress and heels that will blend right in a club. It hadn’t been that different from your other suggestions. But it had gotten a curt nod of approval and smirk from Nat, so it had something. You’re smarter than to question what.
“You should talk to Bucky tonight.” Nat says suddenly, and you blink at her in surprise.
“I- What?”
“Make him apologize. For being an ass to you.”
“That’s- It’s fine-“
“No, it’s not.” Nat gives you a firm look, and you sigh.
“I know, but- I don’t really care, okay? That’s just- It’s Bucky, right?”
You give her a weak smile, and this one doesn’t even convince you.
It is just Bucky. He’s charming and sweet and handsome, and he hates just you. So you hate him in return, just for being so perfect and deciding you’re the only person in the world not worthy of his attention. It would be easier if he really was a bad man. If you didn’t know he volunteered with kids and Steve’s foundation, if he didn’t advocate for his fellow veterans, if he hadn’t made his ma’s chicken soup when you and Nat had both caught something last winter, and taken the time to drop it off in person.
For Nat.
Because you’re just… Not worth it for him. Not worth his time, not worth his smiling, barely worth anything more than glowering stares and taunting words. And you’re not weak. You fight back every day, and keep all of your desires and affection buried deep in the pit of your stomach and swollen like an infection around your heart.
He never has to know that you think about him all the time. That you feel yourself bloom whenever your eyes meet, then wither when his gaze snaps away. Whenever he presses his body over yours just to tease you, the heat of his body makes your breath hitch. You spend long days daydreaming about how good a boyfriend he’d be, if he didn’t hate you. Attentive and caring and giving.
Every night you think about how giving he’d be. Flowers and coffee like he brings Wanda for galleries, or for Nat or Clint when they’ve been working late night shifts. He likes watching TV, you know, because he spends a lot of time sitting next to you on the couch and loudly making comments until you threaten to force-feed him bleach. But if that wasn’t the blunt and unforgiving knife of reality, you could just lay in his arms forever.
He could pick you up and carry you to bed. The same bed that you put that accursed vibrated between your legs, close your eyes, and dream of him railing you into the mattress. Fucking you until you can’t stand, until you can’t speak or thing, until your eyes are rolling back and your mouth can’t even figure out how to close, so he kisses you possessively or gives you some of those thick fingers to suck on-
“You should still talk to him.” Natasha’s words are blunt. If she’s noticed how you’ve been working yourself up, she doesn’t say a single word. “Before he does something stupid.”
You snort. “Bucky always does something dumb-“
“No. He does a lot of dumb things. Close your eyes.” Nat picks up an eyeliner, and you obey. “But there’s a difference between dumb and stupid. Stupid is harder to take back.”
You grunt, and you don’t think anything stupid Bucky does is going to have anything to do with you. But something scratches at your brain, and it’s green and bitter. Your fingers fidget in your lap, and you shouldn’t ask, but-
“Is he bringing someone?” You blurt, and just the idea makes you sick. Bucky with some model-type, holding her hips while she grinds onto him, all the honey he’d pour into her ears and down her throat while you just hugged yourself in the corner of the room. Her sitting on his lap in your apartment, you trying to hide the ugliness of jealousy but never being able to spare her more than a crude sneer. It’s the only reason Nat would possibly want you to talk to him. You and Bucky’s childish game of pulling each other’s hair and biting without teeth and seeing who breaks first, it ruins his picture of the perfect suitor. If you keep it up, you’ll ruin this for him, and he deserves to be happy but the thought of him being happy while you just sink into yourself like quicksand makes you want to die-
“Jesus, no.” Nat laughs. “That’s- Never mind.” She shakes her head, still chuckling about some secret you apparently don’t get to be a part of.
“What?” You try to push. “I’ve heard about his- You know. Promiscuity.”
Nat snorts. “From who?”
“Sam.”
“Sam’s an idiot.” She dismisses plainly, and you frown.
“Tony’s mentioned it too-“
“They’re both idiots.”
“Bucky’s told me, he said he leaves all his girls satisfied-“
“Bucky is the biggest idiot of all of them. Open.”
You listen again, and find Nat smiling at you with a strangely soft affection. Like you’re some wet kitten she rescued off the street.
“Put on your dress.” She says, wiping the corners of your slightly pouting lips. “Talk to Barnes.”
At the very least, you manage to follow one of those orders.
The dress is a little shorter than you thought it would be. It rides up your thighs, forcing you to pull it down with every step. In the car you cross your legs and stare at the floor, grounding yourself in the bass of Nat’s loud music as your heartbeat starts to pick up. You’re going out. You’re going out. Spiting Bucky was not a good enough reason to do this, it’s going to be loud and you can dance but not in front of strangers, and you’re going to be even more boring than usual and you feel like a fraud.
“Nice dress.”
Bucky’s voice is a low behind you, his breath fanning on your neck. You almost scream.
“Christ, calm down.” He’s grinning when you whip around, leaning forward in his seat to whisper. Sam and Steve are next to him, one very pointedly staring out the window, the other looking at something on his phone and humming like he’s already trying to drown out you and Bucky’s fighting.
“You scared me-“
“You saw me get in the car, sweetheart. Not my fault you’re jumpy-“
“I am not jumpy-“
“You are. Like a bunny.” His grin widens, and you scowl.
The shifting streetlamps make him look like an angel. Golden halo rays behind his head, long shadows that make him look even more rugged than usual. His lips look fuller, softer, eyes glimmering like a floodlight through the dark, and-
“Shut up.” You snap, turning back around. You can’t keep looking at him. It’s dangerous.
“I was just saying your dress was nice.” Bucky’s breath tickles your neck. You wrap your arms tight around your stomach.
“You also called me a rabbit.”
“Called you a bunny-“
“That’s the same thing.”
“No, it’s-“ He sighs, shaking his head. “You’re impossible, you know that?”
You flip him off over your shoulder, glaring firmly out the windshield. You can feel him retreat, but the closeness had lit up your nerves, and now they’re buzzing with hope that he’ll return.
Stupid fucking body. Stupid fucking Bucky.
You refuse to look at him when you arrive. You stumble a little bit in your heels—Natsha insisted on six inch, which is far too tall for anyone—and Bucky catches your arm, holding you upright. You brush his hand off like a fly and march on, refusing to give him the satisfaction of some other comment about how you’re like a baby deer.
When you get inside, you can smell it. The stench of sweat and alcohol and something fruity they probably use to cover the first smells. You cling to Natasha, letting her guide you through the crowd to the bar. She orders you two shots because you need them, and you don’t argue. Between Bucky and the club, you do.
You down them both without flinching, and Sam whistles from behind you.
“Damn, you took those like a champ.”
You shrug, and Sam elbows Bucky.
“You see that, Buck-“
“Yeah. I saw it.”
Bucky’s voice is lower than usual. Almost sullen. You’d examine him, try to figure out what’s wrong with him, but you’re not supposed to be letting yourself care. He’s not your problem tonight. You’re here to indulge in fun.
You’re already not very good at that as is. Bucky’s consuming presence isn’t going to help.
Another drink might.
You’re three shots in when Nat brings you out to the dance floor. The liquor is pulling you lose, the frayed knot that’s always in your chest going slack enough to allow you to dance. You’re smiling and laughing like a normal person, almost completely able to forget to check where Bucky is in the room.
Near the edge of the crowd, drinking and talking to Steve.
A fourth shot might be needed.
You’re smiling like a fool now. The room is tilted a little, all the colors neon, but they blind out your usual worried and the tilt helps your worries slide off your body. You’re able to forget about Bucky until you notice a girl talking to him, and you take a fifth shot. A sixth, when he vanishes for nine and a half minutes, and your brain starts to map everything he might be doing to that girl.
Seven, when the first stranger asks you to dance and you’re not drunk enough to forget about Bucky and say yes.
Eight, when he tries to kiss you and you shove him away, because his lips aren’t pink enough and he’s not broad enough for you to every pretend.
Nat tries to cut you off there. You slip past her, and take a ninth. The room is just a blur now. You can’t fully remember who Nat is, and why you’re trying to avoid her. There’s a man with his hands on your hips, and he’s got dark hair that looks too greasy for you to touch. Another man calls you sweetheart, but he says it a little wrong and it makes you want to cry. None of them have the right eyes, and the ones that are closer don’t have the right smile.
You feel like you’re going to cry, by the time you’ve rejected the eleventh man. Or only fourth. Numbers don’t feel real right now. Most everything doesn’t feel real.
Everything except Bucky.
Because your own name is just a sound in your head that sounds foreign, but Bucky says it and you know to turn around.
It’s less because it’s your name. More because Bucky called you.
You smile, swaying on your feet, and you’re not even sure where you are anymore. It’s somewhere with a lot of people. Loud music. It’s dark, but bright at the same time, and Bucky looks like a walking dream as he moves towards you. Your vision swims, but he’s made of clear lines and a stern expression.
He’s mad at you. Your face falls, lip wobbling, and you take a step back. You don’t want him to be mad at you. Your heart is already beating in your ears, Bucky’s anger or distain might make it burst.
“Where the hell did you go?” He snaps, and you bow your head.
“I- I dunno-“ You hiccup, hugging yourself tight.
“Nat’s been looking for you, Steve barely stopped her from trying to make the building go into lockdown, and I-“ He cuts himself off, running a hand over his face, and you blink the tears away.
You’re looking up at him under your lashes, and he’s still angry. Some distant voice in your head tells you it’s your fault entirely. That he must’ve been about to go home with someone when they lost you, and now he’s pissed he had to pause his night to find you. You sniff, wiping your nose with your arm.
Bucky’s frown deepens. He takes a step forward, and you try to step back but balance feels like an Olympic feat right now.
His arm loops around your waist, pulling you right against his chest. You stare up at him, tears streaming down your cheeks from feelings you can’t even name anymore. They’re hollow and big and full and made of a million little cuts. They burn in your heart and through your blood, but also freeze in your throat and muscles. You can’t move. You don’t want to move.
Bucky’s big hand is splayed on your back, and you don’t want to go anywhere you can’t feel him.
That voice from before reminds you that’s not allowed, so you wiggle a little.
Bucky holds you tighter, and you surrender in a split second. His frown deepens, and you think you’re still crying. Your cheeks are certainly burning, and your throat feels oddly tight.
Gentle fingers brush under your eyes, and you hum softly. Bucky’s nostrils flare, those fingers brushing hair from your face before cupping the back of your head, forcing your gaze onto his.
“Jesus, woman.” He mutters, those beautiful eyes scanning over your slack face. “How much did you have to drink.”
“I dunno.” You breathe. His brow furrows.
“Best guess.”
You shrug, shaking your head, and Bucky sighs. You want to shrink and hide from him, from his obvious annoyance and disappointment. It’s nothing new, but it’s raw like this. You can’t figure out anything, let alone how to pretend like his hatred doesn’t bother you. You try to turn and hide your face, but Bucky just pulls it right back.
“Over five?” He prompts, and his voice is so soft. Like he’s trying to coax the answer out of you.
“I- I don’t know.” You whine slightly, and he sighs.
“Yeah. Alright.” Bucky’s throat bobs, and he looks up. Glances around you, his hands never leaving your body.
You stare up at him in the dark. You’re not supposed to be looking at him, but it’s impossible. He’s magnetic, and beautiful, and you’ve never been this close to him without one of you trying to claw at the other.
But your fingers cling to the fabric of his shirt, and it’s not to draw blood. You just don’t think that if he walks away you’re going to be able to stand up.
Bucky looks back down at you, and his tongue flicks over his lips. His thumb drags slowly over your cheekbone, leaving a little trail of fire in its wake. Your breathing gets shallow, your eyes fluttering. Everything feels like a lot. Like you’re so high in the atmosphere the air is starting to get thin. Bucky’s brow furrows, and he works his jaw like he does when he’s thinking.
You’ve always wanted to reach up and touch the lines that form on his face, when he worries. They’re deep, and still handsome, but they only ever mark that he’s stressed. He shouldn’t be. It’s only you, and you’re nothing to him.
He lets out a heavy breath through his nose, his hand dragging down to cup the back of your neck. You tip your head back, waiting for him to do something. Kiss you. Bite you. Slam you back against the wall and relieve the ache, building up between your thighs. Maybe just smell you and let his lips brush over a sensitive spot on your neck, teasing you like always until you’re crying and begging for him.
Instead, Bucky just sighs. He pulls you forward, twisting you until you’re in front of him. His arms cage you to his chest, and he’s almost herding you down the hall.
“Where’re we going?” You tip your head back, and find him glowering at everyone around you.
They’re all moving so fast, stumbling in your path then scrambling away under Bucky’s glower. His eyes flick down to yours for a second, and maybe it’s the delusions of grandeur and liquor, but you could swear they soften slightly.
“We’re gettin’ you home.” He mutters, shouldering the door open. “You need to sleep this off.”
You wrinkle your nose as the chill of night air hits you. “But it’s cold-“
“Car will be warm.”
“But we don’t have a car-“
“We’re taking Nat’s.”
You scoff. “Nat would never give you her car-“
“Well, she did.” He grunts, voice dropping under his breath. “You’d never give me your car.”
“I don’t have a car.” You snap, and Bucky chuckles dryly.
“Yeah, I know.” He opens the door, giving you an amused look. “Up and in, baby.”
Your whole world stops for a second. You feel like you’re floating, a ditzy smile crossing your face, and you start to giggle because he called you baby. Bucky called you baby, like you matter to him, and he’s touching you.
Bucky sighs when you don’t move, and bends down. He scoops you up and drops you in the car like you weigh nothing. You’re still giggling when he closes the door and walks around the hood, sliding into the driver’s seat. For a second you stop, looking out the club with a frown. The world is still hazy, but you can see the neon sign, and it feels like you’re forgetting things that are very important-
“They’re all goin’ back to our place.” Bucky grunts, and you look over to find him staring at you with one of those stone-faced, unreadable expressions that he only uses around you. “It’s closer, cab will be cheaper.”
You frown. “Why aren’t they riding with us?”
“’Cause we’re going back to yours.”
“Why?”
“’Cause.” Is all Bucky offers. He starts the car before you can ask another question, and puts his arm around your seat to back out of the spot.
Nat has a back cam. He just always does it like this, and you’ve always chalked it up to his big, responsible man thing. Usually when the arm is around you, you glare out the window and pretend you can’t feel how close he is. How his fingers brush your upper arm, or how his smell gets stronger.
Tonight you can’t really remember why you do that. And Bucky does really smell good.
You turn your cheek, pressing it into his bicep. Bucky freezes, the car jerking to a stop, and you can feel his attention. It sparks a tiny fire in your core, and seeps down between your thighs. Your lips graze his skin, and he coughs.
His fingers dip down, brushing near your collarbone. You hum happily, and the car starts moving again.
When you’re out of the parking lot, Bucky doesn’t remove his arm like usual. You’re grateful. If he did, you might have chased it right into his lap.
“You have fun?” Bucky breaks the silence, voice gruff.
You nod, turning to watch him drive. He always does it in a way that’s almost unfairly attractive. He holds the wheel lazily, like he knows it’s under his control. You want him to hold you like that.
Bucky clears his throat. “You, uh- You did good.”
“Good?” You murmur, not fully understanding the praise.
You know it makes you throb, and press your thighs together. Bucky’s eyes flick to the motion, and his throat bobs.
“Yeah.” His grip on the wheel is white knuckled. “Good.”
Silence settles again, and you let yourself stare at him. He’s beautiful. So beautiful it makes you unsure that he’s real. You’d like to trace the line of his jaw, hear his smooth, deep voice again. Hear it say your name, because it’s the only thing that reminds you that you’re real. You can’t remember why you ever deprived yourself of this. Of him, and all his quiet glory. He’s a loud man, but never boastful.
He’s only really boastful to you. When he fixes the shower for Nat or someone brings up his army service, he waves them off and laughs, and you’ve always loved that about him. You love most things about him, even when he’s being insufferable. You sort of love that he’s insufferable, too. You’re not that easy either. And if you wrapped around him, you’re hoping he’d be too chivalrous to cut you off. He could mock you all he wants, you’d just hide your face in his neck and breathe him in. Grounding. Handsome. Impossible to resist.
Your fingers are itching, to touch that sad little furrow. There’s nothing for him to worry about. The world revolves around him.
“Saw you got some numbers.” He grunts suddenly, and you pause.
“Numbers?”
“Phone numbers.”
“Oh.” You reach for you bag, checking that the hard line of your phone is still there. It is. You don’t know what he’s talking about.
“You gonna call any of them?”
“Any of who?”
Bucky gives you an exasperated look, then double takes slightly. His worry lines deepen. It makes you pout, grabbing at your own hands to stop them from reaching for him.
“The guys.” He says slowly, frowning at the road. “That you were talkin’ to.”
Oh. Phone numbers. “No.”
His brows raise. “No?”
You shake your head, and Bucky prompts you with an oddly tight voice.
“Why?”
They’re not you. Even your drunk brain seems to know it’s bad idea to say that. “I didn’t want them.”
“Hm.” Bucky taps his hand on the wheel, shooting you a strange look. “Why?”
You can’t tell him that, but you also can’t think of a good excuse this time. You make a lame, half-hearted sigh, and turn your face back into his arm.
He doesn’t push it. He doesn’t talk for the rest of the drive. His thumb drags little circles on your upper arm, lulling you into a half-sleep only interrupted by the bump of the road. You’re not sure how much longer you’re in the car, and when it stops you can’t really remember what you’re supposed to do now.
Bucky helps. He slides away from you, squeezing your thigh in a silent reassurance before he steps out of the car. Your hand traces over where he’d touched you. Bare skin on skin, hands still light and gentle. He seems to have burned his handprint into you, and it spreads until you’re tingly and weak-kneed.
The door on your side opens, and his voice is low in your ears.
“C’mon, pretty girl.” A strong arm loops around your stomach, pulling you back. “Let’s get you in bed.”
You hum, and let Bucky guide you. You trust him completely, with all your heart and not a single question.
He handles you carefully. Guides you inside, holds you steady in the elevator, takes your keys from your shaking fingers and opens the door. You’re sent to take a shower, but start to trip over nothing the moment Bucky lets go of you, so he sighs and draws you a bath.
“How am I gonna stand?” You mumble, sitting on the toilet while he runs the water. “Or rinse.”
Bucky grunts. “I’ll help.”
You hum in approval, and start to pull off your dress. Bucky makes a strangled sound, eyes flying up to the ceiling, and you’ve never seen his face so red.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Getting ready for a bath?” You frown at him, and he groans.
“You- Fuck.” He takes a heavy breath through his nose, closing his eyes. “Just- Keep your underwear on, alright?”
You nod, trying to ignore the heavy sting that he doesn’t want to see you naked. Bucky won’t even fully look at you as he helps you into the tub. He leaves the room while you sit helplessly in the water, barely moving until he returns. You wrap your arms over your chest, suddenly consciously that maybe you’re not pretty enough for him to look at you. You pull your knees to your chest and sniffle, just waiting for him. You don’t even know why he left in the first place. You wanted him here.
Bucky sighs, when he opens the door to find you crying.
“Christ, I leave you alone for five seconds- Hey, woah-“ He kneels on the bathmat, hand flexing before he reaches out and wipes away your tears. “It’s alright, you’re alright. Don’t cry, sweetheart, you’re okay-“
You bite down a sob and turn your face, pressing it right into his shoulder. Again, Bucky stiffens. His arms hover for a second, breathing shallow, and you think he’s going to shove you away.
But he doesn’t. After that single, million year heartbeat of a moment, he grabs you. Holds you tight into his body, cradling your head and rocking you back and forth. The water flows under you, pushing up on the lip of the tub. A little bit flows over, splashing his pants.
He doesn’t seem to mind.
“C’mon, baby.” He murmurs, slowly starting to rise. “Let’s get you to bed.”
You nod, wrapping your arms tight around his neck. When he gets you on your feet, he stops for a second. His lips brush near your ear, and an electric rush dart through you. Then, fast but certain, he kisses the side of your head.
It’s so quick you’d think you imagined it, if you couldn’t feel the burn of his lips long after he pulls away. You reach up to brush it, when Bucky deposits you on your bed. You watch him move around the room like he belongs there.
He does.
He’d belong with you, if he wasn’t such a massive butt about your existence.
“It’s your fault, you know.”
Bucky glances up from your dresser, fisting a shirt in his hands. “What?”
“You.” You say, because it’s that simple.
He’s the reason you’re drunk. That you didn’t score tonight, that you’d been crying, that you have to be coddled like a baby.
Not that you mind that last one. It’s wonderful, having him touch and speak to you like he cares.
It’s still all his fault.
“What’s me?” He says, and you roll your eyes at the ceiling.
“All of it.”
Bucky says your name, and you wave him off with a dramatic sigh. You can hear him pad slowly across the room, and when he pulls you up gently you flop over his body. A useless ragdoll he’s trying to get a shirt onto.
But the harder you make it, the longer he’ll stay. The longer he’ll be nice, and touch you, and-
“I love you.”
Bucky stills. Your words hang in the air, but you don’t understand why. You’ve said far worse things to him, and he must have known. You know. You’re pretty sure Nat does too, with all the looks she’s always giving you after Bucky teases you and you flush, or you bicker and he marches away with a scowl.
It’s not some grand confession. You love him like the seasons turn and the sun always rises. It’s a deep, mechanical part of you that can’t be rewired, and you know because you’ve tried. But Bucky’s leans back and stares at you like the sky is falling.
“What?”
His voice is a croak, and you frown at him.
“I love you.” You say it slower this time. Maybe you’d slurred the words, and he hadn’t understood. “It’s your fault, because I love you and you’re just… There.”
He blinks at you slowly, obviously still not understanding. You roll your eyes, and flop back down.
Bucky coughs, grabbing your knee as if to steady himself. He’s sitting down, and it’s not like he’s in love. The world is perfectly under his feet. You’re the one suffering.
“I’m here?”
“All the time.” You whine, and his grip on your knee tightens.
“But you love me.”
“Mhm.”
“So why’s it problem that I’m here-“
“Because you never do anything.”
You can hear the frown in his voice. “I do things. I do lots of things-“
“You never touch me.” You prop yourself on your elbows, glaring down at him. “You just- You’re there, and you don’t like me and it- It makes me-“
“Makes you what.” Bucky’s voice is deep, his eyes dark on yours, and you stick your tongue out at him.
“You don’t get to know.”
“I don’t get to know?” He snorts. “No, you can’t just- You can’t say that kinda stuff then-“
“I wish you’d touch me.” You tell the ceiling.
Bucky grunts. “Yeah, I’ve heard. But-“
“Think I could cum just from listening to you talk.” You hum, your voice sounding like a faraway dream.
Your eyes are getting heavy, and Bucky’s gone completely silent. The words start to float out of you, like steam escaping through windows, into the warm, open sky.
“I’d like to touch you, too. Put you in my mouth, or just- ride you.” You sigh. “I want everything. I’d do- Do anything you told me too if you asked. Anything.” You look back up at him, your lip wobbling again. “But you never ask me. Why don’t you ever ask me?”
Bucky’s gaping at you, and he shakes his head, his voice a low croak. “I, uh- You’ve never-“
He swallows, glancing down, and you follow his gaze.
He’s straining through his jeans, shifting uncomfortably. You giggle, flopping back down. Your eyes start to droop, the room fading in and out. Bucky rises over you with a sigh, pulling the blankets up.
“’S nice.” You murmur. “You. Bein’ here.”
You yawn, and Bucky’s laughs. Under his breath, like an inside joke he won’t bring you into.
“Yeah. I know.” His hand grazes over your cheek, and you hum sleepily, eyes closing.
His lips press to your forehead, and it’s like a spell. The world, slowly and easily, starts to slip away.
“Sleep well, baby.” He mutters, and under that command, you do.
He’s not there when you wake up, and you have to be okay with that.
You don’t know how you’re ever going to face him again anyway. There’s a fog hanging over your brain, but it’s not thick enough that you can’t remember last night.
Bucky saw you naked. He was in your room, and put you to bed, and you-
You told him you loved him.
That you wanted him. That you could cum just from him talking to you.
You have to move. You have to change your name and move as far away as possible. Maybe Siberia, or Russia, or Romania, or somewhere he’ll never find you again. Because you told him you loved him, and now he’s gone.
He left a water on your bedside table. Mocking you with the fact that last night was real.
You force yourself to sit up, rubbing your temples, and take the glass. If you’re never going to see Bucky again, and you don’t plan to, there’s no need to spite him with ignoring it.
When you stand up, it takes a few deep breaths to start moving. Nat isn’t home yet, and she probably won’t be for a while. That gives you plenty of time to wallow before you vanish forever. You can spend the morning moping and cursing yourself, then worry about consequences.
You make cereal and put on coffee. Stare at the little bits floating through the milk, and try not to think about Bucky. If he’s thinking about you.
If he is, you don’t want to imagine what. That you’re a whore for throwing yourself at him, a fool for think he’d be open to such a confession—from you of all people—or maybe just the same as he always did. Maybe he’d known the whole time, and he just thinks you were gutsy to say it aloud when he so clearly wants nothing to do with you.
Nothing at all, but taking care of you while you’re drunk. Giving you a bath and putting you to bed, handling you like something precious and kissing the side of your head.
That could have been just more mocking. The same game he’s always played, accusing you of wanting him then laughing. Like he’d already known.
But playing that game while you’re out of it isn’t Bucky’s style. He likes you biting back, sometimes he dangles comments over your head and grins when you snap at them. So there’d be no reason for him to play when you weren’t even able to a join him. But then there’s no reason for him to act like that at all.
It’s too early to be thinking this much. You put all your hopeful bets on Bucky having somehow forgotten everything, so you don’t have to move.
The door opens down the hallway, and you glance up. It’s early for Nat to be back.
But it’s not Nat that calls your name through the house.
“Where’d you- Hi.”
Bucky walks into the kitchen, and you stare at each other. He’s wearing his clothing from last night, his hair mussed, two paper coffee cups in his hands. You swallow, and he coughs, glancing around the kitchen.
“I got you coffee.” He mutters a little bitterly, and you follow his gaze to the rumbling coffee machine.
“Oh.”
“You don’t have to- It’s here.” He puts it on the counter, and you nod, focusing back on your cereal.
You’re both silent for another long moment. There air is thick, like a swamp at the height of summer. You’re not sure how you remember to speak.
“How’d you know I was up?”
“Your door was open.” He mutters. “Made sure it was closed before I went out.”
“Did you-“
“On the couch. Just, uh-“ He rubs the back of his neck, eyes locked onto yours. “I wanted to make sure you weren’t alone, and- I think we, uh- You said some things. That we should talk about.”
You rip your gaze away as you flush, but if you’d had any hope of pretending you’d been too drunk to retain the night and just hoping he’d leave you be, that ruins it.
Bucky’s eyes narrow. He walks forward, until he’s right at your side. You can feel his presence buzzing through you, and swallow.
“You remember.” His voice is low, and he leans further down before you can protest. “Don’t lie to me. We’ve both been lyin’ way too much.”
You don’t dignify him with an answer. With even a glance.
Bucky leans closer.
“You said you wanted to touch me.” He’s almost growling in your ear. “You said you wanted me in your mouth, that you wanted me to ride you, that you’d do anything I told you-“
“James.” You hiss, twisting to glower at him.
Mistake.
He looks hungry. His eyes are blown out, only inches from yours, his tongue darts over his lips when you look down at them. He’s watching you like a dog that’s finally been told it can have its bone. Your grip on the counter tightens. It’s hard to stay upright.
“Full name.” He hums, the corners of his lips tugging up. “I’m in trouble.”
“You’re being a dick-“
“Yeah, but you like it.”
“I- You-“
“You love it.”
You freeze at that word. The air feels thin now. Your face is burning, and Bucky’s as collected as ever. Like this is all still just a game to him.
“Fuck you.” You spit. It takes everything you have.
Bucky doesn’t even flinches. “Yeah, you want to.”
Your mouth falls open, and he leans in closer.
“You meant it, right? Everything you said?”
Denying seems pointless. You try to anyway, but your lips barely prepare for the word no before Bucky’s giving you a stern look—don’t lie to me—and your voice dies.
He says your name, and it’s the same voice he used last night. Lighter, gentler, man trying to tend instead of force. You weren’t any match for it last night, but that doesn’t seem to be the drink’s fault. You give in just as easily right now.
“Yes.” You breathe.
Bucky’s eyes flash. “All of it?”
“Bucky…”
“Do you want me.” His voice is demanding now, and you try to look away.
He catches your chin, pulling you back. Forcing your gaze onto his, onto those beautiful, enchanting eyes.
You nod, and he hums in approval. The sound settles, molten and warm in your tummy.
“Do you love me?”
His words sound so sincere and taunting at the same time. You can’t look away, so you glare, and he chuckles.
“Come on, baby.” He brushes his lips over yours, his voice becoming something low. Something dangerous.
You don’t even bother to move away this time. You’re breathing in your chest, your stomach filled with too much desire to do much else. The brush of his lips let you taste coffee and mint, and his grip on your chin is commanding. You’re only putty in his hands. A lost cause that doesn’t really want to be found.
“Don’t make me fuck it out of you.”
Bucky’s eyes gleam, and he’s playing again. He knows he has you, that you want to be had.
His hand drags slowly, gently, on your waist. His fingers dip under your shirt, the soft touch making you gasp. You lean forward, and Bucky leans back. He tilts his head slightly, something stern still in his gaze. You blink hopelessly, trying to figure out what, and he squeezes your hips. It’s grounding and electric, and he presses back forward as you go still below him.
“Do you want me to fuck it out of you.” He growls, and your mouth falls open with a whimper.
Permission. He was holding himself on a leash for your permission.
Doubt drains from your head, far down south where a warm, summer storm is brewing between your thighs.
You spread your legs slowly, and grab his hand on your hips. Push it slightly down, until his attention follows.
Bucky’s jaw clenches, and his hand on your chin drops. You watch as he moves so tantalizingly slow, brushing the band of your panties before dragging down the seam at the apex of your thighs. He rubs you over the fabric, and your hips buck into the touch.
“Fuck.” Bucky hooks two of his fingers, tearing your underwear in one rip. “You’re so wet. Soaked through the panties, soaking my fucking fingers.”
You moan, pressing your face into his shoulder. Bucky dips his fingers into your heat, smearing the arousal all over your pussy, and you shake.
“Bucky-“
“You got this,” he spanks your pussy, then drags the mess down your inner thighs. “’Cause I’m here? Or just from thinking about me?”
“B- Both.” You mumble, trying to keep still as the broad pads of his fingers find your clit, rubbing in slow, tantalizing circles.
He hums. “You think about me a lot?”
Pressing hard on the sensitive button. Your knees give out, and you’re only caught by his arm around you’re lower back.
“Careful, baby-“
“All the time.” You whimper the confession, looking up at him with big, teary eyes. “Think about you all the time, Bucky, you’re- You’re so- Oh my god-“
Bucky yanks his hand from your pussy, grabbing your jaw and angling it back for a kiss.
It’s slower than you thought it would be, with how he crashed over you. You’d been expecting rough and harsh, all spit and ownership. Instead there’s a certainly behind it—a rough passion that’s demanding and hot—but it’s slow. Bucky doesn’t use his tongue until you open your mouth, and he hums in satisfaction when you grab at his hair, tugging slightly.
He grabs your ass, hauling you up on the kitchen counter. His hands wander your body lazily, tracing the softness of your hips and curve of your spine. He chuckles when you arch into the touch, deepening the kiss. Stars swim behind your eyes, and you realize you’re still grinding up into his torso.
“Bucky.” You plead, and he presses another tiny kiss to your lips, taking his sweet damn time.
“Off.” He tugs at the hem of your shirt, and you lift your arms to help him.
He leans back when you’re uncovered, and this time he isn’t trying to cover anything else. He palms one of your breasts, licking his lips before he takes the nipple between his fingers and rolls it. You squeak and his eyes dart up, almost studying how you shiver and blink at him.
“So reactive.” He switches to the other breast, and your fingers dig into the nape of his neck. “Almost came before I even really touched you, sweetheart. If you can’t hold it, you’re gonna be a fuckin’ wreck before I’m even done with you.”
You shake your head, face heating further. “It- It’s been a long time-“
“Yeah, but that’s not it.” He drags his hand down, over your abdomen. Back between your thighs. “You got that little toy keepin’ you satisfied-“
“Not satisfied.” You breathe, head lolling to the side as Bucky resumes his tight circles on your clit. “Not you, Bucky, fuck-“
He groans, dragging you back into a deep kiss. You give him everything you have in return, nipping at his lips and yanking his hair. Bucky groans and picks you fully off the counter, walking you both to your room and kicking the door shut.
“You drive me fuckin’ crazy.” He grunts between kisses, his own steps getting a little uneven. “The stuff I wanna do to you, no way we’re covering it in one night. Years to make up for, gotta ration it.”
“Years?” You pull back, and Bucky grins.
“Oh yeah. You’re not the only one who’s not satisfied, babydoll.”
“But-“
“Ah.” He kisses you, lowering you onto the bed. “Nope. Not now.”
You frown up at him. “Bucky, you said we needed to talk-“
“And now I’m sayin’ not now. And if my memory’s right,” he grins down at you. “You’re the one who said she’d do whatever I want.”
You flush, crossing your arms over your chest, and Bucky laughs. He pulls his shirt off, and you almost fall backwards on the sheets like it’s an atomic blow.
There have been glimpses. Moments. You’ve been to the pool with him before, and he’d been shirtless there too.
But he hadn’t been standing over you, massive and radiating power. You hadn’t been close enough to trace your fingers over the scars littering his muscle, remnants from his time in the army. You reach up in a trace, tracing one closer to his pant line, and he flexes under your touch. A low sound rumbles through him, and he catches your wrist with a warning look.
You giggle. “You’re not the only one who’s sensitive.”
Bucky’s eyes flash, his voice dropping impossibly low. “I’m gonna fuck you until you can’t speak.”
Your shift in the sheets, more desire building in your already aching pussy. Bucky’s attention darts to the movement, and his throat bobs. Every muscle in his body strains, and you give him a sweet smile.
“Prove it.”
Bucky makes that deep, growling sound again and grabs your face between his hands. He presses over you, shoving his tongue down your throat, and this is the kiss you’d been expecting from before. Rough and starved, almost marking you as much as kissing you. He bullies you down into the mattress with his weight, and you spread your legs wide to accommodate him.
“You’re so soft.” He mutters, kneading your thighs as his mouth starts to trail hot kisses down your neck. “Thought about touchin’ you like this forever, about how beautiful you’d be under me. And let me tell you, baby,” he nips under your jaw. “Better than I managed to dream.”
You grind up below him, trying to chase a little more friction. You keep meeting the rough fabric of his jeans, and the drag is beautiful, but it’s still not enough.
“Needy girl.” Bucky drags your legs apart, pressing his hips firmly over your core. The sudden pressure does the trick, and you moan, tipping your head back in brief relief. “Yeah, you like that. Feels so good and I’m not even doin’ anything.”
“Bucky, don’t- Don’t tease-“
“But it’s so fun.” He coos, kissing the corner of your mouth. “You get all nervous, makes me want to stuff you up with cock and see how you squirm-“
You make a loud, wanting sound, trying to fuck your hips up into the air. But Bucky’s heavy. You can only claw at his shoulders, and it just makes him tease more.
His rolls his hips, dragging the bulge in his jeans over your burning core. Your mouth falls open, and he kisses you, sneaking and arm tight around your back.
The forced arch of your back makes your legs open widen, giving him further access. He starts to rut against your bare pussy, and it’s perfect torture. Your arms are tight enough around him to choke, but it doesn’t slow him down. Bucky dry fucks you, your pussy throbbing desperately for release, arousal trickling down your ass and every thrust filling you with a burning pleasure.
You hadn’t been lying. It’s been a long time. But that’s not the only reason why you’re already so close to the edge again. Bucky’s body is everywhere around you, his thick arms holding you tight, his lips wandering over your neck and cheeks, leaving sloppy, open-mouthed kisses. The friction is everything, he’s everything, and you don’t have enough restraint to fight it.
The orgasm is sudden and harsh, shaking your whole body. You claw at his back, twitching and whining in his ear. You didn’t know you could cum that hard, hard enough to make eyes close from the overwhelming sensation, and it’s just from dry humping.
Bucky groans in your ear and pulls back suddenly. His eyes are lidded, expression lustful, and his palm flexes near his bulge like he’s forcing himself not to rub it. Your breathing is uneven, your pussy still aching, and you reach down to try and rub your clit until he collects himself.
He catches your wrist and pins it to the mattress, shaking his head. “You just fuckin’ came, baby.”
“I- I know- I just-“ You try to turn, and Bucky slaps your cheek lightly. Forces your attention back to him.
“You’re a big girl. Use words.”
You want to glare at him, but something about the slightly mocking order makes your pussy throb. Bucky raises his brows, and you barely manage not to drool.
“Want more.” You mumble, and he grins.
“And?”
“And?”
“You what?”
You stare for a second, then roll your eyes. “Oh, fuck off.”
Bucky smirks, squeezing his hold on your wrist. “’S alright. We’ll get there.”
You stick out your tongue, and he hums.
“That’s not very nice, baby. Think we need to work on your manners.”
“My manners are fine-“
“You’re a brat.” He teases, and you flush.
“I am not-“
“Yeah, you are. You’re a wet, needy little fuckin’ brat.” Bucky starts to move your hand between your legs, and you pretend to try and pull away.
He sees the challenge, and yanks it down. Presses it against your core, making you shake. Your eyes flutter, and Bucky laughs.
“Look at you.
“You really still got that vibrator?”
You nod, and he pulls your hand up. kisses your knuckles, eyes sparkling.
“Grab it.”
You scramble up the moment he lets go of you, yanking open your bedside drawer and pulling out the pink rabbit. Bucky grabs your hips before you can roll back over, pulling you backward with your ass in the air. You twist to look at him and find his attention entirely fixed on your core. On the mess between your legs.
He’s almost in a trance, as he drags two fingers through your pussy lips. You flutter, overly sensitive from before, and Bucky shoves his fingers right into your pussy.
You go limp, at the sudden stretch. Bucky’s fingers are everything you’d imagined they’d be, and more. Rough in all the right place, deft and thick, crooking right at the edges as he finds your g-spot faster than even you can sometimes. He hums like he’s figured out something interesting and kisses the curve of your ass. He starts to rub the tips of his fingers, massaging that happy, spongey place inside you, and you moan into the sheets.
“Bu- Bucky-“
“You’re tight.” He mutters, kissing between your ass and pussy, the tiny patch of skin that sends a shiver up your spine. “And wet. Gonna feel real good around my cock, babydoll. Got a perfect pussy for me to fill up.”
You make another desperate sound, and Bucky presses further in.
“Oh, that sounds good to you, doesn’t it. Getting stuffed full of my cum, being my pretty cockslut. I’d make you walk around with it after, wear a skirt so I can fuck you again whenever you run out. Fuck you until it’s stained on your legs, until everyone can fuckin’ smell it. ‘Till they know you’re mine.”
Your pussy clenches at the possessive promise, and Bucky groans.
“You wanna be mine, don’t you sweet girl.”
“Ye- Yes-“
Bucky yanks his fingers out of you unexpectedly, and you almost scream in frustration. You try to twist around again to chew him out, but he grabs the back of your neck and shoves you into the sheets. You go limp, trembling as tears prick at your eyes. Bucky arms snakes around your stomach, his thumb resting under your clit. Never touch it, or where your pussy is fluttering, desperate to be filled.
“Say it.” He grunts, and you shake your head. You’re not that easy.
Bucky doesn’t seem in any rush to give up though. He spanks your pussy, and you cry out in a mix of pain and delight.
“Say it.” He orders, and your hands fist in the sheets as he spanks your pussy again. You grind against him, chasing more, and he pinches your clit hard.
You almost fly out of your skin, a lewd, garbled plea escaping your lips as another orgasms rushes through you. This one is shorter, but no less consuming. You clench around nothing, mouth hanging stupidly open, and Bucky sucks near your throat, his teeth brushing and making the pleasure all the more intense.
“Fuckin’ brat.” He mutters, awe almost coating his voice. “I’m a damn saint, making you cum again when you’re so greedy. When you got this hungry little pussy, begging to be stuffed with cock, and I’m letting you go first.”
“Please,” you try to flip over, but Bucky’s hold on you is too strong. “Bucky, please- Please just fuck me.”
“Oh, I will.” He kisses under your ear, voice silken and taunting. “But not now, babydoll. Then we would’ve brought this out for nothing.”
“What’s-“
A buzzing sound fills the air, and your eyes widen.
“Bucky, wait-“
“You know, you get more sensitive after you cum.” Bucky drawls, dragging the thick tip of the rabbit up and down your pussy. You try to focus on your breathing, squeezing your eyes shut as your body starts to get swept away in a wildfire.
“God, fuck-“
“Quiet.” He grunts. “I’m trying to talk, sweetheart. Be good.”
You nod, biting on your lower lip, desperate to listen well. To be good.”
“Like I was saying.” Bucky drawls, shoving the vibrating dildo up against your clit, then yanking it away. “You get more sensitive. And I was thinking all night about your little confession. That you can cum just from listening to me talk.” Bucky hums, dragging the head down to rest right over your entrance. “I like a challenge, but I’m got enough on my hands with you today. And since I’m so nice.” He pushes the thick length a little inside you, and your pussy clenches around it. “I’m gonna give you some extra hands. Extra sensitive,” he gives your clit a series of tiny hits, shoving the rabbit in deeper. “Some fake fuckin’ cock to get you ready for the real thing, and me.”
Bucky drags you back into his lap, right as he shoves the dildo home. You almost scream as the smaller bit presses over your clit, the thicker part driven right against where Bucky already knew your g-spot was.
“Bucky- Holy shit-“
He pulls your face to the side, silencing you with a deep kiss as you shake. You’ve already cum twice. That’s more than usual, and you’re not sure if you’ve got another.
You don’t get to tell him that, though. You don’t think he’d care to hear it right now, and fuck, do you want to see him try.
“I said quiet.” He growls when he pulls away, and before you know what’s happening he’s shoving the same fingers that had been in your pussy into your mouth.
You melt immediately, sucking on them as your eyes flutter. Bucky groans in your ear, moving his free hand to hold the rabbit inside your gushing, oversensitive pussy.
“Good girl.” He drawls in your ear. “Didn’t even have to ask, you just knew didn’t you. Fuck, you suck my cock half this good I’m not gonna be able to last ten minutes.”
You moan, and Bucky kisses the corner of your jaw before continuing.
“I know you’d like that. What was it you said? That you wanted to touch me? When this is done we can get you on your knees. If you behave.” He nips at your sweaty skin. “I’ll let you suck my dick. I’ll even fuck your face if you ask real nice. I hope you’re nice, baby, cause I can imagine it. You crying, lips around me, fucking your fingers while you choke on my cock. My pretty baby, my sweet fuckin’ doll loving me so much.”
You slump back against him fully, hips rolling uselessly, and it’s more subtle this time. The heat building at the bottom of your tummy, winding tight and made of a strange pressure.
“You’re gonna say it.” He coos in your ear, and your pussy starts to fight against the rabbit. Like it knows you can barely take it.
But you can’t lend it much energy. You like this position well enough.
“After you cum for me again, I’ll fuck you. Fuck you properly like the brat that you are.” Bucky groans, pressing his nose into your hair. “Walking around, making me feel like I’m the asshole for wanting you, for loving you when you’re snapping off at me,you’re a mouthy fuckin’ thing, aren’t you babydoll. Lotta bark but,” he pushes his fingers further into your mouth. “Not even a little bit of bite.”
Your eyes roll back, head pressing into his shoulder, and you give him a silent look of pleading that’s only met with a mocking grin.
“So pretty like this, sweetheart. Stupid and quiet, I ain’t even fucked you yet. Won’t clean you up after you’re done, just let you walk around with it dripping. Maybe I’ll fuck you until it sticks. Until you’re mine.”
Your back arches, and you’re so close. You can feel Bucky’s dick twitch against your ass, and somewhere in the distance your thoughts manage to collect enough to tell you that he removed his bottoms at some point.
“Fuck, ‘course you’re into that. Shouldn’t have expected more from you, with how much you love this. You’re close, baby.” His lips tease the shell of your ear. “So close.”
You whimper, grinding down onto him as the dildo vibrates, and Bucky groans. He pins you down to his lap with a hiss, fingers flexing on your stomach.
“Shit- You can’t just-“
He presses his mouth where your neck meets your shoulder, kissing and sucking as his dick throbs against you, and his dirty talk becomes mumbled and deep.
“My pretty fuckin’ girl, can’t even wait for it, cum for me, babydoll, come on, fuckin’ show me how much your greedy pussy wants my dick-“
The pressure breaks like a flood. Your pussy gushes so hard it pushes out the rabbit, and your head flies back as you grind into the air. Bucky moans, fully moans, and starts to rub your clit back and forth with the palm of his hand. You grab his wrist, spasming and trying to chase it and escape all at once. You whine as it becomes all too much, batting at Bucky’s hand.
He stops, collecting your release on his fingers.
When he presses them against your lips, you open. Hum as he feeds your own juices to you. All you can do is lap at his fingers and look at him under fluttering lashes, and he smiles.
“Good girl.” He coos, and your body seizes up again. You moan around his fingers, and Bucky laughs.
He pulls them out, turning your head for a gentle, deep kiss. You’re boneless and cockdrunk, only able to let him give and give whatever he’s willing. You can’t even try to drag him close.
Bucky rolls you over, making sure your back is pressed into the mattress as he kisses you lazily. He rises up after a few moments, his gaze raking down your body, and you flush. If you had more strength, you’d cover yourself. You’ve never been good at being looked at.
But there’s nothing expect awe and affection in Bucky’s eyes. He traces a hand over your every curve and softer spot, rising slowly on his knees to part your legs.
“You’re a miracle, baby.” He murmurs, pumping his cock in his hands and for once, you feel like one. “Look at what you do to me.”
You do, and you might be about to burst into flames.
Bucky’s thick. Long, but not enough to worry you, and thick. He’s going to drag, be able to get balls deep and make you feel him everywhere.
You’re drooling, and he sees it. He smirks knowingly, and you wrinkle your nose.
“Come on.” He teases. “Say it, and it’s all yours.”
You shake your head, and Bucky hums. Crawls back over your body, notching his cock right at your entrance. His hovers his lips over yours, not quite fully kissing.
“Say it.”
When you find your voice, it’s raspy and broken.
“No.”
“But you know you want to.” He presses the first inch inside, and if you’d had any worries about not being able to take more, they’re knocked away with how good he feels.
You were right. He’s an even bigger stretch than his two fingers, and it perfect. There’s a slight ache, but it’s overwhelmed by the closeness. By how well he fits, how much you need more of this brimming, explosive pleasure already threating to take you over.
“Just say it, pretty girl. Say it for me.”
You shake your head, and Bucky pushes further in, and your hands fly into his hair like they were pulled there.
He groans, rutting into you, and bottoms out. You didn’t know you could feel this good. Be this full. Bucky moans in your ear, and you breath slowly, trying to adjust.
“You feel so good.” He smashes his lips over yours, the kiss demanding and long. “Knew you’d feel this good, always knew you’d feel this good, Christ-“
You roll your hips up, and it makes Bucky jerk. He slams into you, knocking the air from your lungs, and your toes curl in delight.
He barks your name, grabbing your jaw, and you beam at him.
“More.” You breathe, and Bucky’s eyes widen in slight surprise.
He recovers fast.
“Yeah?” He pulls out slowly, then slams back in, his tip kissing your cervix. “You like that? Like being fucked like a toy?”
You moan happily, and Bucky laughs.
“Thought you might surprise me, babydoll, but no.” He taps your cheek, and you open without a thought. “You’re just the pretty cockslut I thought you were.”
He drags all the way out again, but this time pushes in slower. You whine, but he doesn’t even acknowledge you, setting a slow pace that feels good, but is far too much. The roughness made you numb with a good, fuzzy sensation, but this makes you feel it. Bucky’s cock dragging against your gummy walls, the press of him over your g-spot and heat of him, right over your clit.
You can barely take it. You’re already so fucked out from the other orgasms, you’re barely able to hold onto Bucky properly. You think you might be about to black out from pleasure, but no part of you wants him to stop altogether, and how you’re trapped somewhere between paradise and hell.
“Look at you.” He grabs one of your breasts, palming it as he thrusts smooth and deep. “Nobody else does this to you, do they. Makes you feel so good, gets you so stupid on their cock.”
You shake your head, and Bucky taps your mouth again.
“Words.”
“Bucky…”
“Want to hear you, sweet girl.” He kisses your cheek, words pure filth in your ears. “Here you scream for me while I fuck you, hear how much you love it.”
“Can’t-“
“Yes, you can.” He slams a little firmer, giving you a pointed look. “Good girls listen. And when they listen,” he repeats the motion, holding your gaze. “They get filled up.”
You whimper, but nod. Bucky smiles in satisfaction, returning to his torturous speed from before.
“Anyone else do this to you?” He grunts, and you shake your head.
“No- No. Never, Bucky, only you-“
He groans, picking up his pace. “That’s fuckin’ right. No one fucks you like this, I’m gonna ruin you. If you wanna cum you’ll have to find me, I’m the only one who plays this perfect fuckin’ pussy- Shit-“ He groans, jaw clenching as he hits a little deeper than before. “Nobody takes care of you like me-“
“No one.” You echo, and you’re rewarded with another rough slam. “No one, Bucky, only- Only wanted you, needed you- Fuck-“ You cry out, pressing your cheek into his jaw. “You and your thick cock, needed you so bad-“
“I know. I know, babydoll, but I’m here now.” He kisses you quickly, speeding up again.
It’s enough to make you start to feel it again. Not slowly building, but being dragged out. The tip of Bucky’s cock drags through you, and that hot feeling in your core starts to fill up again.
“Wanted to do this for so long.” He groans in your ear, and a loud moan escapes your lips. “You really got no idea, I thought I was gonna lose it every time I saw you, thought you’d never let me- God-“
You clench around him, and Bucky angles your hips up, allowing him to hit deeper. You moan, and he kisses the back of your neck, sucking a dark mark.
“My girl.” He mutters possessive, and you babble an agreement. “My smart, mean fucking baby, drunk on my cock. Prettiest girl in the world, mine-“
You moan, and Bucky cuts himself off with a groan. He kisses you again, then rises over you. Bracing his arms on either side of your head as he looks to where he’s fucking into you. Your gaze follows, and the warmth in your gut flares at the sight.
It’s the most vulgar, pornographic thing you’ve ever seen. Bucky’s thick cock, sliding in and out of you with ease. Precum and your own need for him shining on the thickness of him, his chest flexing with restraint as he forces himself to keep the same pace. You watch his cock vanish into your body, and feel him deep inside you, and God-
You look up, checking if Bucky’s as strangely moved by that as you are, and find him staring at you. The moment your eyes meet, he grabs your jaw, pressing you back down into the pillows with a rough kiss. You’re unable to do anything but take it all. Bucky’s tongue pressing down your throat, his lips moving expertly over yours, his cock fucking every word but his name out of your head.
“Look at me.” He rasps when he pulls away, and you nod.
His eyes are almost wholly black, and shining. Tears prick at yours, but Bucky leans down, kissing them away before going faster again.
His balls start to slap on your ass, his cock pumping in and out of you until it’s all you can think about. Bucky deep inside you, lighting you up, how you can feel a rush up your spine with his every thrust. A lewd, wet sound is filling the room as he pounds into you. Your pussy burns and spasms every time, but it’s too good to fight.
Bucky’s too good to fight. You don’t know why you tried for so long.
“Bucky-“ You breathe, and he grunts.
“You’re close, sweetheart.” He mutters, and you don’t know how he knows, but he’s right.
You’re about to snap again. To lose it from how he’s fucking you like you’re a doll and the love of his life, all at once. You grab his wrist, squeezing tight.
“Pretty girl,” he teases. “Gonna soak this cock like a good girl, aren’t you. Give it to me, baby, show me how much you love it-“
“Love you.” You breathe out, and Bucky freezes.
Balls deep, he stills. His cock throbs in protest, but he doesn’t seem to care.
You blink at him, praying you didn’t ruin it. Bucky swallows, and rasps out your name.
“What?”
“I- I love you- Oh.”
He jerks into you when you say it, and you almost fly out of your skin.
“Fuck, Bucky- I- I love you-“
It happens again, but you don’t think he’s doing it to mess with you. He can barely seem to control himself, his attention almost feral as his cock jumps inside you.
“I- I love you- Oh my god-“
Bucky dives over you, kissing you like he’s trying to steal the words from your mouth. Like he can taste them.
“Damn right you do.” He grunts, cock dragging inside you as he starts to fuck you, shallow and brutal. “Love you, love you so much, you’re-“
He kisses you, and somewhere through the floating, hazy dreamworld his cock is fucking you into, you think he’s run out of words.
Bucky’s fucking you like an animal, because there’s nothing left for either of you to say. He pulls your hips back up to that angle from before, returning to that pace from before that pulled the confession out of you. You’re in incoherent, babbling mess, tugging at the sheets and watching Bucky above you like he’s God.
“Good girl.” Is all he’s grunting out, but it’s deep and every word of a noise than anything else. “Mine, my good fucking girl, gonna fill you up, you’re-“ He moans, doubling over your body as his thrusts become short and harsh. “You’re perfect-“
From nowhere, you find the strength to reach up and grab Bucky’s face. You pull it down, kissing him with every word you’re too ruined to say, and he moans.
Bucky slams home, muttering your name against your lips like a prayer. You can feel him everywhere. Hot and sticky, pumping deep into your own heat, coating your walls, dripping out and running down your ass. When Bucky starts to move again, slow and lazy, he presses it deeper, spreads it everywhere.
It’s hot on your clit, and Bucky’s still jerking and spraying inside of you. You’ve never been this full, it’s addicting. Your brain is empty, body alight with the feeling, Bucky’s cum so thick and demanding that you could swear you feel it washing through your whole body.
He reaches between your legs to rub your clit.
You get there all on your own.
Your vision goes white, as you cum. You’re so out of it you feel it the same way you feel a cool breeze. Light and relieving, washing over the heat inside you and pulling a happy sigh from your lips.
Bucky kisses you, and this time it’s only sweet. All his mean words and taunts so easily dissolve as you reach up, running your fingers through his hair. He smiles against your lips, and you smile back.
“Told you I’d do it.” He mutters, and you shove his chest with a weak laugh.
“Shut up.”
He grins, moving up to kiss your brow, then the side of your face. He’s still buried inside you. Neither of you are in a rush to move any time soon.
“You mean it, though.” He pauses, moving back over your body.
There are those worry lines again. You reach up with a tiny smile, and soothe your fingers over them. Bucky hums, leaning into your touch, and you smile.
“Yeah.” You whisper, and his shoulders sag.
“Thank god.” He presses his face between your breasts. “That would’ve been bad.”
You laugh, running your fingers through his hair, and he wraps his arms around your body. He’s slid out a little, but you’re still connected to him, and you never want to move again.
“How long?” He mutters against you, tilting his head to meet your gaze. “Cause mine was when I saw you.”
You flush stupidly—he’s inside you—and mumble, “Me too.”
Bucky frowns. “But you were always- “
“And were you any better?”
He snorts, leaning up to peck your cheek. “Fair shot.”
“I know.” You snip, then, “You- You meant yours, right? I mean- What you said while…”
You trail off, because you didn’t imagine it. I love you and mine, too sincere to just be dirty talk.
Bucky rises back over you, gently guiding your gaze back to his. He smiles when your eyes meet, and kisses the tip of your nose.
“With everything I fuckin’ got.” He mutters, and you smile.
“Good.”
“I know. I mean, I did really well for myself- I’m complimenting you, woman!”
You’d shoved him, and Bucky grabs your wrists, wrestling them down into the mattress. He looks at you with a rough, fond exasperation.
“You’re a gremlin.”
“You like it.” You beam up at him, and he lower back down, kissing you lightly.
“Tough curse.” He mutters. “But I’m enjoying it.”
You roll your eyes at him, and he grins. Beautiful and all yours.
“Can we stay here for a while?” You ask, just because you want to have this, and sit in it. “Please.”
Bucky nods, and you feel your heart shine like it’s been given new batteries. Beating out of your chest and comfortably all at once, as Bucky rolls you both onto your sides, wrapping tight around you.
“We can do whatever you want.” He mutters, rubbing your hips and kissing the marks on your neck.
You relax, because you believe him. About all of it.
And now, you have him with you for all the time in the world.
✦End note: big fan of that horny old man in every universe.✦
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✶ ― SYNOPSIS. bucky can’t help but wonder why they always come running to you,, or your living fossil of a roommate disapproves of your taste in men and its totally not because he wants a taste of you.
warnings.ᐟ mdni! no use of y/n, roommate!bucky, cocky+flirty!bucky, also guard dog!bucky (if that even makes sense) (it doesn’t), frenemies to lovers, smut (pwp, service dom!bucky, unprotected piv, oral sex - f receiving, clothed sex for like a sec, fingering, creampie, tummy bulge, dirty talk, dry humping, possessiveness, dumbification, praise, temperature play, food play, nipple play, pussy pronouns, hair pulling - m receiving, multiple orgasms, consent kink, implied competency kink and cum eating, bucky barnes begs agenda 2025™, both bucky and reader spend the whole fic towing the fine line between horny and pervy), angst, fluff, jealousy, pining, so much bickering, attachment issues, miscommunication bc these two combined have the emotional intelligence of a chihuahua, bucky’s hobby is baking bc i said so. bucky can pick the reader up (but he’s literally a super soldier so 🧍♂️), one mention of bucky trying to grab the reader’s hair, reader has a nut allergy and does not speak russian (neither do i, so please forgive the very small amount of google translated russian)
ᯓ★hyde's input. god bless sabrina for saving the summer again. also don’t let this flop, it’s my birthday and i’m not above crying over poorly-received erotica (i’m joking) (no i’m not) (edit: wtf guys)
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Bucky Barnes is not someone you’d call a friend.
He’s more of a nuisance, really. A fossil, dropped off at your door by one Sam Wilson with a simple request: “Can he crash here for a few days?”
That was four months ago, and Bucky’s still living on your couch.
Which is exactly where he’s sat right now, head buried in a book you barely even remember owning. The pages, so full of neglect, give him hassle as he tries to turn them, catching on one another and refusing to be pried apart by vibranium fingers.
“How do I look?” You ask as you step out from your bedroom, hands fastening an earring into your right ear.
Unfazed by your appearance, he doesn’t bother glancing up from his book as he sardonically replies, “With your eyes, like the rest of us.”
You contemplate plucking one of your heels off and throwing it at his head. Knowing your luck, it will fly right past him and smash your coffee table into pieces. Just like your roommate, it’s vintage. Unlike your roommate, you willingly brought it into your home.
“Ha. Ha.” Rounding the couch, you swat his feet off the table before snapping his book closed. “Now if you’re done playing comedian, would you answer the fucking question?”
“That’s your generation's problem, you know? You swear more than you breathe.”
“Better than waging a world war every few years.”
“Considering the current state of the world, I wouldn’t rest too comfortably on that one,” Bucky rises from his seat and squeezes past you, irritatingly close in a way that makes sure you feel each defined muscle in his chest as it brushes against your shoulder. “Anyway, you look fine, as always.”
“I look fine?” You parrot his words and follow his footsteps over to the kitchen. “Careful Barnes, don’t get too excited, it’s not healthy for a senior citizen’s heart.”
“You know what I mean,” a heavy sigh slips out the soldier’s mouth as he busies himself filling the kettle, glancing back at you from over his shoulder as he continues speaking. “I don’t understand why you worry so much about all of… this.” He gestures at you, water splashing off the tips of his fingers.
“God forbid a woman cares about looking good on a date,” you’re becoming annoyingly aware of the pout on your lips and try your best to correct it, whilst prying open the fridge door and fishing out a bottle of beer. “Gee if only it were still the 40s, then I could slap some mercury on my lips and hit the town with a man ready to buy me off my daddy for the cheap, cheap price of two goats!”
The frustration within you only rises as you struggle with the bottle’s cap, the skin of your hand pinching as you put all your force behind removing it. Since when are twist-tops so damn hard to twist off?
Bucky’s by the kettle, pouring boiling hot water into a mug he’s wrongfully claimed as his and looking irritatingly fine surrounded by steam — which has your mind trailing back to a few weeks ago: an early morning, exiting your bedroom to find your lodger stepping out the bathroom with nothing but a towel around his waist and the remnant dew of a steaming hot shower trailing down his very naked, very defined biceps, and pectorals, and- He’s not even trying to mask the amusement on his face as he indulges in your failure.
“Don’t you think you’re being a little ridiculous?” He asks and pries the bottle out of your hold, effortlessly ripping the cap off with a twist of his left hand. A familiar warmth curls between your legs, awakening a response from you that you’ve sworn, under no circumstances, will happen due to Bucky Barnes. You barely want to exchange air with him, nevermind bodily fluids. “There’s no way you’re worth two goats.”
“Every day I wake up and resist the urge to smother you in your sleep.”
Your vitriol is met with a smirk taking over his lips. Watching as he brings the beer up to his mouth, you catch yourself forgetting to blink as the soldier engages you both in a staring contest, all the while he’s tilting the bottle up to steal the first sip. He presses the cold glass back into your hand. You try not to focus on his tongue, peeking out to swipe over his bottom lip and clean up a remnant drop of beer.
In a move that puts you even more on edge, Bucky shuffles closer to you. Delirium floods your mind as the smell of smoke, and musk, and a just a twinge of sweat floods your nose, a smell so masculine it has you debating setting feminism and your own self-preservation back hundreds of years by nuzzling your face into the pulse point of his neck, like you’re some damn animal being exposed to pheromones. Meanwhile, he appears none the wiser to the negative effect he’s having on you, too busy reaching his arm behind you and into the fridge.
“Those boys you entertain, do they ever pay you any compliments?” His voice is so gentle, you almost wonder if that’s how it would sound whispering in your ear. Luckily, you don’t actually wonder about that. Not at all, not even a little. “Or is that your job too, like the bill?”
As quickly as he caged you in against the fridge, he moves away and leaves the cool air to rush over your skin, dragging your mind back into reality and away from whatever thoughts it keeps trying to tempt you with. You track his movements towards the island counter as he sets down a glass bowl, marked by condensation and filled with a batter of some sorts.
It's becoming more and more common to catch Bucky pottering around in the kitchen, a recipe on his phone screen and a personalised ‘Kiss the Baker’ apron — which Sam bought as a joke for his birthday — tied around his waist. He’ll never admit it, but a part of you believes baking helps him relax, to shut off whatever thoughts are floating around in that disturbingly pretty head of his and let him focus solely on measuring, mixing, and making delicious sugary treats. You can hardly complain when he’s gifting you the privilege of an at-home bakery. Fortunately, he gives you plenty of other reasons to complain.
“Boys I entertain? Way to make me sound like a stripper,” you huff, sneaking over to dunk a finger into the batter as he turns to grab his coffee. “And I’ll have you know, they do pay me compliments.”
Licking your finger clean, you can’t fight the humm of approval that creeps up your throat nor the way your eyes slip shut as you savour the cold, tangy sweetness of the cake mix. Something warm presses against your left side as Bucky returns to the island, setting down his mug and a cake tin.
“Really? What kinda things do they say?” Just as you go to double dip, he smacks the top of your hand with a wooden spoon, and you nearly freeze at the contact. For a few short seconds, the factory in your mind goes into lockdown as every single one of your brain cells scramble to not conjure up the image of him smacking that utensil on a very different part of you. “Hands off. It’s a lemon cake, not a lemon and your-dirty-fingers cake.”
You silence your thoughts with a swig of beer before putting a safety distance between Bucky and you, unsure whether to be relieved at his obliviousness to the less than ideal affect he’s having on you, or offended by his complete lack of reaction to being so close to you while you’re all dressed up and waiting for another man to take you out.
Not that you want him to be affected by that, or you in general, though.
Your phone lights up with a text from an unsaved number: im hear, r yu coming down or shuld i com up? You shut it off and stuff it into your purse, deciding it's best to keep a man waiting anyway; he’ll appreciate your presence even more once you finally give him it.
Besides, you’ve yet to answer Bucky’s question.
“I’d tell you but I’m too sober to stomach you yelling ‘Heaven to Betsy!’ and giving me a lecture on your medieval dating ethics.”
You earn a genuine laugh, in which his knees bend a little and his head is thrown back, while his vibranium hand winds up splayed across his midriff. The sun is setting beyond the window, lingering shades of orange warmth frame a heavenly glow around Bucky, highlighting a slight curl in his hair and the piercing blue of his eyes. The view is uncomfortably pleasant, so you bring the bottle back to your lips and turn your head away, suddenly utterly fascinated with the eggshell colouring of the kitchen cupboards.
“I think there’s a leak under the sink,” the comment is absentminded, a meager attempt at steering your mind away from the man and his mixing bowl.
Bucky ignores it and drags you right back to the actual topic at hand.
“That’s funny,” there’s a shuffle of tin behind you. You glance back around to find him smoothing batter into the cake mold, wooden spoon clasped in metal fingers spreading the mix evenly. You’ve never noticed how good Bucky is at spreading things. “Cause I swear I remember Sam mentioning something about the last guy moaning his own name in your ear.”
Beer shoots to the back of your throat.
In a spurt of coughing, amidst the burning pain of the carbonated liquid dripping out your nose, you hurry over to the sink. Mouth dropped open in a dry heave, you lean into the basin and try to minimize the mess you make in search of a breath. Heat envelops you from behind and a pair of sock-clad feet come into view next to your maroon heels. You briefly register the cool brush of metal against the back of your neck as he tries to tidy back your hair and, while you appreciate the action, you can’t help note how completely unnecessary it is. Too distracted to care, your attention shoots straight to the weight of his flesh hand pressing into your lower back. Heavy, warm, large, it pollutes your mind with the knowledge of how it feels to have him soothe your skin — even if there is a layer of silk in the way.
The moment air returns to your lungs, you shoot up straight and ache to step away from him and his wandering-to-all-the-wrong-places hands. The battle against his touch is mute, not even one percent of his strength is put behind the way he grips your forearms and turns you to face him.
Bucky’s eyes scan over you, studying your features. You swallow back whatever feeling brings salivation to your mouth. His thumb reaches towards his own and you watch, transfixed, as a pink tongue darts out to greet it, licking a stripe over the pad of it. A splash of cake batter stains his ring finger. You swallow back more saliva; confusingly, your mouth feels drier than ever. Only when he delicately presses his thumb beneath your eye and swipes over your waterline do you realise you’re teary-eyed.
“See how clumsy you are?” There’s a chastising lilt to his voice that sends blood rushing to your face, and then immediately back down to the overwhelmingly empty space between your legs. “Can’t even swallow properly without ruining your mascara.”
You need distance.
You need to move.
You need to leave.
“He’s here!” The words are almost a gasp as you turn out of his hold. The weight of his gaze trails over your legs as you rush around the kitchen island, fishing your keys out of your purse and rambling out the nerves he’s summoned. “Okay, there’s some leftover pasta in the fridge if you’re hungry, and you’re welcome to the beers if you get thirsty. Big remote turns on the TV, the little one changes the channel. Behave and take care of the place while I’m away, okay?”
“Quit talking to me like I’m some kind of guard dog,” he complains as you pull open the front door and cross one foot over the threshold to safety.
“Oh, I’m sorry!” You cheer back, trailing the door behind you as you go. “I wasn’t aware you were going to start contributing rent, I’ll send you my bank details.”
With that, the apartment door slams shut and you head out for a date in which three things will happen: you’ll flirt, you’ll fuck, and you won’t think about your roommate.
Only one of those things ends up happening.
It’s not from lack of an offer that you wind up taking a cab back to your apartment. Your date had been nice… enough. He complimented your outfit, took a sufficient amount of interest in you, and he even bought you flowers — of course, he’d accidentally left them in his parent’s home. Where he lived. In the basement.
And the thing is, you’re not shallow. Time’s are tough, the economy sucks, and the world is still adjusting to the sudden return to half its population post-Blip. So you were more than game to play sneak-me-into-your-bed-without-waking-your-parents, but, as the pair of you waited on a taxi to arrive, his hand found your waist and your treacherous mind noticed something it shouldn’t.
Bucky’s hand was larger. And warmer. And more welcomed against your skin.
Sick to your stomach by your own thoughts, your night ended with you tip-toeing past the familiar figure sleeping on your couch — definitely not pausing to take in the sheer width of his naked shoulders dangling half-off the cushion — and crawling into bed alone, belly full of Thai and mind full of Winter.
When morning comes, the bedroom door creaks as you pry it open, a fist rubbing sleep out your eye and a yawn announcing your arrival.
“Did you eat my ice cream?” Bucky calls out from somewhere, voice muffled and full of accusation.
Despite barely finishing a glass of wine the night before, there’s a throbbing pain beginning in your temples and souring your already bitter mood.
“Wow, good morning to you too,” you stumble more than walk over to the kitchen, in search of the salvation of ice cold water.
That’s where you find him: laid out on his back, grey sweatpants clinging to bent knees, with everything from his shoulders up inside the open cabinet beneath the sink. His arms are inside too, tinkering away at something above his face.
“Good morning. Did you eat my ice cream?” If ever a thing such as a verbal eyeroll were to exist, Bucky would be doing it. From the lack of seeing his eyes, there’s every chance he is literally rolling them.
Your journey toward the fridge is interrupted by the troubling sight of a glass full of water, a plate hosting a slice of lemon sponge cake, and two miscellaneous white pills that anyone who suffers the unusually cruel punishment of a menstrual cycle is likely familiar with. A post-it note with your name written neatly across it sits next to the unexpected care package.
“So what if I did?” The painkillers go down effortlessly, though there’s a lingering chemical taste that has you gulping down an extra sip of water. “What are you doing, anyway?”
“I paid for it!” For all his outrage, he doesn’t care enough to poke his head out as he chastises you. “You said there was a leak, so I’m checking your pipes. I’m quite good with my hands, you know.”
Is he dense, or is he saying this shit on purpose? The double entendre in his words is glaring, yet you haven’t the confidence nor the will-power to address it, to poke the proverbial bear out of fear. Fear of him scolding your dirty mind, or fear of him doubling down on his suggestive wordplay, you’re not quite sure.
You choose to steer clear of the topic and, more importantly, the unexpected twinge in your chest in response to Bucky’s unrequested help.
“And I paid for the freezer you left it in, the electricity that kept it frozen, and the apartment you live in,” you don’t intend to sound so snappy, like a sulking child fighting against their own self-confessed crimes. “So I think you can spare me some goddamn ice cream.”
You’ve taken to joining Bucky on the floor, sitting across from him, cross-legged and back pressed against the cabinets that surround the kitchen island. In your lap lies the slice of cake, a mouthful already missing and melting its tangy sweetness onto your tongue. You almost moan, but it’s unclear whether the sugary treat just tastes that good or the visual of the soldier laid out on his back and tinkering away beneath your sink is just so stimulating.
If you mention the strange noise your car’s engine has been making recently, would he fix that too? You can already picture him slicked in sweat and oil, hands on his hips as he stands over the opened hood and assesses whatever the damage is. You’d have to watch over the whole thing, of course — not out of your own self-interest but on the off chance something goes wrong and Bucky needs help taking off his oil-stained shirt, or pants, or-
“Your date was that good, huh?” You almost jump out of your skin when he speaks.
“He bragged to me about how he and his college roommates used to play pool,” the pause in your sentences seems to capture Bucky’s attention, coaxing him out from beneath the sink. “Using a shotgun instead of cues.”
As he sits up, elbows finding rest upon his knees, you can’t help but note the five-o’clock shadow he’s sporting. For reasons that have nothing to do with the fraying seams of your sanity, you need him to shave.
To Bucky’s credit, he doesn’t laugh. Yes, his lips glitch somewhere between a cheeky grin and a serious frown, but he does not outright laugh like you expect him to. Instead, he nods down at the half-eaten cake and tilts his head — an unspoken question, is it good?, that only weakens his argument about not being a guard-dog. Between the puppy-dog blue eyes and the yearning for approval, you half expect him to sprout a tail and start panting.
Scratch that last thought, actually. Bucky and panting should not coexist in a sentence together, nevermind in your imagination.
“Mind feeding me a bite?” Yes, actually, you would mind, but one glance at his fingertips stained in whatever-the-hell is going on with your sink leaves you no choice but to tear off a corner.
Bringing the piece of cake to meet his awaiting mouth, you brace yourself for the tentative scrape of teeth stealing it out of your hold. The delicate brush of his lips enveloping your fingers throws you off your axis, and the challenge in his eyes as they hold contact with your own has your thighs involuntarily squeezing themselves together.
For a moment, you swear you catch him glance down at your lips.
Then you remember the health insurance your job provides does not cover the cost of being institutionalised, so you stop hallucinating and come back to reality where Bucky Barnes is not so much a flirt as he is a pest, a stray animal abandoned at your doorstep by a friend who decided to take advantage of your good-natured heart.
“Can you give me the exact phrasing your date used to describe this shotgun-pool?” The soldier is gone in the blink of an eye, flat on his back again and continuing his attempt to seal the leak.
“Why?”
“I’m making this list,” he says, and he must shift his hands higher above his head because suddenly the soft cotton of his white shirt has ridden up his torso, presenting your eyes with a golden platter of sun-warmed skin. “I’m calling it ‘the manchild files’.”
“That’s not even funny,” neither is the way he inches deeper into the cabinet, exposing not only the glaringly white tan-line delineating where the band of his boxers should be resting but also the beginning dark curls of a happy trail.
“Well ‘the stupid files’ sounds so simple, I was worried you’d try to jump into bed with it.”
“Are you seriously about to slut-shame me in my own fucking kitchen?” Whilst slutting yourself out on my floor like your name is Mike and you’re about to show me some magic? is the quiet part you don’t say aloud.
“I’m critical but I’m not hypocritical,” there he does again with that verbal eye-roll. “I wasn’t exactly the image of celibacy when I was your age-”
“Yay, more grandpa lore!” Your interruption earns you a nudge from his leg, but you know it made him laugh because his shoulders gently shake.
“I’m not slut-shaming you, I’m taste-shaming. I swear, being useless must be the precursor to having a chance with you.”
“It is not!” You gasp, yet you’re hardly surprised — Bucky’s not exactly subtle in his disapproval of the men you date.
If there is anything to be thankful for, it’s the alleviation that comes with Bucky shimmying out from the sink again, happy trail redressed and a hand diving into the pocket of his sweatpants. With a dramatic clearing of his throat, he brings his phone up to his face and starts reciting.
“After being told you have a nut allergy, Carter B. said Wait, like, you’re allergic to cum?” You’d always known showing him how to use the notes app would come back to bite you in the ass somehow. “Tommy L. walked into a lampost because he got distracted… watching a squirrel run up a tree. You almost got stood up by Steve K. because he accidentally locked himself inside his own car. Lee B. asked you-”
“Bucky B. is about to lose his other arm if he doesn’t shut up.”
“I rest my case,” and he still has the nerve to open his mouth, awaiting another bite of cake.
You cave with no fight and give it to him.
Because you’re a nice person, not because you want to feel his mouth on you again.
Something cool drips onto the bottom of your naked thighs after Bucky reaches over you and grabs at the glass of water, stealing an obnoxiously large gulp; or is it just exaggerated by your stare zeroing in on the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he drinks?
A thought pops into your mind.
“Did you leave these on the counter because you expected me to be hungover?” Your tone is inoffensive, and unoffended, a simple curiosity you need answered.
“You have a headache, right?”
“Uh-huh,” your eyes narrow skeptically.
“Yeah, I figured you would,” Bucky takes another sip, more condensation trickling down onto your legs. “You always have one after eating Thai food.”
Something inside of you stops.
Your heart, or your lungs, or your mind. Your goddamn liver, for all you know.
This is not supposed to be happening. Bucky is not supposed to fix things just because you mentioned it, once in passing and as a scapegoat from focusing too much on him. And he certainly isn’t supposed to notice things, useless little factoids that not even you know about yourself until he brings them to light. Hell, he’s not even supposed to still be here, sleeping on your couch and criticising your love life.
When the thing inside of you clicks back into place and starts again, a new weight rests atop your conscience.
Maybe it’s not so bad having a roommate, having Bucky be that roommate. Maybe you’re starting to get used to coming home to the smell of baked vanilla and the signature grouchy look he wears as he asks you about your day, about how your co-worker pissed you off, about why you’re home later than usual and not wearing a jacket out in the cold of winter.
“By the way,” he’s calling out from beneath the sink again. “You’ll be happy to know I’m touring an apartment next week.”
“Oh.” The bite you just took turns sour in your mouth. You struggle to swallow it down. “That’s great. Finally! You’re going, and I’m staying here, and I’ll have my apartment back to myself. That’s… Great. It’s great!”
No, really, it’s great.
“You’re joking,” a palm on your lower back guides you to the right, just in time to avoid being trampled beneath a cart.
“I wish,” you say, and saunter over to some colourful packaging that’s captured your eye.
After a moment of inspecting the product in hand from every angle, you put it back on the shelf.
“Let me get this straight,” Bucky pushes the cart along behind you, grabbing that same colourful packaging and dropping it in with the rest of the groceries. “You lean through his window, kiss him goodbye on the cheek and then he just… What, crashed his car?”
“Into a wall with street art of a cliff painted on it,” as you add the most important detail, laughter is already bubbling up your throat. “He literally crashed his car into a cliff without even getting to switch out of first gear!”
The pair of you make up quite the sight.
An entire morning of tiptoeing through the limbo of delirium, after an entire night spent trying to block out the relentless banging from the upstairs neighbours. The door to your bedroom crawled open some time past four and there was Bucky, head poking through the space and looking rather pleased to find you wide awake — despite his claims of just wanting to make sure you were asleep.
Seated on opposite ends of the couch, both of you found a quiet solace in the other’s inability to sleep. While a movie marathon played over the TV, the sex marathon above continued. When exhaustion took claim of your body, you drifted off with your arms resting on the armchair and your head resting on your arms. You awoke atop a pillow and beneath a blanket, legs stretched out over the couch and Bucky curled up on the floor by your feet — like any good guard dog would be.
After a botched attempt to sneak past the soldier, only to have him scare the living daylights out of you by grabbing your ankle as you tried to step over him, you both came to the shocking realisation that the fridge was void of any food.
Which brings you to here: standing in aisle 7, laughing an ache into your ribs over yet another one of your failed dates, with a half-filled cart and matching bags forming under your tired eyes.
“I think it’s time we had an intervention about where you’re finding these men,” Bucky says that last word like it's covered in poison, burning his tongue on the way out.
“They find me!” You say, as he reaches for the box of strawberries you just put down. “As generous as I am, do you want to maybe slow down on how much shit you load into our cart?”
His hand freezes, the box of red fruit clasped in a confusingly delicate grip of vibranium fingers
“You picked it up,” his tone is riddled with confusion. “Don’t you want them?”
“Contrary to popular belief, I’m not made of money.”
“Okay?” He replies, like it’s the most irrelevant piece of information you’ve ever given him — and you once spent an hour ranting to him about the inefficiency of the ink cartridges in your office’s printer. “I’m paying, so do you want it or not?”
“Since when do you have money? Did your pension finally come through? I mean… You are old enough. Also, aren’t you literally a vet?”
“You managed to say all that in one breath, yet you failed to answer a yes or no question.”
A bubble of silence surrounds you both. Bucky blinks, slowly, exaggeratedly. It’s the perfect opportunity to stare at his face and notice the five o'clock shadow has grown. A gruff ‘excuse me’, followed by a man shoving between you both to grab some strawberries, pops the bubble.
Without a word, you snatch the box and place it in the cart.
Half-way up the fruit aisle, Bucky gets the genius idea to open his mouth again: “You wanna know what my theory is?”
“Nope,” you say, popping the p and glancing back at him over your shoulder. “But you’re going to tell me anyway.”
He looks vexingly domestic like this, wearing a sweater and pushing your shopping around. Thoughts betray you, wandering off into dangerous territory as they begin to question how others perceive you from the outside.
What do strangers see: two roommates that quarrel like it’s a biological need, or a couple doing their weekly shop? Two strangers forced together by a circumstance named Sam Wilson, or two lovers unwilling to voice that the metal container between them is too much distance?
“I think you date idiots because they’re idiots.”
“Gee whiz, grandpa, that’s so insightful. I sure do hope I’m as wise as you when I’m your age, but I’ll probably just be dead.” You feel the cart meet your back in a gentle bump, a non-verbal warning to cut the teasing.
“Dating those incompetent men, it’s like…” he pauses, searching for the right words, and plucks a bunch of bananas from your hand, dropping them in with your mounting pile of fruit. “Jumping out of a plane! You get the thrill of falling but, the moment something a little too real and solid appears on the horizon, you pull out the parachute and, that’s it, you’re safe. No danger of falling flat on your face and getting your feelings hurt.”
“I don’t know when you last jumped out of a plane-”
“Remember that Karli situation a few months ago?”
“But not ejecting your parachute leads to a little more than just falling flat on your face.”
“So my metaphor isn't perfect,” Bucky trails off, eyes staring past you and mind lost in thought. You follow his line of sight and find a couple at the end of the aisle, hands intertwined and smiling at each other like they’re the only two people in the world. An unnamed emotion tugs at the soldier’s lips, but he won’t let it take over his stoic features. “But you get my point. If you were actually looking for something serious, you’d date someone better than those men.”
Unprompted and unwarranted, his words spear your heart.
Memories replay in your head, a kaleidoscope of the featureless faces you let take you out, dine you, wine you, kiss you. A handful of immeasurables: how many times you’ve brushed off mispronounced versions of your name, how many excuses you’ve made for the way they talk to you, how many times you’ve lowered your own standards to help a man feel desired. In your wake lies a graveyard of failed relationships, with no proper funeral nor mourning.
You swallow back the lump in your throat.
“Okay, psychoanalysing me aside, what’s left on the list?” You ask, making your way round to Bucky’s side of the cart.
“Well, I still need to write down Jeff G.’s cliff accident.”
“The other list.” You watch as he struggles to fish out the scrap of paper from his pocket.
“Eggs, pasta, feta, toilet roll,” his brows are furled, his eyes are glaring, and with each item he lists off, his words grow more unsure. “Grapefruit? Your handwriting is shit.”
“I was in a rush!”
“And sitting on a jack-hammer?”
“Gimme that,” you snatch the list, he yields it with no protest. As you scan over the scribbled ink, a frustrating truth comes to light. Bucky’s right, your handwriting is shit. “Is grapefruit even in season?”
“Huh,” it’s the sound of hollow amusement.
“What?”
“Just…” His presence looms over you, infecting your senses with the woodsy smell of his cologne and the arduous heat that radiates off of him. When he nods his head to the right, scoffing out a laugh and poking his tongue into his cheek, you find yourself wrestling between temptations of slapping him or pulling him closer. “You really don’t notice what’s right in front of you, do you?”
Lo and behold, on the right side of the aisle, grapefruits.
You make it through the rest of the shopping list in relative silence, with the occasional side-comment from the super soldier that either rouses a grin onto your lips or has your eyes rolling in faux disagreement. Little by little, you peruse the aisles and fill the cart; and, when Bucky picks out the only ice cream flavour void of nuts, you bite your tongue and choose to say nothing.
“I forgot to ask,” you finally speak, standing in the self-checkout zone and struggling to find something to do with your fidgety hands as Bucky scans each item — you insisted on helping and he insisted he’d get it done quicker alone. “How did the apartment viewing go?”
“Oh. Fine,” you grimace as he says your least favourite f word. “The current lease isn’t up yet, so you’re stuck with me a little longer.”
Are you supposed to feel this relieved?
In theory, you were never supposed to feel anything in regards to Bucky Barnes. In practice, it’s a lot more complicated, a pendulum that seems to swing in constant motion between red hot aggravation and red hot something else you refuse to give a name.
All you know is there are times where you wonder if his back is okay sleeping on the couch, and you contemplate asking him to come meet you during your lunch breaks, and you crave to have the anxious shake in your leg quelled by his daily check-in calls whenever he and Sam go off on another misadventure. Whatever reason lies behind your behaviour, the familiarity of ignorant bliss tempts you away from seeking the answer.
Besides, Bucky will be leaving soon. He’ll no longer be your roommate and you’ll both fall out of whatever routine convenience has forced upon you both.
A series of beeps capture your attention.
At the epicentre of the noise stands an elderly woman, grey hair pristinely curled and an outfit that screams Sunday-bests, struggling with the check-out machine. With no employee in sight and no do-gooder fellow customer stepping out of their way to help, the woman’s distress grows with each beep the machine makes at her.
Knuckles brush down your arm, and there’s Bucky at your side, waiting for you to pay him any mind.
“You mind handling the rest?” He asks, in that softly-spoken tone of his that would make anyone feel like swooning. Maybe that’s why it takes you a few moments to notice the wallet he’s holding out to you. “Cash is in the back pocket. I’ll be a few minutes, okay? Just finish bagging everything, leave the carrying to me.”
There’s no time to get a single word out before you’re staring at the back of his head and watching as he makes his way over to the elderly woman.
For every item you scan, you sneak a glance. The butter beeps onto the screen, and you peek how Bucky has effortlessly become the woman’s personal helper. You pass the strawberries through and reward yourself with the sight of Bucky’s cheeky grin — with the way the elderly lady laughs and swats at his arm, you can only assume he’s made some flirtatious comment. Clicking on the option to pay cash, you nearly give yourself whiplash as you turn to watch them again, Bucky’s just about finishing bagging her groceries while the woman opens her shopping-trolley bag.
Waiting on the receipt to print, your reflection stares back at you on the self-checkout screen: a hue of endearment glowing off your features. The smile quickly melts off your face when you realise that he… Oh no.
Bucky is charming.
Part of you has always known he was handsome — you’re stubborn, not blind — yet the sight of him now, all dashing smiles and twinkling eyes playing rescuer to a woman who, despite the difference in their physical ageing, is closer to his own age than you, it troubles you. The acid burn in your throat is not a manifestation of jealousy, no; it’s the queasy feeling of knowing you’ve never looked across at a date, caught him in a moment of content, and felt the unyielding desire to be the reason behind it.
Someone clears their throat beside you, a man with a wrinkle in his forehead and an agitated look upon his face, so you quickly excuse yourself and, with plastic handles digging into your fingers, you approach Bucky and the elderly lady.
Upon noticing you, Bucky’s quick to tug the bags out your grip, a scolding already falling off his tongue: “I told you to leave these to me.”
“Yeah, well, Mr. Frowny-Magoo over there didn’t appreciate me hogging up the cashier,” the comment is meant as nothing more than a lighthearted joke, yet you swear you see something shift in the soldier’s stance, his shoulders tensing and his jaw clenching as he glances back at the stranger.
Fortunately, the elderly woman interrupts whatever he’s contemplating doing to him.
“Она твоя жена?(Is she your wife?)” She’s looking between you both expectantly, speaking words you don’t understand. “У нее лицо ангела. (She has the face of an angel.)”
Whatever she says, it clearly has an effect on Bucky. His head turns to the side, to you, and a visible softness overcomes his gaze as it traces over your face. His shoulders are relaxing, his jaw is unclenching, and he’s switching the bags over to his metal hand, renewing his grip and freeing up the hand that now hangs right by yours, knuckles gracing over your own in a way that feels like a dare, a challenge, a temptation to lace your fingers together.
You clench your fist shut.
“Я знаю. (I know.)” He says, eyes lingering on you a few moments longer than necessary, before he’s back to smiling at the elderly woman.
Halfway home and doubling your pace to keep up with his effortless stroll, curiosity finally gets the better of you.
“What did she say back there, that lady you helped?”
A stranger rushes past you both, phone glued to their ear and stressing down the speaker. Bucky takes grip of your arm and tugs you closer to him.
“Do you spend your time getting bumped into when I’m not around?” His fingers give your arm a squeeze before releasing you. “And, if you must know, she said I was the most handsome man she’s ever seen.”
Little force is put behind the shove you give his shoulder.
You’re too busy agonising over how much you agree with her.
Bucky leaves.
Not forever, but three weeks away on some stealth mission with Sam sure begins to feel like it.
It happens on a Friday. After the week from hell at work, a friend’s mid-week engagement party, and the unexpected downpour of rain during the journey home, you walk into an unlit apartment and a note stuck to the fridge.
Sam needs me. Be safe, don’t bring strangers home. B.
The batch of freshly baked cinnamon rolls sweeten your night up, at least.
There’s a quiet that always seems to blanket the house whenever you lose Bucky to missions.
Before he was dumped on your front door, you’d been used to living alone and the peaceful silence that came with it. Independence, the ability to need no one and want nothing, a trait of yours that once brought pride, now brings you nothing but the static sound of a muted television and the hum of the microwave spinning a meal fit for one.
Mornings become a ritual of waking later yet leaving earlier, no one is there to distract you from drinking your coffee. Though the workload is the same, somehow the slow drag of hours still finds a way to pass quicker than ever, the revolving doors of the office building spit you back out onto the streets of New York before you’re fully ready. Your evenings waste away, starved of noise and company, while you run out of shows to watch and books to read, and count the hours down until all that silence becomes necessary for your eyes to close and your mind to rest.
It’s when darkness rules over the sky and the hour is a single digit that the phone finally rings. A blocked number, untraceable, pulling you out the hands of sleep and filling your room with the noise of your ringtone. He never speaks first, not until there’s an echo down the line of your own sleep stained ‘hello?’.
“You can go back to sleep now.”
You never stay on the line long enough to find out how quickly he hangs up after he speaks. Because it’s only ever meant to be a way to let you know he’s safe, alive, somewhere out there doing who-knows-what and stopping who-knows-who. It’s just an unrequested favour he’s granted you, after the incident in which both he and Sam fell-off the grid for five days and you were nearly rounding up a search party. He’s not missed a call since, once a day while he’s away.
So, when he doesn’t call, it’s only natural that you worry.
The alarm bell rings when you wake up to birds chirping, sun spilling through the crack between the curtains, and not a single missed call nor voicemail awaiting you.
It’s Saturday and there’s no work to occupy your mind, so you force down a bagel, toss a tote bag onto your shoulder, and head out to the local market. But there’s no joy in perusing fruit stands without a six foot soldier trailing your heels and muttering to himself about how exotic fruit has gotten, and how ‘back in my day you had your apples, your oranges, and your pears.’
You wind up home by noon, and the dwelling begins to grow, still no call.
There’s a weight on your chest, and a balloon of anxiety that grows in your throat, and an unwarranted agitation burning at your skin as you read over his note again, still very much stuck to the fridge and taunting you — Be safe, says a man who clearly can’t take his own advice.
Then, why should you?
You agree to go on a date, one you’ve been dancing around agreeing to for a few weeks yet reach for it the moment you decide you’re not pleased with the way Bucky’s lack of a call is ruining your well-earned free time.
And, hey, the guy’s not a complete loser this time. On paper, at least. He’s handsome, tall, and an athlete — ex-athlete, really, but you don’t bother to point that out while he talks about the gymnastic studio he runs. Most importantly, he’s eager to call a cab and get you home, screw Bucky’s warning. If you want to bring a stranger into your home, you’ll do it.
Brooding, uncalling soldier be damned!
After stumbling through the dark of your apartment into your bedroom, and fumbling with your bra long enough for you to grow tired and just take it off yourself, you and Mister Gymnast tumble into the sheets for a performance so lacklustre, it warrants taking all his medals away. At least your date seems to enjoy himself, spilling onto your stomach and falling asleep the minute his head hits the pillows.
“I finished,” last you checked, he hadn't even started.
You lie awake, staring at the ceiling, and try to will the phone to ring. Encased by a stranger’s snoring and a guilty feeling, you let Lady Sleep whisk you away. When your eyes open next, morning has broken and you’re alone in bed with a remnant trace of warmth on the sheets. But the silence is finally gone.
Beyond your door you hear the faint thud of footsteps, the ding of the fridge being opened, the whistle of the kettle. You almost trip in your rush to get dressed, and nearly rip the hinges off the door as you tear it open. Then the smile falls from your face.
“You’re up!” Everyone’s favourite gymnast is there to greet you, a mug in hand as he goes to pull you in for a kiss. The way you swerve is automatic, unplanned, leaving his lips to land on your cheek. “Uhh, I was hoping you’d sleep a little longer, I wanted to bring you breakfast in bed but-”
“He couldn’t figure out how to boil the kettle.”
And there’s Bucky, leaning back against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed over his chest and a smug look on his face. Aside from the butterfly stitches above his left brow, he looks unharmed. Fine, even. Dressed in all black, with a t-shirt that’s hugging his frame a little too tightly for your liking, the double-combo of his dog-tags and vibranium arm on display. Perfectly safe for a man who couldn’t call.
Your date laughs and sheepishly scratches the back of his head before you get the chance to speak.
“Your brother was kind enough to help me.” It’s unclear who laughs first: Bucky or you. “What’s so funny?”
“Oh, nothing, nothing, just…” Bucky says, shaking the laughter away with a nod of his head. “In what world do me and her look related?”
“Wait, if you’re not her brother then, are you-” Fifty shades of horror spill over the gymnast’s face, his head darting between looking over at Bucky and back at you. “Holy shit, is he your boyfriend?”
“Husband, actually,” the soldier’s all too quick-witted, pushing off the counter and reaching for a mug of brewing coffee. “But don’t worry, we’re open. What do you think of our kitchen lights, by the way? My wife here likes them dim.”
Dumb as he is, your date tilts his head up to inspect the light fixtures.
“Oh, they’re nice!”
That does it for you.
“Bucky, shut up!” You snap, finger pointed over at the menace who’s biting back a smirk and stirring away at his mug, face as innocent as sin. Is this some twisted version of revenge, a punishment for bringing a stranger home? You’d prefer the punishment to be a little more… hands on. Preferably in the form of your slapping that twinkle out of his eyes. “He is not my boyfriend, or my husband. He is the bum that lives on my couch.”
“You see how she treats me, Vince?”
“It’s Lance,” the gymna- Lance corrects him.
Moving towards the kitchen, your eyes check over your roommate once more, as though they expect some previously unseen injury to make an appearance on his skin. Come the end of your search, you’re left looking into a face that is sporting a split brow and a cruel level of entertainment from the situation at hand.
There’s a relief to having him back, and it’s wrestling with the exasperating emotions a single missed call conjured up.
“What are you doing here, anyway? Aren’t you and Sam still meant to be… I don’t know, on a homoerotic getaway, fighting crime?” The questions fire out of you as you slip into one of the island’s stools.
“We finished early,” Bucky appears by your side as though from thin air, hand clasping the back of your seat and pushing you in closer to the counter top.
“Aww, don’t worry, big boy, it happens to the best of you,” you tease, an empathetic pat against his shoulder.
The mockery backfires when you notice his brows shoot up and his stare shifts towards your date, who’s too busy trying to open the sugar jar to notice the dig at his own sexual inabilities.
Wait, when exactly did Bucky get home?
“How do you take your coffee?” One-Thrust-Lance asks you over his shoulder.
Before you can answer, a cup is nudged into your grasp and Bucky looks over you with triumph, metal fingers reaching out to drag over a plate of freshly-baked cookies. The smell of warm vanilla pairs well with the soft musk of his cologne, your eyes nearly roll back inhaling it.
“Mmm,” one sip of your coffee is all you need to know it’s perfect, made exactly to your taste. “Coffee and baked goods… I knew I kept you around for a reason.”
In lieu of any verbal response, the soldier takes to dunking one of the cookies into your mug before stealing a bite out of it. You watch as he chews on the sweet treat, head nodding in approval at his own skills. After he dips a second time, you expect him to take another bite, only to find him offering the chocolate chip goodness up to your mouth. Two eyes, blue as any winter, stare encouragingly while you sink your teeth into the cookie.
Heaven couldn’t taste any sweeter, you think, as the perfect blend of coffee stained dough and the sharpness of the dark chips flood your tastebuds.
“So messy,” Bucky tuts quietly, his right hand grabbing a steady hold of your chin while his thumb swipes away the crumbs dusting the corner of your mouth.
That thing inside of you stops again as you watch him bring his hand up to his own mouth, a pink tongue poking out to lick his thumb clean.
Arousal thrums through your blood, a pulsing rhythm that spreads straight to your clit. A squeeze of your thighs brings momentary reprieve, yet the ache fights back with renewed force, drying up your throat and knocking the sense right out of you.
Squirming where you sit, your legs switch position until one foot finds itself tucked beneath the opposite thigh, the heel of it sitting perfectly against your clothed core. You find no mercy, no chance to roll your hips forward in search of the balm only friction will bring to your burning skin. Instead there’s simply Bucky, eyes trailing down the length of you and settling on your short-clad legs. As though his behaviour is not cruel enough, he wets his bottom lip with his tongue
“You like that?” More than you’ll ever know, you almost scream until the logical side of your brain takes the wheel again and you notice him pointing down at the half-eaten cookie. Of course he’s enquiring about his baking skills, what else would this scrambled-egg-for-brains senior citizen be talking about? “Are you gonna make me wait all day for an answer?”
Something smashes behind Bucky, just in time to startle away the racy thoughts from your mind.
“My bad!” Your date — who you damn near forgot was even here — is apologising, bending at the waist and trying his best to collect the fractured pieces of a mug off the floor. “Where do you guys keep your dustpan?”
Bucky pushes away from the island counter, taking the smell of his cologne with him; if you weren’t fully back to your rational senses, you’d miss it.
“I’ll get it, Vince, you just stand there and look pretty.”
“Okay!” Lance, it seems, is just as eager to please the ex-assassin as you almost were a moment ago.
You decide you need to move, to stand up, to stretch your legs. This has nothing to do with the lingering effect of Bucky’s antics, nor the damp patch gathering against your panties.
Slipping off the kitchen stool, you work on chugging down gulps of coffee with every intention of dumping the empty mug into the sink, dashing to your bedroom, and conjuring up the best plan you can come up with to get not only yourself, but also the trash you brought in with you last night out of the apartment and away from an infuriating roommate.
Something on the floor derails you, however, dragging you away from the path to sanctuary. The tiniest red petal, lonesome and neglected upon the cold tile. Three steps over, and there’s another petal. One step until the next petal. You follow the breadcrumb trail all the way over to the garbage can where, with one gentle push of a button, the lid opens up to reveal the unexpected, thrown away like a dirty secret.
A crumpled bouquet of roses.
Everywhere you turn, there’s tension.
In your neck, from sleeping at an unfavourable angle. Within your stomach, where a queasy feeling keeps threatening to spew your guts out onto the bathroom floor. Between you and Bucky, a foreign energy that’s grown over the course of this last week, during which you’ve been avoiding eye contact and his stare is full of accusation.
Retracing your steps, they take you back to the moment Lance left the apartment and you found yourself drowning in Bucky’s company for the first time in weeks. He was barely half-way through poking fun at the choices you made in his absence — most of his focus being on the blubbering fool you brought into your bed — when your patience ran thin and snapped.
Now here you are, bearing the consequence of your own short temper, wiping lipstick off your teeth whilst mentally preparing yourself to go on a second date, planned sheerly out of spite and the need to prove a point.
Poor Lance is none the wiser to his role as pawn in your game of ‘Screw You, Barnes!’.
“Everything okay in there?” Think of the devil and he shall knock on the bathroom door, apparently. “Thought you had your big date at seven.”
The gymnast’s text thread stares back at you, a wall of grey bubbles. You have to swallow down the lump in your throat to speak, “He’s not answering my calls.”
“You’ve been stood up? By that loser?” There’s every chance your storm of emotions is impeding you from thinking straight, but you swear you almost hear a hint of disbelief in Bucky’s voice. Disgust, even.
There’s no point dwelling on the thought.
After a quick wash of your hands, you pry the door open and watch as the soldier leaning against it nearly topples forward before catching himself against the frame. He’s entirely too close for comfort, close enough for you to notice the different shades of blue in his eyes.
“Maybe he broke his phone?” The lack of assurance in your voice has you cringing, the fear of being called out suddenly doubling.
Bucky scoffs, arms crossing over his chest.
“More likely he forgot to charge it.”
Is that what happened to him? Is that why he left you to dwell in the dark over his whereabouts and wellbeing, rendering the usual distraction of a night-time companion useless? Only for you to find him the following morning, right as rain and as annoying as ever, standing in the kitchen and casting judgement-filled glances at your overnight guest?
Thinking about it, about him, brings on an onslaught of anger you’re not willing to address. Not right now.
“Shut up!” It comes across as less independent girlboss and more petulant child, but you’re too busy noticing how firm his chest feels under your palms as you push past him out of the bathroom to care.
Prying open the freezer, you hear the soft click of the toilet door closing. Good, you think, he’s gone away. Out of sight, out of mind. Even if it is only for the short time it takes him to do his business.
That time ends up being even shorter than expected, for only minutes after you’ve dug your spoon into the creamy, frozen goodness of vanilla fudge, the object of both your fascination and your torture is making his way towards the kitchen.
“Didn’t I tell you to stop eating my ice cream?”
“Didn’t I tell you to move out?” Mouth full of vanilla, you shoot him a toothy grin and relish in the grimace it earns you.
Satisfaction melts away when Bucky invades your personal space, metal arm reaching over head and pulling open a cupboard.
“Don’t do that,” you swat at the vibranium bicep, a futile fight that simply makes you all too aware of how smooth it feels beneath your fingertips.
“Do what?” Brain of a caveman, Bucky continues his rustling through the cabinet behind you, features as stoic as a rock as though he’s none the wiser to how your chests brush against one another with each exhale.
“That,” another swat at his arm, though this time he yields. The space between you doesn’t grow, however. It worsens, his attention fully falling onto you now. “Reaching over me like you can’t just ask me to move.”
“Fine, if it really bothers you that much,” are the last words you hear before you’re airborne, two hands squeezing at your hips and moving you two steps over and out of the way.
The soldier doesn’t struggle, not even for a moment, the serum that’s altered his DNA leaving him primed and ready to manoeuvre the most steadfast of objects. Manhandle them, too. Pick them up, turn them over, pin them down, make them scream… Objects, of course, or those big, bad guys he and Sam are always chasing after.
The anger in you is renewed, burning brighter than a star ready to die. You shove his hands off of you and secure another step of distance between you.
“Well aren’t you a ray of sunshine today.” With the rate he’s going at, one would think the soldier makes a living out of deepening the frown on your face. “Is this princess’ first time being stood up?”
You’d slap him, right here and now, if it didn’t mean moving closer and touching his skin; the current top two of your ‘Things To Not Do’ list.
Luckily, the tub of ice cream sits just within reach and your eager fingers take grip of it, sliding it over the counter towards yourself. A mouthful of coolness precedes the burning question on your tongue, “Why didn’t you call?”
“Are you serious?” Now he’s the one scowling and taking a step closer.
“Deadly,” you dig the spoon back into the carton. “Now answer the question.”
“You’re pissy with me for not calling, meanwhile I’m the one who came home to some asshole in your bed?”
He’s moving closer. You try to step backwards.
“Yeah, well, if you’d called like you were supposed to, I wouldn’t have ended up with said asshole.”
Bucky’s eyes narrow, “Oh, so now it’s my fault that you date degenerates?”
The cackle that escapes you could break the soundbarrier.
“Wow! Everybody, give it up for another original dig at my love-life from James Buchanan Barnes!” Voice dripping with seven layers of venomous sarcasm, you give three slow claps of your hands. The cynical smile that overcomes your face feels borderline deranged, something plucked right out of a horror movie. “Okay, yeah, I date losers! Happy? Jesus Christ, Bucky, what do you expect me to do? It’s not exactly like there’s anyone else lining up to date me.”
“I am!” His voice is raised, his eyes are wide, his chest is heaving. “Maybe I’m the biggest idiot, rushing home last week to surprise you. Even brought you flowers. I just… Fuck!”
You don’t move, don’t blink, don’t breathe.
Bucky runs a hand through his hair, knuckles going white as he pulls on the tresses.
There it is again in his eyes, the accusation.
Even though he’s shaking his head, he steps closer.
The kitchen counter is right behind you, there’s nowhere for you to run.
The heels on your feet almost give out beneath you, you try to steady yourself with your hands.
Bucky has other plans and grips both your forearms.
“I am,” he repeats, softer. Slower. The icy exterior of accusation melts away to reveal vulnerability.
A hand meets your cheek and holds you like you are glass, breakable beneath his touch. Your heart’s in your throat, and there’s a current of electricity running down to your toes, and that neglected hunger in your loins creeps in again. His eyes search your face, while his thumb gently swipes over your bottom lip, prying it out an involuntary capture from your teeth.
It’s unclear who reaches for who first, whether he dips and takes possession of your mouth, or you grab him by the collar of his shirt and lay your claim over him. In a matter of seconds, a tentative press of lips against lips divulges into loss of breath, tongues in mouths, and fevered kisses.
The soldier kisses with starvation, like he has walked through the desert of loneliness and at last stumbled upon an oasis, like a bee seeking every last drop of nectar from a flower dying off with the spring, like a body clings to sleep in the throes of exhaustion. It’s a necessity, a human need, a matter of survival to keep your lips interlocked.
The hand on your face holds you steady as he tilts himself deeper into the kiss. Noses brush against the swells of cheeks, eyelids rest close, feet shuffle closer in search of eradicating the crevice of distance between you two. Metal fingers curl around the nape of your neck, a gesture you reciprocate while your spare hand lays flat-palmed against his beating chest. One of his legs winds up between yours and, as he shifts weight from one foot to another, there’s the faintest relief of friction against your cunt and a whine gets caught between your throat and Bucky’s eager mouth.
Despite how you chase his lips, he pulls back and grants you the sight of pure endearment.
“Look at you, whining already. Where’s all that fire gone?” It’s practically a whisper, spoken with fascination. “Or were you just needing Old Bucky to touch you, huh?”
Second-hand embarrassment burns the tips of your ears, while your own unspoken agreement to his question has your stomach twisting up. Survival instincts, that have never been much of a friend, scream at you to flee this feeling, to throw away Pandora’s box before you risk fully opening it and having it consume you.
Bucky intercepts your attempt to push out of his arms.
“Ah, ah, get back here. Not done kissing you,” his words divulge into a barely coherent mumble as he reconnects your lips.
Beneath the heat of his kiss, the discomfort in your chest turns to ashes. Because, while instinct tells you to run from danger, this is Bucky.
Bucky who fixes cupboard hinges, and sleeps with both eyes on the door. Bucky who carries all the shopping, and holds every door. Bucky who calls to hear your voice while he’s away endangering his life, and brings home the silliest trinkets he finds on missions. Bucky who wakes you when you miss your alarm, and knows if you’ve had a bad day simply from looking at your face.
How could you possibly be in danger when it comes to him?
While you’re overcome with epiphany, he’s taken to tracing his lips over the slope of your jaw and mouthing at the skin of your neck. It’s when he lifts you up onto the kitchen counter that your wandering mind is reeled back in, to the physical present where your legs rest on either side of the soldier and the prized possession of vanilla fudge once again sits within reaching distance.
“Are you stealing my ice cream right now?” His lips tickle your collarbone as he speaks, barely a moment after you’ve scooped the spoon into your mouth.
“I’m warm, and it's melting,” his head pops up just in time to accept the spoonful of vanilla you deliver. There’s a glow in his eyes, one that has you questioning if it's been there all along or if it's a consequence of touching your skin. “Don’t want it to go to waste.”
His mouth is on yours again, a rush of three chaste kisses seared against you before he replies, “Then let’s cool you down.”
At a teasingly slow pace, you feel his fingers tug down your dress’ straps, leaving the silky fabric to slip down your frame and pool around your hips. Under the golden hue of the kitchen lights, his gaze studies your bare skin like it's a work of art, an eighth wonder of the world, the greatest poem never written woven into it. Yet it still manages to pale against the face that overcomes him as he removes a final layer of lace.
Unlike Vince, he has no trouble removing your bra.
“So responsive,” he talks as though only his ears are meant to hear it, his vibranium palm gently taking hold of your left breast and rolling the hardening nipple between two fingers.
He’s studying your reaction, bewildered by the goosebumps spreading over your flesh.
When was the last time he truly touched another person? Weeks, months, years, decades? The thought of his hands on a faceless shape makes you sick. First with envy, and then with hypocrisy, an amalgamation of all the men you’ve taken to bed flashing before your eyes. But none of them ever touched you like you were porcelain, and none of them looked at you like you held the key to eternal pleasure. None of them were Bucky.
A chill runs down your spine and a gasp rips out your chest as Bucky swipes the spoon over your skin, leaving a trail of ice cream atop your right breast for his tongue to follow. He plants a garden of kisses along the swell of your chest before pulling away to give the left side equal treatment, another creamy river along your skin for him to clean up.
Moving at their own volition, your hips grind gently against his steady figure as Bucky coats your nipple in vanilla, moaning into your chest as he lays claim over you with his mouth. Spoiling you in his kisses, the soldier begins to yearn for friction, meeting the careful roll of your hips with his own.
Your hand finds his hair and his stare meets yours, intense and all-consuming as he releases your nipple with a scrape of his teeth. You want to soothe his kiss-swollen lips but they’re already wrapping themselves around your other breast, not even patient enough to lather you in the vanilla goodness this time.
Instead, the coldness on your skin stems from metal fingers, perched on your thigh and creeping up the length of it, inch by tormenting inch. A hesitant hand wraps around a vibranium wrist, tightening its grip before you begin guiding his touch inwards, upwards, to where you need it most. Bucky's stronger, more resistant, and holds off your interceptance, left hand continuing its intended path beneath the skirt of your dress and grabbing hold of your naked waist.
He’s everywhere, all over you. Mouthing at your chest, gripping at your hip, rutting into your pussy. The sweet drag of his bulge over your clothed core sires a wet patch against your thong and has your fingers tugging on the roots of his hair, winning you the hair-raising hum of a groan against your breast.
Desperate to feel more, you renew your efforts to lead his hand to the space between your legs and are met with a shake of his head.
“No,” he mutters, and robs you of a hand beneath your dress, using it instead to cradle your jaw while his lips skim over the shell of your ear. “Wanna feel you.”
The warmth of flesh brands your thigh, Bucky’s right arm now leading the charge beneath the silky fabric. With bated breath, you brace yourself against his strong chest and try not to squirm in anticipation of his touch. With one final squeeze at your inner thigh, the soldier’s hand engulfs your clothed cunt and his breath cracks in your ear, a strangled out, feral noise that has your toes curling.
“She’s so wet, darling,” his voice has you delirious, breathy against your ear. His fingers flex against your pussy and a moan catches in your throat. “You gonna let me touch her?”
Something about the way he’s speaking to you, the words he’s choosing, makes you want to fall apart. Your sex-life has always been liberal, you know what it is to have a man’s hands all over you, trying to take ownership of parts of you he thinks belong to him. Men who take, and take, and take, until there is nothing left of you to give, and not once do they care to win your favour, to plead for permission. But Bucky…
“Please, say I can touch her, wanna give her what she needs,” he’s pleading for it, begging for you — wrecked and desperate, breath run ragged from no more than the relief of rolling his groin against your thigh. “Promise I’ll be real sweat, make you feel good.”
Too caught up in his own head, he doesn’t notice you nodding, until you’re granting him salvation verbally, “Touch me, Bucky.”
He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t waste time on taking off your underwear, just moves it to the side and drags the tip of his fingers down the inseam of your pussy. You hear it, more than you feel it, the moment he touches your opening, a sharp inhale at your ear telling you he’s exactly where he wants to be.
As his middle finger slips in, it’s hard to tell which of you reacts louder, both a mess of guttural moans. Once it's fully sheathed within you, he curls it and presses against your soaked walls, grinning against your skin at the reaction it coaxes out of you.
“Don’t hold back,” he chastises you as you bite back another pathetic whimper, a second finger slipping into you. “Let me hear what I’m doing to you.”
He must have a magic touch, you’re sure of it. Thick fingers that fuck into you at a steady pace, curling and teasing at that world-bending spot inside you, while his thumb makes itself useful against your clit, a firm force for your bucking hips to grind up into while you chase the pleasure he’s unleashing on you. In a matter of minutes, the room is alive with your melodic moans, Bucky’s endless hums of approval, and the damn-right embarrassingly loud squelch of him fingering your drooling cunt.
You make the mistake of letting your eyes slip shut, relinquishing yourself to the way he touches you with the rough hands of a soldier yet the delicate stroke of a musician playing his favourite instrument. He must feel the shift in you, for he’s instantly prying his face away from your neck and tightening the metal grip on your jaw, fingertips digging into squished cheeks.
“Look at me,” his words are both a command and a plea. An order you follow and a prayer you answer, eyelashes fluttering open to find his face in front of your own. His lips are a hard line, his brows furrowed in disapproval, and there’s a vein threatening to split down the middle of his forehead, but his eyes. His eyes are affection incarnate, two pools of lust and worship that pose no threat of drowning. “Do you want to cum?”
Never has a more needless question been asked.
You nod into the force of his vibranium hand, but that’s not what he wants, frown deepening.
“Say it,” needy, helpless, spoken like he’s the one on the brink of ecstasy. “Please.”
“Bucky,” it feels good to say his name like this, brain melting into mush and heart racing in your chest. “I want you to let me cum.”
“Let you?” He’s offended by the word, fingers burying impossibly deeper inside of you while he continues to stare you down. “I beg of you.”
No warning precedes the coil in you snapping. The muscles in your core tense, your back arches into his broad figure, your pussy squeezes at Bucky’s fingers with a death grip. He guides you through it, ignoring the cramp in his wrist in favour of continuing to fuck his hand into you, a smile finally cracking over his face as he watches you fall apart atop the counter, nothing but Bucky, Bucky, Bucky surrounding you.
He tries to give you reprieve, a moment to breathe and savour the buzz in your veins, the hand around your jaw shifting to stroke at your cheek while the hand between your legs soothes you with featherlight touches.
You don’t let him, hand pawing down his torso and gripping at the belt of his jeans, delighting in the familiar clang of a buckle being undone, nimble digits that tear leather out its loop and tug down his zipper. Bucky’s bringing his lips back against yours just as you palm at his bulge, his tongue licking into your mouth when you finally release him from the confines of his boxers.
Fingers coated in your own slick grip at your thigh while the soldier makes it his mission to steal your breath, rendering you blind to the sight of his cock. But you can feel it. The weight of it in your hand, the burn of want ingrained in his skin. The width of it, and the length of it, and the perfectly mushroomed tip that has him keening into your touch as your pointer finger drags over the head.
“Is this what I do to you?” Still lost in the maze of your orgasm, you manage to gain back crumbs of your usual confidence watching Bucky fall mute. When he merely nods, you play him at his own game, fingers back in his hair and forcing him to look you in the eye. “Say it.”
He doesn’t.
He says something much better.
“D’you even realise how many nights I’ve laid on that fucking couch, hard as a rock and willing you to come out your room?”
“That’s your generation's problem, you know?” You whisper teasingly, incapable of fighting off your own laughter. “You swear more than you breathe.”
“C’mere,” he’s rolling his eyes and pulling you in, kissing you like it’s been a milenia and not a minute, hand nudging yours out the way to take a hold of himself.
Your teeth graze over his tongue as he drags the head of his cock through your folds, and he groans into your mouth before pulling back. Resting his forehead against yours, he’s teasing you both as his tip brushes over your hole before continuing its rutt up, bumping against your sensitive clit.
A wicked voice takes control of your mouth.
“Lance would have fucked me by now.”
“Vince would have cum by now, too,” he’s still rocking his hips, no sense of urgency behind the way he soaks himself in you.
Meanwhile, you’re a handful of seconds away from screaming at him to just stick it in already.
“You- Oh!” Prayers answered, hallelujah, his cock finally sinks into you. It’s a shallow thrust, barely more than the tip before he’s retreating, yet it's enough to mess with your head. “You heard us?”
“Unfortunately,” and he means it, the most subtle of pouts forming on his lips before he feeds himself a little deeper into your pussy. “I’m not great when it comes to timing.”
“I only slept with Lance because you-” Right on cue, he fucks into you even deeper and your words dissappear before they can reach your tongue.
“New rule,” a hand rests on your knee and encourages you to spread your legs wider. “No speaking another man’s name when you’re in bed with me.”
“Technically, this is the kitchen counter-” The bastard does it again, cuts you off with his dick — if it didn’t feel so damn good, you’d slap him.
He’s bottomed out at last, buried himself fully in your cunt. Hands snake around your waist, one palm flattening against your lower back while the other rests a little further up and guides your spine to arch into him, closer, like there’s anymore space left between you to devour.
His pace is still slow, teasing. A toe-curling drag of his cock out of you, letting you feel every ridge and vein before his hips promptly snap back into you and send your eyes rolling back, your head falling back — and smacking loudly against the cupboard door behind you.
Bucky freezes, one hand quick to cradle the back of your skull while his eyes scan over you.
“Jesus, doll, you okay?”
“Please don’t stop,” you plead, ridiculously unfazed by the faint ache when you’ve got him inside of you.
Even though he rolls his eyes, he complies.
“Might have just given you a concussion and all you care about is getting fucked?” He asks, like you could possibly care about anything else when his arms are hooking themselves under your knees and rucking you up off the counter, away from any rogue cupboard that means you harm.
If anything, you’ll gladly shoulder the burden of any possible injury, if it means being granted the sight of his biceps tensing as he effortlessly stands there and fucks you down onto him. Were you in any sane state of mind, you wouldn’t think it, but god bless that super soldier serum.
“You can give me a cockcussion for all I care,” head perched on his shoulder, you watch your nails sink into the fabric of his shirt and wish it would disappear and gift you the naked view of his back.
“Adding that to the list,” he whispers against your forehead, pressing a kiss against it.
Legs bent at the knee, you watch how, with one particularly deep thrust, they bounce at either side of him and one of your heels clatters to the floor.
The room pivots as Bucky turns, you still in his arms and your ankles locked behind his back. At first, you believe he’s aiming to move things into the bedroom, where the only thing your head will be hitting is the mattress when he lays you down. He proves you wrong, however, the cold press of marble against you once more as he settles you down onto the kitchen island.
Much to your chagrin, he slips out of you, cock now sitting pretty against his clothed abdomen and glistening with the sheen of your essence. In the blink of an eye, the soldier is sinking to his knees, metal finger reaching back for your fallen shoe.
The scene plays out like something stripped right out of a morally dubious, low quality pornography retelling of Cinderella, in which Prince Charming has his dick out, Cinderella’s gown is half-way off, and the infamous glass slipper is just a pair of heels you bought on sale.
Bucky is delicate and slow, mouth tickling at your inner knee as he secures the shoe in place. He rests back on his haunches and fully takes in the sight of you, perched upon the counter, hands splayed out on marble, a tangle of silk around your waist, lips parted in search of steady breathing.
There’s an intensity to his gaze, burrowing itself beneath your skin and becoming part of your bloodstream, spreading throughout your body. It makes you want to hide, flee like you do best, but Bucky has other plans.
“The shoes stay on, but this,” Bucky’s fingertips tug lightly on the hem of your dress, exposing a sliver of new skin. “I need this gone. Am I allowed to take it off?”
There he goes again, face the model of innocence while he asks for permission to your body. If you weren’t already dripping against your panties, you would be now. Luckily, he doesn’t push you to verbalise your agreement this time, more than eager to comply the moment you nod your head.
You wiggle your hips as he pulls the fabric out from beneath you, his grip snagging on the waistband of your thong and dragging it away alongside the dress. When your ass cheeks press back down onto the cool of the counter, reality hits you like a freight-train: you’re completely nude, with Bucky on his knees before you, in the middle of the kitchen.
“Buck,” the y of his nickname disappears as you feel him peppering kisses of your leg, inching that little bit higher each press of his mouth. Squeezing your eyes shut, you try to remember where your rational thoughts are stored, conjuring up images of friends, of Sam sitting at this very surface. “I don’t think we should… I mean, people eat off this counter!”
“Don’t worry,” reaching the threshold of your thigh, his kisses seem to speed up, that sauve and composed exterior chipping away to reveal a man who no longer wants to take his time with you. “I intend to eat.”
No sooner than the words reach your ears, Bucky swipes his tongue up your pussy and any fight left in you melts away as you turn to putty beneath his touch, soft and malleable, willing to sit there and take whatever he wants to give.
Give, he most certainly does. Lips latch onto your clit, hands hold your squirming hips in place, tongue dances over your most delicate areas before dipping into your entrance. He drinks from you like you’re the sweetest honey, the richest of red wines, the Holy Grail promising an eternal youth to a man whose time was stolen from him.
“You should see her, doll,” there’s a rasp in Bucky’s voice, a feral undertone to the growl that rests in the back of his throat. One hand tugs his shirt off while the other snakes between your legs, two fingers spreading your lips open in an obscene gesture that has you clamping down on your bottom lip. “She’s drooling for me, all pretty and wet.”
Dropping both your legs over his shoulders, he tugs you right to the edge of the counter and dives back in. You feel his nose bump against your clit and your hand grabs onto your thigh, nails piercing into flesh as your mouth sings a whined symphony.
Vibranium curls around your wrist, prying harm away from your own skin and silently imploring you to hurt him instead, nestling your fingers back into his hair. He’s renewing his effort, a touch that’s more determined than ever to make you fall apart, on his knees and worshipping the altar of your body — fealty and devotion seared into each lap of his tongue, each brush of his lips, each stroke of his fingers.
Who are you to reject his piety? You welcome it, with closed fist and glassy eyes. The soldier shudders — a full-body shiver that shakes down his spine — as the point of your heel digs into his back and your fingers squeeze at his scalp, no mercy shown as you lose yourself in the throes of lust.
When you cum, a silent scream rips through your chest and a burning-too-bright white light turns you blind. He doesn’t let up, tongue still buried in your convulsing walls as your thighs clamp around his head and your feet kick at his back, shoes flying elsewhere into the kitchen. He pays none of it any mind, content to prolong your orgasm for as long as you’ll allow him, slowly rising off his knees with two hands pinning you back against the counter while he continues to feast on your pleasure.
“Ja-mes,” a fractured call of his name is all it takes for him to stop, pupils more black than blue as they stare down at the picture you paint atop the counter: teary-eyes, swollen lips, heaving chest.
He’s hardly the image of composure either, red lines along the expanse of his back, hair a tousled mess, the scruff on his face covered in a sheen of your juices. And, yet, never have you wanted to kiss him so bad.
All you manage, after minutes of floating atop the cloud of your peak, is a cheeky grin and a comment that makes him roll his eyes: “For a fossil, you’re pretty kinky.”
“War camps aren’t exactly known for being fun,” as he speaks, he slowly lowers your legs off his shoulder. “You find ways to keep yourself entertained.”
“Bet you were quite the pleaser, huh?” Trying your best to play it cool, you lay your head fully back on the counter and stare up at the ceiling, praying he doesn’t notice the hypocritical pit forming in your stomach as you listen to your own words. “Probably had all the prettiest nurses fighting over who gets to tend to your poor, aching, throbbing co-”
“Jealousy looks cute on you,” he interrupts, amused, as his hands soothe over your hips.
“I’m not jealous!” You exclaim, barely believing yourself.
One hand reaching out for him, you watch your fingers intertwine with the prosthetic digits and let him tug you back up, chest to chest when his hand finds your cheek.
“I was,” his confession is crooned whilst staring right into your eyes, the tiniest up-turn to his mouth. “Everytime you walked out the door to go date a new loser.”
“Who knew,” your voice is as gentle as his own, nonchalant as a finger dances down the well-defined muscles of his abdomen and elicits a groan out of him. “All along I had my own loser at home.”
Bucky opts for silence as your hand reaches his groin and pays no mind to his cock, red-tipped and leaking, flushed against his stomach. You’re more interested in his jeans — in removing them, to be exact. It doesn’t take much, a sharp tug at the hem before they’re slipping off, meeting restraint as they cling to his muscled thighs and implore him to finish the job on your behalf, shucking them off blindly to where the rest of your clothes lie.
You must have saved a village in a past life to be rewarded with the view of a completely nude Bucky Barnes, skin stained by lust and laced with gold beneath the kitchen light. You must have saved the rest of the world, too, to watch how his eyes roll back and his mouth falls slack when you take his length in hand and give one slow pump of your wrist, releasing it just to watch it slap back against his abdomen.
As you reach for his dick again, his hand secures itself around your own and guides it up and down the length of it. Once, twice, thrice, till he’s breathing heavily and dripping in pre-cum.
“You must be close,” a statement you make with his own bodily reaction as evidence to back it up, yet there’s still room for doubt — to what extent does that soldier serum interfere with him?
“Put me back down on my knees and I’ll cum to the taste of you,” the soldier certainly makes a tempting offer, one that it almost pains you to refuse.
Almost, if you hadn’t already felt the sweet stretch of him inside you.
“Pretty sure putting you back down on your knees might be considered elder abuse, ole buddy.”
“My age may be a hundred and six but-”
“Exactly my point.”
“But my body isn’t,” he’s using that stare of his, the one Sam always warns you about, while you’re full-on cheesing, a rush of adrenaline shooting through your veins as you wind him up.
“Remind me, who threw their back out a few weeks ago pulling a tray of muffins out the oven?”
His flesh hand grips behind one of your knees and tugs you right to the edge of the counter, while his left one, still clasped over your own, drags his tip over your folds.
“I don’t remember hearing you complain when you drunkenly ate half the tray and then threw up over the rest,” admittedly, not one of your proudest moments.
“Shut up and fuck me, Barnes.”
“Yes ma’am.”
Just like that, you’re drowning in him again, gasping for breath as you lose yourself in a flood of lust. Bottomed out, stuffing you full, Bucky barely graces your pussy with the chance to adjust to his stretch once more before he’s moving, the sweet graze of every inch being dragged along your sensitive walls.
Your nerves are still reeling from his mouth, a quiet hum of electric pleasure reawakened by his throbbing cock and his vulgar mouth.
“She fits me like a fucking glove,” his hands are pawing at your waist, your breast, your face, never in one place for too long as he begins to settle into a rhythm of thrusts. “Doing so good for me, darling.”
The softness put into his term of endearment births an ache in your chest, one that will accept no medicine other than your arms around his neck and his lips on yours. Mouths tangled in kisses and sweat dripping down your skin, Bucky halts — your hips pressed together, the swell of his balls resting right against your swollen cunt, the head of his cock resting right against your sweet spot — and grinds.
Slow, deliberate, delicious. You whine into his mouth and feel how he swallows it, feasts on your ecstasy with a willing tongue, and a smiling mouth, and possessive teeth that tug at your lip as he pulls back. He stretches out the feeling, grinding a second time as your noses bump against one another.
“Bucky,” his name is an anchor, a paperweight, something to ground you amidst the floaty feeling of being two orgasms deep with a third approaching any time now.
“I know,” he says, and you believe him. Believe that he knows, that he’s known, that he always knows when it comes to you.
You lay your head to rest upon on his left shoulder when he returns to chasing a high between your thighs, a renewed vigor behind each thrust that has your hips rolling to meet his and your nails raking over the straining muscles of his back.
“I lied,” an unprompted confession stumbles out his mouth, fingers flexing into their grip on your waist. “About the apartment viewing. I didn’t go.”
“Bucky,” is all you can manage, branded into his skin with a kiss along his neck.
“Is that all you can say? Huh?” His voice carries a teasing lilt, paired to perfection with the pad of his thumb rubbing at your clit. “I’m giving pivotal revelations here, and you’re just gonna reply with that?”
Another echo of his name, walls fluttering around his dick.
“Bucky, Bucky,” he’s mocking you, a torturer’s laugh as he moans his name into your ear. “Keep going, you sound so pathetic it’s almost cute.”
Beyond words and beyond sense, you give in to the weight of his palm splaying against your stomach and guiding your back down onto the island. The soldier hooks your legs over his elbows, deepening the angle that his cock fucks into you, and you swear you see stars dance along the kitchen ceiling.
A hand smooths over your gut and you look back at Bucky to find adoration in his eyes.
“You see that?” You almost want to cry when his movement switches back to a slow drag — innnnn and outtttt — until you notice it: the smallest hint of movement beneath your flesh, a subtle visual of the outline of his tip bulging against your skin from inside you. “See how full she is, how good I’m making her feel?”
Pressing your hand against it, you can’t help but giggle as you feel him poke at your palm, only to fall back into a puddle of incoherent noises when he keeps pushing at that sweet spot, over and over. Harder and faster with each draw back of his hips, you feel rivulets of your own arousal roll down your ass and onto the marble, tainting the counter forevermore in the sins the soldier commits against you, the sins you welcome with open legs.
You’re near the edge again, and he feels it, pushing you closer and closer as he slowly spirals into a mess of phrases that barely begin before he’s cutting them off with something new.
“Don’t deserve this-” He catches himself, rips the insecurity in his voice out by the roots. “C’mon, let me see it one more time. Need to see you fall apart.”
“Want you to fall apart too,” you manage to beg, unwilling to watch him hold back or pull out before he finishes. “Please!”
Like any good soldier, he obeys.
Crashing over you like a wave, he’s doubled-over by the waist and sandwiching you between the counter and him. You feel him spill into you, hot ropes of cum painting your walls white as a third crescendo washes over your body.
Both of you seek out the other as his thrusts grow languid and your walls spasm, milking him for every last drop he’s got. When your mouths meet, it’s less of a kiss and more of you simply breathing into the other, exchanging air and body heat.
“So,” you croak eventually, exhausted and spent atop the counter yet completely unwilling to relinquish him from blanketing you. “Are you gonna do that every time I steal your ice cream?”
Somewhere between jello-ed legs and cold compresses, you wind up in bed.
Skin clammy, lips swollen, lust satiated, you practically melt into the buttery softness of your bed sheets as Bucky lays you down. Despite how you’re still basking in the glow of your third and final orgasm, the soldier seems to think, for a second, you can handle another.
With gentle hands prying open your thighs and a curious tongue diving in for a second helping, licking up the dribble of his own cum spilling out your hole, he’s quick to be corrected when you roll away from his touch with a whine and a plea, “think I might actually die if you make me cum again, Buck.”
He’s unbothered by the rejection, wholly embracing it as he curls up behind you and snakes his arms over your naked skin. It’s you who drags the sheet up and over you both, turning in his arms to plant your head on his chest. His heart races beneath it, but you hold off on teasing — your own isn't any better.
“Sam’s going to kill me,” you whisper out into the room, when moonlight is peeking through your curtains and both of your heartbeats have calmed down.
“I’m sorry,” you feel him shift beneath your head and, though you can’t fully see him, you feel that blue gaze land on you. “Have I not made it clear enough what name you should be saying in bed?”
“There’s a serious chance I’ll die and you’re thinking with your dick,” he squirms as you pinch at his nipple. “You’re no better than the men on your list, Barnes.”
Silence floats back in between you for a moment, peaceful as the slow stroke of his fingers dancing up your spine.
“Why would Sam kill you?” He pauses, hand pressing a little harder down against a knot in your shoulder. “He knows you have a crazy guard dog.”
Your crazy guard dog just pressed a kiss against your forehead, how frightening.
“He made me swear I wouldn’t get involved with you. He said you weren’t in the headspace for a relationship, that you needed to focus on inner peace first.”
“Turns out inner peace is being inside of you,” you pinch at his nipple again. This time, he doesn’t run from it. This time, you almost swear you hear a little moan creep up his throat. “So, Wilson’s to blame? I can get behind that.”
“To blame for what?”
His hand’s now running up and down the back of your arm, leaving goosebumps wherever its tender touch goes.
“Why it took you so long to jump my bones.”
“You think I jumped your-” Your head rises off his chest and you stare into the navy darkness of the room, trying to make a concrete shape out where you see shadows of his face. “Wait, so these past few weeks, I’ve not been hallucinating? You’ve been… flirting?”
“It’s been more than a couple weeks, sweetheart,” Bucky seems to have no problem finding you in the dark, hand cupping your cheek and dragging you up to press a chaste kiss against your mouth. “You don’t seriously think I waited until morning to check that sink without hoping to be caught, do you?”
“So you were slutting yourself out on the kitchen floor!”
“Think the kitchen’s seen worse,” worse might be the understatement of the century.
Clothes still lay discarded, counters unwiped, ice cream completely melted. Cleaning you up had been the soldier’s only priority, and you weren’t in the mood or the mindstate to argue with him on that.
A fingertip tickles down the slope of your nose.
“Stop fighting it, you’re tired,” you hear him whisper.
“I want to hear more about your desperate efforts to get my attention,” it’s nothing but a weak protest.
“We have all the time in the world for that. Sleep,” you don’t hesitate to comply when Bucky’s hand presses you back down against the warmth of his chest. “You’re going to need it. Our upstairs neighbours still need a taste of their own medicine.”
+ extra hyde !
· 70% of this fic is just dialogue, these two losers would not stfu!
· writing banter + sexual tension feels more exposing than writing literal porn.
· lore accurate photo of me whenever bucky barnes exists:
You are not a saint. You are not a hero. You’re barely even a living person, because living people have lives that extended beyond work and their apartment. But you’re not quite nobody, either. You’re too much, and not enough, and just in the shadows with a prayer to be saved that isn't genuine and secrets that mean nothing.
They should’ve meant nothing.
Yet here you are. In more danger than usual, being threatened by Hydra without knowing why, and being assigned a security detail you don’t want by Captain America.
Bucky Barnes is good at his job. You’re not going to die.
But you might end up strangling him before Hydra gets to either of you.
There are a few things that simply aren't understandable in the universe. Things that push the boundaries of what we know, and understand.
Things like how, even through the Winter Soldier programming, Bucky was still able to find you.
Think like how, no matter how hard the world tried, they were never to keep you apart.
Blind Collision - Mini-Series 🩵💖🧡
Soulmates are the rarest thing in the world. To even know a pair is almost unheard of, let alone to meet your own.
Some people hold out hope. You know better.
Or you thought you did. Until you met Bucky, and realized the odds you never wanted were leaning in your favor.
Blue Moon - Mini-Series🩶💖🧡
In the early 1930s, your path crosses with a young, bright eyed boy who doesn't seem to know the pain of the world. You ask him to wait. He does with a smile. Through time and war, you love him with the burn of all your heart. Across oceans and between worlds, he loves you so much he swears he could never forget.
One-Shots
✦It's Been Calling Me ❤️🔥💖💙💚🧡 - You've had these… dreams. Strange, realistic, detailed dreams of the same man, almost your whole life. But they're just dreams. You've been so sure, for so long, that they're just dreams. So sure, until you're not.
✦Louder Than Fear 🩵❤️🔥🧡 - Missions involving Hydra often go very wrong. This is different. This is worse. This is a strange bioweapon, nobody telling you exactly what's wrong, and staring at the ceiling as Bucky roars you name. It's echoing in your brain. And you love him. So you have to fix this.
✦And You Were Brighter Than The Light Pt. 1 - Pt. 2 🩵💖🧡❤️🔥 - There are a lot of Avenger's at the compound. And you never leave your room. It's a good thing you did, though. Just once. Otherwise you never would've met Bucky
✦Written In Skin 🩵🧡❤️🔥 - Bucky's been gone on a mission for about a week, and you love him, so you wait. And when he returns, he has a question that might finally let you say those three words aloud.
✦Look Behind You 💚💖🧡❤️🔥 - You've made a mistake. You've been reckless and fallen in love with Bucky. There's only one way to deal with this. Make a list.
✦A Long, Long Time 💚💖🧡❤️🔥 - The truth doesn't hurt. It's not freeing, either. It just sits in your chest, until it's pried out, and you're looking it the eyes with nowhere to run, and Bucky knows you love him. But he's not running either.
✦Fly Back Here, And Keep Warm 🩵💖🧡❤️🔥 - Bucky hates you. He doesn't talk to you, or look at you, or linger in your presence for too long. But he's still saving you from the river. From the cold. And maybe, if you're not losing your mind, he doesn't really hate you at all.
✦Not A Scar I'd Want To Fade 🩵💖🧡❤️🔥 - Bucky can't remember anything, but he's not the Soldier. He simply can't remember. If you tell him something, he forgets everything again. But he always remembers you first
✦All I've Wanted Was You - Request! 🩵💖🧡❤️🔥 - You have an arrangement with Bucky. You sleep together, and nothing more. Every time is supposed to be the last time. You love him too much keep this up and pretend it's not killing you. But it might be killing him too.
✦Along the Line 💛🧡❤️🔥 - After you get hit with a chemical on a mission, Bucky has to take care of you. But he won't do the one thing that will fix it, no matter how much you want him to. And he wants it too. Maybe more. And, at some point, something has to break.
✦In Uniform - Request! ❤️🔥💖💚 - Bucky brings you a surprise, and fulfills a fantasy.
✦Feelin' Good ❤️🔥💖💛 - It's been a long, rough day, and it's easy to sink a little lower into worse feelings. Luckily, Bucky is always there to pick you back up.
✦All The Right Places 🩵💖🧡❤️🔥 - Four times you broke the friends with benefits rules, and the one time you didn't.
✦These Nights 💛💖❤️🔥 - Bucky gets home late, and you take care of each other.
✦I Must Have Missed it in the Rain 💛🧡❤️🔥💖 - You're, somehow, the best person for this undercover mission. The one where you have to pretend to be Bucky's girlfriend. You don't know why he agreed to it when he can't stand you. But you love him. So you'll get through it, if only to play pretend for one night.
✦Don't You Know (You're Something Good) - Request! 🩵💖🧡❤️🔥 - It's impossible to think that you could be worthy of him. That Bucky could ever want you back. But he's patient, and you're far more wrong than you think.
✦Lay Me Down 💛🧡❤️🔥💖 - All you wanted in a roommate was someone not insane, who didn't shift anything in your life who didn't drive you out of your mind. You didn't get either of those things. You got Bucky Barnes
✦I've Been Waiting (And So Have You) - Request 🧡❤️🔥💖 - You've been in love with Bucky Barnes since you first saw him. You've waited for him, even when you knew it was pointless. Then, when you finally decide to move on, you ask him for help. But he doesn't seem to be putting his all into helping you find a relationship. And you can't seem to give yours to getting over him, at all.
✦Don't Stop Haunting Me❤️🔥💖💛 - You and Bucky have a (sort of) quiet arrangement. He takes care of you, and you return the favor. And you've gotten pretty good at pretending you don't want more, but after the Halloween party, it's suddenly a lot harder to pretend. Good thing Bucky is feeling the exact same way.
✦How to Let Go - Request 🧡❤️🔥💖 - After you meet Bucky at a gallery, he slowly, but certainly becomes a part of your life. An important one. One that could mean something. And you don't know how to do that. How to just be loved. But Bucky doesn't just walk away. And together, you learn.
✦Can You Feel It (through you) 💛💖❤️🔥 - You fall in deep, deep love with Bucky Barnes. But you keep it far, far down. Everyone thinks he feels something back, but you don't believe them. Until something shifts. And Bucky might feel just as much as you.
✦Cold Eyes, Warm Hands 💛💖🧡❤️🔥 - You know Bucky hates you. He's not secret about it. He hates you so much, he can't seem to stand you even getting along with an agent on a mission, and can't help but rush to your side when you need him. That's what hate is, right?
✦His Favorite Gift 💖❤️🔥 - On Christmas, the only thing Bucky needs is you.
✦Tipping Point🧡❤️🔥💖 - You agree to friends with benefits, knowing Bucky already has your heart. Knowing that he's so blissfully unaware of it, that there's never any hope to be anything more. Which makes it strange, how possessive he's getting after you're flirted with at a party.
✦The Strawberries - request!💛💖 - Bucky keeps you secret from his team, but your effect on his life might not be something he can hide.
✦If You Care 💛🧡💖❤️🔥 - Affection and relationships are the ruin of many a good woman. You're very careful, not to fall into that trap. Unfortunatly, Bucky might be the only one who can make you... stumble a bit.
✦Our Ruins 💛💖❤️🔥 - you and bucky have an arragment, and Bucky breaks an unspoken rule.
✦Goddamn, Manchild 💖🧡❤️🔥 - you and Bucky have been at odds since you first met. he can't stand you. you pretend you can't stand him. and if Bucky ever knew how you really felt, you think you might die. not when there's no chance he'd ever feel the same way. right?
✦choose me 💖🧡❤️🔥 - bucky isn't your boss, but he's still off limits. and even if he wasn't, there's no way he'd ever go for someone like you. weird that he matched with you on a dating app then, isn't it?
✦needed me 💖🧡❤️🔥 - you can't stand bucky barnes. despite all your attempts to get rid of him, he's always somewhere in your orbit. you say you hate it. hate him. but you're also a very good liar.
✦give me fever ❤️🔥💖🩵 - you and Bucky hate each other, so it's not unusual for him to act cold around you. but this is differant. this is... feral. and you're starting to wonder what's wrong
✦what if he's mine❤️🔥💖🩵 - you fell for bucky a long, long while ago. and you think about him, every day and every night. if only you knew that he thought about you too.
Mini Drabbles
✦When He Gets Back From a Mission❤️🔥💖💛
✦His Hands❤️🔥💖
✦The Caring of Bucky Barnes' Hair❤️🔥💖💛
✦Sit Down, Doll - Request❤️🔥💖
✦Bite Your Lip - Request❤️🔥💖💛
✦Temptation❤️🔥💖
✦Wreck❤️🔥💖
✦Keep Still ❤️🔥💖
✦Mine - Request❤️🔥
✦Cool❤️🔥
✦Be Quiet❤️🔥
✦peaceful mornings - request❤️🔥💖
✦tight - request❤️🔥💖
✦run around - request❤️🔥💖
✦quiet love❤️🔥💖
✦sexting❤️🔥
✦good boy❤️🔥
A/N: I had a dream Sebastian was hitting it from the back and only got hornier as I woke up. I think I'm ovulating. PERPETUALLY.
Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader
Word count: 11.4k
Warnings: established relationship, SMUT!!!! p in v, oral (m&f), fingering, breeding kink, cumplay?, secret relationship, semi-public sex (fingering in a restaurant), overstim mention, free use mention, somnophilia, size kink, drinking mention, mentions of face fucking?, finger sucking, spit kink, so much smut. like... so much. I'm so, so horny.
Summary: Bucky and you have been sneaking around in secret for a while. Not for any particular reason aside from not wanting all of the questions from the team. But now, your schedules haven't been lining up.
After getting drafted, spending 90 years going from fight after fight, and going to therapy, one could say James Barnes was a little uptight. He liked his routine. Some semblance of normalcy in the midst of the whole brainwashed super soldier arc life put on him.
So of course he'd be drawn to you.
Your chaotic personality and dry humor pulled him in like the ocean tide would pull a boat. Almost imperceptible, until you found yourself stranded in the middle of the ocean having sun poisoning-induced hallucinations.
It took him exactly 68 days of maladaptive daydreaming about ruining you in every humanly possible way, and some inhumanly ones, for his restrain to snap like a twig under the sheer strength of your gaze.
That night at the safe house after a particularly gnarly getaway, where you committed 3 traffic felonies and broke a few other trespassing laws, playing some stupid pop song on the radio like you were going to get your ears pierced at Claire's, not evading an actual gang.
When you closed the door behind you at the safe house, you were buzzing. Your pupils were dilated, you were shaking, and you bounced on your feet like Duracell contracted you to be their newest bunny.
"Did you see that, Buck?!" The faint light gleamed off of your eyes, smile so bright it made his chest hurt. "Oh my God, I feel high right now." The little giddiness in your voice made his cock join his heart in its aching for you. "They couldn't even—"
He didn't let you finish.
Well, he did. But not that sentence.
He grabbed your face and kissed you so hard you thought he'd leave fingertip shaped bruises on your cheeks. His tongue exploring the inside of your mouth and hands roaming over you, undressing in hurry and want, relishing in the taste of your moans spilling into his mouth like he'd never have the chance to again.
But he did. About 3 times that night.
You didn't mean for it to stay a secret. It started out that way because neither of you knew exactly what was gonna come out of it, at first it was all sneaking into each other's rooms late at night and leaving in the morning, teasing the hell out of him over the phone when he was away and paying for it when he got back, and defiling every surface of every safe house you stepped foot in.
But a few weeks into it, his heart ached to leave you every morning, and your chest felt hollowed out every time he was away on a mission without you.
“I know we said no labels or whatever, but… I like this.” He gestures between you, the table, this world you only step into once a week. “I like… bein’ here. With you. Not just the hotel. Not just—y’know.”
You know. Oh, you very much know.
“And I hate that I have to wait all goddamn week just to—” He stops, shakes his head. Starts again more carefully. “…Just to sit across from you and watch you steal my fries.”
Your lips part. You didn’t mean for it to hit this deep. You didn’t mean for your chest to ache with it.
“…Buck,” you say quietly.
His eyes flick up to yours, open, vulnerable, still a little scared.
“I just wanted you to know,” he finishes, voice low. “’Cause I think… Thursday’s startin’ to feel like the only time I can breathe.”
Then it stayed a secret because you didn't want prying eyes or nosy questions, you just wanted the weight of his body on top of yours to lull you to sleep every night.
Every Thursday when possible, though, you'd find yourselves in the same sort of situation: a reservation under an alias in an obscure little restaurant that didn't allow pictures, followed by a king-sized bedroom reserved at the nearest fancy hotel.
Your weekly getaway from the madness you liked to call the Avengers compound.
You slid into your usual booth at the back—a deep burgundy semicircle that practically swallows you both into privacy. Candlelight flickered faintly between you, reflecting in Bucky’s eyes as he leaned back, one arm stretched across the back of the booth, watching you like he’s checking in on his favorite sight.
You pretended you didn’t notice how his gaze softened the moment he saw you in something that wasn’t tactical gear. Deep, plunging neckline of your top is accompanied by no sleeves under your coat, a delicate leather belt with gold hardware holding the black miniskirt in place.
“You clean up nice, Sarge.” you murmured, unfolding your napkin over your lap.
He smirked slowly, eyes lingering over you just a second too long. “You say that every Thursday.”
“Yeah, well. I'm pleasantly surprised by the increasing levels of hot every week.”
His lips twitched—and for a moment it’s easy. Familiar. Thursday. It's like you don't have a super security compound to call home, or like aliens weren't the assignment four days ago.
The waiter comes and goes. You order something light. He orders steak, medium rare, because even off-duty he eats like a soldier who might deploy at any moment.
But there was something different that night. Because between bites, he keeps doing it.
Looking at you.
Not in the usual “I’m gonna wreck you the second we leave” way.
In a “I’m thinking about something dangerous” way. Dangerous could mean a lot of things, specially for superheroes. But the softness in his eyes told you that it was dangerous because it was fragile, precious, and way too normal.
You swore the restaurant’s lighting was designed specifically for him—warm and golden, catching on the scruff along his jaw and the silver of his dog tags tucked under an open henley collar. He didn’t even bother with a jacket tonight. Cocky bastard. He knows what he does to you.
Your knee bumped his under the table. Not an accident. Not even close.
The waiter appears just long enough for you to order another whiskey and a glass of red wine, then disappears into the shadows again.
Bucky settled back, one arm along the back of the booth, “New rule,” he said casually.
“Oh? We have rules now?”
“Just one. No teasing me when I’m away on missions unless you’re ready to deal with the consequences when I get back.”
You widen your eyes innocently. “Consequences? Sergeant Barnes, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” You shifted and only slightly sat on your side facing him, one bare leg sliding over the other and crossing, your foot sliding the YSL hardware of your heels up and down his calf.
"I was merely being supportive and making sure a very highly estimated Avenger made it home safely."
He leans in, voice a sinful whisper, “You know what’s not supportive?”
“Mhm?” You bite your lower lip, gaze never straying away from his face.
“When you tell me on comms that you’re wearing those lace panties I like.”
“That was once.”
“Twice.”
“Tomato, tomahto.” You waved a hand in dismissal and grabbed your glass, sipping the wine.
He reaches for his whiskey, takes a slow sip, eyes never leaving you. “Let me guess. You’re wearin’ them now?”
You refuse to respond in words. Only humming in denial behind your glass before clicking your tongue behind your teeth. "None, actually."
He stills and the glass pauses halfway to the table. His gaze dropped—just for a split second—to where your legs met, even though your skirt left barely anything to imagination.
He swallows, thumb tapping once against the glass like he’s recalibrating. “Lemme get this straight,” he says slowly, quietly, eyes darkening, “you’ve been sittin’ across from me for—” he checks his watch, “—twenty-three minutes… with nothing on under that skirt?”
You take another sip, crossing your legs again—slowly, letting your knee brush deliberately higher up his thigh. “Technically it’s been longer. I didn’t wear any in the car either.”
“Jesus Christ…” He was leaning forward now, forearm braced on the table, staring at you like you’re the mission and he’s seconds from breaching.
His metal arm stays stretched along the booth behind you like it has been all night—casual, protective—but now his flesh hand slides under the tablecloth, rests on your knee.
“Thought you’d maintain professionalism, Sergeant,” you teased softly, eyes fluttering when his hand squeezes just slightly.
“Honey, I left professionalism back at the compound the second I smelled your perfume tonight.” His fingers drift higher. Inch by slow, agonizing inch.
You try to take another sip of wine, but your hand trembles just slightly. You hoped he wouldn’t notice.
But it's Bucky, he absolutely notices and hums to himself while you bite your lip with that horny look in your eyes that make your eyelids sit heavy like you could eat him alive. And he'd let you.
You feel his smirk against your ear before you hear it in his voice. “Nervous?”
“Hardly.” But it comes out breathier than intended.
He continues upward. Your pulse spikes. His fingertips stop just under the hem of your skirt, brushing the sensitive inside of your thigh. You grip the edge of the table with your free hand.
“You’re trembling,” he whispers, amused.
“There’s an air vent,” you lie. His fingers slip further beneath the hem, in the direction of where you wanted him the most.
“Oh yeah?” he hums. “Think this vent reaches between your thighs too?”
You nearly choke when his fingertips brush the bare, hot skin there. His breath hitches quietly—barely audible. If you didn’t know every sound he made, you might’ve missed it.
“You’re already so warm,” he notes, turning his head slightly so his lips ghost your cheek without touching. His fingers finally slide up and press gently—right there.
Your breath stops.
He smiles against your skin. “There she is.” Your nails dig into the table. “Think I can make you come before the waiter brings dessert?” he whispers silkily. You smile tightly at him through clenched teeth.
“I think you should try.”
He chuckled, low and almost mean, and pushed two fingers inside the wet slick he had been salivating after every time you were apart. James Buchanan Barnes is a loverboy at his core, and a menace who enjoys the process.
It's not like you could get caught and be arrested for public indecency at any second.
His fingers keep tracing delicate, lazy shapes just inside, making sure to keep his palm or any source of friction away from where you need him most until you’re squirming almost imperceptibly.
“Settle,” he murmurs in your ear, a quiet, firm command.
You freeze, thighs trembling slightly as you force yourself still. He rewards you with one slow, deliberate circle of his thumb right over your clit.
Your breath hitched audibly and he smirked. “Good girl.”
You tried not to whine. If you did, you know he’d make it worse. He’d stop. Or go even slower. You don’t know which was worse and you’re not sure which one you wanted more.
Minutes pass. Agonizing minutes.
Each pass of his fingers is maddeningly controlled—never too fast, never too direct. Each stroke tells you he knows your body better than anyone alive. He avoids giving you the rhythm you want, changing speed just before you can catch it.
You’re flushed now, half from the wine and mostly from him. Your thighs are tense, fighting the urge to grind subtly against his hand.
“Relax,” he murmurs, and his vibranium arm shifts behind your shoulders, holding you back into him protectively as if you’re not on the verge of shaking apart.
The waiter appears to bring your entrees and you hold back a whine when Bucky pulls his hand away from the heat between your legs.
You answer his polite “How are the first couple of bites?” with a steady, “Perfect, thank you.” and he walks away to attend to other tables.
Bucky, however, lets his fork rest steady on his plate, and barely lets you recover from the slick mess you're making on the back of your skirt before his fingers find you again. He chuckles into your hair, voice like hot honey. “You’re fuckin’ incredible.”
“You’re fucking evil,” you breathe, barely moving your lips.
“Maybe.” His pace increases—not by much, but enough that the twisting heat in your belly starts coiling faster.
“Buck—” you whisper, desperate.
“I know, baby.” He murmurs soothingly. “Almost there.”
But when your thighs start to tighten in anticipation—he stops. Completely. Your head snaps toward him in disbelief.
He leans in, lips brushing your ear. “Keep your legs open.”
You do, because if you don’t, he’ll make you.
He clicks his tongue once in mock disappointment. “Oh, sweetheart,” he hums, withdrawing his hand completely and casually lifting it to his mouth. He sucks one glistening finger clean, eyes locked onto yours with sinful delight. “This is gonna be a long dinner for you.”
Your pulse pounds in your ears. Your body aches, throbbing with every second he refuses to touch you again.
“You’re shaking,” he says under his breath, amused.
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
To say you didn't give a fuck about the chocolate lava cake was an understatement. You don’t remember how your back hit the hotel room door—only that Bucky barely got it shut before he had you pinned against it, one hand cupping your jaw and the other sliding under your skirt, shoving it up past your hips like he had something to prove to both of you.
But somewhere between your desperate gasps and his low moans, something shifts.
It happens quietly.
Accidentally.
You moved on top of him, breathless and messy, nails dragging down his chest. The rhythm was hot, frantic—but when he caught your hips and slowed you down, forcing you to roll instead of bounce, the tone shifted.
“Yeah,” he groans, guiding your hips, “ride me nice and slow—like we’ve got nowhere to be tomorrow.”
You blink—because that’s not how this usually goes.
He keeps going.
“Like we’re not being sent on calls at 3 a.m. to save the world,” he breathes, watching your face. “Like it’s a Saturday. Like we sleep in.”
You swallow hard. The thrusts get deeper. Less rushed. More… emotional.
“Maybe we don’t even live in New York,” you whisper, falling into it before you can stop yourself.
His grip tightens.
“Yeah?” he murmurs, voice softer, needier. “Where we livin’, baby?”
“Some small apartment in Chicago,” you gasp, leaning forward so your foreheads touch. “Or maybe a townhouse in Portland.”
He nodded slowly, grinding up into you. “Yeah. I like that. We don’t save the world. I work construction or some shit. Come home covered in sawdust.”
His hands on your hips tighten just a bit more tenderly, like he’s anchoring himself. Your fingers brush his chest and linger too long.
And then in the middle of your hips slapping down against his, his head falls back and he breathes, brokenly, “Fuck—I’d come home to you like this every night if I could.”
So you lean down, lips brushing his for a second before you bit his chin and let it go with a graze of your teeth, breath shaky. “Yeah? You’d come home dirty and throw me on the bed like this?”
He groaned—deep, guttural, hands squeezing your waist as you kept moving, feeling him get even harder inside of you if that was even possible.
His voice gets rougher. “Wouldn’t even make it to the bed. I’d fuck you on the kitchen counter while dinner burns on the stove.”
He thrusts up suddenly, hard. “Fuck—Bucky!”
He grips your jaw and makes you look at him. “You’d leave me little notes on the fridge before you go on early runs. Tellin’ me to eat breakfast. Like a fuckin’ wife.”
Your breath stutters, something sharp and warm in your chest. You whimper, hips stuttering for a second at the idea of wearing a ring that signifies his last name.
He doesn’t miss it.
“Oh, you like that?” he whispers darkly, sitting up so your chests press together, still inside you. “You wanna wear my ring, honey? Want the whole damn world to know you’re mine?”
You shudder, nails clawing his back. “Yes…”
He thrusts up hard. “Say it clearer.”
“I want it,” you breathe, trembling. “Want your ring.”
He kisses you like it hurts. Like he’s drowning and you're the only breath of oxygen his lungs would ever recognize while fully submerged.
Maybe that’s why he suddenly grips your waist and flips you onto your back with a rough, almost desperate exhale—like he needs to bury himself deeper in this illusion before it slips away.
He settles between your legs, pushing back in with a guttural groan, forehead pressed to yours.
“And maybe…” his voice drops further, wrecked and reverent, “…maybe one night I wouldn’t pull out.”
Your breath stutters—eyes fluttering open to meet his. The air crackles. He watches your reaction like a predator watching prey tremble.
“Maybe I’d just stay inside you,” he murmurs against your lips, thrusts deep enough to make the headboard creak softly. “Fill you up… right there in our shitty little apartment.”
A weak sound escapes you.
“You’d yell at me in the morning,” he murmurs, kissing you slow and deep, “say we weren’t trying. That we weren’t ready. But I’d look at you in one of my old shirts, barefoot in the kitchen makin’ pancakes… and I’d want it all over again.”
Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him down as you arch into him.
He groans into your neck. “Wouldn’t let you outta bed that weekend. I’d keep fuckin’ you full of me… hopin’ it’d take. Hopin’ I get to walk by you in the mirror and see your belly round with my kid.”
You gasp his name like wishing on a star.
He thrusts deeper—slower—like he’s savoring the image burned into his mind.
“Imagine it,” he whispers, voice shaking with how bad he wants it—even if he pretends it’s still just talk. “You, pregnant with my baby. Nothin’ else in the world but us. No Hydra. No missions. Just… you carryin’ something I gave you. Somethin’ ours.”
You nearly sob at how intensely it hits you.
His forehead presses to yours as his voice falls to a wrecked whisper. “Tell me you’d want it.”
“I’d want it,” you breathe, almost crying. “Bucky, I want it so bad.”
He groans—filthy, tortured, adoring—as he thrusts harder now, chasing something that feels far bigger than pleasure. And that’s how you fall apart beneath him—his whispered fantasies of a quiet life, a warm bed, and a round belly turning into the dirtiest, most intimate thing anyone has ever given you.
Life, however, doesn’t care about what happened in that hotel bed.
It throws missions at both of you like grenades.
First, he gets deployed with Sam to Europe for weeks, chasing arms dealers who won’t stay in one place. You get stuck in Southeast Asia with Nat and Wanda for a hostage op that turns into a two-week storm of adrenaline and zero sleep.
Time differences ruined your ability to talk. Sometimes you'd send a three-word text. Sometimes he likes it six hours later. Sometimes he sends a picture of a shitty cup of coffee with a single: miss yours.
Back on base, you miss him in hallways by hours. He leaves briefing rooms five minutes before you enter them. If you're off, he's not, and vice versa.
A racy picture here, a breathless phone call there, and neither of you being left alone for the same 10 minutes to do anything about it.
Until it marks almost two months since the night at the hotel.
Your body was sore, all you wanted was to wash your hair, get a face mark on, and sleep in your fuzzy robe until about 11pm when he'd sneak into your room. But as you walked through the compound, your phone pinged.
From: Buck
📍 43.7126° N, 110.6751° W
Your stomach lurched in your tummy, and you felt a surge of warmth spread over you as you bit your lip, grinning at the screen. Your footsteps got quicker on the way to your room, an everything shower and barely any packing in your mind.
Seconds later, your phone buzzes again.
From: Buck
I need you.
On the other side of the compound, Bucky tightens the straps on his duffel slung across his back. There is not a sleeping bag, tent, hiking boot, or single piece of wilderness survival gear in sight. He was wearing jeans and a henley he fucks in—not fishes in.
“Where you off to, Tin Man?” He didn't have to turn around to know it was Sam, accompanied by Steve, approaching his bike.
“Camping. Out of state. Off-grid a couple days.”
Sam raises an eyebrow. “Since when do you camp?”
Bucky smirks. “Since now.”
Steve blinked slowly, knowing there’s more to this but being too emotionally mature or exhausted to pry. “You got gear?”
Bucky slides on his helmet like the question doesn’t exist. “I’ve survived worse without a tent.”
He revs the engine and leaves before anyone can point out that two shirts and a half-empty Dopp kit don’t equal “camping.”
Your hair is styled. You’re moisturizing. Your bag is small enough to pass as a purse. Inside? A toothbrush, skincare, three pairs of lingerie, and zero hoodies, shirt, thermal leggings, hiking socks, or flannel.
You were walking down the hall to the elevator, an SUV with seat warmers waiting for you in the garage when you heard Nat's voice from behind you. "I'd ask you what's all that but its... not much."
"Heading out for the weekend.”
“Where?”
You keep your tone fluffy. “Camping. In Wyoming. With… college friends.”
Nat blinks. Once. Twice.
Her gaze slides from your perfectly blow-dried hair… to your freshly glossed lips… to the very much not outdoorsy clothes you’re wearing and the perfume that would definitely attract bears.
"Camping?"
“Yeah. Gonna… sit by a lake. Look at trees. Bond with nature. Be one with dirt.”
She’s silent for a full ten seconds. Then… she smiles. She lets you go with no fuss, immediately marching towards the kitchen like she's mid op.
“They’re going camping.”
Sam looks up. “Who is?” Nat folds her hands on the table. Smiles like the cat that ate the canary.
“Your favorite brooding senior citizen and our little chaos gremlin.”
“Barnes does not strike me as a s’mores guy unless s’mores is a sex position.” Joaquin piped up from a mouthful of Nerd Clusters.
Steve exhales. “They have been… weird lately.”
Sam leans back, dramatic gasp loading. “They’re sneakin’ off to a love shack.”
“In the woods. They will return pregnant or emotionally damaged.” Yelena seems more excited about the first one.
Joaquin chuckled. “Or both.”
Snow crunched under your tires as you pulled onto the secluded dirt road. Pines rise on either side like silent sentries. The sun is dipping low, staining the Wyoming sky a molten gold that glows against the frost. Your stomach tightens as the cabin comes into view—secluded, quiet, the lake beyond it frozen still as glass.
And then there’s him.
Bucky Barnes stands outside like he’s been waiting forever—leaning casually against his bike parked near the porch, breath fogging the air in slow, steady clouds. His henley stretches obscenely over his chest and arms, leather jacket hanging open like he’s daring the cold to challenge him. His jeans hug his thighs in a way that should be illegal.
He looks like 225 pounds of pure, coiled heat.
You step out of the car, shoes meeting the crunchy top layer of snow. The cold air bites your cheeks, makes your breath visible. He straightens from the bike, eyes fixed on you—calm, certain, but dark with something that’s been starving for weeks.
Every step toward one another is soaked in tension. You meet about halfway.
You drop your bag dramatically at his feet. It’s small. Embarrassingly small. More purse than luggage, really.
His gaze flicks to it, then to you—brow arching, equal parts question and disbelief. “That’s it?” he asks quietly, voice deep and scratchy with restrained amusement.
You meet his eyes head-on and smirk. “That’s all I packed.”
A slow grin curves along his mouth. He nods once—like he’s both amused and dangerously pleased.
Then, before you can blink, he grabs the bag with one hand and hooks the other behind your knees, hauling you clean over his shoulder in one effortless motion.
You squeal his name, half laughing, half breathless.
Your view was upside-down: him holding your bag in his metal hand, your ass supported easily by his other arm, boots swinging as he walks toward the cabin door with confidence that says he already knows exactly what’s about to happen once you’re inside.
The cold air bites at your thighs through the hem of your dress, but his grip is hot enough to make up for it.
Bucky walks into the cabin and your lungs fill with the scent of wood burning, wine, and that amber resin that only comes from blankets that have been stored for a while.
He sets you down with the utmost care in the world, and you take in the effort he put into this weekend already. The fireplace was lit, throw blankets on the fur rug like a love-nest, and next to it, a wooden coffee table with two wine glasses already resting on it.
You raise a brow slowly, smirking. “Wow. This some kind of plan, Bucky? Get me drunk so you can take advantage of me?”
Bucky just snorts, stepping forward with that lazy swagger that says he’s already got you right where he wants you.
“Take advantage of you?” he echoes, amused. “Sweetheart, you climb me like a tree when you’re sober. When you’re drunk, you’re like a damn jaguar in heat.”
You gape, offended and amused at the same time.
He nods once, dead serious. “A horny jaguar that thinks humping me is a personality trait.”
“Excuse me?” you sputter, crossing your arms even as heat crawls up your neck.
His lips twitch. “You know how many times I’ve woken up on a mission night to you half-asleep grinding on my thigh like you were tryin’ to assert dominance?”
You refuse to confirm or deny, rolling your eyes as you mutter, “Maybe you shouldn’t sleep so close.”
He tilted his head in that same infuriating way whenever he was right. “Maybe you shouldn’t sleep so needy.”
“Maybe you should—”
You don’t finish the sentence, because he’s already ducking his head to pepper slow, teasing kisses along the side of your neck. He lingers at that spot just under your ear, humming with satisfaction when your breath hitches.
“C’mere,” he says, voice dropping an octave as he steps backward toward the rug by the fire and lowers himself down, back pressed against the couch. He tugs you gently forward until you’re standing between his legs.
He guides you onto his lap effortlessly, hands sliding to your hips as you straddle him, your knees sinking into the thick fur while your body settles against his chest like it remembers the place.
Bucky pushed a strand of hair behind your ear and held your face in both hands, looking into your eyes like he was deciphering the hieroglyphs needed to read your soul.
Like he hadn't unraveled every secret you had and kept them in a drawer in his room, tucked with changes of underwear and a pair of soft shorts, along with a shirt you definitely stole from him.
He kisses you like you’re a memory he’s been clinging to for eight goddamn weeks—urgent, deep, almost grateful. His hands grip your thighs, anchoring you, as your fingers tangle in his hair and tug.
You press into him instinctively, your hips rolling once out of sheer muscle memory.
He groans into your mouth. “There she is,” he mutters, breath rough, lips brushing yours. “My little jaguar.”
You gasp a breathless laugh, "Shut up." That turns into a quiet moan into his mouth as his hands press your hips forward again, encouraging the friction you didn’t even realize you were fully chasing until now.
The friction starts slow, guided by his grip and your desperation. You’re both still half-dressed, clothes scraping together, breaths getting messier as the pressure builds and the world narrows to heat, motion, and the soft crackle of the fire.
Your hands move slowly to the hem of his shirt, fingers tracing his skin first—softly—before pushing it up. His hands leave your body just long enough to let you pull the fabric over his head, exposing his torso. Warm and taut, all muscle and some scarring, the hair on his chest tickling under your fingertips.
When he pulls your sweater and dress over your head in one motion, he does it carefully— like he’s unwrapping something he missed holding.
You watch him watching you, that intensity making your stomach twist in ways entirely unrelated to the heat between your thighs. You don’t feel bared — you feel seen.
His eyes linger over your white lace lingerie — one of the three you packed just for him. “…You wore this for me?”
You smirk, though your hum comes out softer than planned. Nodding and biting your lip, already leaning in for another kiss. When his hands grip your ass, yours fumble with the button and zipper of his jeans, pushing your hand past the hem of his underwear and stroking his cock inside of his jeans.
“See?” he rasps, voice cracked with need. “Didn’t even take a full minute before you went straight for it.”
You grind down against him deliberately. “You complaining?”
You stroke him again, slow, teasing, just to hear that sound again. His eyes flutter half-lidded as he exhales like he’s been waiting two months just to feel your hand on him again.
“Fuck,” he mutters, jaw tight. “You have any idea how bad I’ve needed this?”
Your pulse kicks at that. “Oh yeah?”
He nods slowly, gaze fixed on your lips. “Been thinkin’ about you touchin’ me like this every damn night. Hands under my clothes, whisperin’ in my ear while you use me how you want.”
You swallow, heat flaring hot in your chest.
You’re stroking him just enough to make him need more, watching his jaw clench like he’s trying not to lose it too fast. His grip on your hips turns almost bruising.
“Fuck—” he mutters, eyes squeezing shut for one second as your thumb drags along his waistband, tempting. “You really think I’m just gonna let you sit here and torture me?”
You raise an eyebrow. “Sounds like you’re handling it just fine.”
His eyes snap open—dark, glassy, amused.
“Sweetheart,” he says, voice low and ruined, “I’ve been handling it for eight goddamn weeks.”
And before you can get another word out, he moves.
His hands lock under your thighs, and in one fast, fluid motion, he shifts up onto his knees and throws you back onto the thick fur rug beneath you with a soft thud and a breathless squeal from your lips.
You blink up at him, caught between laughing and panting.
He hovers over you now, hair falling slightly into his face, breathing heavy, jeans still half open, your dress gone, lace soft against the rug.
His metal hand braced beside your head. His flesh one sliding slowly up your bare thigh, deliberate. He’s looking at you like something he’s been hunting and cherishing in equal measure.
His lips ghost your jaw.
“I pictured your face,” he goes on, slow, steady, voice a hot whisper. “Right when you’re about to get loud. When you’re trying so hard to hold it in for me but you just… can’t.”
You clutch at his henley, pulling him closer.
“You think I didn’t go crazy picturing this lace?” he teases hungrily, gaze dropping to what you’re wearing. “Knew it’d look good stretched over you while you beg me to touch you.”
Your back arches involuntarily.
“I missed you talking like this,” you whisper quickly—too honest, too needy.
He grins against your skin, breathing hard now. You whimper quietly as his fingers trace closer—waiting, teasing.
“And I missed watching you fall apart,” he breathes. “I missed making your eyes roll back. I missed you diggin’ your nails into my shoulders. I missed fuckin’ you so good you forget your own name until all you remember is mine.”
His mouth drags heat along your collarbone, your chest, lower still, as his hands coax your thighs further apart with gentle but unyielding pressure.
He looks up once, taking in your face right before he drives you up the wall, and then he lowers himself fully between your thighs, settling there like he plans to stay until he pulls every remembered sound from your throat—slow, steady, incredibly focused. Lace long forgotten in a pile of clothing that wouldn’t touch your body for 48 hours at least.
Your back arches at the first real contact, breath hitching as your grip in his hair tightens when he licks a strip up your slit and circles your clit with his tongue.
"F-fuck, baby..."
He hummed in quiet satisfaction against you, like he was tasting something he’d been dying without, and nuzzled his face further into you, lapping your juices up and down while his nose bumped your clit.
He breathes out a quiet, low laugh — pleased, intimate. “There we go. Look at you… can’t stay still, can you?” His voice is low, not mocking — proud.
“Bucky—” your voice catches when his tongue finds rhythm again, slow and focused.
“Say my name again,” he murmurs, eyes darting up to catch your expression. His voice is steady, coaxing. “C’mon, doll. Let me hear how bad you missed me.”
And you do. Because there's no nosy super spies listening in the vents, and no training sessions, briefings, or meetings to pull this thirsty man away from the oasis between your legs.
“There you go…” he whispers, closing his eyes for a second like he feels it as deeply as you do. “God, I missed how pretty you sound.”
“Please don’t stop,” you gasp, chest rising and falling faster. “Don’t stop—I’ve needed you so bad.”
His tongue roughens against you, responding to your voice as much as your body.
“You always know exactly how to—” Your breath breaks on a wavering sound when he thrusts his tongue in. “God, Bucky… you’re the only one who knows how to make it feel like this.”
His tongue works faster and his lips wrap around your clit, sucking the nerves and sending you into orbit. Your hips raised off the rug while your legs clamped around his head, big hands holding you down through your orgasm, working you through it.
You’re still shaking slightly, body flushed and oversensitized, yet aching in a new, overwhelming way that has nothing to do with just physical need.
So you reach for him.
You cup his face with both hands and pull him down into a kiss that’s not frantic — but full. Deep. His hand finds your hip, thumb stroking gently as if grounding himself in the reality of you.
When you pull back, you rest your forehead against his, breathing unevenly. “Bucky…” you whisper, voice soft but trembling with urgency.
He hums in response, thumb sweeping slowly along your cheekbone, waiting for whatever you need to say next.
“I need you,” you breathe — and the tone in your voice leaves nothing to interpretation. It comes out broken and wanting. “I need you inside me. Right now.”
Your hand gripped the length of him and lined him up with your pussy, neither of you breaking eye contact as he pushed the thick head in, not rushing but not giving you time to adjust either.
“Holy shit…” he mutters, eyes screwed shut for one second as he breathes through it. “I swear… you get tighter every time I’m away.”
Your lips part on a broken sound, heat flooding your chest. You roll your hips impatiently, needing more. “Bucky—”
“You feel that?” he murmurs against your cheek, voice thick and filthy. “That’s how tight you're choking me right now and I’m not even all the way in. You gonna let me all the way, baby? Gonna take all of me?”
“Y-yes,” you whisper, breath shaking. “Please.”
He laughs low — smug and a little breathless. “Begging already? Didn’t even give you the good part yet.”
“You’re such an ass—”
“Yeah, but you still want it,” he interrupts, kissing you hard — messy, teeth and tongue and desperation — before pulling back just enough to watch your face as he sinks in deeper, slow and deliberate. You gasp, nails digging into his shoulders.
He groans loud, head tipping back as he mutters, “Fuck. That’s it. Take me… just like that. Wanted this so bad it hurt.”
Your fingers scramble at his back, trying to hold onto something solid as your rhythm falls apart under him. “Harder,” you whisper — it sounds more like a plea than a demand.
He exhales sharply through his nose, satisfied. “Fuck, I love when you beg.”
“I’m not—” you try, but the protest cuts off when he does exactly what you asked. Your head tilts back, lips parted as an uncontrolled sound tears free.
“Mhm,” he hums, smug. “Yeah, you are.” He leans in close again, breath hot against your jaw. “Look at me,” he murmurs, voice wrecked.
You force your eyes open — and the second your glazed eyes lock with his, something shifts. You see how undone he is too — chest heaving, jaw slack, pupils blown wide with hunger and love tangled up together.
You feel a tremor ripple through you, and he sees it instantly. “There it is,” he rasps, grin gone now, replaced by raw intensity. “Feel it hittin’ you? Feel how good I’m making you feel?”
You nod, whimpering, fingers clawing at his shoulders.
“That’s right,” he whispers, voice gravel. “Only me. Nobody else gets to pull those sounds out of you.”
“Bucky—” his name leaves you like a prayer and a warning and something close to worship.
He kissed you hard, swallowing your breath. “I got you. Let go.”
His hand finds yours, fingers interlacing against the rug as you move together, breathless, desperate, claimed.
He finds a rhythm that's nothing like before—harder, faster, wrecked—and suddenly you’re not thinking in words or even sounds, just reactions.
“Fuck—”
“Yeah?” he pants, voice nearly a growl now, hips moving rougher, chasing something even he can’t hide from anymore. “Say my name—say it—”
“Bucky—oh God—”
“Louder,” he breathes, losing all rhythm for a second as you clench around him. “Let me fucking hear you—”
“I can’t—I—I—”
“Yes, you can,” he insists, voice wrecked, raw. His hand slides to your jaw, holding your face toward him. His eyes are wild now.
You meet his gaze—and the look on his face destroys you. His jaw is clenched, sweat dampening his temple, lips parted as he gives in to instinct. He looks desperate. Gone. Like if you asked him to die for you right now, he’d say yes.
“I’m close,” you admit in a broken whisper. “Don’t stop—don’t fucking stop—” You choke on a sobbing moan. “Harder—please—”
That word unravels him.
“Fuck—oh my God—you’re killing me,” he curses, slamming his forehead against yours, movements turning almost frantic, chasing the edge with you. “Come on, baby—give it to me—give it—come with me—”
"Bucky— oh God, please, please, please cum in me."
He cums first—just a moment, a hitched breath, a curse hissed against your neck that sounds like your name torn in half—and the heat of him spilling inside of you is all it takes for your world to snap, heat flooding through you like freefall.
He stays inside you. He doesn’t move away. He just breathes there, face buried in your neck as you both try to remember how lungs are supposed to work.
You made it to bed after a couple glasses of wine, a grilled cheese, and teasing him some more, falling asleep on your stomach with him draped over you like the worlds warmest — and oldest — weighted blanket.
Whatever dream you were having, Bucky woke up to your ass rubbing against him like you were short on rent. He was still a little sensitive from the road you just had right before bed, and the clock on the nightstand on your side showed something along the lines of 2:43am.
He felt himself get hard and your body rubbed harder against him if that was even possible. He groaned quietly, and his hand went under the covers to find your bare pussy drooling, absolutely crying for him.
"Bucky..." The little breathless whimper you let out told him you were crying for him too.
He bit his lip and didn't have much ceremony. You were so wet anyway he'd probably slide right in. He pushed his boxers down, and up sprang his leaking cock.
He turned on his side, almost draped all the way over you, aligned himself, and pushed in.
The first thing you become aware of is the weight.
Heavy, solid, familiar — draped over your back like he promised he always would be. Bucky sleeps like a furnace, arm slung around your waist, leg hooked lazily over yours like he’s making sure you can’t vanish in the night.
You were dreaming something warm… fuzzy… something with his voice in your ear.
You breathed his name again, groggy and fluttering, barely louder than when you were fully asleep. “Bucky…?”
His breath catches like a snapped wire, hips momentarily freezing against you. For a second you think he’s going to stop. Then his forehead presses into your shoulder and he lets out a groan that sounds like a confession.
“Fuck—sorry—’m trying—trying to be good,” he mutters, voice thick, wrecked from sleep and need. “Woke up with you grinding against me—couldn’t stop thinking about…” His breath stutters as his hips twitch again helplessly. “...about how wet you get when I wake you like this.”
A memory echoes in your mind—your voice from weeks ago, breathless, whispering in the dark with saliva and cum dripping down your chin after he thoroughly bruised the back of your throat.
If you ever wake up like that again… you don’t have to wait for me to wake up.
“Bucky,” you murmur, fully awake now, voice softer but lower. You shift back into him, deliberately this time. “You’re not doing anything wrong.”
There's a soft schlick schlick schlick of his body driving itself into you that drives you crazy. It's muffled by the comforter like its dirty, naughty, something you shouldn't be doing.
Something hushed and feral and needy that is required to happen, otherwise you feel like you're gonna explode.
“Don’t hold back,” you whisper, voice trembling with something hungry. “Please.”
A low sound escapes him — half relief, half feral praise. “Yeah?” he breathes, moving again, more certain now. “You want it this bad, huh? Needed me even in your sleep?”
You bite back a soft whimper as your body reacts, your thighs pressing together instinctively even though his hand is between them. Every roll of his hips sends heat curling up your spine.
He hears the broken sound you make when you try to steady your breathing.
And that’s it. His restraint snaps.
His mouth crashes against your shoulder, open, desperate, needy, teeth scraping lightly as he moans into your skin.
“That’s it… fuck, that’s it. Push back on me, c’mon,” he urges, tone filthy, forehead pressing to your neck as his rhythm builds. “Grind on me, baby, just like you were when you were out.”
You follow instinct, rocking your hips back into him, dizzy with how much you suddenly need this, need him. The friction is rough and perfect and not nearly enough — but his voice makes it feel like everything.
“That’s my girl,” he growls. “Rubbin’ that perfect little ass on me like you’re starving for it. You tryin’ to make me lose my mind first thing in the morning?”
You gasp into the pillow, fingers gripping the sheet. “I—God—I missed you,” you breathe, shaky. “Missed how you make me feel—needed this—”
“That’s right,” he whispers, voice thick, rhythm steady and possessive, every grind punctuated by a breathy curse.
You’re nearly sobbing now, hips moving helplessly in sync with his. “Bucky… I’m gonna—”
“Do it,” he pants. “Do it for me—come on, pretty girl, let me feel it.”
You break.
The pleasure comes in waves that steal your breath, your sound, everything but his name. You’re trembling, clutching the sheets like they’re the only thing anchoring you. His arm wraps around you, holding you firmly against him as you shake, riding it out. He breathes through a deep groan into your shoulder, almost like your release drags him to the edge too, but he doesn’t let go—he just clings harder.
“Well damn,” he whispers after a few long, quiet seconds, still pressed tight against you. You're pliant and hazy, boneless against him. “That’s my good girl.”
Your breath is still uneven, but your eyes are heavy again. He kisses a slow, almost apologetic line along your shoulder blade.
“You okay?” he asks softly. You hum something that sounds like yes, still catching your breath.
He shifts just enough to pull the blanket up over both of you, but not an inch further. His hold doesn’t loosen, his arm tightens around your waist, like he’s anchoring himself there.
“Gonna stay here,” he mutters into your hair, voice thick and low. “Don’t want to leave you. Not even to move.”
You’re too tired to fully answer, but you thread your fingers through his where his hand rests on your stomach, lacing them together. He lets out a shaky, content exhale.
One last soft kiss to the back of your shoulder.
“Go back to sleep, baby. I’ll be right here.”
And he was.
Pressed close, breathing warm and steady against your neck, wrapped around you like a shield. You fell asleep again with a weak smile and his weight still holding you down in the safest way you’ve ever known.
A few hours later, you woke up sore. The sky was still a deep indigo outside, the sort of dark that doesn't feel terrifying, just comforting. Like the world was standing still just for a few moments, just for you.
You turned, whining at the loss of him, just to be met with the most beautiful sleeping face you've ever seen.
He always sleeps deeper after he’s completely spent. You know that. You also know he fades into that soft, vulnerable state only you get to see—jaw unclenched, lips parted, lashes dark against his cheeks, chest rising steady and warm under your ear.
And you love him so much in this quiet, unguarded moment… you almost want to cry.
Bucky's breaths came out in soft puffs out of his mouth, his conscience somewhere in a dream land far away. Your gaze dropped to his neck, a couple marks on there left by your teeth, but they'd fade before any questioning eyes back at the compound could ask any questions.
His chest was uncovered by the thick blanket, the quilt only covering up to his waist, and the unmistakable tent under it grabbing your attention immediately.
It would be so mean of you to not give him a hand... or a mouth.
Your fingers slide slowly down his stomach, barely brushing along defined muscle. He shifts slightly in his sleep, a soft breath escaping him. The kind that sounds like the beginning of a moan. So you slip under the blankets. Settle between his thighs. And lower your mouth to him.
He stiffens almost immediately, hips twitching subconsciously, a groan rumbling low in his chest as his hand spasms against the sheet. You keep going, slow and controlled, every motion soaked in a mix of reverence and filth.
“Jesus…” His voice is sleep-rough when it finally breaks out of him. His hips jerk once, a shocked gasp leaving him as his hand drops into your hair on instinct. “Oh my—baby—fuck, are you—”
You hummed around him in response, not stopping.
“Holy—shit—” His head falls back on the pillow, voice cracking, breath stuttering as consciousness snaps fully into place. “You—you waking me up like this?”
You squeeze his thigh gently in affirmation.
He lets out a helpless, needy groan, chest heaving as he pushes up on his elbows to watch you under the blanket.
“Look at you,” he pants, voice completely wrecked already. “So hungry you couldn’t even wait for me to wake up properly.”
You don’t stop. You can’t stop. The sounds he’s making are addicting—sharp intakes of air, shaky groans, words turning to curses. He drops one hand over his face like he can’t take it, then moves it to your hair again, fingers curling as his breathing gets frantic.
“Shit—slow down or I’m—I’m not gonna last,” he warns, but his hips are already moving, rolling unconsciously into your rhythm.
You grip his hip to steady him—not to stop him.
He gets the message. “Fuck,” he whispers, voice dropping dangerously low. “You wanna make me lose it in your mouth, huh?”
You hum again, hot and breathy.
He laughs once, broken and disbelieving. “God, I’m so fucked for you.”
His breathing turns ragged. His grip in your hair tightens. His voice goes soft and frantic. “Don’t stop—don’t stop—please, don’t stop—”
You don’t.
He swears louder, hips snapping once as he loses the battle for control entirely. “That’s it—oh God, baby—fuck—“
And then he comes apart with a groan so raw it shoots straight through you, his head tossing back, chest arching, thighs trembling as he curses your name like it breaks him.
You stay with him through it, easing him down gently with soft breath and steady hands until he collapses back onto the mattress, breathing like he ran miles.
“Holy shit,” he exhales shakily, dragging a hand over his face. He sounds totally, helplessly gone.
You crawl up his body, settling on laying completely on top of him with your hands under your chin and on his chest, still warm with aftershocks. He wraps his arms around you immediately, dragging you in and holding you there like you belong pressed against his heart.
When he catches your mouth in a kiss, he groans softly into it.
When you pull away, both of you were smiling like this was it. Like being tangled in a blanket in the middle of nowhere was what you were put on this earth to do.
You got up to make breakfast, or whatever you could call waffles and fruit and a snack here and there. And when Bucky found himself leaning on the doorway, looking at you humming the same tune from that first night he wondered if this was always where he was supposed to be.
If he was meant to fall from that train to do more than assassinations and intel, if he was meant to do more than keep Steve alive long enough to save the world a couple of times.
If he was meant to be tortured and picked apart for 70 years just to find himself wrapped in a sheet watching you steal chocolate chips from the brownie recipe you were making, moving around the kitchen enough that he saw when you winced the slightest bit when you leaned down.
He could accept that, if it meant he could have you.
“Okay, they look like bad cubism work, but i tried to make smiley faces with the chocolate chips and i think it could’ve been way worse.” Yeah, he was never letting you go.
The rest of the day unfolds like time has been loosened around the edges.
It starts with what was supposed to be breakfast dishes. You’re laughing while rinsing out a bowl when Bucky crowds you against the counter, kisses turning needy fast. One moment you’re teasing him for burning waffles, the next you’re bent over the counter with his breath hot against your ear and his hands firm around your hips, both of you too lost in each other to care about anything else.
A couple of hours later, you both manage to put on clothes long enough to walk into the nearby woods. The air is crisp, pine-scented, grounding. Your fingers stay laced with his the entire time. He doesn’t talk much — just keeps looking at you like the sunlight was invented specifically to bounce off your smile.
The shower afterward is meant to be recovery. It isn’t. He pins you lightly against the tiles, kissing the water from your lips and laughing when you nearly melt into the stream just from his hands on your waist.
After dinner, a very nice marry-me chicken recipe Bucky had to watch multiple TikToks of to master, you found yourself in the bedroom, with tear stained cheeks, sticky, marked thighs hanging spread off the bed, with a super soldier standing naked in between them.
The lights were all off aside from the gleaming firelight coming from the living room, barely making through the ajar door, moonlight catching on the wet tears on your cheek and the spit gleaming on your lips from having him in your mouth not too long ago.
Not many people would call Bucky a sap, but if they knew how his heart cracked open every time you looked at him like this, they might.
His hand came to cradle your face, and you nuzzled into it, looking at him with such sheer and unadulterated adoration in your eyes, it felt like you wanted him to pull you apart thread by thread just so he could be the one to stitch you back together.
A thumb traced the wetness on your lips and you engulfed it in between the plush flesh, earning a groan from deep inside of his chest. When you hummed around his digit, the vibration went straight to his cock, twitching in muscle memory.
“M’girl looks like she was made to be fucked open for me.” He moved his hand and grabbed your jaw, still sticky with saliva, a silent demand for you to open your mouth, which you gladly complied, sticking out your tongue.
The hot, wet feeling of his spit landing on your tastebuds came not long after, and you swallowed with a smirk.
Bucky pushed you down the bed with his body, tongue demanding against yours, while his hands gripped your thighs to scoot you up. He ground his hips against yours, coating him in more of your slick, before pushing in.
You gasped against his mouth, and he leaned down just slightly to get his arms under your legs and throw it over his shoulders, leaning in to press your knees out and as close to your chest as physically possible.
"Oh, God, Bucky..." Your eyes rolled back. "Fuck. You’re… you’re so big,” you breathe, voice shaky as your thighs tense reflexively, body already bracing around him even before anything more happens. “Always feels… like too much.”
He gives a quiet, devastatingly confident hum, like your overwhelmed confession is the sweetest thing he’s ever heard.
“Yeah?” His voice is low, warm, full of pride. “That right, baby?” His thumb strokes the inside of your leg in a slow, grounding sweep. “Thought you liked me being too much.”
Your breath catches when he presses his weight down just enough to make you feel it everywhere, the pressure firm and consuming. You whimper and nod, head tipping back against the pillow as your fingers curl around his arm.
“I do,” you whisper, nearly gasping, your voice cracking under the strain of how full his presence makes you feel. “Feels like you’re—stretching me out… every time.”
Your legs tremble in his grasp, but he holds them steady, firm but careful, folding you deeper into the bed, a breathy cry slips out when the pressure increases, not painful—just intense. Deep. Inescapable.
“Bucky—” it spills out in a shaken whisper, your chest rising in quick, unsteady pulls of air. “Feels like you’re… everywhere. I can’t—I can’t breathe when you’re this deep.”
His head dips, eyes locked on yours as his breathing grows heavier. “Yes, you can.” he says gently, firmly, "You love feeling this full. Admit it.”
You’re stuttering, already arching into him even as overwhelmed tears prick at your eyes. “I do,” you gasp. “God, I do—it’s so much—”
And he makes it be even more with a thumb on your clit as he drives into you like he wants the only thing inside of your veins to be him. He feels you clench so tight around him you swear your insides are embossed with the veins of his cock.
You come gasping his name with your bottom lip between his teeth, his cum leaking out of your thoroughly spent cunt.
"Mmm, I love you." It's said in a haze, with the room spinning around your lightheadedness, but he knows it doesn't make it any less true.
You woke up with his arm is still wrapped around your waist, hand spread low over your stomach like a claim he made in his sleep. His chest was pressed against your back, slow breaths brushing the nape of your neck. He didn’t move far — if he moved at all. It’s like even in dreams, he held on.
You shifted slightly and realized your body was sore in a way that felt like remembering. He was already hard against you, silent and steady, like his body woke up wanting before his mind did.
He made a quiet sound in his sleep when you curled back into him instinctively. When you rolled your hips just a little — not even on purpose — his breath stuttered.
“Don’t start somethin’ y'can’t finish,” he murmured, voice deep, rough with sleep.
“I’m not starting anything,” you whispered, but your voice gives you away.
His hand tightened on your waist. “Uh-huh.” Silence stretches — soft, warm, waiting.
“I don't wanna leave today,” you said eventually, voice quiet.
He exhaled slowly into your shoulder, like the thought physically ached. “I know. Let's not move. Not yet.”
He shifted behind you, pressing in closer, and you felt it — the way he wanted you, slow and unhurried, like he had all morning to remind you your body is his favorite place to be in.
When he moved inside of you, it was gentle at first — lazy, testing, his lips brushing your shoulder. You breathed out shakily, already melting, already arching back into him.
“Still sore?” he asked quietly against your skin, smug in a way that only an utterly in love James Barnes could be.
“Yeah,” you breathed. “Still want you.”
He groaned low, like that undoes something in him. He kept you on your side, drawn tight against his chest, his hand guiding your thigh to hook over his. The movement was slow, intimate — more about closeness than urgency. His breathing deepened behind you; you could feel each exhale between your shoulder and your neck.
There wasn't rush, no frantic pace this time. Just heavy warmth, quiet praise, his lips brushing your ear while your fingers clutch at his forearm and soft sounds slip from your throat.
It’s a claiming that feels less like breaking and more like sealing something in place. By the time you both went still again, breath uneven, bodies pressed close under the covers, neither of you spoke. Not right away.
He stays inside the circle of your body like he belongs there — not rushing to pull away, not shifting to leave. Like maybe, just maybe, if he doesn’t move, morning won’t happen.
Eventually, in a low voice that sounded almost reluctant, he murmured, “We should start getting ready in a few.”
You hummed, not agreeing. He pressed one last kiss to your shoulder, lingering there before adding, “Five more minutes.”
You don’t tell him you’re giving him ten.
You don’t make it very far once you’re out of the bedroom.
He had you on the couch next — laughter dissolving into breathy moans as he pulls you onto all fours and sinks into a rhythm that leaves you pressed against worn cushions, his voice low and praising in your ear as the old cabin furniture creaks beneath you, feeling him etch his name in every corner of your soul so good that you had to bite down on the couch cushions to not be too loud, a feat you were much too accustomed to in the confined of both of your rooms.
The drive back was colder than the drive to. Maybe because the heat of anticipation wasn't there anymore, and you were getting back to sneaking around and your sacred Thursdays.
You took a longer route, to pretend you had to wait at the airport. By the time you reached the garage, you saw his bike parked right next to your spot.
The common room was occupied by Nat, Steve, Yelena, and the redhead's eyes traced an invisible string between you and Bucky.
"So.. How was camping?"
"Good." Neither of you meant to respond at the same time.
"Too cold?"
"Warm in the morning, cold at ni-" You glared at him like he was solely to blame for you two absolutely getting caught red handed and sore right then and there.
Natasha smirked. "Welcome back, not-so-stelthy super spies."
At first, no one wants to assume anything when the noise starts. It’s 3:24 A.M. Maybe someone’s just doing an aggressive nighttime workout. Pushing a dresser around. Wrestling a demon. Practicing taekwondo on the wall.
But then the bedframe starts slamming rhythmically against the wall like it’s trying to communicate in Morse code.
And someone gasps way too high-pitched and breathless for this to be cardio-related.
Sam wakes up and pads down to the kitchen to find that he's been the last one to be pulled from his REM sleep by a horny centenarian and his insatiable, inappropriately young girlfriend.
Steve has his head in his hands like he's trying to muffle his ears, forehead resting on the cool table.
THUD. THUD. THUD.
They could hear Bucky's low "Sweetheart, fuck— keep—" followed by a grunt. And what sounded like some hard object dropping to the floor.
Yelena looked at the ceiling in horror when they heard your muffled whines, "Bucky—oh God!" pleading him not to stop.
Sam climbed on a countertop and got his mouth close to the vents. “WE KNOW IT’S BUCKY, WE KNOW, PLEASE.”
And in the symphony of your moans and his grunts, Natasha just piped up from behind her coffee mug. "Does anyone miss when they were sneaking around?"
Every single person in that room raised their hands.
a/n: this was fun to write, can you tell I went home last night and cracked my husband like a woman possessed?
˚ ༘ 🍼𖦹⋆｡˚ a pledge to keep series masterlist ˚ ༘ 🍼𖦹⋆｡˚
summary: getting knocked up by your older brother’s fratbro wasn't exactly apart of your five year plan. least of all with notorious fuck boy ryomen sukuna.
pairing: frat!kuna x reader
content: everything in this series is considered 18+ so not minor friendly! contains mature content such as rough sex, breeding, spanking, spit play, lactation kink, descriptive child birth, postpartum depression, probably more
dividers by: @petalpxl | series moodboard | art by @xxlorinmower
chapter one: how you met \ chapter two: of course it's yours, you fucking idiot!
chapter three: meeting the itadori's \ chapter four: hospitals and hot dad walks
chapter five: fratuncles \ chapter six: more than co-parents \ epilogue
series oneshots/drabbles:
1. stinky feet bandit ❀ 2. late night feeds ❀ 3. daddy's little poop monster ❀ 4. baby carrier experiment ❀ 5. yuji loves his baby cousin
series synopsis - in a world where soulmates were real, fate ties you to ryomen sukuna like some cruel and twisted joke. where people felt their soulmates in soft touches and quiet comfort, all you’ve ever known was phantom pain, sleepless nights, and a violent rage that didn’t belong to you. by the time you finally meet the man ruining your nervous system, the city already knew him as its most feared underground boxer. how would you survive? [mdni 18+]
chapters
⚡︎ ⋆.˚ prologue
⚡︎ ⋆.˚ one - no surprises
⚡︎ ⋆.˚ two - coming soon
⚡︎ ⋆.˚ three - tbd
⚡︎ ⋆.˚ four - tbd
⚡︎ ⋆.˚ five - tbd
⚡︎ ⋆.˚ six - tbd
no taglist!
credits: art by @/cinaillus | divider by @/uzmacchiato
SYNOPSIS: An Olympic figure skater is forced to share an apartment with a tattoo artist who wants nothing to do with her—and somehow, they start to fit. What begins as a temporary arrangement turns into quiet routines, sharp tension, and something neither of them is ready to lose.
WORD COUNT: 17.6k
The smoke didn’t roar. It crept.
It slid through the vents of your luxury high-rise like an unwelcome rumor, carrying the sharp, chemical bite of burnt plastic and insulation. By the time the alarms finally screamed, you were already awake. Years of 5 a.m. training had rewired your body to sense disaster before it fully arrived.
Your manager, Haru, burst into your apartment less than two minutes later, hair sticking up on one side, tie askew. “Fire in the mechanical room. Grab your skates and documents. Everything else can burn.”
You moved on autopilot. Competition skates first always. Passport, training logs, sponsor contracts, the small bag of skincare you couldn’t live without. The rest of your elegant, perfectly styled life could wait. Within four minutes you were in the lobby with the other residents: some in silk robes, others clutching designer handbags like shields. Camera flashes already flickered beyond the emergency tape outside. Someone had leaked your name.
No one was hurt. The fire was small, contained. But the smoke damage was ruthless. Your apartment. With those cream walls, the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Tokyo’s glittering skyline, the minimalist luxury you’d earned after two Olympic cycles was now off-limits for months. Renovations, they said. Air quality testing. Legal bullshit.
You stood on the sidewalk at 2:17 a.m. in leggings, an oversized team Japan hoodie, and a black mask, watching the controlled chaos. Your body ached from evening practice. Your mind was already spiraling toward the upcoming Grand Prix series. This was the last thing you needed.
Haru paced nearby, phone pressed to his ear. “Yes… private, secure, no media presence. She can’t be photographed coming and going from a hotel every day.” A pause. “Above a tattoo shop? Are you serious?” Another pause. “Fine. We’ll take it. Send the address.”
He hung up and gave you the look you hated most. The one that said this is damage control. “Temporary housing is sorted. It’s… unconventional. But the landlord owed a favor. Second-floor apartment above a tattoo studio in a quiet neighborhood. Two bedrooms. You’ll have your own space. The guy who lives there is apparently reliable enough.”
You were too exhausted to argue. “As long as its quiet and no one knows I’m there.”
The cab ride was silent. Tokyo blurred past, neon signs bleeding into wet streets from an earlier drizzle. You kept your hood up and mask on, staring at your reflection in the window. Elegant on the ice. Hollow off it. You barely recognized the woman looking back.
The building was narrower than you expected, tucked between a late-night ramen stall (still steaming) and a closed flower shop. The ground floor windows were blacked out, dominated by a blood-red neon sign that read MALEVOLENT in sharp, aggressive strokes. A metal staircase ran up the side of the building to the second floor.
You dragged your suitcase up alone. Each clack of the wheels felt deafening in the quiet alley. Haru had promised to handle the rest of your things tomorrow. Right now, you just wanted a bed and silence.
The door opened before your knuckles could touch it.
Ryomen Sukuna stood there like the building had grown him out of its bones.
Tall. Broad. Shirtless beneath an open black button-down that hung loose on his shoulders, revealing a canvas of black ink: snarling beasts, tribal patterns, sharp lines that crawled across his chest, down his arms, and disappeared beneath the waistband of his low-slung sweatpants. His hair was a messy pinkish-red, sticking up like he’d run his hands through it after waking. His crimson eyes narrowed, unimpressed which locked onto you immediately.
“You’re the skater,” he stated, voice low and rough, like it had been dragged over gravel and left there.
You adjusted your grip on the suitcase handle. “And you’re… my temporary landlord?”
“Something like that.” He stepped aside with obvious reluctance, arms crossing over his chest. The motion made the ink on his forearms shift. “Ground rules. Shoes off at the door. Don’t touch my equipment. Don’t blast that classical skating music at full volume. Thermostat stays where I fucking set it. You’re gone most of the day, right?”
You wheeled the suitcase inside. “Training starts early. I’ll be out of your hair.”
The apartment hit you all at once.
It was sparse in a way that felt deliberate. A large black leather couch faced a massive TV. Sketchbooks and loose sheets of tattoo designs covered the low table. One expensive-looking coffee maker gleamed on the kitchen counter like the only luxury item allowed. A single plate, one bowl, and one pair of chopsticks sat drying on the rack. A motorcycle helmet rested on the entry shelf like a silent threat. The place smelled of antiseptic, strong coffee, and something woodsy.
Sukuna closed the door behind you with a solid click. Not a slam, but the sound still carried weight.
“Bedroom on the left is yours. Mine’s on the right. Bathroom’s shared, don’t leave your glitter shit everywhere.” He eyed you again, slower this time. Something flickered behind the irritation. Maybe mild surprise at how small and drained you looked under the harsh hallway light. Dark circles. Tense shoulders. The kind of exhaustion that sponsors paid you to hide.
You tried for politeness. Media training kicked in automatically. “Thank you for letting me stay on such short notice. I really appreciate it. I’ll keep to myself.”
Sukuna snorted softly. “You’d better.” He scratched the back of his neck, tattoos rippling. “Fridge has beer and curry. Don’t touch the good coffee beans.”
His bedroom door shut a moment later.
You stood in the quiet for a long beat, then exhaled. This man lives like a criminal raccoon, you thought, staring at that single lonely plate again.
Still, the guest room was clean. The bed looked soft. And for the first time in what felt like years, no one was waiting for a statement, a smile, or a perfect triple Axel.
You collapsed onto the mattress fully clothed, mask still on.
Through the thin wall, you heard the low murmur of a TV, something about tattoo history, before it clicked off. Then silence.
Sleep took you fast, heavy and dreamless.
For the first time in months, you didn’t set an alarm.
You woke up convinced you had fallen asleep inside a meat locker.
The air was frigid. Your breath puffed visibly in the pale morning light filtering through the blinds. The guest room’s thin blanket felt like tissue paper. You checked your phone, it was 4:58 a.m., you let out a groan. Training started in less than an hour, but first you needed to regain feeling in your toes.
Padding into the hallway in thick socks and an oversized hoodie, you found the thermostat glowing mockingly at 16°C. You didn’t hesitate. Your fingers pushed the temperature up to 22°C with quiet defiance.
Sweet, blessed warmth began to hum through the vents minutes later while you brushed your teeth. Victory tasted like mint toothpaste.
Then the front door slammed.
You froze mid-brush. Heavy footsteps. The sound of keys hitting the entry table. Sukuna had apparently just gotten home from whatever nocturnal tattoo-artist activities he engaged in. You heard him pause in the hallway. A low, dangerous grunt. Then the unmistakable click of the thermostat being forcibly returned to 16°C.
You marched out of the bathroom, toothbrush still in your mouth, and stared at his broad back. He was shirtless again. His black sweatpants riding low, fresh ink on his shoulder looking irritated and shiny, probably from a new piece he’d been working on.
“Cold-blooded?” you asked around the toothbrush.
Sukuna glanced over his shoulder. Crimson eyes dragged over your messy bed-head and fuzzy socks with zero amusement. “I run hot. You run cold. Natural selection says I win.”
You walked past him, reached up, and turned it back to 21°C. Compromise. Your arm brushed his side. The warm skin, hard muscle, the faint scent of antiseptic soap and cedar. He didn’t move away.
“Touch it again,” he said slowly, voice low and rough with exhaustion, “and I’ll hide the entire unit. Good luck finding it, princess.”
You met his gaze. “I have four Olympic cycles of discipline and spite. Try me.”
Something almost like amusement flickered across his face before it disappeared behind the usual scowl. He snorted and headed toward his room. “Whatever. Just don’t crank it so high the walls sweat.”
You finished getting ready in record time, layering up for the cold rink. When you emerged again, Sukuna was in the kitchen pouring pitch-black coffee into a mug that read “Die Mad About It” in chipped white letters. He didn’t offer you any. You didn’t ask.
As you laced up your sneakers by the door, he spoke without turning around.
“There’s a spare key on the counter. Don’t lose it. I’m not waking up at 3 a.m. to let your glittery ass in again.”
You pocketed the key. “Noted. Thanks.”
He made a noncommittal sound.
The rest of your day was the usual blur: ice, sweat, repetition, coach’s critiques, sponsor calls during breaks, forced smiles for the rink’s social media team. By the time you returned to the apartment at 6:15 p.m., your body felt like it had been wrung out and hung to dry.
The place smelled unexpectedly good. Faint smell of garlic and soy, something fried. Sukuna was at the stove, back to you once again, stirring a pan with precise flicks of his wrist. Still no shirt. You were starting to wonder if he owned any.
You set your bag down quietly. “Didn’t know you cooked.”
“I don’t cook for guests,” he replied flatly. “I cook because I’m hungry. Made extra by accident. Eat or don’t. I don’t care.”
A plate slid across the counter toward you: rice, perfectly seared chicken, stir-fried vegetables, and a fried egg with a runny yolk. Simple. Arrogantly good-looking. Exactly one set of chopsticks beside it.
You stared at the plate, then at the single plate still drying from earlier on the rack.
“You only own one plate,” you observed.
“Two now,” he corrected. “Bought a spare when I heard I was getting a roommate. Don’t get used to it.”
You sat on the stool and took a bite. It was unfairly delicious. Warmth spread through your chest that had nothing to do with the thermostat.
Sukuna leaned against the opposite counter, arms crossed, watching you eat with that unnerving silent intensity. He noticed everything. The way you winced when you shifted your weight, the exhaustion etched under your eyes, how quickly you were devouring the food like you’d forgotten to eat all day.
“Rough practice?” he asked. Not kindly. Just… observing.
“Triple Axel still isn’t clean,” you muttered between bites. “Coach wants it perfect by next week.”
Sukuna grunted. “You people just spin in circles and hope judges like the way you land. Sounds stupid.”
You nearly choked. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” A smug smirk tugged at his mouth. “Aggressive ice dancing for points. At least in my line of work, people choose the pain.”
You set your chopsticks down, staring at him in disbelief. The sheer audacity. “I’d like to see you land a quad jump after doing it for twelve hours straight.”
“I’d like to see you sit still for six hours while someone lets me stab them with needles,” he shot back, but there was no real heat in it. More like dry entertainment.
You ate the rest of the meal in charged silence, but it wasn’t entirely uncomfortable. When you finished, you washed your plate and set it to dry next to his singular original one.
Sukuna watched the entire process without comment.
Later that night, after you’d showered and done your extensive skincare routine (products inevitably spreading across the bathroom counter), you stretched in the narrow hallway at 11:30 p.m. Legs extended in a split against the wall, breathing through the deep pull in your hamstrings.
You didn’t hear Sukuna approach until his voice cut through the quiet.
“You’re going to wear a hole in my floor doing that at midnight.”
You glanced up. He was leaning in his doorway, fresh from a shower, towel slung low around his hips, hair damp. More ink on display than usual.
“Flexibility is part of the job,” you replied, switching sides.
He made a low sound. “Try doing it somewhere I don’t have to step over you.”
But he didn’t move. He just watched for another few seconds, then retreated into his room without another word.
You lowered into the stretch further, a small, tired smile tugging at your lips despite yourself.
This was going to be a long few months.
The single plate situation was becoming a problem.
By day four of your stay, the lone original plate had been joined by its temporary sibling, but the kitchen still operated like a minimalist war zone. Every time you cooked (or attempted to), Sukuna would hover nearby with crossed arms, watching you use “his” counter space like you were committing a minor felony.
This morning was no exception.
You had woken up at 4:45 a.m. again, your body clock was unforgiving. Now decided to make a proper breakfast before heading to the rink. Rice, miso soup from a packet, grilled salmon, and some quick tamagoyaki. The smells filled the small apartment, warm and savory. You were humming softly to yourself, still half-asleep, when Sukuna emerged from his room like a disgruntled bear.
He stopped in the doorway, hair messy, wearing only black sweatpants. His eyes narrowed at the two plates on the counter.
“You’re using both plates,” he observed.
“One for you, one for me,” you replied without turning around. “Consider it rent payment.”
“I don’t eat breakfast.”
“You do today.” You slid a plate toward the end of the counter where he usually leaned. “Eat before you go back to sleep or whatever nocturnal creatures do.”
Sukuna stared at the plate for a long second. Then, with a dramatic sigh that could have won awards, he sat down and picked up the chopsticks. He ate in silence, but you caught him taking seconds on the tamagoyaki when he thought you weren’t looking.
Progress. Sort of.
Later that evening, after another brutal practice where your coach had made you repeat the same combination until your vision blurred, you returned to find Sukuna gone. A note that was scrawled in aggressive handwriting on a scrap of flash paper was stuck to the fridge with a magnet shaped like a skull.
Out late. Don’t wait up. And stop buying those stupid expensive face waters. Bathroom looks like a cosmetics store exploded.
You smiled despite yourself. Your skincare had indeed begun its slow, inevitable colonization of the shared bathroom shelf. Serums, creams, patches, and sheet masks lined up like tiny disciplined soldiers. Sukuna’s single bar of soap looked lonely and judgmental beside them.
You took a long shower, letting the hot water ease the screaming muscles in your back and legs. When you came out in soft shorts and a tank top, hair damp, you found Sukuna already home. He was sprawled on the couch, sketching in one of his large books, the TV playing a muted tattoo documentary in the background. A fresh wrap covered part of his left forearm. His new work, probably.
He glanced up. His eyes flicked over your bare legs for half a second before returning to his sketch.
“Practice go to shit?” he asked.
“How could you tell?”
“You have that kicked-puppy look again.”
You flopped onto the opposite end of the couch with a groan, stretching your sore legs across the cushions. Your foot accidentally brushed his thigh. He didn’t move it away.
“It was fine,” you lied. “Just… pressure. Nationals are coming up fast. Sponsors want new content. Media wants interviews. Everyone wants perfection.”
Sukuna flipped a page in his sketchbook. “Sounds exhausting.”
“It is.” You hesitated, then added quietly, “Sometimes I miss when it was just fun. Before it became… this.”
He didn’t respond right away. The scratch of his pencil filled the silence. Eventually he muttered, “Then stop letting other people decide what it means.”
You turned your head to look at him. “That’s easy for you to say. You don’t have cameras following you everywhere.”
“Neither do you, technically. Yet here you are, hiding in my apartment like a fugitive.”
You laughed softly. It felt strange, it was genuine and tiring, but real.
The next afternoon, the universe decided to test the fragile peace you’d built.
Your manager texted that basic groceries were needed because “you can’t live on takeout and protein bars forever.” Sukuna happened to be heading out for supplies for the shop when you mentioned it.
“We’re going to the same supermarket,” he said gruffly. “Just get in the damn sidecar.”
You blinked. “You have a sidecar?”
“Temporary. Friend’s bike.”
Ten minutes later you were clinging to the sidecar of Sukuna’s motorcycle, helmet slightly too big, oversized hoodie and mask on as camouflage. The wind whipped past as he navigated Tokyo streets with practiced ease. For once, you weren’t thinking about jumps or scores. Just the rumble of the engine and the strange, unexpected freedom.
At the supermarket, the domesticity felt absurd.
Sukuna grabbed meat and beer like a man on a mission. You loaded the basket with vegetables, rice, your fancy oat milk, and an embarrassing amount of skincare-adjacent snacks. An old lady stared at Sukuna’s tattoos, then at you, then back at him. You could practically see the gossip forming in her head.
You bickered in the aisle over pasta sauce.
“You’re buying that weak shit?” Sukuna scoffed, holding up your chosen jar. “This one has actual flavor.”
“It’s not weak, it’s balanced,” you argued, reaching for it.
He held it higher, smirking when you had to jump slightly to try and grab it. “Short.”
“I’m graceful, not tall.”
A teenager nearby snapped a quick photo. You didn’t notice. Sukuna did, but said nothing.
Back at the apartment, you unpacked together in surprisingly comfortable silence. He even let you use both plates again without complaint.
That night, while you stretched in the hallway again, Sukuna paused on his way to the bathroom.
“You know there are photos of us online already,” he said casually.
You nearly pulled a muscle. “What?”
“Some kid at the store. Internet’s calling it a ‘mysterious tattooed boyfriend’ situation.” He shrugged, clearly amused. “They’ll get bored in a week.”
You groaned, pressing your forehead to your knee. “My manager is going to kill me.”
“Or he’ll use it for publicity. Either way, not my problem.” Sukuna’s voice dropped slightly. “You really hate it that much? Being seen with someone like me?”
You looked up at him, surprised by the question. “No. I just… hate the lies they’ll make up. The scrutiny.”
He studied you for a long moment, then nodded once. “Then stop reading that shit.”
Easy for him to say. But as he disappeared into the bathroom, you realized something unsettling.
You hadn’t felt this relaxed in someone else’s space in years.
The thermostat war had evolved from childish bickering into something almost ritualistic.
Every morning you crept out of bed before dawn and nudged it up to 21°C. Every evening when Sukuna returned from the shop. Usually smelling of ink, antiseptic, and the faint metallic tang of his motorcycle, he would walk straight to it and knock it back down to 17°C without a word. Neither of you acknowledged the game out loud anymore. It had become a silent conversation: I exist here. So do I.
Tonight, you returned from the rink later than usual. Practice had run long because your coach wanted to perfect a new step sequence for the upcoming competition. Your shoulders burned. Your ankles felt swollen. The cold from the ice had seeped so deep into your bones that even the apartment’s naturally frigid temperature felt almost welcoming.
You pushed the door open at 10:42 p.m. and paused.
Sukuna was on the couch, legs stretched out, one arm draped over the backrest. He wasn’t sketching for once. Instead, he was watching something on his phone with the volume low. It was the highlights from your last Grand Prix performance, it looked like. The commentator’s voice faintly praised your “elegance under pressure.”
He didn’t look up as you entered. “You fell on the triple Lutz in the short program.”
You kicked off your shoes with more force than necessary. “Thanks for the reminder.”
“Thought figure skating was supposed to be graceful. Looked like you were fighting the ice.”
You dropped your bag and shot him a glare. “We are fighting the ice. That’s the entire point, you caveman.”
Sukuna’s mouth twitched. The closest he ever got to a real smile. “Caveman with better taste in entertainment. At least when I stab people they sit still.”
You huffed a tired laugh and headed for the kitchen. True to the new, unspoken routine, there was a plate waiting. Chicken katsu this time, reheated but still crispy, with shredded cabbage and a generous drizzle of sauce. One plate. Yours.
You glanced toward the couch. “You ate already?”
“Hours ago.”
“Liar. You waited.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” he muttered, but didn’t deny it.
You ate standing at the counter, too exhausted to sit properly. Sukuna eventually wandered over, leaning against the opposite side with a fresh mug of coffee. His third of the night, probably. He watched you eat in that quiet, observant way of his. Not staring. Just… noticing.
“You’re favoring your right leg,” he said after a minute.
“It’s nothing.”
“It’s something.” His crimson eyes narrowed. “You landed weird on that last jump. I saw the clip.”
You paused mid-bite. “You watched my old competitions?”
He shrugged one massive shoulder. “Curiosity. You’re living in my apartment. Might as well know what kind of lunatic I let in.”
The words were classic Sukuna but the fact that he’d looked up footage at all felt heavier than it should. You finished the meal in silence, washed the plate, and set it beside his original one. Two plates now lived permanently on the drying rack. A small, ridiculous victory.
Later, after your shower and the inevitable spread of moisturizers across the bathroom counter, you found yourself unable to sleep. The pressure was building again. Nationals were three weeks away. Sponsors had been calling. Social media was already dissecting your every practice video. You slipped into the hallway at 1:15 a.m. in soft shorts and a tank top, pressing your back against the wall and sliding into a deep stretch.
The floor creaked.
Sukuna’s door opened. He stepped out in nothing but black sweatpants, hair messy from whatever half-sleep he’d managed. A fresh tattoo wrap peeked out from his side, he’d been adding to the piece on his ribs again.
“You’re going to wear grooves in my hallway,” he grumbled.
“Helps with the soreness.” You switched legs, breathing through the pull. “Go back to sleep.”
“Can’t. You’re making too much noise existing.”
You expected him to retreat. Instead, he leaned against the wall opposite you, arms crossed over his broad, inked chest. The silence stretched, comfortable in its awkwardness.
After a few minutes, you asked quietly, “Do you ever get tired of it?”
“Of what?”
“People coming in, wanting something permanent on their skin. Wanting you to make them look cool or meaningful or whatever.”
Sukuna was quiet long enough that you thought he wouldn’t answer.
“Sometimes,” he finally said. “But they choose it. They sit through the pain. No one’s forcing them. That’s more honest than most shit in life.”
You lowered yourself further into the stretch. “On the ice… it feels like everyone’s forcing it. The judges. The audience. The sponsors. Even when I win, it doesn’t feel like mine anymore.”
He studied you. Really studied you, the exhaustion you couldn’t hide, the way your shoulders curled inward when you talked about skating lately.
“Then stop skating for them,” he said simply.
You let out a soft, bitter laugh. “It’s not that easy.”
“Never said it was easy. Said it was honest.”
The words landed heavier than you expected. You finished your stretch and sat on the floor, knees drawn up. Sukuna didn’t move. For once, the apartment didn’t feel too cold.
Eventually he pushed off the wall. “Come on. Couch. I’ll put something mindless on.”
You followed him without argument. He dropped onto one end of the leather sofa. You took the other, curling your legs beneath you. He flicked on a random action movie. Something loud and stupid with explosions, and turned the volume low.
Halfway through, without looking at you, Sukuna grabbed the throw blanket from the back of the couch and tossed it over your legs.
“Don’t read into it,” he muttered. “You’re just blocking the screen.”
You smiled into the blanket, small and hidden. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
You fell asleep there sometime after 3 a.m., the low rumble of movie gunfire mixing with Sukuna’s steady breathing on the other end of the couch. When you woke briefly at dawn, the blanket was tucked more carefully around you, and Sukuna was gone. Probably retreated to his own bed.
But the thermostat had been left at 20°C.
A truce, maybe.
Or the start of something neither of you wanted to name yet.
The rumor mill had officially spun out of control.
Your phone buzzed incessantly on the kitchen counter while you attempted to eat breakfast. Headlines ranged from “Mystery Tattooed Man Spotted with Olympic Figure Skater: Secret Romance?” to “From Ice Princess to Bad Boy’s Girl? What We Know.” One particularly creative tabloid claimed you’d been seen arguing passionately outside a convenience store over “sauce preferences” which was annoyingly accurate.
Sukuna leaned against the counter, sipping his coffee, reading over your shoulder with zero shame. A smirk tugged at his lips.
“Passionate sauce debate,” he read aloud. “They’re not wrong.”
You groaned, locking your phone. “Haru wants me to ‘lay low’ and ‘avoid public appearances with unknown men.’ Too late for that.”
“Not my problem,” Sukuna said, but there was a glint of amusement in his crimson eyes. “Though if they’re going to call me your boyfriend, I should at least get some perks.”
You nearly choked on your rice. “Perks?”
“Free labor. You can clean the bathroom since your army of bottles conquered it.”
You threw a piece of cucumber at him. He caught it mid-air and ate it without breaking eye contact. The casual domesticity of the moment hit you harder than expected.
Later that afternoon, after a particularly brutal practice where your coach had torn apart your program components, you found yourself walking toward MALEVOLENT instead of straight back to the apartment. Your legs carried you there almost on autopilot. The neon sign buzzed faintly in the early evening light. You hesitated outside for a full minute before pushing the door open.
The shop was exactly what you’d imagined and nothing like it.
Heavy metal played at a respectable volume. Black walls covered in framed tattoo flash and photography. Three stations were occupied. A heavily pierced woman at the front desk looked up and her eyes widened.
“Oh shit,” she muttered.
The entire shop went still as every artist and client turned to stare.
Sukuna was at the back station, gloved hands working on a large back piece. He glanced up, irritation flashing across his face until he registered it was you. Then the irritation shifted into something closer to resigned surprise.
“The hell are you doing here?” he asked, voice carrying across the shop.
“I… needed to walk. Ended up here.” You shrugged, suddenly self-conscious in your post-practice hoodie and leggings. “Is that okay?”
The pierced woman at the desk whispered loudly, “That’s the figure skater. The Olympic one.”
One of the other artists, a tall guy with a bleached mohawk, dropped his stencil. “No fucking way.”
Sukuna peeled off one glove with his teeth. “All of you, back to work before I kick you out on your asses.” The shop slowly, reluctantly, resumed movement, but the energy had completely changed.
He jerked his head toward a stool near his station. “Sit. Don’t touch anything sterile.”
You sat. The client on his table was a tough-looking man in his thirties who twisted his head to look at you. “Wait, you’re that skater girl? The one who does the spins?”
Sukuna pressed the tattoo machine back to skin with perhaps more pressure than necessary. “Focus on your breathing, not her.”
You watched him work in silence for a while. His hands were steady, precise, almost gentle in a way that contrasted sharply with his personality. The concentration on his face was intense. Every so often he’d glance at you, checking that you were still there.
After twenty minutes, the client took a break. Sukuna wiped down the area and turned fully to you.
“You look like shit,” he said bluntly. “Bad practice?”
“Coach says my edges are lazy. Timing’s off on the combo.” You rubbed your temple. “Everyone’s expecting gold again. No pressure.”
Sukuna made a low sound. One of the other artists walked past carrying supplies and did an obvious double-take at the two of you talking so casually.
Sukuna noticed. “Problem?” he growled.
The artist scurried away.
You smiled faintly. “Your staff looks terrified that you’re being… almost civil.”
“They’ll get over it.” He leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms above his head. The movement pulled his black t-shirt up, revealing a strip of inked skin at his waist. “You hungry?”
“Starving.”
He stood, stripping off the rest of his gloves. “I’m taking thirty. Uraume, watch my station.”
The pierced woman at the front nodded, looking equal parts shocked and delighted.
Ten minutes later you were sitting on the curb outside the shop sharing a bag of takoyaki from the stall down the street. Sukuna ate like he was annoyed at the food for existing, but he kept offering you the best pieces.
“Those idiots in there are going to talk about this for weeks,” he muttered.
“Sorry for ruining your scary reputation.”
“You didn’t ruin it. You’re just… unexpected.” He glanced sideways at you. “Most people who look like you don’t walk into places like this.”
“Places like this?” you echoed, raising an eyebrow.
“Real ones.” He wiped sauce from his thumb with a napkin. “Not the polished bullshit you’re usually stuck in.”
The words settled warmly in your chest. You bumped your shoulder against his arm, just a small, deliberate touch. He didn’t pull away.
When you returned to the apartment that night, the atmosphere felt different. Charged in a quiet way. Sukuna disappeared into his room for a while, then emerged while you were stretching again in the hallway.
He stopped in front of you, crouching suddenly. Before you could ask what he was doing, his hands were on your skate boot, the one you’d left by the door. He examined the laces with a critical eye.
“You tie these like a child,” he grunted. “No wonder your ankles are fucked.”
“I do not—”
He ignored you and began re-lacing with quick, efficient movements, double-looping in places you never thought to. His tattooed fingers looked strangely elegant against the white laces. When he finished, he gave the boot a firm tug and stood up.
“Better tension. Try it tomorrow.”
You stared at him. “Thank you.”
“Don’t make it weird.” He headed toward the kitchen. “I’m making curry. You’re eating. No arguments.”
You smiled behind his back, pressing your forehead to your knee to hide it.
Later, as you both stood at the counter eating steaming plates of curry (still only two plates total), Sukuna spoke without looking at you.
“Next time you feel like the rink is going to eat you alive… just come to the shop. Sit in the corner. I won’t bother you.”
You looked up, surprised. He kept his eyes on his food, ears just slightly redder than usual.
“Okay,” you said softly. “I might take you up on that.”
The thermostat remained at a peaceful 19.5°C that night.
Neither of you commented on it.
The apartment was dark when you got home, except for the single lamp in the living room.
It was past midnight. Practice had bled into extra sessions again. Your coach pushing for cleaner landings on the new quad attempt, the federation wanting footage for promotional material, and your own head refusing to let you stop. Your body felt like it had been through a meat grinder. Every muscle screamed. Your right ankle throbbed with a dull, persistent warning that you chose to ignore.
You closed the door as quietly as possible, expecting Sukuna to be asleep or still at the shop. Instead, he was on the couch, one arm slung behind his head, eyes half-lidded as he stared at the TV. Some old yakuza movie played on low volume, subtitles flickering across the screen. A half-empty beer bottle sat on the coffee table next to an open sketchbook.
He didn’t greet you. Just flicked his gaze over.
“You look like death warmed over,” he said flatly.
“Feel like it too.” You dropped your bag by the door and kicked off your shoes with a wince. “Don’t start.”
Sukuna watched you limp toward the kitchen. You opened the fridge out of habit more than hunger, staring blankly at the contents. The thought of cooking anything felt impossible. Even standing felt optional.
A heavy sigh came from the couch. Then the sound of him getting up.
“Sit,” he ordered, brushing past you. His shoulder bumped yours deliberately. The contact wasn’t hard, it was just enough to steer you toward the couch. “I’ll heat something up.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Shut up.”
You collapsed onto the leather with a groan, the cool material heavenly against your overheated skin. The TV flickered with dramatic sword fights while Sukuna moved around the kitchen with surprising efficiency. Within ten minutes, the smell of reheated chahan and miso reached you. He set a bowl and plate on the low table in front of you. Still the same two plates that now felt like an established fact of life.
“Eat,” he said, dropping back onto his end of the couch. “Or don’t. But if you pass out from starvation I’m not dragging your ass to the hospital.”
You picked up the chopsticks. The food was simple, salty, and perfect. Warmth spread through your chest with every bite. Sukuna pretended to watch the movie, but you caught him glancing sideways every few minutes, tracking the way you favored your right side or how slowly you lifted the spoon for the miso.
When you finished, you set the dishes aside and leaned back, intending to rest your eyes for just a moment before dragging yourself to bed. The exhaustion crashed over you like a wave.
You were out cold in under five minutes.
Sukuna noticed immediately when your breathing evened out. Your head had tipped sideways against the armrest, lips slightly parted, one hand still loosely gripping the edge of the blanket that had been tossed over the back of the couch.
He sat there for a long minute, arms crossed, staring at the TV without seeing it.
“Idiot,” he muttered under his breath. “Can’t even make it to your own room.”
But he got up anyway. Moved quietly for someone his size. He adjusted the blanket, pulling it up over your shoulders and tucking it around your legs with careful, almost irritated movements. His tattooed fingers lingered for half a second on the edge near your ankle, where a fresh bruise was already blooming from an imperfect landing.
He noticed the way your brow was still furrowed even in sleep. The faint lines of tension that never fully left your face anymore.
Sukuna stood over you for another moment, jaw tight. Then he grabbed his sketchbook and moved to the armchair instead of his room, turning the TV volume even lower. The movie played on as background noise while his pencil scratched across paper. Quick, rough lines that slowly began to take the shape of a figure mid-spin, blades carving ice, hair whipping with motion.
He didn’t know why he was drawing it. He told himself it was just practice. New subject matter. Nothing more.
You woke up sometime around 3:30 a.m., disoriented and warm. The blanket was tucked tightly around you. A different movie was playing now, something quieter. Sukuna was still in the armchair, head tipped back, eyes closed, and sketchbook resting on his chest.
You watched him for a moment in the low light. The harsh lines of his tattoos looked softer in the lamplight. His usual scowl was absent in sleep, making him look strangely younger.
You carefully got up, folding the blanket and draping it over him instead. He stirred but didn’t wake. You padded to the bathroom, did your nighttime routine on autopilot, then hesitated at the hallway.
On impulse, you turned back, grabbed a spare throw from the closet, and laid it over his lap.
When you finally crawled into your own bed, the apartment felt less like borrowed space and more like something dangerously close to home.
The next morning, neither of you mentioned the blanket situation.
You woke to the thermostat set at a luxurious 20.5°C and the smell of coffee. Sukuna was already up, pouring a second mug as you entered the kitchen in your practice clothes.
He slid the mug toward you without a word. It was exactly how you’d started drinking it since moving in.
You took it. “Thanks.”
“Don’t get used to it,” he grunted, but his ears were faintly red again.
You hid your smile behind the mug.
Later that evening, after another long practice, you returned to find a new addition on the counter: a small tube of bruise balm and a note in Sukuna’s aggressive handwriting.
For the ankle, dumbass. Use it before you ruin your season.
You laughed quietly in the empty apartment, pressing the tube to your chest like it was something precious.
The rumors online were getting worse. Paparazzi photos from the supermarket run had multiplied. Comment sections were a mess of speculation. Your manager had texted three times demanding damage control.
But for the first time in years, when you looked around the sparse apartment with its two plates, single motorcycle helmet, and growing invasion of your skincare products, the pressure felt just a little further away.
The rumors had escalated from “mysterious boyfriend” to full-blown conspiracy theories.
Your manager sent you a collage of screenshots that morning: blurry photos of you and Sukuna at the supermarket, another of you climbing off his motorcycle (sidecar), and one particularly bad angle where he appeared to be looming over you outside the tattoo shop. The internet had decided you were either secretly engaged, pregnant with a “tattooed bad boy’s love child,” or involved in some underground yakuza skating scandal.
You showed Sukuna the messages over breakfast. He was eating actual breakfast now. It was another small surrender to your influence. Just chewing on rice and grilled fish while scrolling through the photos with a bored expression.
“Idiots,” he grunted. “If I was fucking you, they’d know. I don’t do subtle.”
You nearly dropped your chopsticks. Heat flooded your face. “Sukuna.”
“What? It’s true.” He smirked, clearly enjoying your reaction. “Relax, princess. Let them spin their little stories. Keeps them busy.”
You buried your face in your hands. “Haru wants me to issue a statement saying you’re just a ‘friend from the neighborhood.’”
“Tell him to fuck off.” Sukuna pushed his empty plate toward you. The ritual was established now: whoever cooked, the other washed. “Or better yet, tell them I’m your bodyguard. That’ll shut them up for five minutes.”
You ended up doing neither. The rumors continued to simmer.
That evening, the apartment became a battlefield over something far more serious than paparazzi: pasta sauce.
You had claimed kitchen rights after practice, determined to make something that didn’t come from Sukuna’s limited “protein and rice” repertoire. The pot simmered on the stove, filling the space with garlic, tomatoes, and herbs. You stirred with satisfaction, humming under your breath.
Sukuna appeared like a summoned demon, fresh from the shower, towel around his neck, hair dripping onto his bare shoulders.
“What the hell is that weak-ass smell?” He peered into the pot like it had personally offended him. “Where’s the heat? The flavor?”
“It’s balanced,” you defended, adding a pinch of sugar. “Not everything needs to taste like it was marinated in regret and chili oil.”
He reached past you, grabbed the red pepper flakes, and dumped a generous amount in before you could stop him.
“Hey!”
“Now it’s worth eating.” He tasted a spoonful straight from the ladle, ignoring your glare. “There. Actual food.”
You snatched the ladle back. “You ruin everything.”
“You cook like a sponsor-approved robot. Needs soul.” His crimson eyes gleamed with smug challenge. “Admit it tastes better now.”
You tasted it. It did. You refused to admit it out loud.
Dinner was eaten on the couch that night. Your plates balanced on knees, a new comfort level neither of you commented on. Sukuna had put on one of your old competition videos “for research,” he claimed. Every time you landed a jump cleanly, he made a low, unimpressed sound.
“Too safe,” he critiqued during a spin sequence. “You’re holding back on the last combination. I can see it in your shoulders.”
You paused mid-bite. “You don’t know anything about skating.”
“I know body language. You’re tense as fuck. Scared of falling in front of cameras instead of just skating.”
The observation hit too close. You set your plate down. “It’s not that simple. One mistake can cost everything. Sponsorships, national team standing, my entire future—”
“Sounds like shit,” he interrupted. “You’re out there performing for vultures. No wonder you come home looking dead.”
You didn’t have a response. The silence stretched, broken only by the commentators praising your “elegance” on screen.
Sukuna eventually changed the subject by nudging your foot with his. “Eat. You skipped lunch again. I checked your bag.”
“You went through my bag?”
“Looking for the good coffee you keep stealing.” He didn’t even sound apologetic. “Found three protein bars and nothing else. Idiot.”
You ate. The sauce was better with the extra spice.
Later, while you were doing your post-practice stretches in the living room (the hallway had become too small for both of you now), Sukuna sat at the coffee table sketching. The scratch of pencil on paper mixed with your steady breathing. It was strangely soothing.
After a particularly deep hip flexor stretch, you hissed in pain.
Sukuna’s pencil stopped. “What’s wrong?”
“Groin pull from that fall last week. Its fine.”
“It’s not fine.” He set the sketchbook aside and moved behind you without asking. His hands pressed against your lower back and hip. “Here?”
You nodded, breath catching at the contact. His fingers dug in with precise pressure, working the tight muscle. Not quite a massage, more like clinical assessment. Still, the heat of his palms soaked through your thin tank top.
“Better form next time,” he muttered. “You twist too much on the landing.”
“You watched the practice footage?”
“Shop was slow. Had time to kill.”
He kept working the knot until the sharp pain eased into a dull ache. Neither of you spoke for a while. When he finally pulled away, his hands lingered a second longer than necessary on your waist.
“Don’t push it tomorrow,” he said gruffly, returning to his sketch. “Or I’ll drag you back from the rink myself.”
You turned to look at him. “Why do you care?”
Sukuna didn’t meet your eyes. “Because if you break yourself, I’ll have to deal with your moping around my apartment. Annoying.”
But the thermostat stayed at 20°C again that night.
And when you woke up briefly at 4 a.m. for water, you found a new tube of muscle balm on the counter next to your skincare bottles, with another note in his sharp handwriting:
Use it, or I’ll do it for you. Don’t test me.
You smiled in the dark kitchen, pressing the tube to your chest the same way you had with the bruise balm days earlier.
The single plate had become two. The thermostat had found compromise. And slowly, painfully, so had the two of you.
The pressure was starting to crack you open.
Nationals were two weeks away. Your coach had added extra ice time. Sponsors wanted exclusive interviews. Your social media handler begged for more “relatable” training content. Every jump felt heavier. Every spin carried the weight of expectations. You were smiling for cameras at the rink and coming home hollowed out.
Sukuna noticed.
He always noticed.
Tonight you returned after 11 p.m. again. The apartment smelled like garlic and sesame oil, Sukuna had cooked. Again. Two plates waited on the counter, covered with upside-down bowls to keep them warm. You ate standing up, barely tasting the stir-fry, your mind still looping through the same flawed combination jump.
When you finished, you didn’t head to the shower like usual. Instead, you drifted toward the small balcony off the living room, sliding the glass door open. The night air was crisp, carrying distant city noise and the faint smell of rain on concrete.
You leaned on the railing, arms wrapped around yourself. The city lights blurred.
The door slid open behind you a few minutes later. Sukuna stepped out, two cigarettes in hand. He didn’t ask if you wanted one, just offered. You rarely smoked, but tonight you took it.
He lit yours first, then his own. The flame illuminated the sharp lines of his face and the black ink crawling up his neck. For a while, you both just smoked in silence, shoulders almost touching.
“You’re getting worse,” he said eventually. No sugarcoating. Just a fact.
You exhaled smoke toward the sky. “Thanks.”
“Not insulting you. Observing.” He tapped ash over the railing. “You come back later every night. Eat like a ghost. Stretch like you’re punishing yourself. That shit on the ice isn’t sustainable.”
You laughed bitterly. “Welcome to elite sport. This is what winning looks like behind the clips.”
Sukuna leaned his forearms on the railing beside you. His presence was solid and warm against the cool night. “I watched more of your old stuff today. You used to skate like you enjoyed it. Now you look like you’re at war.”
The words landed hard. You took another drag, the smoke burning your throat in a way that felt grounding.
“I don’t know how to do it any other way anymore,” you admitted quietly. “It stopped being fun years ago. Now it’s just… proving I’m still worth something. To the federation. To the fans. To myself.”
Sukuna was quiet for a long beat. The cherry of his cigarette glowed.
“People who need you to prove shit constantly aren’t worth the effort,” he said. His voice was low, rough. “They’ll just move on to the next pretty face who spins good when you inevitably burn out.”
You turned your head to look at him. “Is that your idea of comfort?”
“It’s honesty.” He met your gaze, crimson eyes steady. “I don’t do the fake cheer shit. You want pretty lies, go talk to your manager.”
You smiled despite yourself. “I think I prefer the asshole version.”
“Good. Because that’s all I got.”
You finished your cigarette and flicked it into the small ashtray he kept out here. Neither of you moved to go back inside. The city hummed below. For once, the silence between you felt full instead of empty.
After a while, you asked, “Do you ever get lonely up here? Before I showed up, I mean.”
Sukuna snorted. “Lonely? I like the quiet. No one bothering me. No expectations.” He paused, staring out at the skyline. “Didn’t realize how fucking loud quiet could get until you moved in, though.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Loud?”
“You talk to yourself when you stretch. Leave your hair ties everywhere. Make the whole place smell like fancy cream and whatever the hell that face mist is.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Ruined my perfectly good solitude.”
The words were complaining, but the tone wasn’t. There was something almost soft underneath the sarcasm.
You bumped your shoulder against his arm. “Sorry for existing so loudly.”
“Don’t be.” He didn’t move away from the contact. “It’s not the worst thing.”
The balcony light caught the edge of his smirk as he lit another cigarette, offering you the pack again. You declined this time, content to just stand there beside him.
Later, back inside, you ended up on the couch again. Sukuna put on another mindless action movie. You lasted twenty minutes before your head dropped onto the armrest. This time, when you woke up hours later, the blanket was tucked around you properly, and Sukuna had fallen asleep sitting up, one hand resting near your ankle like he’d been checking on the old bruise in his sleep.
You studied his face in the blue glow of the TV. The permanent scowl had smoothed out. The tattoos that usually made him look intimidating now just looked like art on someone who pretended he didn’t care about anything.
You carefully adjusted the blanket over both of you and closed your eyes again.
The next morning, you woke up alone on the couch. A fresh mug of coffee waited on the table with a note:
Rink better not eat you alive today.
There’s leftover stir-fry. Eat it.
— S
You smiled into your coffee, the warmth spreading deeper than usual.
The rumors online had shifted from scandal to something almost affectionate “Ice Princess and Tattoo Beast” was trending with fan edits. Your manager was losing his mind. You didn’t care as much as you should have.
Because when you left for practice that morning, Sukuna’s spare key felt heavier in your pocket. Like it belonged there.
And when you came back that night fully exhausted, but slightly less hollow. The thermostat was still at 20°C, the lights were on, and the apartment no longer felt temporary.
The apartment no longer felt like a temporary refuge. It felt like a heartbeat.
You noticed it gradually. Hiw your skincare army had permanently claimed two full shelves in the bathroom, how Sukuna’s second plate now lived in the cupboard instead of on the drying rack, how his sketchbooks had started migrating into the living room alongside your training notebooks. The thermostat had settled into an uneasy truce at 19.5°C. Small victories everywhere.
But tonight, the pressure finally snapped.
You came home at 1:07 a.m. after yet another overtime session at the rink. Your eyes were red. Your right ankle was taped so tightly it hurt to flex. Nationals were ten days away, and your program still had one stubborn combination that refused to cooperate. Coach had screamed. Sponsors had called. You’d smiled through all of it until you couldn’t anymore.
The moment the door clicked shut behind you, Sukuna was already there.
He’d clearly been waiting. The TV was off. A fresh pot of curry sat warming on the stove. He leaned against the kitchen counter in a black tank top, arms crossed, crimson eyes sharp.
“You didn’t answer my texts,” he said. Not angry. Just… tight.
You dropped your bag. “Phone died on the ice. Sorry.”
He studied you for three long seconds, then pushed off the counter. “Sit.”
“I’m fine—”
“Sit the fuck down before you fall down.”
You sank onto the couch. Sukuna disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a bowl of curry and a cold beer. He set both in front of you, then crouched to examine your taped ankle without asking permission. His large, warm hands carefully unwrapped the tape, thumbs pressing lightly along the bone.
“Swollen,” he muttered. “You’re pushing too hard.”
“It's Nationals,” you whispered. Your voice cracked on the word. “If I don’t medal, they’ll start talking about retirement. About how I peaked too early. About how the new girls are younger, fresher—”
Sukuna’s hands stilled. He looked up at you from his crouched position, expression unreadable.
“Then let them talk.”
You laughed, wet and bitter. “Easy for you to say. You don’t live under a microscope.”
“No. I chose not to.” He finished re-wrapping your ankle with the bruise balm, movements surprisingly gentle for someone so blunt. When he finished, he didn’t stand up right away. Instead, he stayed there, one hand resting on your calf. “You keep letting them decide what your worth is. That’s why you come home looking like this.”
The words hit deep. You stared at him, throat tight.
Sukuna stood slowly. Instead of moving away, he dropped onto the couch right beside you, closer than usual. His thigh pressed against yours. He reached over and tugged you sideways until your head rested against his shoulder.
You froze.
“Don’t make it weird,” he grumbled, voice low. “Just… stay there. Eat your damn curry.”
You stayed.
The warmth of his body seeped through your hoodie. He smelled like ink, soap, and the faint trace of cigarettes from the balcony. You ate slowly while he flipped through channels, eventually landing on a silent nature documentary. His arm eventually settled along the back of the couch, fingers occasionally brushing your shoulder in absent, almost reluctant strokes.
When you finished eating, you didn’t move. Neither did he.
After a long stretch of quiet, you spoke into his chest.
“I don’t know how to exist without the pressure anymore. Skating used to be mine. Now it feels like it belongs to everyone else.”
Sukuna’s hand moved to the back of your neck, thumb pressing into the tight muscles there. “Then take it back. Even if it’s messy. Even if you fall on your ass in front of the whole country.” His voice dropped. “At least it’ll be honest.”
You tilted your head to look up at him. Your faces were dangerously close. You could see the faint scar near his left eyebrow, the way his crimson eyes darkened as they flicked down to your mouth for half a second.
The air thickened.
For one suspended moment, neither of you breathed. His fingers tightened slightly on your neck. You leaned in a fraction.
Then Sukuna pulled back first, jaw clenched.
“Shower,” he ordered, voice rougher than usual. “You smell like ice and regret. I’ll clean up.”
You retreated to the bathroom on unsteady legs, heart hammering. When you came out twenty minutes later in soft shorts and one of his oversized black shirts (you’d stolen it weeks ago and he’d never asked for it back), Sukuna was on the balcony.
You joined him.
He handed you a cigarette without looking at you. You took it. The city lights stretched below like scattered stars.
“I hate that I need this,” you admitted after a while. “The validation. The scores. All of it.”
Sukuna exhaled smoke. “Everyone needs something. At least you’re starting to admit it.” He glanced sideways. “You staying here… it stopped feeling like a favor a while ago.”
Your heart stuttered.
“Yeah?” you asked softly.
He didn’t answer with words. Instead, he shifted closer until your arms brushed. The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was heavy with everything neither of you was ready to say yet.
When you finally went inside, Sukuna didn’t retreat to his room. He pulled you back onto the couch, blanket over both of you, and let you curl against his side like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Sleep,” he muttered into your hair. “I’ve got you tonight.”
You fell asleep to the steady rise and fall of his chest and the low rumble of his breathing, his arm locked around your waist like he had no intention of letting go anytime soon.
The next morning, you woke up tangled together. Sukuna was already awake, staring at the ceiling, but he hadn’t moved. His fingers traced idle patterns on your hip.
Neither of you spoke about it.
But when you left for practice later, he grabbed your wrist at the door, pressed a protein bar into your hand, and said. “Come home before midnight tonight. Or I’m coming to get you.”
You smiled the entire way to the rink.
The walls were cracking faster now. And for the first time, you weren’t afraid of what was on the other side.
The spiral had been building for days.
Nationals were eight days away. Every practice felt like walking a tightrope over broken glass. Your coach was relentless. The federation wanted media sessions. Online comments dissected every wobble in your practice clips. You smiled through it all during the day, then came home and quietly fell apart in small ways. Sometimes forgetting to eat, stretching until your muscles screamed, staring at competition footage until your eyes burned.
Sukuna watched it happen in real time.
He didn’t push. He simply made sure there was food waiting, left balm on the counter, and waited up later each night. But tonight, something felt different.
You had left for “one last short session” at 8 p.m. You told him you’d be back by 10:30.
It was now 1:17 a.m. and you still weren’t home.
Sukuna paced the apartment like a caged animal. He’d texted you four times:
Sukuna: Answer.
You dead?
If you’re bleeding on the ice I’m not paying your medical bills.
Come home.
No replies. Your phone was probably on silent in your bag.
He grabbed his motorcycle keys, jaw tight. “Fuck this.”
The rink was nearly deserted when he arrived. Only emergency lights and a few security lamps were on. He slipped inside through a side entrance that a tired cleaner had left propped open. The cold hit him immediately. It was sharp, biting, and nothing like the controlled chill of the apartment.
And there you were.
Alone in the center of the massive ice, under a single spotlight that made the surface glow like fractured glass. You were skating the same combination over and over. Triple Axel into a quad attempt. Fall. Get up. Loop. Fall harder. Get up slower. Your form was deteriorating with every repetition. Your shoulders tense, landings sloppy, exhaustion carved into every line of your body.
Sukuna stayed in the shadows near the boards. He didn’t call out. He just watched.
You tried again. The jump was ugly this time. You crashed hard onto the ice, skidding several feet. For a moment you stayed down, chest heaving. Then you slammed a gloved fist against the ice once before forcing yourself up. Your hands came up to cover your face. Your shoulders shook.
Not from the cold.
Sukuna’s chest tightened painfully. He took one step forward then stopped.
He knew you.
If he walked out there right now, you’d shove the vulnerability down immediately. You’d smile that polished media smile and tell him you were fine. He didn’t want that version of you.
So he stayed hidden. Watched you breathe through it. Watched you wipe your face, reset your shoulders, and skate to the center again like the ice owed you something.
After another brutal fall, you finally skated to the exit boards. You sat on the bench, head bowed, medal dreams and public expectations crushing you under their weight.
Sukuna slipped out the same way he came in.
When you finally dragged yourself through the apartment door at 2:41 a.m., you expected darkness and silence.
Instead, the lights were on low. Takeout bags from your favorite late-night spot sat on the kitchen counter, still warm. Two plates. Two sets of chopsticks. A note in Sukuna’s aggressive scrawl was propped against one bag:
Eat before you collapse, idiot. Food’s still warm. Don’t make me come find you next time.
You stared at the note for a long time. Your throat closed up.
He’d gone looking for you. He’d seen… something. And instead of confronting you, instead of demanding answers or forcing comfort, he’d done this. Given you space and food and quiet proof that he was paying attention.
You sat at the counter and ate slowly, tears slipping down your cheeks and into the ramen. Not from sadness exactly, just overwhelming relief that someone saw the ugly parts and didn’t flinch or try to fix them with pretty words.
Sukuna’s bedroom door was cracked open. You could see the faint glow of his lamp.
You finished eating, washed both plates, and padded softly to his doorway. He was sitting up in bed, shirtless, sketching. He didn’t look up, but his shoulders tensed like he knew you were there.
“Thank you,” you said quietly.
He grunted. “Told you to eat.”
You lingered. “You went to the rink.”
A pause. The pencil stopped moving.
“Yeah.”
“You didn’t come out.”
“No.”
You stepped inside his room for the first time. “Why?”
Sukuna finally looked at you. His crimson eyes were darker than usual. “Because you hate being seen like that. Figured you’d rather I didn’t watch you break.” He set the sketchbook aside. “But I’m not letting you do it alone anymore.”
The simple honesty cracked something deep inside your chest.
You crossed the room and climbed onto his bed without asking. Sukuna exhaled sharply but opened his arm. You curled against his side, face pressed to his warm, inked chest. His heartbeat was steady under your ear.
“I’m scared,” you whispered.
“I know.” His hand slid into your hair, fingers gentle despite their roughness. “But you’re not performing for me. You get that, right?”
You nodded against him.
He held you tighter. No grand speeches. No promises. Just the solid weight of him and the quiet knowledge that he was there.
For the first time in years, the pressure felt bearable.
The morning after the rink incident, everything felt slightly shifted.
You woke up in Sukuna’s bed.
Not tangled in some dramatic, passionate way. You were just curled against his side, his heavy arm draped over your waist like it belonged there. He was already awake, staring at the ceiling with one hand behind his head. When you stirred, he didn’t pull away. He simply tightened his grip for half a second before letting go.
“Morning,” you mumbled, voice thick with sleep and leftover emotion.
“You drool,” was his reply. Classic Sukuna.
You laughed softly and hid your face against his chest. The tattoos there were warm under your cheek. He let you stay like that for a few quiet minutes before finally sitting up.
“Get up. You’re not skipping practice today, but you’re eating first. No arguments.”
He made breakfast while you showered. On the menu was rice, eggs, and vegetables, again. When you emerged, he was plating food with the same focused intensity he used for tattoos. You ate together at the counter in comfortable silence. No pressure talk. No rehashing last night. Just the two of you and the quiet understanding that something had changed.
That night, after a more manageable practice, you found yourself on the balcony with him again. The city glittered below. Sukuna smoked while you leaned against the railing beside him, stealing occasional drags from his cigarette.
Your eyes kept drifting to the ink covering his arms and chest. The designs were intricate. Filled with demons, sharp florals, abstract patterns that looked like they told stories.
“Can I ask about them?” you said quietly.
Sukuna glanced down at his own skin like he’d forgotten it was there. “Most people don’t get to ask twice.”
“I’m not most people.”
He exhaled smoke through his nose, then gave a small shrug. “Fine. Ask.”
You reached out slowly, tracing a finger along a snarling face on his forearm. His skin was warm. The muscle underneath twitched at your touch but he didn’t pull away.
“What does this one mean?”
Sukuna watched your finger move. “Strength through pain. Got it after my old man died. Bastard used to say I’d never amount to shit. Proved him wrong with every needle.”
You moved to another piece. Now a intricate wave pattern flowing into sharp teeth. “And this?”
“Control.” His voice dropped lower. “Everything in life is temporary except what you choose to keep forever. Ink stays. People don’t.”
The words hung between you. You looked up at him.
“Is that why you live like this?” you asked. “One plate. Minimal shit. No attachments?”
Sukuna smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Smart girl.” He took another drag. “What about you? All that spinning and glitter on ice. Temporary as fuck. One bad landing and it’s gone.”
You nodded slowly. “Exactly. Everything I do gets judged in seconds. Forgotten in months. Your work… it stays on people. Becomes part of them.”
He was quiet for a long moment, studying your face in the dim balcony light.
“You want one?” he asked suddenly.
Your eyes widened. “A tattoo?”
“Not now. But someday. If you stay long enough.” The last part came out almost too casual. Like he hadn’t meant to say it.
Your heart stuttered. “You’d tattoo me?”
“Only if you’re sure.” He flicked ash away. “I don’t do half-assed work. Especially not on you.”
The implication made heat bloom in your chest. You stepped closer, until you were nearly chest to chest. Sukuna didn’t retreat. Instead, he tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear with surprising gentleness.
“You’re dangerous,” he muttered. “Coming in here, messing up my routine. Making me give a shit.”
“Good,” you whispered. “Because I don’t want this to be temporary anymore.”
The air thickened. Sukuna’s hand lingered on your jaw, thumb brushing your lower lip. His crimson eyes darkened as they dropped to your mouth. You rose onto your toes slightly.
This time, he didn’t pull away.
The kiss was slow at first, almost testing the waters between you two. His lips were surprisingly soft against the roughness of his personality. Then it deepened. He pulled you flush against him, one hand sliding into your hair, the other gripping your waist with clear possession. You tasted smoke and something uniquely him. The kiss wasn’t sweet or gentle. It was hungry, restrained, years of tension finally breaking.
When you finally broke apart, both breathing harder, Sukuna pressed his forehead to yours.
“Don’t expect me to say flowery shit,” he rasped. “But you’re not leaving when the renovations finish. That’s not happening.”
You smiled, a little dazed. “Wasn’t planning on it.”
He kissed you again but shorter this time, no less intense. When he pulled back, that familiar smug smirk was back.
“Bed. Now. Before I drag you there.”
You laughed as he guided you inside, his hand firm on your lower back. For the first time in years, the future didn’t feel like something you had to fight for alone.
That night you slept in his bed again, properly this time. No walls. No pretending. Just Sukuna’s steady heartbeat and the quiet certainty that this apartment had stopped being temporary a long time ago.
The shift was quiet, but undeniable.
By the next evening, the apartment had stopped pretending to be two separate lives sharing a space. It was one life now, the space completely messy, stubborn, and intertwined.
You woke up in Sukuna’s bed again, this time with his face buried against the back of your neck and one heavy, tattooed arm locked around your waist like he was daring the world to try and pull you away. His breathing was slow and warm against your skin. You stayed still for a long time, just feeling the solid weight of him.
When you finally tried to slip out for morning practice, he tightened his grip.
“Five more minutes,” he growled, voice rough with sleep.
“You’ll fall back asleep.”
“Don’t care.”
You laughed softly and stayed. When you finally left forty minutes later, Sukuna was in the kitchen making you a protein-packed onigiri to take with you. He pressed it into your hands at the door, then caught your chin and kissed you..
“Come back before you’re dead on your feet,” he muttered against your lips.
“Yes, sir.”
He smacked your ass as you left, smirking at your startled squeak.
That night you returned earlier than usual. The moment the door opened, Sukuna was on you.
He pulled you inside by the front of your hoodie and kissed you like he’d been thinking about it all day. Hard. Hungry. One hand fisting in your hair, the other sliding under your shirt to press against your lower back. You melted into it immediately, skating bag dropping forgotten to the floor.
“Missed you,” you breathed between kisses.
“Shut up,” he replied, but the way he walked you backward toward the couch said otherwise.
You ended up straddling his lap on the leather, hands exploring the hard planes of his chest and shoulders. Sukuna’s mouth moved to your neck, sucking a mark just below your jaw that made you shiver.
“Been wanting to do that for weeks,” he admitted, voice low. “Mark you up so those gossiping idiots know exactly who you’re coming home to.”
You pulled back slightly, flushed. “Jealous?”
“Possessive.” His hands gripped your hips tighter. “Different thing.”
The makeout session was heated but didn’t go further. Sukuna seemed content to just touch and taste, learning every small sound you made. When you finally broke apart, lips swollen, he rested his forehead against yours.
“Food first,” he said gruffly. “Then you’re telling me how practice went.”
You ate together on the couch. With your legs thrown over his lap while he fed you bites of grilled mackerel between his own. Domestic. Easy. Terrifying in how right it felt.
After dinner, you showed him the new step sequence you were working on. You demonstrated in socks on the living room floor while he watched with sharp, focused eyes.
“You’re still hesitating on the entry,” he observed. “Too much thinking. Stop trying to be perfect.”
You groaned. “Easy for you to say.”
Sukuna stood up, towering over you. He tilted your chin up. “When you skate for me, I don’t give a shit about perfect. I want to see you out there. The one who talks to herself during stretches and steals my shirts.”
Your heart clenched.
Later that night, after showers and skincare. Sukuna now had his own small shelf you’d forcibly assigned him, you ended up in bed again. This time clothes came off slowly. Sukuna mapped every bruise and sore muscle with his mouth and hands, muttering curses at how hard you pushed yourself. You traced every line of ink on his body like you were memorizing a map.
He didn’t let it go all the way. Not yet.
“Not while you’re this exhausted,” he said, pulling you against his chest despite your protest. “When I fuck you, I want you present. Not half-dead from the rink.”
You fell asleep with his fingers stroking through your hair and his heartbeat steady under your ear.
The next few days followed the same rhythm, growing more intimate each time.
Sukuna started coming to watch you practice occasionally. Sitting in the back rows with a cap pulled low, arms crossed, looking entirely out of place among the pastel athletic wear and screaming parents. He never cheered. He just watched. And every time you landed a clean jump, his smirk was pure satisfaction.
One afternoon he surprised you by showing up at the rink with hot tea and your favorite snacks during a break. The other skaters stared openly. Your coach raised an eyebrow but said nothing when Sukuna leveled him with a flat, terrifying stare.
At home, the teasing had turned filthier. He’d corner you in the kitchen, press you against the counter, and kiss you stupid before walking away like nothing happened. You retaliated by wearing his shirts and nothing else after showers.
The rumors online had evolved into something almost affectionate. Fan accounts shipped “Ink & Ice” hard. Your manager had given up trying to control it and was now asking if you wanted to lean into it for publicity.
You told Sukuna while curled against him on the balcony one night.
He laughed lowly. “Let them. As long as they know you’re mine.”
Yours. The word settled deep in your bones.
Nationals were five days away now. The fear was still there, but it felt smaller with Sukuna’s solid presence beside you every night. He had become necessary. Essential. The person you came home to, not just the place.
One night, as you lay tangled together in bed, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your bare back, you whispered, “I don’t want to go back to my old apartment when it’s ready.”
Sukuna’s hand stilled for a moment, then resumed.
“Good,” he said simply. “Because I wasn’t letting you.”
He kissed the top of your head, and for the first time in your entire career, you fell asleep thinking less about gold medals and more about the man holding you like you were something worth keeping.
The text from your manager came during breakfast on a rare day off.
Haru: Renovations finished early. Your apartment is ready next week. We can move you back this weekend if you want. Less stress before Nationals.
You stared at the message for a long time, thumb hovering over the screen. The luxurious high-rise with its perfect view, soundproof walls, and zero tattooed roommates suddenly felt like a cage you’d already escaped.
Sukuna noticed immediately. He always did.
“Bad news?” he asked, setting a fresh coffee beside your plate. He was shirtless again, sweatpants low on his hips, fresh hickeys from last night blooming faintly on his collarbone.
You showed him the text.
His expression didn’t change, but his shoulders tightened. He read it once, then turned back to the stove like it didn’t matter.
“So you’re leaving,” he said flatly.
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“Bullshit.” His voice was low, edged. “It’s your fancy place. Of course you’re going back.”
The warmth that had been building between you for days suddenly felt brittle. Sukuna shut the stove off with more force than necessary and disappeared into his room without another word. The door didn’t slam, but it closed with heavy finality.
You gave him space. You knew how he operated when emotions got too real, he retreated behind sarcasm and distance like armor.
By evening the tension was unbearable.
You found him on the balcony smoking, jaw clenched so tight it looked painful. You stepped out and closed the door behind you.
“Sukuna.”
“Don’t,” he cut you off. “You don’t owe me anything. This was always temporary. I knew that.”
The words stung. You moved closer anyway. “It stopped feeling temporary months ago. You know that too.”
He laughed, bitter and rough. “Yeah? Then why the fuck are you even considering going back?”
“Because it’s easier,” you admitted. “My apartment is closer to the main rink. Better security. No paparazzi camping outside a tattoo shop. My manager thinks—”
“I don’t give a shit what your manager thinks.” Sukuna finally looked at you, crimson eyes burning. “I care what you want. But you’re already pulling away. I can feel it.”
You stepped into his space and grabbed his face with both hands. “I’m not pulling away. I’m scared. Nationals are in four days. Everything is too much right now.”
He stared at you for a long moment, then exhaled sharply through his nose. His hands came up to grip your wrists, not pulling you away, just holding.
“You’re not sleeping in my bed for three months and then walking out like it was nothing,” he said, voice low and rough. “I don’t do that half-in, half-out shit.”
“I don’t want half-in either.”
Sukuna searched your face, then leaned down and kissed you hard. It was possessive, almost punishing, like he was trying to brand the memory of him into you. You kissed him back just as fiercely, fingers threading through his pink hair.
When you broke apart, he pressed his forehead to yours.
“Stay,” he said. Not a plea. A demand wrapped in vulnerability he’d never show anyone else. “Not because of the apartment. Because of me.”
Your chest ached. “Okay.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He kissed you again, slower this time, hands sliding under your shirt to grip your bare waist. The balcony air was cool, but his skin was burning. You ended up inside quickly, clothes disappearing between heated kisses and stumbling steps toward his bedroom—your bedroom now.
This time Sukuna didn’t hold back.
He took you apart with the same focused intensity he used for his art. Learning every sound, every shiver, every place that made you gasp his name. There was nothing gentle about it, but it wasn’t just lust either. Every touch felt like a claim. Every mark he left was a promise.
Afterward, you lay tangled together, sweaty and breathless. Sukuna’s fingers traced slow circles on your back while you rested your head on his chest.
“I’m telling Haru I’m staying,” you whispered.
“Good.” His arm tightened around you. “Because if you tried to leave, I would’ve dragged your shit back up the stairs myself.”
You laughed softly against his skin. “Romantic.”
“Practical.” He kissed the top of your head. “Now sleep. You’ve got Nationals soon, and I’m not letting you burn yourself out the night before.”
For the first time in weeks, you fell asleep without the weight of your old apartment hanging over you.
But Sukuna stayed awake longer than usual, staring at the ceiling with a rare flicker of unease in his eyes. He’d never needed anyone before. Now the thought of you choosing to stay, even after saying it out loud had terrified him more than he wanted to admit.
Nationals arrived like a storm.
The arena was packed. With bright lights, a roaring crowd, and cameras everywhere. You were back in your element: elegant, composed, media-trained smile firmly in place during warm-ups. But underneath, your nerves were razor-sharp.
Sukuna had driven you there on his motorcycle that morning. He hadn’t said much, just handed you your skates at the door and kissed you hard enough to leave you breathless.
“Skate like you fucking mean it,” he’d growled against your lips. “Not for them. For you.”
You’d nodded, heart pounding harder than it had in years.
Now, as you waited in the kiss-and-cry area after your short program, your leg bounced uncontrollably. You’d landed everything cleanly, but the quad had been slightly under-rotated. The scores were about to come up.
Sukuna was somewhere in the stands. He’d refused the VIP seat your manager offered, choosing instead to sit in a shadowed upper section where he could watch without being mobbed. You knew he was there. You could feel it.
The scores flashed.
First place. Narrow lead.
The crowd erupted. You bowed politely, waved, and slipped backstage the moment the cameras turned away. The smile dropped instantly.
You found an empty hallway, a medal from the short program still hanging around your neck, and leaned against the cool wall. The pressure was crushing. One more program tomorrow. One mistake and everything would crumble.
Footsteps echoed.
You looked up. Sukuna was walking toward you, hands in his pockets, black jacket and cap doing little to hide how out of place he looked among the sequined costumes and corporate suits.
Your manager had given him a pass “as security.” Bullshit excuse, but it worked.
“You came backstage,” you whispered.
“Told you I wasn’t letting you do this alone.” He stopped in front of you, eyes scanning your face. “You okay?”
“No,” you admitted. “I’m winning and it still feels like I’m drowning.”
Sukuna pulled you into his chest without hesitation. His arms wrapped around you tightly, one hand cradling the back of your head. The familiar scent of him grounded you instantly.
“Most people are fucking stupid,” he said quietly. “They don’t see how hard you work. They just want perfection so they can feel something for five minutes. Don’t let them live in your head.”
You laughed wetly against his shirt. “Since when are you good at pep talks?”
“I’m not. I’m just telling you the truth.” He tilted your chin up and kissed you. The kiss was slow, deep, and completely uncaring if anyone saw. When he pulled back, his thumb brushed your bottom lip. “Tomorrow, skate like you’re alone on the ice at 2 a.m. Like no one’s watching. That’s when you’re actually good.”
You nodded, forehead pressed to his. “Stay with me tonight? At the hotel?”
“Already told the shop I’m not coming in tomorrow.”
The rest of the evening passed in a blur of interviews and sponsor obligations. Sukuna waited for you like a shadow. From the back, he was quiet, intimidating, and fiercely protective. When one pushy reporter tried to ask about “the mystery man in your life,” Sukuna simply stepped into frame, stared the man down, and the questions stopped immediately.
Back at the hotel, the tension finally broke.
The moment the door closed, Sukuna had you against it. Clothes came off in a heated rush. This time there was no restraint. He lifted you like you weighed nothing, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you to the bed. His mouth and hands were everywhere.
He fucked you like he was afraid you might disappear in the morning. Deep, slow, then rough when you begged for more. You came apart under him twice before he finally let himself go, groaning your name against your neck as he finished.
Afterward, he held you close, your back to his chest, his fingers tracing lazy patterns over your stomach.
“Whatever happens tomorrow,” he murmured into your hair, “you’re still coming home with me. Got it?”
“Got it,” you whispered, intertwining your fingers with his.
For the first time before a major competition, you slept deeply wrapped in tattooed arms and the steady rhythm of Sukuna’s heartbeat.
The free skate felt like walking into battle wearing silk.
The arena was louder than the day before. Cameras flashed like strobe lights. Your name echoed through the speakers as you glided to center ice. You searched the stands once, just once, and found him. Sukuna. Arms crossed, leaning forward, crimson eyes locked on you like nothing else in the world existed.
You took a breath. Skate like you’re alone at 2 a.m.
The music started.
You poured everything into it. All the exhaustion, the fear, the quiet love you’d found in a sparse apartment above a tattoo shop. Every jump was fought for. Every spin carried emotion instead of just technical perfection. You fell on the quad attempt, hard, but got up faster than you ever had before. The crowd gasped, then roared when you landed the next combination cleanly.
When the final pose ended, the arena erupted.
You bowed, chest heaving, tears already stinging your eyes. The scores came up faster than expected.
Gold.
You won Nationals by a narrow margin.
The crowd chanted your name. Your coach hugged you. Sponsors swarmed. Cameras flashed relentlessly. For three full minutes, it felt like victory.
Then the backlash started.
While you were still in the kiss-and-cry, the online comments flooded in live:
“She fell. That shouldn’t have been gold.”
“Underscored the younger girls again.”
“Overrated. Time to retire.”
“Bet the judges only gave it to her because of the pity narrative.”
By the time you escaped backstage, the medal around your neck felt like lead.
You slipped away from the celebration area into the quiet service corridors, still in full costume, skates dangling from your hand. The gold medal clinked against your chest with every step. You found a dimly lit spot near some stacked equipment crates and sat down hard on the floor.
The numbness hit.
You’d won. And it still felt hollow.
Footsteps approached. You didn’t need to look up to know it was him.
Sukuna crouched in front of you, elbows on his knees. He studied your face in silence for a long moment.
“They’re already tearing you apart online, aren’t they?” he asked.
You nodded, laughing weakly. “I won gold and they’re acting like I stole it.”
Sukuna reached out and flicked the medal with one finger. “Most people are stupid,” he said, echoing his words from before. “They weren’t on that ice with you. They didn’t see what I saw.”
“What did you see?” you whispered.
“You.” His voice was low, intense. “Fighting. Getting up. Still fucking beautiful even when you fell. That’s not the version they want. They want a doll that never makes mistakes.”
You felt the tears spill over. Sukuna wiped them away with his thumb, surprisingly gentle.
“Come on,” he said, standing and offering his hand. “We’re leaving.”
He didn’t wait for permission. He grabbed your team jacket from a nearby chair, draped it over your shoulders, and led you out through a side exit used by staff. No cameras. No reporters. Just cold night air and the distant roar of the crowd still celebrating inside.
His motorcycle waited in the back lot.
You climbed on behind him in your competition dress and jacket, arms wrapped tightly around his waist. Sukuna revved the engine once, then took off into the city streets. The wind whipped past, cold and freeing. You pressed your cheek between his shoulder blades and breathed.
He drove you up to the quiet overlook above the city. The same spot you’d imagined in quieter moments. The lights of Tokyo spread out below like a sea of stars.
Sukuna killed the engine and helped you off. He pulled you against his chest immediately, arms locked around you.
“Winning doesn’t feel how I thought it would,” you admitted against his jacket.
“That’s because you keep letting strangers decide what it means,” he replied. “Fuck their scores. Fuck their comments. You skated like you tonight. That’s the only version that matters to me.”
You looked up at him. The city lights reflected in his eyes. The tension, the adrenaline, the overwhelming emotion of the day, it all crested at once.
You kissed him first.
Sukuna met you halfway, hands sliding into your hair, tilting your head back as the kiss turned deep and desperate. There was nothing restrained about it this time. Months of slow burn, tension, and need poured out between you under the night sky.
When you finally broke apart, breathing hard, Sukuna pressed his forehead to yours.
“I’m keeping you,” he said roughly. “Not just until spring. Not until your lease is up. I’m fucking keeping you.”
You smiled, tears mixing with the cold wind on your cheeks. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”
He kissed you again, slower this time. A promise sealed in the quiet above the noisy city.
The gold medal rested between you, warm from your body heat.
For the first time, it didn’t feel like a burden.
The city lights blurred into streaks of neon as Sukuna drove you home. You pressed yourself tighter against his back, arms wrapped around his waist, the gold medal still resting cold against your chest beneath the team jacket. Every turn of the motorcycle sent a fresh jolt of adrenaline and heat through your body. The competition was over. The performance, the fall, the win, the backlash, none of it mattered right now. All that existed was the solid warmth of Sukuna’s body between your thighs and the promise of what waited the second you crossed the threshold of the apartment.
He parked roughly in the narrow alley beside the shop. The moment your feet touched the ground, he grabbed you.
Sukuna pushed you up against the metal staircase railing, mouth claiming yours in a bruising kiss. His hands roamed possessively. Sliding under your jacket, gripping your waist, then lower to squeeze your ass as he lifted one of your legs around his hip.
“Fuck, I’ve been hard since you took the ice,” he growled against your lips, biting down on your lower lip before soothing it with his tongue. “Watching you fight like that… all grace and fire. Wanted to drag you off the rink and fuck you right there.”
You moaned into his mouth, fingers digging into his shoulders. “Then stop talking and do it.”
He didn’t need to be told twice.
The climb up the stairs was clumsy, hands groping, mouths barely separating. The second the apartment door slammed shut behind you, Sukuna had you pinned against the wall. He peeled the team jacket off your shoulders and yanked the competition dress down your body in one rough motion, leaving it pooled around your ankles. You kicked it aside while working on his belt.
Clothes scattered across the floor. Sukuna lifted you again, carrying you to the couch and dropping you onto the leather. He followed immediately, settling between your spread thighs.
He didn’t tease for long.
His mouth latched onto your neck, sucking a dark, claiming mark just below your jaw while two thick fingers pushed inside you without warning. You were already dripping.
“So fucking wet for me,” he groaned, curling his fingers deep. “This pussy been aching for me all day?”
“Yes— God, Sukuna—”
He pumped his fingers faster, thumb pressing firm circles on your clit. His mouth moved lower, sucking hard on one nipple, then the other, teeth grazing sensitive skin. When your thighs started trembling, he replaced his fingers with his tongue, licking broad stripes through your folds before sealing his lips around your clit and sucking.
You came with a sharp cry, back arching off the couch, fingers twisted tight in his pink hair. Sukuna didn’t stop. He worked you through it, licking you clean until you were shaking.
Then he flipped you over.
He pressed your chest down against the couch, ass up, and pushed into you in one deep, relentless thrust. The stretch burned so good you moaned loudly into the cushion.
“Fuck— so tight,” Sukuna hissed, gripping your hips hard enough to leave fingerprints. “Taking me so well. Like you were made for this.”
He set a punishing rhythm immediately. With deep, powerful strokes that made the couch shift beneath you. The gold medal swung wildly between your breasts with every thrust. One of his hands slid up your spine and wrapped loosely around your throat, pulling you back against his chest without slowing down.
“You’re mine,” he snarled in your ear, voice wrecked. “Not the ice. Not the federation. Not the fucking fans. This body, this pussy, every moan, all mine.”
You came again hard, clenching around him, vision whiting out. Sukuna followed with a guttural groan, burying himself to the hilt as he spilled deep inside you.
For a moment, the only sounds were heavy breathing and the faint creak of the couch.
Sukuna pulled out slowly, watching his release drip down your thighs with dark satisfaction. Then he gathered you into his arms, cradling you against his chest on the couch.
“You still with me?” he asked, voice surprisingly soft as he brushed damp hair from your forehead.
You nodded, smiling dazedly. “Yeah. That was… intense.”
He kissed your temple. “You earned it. Gold looks good on you, by the way.” His fingers traced the medal still hanging between your breasts. “But it looks better when it’s the only thing you’re wearing.”
You laughed breathlessly and kissed him again but slower this time, savoring the taste of yourself on his tongue.
The shower was supposed to be practical.
It wasn’t.
Hot water cascaded over both of you as Sukuna pressed you against the tiled wall. He lifted one of your legs over his hip and slid back inside you with a smooth thrust, groaning at how easily you took him now.
“Greedy little thing,” he murmured, nipping at your collarbone. “Can’t get enough?”
“No,” you gasped, nails digging into his shoulders as he rolled his hips deep and slow. “Never enough.”
He fucked you like that under the spray. His deep, grinding strokes that hit every perfect spot. Steam filled the small bathroom. Your moans echoed off the tiles. When you came again, trembling in his arms, Sukuna held you through it, then spilled inside you once more with your name on his lips.
You barely made it to the bed afterward.
Sukuna laid you down gently this time. The frantic need had eased into something deeper, more intimate. He crawled over you, kissing every inch of skin he could reach. The fading bruises on your hips from training, the new marks he’d left tonight, the sensitive spots along your ribs that made you shiver.
When he finally pushed back inside you, it was slow and deliberate. He intertwined your fingers above your head, eyes locked on yours as he moved.
“Look at me,” he commanded softly.
You did. The intensity in his crimson gaze made your chest ache with something far bigger than lust.
“I meant what I said earlier,” he murmured, thrusting deep and staying there for a moment. “You’re staying. This apartment. This bed. With me. No more temporary bullshit.”
“I’m staying,” you whispered, legs wrapping tighter around his waist. “I’m yours, Sukuna.”
Something raw and vulnerable flashed across his face. He kissed you deeply as he picked up the pace again, hips rolling in a devastating rhythm that had you gasping into his mouth. This orgasm built slowly, then crashed over you like a wave. Sukuna followed right after, burying his face in your neck as he came with a low, broken groan.
You stayed connected for a long time afterward, trading lazy kisses and soft touches.
Eventually Sukuna rolled onto his back and pulled you on top of him, your head resting over his heart. His fingers stroked slowly up and down your spine.
“You did good today,” he said quietly. “Not because of the medal. Because you got back up. That’s the part I’m proud of.”
Tears pricked your eyes again, but this time they were warm. You pressed a kiss to his chest, right over a snarling tattoo.
“I couldn’t have done it without you waiting for me,” you admitted.
Sukuna’s arm tightened around you. “Then it’s a good thing you’re never doing anything without me again.”
The gold medal lay forgotten on the nightstand. The only thing that mattered was the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek and the quiet certainty that you had finally found where you belonged.
The morning after Nationals arrived gently, sunlight filtering softly through the apartment curtains.
You woke slowly, wrapped securely in Sukuna’s arms. His chest rose and fell steadily beneath your cheek, one heavy, tattooed arm draped across your waist, holding you close even in sleep. The gold medal sat quietly on the nightstand, catching the light whenever it shifted. Your body ached from the competition and the intensity of the night before, but it was a satisfying kind of tired.
Sukuna stirred when you shifted slightly, pulling you closer with a low, sleepy grunt. His lips brushed the top of your head.
“Too early,” he muttered, voice rough. “Don’t move.”
You smiled and relaxed against him, letting the warmth of his body soothe your sore muscles. For once, there was no alarm, no rush to the rink, no obligations waiting. Your coach had given you two full days to recover, and you intended to use every minute of it.
After nearly forty minutes of quiet cuddling. Sukuna’s fingers lazily tracing patterns on your back, he finally sighed and rolled out of bed.
“Stay,” he ordered, pulling on a pair of black sweatpants. “I’ll make breakfast.”
You watched him leave the room, admiring the way his tattoos shifted across his broad back with every movement. A few minutes later, the comforting smells of rice, miso soup, and grilled salmon drifted through the apartment. You slipped out of bed and padded into the kitchen wearing one of his oversized black shirts that reached mid-thigh.
Sukuna glanced over his shoulder, his crimson eyes softening at the sight of you. “You look good in my clothes.”
You hopped up to sit on the counter, swinging your legs. “I basically live in them now.”
He stepped between your knees, hands resting on your thighs as he leaned in to kiss you. When he pulled back, there was a rare softness in his expression.
Breakfast was simple but made with care. Sukuna fed you bites of salmon between his own, the two of you sharing comfortable silence broken only by occasional teasing remarks. The domesticity of it all still felt new and precious.
After eating, you migrated to the couch together. You curled against his side, legs tangled with his, while Sukuna picked up one of his sketchbooks. His free hand rested on your thigh, thumb stroking absentmindedly as he drew.
“So,” he said after a while, not looking up from the page. “You really told Haru you’re staying?”
“I did. He’s handling the sublet paperwork for the old apartment.” You traced a finger along a bold tattoo on his forearm. “I don’t want to go back there. This feels right.”
Sukuna’s hand paused on your thigh. He set the sketchbook aside and turned to look at you fully, his gaze intense.
“Good,” he said quietly. “Because I wasn’t going to make it easy for you to leave.”
You shifted to straddle his lap, cupping his face in both hands. “I’m not leaving. This apartment… you… this is home now.”
Something raw flickered across his face. He wrapped his arms around you and pulled you into a deep kiss not rushed or demanding, but full of quiet emotion. When you finally broke apart, he rested his forehead against yours.
“You ruined living alone for me,” he admitted, voice low. “Can’t imagine coming back to an empty place anymore.”
Your heart swelled. “Then it’s a good thing you don’t have to.”
The rest of the day unfolded in peaceful domesticity.
You spent the afternoon properly unpacking the last of your belongings. Sukuna watched from the doorway as you arranged your skincare products across the bathroom shelves and hung your clothes beside his in the closet. Without saying anything, he cleared out an entire drawer for you and even made space on the coffee table for your training notebooks.
Later, you dragged him out to the balcony. The air was cool and fresh. Sukuna lit a cigarette while you leaned back against his chest, his arm wrapped securely around your waist. The city hummed quietly below.
“Everyone’s still losing their minds online,” you told him, showing him a few headlines on your phone. The “Ink & Ice” ship had only grown stronger since last night.
Sukuna snorted, smoke curling from his lips. “Let them talk. As long as they know you’re off-limits.”
You turned in his arms to face him. “Very off-limits.”
He smirked and kissed you against the railing slow and steady, one hand cradling the back of your head. When he pulled away, his expression was softer than usual.
That evening, you cooked together for the first time in a while. Sukuna stood behind you at the stove, arms around your waist, occasionally stealing tastes from the spoon while offering (mostly critical) commentary. The kitchen filled with laughter and the clatter of now three plates being used.
After dinner, you ended up back on the couch, wrapped in a shared blanket while a random movie played on low volume. Sukuna’s fingers ran gently through your hair as you rested against his chest.
“I’m proud of you,” he said suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence. “Not because of the medal. Because you got back up after that fall. That’s the shit that matters.”
Tears pricked at your eyes. You hugged him tighter. “I couldn’t have done any of it without you waiting for me at home.”
Sukuna’s arms tightened around you. “Then it’s settled. You’re stuck with me now.”
You fell asleep that night in his bed, curled against his side with his heartbeat steady beneath your ear. The apartment felt fuller than it ever had. Your things mixed with his, two toothbrushes side by side in the bathroom, your skates resting near his motorcycle helmet by the door.
No more temporary arrangement.
No more hesitation.
Just the two of you, choosing each other every single day.
Spring had finally arrived in Tokyo.
Cherry blossoms drifted lazily past the apartment windows, and the air felt lighter somehow. The renovations on your old luxury apartment had been completed for weeks now, but the keys to that place still sat untouched in a drawer. This apartment, the one above the tattoo shop with its creaky floors, single original plate (now joined by many), and thermostat that still sparked occasional minor wars had become home.
You stood in the kitchen late one afternoon, chopping vegetables while Sukuna leaned against the counter beside you, arms crossed, “supervising.”
“You’re cutting those too big,” he criticized, reaching over to adjust your grip on the knife. “They’ll cook unevenly.”
You bumped him with your hip. “Says the man who used to eat plain rice and protein straight from the container.”
“I had standards. Low ones.” He smirked when you glared at him. “Now move. I’ll finish this before you ruin dinner.”
You refused to move. The two of you ended up cooking side by side, shoulders brushing, exchanging sarcastic commentary the entire time. Sukuna still refused to admit your seasoning was better, and you still refused to admit his knife skills were superior. The argument was comfortable now. Familiar, almost affectionate.
After dinner, you migrated to the living room as usual.
You stretched on the floor in your usual spot while Sukuna sat on the couch, sketchbook balanced on one knee. The scratch of his pencil was a soothing background noise. Every so often he’d glance up, watching the way you moved through your post-training stretches with quiet focus.
“You’re favoring your left side again,” he noted.
“It’s nothing. Just tight from practice.”
He grunted but set his sketchbook down anyway. A moment later, his warm hands were on your hip and lower back, pressing into the muscle with careful, practiced pressure. Not quite a massage, Sukuna would never call it that but close enough.
“Better?” he asked after a few minutes.
“Much. Thank you.”
He didn’t reply, just gave your hip one last squeeze before returning to his drawing.
You eventually gave up stretching and curled up on the couch instead, head resting on his thigh. Sukuna’s free hand immediately dropped to play with your hair, fingers combing through the strands as he continued sketching.
The apartment had changed so much.
Your skincare collection had officially taken over the entire bathroom counter and one full shelf. A second helmet that was smaller, sleeker, and yours now sat on the entryway table beside his. Your competition skates lived permanently by the door next to his motorcycle helmet, a sight that still made you smile every time you came home. Shared keys hung on a new hook he’d installed without comment.
Sukuna eventually set his pencil down and looked at you.
“You still happy here?” he asked, voice low. The question was casual, but you heard the weight behind it.
You turned your head to look up at him. “I’m happier here than I’ve been in years. This place… you… it feels real. No cameras. No pretending to be perfect. Just us.”
He was quiet for a long moment, then nodded once.
“Good,” he said simply. “Because you’re stuck with me.”
You laughed softly. “I like being stuck with you.”
Sukuna’s hand continued stroking through your hair as you drifted closer to sleep. The TV played some random documentary on low volume. Outside, the city hummed its usual rhythm, but inside these walls, everything felt peaceful.
Later that night, you woke briefly when Sukuna carried you to bed. He tucked you in carefully, then slid in behind you, pulling your back flush against his chest. His arm wrapped around your waist like it always did, possessive even in sleep.
In the quiet darkness, he spoke against your hair.
“Never thought I’d want someone in my space this much,” he murmured. “You changed that. Ruined me for peace and quiet.”
You smiled, intertwining your fingers with his. “You ruined me for being alone.”
He pressed a kiss to the back of your neck. No flowery declarations. No dramatic promises. Just Sukuna. Honest, rough around the edges, and entirely yours.
The next morning, you woke to the smell of coffee and the sound of Sukuna moving around the kitchen. When you wandered out, still sleepy and wrapped in his shirt, he slid a mug toward you without a word.
Two plates waited on the counter.
Two helmets by the door.
Two lives that had quietly become one.
And as you stood there drinking coffee while Sukuna argued with you about whether the thermostat should be at 19°C or 21°C, you realized this was it.
