ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: Ouch! Your boyfriend cheated on you! What’s there to do other than day drink and text stale Hinge dates? That is, until your best friend’s dad enters the picture (accidentally) and shows you how a real man should treat a lady.
ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ / ᴛᴀɢꜱ: 18+, MDNI, smut, angst, alcohol use, bad decisions in general, kinda proofread and kinda not, porn with some plot, age gap (reader is mid-20s, Bucky is 40s) Rogers!reader (on accident), kinda dbf!Bucky too???, oral (f!receiving), unprotected p in v (wrap it before you tap it, folks), creampie, mating press, kinda belly bulge for just a second, brief choking, some overstimulation, slight praise kink, Bucky is a gentleman, and (of course) big dick!Bucky
ɴᴏʙʟᴇ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇꜱ: I have been lost to the void for two months and only recently felt the urge to let the muses take over me once again. Thanks to Sabrina for the MBF album because honestly I’m obsessed and need to write a fic for every song but we all know that won’t happen. Enjoy whatever the fuck this is and I guess I’m back?? Thanks to my wifey @laufeydottirs-writings for beta reading part of this because I am insecure in my writing abilities and crave validation - ily <3.
Divider credit to @/cursed-carmine & @/squirrelstone!
You honestly couldn’t blame yourself for sending the text. After all, you were already buzzed off a few dirty martinis and it was only 10 A.M. What else were you supposed to do when Gossip Girl reruns no longer held your attention and your vibrator just wasn’t doing it for you?
You had scrolled through the backed-up list of numbers in your phone, most not even named and countless stale conversations having died after a horrendous first date. You never actually expected to receive a text back from any of them - so, when your phone finally buzzed against the stained wood of the coffee table, a fistful of popcorn halfway to your mouth, you froze.
The fluffy, white kernels slowly fell back in the bowl as you set it aside and you leaned forward to grab your phone. Your hand was shaking, and your heart was pounding. Who in the hell was crazy enough to text you back?
Someone horny enough, you supposed.
You sighed, opening your texts and staring at the grey bubble longer than you needed to, the white letters slurring together from the excess of alcohol.
Everything okay?
You laughed - like, actually laughed aloud. The sound, sharp and sudden, echoed off your living room walls. Why the fuck did this man care if everything was okay? You were looking for a hookup, not therapy. You texted back, autocorrect doing the heavy lifting for you.
I just asked if you wanted to come over. Could use the company.
It marked ‘read’ instantly and your heart stopped for just a second. And then he was typing…For a long damn time. Finally, a little ‘whoosh’ came across as his response popped into the chat.
Why don’t I, instead, take you to dinner while Becca is at volleyball practice?
You blinked. Your brain was running on booze and a crippling fear of meeting God. You had to reread it a few times. Becca…Becca…Becca…What the hell did your best friend have to- Oh. Oh no. No, no, and hell no. You panicked, instantly sobering up at least halfway. Your fingers were quick to type.
Oh! Wrong number, sorry!
Okay. Deep breaths. Maybe that would work. Ping. Or not.
What’s going on, doll? You and Becca not friends anymore? She was just talking about you the other day and finals…
Oh god. Yeah. No way to ‘wrong number’ this one. Okay, no problem. Just another deep fucking breath…Ping.
I insist. Dinner. I’ll pick you up. You still live just off campus? Birch and 44th?
You let out the bundle of oxygen you’d been hoarding in your lungs. You had just wanted a good time and now your best friend’s dad was offering to take you out. On what? A date? How old was he again?
Your thumbs hovered over the keyboard so long your screen shut off. You looked at yourself in the dark reflection of the glass - hair messy, cheeks tear-stained, eyes puffy and dark. Fuck. Maybe you did just need to get out of the house for a little while.
You tapped your screen back awake.
Yeah, that’s still the address. What time?
Your finger was shaking as you hit ‘send’.
He started to type.
Be ready by 6 P.M. Make yourself feel pretty :)
Your heart fluttered a little. Oh. He wanted you to make yourself look pretty. Well…Alright then! You had quite a lot of work to do so you switched off the TV and headed straight for your bedroom. It was time to put yourself first and have a hell of a time doing it.
6 P.M. rolls around. A steady knock on the door.
You were just securing your final diamond earring and slipping on your last heel. You felt very…Nice. Cocktail dress, stockings, heels, and the only diamond set you owned. Makeup and hair done to the nines with a spritz of your favorite perfume. As you grabbed your clutch, you couldn’t help but wonder if it was a little too much.
You opened the door, eyes widening a little as Becca’s father, Bucky, stood there just outside the doorway looking mighty damn fine. Gray slacks, white dress shirt unbuttoned in a casual yet polished manner. Gray sport jacket slung over his shoulder and that beautiful salt-and-pepper hair brushed back. You’d never really given him much of a second thought before - I mean, how could you? He was your best friend’s dad, and you and Becca had been friends since senior year of high school.
But, you just couldn’t help the way your eyes lingered on every part of him - his strong facial features, stunning blue eyes, and the way his stubble danced along his chiseled jaw. Then there was the way his dress shirt clung to his chest and arms in a way that should have been a sin - tight in all the right places to show off the work he’d always put into his body since his Army days. It felt a little aggressive to say, but you wanted to chew on this man.
“Hi there, doll,” he said, voice sweet and low with something you’d never heard before. Something akin to the floral sweetness of honey dripping across cragged gravel.
You tried not to melt right then and there as he held out his hand to take yours. “Are you ready or do you need a minute?” He smiled and you felt your world tilt and your stomach churn. No one had the right to be that attractive. No one had the right to look this good and smile at you like that.
“O-Oh I…I’m ready,” you said, clearing your throat a little before giving him a polite smile and daintily placing your hand in his. His palm was practically twice the size of yours and you had to really put effort into not thinking about how good they’d feel inside you right about now…
The thing about Bucky, which had always been the thing about Bucky, was that he was a proper gentleman through and through. You often thought about how Becca ended up with much better men than you did - and it was probably because she was raised by such an exemplary man to begin with. He was the ultimate blueprint.
He walked you to his car, never a pace ahead nor a hair behind until he took a few strides in front of you to open the passenger side door for you. Your dress was a little on the short side, so as you dipped into his car, he used his sport jacket to shield you from prying eyes - he even looked away himself. How chivalrous!
The ride to the restaurant, itself, was great. A little awkward considering how the situation had manifested, but he was skilled at moving the small-talk along and making you feel like the center of attention. You discussed the weather, finals, and after-college plans with the ease of someone who’d done it a million times over with someone his age. It was the typical experience, just with far less lecturing and more mutual understanding than you’d come to expect.
Once you were pulled up to the valet, it wasn’t the valet worker who opened your door for you. No, it was Bucky shielding you again with that damn sport coat until you’d adjusted yourself and grabbed your clutch off the seat. You wobbled a little in your heels against the uneven cobblestone ground and his hand left the car door to catch your waist.
Your breath hitched, his touch so gentle and warm. Your gaze immediately flitted up to his face where he smiled in amusement. “Careful there, doll. Ground’s got teeth,” he murmured, making sure you were steady before he closed the car door and then slipped his sport coat on before offering you his arm. Of course, you obliged.
He lead you to up the little stone pathway to the restaurant door - the inside was dimly lit but you found yourself met with opulence beyond anything you’d experienced before. Crystal chandeliers gleaming and twinkling against candlelight that buzzed from the white clothed tables. You swallowed thickly. This place was expensive and you weren’t so sure you were worthy of it.
“Table for two, should be reserved under James Barnes,” you heard him say to the hostess at the stand.
“Says here you’d prefer the balcony view. Is that still correct?” the hostess inquired.
Your brows furrowed a little as you looked up at him. That sounded…Pricey. Exclusive. “Bucky…” you started to protest.
In the most polite way possible, he shushed you and spoke instead to the hostess. “Yes, please. Should you have anything available.” He gave you a sideways glance, one that silently read as ‘shut up and watch’. Watch what?
The hostess lead the two of you to a semi-private table on a balcony overlooking the city. It looked beautiful from this far away - so quiet and so peaceful. The air was crisp, but not at all too cold and the fireplace lit beside the table added a nice bit of coziness.
Bucky pulled your chair out and you took a seat after only a moment of hesitation. You weren’t used to this kind of treatment and couldn’t recall the last time a man ever gave this much of a shit about chivalry. He pushed you in close to the table and then seated himself politely across from you. That was just the thing wasn’t it? He was so polite.
The hostess left you two the wine menu and the prix-fixe menu detailing the night’s exclusive offerings before disappearing back inside the main restaurant. Outside, it was just you, Bucky, and one other couple seated several feet away. For the most part it was…Quiet. Peaceful. All except for the incessant pounding of your heart.
You picked up the wine menu, still trembling. He cocked an eyebrow as he glanced up at you over the top of his menu. “Why don’t you order a bottle, sweetheart? Seems like your nerves could use it.”
Your eyes flicked up from the tiny booklet, cheeks turning scarlet. “I’m not nervous,” you defended.
“Mmm…” he hummed, blue eyes focusing back on the menu. He was reading it for far too long for something so short. It seemed maybe he was nervous too.
“Mmm what?” you asked, setting the wine menu down and then mirroring his prior expression - cocked brow and a sharp gaze.
He didn’t look back up at you as he answered. “You’re awfully shaky. It’s like you’ve never had a real man take you on a proper date.”
You scoffed. “I’ve been on plenty of proper dates.”
He chuckled. “Doll, Olive Garden doesn’t count and neither does splitting the check.”
Your cheeks continued to bloom red. “In my defense, I’m a broke college student. We all are.” You bit your bottom lip as your eyes flicked down towards the prix-fixe menu.
Bucky finally set his own menu aside and leaned forward, his large, warm palms finding your forearms and resting there. You looked up. His gaze was almost too much and not enough in the same breath. “And that’s why we’re here tonight,” he said, voice low again in that tone that sent heat pooling straight between your thighs. Shamefully.
“So that I can show you how a real man treats a lady.”
You swallowed hard, eyes flicking down towards his hands and the only thing you could think of was how he could easily hold both your wrists above your head with no issue. Back pressed to the wall. His lips on yours. Fuck, where was your goddamn mind at?
He smirked. “Doll, where’s your head at?” Like you were an open book and he was reading it faster than you could write it.
You about choked. You cleared your throat. “Nothin’ just…You’re right. You’re right, I’ve never been on a proper date,” you mumbled, still avoiding contact with those beautiful blues that had you feeling like you were losing your mind - which, in your defense, you sort of were.
To your relief, your waitress for the night appeared to take your drink orders. For him, it was a glass of scotch. For you, it was a bottle of rosé because he’d insisted. She ran you two quickly through the courses on the menu before whisking away to work on the drink orders. And then there was an awkward silence that fell between the two of you. Him staring at you and you fidgeting with the bottom hem of your cocktail dress like if you rubbed the ruby fabric enough times it would send you home.
“You’re staring,” you muttered, deciding it was time to say something. Anything.
He laughed. “People tell me I’ve got a problem with it,” he said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. You could feel his gaze boring into you. It was like you could sense he was on the verge of saying something but wasn’t sure if it was appropriate.
Hell, was any of this appropriate at all? Probably not. The age gap screamed very much not. But, part of you really wanted this. The older man. The experience. Someone who knew what the fuck they were doing.
“So, why are you trying to hook up with your best friend’s father?” His voice cut through your thoughts - the dreaded question that you’d been waiting for him to ask.
You blinked. “I’m sorry?” You tried to play dumb.
He smirked again. A slight tug at the corner of his lips but it was there. “You heard me, doll,” he said, voice dripping sinful honey that had your tongue feeling too big for your mouth and your thoughts racing beyond a speed you could comprehend.
“I…I…I didn’t…I didn’t know it was you,” you choked out.
Bucky’s expression turned puzzled. “You didn’t know it was me?” He almost sounded offended. Well, at least the night had gone halfway perfect.
You sighed. “I was just…I was buzzed. Okay, maybe a little drunk…”
“Uh huh…”
“And I…Well…I just texted a bunch of numbers hoping someone would answer…”
He hummed, expression still puzzled like he wasn’t quite sure what to make of your confession. His voice was…Concerned, though. As he spoke again, “Why are you drunk at ten in the damn morning and texting men who you don’t even know who they are?”
And then it all came crumbling down and the only thing left to do was pray your mascara was going to hold on tight. “Brad…I…I caught Brad cheating on me last week…” you said quietly, your eyes beginning to water. You fanned yourself with the menu, hoping you could hold it together and not seem like an absolute mess.
Bucky’s expression softened. All he could do was reach out across the table, palms up and inviting your own to meet his. Slowly, you set the menu down and placed your palms in his. Once again, his hands were twice the size of yours, practically swallowing them whole as he held them firm and gentle.
You sniffled, a tear falling down one cheek and then the other. Oh great. The waterworks. How lovely. But…He didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he pulled one hand away, grabbed the linen napkin from across his lap, and brought it up to gently dab the tears away.
“Doll…” he started slowly, softly. “That doesn’t mean you go searching for answers at the bottom of a bottle and texting men who aren’t any better for you than him…”
As if on cue, the waitress brings back your bottle of wine in a bucket filled with ice. She places a glass on the table, thin and dainty and made for sparkling wines. She popped open the bottle and poured your first glass to a perfect height. “Enjoy. The first course will come out shortly,” she said, leaving Bucky’s scotch at the end of the table before whisking off again.
Once she was gone, you blinked. “But…But you’re better than him.”
He laughed as he swirled the scotch around in the beveled crystal - amused. “Oh, I know I am. But what if one of those other boys had responded, hmm? Where would you be at now?”
You sighed. Not at a fancy dinner, that’s for sure. Probably getting drunk in your apartment and letting Jake from Hinge hit it from the back. And this was far better than that.
“That’s what I thought,” he said, voice breaking through your loud, mess of a mind. “Now, let me show you how a real man should treat you, okay? I don’t want to see you hurt like this, doll. You’re too good for that.”
And so, you sat across from him and let Becca’s dad, Bucky Barnes, show you how wining and dining really worked. You let him lead the pleasant conversation. He complimented you tastefully, reaching across the table to brush a hand across your cheek but not daring to move an inch lower. His gaze was respectable, kind. The warmth of the rosé was flowing through your veins and while you tried to flirt with him, he was always so polite. So reserved.
When it came time for dessert, a stunning display of comforting bananas foster, you two had decided to share the course. His spoon would clink against yours occasionally, a red flush covering your cheeks and your heart doing somersaults like a high school girl on a first date.
You hadn’t even noticed, but some of the caramel sauce that had come atop the ice cream was dribbling down your chin after a misguided, wine-drunk bite. He was quick to the rescue before it soiled your ruby dress.
He carefully leaned across the table, napkin outstretched in his hand as he very gingerly wiped the caramel from the corner of your mouth with a gentle smile upon his lips. “Careful there. Wouldn’t want you ruining that pretty little dress.” You felt like you could swoon, like your eyes would turn to hearts at any given second.
Bucky hovered there for a moment, over the table, hand outstretched and his face just close enough to smell the warm scotch and the sweet caramel on his breath. Your eyes flicked down to his lips and then back up to those piercing blue eyes that you swore would be the death of you.
You watched as his eyes mirrored yours now, flicking down once and then up almost too quick to catch. But then he was retreating, sitting back in his chair and quickly throwing up his hand as the waitress passed by. “Check please, ma’am?”
Bucky drove you home. He made sure to shield you again from prying eyes, although you caught it this time when he glanced down once to see the curve of your ass peek out from beneath your dress as you lowered yourself into his car.
He walked you up to the door, taking you by one hand and leading your waist with the other as you were very clearly drunk. Once you got to the door, you fumbled in your clutch for your keys, fingers trembling and causing you to drop them onto the welcome mat.
You moved to stoop down, but he stopped you with a chuckle. “Sweetheart, if you bend down right now, I’m not gettin’ ya back up off that concrete.” Yeah, he probably had a point there.
He bent down and grabbed the key - and, as he stood, his shoulder brushed against your arm and your breath hitched. Bucky’s eyes met yours, inches away from your face, and he took the key and pressed into your palm with a close-lipped smile. “Careful, doll.”
You felt like a deer caught in headlights for a good fifteen seconds, although those seconds felt like years. You blinked and then turned your attention back to the lock.
The world was spinning as you lined the key up and pushed it in, turning it over with a thump that nearly echoed the frantic pulse of your heart in your ears. You pushed the door open and he stuck one foot in to follow before you turned around, shocked.
He tilted his head. “Relax, sweetheart. I’m just makin’ sure you make it past the threshold. Honest,” he said with a light chuckle.
And you let him. You let Bucky Barnes walk you to your couch and sit you down. You watched as he kneeled in front of you and very carefully guided your heels off your blistered feet - in your defense, you didn’t wear heels often.
Bucky fluffed up one of your decorative pillows that had seen better days, and then gently helped you lay down. The ceiling was swirling around and around, and in the same breath it felt like your body was on a boat rocking back and forth. You squeezed your eyes shut, feeling ten seconds away from turning green.
The next thing you felt was the weight of his sport coat as he laid it across you, a makeshift blanket to ensure you didn’t go cold - or, a cruel souvenir for you to remember him by. For you to stare at every day from now on and think about his face. The way he bit his lip if he stared you up and down for a moment too long. The way you could feel his lips linger, dying to leave a kiss on your cheek, but then retreating cowardly.
“I gotta leave, doll,” you hear him say through the fog. “Next time, call me.”
And the click of the door closing behind him was the very last thing you heard before you blacked out.
The grey morning light is what woke you, streaming in through the sliding glass door all cheery and bright as if you weren’t currently crawling your way out of rock bottom. You groaned, the weight of his sport coat still on your body. The scent of him lingered there on the woven fabric. Sharp, woodsy, masculine. Driftwood and gunmetal.
You slowly sat up, bringing the collar of the coat to your face and inhaling deeply. Had you not had this tangible piece of evidence, you would have thought the prior night was nothing more than a drunken dream fueled by a bottle of Malibu.
You saw your clutch placed on the coffee table and you opened it, pulling your phone out. No new texts. You sighed.
You moved to start the routine you’d gotten in the habit of the over the last week. Tylenol, number one. Shower, second. Booze, third. Except, as your head pounded and your stomach growled with the craving of something other than liquor, you could hear Bucky’s voice in the back of your head. The one telling you not to drown your feelings in a bottle. The one telling you to call him.
So, you put the bottle of vodka down and picked up your phone instead. You tapped on his contact, which you made sure to actually label that morning, and called him. Your heart was beating a mile a minute as you waited for him to pick up…
No answer.
You huffed and threw your phone down onto the table. Not like you expected an answer anyway. Just then, you heard a knock at the front door. Brows furrowed in confusion, you quietly padded over and peeked through the peep hole. All you saw was a rather stout man holding what had to be an entire bush of bright red roses.
You opened the door and the man set the bunch of roses down on the ground. They were in their own little golden vase, fanned out and pretty for display. “Got a delivery here from a Mr. Barnes,” the man said with a smile, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out an envelope. “Enjoy your morning, miss.”
You ran your fingertips across the heavy weight of the cardstock envelope, a gold wax seal holding closed all its secrets. You hauled the roses inside before sitting at your kitchen table and fumbling with the envelope as your fingers trembled.
You slipped out a short letter, hand-written with a good pen, paper, and ink. Thoughtful.
Doll, I hope you enjoyed yourself last night. Take care and I’ll see you tonight at 8:00 P.M. You don’t need to be fancy, and you know the address.
Your heart stopped dead in your chest for what felt like minutes, but in reality it was only a second or two. Your head was reeling now. Why did he want to meet you at his house? Your best friend’s house? Was she even going to be gone this evening?
You quickly checked your texts. Becca had been fairly MIA for her finals, which tracked considering she took her schooling so seriously. You scrolled up, glanced at the date on your calendar, and then your cheeks flushed crimson. Becca would be gone. Most of the night, actually. Her boyfriend, Cole, had his last baseball game of the school season and it didn’t start until seven.
Was he inviting you over for…? No. No, he couldn’t be. Even with the tension between you two the night before, you knew Bucky. You knew he wasn’t like that. You knew he didn’t think of you like that. Not at all.
As you folded the letter back up and tucked it neatly inside its envelope, you turned to take in the magnificent sight of the multiple dozens of roses that were bloomed as red as your cheeks as they sat there on the kitchen counter like a neon invitation. An invitation to see how far you could push Mr. Barnes that evening.
The house wasn’t anything special. A quaint little brownstone in Brooklyn that screamed home sweet home in the midst of corporate chaos and brightly lit billboards that never slept. The street was quiet, lined with old street lamps that gave it a sort of charm that felt captured in a different time.
You knocked at the deep red door, nervous as you tugged your coat in tight around you. You heard the deadbolt unlatch and then the door creaked open. There was Bucky, in blue jeans and a blue Henley with his hair messier than the night before - he looked much more lived-in and casual and less like a posh Ken doll fresh from the box.
“Come on in,” he invited warmly with a smile, stepping aside.
You gave him a curt, polite nod and a mirrored smile as you ascended the last two steps and crossed over the threshold. You were immediately greeted by the sobering smell of coffee brewing, and the sound of the TV playing the local news at a low volume. You jumped slightly when you felt his hand rest against the small of your back as he came around your left flank. “Can I offer you some coffee?” he asked, glancing down at you with irises that reminded you of endless blue skies on a clear June afternoon.
You glanced nervously between him and the television a few times before you decided you were much too jittery to drink any level of caffeine - so, you declined. “No, thanks,” you said quietly.
Your eyes widened as he moved to take your coat off for you. A red-hot blush flooded your cold cheeks with crimson as his hands brushed along your arms - the cool autumn air didn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell against the heat of your own embarrassment. “O-Oh I-“ you stuttered, watching as he placed your coat on the rack just beside the door.
“I believe the word you’re looking for is ‘thank you’?” Bucky quipped teasingly, beckoning for you to follow him into the kitchen.
You followed, leaning against the kitchen island while he poured himself a cup of coffee into one of those cheesy ‘World’s #1 Dad’ mugs. He leaned back against the dark granite countertop across from you, eyes flicking up to meet yours over the brim of his mug as he took a sip of the piping hot liquid.
You cocked an eyebrow. “I’m assuming you didn’t summon me here with a bush of roses just for me to watch you drink coffee,” you said, breaking the tensioned silence that had fallen between you.
He laughed a little, setting the mug to the side. “Guilty as charged,” he said, half-heartedly throwing up his hands before his expression shifted to something more serious.
“I asked you over because I wanted to tell you, in person, that this-“ he gestured from himself to you “-cannot be a…A thing.” His tongue darted out to wet his lips and his jaw ticked, clearly nervous.
You laughed. “Bucky, this was never meant to be a thing,” you said, mirroring him as he crossed his arms over his chest. You got the feeling he was backpedaling, like he realized something at the restaurant the night before and was now trying to build a wall to keep it out. “I was looking for a hookup, not a boyfriend.”
“Well, maybe since you’ve seen how a proper man treats a lady, perhaps you’ll rethink that.”
“I’m really not ready to get back in the dating scene…”
“Then wait.”
You paused. This was your life. Not his. Why in the hell did he care so much? “What’s it matter to you if I wait or not?”
His jaw ticked and his eyes briefly darted to the side, fixating on a point in space you couldn’t quite locate. “I don’t want you playing with fire so much you burn yourself,” he muttered, gaze going downtrodden.
“Why do you care?”
“Seeing you hurt, hurts me.”
“And why do you care that fucking much?”
Your question lands on him like a bullet to the chest. He picks up his coffee, mug trembling a little, and takes a sip like it’ll magically cure the ache in his chest. “It’s what Steve would have wanted me to encourage you to do.”
You sighed. Steve was your father, a military vet and close friend of Bucky’s who’d been killed in action many moons ago. You only found out about their connection to each after about a year of being close friends with Becca - at your high school graduation when Bucky gifted you a letter your father had left for you.
“He isn’t here and he doesn’t get to dictate what I do,” you mumbled, avoiding his gaze because it’d only remind you that he was doing this to isolate himself.
“But I can still try to fulfill his wishes,” Bucky said, taking a couple steps forward and inserting himself into the awkward little bubble you’d built. It felt like he was taking up too much personal space but not enough at the same time.
Your breath hitched as he reached forward and pressed his metal palm to your cheek, something cold and shocking against the constant flush that reddened your skin. “And it’s so I no longer want what I can’t have.”
Your heart was pounding. You. He meant you. You were what he couldn’t have. You were the guilty pleasure, the reason he probably answered your text in the first place. And you were right - he was trying to build a wall. A wall between your heart and his.
You nuzzled against his palm, eyes fluttering shut. The touch felt holy. “What if I want it too?” you whispered, opening your eyes and looking up at him. “What about my own wishes?”
“It’s not the right thing to do…”
“I don’t want to do the right thing, Bucky!” you exclaimed, frustrated. You pushed yourself off the counter, standing closer to him now - almost chest to chest. “You don’t understand that all I want right now is something wrong! I want to feel something, Bucky. Anything. Anything other than this pain.” Your voice was beginning to crack and those beautiful blues of his were starting to well up with tears.
“I…” Bucky’s hand lingered on your cheek. You could tell by the way his fingers twitched that he was thinking. That he was trying to figure out if he had the strength to go against his own morals. “I…I can’t…”
You reached up and cupped his stubbled cheek with your own palm, thumb running along the plane of his cheekbone. “You can.”
He looked like he was about to break, about to shatter completely. The tension was thick enough to feel, heavy and suffocating. His eyes flicked from yours and down to your lips. Back up to your eyes. Back down to your lips. “This isn’t a good idea…” he murmured, leaning in close enough now that you could smell the mix of coffee and whiskey and mint on his breath.
You took a shuddering breath, eyes closing again because you couldn’t stand the weight of his gaze. “I don’t want it to be good. I just want to feel…” you breathed, shaky hand coming to rest against his muscled chest. “I just want to feel you.”
You could see it in the way his jaw ticked - you could feel it in the way he wasn’t sure if your hand burned him or comforted him. Bucky was trying so hard to resist the temptation in front of him. “Please, doll…I can’t,” he pleaded brokenly, but it was weak and he made no attempt to pull away from your touch.
You leaned up, nose nudging his and lips so close to brushing as you murmured, “Then why are you still here?”
It could be heard in his chest, something deep and guttural and longing all pulled together into a groan he couldn’t hold back. And suddenly, both of his hands were holding your face - one metal, one flesh. The way his lips smashed into yours would be forever imprinted in your mind. You could only imagine how long he’d waited to have this. To have you.
The kiss was everything - teeth, tongue, breath, and heat. He nipped playfully at your bottom lip and you growled, which elicited a deep chuckle you’d never heard before - amused and pleased. His tongue explored your mouth like it was trying to map it, and yours did the very same to his. Nothing about this was normal. But you didn’t want it to be.
When he broke the kiss, it was only because one of you needed to fucking breathe or you’d both be dead on the floor. Panting, he whispered, “Is that what you wanted?”
You nodded wordlessly and pulled him right back in, trying to drown him under the weight of how much you craved him. His hands found your hips and gripped at the soft flesh, picking you up like you weighed nothing and perching you atop the granite.
His flesh hand snaked its way up your blouse, unclasping your bra with a practiced ease that shouldn’t have turned you on but it did. He pulled the garment off and tossed it on the kitchen floor, the silk of your blouse cascading in cool puddles across your tits. You shivered, only cold for a moment before his palm was kneading at the mounds of flesh like he’d been dreaming of how good they’d feel.
You moaned out, breaking the kiss as you tossed your head back when his thumb and forefinger began to tease and roll your nipple between calloused skin. “Fuck,” you groaned, hands scrambling from purchase at the edge of the countertop.
You barely had time to react before Bucky was ripping your blouse from your torso, a shocked gasp falling from your lips. “Bucky!” you scolded, but he remained unbothered and on a mission.
“I’ll buy you another one,” he muttered, stooping down and taking your neglected breast into his mouth as his hand continued to work the other.
The feel of his hot, wet mouth and tongue across your nipple was enough to have you keening up off the counter and further into his touch. It felt so fucking good that you were convinced you’d cum just from the way he worshipped your tits.
He pulled back, lips glistening with saliva and pupils blown as he glanced up at you. He looked feral - hungry and ready to feast. You watched as he dropped to his knees and rucked up your pencil skirt to reveal the lacy panties that clung to your dripping wet core.
“This what I do to ya, doll?” he breathed, practically drooling at the smell of your arousal as it assaulted his senses. He just needed to taste you. Devour you.
You whimpered and nodded. “Y-Yes,” you nearly whispered, brain short-circuiting as you felt his fingers hook in the waistband of your panties and peel them away.
He watched, mesmerized by how your glistening folds clung to the lace, groaning as he could now see how drenched and pretty you were for him. He tossed the panties somewhere in the same direction as your bra, and then his hands were prying you open to make way for his head as he leaned in and licked a slow, warm stripe straight up the center of your heat.
You felt your toes curls and your back bow a little as the tip of his tongue traced devastating circles around your clit before diving back down and straight past your entrance.
“Bucky!” you gasped out, head thrown back as your hands found purchase in that gorgeous salt-and-pepper mane of his. “Fuck-“ you groaned, listening as the sounds he made were so obscene they had you blushing. Licking, slurping, sucking…He was like a man starved and you were the best damn meal he could’ve been served.
Bucky hummed against your core, sending vibrations straight through your clit as his lips closed around the sensitive bud and began to suck. You were already trembling from the overload of pleasure, but that wasn’t enough for him. No, he needed you screaming for his mercy.
You felt as he teased your entrance with his forefinger, just barely pushing it in and then retreating. Nothing he could’ve done in that moment would have prepared you for when he plunged two fingers deep inside you and curled them with such ease it was almost second nature.
You could feel yourself clench around his digits with his name on your lips as you let out a whorish moan. Between his mouth and tongue working your clit and his fingers quite literally beckoning you to cum for him, you were in pure, blissful heaven.
That burning coil in the pit of your stomach began to wind tighter and tighter, and he could tell. He hummed in approval, fingers bullying into your g-spot now with a precision that was, frankly, unfair.
“C’mon, doll,” he urged as he lapped at your clit. “Cum f’me. Lemme have it all…” The way his voice was so deep, so smooth…It was like silk over gravel. And it had you coming undone the second he begged for you like that.
Your body arched forward as you moaned his name, nails digging into his scalp as your toes curled and your entire body felt like it was trying to levitate off the damn counter. But he didn’t stop - even as you pulsed and gushed around him, he kept on fucking going.
“B-Bucky,” you whimpered out as it was bordering on overstimulation. “B-Buck please…” You were pleading with a man who was too damn happy with where he was. If you’d let him, he’d live there between your thighs and die a very satisfied man.
“One more f’me…Please,” he begged softly, warm breath ghosting across your core before he dove back in and began sucking at your clit again.
You could feel tears blurring the edges of your vision, and you weren’t even sure if your first orgasm had ended before the second begun - but, you still felt it all the same. The overwhelming tidal wave of bliss that caused your body to clench around his fingers like your cunt was trying to trap him there. You let out something between a moan and a sob, grip faltering on his hair as your body collapsed back against the shockingly cold granite.
Your head was spinning, vision blurred and hearing muffled. You weren’t sure you’d ever cum so hard in your whole goddamn life.
“So, so good f’me, doll,” you heard him praise you through the haze. He slowly pulled his fingers out, your dripping cunt fluttering around nothing at the absence of him. He gladly lapped at the slick release you’d rewarded him with, earning a very fucked-out groan from you. “Tastes like heaven and ya sound like it too when you’re cummin’ f’me like that,” he drawled, getting to his feet.
As he rose, you could see just how hard he was against the stiff denim of his jeans, and that only filled you with a new wave of want - of craving.
A smirk tugged at the edges of his lips when he noticed you were staring - not that you were trying to stare, it was just there. “Not right here, doll,” he murmured like he could read your mind, a finger hooking under your chin and gently bringing your lips up to his as he kissed you with the remnants of your release still glistening on his skin. The taste of you and him combined was intoxicating, a drug that you only wanted more of…
But then he was pulling away and you were left pouting. “Hey, don’t you pull that with me,” he teased, pressing a chaste peck to your forehead before you found yourself being lifted into his arms - bridal style - like you weighed no more than a feather. “You’ll get what you want. Just gotta be patient, sweetheart.”
The sickly sweet kindness in his smile was almost cruel in this scenario, but you silently snaked your arms around his neck as he carried you through the narrow foyer and up the short staircase to the second floor. The house wasn’t cramped, necessarily. But, with him carrying you through the tight halls, it felt rather cozy with just the two of you alone.
His foot nudged the door open to the master bedroom, old brass hinges creaking softly. You found yourself being laid so gingerly onto the mattress you could almost feel the tears welling again in your eyes. He treated you like something special, something fragile. It made your heart swell a little.
“May I?” he asked, nodding to your skirt. It was your last remaining article of clothing. You nodded back in permission, cheeks flushed crimson in the low lamplight that streamed through the window and illuminated everything in a heavenly, golden glow.
Bucky shimmied your skirt gently down your legs and tossed it aside before he made zero show about stripping down himself - but, it was a delicious sight to you all the same.
Watching as the layers of clothing were peeled away, revealing nothing but rippling muscles and silvery scars. The scar where metal met man was particularly bad, but still beautiful it’s own devastating rite. His dress shirt the night before hadn’t left much to your imagination, but even then, this was far beyond what your mind had conjured - he had the appearance that God himself carved him from the finest marble. An aged artwork that only grew finer with the weather and the years.
“You’re staring again,” he murmured lowly, crawling over top of your body and caging you in with solid forearms and beefy biceps you swore one day you’d take a bite of.
Heat rushed across your cheeks and you brought your hands up to rest against his biceps, fingers gripping flesh one side and brushing across whirring metal plates on the other. “I’m just admiring what you’ve been keeping from me,” you whispered.
“Well, it’s not polite to stare, doll,” he said, dipping down so your lips were brushing dangerously close.
“It’s not polite to keep a girl waiting,” you quipped back, feeling your breath hitch a little just feeling his bare chest pressed so intimately to your own.
“See? You’re learning,” he chuckled softly, ducking down and beginning to kiss and suck at the suppleness of your neck. “Good girl,” you heard him mumble against your skin.
You arched up into his feather-light touch, lips trailing from neck to collarbone to breasts to torso as soft purple bruises began to bloom in his wake. And then he was sitting back on his knees and you took another unashamed moment to fully appreciate him. To admire his cock, impossibly hard and gorgeously flushed, leaking precum like he’d been edged for hours.
He opened his mouth and you interrupted him. “Yeah, yeah. Staring again. I get it, Barnes. Just let me eye-fuck you, yeah?” you muttered, and that got an actual laugh from him.
Reaching his flesh hand down, he gripped himself at the base and started to stroke his aching length. “You like what you see?” he breathed, angling his hips a little so his precum dripped along your thighs like a sinful, pearlescent trail that lead to your core. “You imagining what it can do to ya, doll?”
You nodded, more than eager. “Wanna feel it inside me…Please,” you pleaded, practically drooling as you watched him rub the head of his cock through your slick folds. “Please…”
“Mmm…Please who?” he asked, gaze flicking up to your face as it was contorted in desperation for him.
It took you a split second to think about what he might’ve been asking. And then it popped into your mind and you couldn’t help but giggle a little. “You’re a dirty man, Barnes,” you purred, only to feel the grip of metal meet your throat. Your eyes went wide.
“I asked you a question,” he growled, and the gravelly rumble of his voice went straight to your cunt as your walls fluttered around nothing.
“Yes, Sergeant,” you said, pushing your throat up further into his hand and smirking.
Bucky groaned, swearing in the back of his mind that you were going to be the death of him. He squeezed at your throat one last time before posting the same vibranium palm right beside your head. “That’s right, doll,” he muttered, and your eyes nearly rolled to the back of your skull as you felt him begin to push inside you.
The stretch burned, but the way he so perfectly filled and dominated every inch of space was immaculate - let alone the way you could feel every pulsing vein and soft ridge brushing along your walls as he eased in inch by brutal inch. He paused about halfway, concerned by how your features were twisted. “Doin’ okay there, doll?” he asked, flesh hand coming up to cup your cheek. The way his thumb ran along the high plane of your cheekbone was tender, loving.
You nodded, gazing up at him through half-lidded eyes and wet eyelashes. “More than fucking okay,” you managed to choke out with a small laugh. It was hard to put into words just how good he felt buried so deep inside you that you swore he was pushing the very oxygen from your lungs.
Bucky let out a soft grunt once he was fully sheathed, already appearing wrecked. “Fuck, doll,” he breathed, nearly panting as his forehead dropped to your shoulder. “So fuckin’ tight, ya know that? Squeezin’ me…Milkin’ me dry already and I haven’t even started…” He let out a small, breathless chuckle.
You let out a laugh just as breathless as his. “Sounds like you’re not gonna last very long, old man,” you jeered playfully.
His cheeks flushed bright red, but he didn’t reply. He only slowly began to pull out, groaning raggedly as he felt the way his cock dragged along your walls - the way your body was actively trying to pull him back and keep him in.
He pulled out nearly all the way and then pushed himself back in all at once. You moaned so loudly when he bottomed out that you were certain the neighbors three doors down heard you. And that wasn’t the last time they would, unfortunate enough as it was for them. Because he pulled out and then pushed back into you again, forcing the same exact whorish moan past your lips before you could catch it.
“You like what I do to ya, doll? Like when I give it all to ya? When I bury my cock so deep ya feel it here?” he drawled, a smug little smirk tugging at his lips as his flesh hand pressed down against a small bulge in your lower abdomen and you just about levitated off the goddamn bed.
The pace he set was steady and calculated. One that allowed for him to achieve the same depth of penetration each and every time - the same devastating attention to making sure he hit all the right spots. It wasn’t brutal because it was fast - no, it was brutal because he took his time and holy fuck it was a borderline religious experience.
It felt as though you had no idea where your body ended and his begun as he rucked your legs up over his shoulders and you found yourself with nails raking down his back as your ankles were pushed back damn near close to the sides of your head. The position was passionate, intimate. Sweat began to pool where your bodies were melded, chest to chest and forehead to shoulder. You couldn’t help the way you moaned his name, and he couldn’t help the way he panted yours like he was begging for mercy.
“Takin’ me s’well…Atta girl,” he breathed out, his praises sending sparks of red-hot pleasure straight to your cunt. “Gonna fill ya up, doll…Claim ya…Make ya mine like I shoulda done a long time ago…”
You whimpered at his words, nails digging crescents into the tops of his shoulders as you clung on for dear life. “B-Bucky~” you moaned out weakly, head fuzzy as your mind was actively being fucked stupid. “Please…” you begged, pulling at him and trying to encourage him to go faster. Harder.
“You sure, doll?”
“If you don’t fuck me into this goddamn mattress-“
He cut you off with a sharp snap of his hips. Then another. And another. You could feel the head of his cock bullying into that soft, spongy spot inside you and you cried out. “Yes! Yes! Yes!” you exclaimed with each thrust, eyes lolling shut and your head hitting the pillow as the pleasure began conjuring stars across your vision.
Bucky groaned, something deep, guttural, and primal - something you hadn’t expected from someone who seemed so…Quiet. “It’s like you were made f’me, doll,” he whimpered, his rhythm beginning to falter. “Ya gonna cum f’me? Can feel ya grippin’ me…Know you’re close, sweetheart. Need ya to give it to me…”
He was begging for you in the same way someone would pray for forgiveness - reverent and wrecked and desperate. You could feel that coil in your lower abdomen tightening, pulling taut until your orgasm snapped through your body unyielding and violent.
“B-Bucky! A-Ah~!” you barely managed to squeak out as you felt your spine arch off the mattress and your body seize beyond your control. He groaned again as your cunt clenched down around him, and you could feel as he began to throb and pulse ropes of white, hot cum inside you at the exact same time.
“Shit-“ he grunted out, stilling inside you and partially collapsing his weight on top of you as his chest heaved and gleamed with sweat.
Your head was fuzzy, warm. The afterglow rolled over your body like something soft and comforting - floaty like you were resting on a cloud of your own pleasure. “Mmm…Bucky?” you asked, trying to catch your breath.
“Yeah?” he murmured.
“Is that how a man should fuck me proper?”
He laughed, turning his head to pepper soft kisses on your cheek. “Yeah, doll. I’d say so.”
He slowly pulled out and then flopped onto the bed beside you. The loss of him inside you felt almost great enough to mourn, but his strong arms wrapping around you and pulling you close quickly filled that void. “And now I’ve ruined you for all the boys,” he teased, kissing your forehead before gathering you in close to his chest - he was like a furnace, and he held you like his greatest treasure.
You giggled. “S’okay,” you mumbled against his skin, lazily tangling your legs with his. “‘M yours now anyway.”
Bucky smiled to himself, squeezing you tight. “That’s right, doll. All mine.”
pairing: mafia boss!bucky barnes x female reader x mafia enforcer!steve rogers
summary: you've been caught by the boss of the Brooklyn mafia and his most trusted enforcer while trying to steal the Blue Diamond of Alqualondë. though you refuse to tell them who you're working for, the two ruthless men will find out what they want to know—one way or another.
a/n: here's the second part of my fic for @thezombieprostitute's Let's Plan A Heist challenge!! it's the smutty resolution to the setup of the first part and will hopefully live up to everyone's expectations 😅 i had a lot of fun writing this mafia Bucky and Steve, along with their tricksy little thief, and i hope y'all enjoy the resolution of their story!!
In the life of a thief it was important to always know your escape routes, to have a backup plan if something went wrong. That was how you’d always operated. That was how you’d always managed to get out of any difficult situations you’d found yourself in.
But your perfect record had finally come to an end. You were trapped with no escape routes and no backup plan, in the house of the feared Brooklyn mafia boss Bucky Barnes, all because you’d been caught by his most trusted enforcer, Steve Rogers. They had you caged in between their large bodies, Steve’s strong hand a shackle around your wrist.
It didn’t matter that Steve’s other hand, along with Bucky’s two palms, were resting possessively on your waist and hips, feeling less like restraints and more like a promise of…something you didn’t want to think about. Not when you needed to get out.
Gathering your courage, and the fire of desperation simmering insistently in your belly, you shoved against Steve’s chest, trying to twist your knee up into his groin while creating some distance between you and the two men. But Steve was stronger and quicker, and he simply yanked you closer, allowing Bucky to crowd you into the broad body of his enforcer.
You were stuck, and it didn’t take long before you recognized that trying to fight your way out from between a rock (Steve’s firm chest) and a hard place (Bucky’s broad body) would only leave you tired. When your struggles finally ceased, Bucky gave a low, teasing chuckle, the warmth of his breath ghosting down your bare neck as he loomed above you from behind.
“It’s a shame you caught her so soon,” Bucky said, speaking to Steve even as his hands shifted higher on your body, curling around your ribs. His palms were scorching hot and greedy through the thin fabric of your gown. “We might’ve been able to learn what she was up to without having to pry it out of her—but it is more fun this way.”
The casual way the mob boss spoke about you, as if it was a foregone conclusion you’d spill all your secrets to him and his enforcer, pricked at your pride. You straightened your spine and tossed your head in annoyance, glaring at Bucky over your shoulder.
“I’ll never tell you anything,” you hissed.
The steel in your voice had no effect on the mafia boss.
If anything, he looked even more amused, the slight curve at the corner of his mouth deepening infinitesimally, and his blue eyes sparking with a glimmer of delight. The tips of his fingers brushed the underside of your tits, distracting you, and it took everything in you to stop yourself from shivering at his touch.
God help you, but it felt good to have Bucky’s hands on you—and not just his, but Steve’s too. Their fingers were deft, their palms warm. It didn’t matter that you were certain their hands had, at one time or another, been stained in blood. Not when they touched you with so much greedy possessiveness, it was liable to make you forget your mission and why it was so important you get that diamond and get free.
“Y’know, when a woman tries to infiltrate my organization, the first thing they do is sleep with me,” Bucky went on, as if you hadn’t spoken, his tone entirely too conversational. You tried to focus, but it was difficult with both men touching you.
“Oh, have a great many women infiltrated your organization, then?” you shot back before he could continue, ignoring the thorn of jealousy that had lodged between your ribs, making it hard to breathe. It certainly had nothing to do with the proximity of the mob boss and his enforcer—nothing at all. “Sounds like you have a security problem.”
Your eyes found Steve, giving him a sarcastic sneer that had his gaze heating, his hand tightening around your wrist in a warning. Bucky’s fingertips dug into your ribs and he pulled your back flush against his chest, the long line of his body fitting perfectly to yours—so perfectly that you could feel the hard bulge of his cock against your lower back.
“But not you, doll,” Bucky said, ignoring you again. Instead, he ground his hardness into your ass until you were sucking in a gasp, heat pooling between your thighs as your body ached to shift so that thick bulge was pressed against your heated center. “Did you think teasing me, making me hard for you and leaving me wanting, would make me a dumber, easier mark?”
Truthfully, that had been your plan. Sort of.
In your life as a thief, you’d learned that every job needed its own approach, and that most men were much easier to manipulate when they were thinking with their dicks. With his playboy persona, you’d thought Bucky Barnes would be a simple mark who would be too distracted by your tits and ass to notice you robbing him blind—and that his most trusted enforcer, Steve Rogers, was too much of a meathead to catch you.
What you’d failed to account for was how much the two men would intrigue and charm you. Bucky, with his charismatic smile and dazzling personality, and Steve, with his handsome glower and too-sharp eyes, had snuck their way beneath your defenses, stealing more of your heart than you’d even realized.
Well, on some level you’d understood how dangerous they could be. That was the real reason you hadn’t slept with Bucky—you knew that if you fell into bed with the mob boss, you might start envisioning a life where you were free to be with who you wanted, rather than indebted to your employer. Leaving Bucky wanting had just been an added bonus.
Still, your pride smarted from how easily he’d nailed it on the head, and you couldn’t let that slide. So, you raised your chin and managed to look down your nose at the mob boss, giving him an imperious look as you responded to his question.
“No, I just didn’t want to fuck you,” you taunted, lying through your teeth. “I may be a thief, but I have standards.”
It was the wrong thing to say if you’d wanted to placate the mafia boss—which made it exactly the right thing to tell him, since your only play was to poke and prod at the men trapping you until a chink appeared in their armor and you could slip away. You just had to bide your time, you were sure, and then you could escape.
Bucky’s expression darkened, like storm clouds rolling in to block out the sunny blue sky, and you had to bite back a grin at the obvious ire on his face. You didn’t know what to expect from him, didn’t know if you were prepared for Bucky’s anger, but a part of you welcomed it with open arms. You wanted to see what he’d do if you pushed him far enough.
But it wasn’t just outrage in the mob boss’s expression—there was amusement and desire, too. Maybe even a hint of respect. It swirled into a heady cocktail that had your body clenching tight in anticipation despite you trying to ignore your attraction to him.
Quick as a flash of lightning, Bucky shoved one of his hands between your thighs, cupping your heated core through your dress. Your body jerked in surprise, even as your pussy pulsed with desire at the warmth and strength of his palm. You squirmed in Steve and Bucky’s arms, trying to get away from the burgeoning pleasure you felt.
Sucking in a sharp breath, you intended to ask the mob boss what the fuck he was doing, but before you could, Bucky’s hand was pulling back. Then, he gave you a sharp smack, right between your thighs—right against your pussy.
“Ah!” you cried, a little stinging pain mixing with a whirlwind of pleasure that tore through your body, making you lurch forward, only for Steve to hold you tighter. You braced against the enforcer with your free hand, turning your head to catch Bucky’s eye over your shoulder. “What the hell was that for?”
Instead of answering your question, Bucky only grinned unrepentantly, and did it again. He spanked your pussy while he watched your face, waiting for your reaction, which you were determined not to give him.
The fabric of your dress and panties softened the blow, so it barely stung, but despite your best intentions, you couldn’t hide the way it left you panting and feeling empty. A dizzying desire surged through your body, clouding your mind and making your eyes go hazy, your mouth dropping open on a soft sound of need.
“For every lie you tell, doll, you’ll get one spank,” Bucky rumbled, his chest pressing against your shoulders until you were pinned to Steve in front of you.
There was nowhere for you to go, nowhere to look but into the mafia boss’s heated, sparkling blue eyes while his enforcer held you up. It was embarrassing to realize how shaky your legs were after a couple of soft spanks, and you resented how grateful you felt toward Steve for keeping you upright, so you didn’t lose your dignity—not yet anyway.
“If you keep lying,” Bucky went on, rubbing his palm against your smarting center and making your breath catch in your throat as you held back a moan. “You’re only torturing this sweet little cunt, and she doesn’t deserve that, does she?” He petted you between your thighs, managing to make the soothing gesture feel condescending.
“I…I haven’t lied,” you said, wincing a little at how breathless you sounded. But you dug deep for your own self-preservation and scrounged up a glare, hurling it at Bucky while he loomed over your shoulder.
The mob boss tsked low in his throat and slapped your pussy again, harder, making you squirm and bite back a whine. Your heart pounded in your chest and you were growing uncomfortably wet, your panties sticking to your damp flesh, but you tried to rein yourself in, not wanting to give Bucky the satisfaction of seeing any more of your reaction.
“That’s lie number three,” Bucky tutted, soothing your pussy with soft, teasing touches that were working you up just as much as his spanks. “Should I tell you what the first two were, or would you rather be a good girl and confess?”
Something in your belly swooped at the words ‘good girl’ and you had to tamp down on the urge to do what he asked. Instead, you gritted your teeth and glared at him, shaking your head. Bucky remained completely unfazed, chuckling at your furious expression like you were nothing more than an unruly kitten.
“Looks like our little thief isn’t ready to be good for us, huh, Stevie?” Bucky commented, tossing a cavalier grin at his enforcer, who grunted in agreement, the sound hotter than it had any right to be. “But that’s alright, we’ve got all night, don’t we?”
“All night,” Steve repeated in confirmation, and you angled your head so you could look up into his face. He was watching you with stormy blue eyes, lust and a possessive kind of promise roiling in the depths of his gaze. “All week, all month—hell, we could keep her forever if we wanted.”
Your breath inexplicably hitched at the word ‘forever’, your heart beating so hard against your ribs that you wondered if Steve could feel it through his suit. From the way his eyes darkened and narrowed on your face, you could tell he was reading your reaction—and he liked what he saw, a hint of a smile flickering around the edge of his mouth.
“The lies you told,” Bucky began, amusement in his tone as he dragged your attention back to him. “First, you lied when you said you weren’t going to tell us anything.” His hand stroked your pussy through your dress and you had to fight not to writhe against him. “And the second lie was when you said you didn’t want to fuck me.”
An affronted scoff burst from your lips, your mind momentarily clearing of the pleasure Bucky had been stoking in your core. “You think real fucking high of yourself, boss,” you sneered, ignoring the fact that he was telling the truth, and you did, in fact, want to fuck him—and his enforcer.
You’d hoped your comment might push Bucky to breaking, but he only grinned, sharing the expression with Steve before ducking down so his face was close to yours.
“Oh, so you aren’t soaking wet for us, doll?” Bucky mocked, his fingers teasing along the seam of your sex. You were so embarrassingly wet, you wondered if he could feel it even through the fabric of your dress and panties. “If I pulled your dress up and pushed your panties to the side, you wouldn’t be dripping wet for us, huh?”
You couldn’t answer, couldn’t protest because you’d only be lying, and you didn’t need Bucky spanking you again. You weren’t sure you could hold in your moan if he did. So you simply rolled your eyes and refused to give him the satisfaction of answering truthfully. Pouting, you stared petulantly at Steve’s chest.
“That’s what I thought,” Bucky rumbled, a smile in his voice as he grabbed your face, refusing to let you ignore him. Your stomach flipped at the sight of his small grin, and you glared harder, which only made the mob boss chuckle under his breath. “Just wait and see, doll, we’ll make you our good girl yet.”
It was difficult to speak with the way Bucky’s fingers were digging into your cheeks, but you rolled your eyes and managed a testy, “Doubtful,” that he completely ignored.
“Get rid of her dress, Stevie,” Bucky ordered, a smirk on his face as he glanced at his most trusted enforcer. When he looked back at you, there was an eager kind of hunger in his eyes that had your belly bottoming out with anticipation.
It was a good thing the mob boss had such a tight hold on you because without it, you would’ve stumbled when Steve stepped back. Cold air rushed against your front, and you couldn’t hold back a shiver at the loss of his warmth, your nipples pebbling against the lace of your undergarments.
Steve’s eyes lingered on your chest, his expression too calm and stoic to be leering, which somehow only made you hotter. You had to stop yourself from squirming in Bucky’s arms, belatedly remembering you were meant to be planning your escape.
Your mind was lethargic as you tried to assess your surroundings and look for a way out. You were too distracted by the sight of Steve lowering his big body down onto one knee, an image flashing in your mind of Steve tossing one of your thighs over his shoulder and burying his face between your legs. Your hips twitched toward his head, and you could’ve sworn a smirk flickered at the edge of his mouth.
But then Steve was gathering the skirt of your dress in his big hands. He tore through it easily, like he was ripping a piece of tissue paper instead of rending the fabric of a designer dress.
“This cost me three month’s rent!” you screeched before you could stop yourself, not realizing just how revealing those words were.
Steve paused, his eyes finding Bucky’s over your shoulder. The men had a silent conversation that would’ve annoyed you if you weren’t so focused on appraising the damage done to your dress and wondering if there was any way to fix it.
It had been an extravagant purchase, even after your last score, but you’d looked at it as an investment, something you could wear for multiple jobs. But it was ruined. You knew just by looking at it that there was no salvaging the tear right up the center of the skirt. It was such a shame because the dress was beautiful and, more importantly, you’d looked exquisite in it.
You were very near to tears when Bucky’s hand shifted, his palm pressing beneath your chin, fingers digging lightly into your cheek to turn your head to look at him. You tried to blink the tears from your eyes, but you weren’t quick enough and you were sure he saw them. Embarrassment blazed hot in your face.
“I’ll get you another one, doll,” Bucky said softly, his tone gentler than you thought possible from the mob boss. “I’ll pay for it.”
An uncomfortable feeling snuck between your ribs, burying deep in your heart and it was such a foreign emotion that it took you a moment to recognize it as gratitude. No one, let alone the men you stole from, had ever made such a generous offer before, and you didn’t know what to do with it.
Rather than do something stupid, like thank the mafia boss, you set your jaw so your lower lip wouldn’t wobble and nodded your head in acceptance.
Bucky stared at you for a short moment longer, an almost affectionate smile playing on his lips, before gesturing for Steve to continue. The sound of rending fabric wasn’t nearly so painful when you knew the dress would be replaced, and you simply watched as the enforcer continued his rough removal of the garment.
In no time at all, Steve was yanking the tattered shreds of your gown away from your body and leaving them in a pile of fabric on the floor of the storage room. Squaring your shoulders and raising your chin proudly, you feigned a practiced poise as you stood before the handsome men in nothing more than a matching set of lacy lingerie and heels.
“Pretty,” Steve mumbled as he stood, one of his hands skating up your ribs, the rough callouses on his fingers teasing your soft skin. His other hand traced the edge of your panties where they sat snugly on your hip, his blue eyes warm and molten as he stared at your body, making your breath stall in your lungs.
For a brief moment, Steve explored the curves of your body—the dip of your waist, the weight of your breasts, the roundness of your hips and ass—before he seemed to remember himself. With an audible swallow, the muscle in his jaw popping, he forced his hands to his sides, meeting your gaze with hard eyes.
“For a thief, anyway.”
Steve’s scornful words felt like a thorn pricking your heart, and it took every bit of your self-control not to show it on your face. You weren’t sure how successful you were when something flickered in his eyes, something that looked a bit like regret.
Behind you, Bucky gave a soft chuckle, like he was amused by you and Steve. But you didn’t have the capacity to think about why you’d responded to Steve’s dismissive comment the way you did, not when Bucky was ducking his head so his mouth teased the shell of your ear.
“You’ve been torturing my enforcer for weeks, doll,” Bucky murmured, a hint of teasing in his tone. “Whaddya say we put him out of his misery?”
It was on the tip of your tongue to point out that you’d offered to put Steve out of his misery before Bucky had made himself known—and the enforcer had refused your advances. How tortured could he possibly be if he’d turned you down?
But you didn’t say any of that, you just let Bucky guide you backward, watching Steve trail after the two of you, his eyes on your body, like he was entranced by the sight of so much of your skin on display for him.
Bucky’s hands were on your hips, leading you deeper into the room and away from the door. Glancing over your shoulder, you spotted a wall of books, all of them looking old and priceless. When Bucky bumped into an antique sofa, he sank down into the sumptuous seat, pulling you into his lap.
Your ass pressed flush against the hard bulge of Bucky’s cock in his pants, and you shot him an unamused look over your shoulder, but he wasn’t paying attention to you. Truthfully, you weren’t even sure why you weren’t fighting back, only that you’d abandoned trying to form an escape plan. You were curious where things were headed with Bucky and Steve—and hopeful that you be able to have some fun before you fulfilled your mission.
Focusing back on the men, you watched as Bucky gestured for Steve to come forward, until the enforcer was standing right in front of you, practically blocking out the rest of the room and its treasures. But Steve was a treasure unto himself.
The thick length of his cock jutted against the zipper of his slacks, twitching when your tongue darted out to moisten your lips. You glanced up at Steve, your eyes dragging languidly over his narrow waist and broad shoulders until you met his eyes.
His face was fixed into a glower, but deep in his gaze, you saw the hunger that had been there earlier, when you’d thought he was about to kiss you. The longer you looked, the easier it was to see the naked yearning in Steve’s pretty blue eyes, and it made you want to nuzzle your cheek against his bulge before paying homage to his gloriousness.
“Go on, doll,” Bucky’s voice, soft and entreating in your ear, compelled you as he leaned forward, urging your face into Steve’s lap until your nose brushed the ridge of the enforcer’s cock through his pants. The hard length gave a responding twitch that made the corner of your mouth curve in a slight smile. “Stevie’s been hard for you since he met you, so why don’t you be a good girl and suck his cock—show us what that mouth can do besides lying.”
A shiver of desire raced down your spine at the rough velvet of Bucky’s voice, and you tipped your head back, your eyes finding Steve as he stared down at you with his own lust written plainly across his handsome face. You wanted to suck his cock so bad, but you hesitated.
So far, Bucky had been the one pushing you and Steve together, and although the enforcer looked like he wanted you to suck him off, he hadn’t really given you any indication that he was consenting to it. So you waited, your mouth a hairsbreadth away from his hard length, looking up at him with a question in your gaze.
Something in Steve’s expression cracked, and his fingers brushed softly against your cheek, tracing your jaw with one finger while he stroked his thumb along your lower lip. You let your mouth fall open and Steve pushed the tip of his thumb between your lips. You gave him a teasing suckle, the edge of your mouth flickering in a smirk when his eyes darkened, his pupils blowing wide with lust.
“Yeah, sweetheart, let me see what that mouth can do,” Steve rumbled, his voice low and gravelly, as he pulled his hand away from your face.
As you watched, he shed the jacket of his suit, tossing it onto the back of the sofa, and began rolling up the sleeves of his white button-down. You were fascinated by the way the muscles of his forearms shifted beneath his golden tanned skin, and you watched in rapt attention until Steve’s hand settled on the crown of your head, pushing your face back into his lap.
“Show me how a little thief like you would’ve made it worth my while to betray my boss,” Steve teased roughly, using his grip on your head to drag your parted lips along the length of his cock through the soft fabric of his pants. “Be a good slut and suck my cock—and if you’re any good, maybe I’ll ask Buck to go easy on you.”
At those words, you narrowed your eyes, shooting a glare up at Steve in an effort to show him how unmoved you were by his offer. But then you took a deep breath and all you could smell was Steve. Instantly, you forgot your annoyance. You forgot that the men were playing with you hoping to extract information—you even forgot your entire damn reason for being in that mansion in the first place.
The masculine musk of Steve’s smell invaded your senses, filling your head with cotton candy clouds of lust that pushed out all thoughts other than the man and the cock in front of you. Instinctively, you swayed closer to Steve, pressing your lips against his bulge in a hot, open-mouthed kiss, reveling in the way his dick twitched in response.
You settled your hands on Steve’s thick thighs, your fingers lightly groping the muscles you could feel beneath his slacks, while you pressed kisses along the length of his cock. Although you could feel him getting harder beneath your ministrations, when you tipped your head back, the enforcer’s expression was hard and unyielding as he stared down at you.
The only indication Steve was at all affected by what you were doing was the blaze of possessive heat in his darkened blue eyes, and the rigid set of his jaw. You could tell that Steve was enjoying your mouth, but you wanted him to come undone, to let loose of that control he held onto with an iron grip.
But before you could set your mind to your task, Bucky reminded you of his presence, his hands grabbing your hips and yanking you deeper into his lap, until the softness of your pussy was pressed against the hard ridge of his cock. You let out a lustful moan, sinking into the sensation while you suckled on the tip of Steve’s thick length, feeling him throb against your lips.
For long moments, you indulged in being pinned between the two men, your mouth worshipping Steve’s cock through his pants while Bucky’s hands explored your mostly naked body. His palms swept down your ribs, groping your hips and guiding you to rock gently in his lap before his hands moved back up your body to cup the swell of your tits.
Bucky’s mouth kissed along your neck, his teeth nipping at your skin and his tongue soothing over every spot he bit while he learned the curves of your body. His fingers dipped beneath the lace of your bra, teasing over your nipples and playing with them until they were hardened peaks and you were whining helplessly in the mafia boss’s lap.
When Steve was hard and throbbing enough that his precum had left a little wet spot on his pants, he let out an impatient growl, thrusting his hips into your face and shoving the shaft of his cock into your mouth. All you could smell was him, your drool soaking the front of his slacks while you moaned against his bulge.
“Enough teasing, doll,” Bucky rumbled, nipping at the spot on your neck just beneath your ear, the one that turned you liquid in his arms. “Take him out and suck his cock like the good girl we know you are.”
You were so far gone in your lust that you didn’t protest. Your fingers fumbled eagerly at the button and fly of Steve’s pants, undoing them in just a few, breathless seconds. When you shoved his pants down his thighs, along with his navy blue boxer briefs, his thick cock bounced free and nearly hit you in the face.
All you could do was giggle in excitement, your job and the reason for why you couldn’t get close to the two men completely forgotten. All that mattered was getting what you wanted, which in that moment, was a taste of the hot enforcer in front of you.
Taking him in one hand, you dragged your tongue up the underside of Steve’s cock, indulging in the filthy decadence of him straight from the hot, hard source. Your tongue flicked at his tip, lapping up the dribble of precum that had gathered there, and you moaned at the taste of him, so clean and musky and perfect.
When you opened hazy eyes and looked up at Steve, he looked like a man on the verge of breaking, his eyes so full of greedy lust and his jaw clenched so tight, the muscle in his cheek was popping wildly. It made you want to give him a little push and see if the tension that had his muscles pulling so taut would snap.
“How’m I doing?” you murmured huskily before pressing a wet, suckling kiss to the tip of Steve’s cock, swirling your tongue around the crown and watching as his eyes darkened even further. “Do you like the feeling of my hot little mouth on your big cock, sir?”
You didn’t think it was possible, but Steve’s jaw clenched tighter, his eyes filled with so much unchecked desire and possessiveness that they looked like a churning, stormy sea. You parted your lips, sucking Steve’s cock into your mouth, and watched him get even closer to losing it.
Not to be forgotten, Bucky’s hands groped your tits, pushing your bra down until the swells of your breasts popped free. He touched you like he already owned you, his fingers plucking teasingly at your nipples, making you moan around Steve’s shaft.
“Answer our girl, Stevie,” Bucky growled, and you could see him shooting a hard look at his enforcer out of the corner of your eye. “Tell our little thief how good she looks sucking your cock—tell her how good she feels.”
“Fuck,” Steve groaned on a deep exhale. His hands settled on your head, guiding you up and down his cock, pushing his hard length deeper into your mouth with every thrust. “She looks so fucking gorgeous sucking my cock, and she feels like heaven—I could fuck her slutty mouth every goddamned day and never get sick of it.”
Warm pride and something else, something you were too frightened to try to name, bloomed in your chest and you eagerly sucked on Steve’s cock, wringing another groan from the big man. He responded by shoving your head closer to his lap, until the tip of his dick was bullying the back of your throat, making you gag in surprise.
“I wanna fuck our little thief’s mouth like the slutty cocksleeve that she is, wanna see her throat bulge from my cock,” Steve rambled, sounding half-feral, half-possessed as the filthy words tumbled off his tongue. “I wanna cum all over our girl’s face and mark her as mine—mark her as ours. Our fuck toy, our perfect set of holes.”
You couldn’t help it, your eyes rolled back in your head and you let out a loud moan at Steve’s words, at the way he’d finally lost control and was fucking your mouth like you were nothing more than his toy to use. It was all you could do to brace your hands on his muscular thighs and try not to gag while the enforcer worked his cock deeper and deeper into your throat.
“That’s fucking right, use our girl, Stevie,” Bucky crowed, cheering his friend on while he kept groping and playing with your tits. One of his hands slid down your body, cupping your pussy through your panties, and pressing his fingers into the wet fabric at the seam of your sex. “She’s our good girl, isn’t that right, doll?”
Pleasure and sensation made your mind go blank, until you were nothing more than a creature of lust, focused entirely on giving Steve the satisfaction he sought in your mouth and getting yours from Bucky’s fingers. You rocked your hips, humping Bucky’s hand while you sucked eagerly on Steve’s cock, feeling him beginning to throb in your mouth as your pussy pulsed and fluttered, both of you getting close.
You were right on the precipice of coming, and could feel that Steve was as well, when Bucky pulled his hand from between your thighs, pushing them wide across his lap and tugging your head off his enforcer’s cock. For a moment, you sat stunned in Bucky’s lap, panting and wondering what the hell had just happened.
The frenzied beating of your heart slowed and you focused on the sight in front of you, Steve’s big hand wrapped around the base of his cock, squeezing the hard length so tight, his knuckles were turning white. The flushed tip of his dick was so red and angry, you tried to sit forward and lick it better, but Bucky’s arm banded around your waist, holding you pinned to his lap.
“Tell us what we want to know, pretty doll,” Bucky murmured silkily in your ear, his hands soothing over your body, though they didn’t touch you anywhere you wanted them—your tits or between your thighs. “What are you here to steal? Who are you working for?”
It finally hit you what was happening, how Bucky had let you get close to your release only to yank it away at the last second. Your body throbbed with unslaked pleasure and a sob bubbled up in your chest. You had to bite your lip hard to keep it from spilling free.
It just wasn’t fair.
You’d been such a good girl for them, you’d done everything they asked, but you couldn’t give them this. You couldn’t tell them about the mess you were in, you couldn’t trust them—no matter how much a part of you wanted to. It was there, like a niggling thorn stuck between your ribs, the desire to trust them with the truth, but you ignored it.
Crossing your arms over your chest, you shook your head in refusal of Bucky’s questions, fear and anxiety swirling uneasily in your stomach. It wasn’t until Steve cupped your face with his free hand, his thumb stroking over your cheek, that you realized a few tears had escaped without you noticing.
“You’re even prettier when you cry, sweetheart,” Steve said softly, his voice so sweet it took you a moment to understand his words. When you did, you tried to pull away, but Steve’s hand gripped your face tightly, his blue eyes burning with a possessiveness that nearly stole your breath. “Answer Buck’s questions and we’ll fuck you so good, baby, we’ll make you cry so prettily on both our cocks.”
A shiver of want raced down your spine and you trembled in Bucky’s lap, your eyes falling miserably away from Steve’s face as emotions swirled turbulently in your chest and stomach. “I can’t,” you whispered, your voice breaking as you curled in on yourself, making your body as small as possible.
All the while, your mind raced as you tried to think of a way out of your predicament. Your employer wouldn’t suffer failure, and if you didn’t return to him with the diamond he’d commanded you steal, it could have deadly consequences. But you were so thoroughly trapped by Bucky and Steve, and even if you were able to get away from them, they’d destroyed your dress, which made escaping the mansion without being seen even more difficult.
Behind you, Bucky huffed out a sound like a bitten off sigh and wrapped his arms around your body, holding you in a tight hug while he gently nuzzled his cheek against yours. The rough stubble of his scruff soothed some of your anxiety away, enough that you could focus back on the moment, back on the two men who were staring at you with something like concern in their eyes.
“Are you afraid of us—afraid we’ll be upset with you,” Bucky began, his voice rumbling in his chest and teasing down your spine where he was pressed flush against your back. “Or the person who hired you?”
Your heart gave a pathetic lurch in your chest at the gentleness in Bucky’s voice, and in the watchful look in Steve’s eye as he crouched down in front of you, so his face was level with yours. The enforcer’s hand cupped your cheek almost tenderly, and his eyes stared deep into your own, like he was imploring you to answer.
“If I tell you, he’ll kill me,” you whispered, your eyes avoiding Steve’s face as you hurried on to explain the mess you were in that had led you to infiltrating the mob boss’s party in an attempt to steal from him. “And not just me—he has my father.”
Both Bucky and Steve let out harsh breaths, and when you glanced up at the man in front of you, you found him looking at his boss over your shoulder. The two of them were having a wordless conversation that you couldn’t even begin to decipher, so you simply waited for them to be done.
“We can protect you,” Bucky murmured a moment later, his arms settling more securely around your body until he held you in the tightest hug you’d ever felt. It felt so good, so safe, you nearly sobbed. “Steve and I will make sure nothing happens to you or your father. Right, Stevie?”
“Right,” Steve confirmed, his expression and tone so resolute, you had no choice but to believe him. The calm, stoic enforcer was back, but his eyes were still stormy, still simmering with emotion—all of it for you. “We’ll keep you safe, but you need to tell us what’s going on.”
Steve looked so earnest, so ready to step in and save the day, that it overwhelmed you. It was too much to hope that he was being honest, that he really could save you from your predicament. You had to close your eyes to think. But even then, you still felt Bucky’s steady, strong presence wrapped around your body, holding you while you trembled with indecision.
In the life of a thief, it was imperative that you only rely on the right people. In your life, you’d learned the hard way that it was better if you didn’t rely on anyone at all. Your father, the man who was supposed to protect you above all others, had instead offered you up as the solution to his problems. He’d been in debt to your employer and had promised your skills to repay those debts.
It didn’t seem to matter to your father that you’d be killed along with him if you were unsuccessful, and unfortunately for you, you weren’t as unfeeling. For all his poor decisions, he was still your dad and you didn’t want to see him killed.
For a brief, blistering moment, you wished the night had gone to plan and you’d been able to sneak in, steal the diamond and get back to your employer to free your father from him. But that’s not how things had worked out, and now your only option was to trust the men you’d planned to steal from. They were your only hope.
“Tony Stark hired me to steal the Blue Diamond of Alqualondë,” you murmured, your eyes still closed so you didn’t have to see Bucky or Steve’s reactions to your confession. “If I don’t bring it to him tonight, he’ll kill my father and then me.”
The men were quiet for a moment, long enough that you finally gathered the courage to open your eyes, finding them both staring at you, their expressions filled with a tender kind of sympathy. Before you could scoff at their pity, Steve broke the silence, his voice ragged with emotion.
“We won’t let that happen, sweetheart,” he vowed, catching your eye and staring deep into your soul. It was hard to believe him, but he sounded so genuine, how could you not?
“Make the call,” Bucky ordered from behind you, talking to his enforcer while his arms tightened around your body. His hold was the same reassurance Steve had given you, and you relaxed slightly into it.
But before Steve followed his boss’s command, he shocked the hell out of you by leaning forward, his mouth meeting yours in a kiss. Sparks danced inside your head at the soft press of the enforcer’s mouth, and you sucked in a gasp that allowed Steve to lick between your lips. He kissed you gently, teasingly, an unspoken promise on his tongue.
When Steve finally pulled away, you were too dazed by the kiss to pay much attention to him standing up and pacing away from the sofa where you and Bucky sat, pulling a cellphone from his pants pocket and pressing it to his ear. He spoke in low tones you couldn’t make out, not that you would’ve been able to understand whatever orders he was issuing when you were still stunned by his kiss.
Bucky leaned back into the sofa, drawing you deeper into his lap and turning you slightly. His eyes roamed freely over your features as he tipped your face toward him so he could look into your eyes. The mob boss chuckled lightly at the surprised expression still on your face, tracing his thumb idly along your plump lower lip.
“Seems you’ve won over my best enforcer, doll,” Bucky murmured, his tone lightly teasing as he gently coaxed you back down to earth. “I guess I have no choice but to keep you now.” Bucky ducked down until his mouth hovered a mere fraction of an inch from yours. “Steve has been telling me it’s past time to find a wife—and I like you far more than I should, little thief.”
With that pronouncement, Bucky closed the gap between your lips, claiming your mouth in a searing kiss. In contrast to Steve’s gentleness, Bucky was demanding, licking into your mouth and stroking his tongue against yours, making your mind melt and your body go suddenly hot with renewed desire.
You turned more on Bucky’s lap, grabbing onto his shoulders so that you could kiss him back. Despite how small you’d made yourself a moment ago, you weren’t some wilting flower who needed to be handled like you were breakable. You were the best damn thief in the world, and you wanted Bucky just as much as he clearly wanted you.
The kiss turned hotter and heavier when you pressed your body into Bucky’s, your tits crushed against his chest and your ass wiggling against his hard bulge. Liquid lust pooled low in you belly, and you gasped in delight when Bucky’s rough hand slid up your thigh.
He’d almost reached your pussy when a polite cough interrupted your moment. Bucky ended the kiss with a groan, and turned his attention to his enforcer, whose blue eyes sharpened on your kiss-swollen lips for a moment before he shook his head and focused back on his boss.
“We’ve located your father,” Steve said, meeting your eyes with his calm gaze. “He’ll be at one of our safe houses within the hour. I’ve also doubled security here and the partygoers are being sent home. You’ll be safe in the mansion while we figure out how to deal with Stark.”
“Good,” Bucky answered before you could thank Steve. Your head was still spinning from both their kisses and it was taking more effort than usual to follow the conversation. “And you called in the underbosses?”
Steve gave a quick nod. “They’re all coming in,” the enforcer confirmed. “They’ll be assembled here by tomorrow afternoon.”
The two men continued to talk about specifics, but you were distracted by the revived desire thrumming through your body. Your gaze traveled lazily down Steve’s body, finding that he’d pulled up his pants and boxer briefs, but hadn’t zipped himself up, so his cock was tenting the navy blue cotton in a particularly enticing manner.
“Then there’s just the matter of dealing with our little thief,” Bucky was saying, and at the mention of you, you tuned back into the conversation, glancing first at the mafia boss and then his enforcer. Both were watching you closely, lust and a feral kind of possessiveness in their eyes, though Bucky wore a charming smirk while Steve’s expression was more like a glower.
“What, me?” you asked as innocently as you could manage—which wasn’t innocent at all, the breathless excitement in your tone making you sound like an eager slut. You tossed your head and sat up primly on Bucky’s lap, giving each man a haughty look before continuing. “You could deal with me by finally making me cum, if you boys are up to the task, of course.”
Steve growled at the obvious challenge in your words while Bucky just chuckled. The mob boss manhandled you on his lap until you were facing away from him again, your legs thrown over his thighs as you perched on his knees. He gently pushed your upper body toward Steve, and you didn’t need any more encouragement than that to tug down the enforcer’s briefs so you could pick up where you’d left off.
In the time it had taken Steve to make his calls, his cock had softened slightly, so you pressed suckling kisses up and down his shaft, delighting in the feel of him hardening against your mouth. Behind you, you felt Bucky working his pants open, and you moaned when you felt his cock spring free, slapping your ass with its thick, heavy length.
“Ready to take both our cocks, little thief?” Bucky murmured, tugging your panties to the side and sliding the tip of his cock along the seam of your pussy. You were already wet for him, but you felt even more desire leak from your hole at the teasing slide of his tip between your folds. “You gonna be a good girl for us, doll?”
“Ye-es,” you moaned brokenly against the crown of Steve’s dick, licking greedily at the precum dripping onto your lips. “Want your cock, boss,” you murmured dreamily, your eyes flicking up to find Steve’s expression twisted into something feral as he watched you. “Want you to fuck me, sir—use my holes, make me your slut, make me cum, please.”
When Bucky chuckled, the sound was strained, and your heart warmed with pride at how much you were affecting the mafia boss. You rolled your hips, pressing your pussy against the tip of Bucky’s dick, making him suck in a sharp breath as your warm, wet hole teased his sensitive cock.
“You heard our girl, Stevie,” Bucky rumbled, his hands grabbing your hips and lifting you up. You reached between your bodies, wrapping your fingers around his thick length to guide him into your pussy. At the same time, you opened your mouth wide, letting Steve feed his cock into your mouth. “Don’t hold back—fuck her like the filthy slut she is.”
“You got it, boss,” Steve ground out through clenched teeth, his hips stuttering and his cock twitching as you swirled your tongue along the underside of his thick cock. “Hold on, sweetheart,” he said, his voice roughly tender as he grabbed your head in a firm grip.
Then both men were thrusting deep into your body, Steve’s cock hitting the back of your throat while Bucky bottomed out in your cunt. They groaned loudly, pausing for only a second to revel in the heat and wetness of your holes before they began moving, pounding into you from both ends.
“Take it, fucking take my cock like a good fucktoy, sweetheart,” Steve growled, driving deeper and deeper into your mouth while you tried not to gag, but that only seemed to make him go rougher. “Wanna see you cry while you choke on my cock, little thief. Let me see those pretty tears, crybaby, c’mon.”
Something cracked open inside you, and you let go, giving in to Steve completely. You sobbed around his cock, drool dripping messily from your lips as you choked on his pounding girth. Tears streamed from your eyes and Steve let out an indecently hot moan, his cock throbbing against your tongue while he fucked your mouth harder, bullying deeper into your throat with each thrust.
“You feel so fucking good, pretty girl,” Bucky rumbled from behind you, pressing his clothed chest flush against your back, the heat of him surrounding you as he wrapped you up in his arms. The mob boss rocked his hips against your ass, fucking you hard and deep with his cock while his hands played with your tits. “You’re taking us both so well, like you were made for us—our perfect, precious girl.”
Bucky’s praise had you crying out around Steve’s cock, pleasure swirling through your body until you were overwhelmed with the thrilling sensation. Then one of Bucky’s hands slipped down between your thighs, his fingers strumming your clit in rough strokes that had your thighs shaking in seconds, your pussy fluttering around his dick as you surged closer to the edge of your release.
“You gonna cum on our cocks, pretty doll?” the mob boss murmured entreatingly in your ear, pressing kisses to the heated skin of your neck. “Gonna be a good girl for us and cum all over our cocks while we use your body like our own personal toy, huh?”
“Our good girl,” Steve growled, holding your head and using your mouth like it was a fleshlight. “Ours—all fucking ours.”
It was too much. Their thick cocks, their possessive words, their greedy hands on your body—you were lost to the overwhelming pleasure of it all, and you came harder than you ever had in your entire life. A strangled scream spilled from your lips, every muscle in your body pulling taut as you broke apart into a million stars of ecstasy, pleasure crashing through your body in devastating waves.
Your release spurred on both Bucky and Steve, who fucked you harder, rutting into your holes like men possessed. They followed you over the edge a few moments later, Bucky sinking his teeth into the tender flesh at the base of your neck, where it met your shoulder, and groaning against your skin while he emptied his balls in your cunt.
At the same time, Steve pulled free from your mouth, his fist pumping his cock until his cum erupted. With a loud, feral groan, he coated your face and tits with his cum, ropes of his release falling onto your skin in heated evidence of his possessiveness.
The big enforcer moaned lewdly, his eyes dark as a stormy night while he watched his thick cream cover your tear-stained face. Your lips curved into a blissed out smile as you felt the warmth of Steve’s cum on your skin, waiting patiently while he pumped his shaft and painted your mouth with the last drops of his seed.
When he was spent, Steve cupped your cheek in his big hand, rubbing his sticky cum into your skin while you licked it from your lips, moaning softly at the musky taste of him. You’d never felt so degraded and exalted at the same time, and you thought, distractedly, that you could get used to this.
“Pretty as a picture, baby,” Steve murmured, staring at you like he’d never get tired of the sight of you covered in his cum. Your heart thumped happily in your chest and you grinned sweetly up at him, your pussy pulsing around Bucky’s cock, making him groan lightly.
The mob boss was busy kissing the spot on your shoulder where he’d bitten you, soothing the slight sting with his lips and tongue. Your hips twitched, feeling Bucky’s cum leaking out around his softening cock, and you luxuriated in the filthiness of the moment, being full and coated with both men’s cum.
“So, how about it, little thief, are you going to let us keep you?” Bucky asked in a ragged voice, his arms holding you tight while Steve retrieved a handkerchief from his suit jacket and began to clean your face.
Closing your eyes, you gave a soft sigh and let Steve and Bucky take care of you while you thought about the question.
In the life of a thief, it was important to recognize a precious opportunity when it presented itself—and Bucky’s offer was exactly that.
You’d known from the moment you met Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes that they were different than any other marks you’d stolen from. They were men you could see yourself falling for, which was why you’d been so off your game on this job. They were men you could see yourself spending your life with, if only you agreed to stay with them.
It didn’t take much thinking to realize you’d be a fool to pass up the life and the safety Bucky and Steve were offering. They clearly cared about you, and you cared about them. So you followed your instincts and nodded your head, opening your eyes to meet first Steve’s gaze, then Bucky’s.
“Yes,” you said simply, answering the mafia boss’s question. And then, because you were you, you couldn’t help but add primly, “And I expect my men to take good care of me.”
Bucky huffed a laugh into your neck, and even Steve cracked a smirk, sinking down onto the sofa beside his boss so the two of them could hold you. The mafia boss captured your lips in a kiss, responding to your bratty comment with a promise, before he pulled back and allowed his enforcer to seal your agreement with a kiss of his own.
When the three of you had recovered enough, Bucky helped you to stand and Steve draped his suit jacket around your shoulders. They led you up to the mansion’s master suite, where they continued to have their way with you for the rest of the evening.
It wasn’t until the sun began to peak out over the horizon that you finally fell asleep, entwined in the arms of the mafia boss and his most trusted enforcer. You were safe, content, and fully satisfied with how your night had turned out, even if it hadn’t gone to plan.
After that evening, Bucky and Steve made good on their promise to protect you, moving against Tony Stark and ensuring the leader of the Manhattan mafia knew you belonged to Brooklyn’s crime boss. They also ensured your father was taken care of, and wouldn’t get himself into trouble again.
With your men seeing to your every whim, you were able to retire from being a thief. But you still used your skills for fun sometimes.
Every once in a while, you played the part of their little thief, attempting to steal from Steve and/or Bucky and letting yourself get caught so that they could punish you how they saw fit. Occasionally, Steve would let you convince him to betray his boss, until Bucky caught the two of you and punished you both.
But no matter what, you always ended up entwined with both the mafia boss Bucky Barnes and his most trusted enforcer, Steve Rogers, happy and loved in their arms. All told, it was a much better existence than the life of a thief.
the life of a thief part 1
thank you for reading!! comments and reblogs are appreciated ♡♡♡
⭐︎ warnings: nsfw, smut, jealousy, porn, masturbation, fleshlight, sex toys mentioned, p in v sex, innocence kink, sex recording, even more coercion, blowjobs, dirty talk, threats of baby trapping, degrading, praising, size difference kink, breeding kink, humiliation kink, rough and possessive sex, exhibitionism, bucky is a little mean here, and he still has a cringy username
⭐︎ word count: 7.7k
⭐︎ a/n: nearly a year later, here we go again. this is part two of my p*rnstar bucky. read part one in order to understand this part. thank you for all the love and support you've shown me in the first part. i didn't plan to write a pt2, but with pt1 hitting 10k along with 7k followers, i had to do it for ya'll. i hope you enjoy!
synopsis:
One video isn’t nearly enough for Bucky. He wants more of you—wants to make you his star, his girl. But it isn’t just him who’s hooked. His viewers can’t stop talking about the voice in the video he’s been jerking off to. Now everyone’s desperate to know who the mystery woman is… the only thing is, it's been ten months since you two last spoke.
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Ten months.
It had been ten long, grueling months since Bucky last got a taste of you.
After taking your virginity, he paid for your groceries—as promised, because he believed himself to be a gentleman—and messaged you a few days later, inviting you to film another video with him.
You were his loyal fan.
You were there for every single one of his videos.
Hell, your own username was dedicated to him.
So when you left him on read for ten months without leaving a single trace behind, he grew furious. He tried making excuses for you—perhaps you were too busy? Or maybe you went on vacation? He tried circling back to your social media, which was how he had first found you, but you had privated all your accounts and deactivated your TikTok.
Naturally, pessimistic thoughts began to fill his mind.
Was he too rough when he took you? Did he freak you out by finding you at the grocery store? Worse, had he scared you away for good?
Bucky knew where you lived. It would’ve been easy to just show up at your front door and demand answers—but he couldn’t do that. Not with the threat of a restraining order looming in the back of his mind.
Ten months. He couldn’t believe he had let you stray away from him for that long.
There was so much you could’ve done during that time. You could’ve moved, had sex with other men, or even found a relationship.
You went from being his loyal fan to a ghost.
Bucky knelt on his mattress, holding up a clear silicone toy that looked tiny compared to his hands. He squeezed a generous amount of lube into his palm and spread it carefully along his half-hard cock, making sure none of it dripped onto the sheets.
His camcorder was propped against a pillow, angled perfectly to capture him from the waist down. With his bare abs and thighs fully in frame, he settled back on his heels, gripped the toy firmly, and guided it toward his cock.
A rough groan escaped him as he teased the sensitive tip against the entrance. The lubricant made every movement slick and audible, the wet sounds filling the otherwise quiet room.
“Fuck. Been waiting for this all day.”
His eyes fluttered shut as he slowly worked the toy against his shaft. He continued at an unhurried pace, his grip tightening as he lost himself in the sensation.
“Good girl,” he muttered without thinking.
The words slipped out on instinct, a praise that always led back to you. As the room filled with the sounds of his grunts and movements, his thoughts drifted to the memory of you. They always did. He pictured your soft lips wrapped around his dick, the way he had your face pressed into the pillow as he took you from behind—the moments that had replayed endlessly in his mind over the past months.
At some point, imagination alone had stopped being enough.
Whenever he wanted to relive it, he would pull up the private video he recorded of the two of you, letting it play in the background while he lost himself in the pleasure of his toy.
“God,” he groaned, your name slipping from his lips in a breathless rasp.
He made a mental note to cut the part where he whispered your name like a prayer before uploading the video to the site.
“Shit—fuck. I miss that tight little pussy.”
With a loud groan and both hands holding the toy tight, he drove his hips deep into the toy until it made an unmistakable tearing sound. Too lost in the haze of his own desire, he didn’t even realize he tore through yet another toy to the memory of you.
Seed filled the silicone, marking every cloudy surface with his thick cum.
Once he caught his breath, he let the toy fall from his grip and pushed it aside.
From there, the rest of the evening followed the same familiar routine.
He would take a shower, get dressed, make himself something for dinner, then spend the rest of the evening at his computer. He would spend his time editing the footage, preparing it for upload to the same porn site he had been posting on for years.
Except this time, there was no excitement after hitting the ‘post’ button, because you wouldn’t even be there to watch them.
After the video went live, he waited for the likes and comments to start pouring in, holding onto the faint hope that your username might appear among them.
As usual, it never did.
Surprisingly, though, that wasn’t what disappointed him this time.
Every time he jerked off with the intention to post a new video—your video was always in the background. It got to the point where people started to leave comments asking who the mysterious girl was. Who those sultry, seductive moans belonged to.
He would even get comments asking if he’d be willing to record another video of the two of you together and post it online.
Every time he read those comments, he would scoff, laughing to himself.
I would like to know the same thing.
After posting his latest video, his comment section had been flooding with the same demands for weeks.
wankingandspanking: hell yeah man! love the new video. but who’s the babe in the video you’re watching??
StraightJorkinIt: U breaking ur toy was so hot, but what’s even hotter is the girl moaning in the back. xx
Bwasexual: The toys are getting a little old, don’t you think?? Bring a real woman in. especially the one in the vid you’re jerking to ;)
Each comment was a direct insult to Bucky’s pride.
He was one of the platform’s top creators—yet now, his community was entirely consumed by you.
He had spent the last ten months trying to get you out of his head, trying to just use your video as a quick jerk off aid and move on. But how could he when his own fans wouldn’t let him forget?
How could he, when he couldn’t even cum to anything else anymore? His memory was flooded of the way his cock had disappeared in and out of your tight pussy while he had you bent over from behind. By the recollection of your cute, virgin mouth stuffed full of cock—his cock—for the first time ever.
How could he possibly forget how sweet your tight little body was, like it was made for him?
Bucky’s frustration was peaking. At the very least, he was making money off of this.
Just as he was about to shut down his computer and call it a night, a new notification popped up.
He clicked it, and what he saw made the air in his lungs vanish completely.
Pleasure_Ring: Love the video!
Bucky blinked.
Was he seeing this right?
He rubbed his eyes, but lo and behold, your comment was still there. He double—and triple—checked the username, ensuring every single letter matched and that it wasn’t some random copycat trying to impersonate you.
But no, it was you.
When he clicked your profile, the interface loaded your old message thread. He saw the green indicator showing you were currently online, sitting right above his last unanswered message asking you to film with him again.
He couldn’t believe it.
You were real. You were still here, ten months later, watching him.
Bucky didn’t realize he was holding his breath as his fingers hovered over the keyboard. He wanted to spam you with messages—to demand where the hell you’ve been, to beg for your phone number so he would never lose track of you again.
No, he couldn’t risk ruining this moment. He had to stay rational and seize this chance before you slipped through his fingers again.
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: I saw the comment you left.
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Where have you been?
A minute passed. Then another. He propped both elbows on the desk, resting his chin on his hands, his foot tapping impatiently as he waited.
Three minutes went by. Your little icon was still green—you were still online.
Then, his heart leaped.
Pleasure_Ring is typing…
Pleasure_Ring: Why? Did you miss me?
Bucky’s brow twitched. Your messages from ten months ago had been sweet, alluring, and almost innocent. If you had been texting him consistently, he might’ve read this as a flirtatious little comment to make his dick hard.
But right now, he just felt pissed off.
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Quit playing around. Of course I missed you. Where did you go?
There were so many things he wanted to ask, but he couldn’t risk scaring you away just yet. His heart raced as he watched the screen.
Pleasure_Ring is typing…
Your bubble kept appearing and disappearing. You would type, then silence. You would type again, then nothing.
Bucky felt like he was going insane. He was just about ready to send another message himself, until one finally popped up under your name.
Pleasure_Ring: I think it’s best that we talk in person.
Pleasure_Ring: Can we exchange numbers?
And of course, Bucky gave you his number without a second thought.
You sat alone at the coffee shop Bucky had agreed to meet you at, fiddling with your mug and glancing anxiously out the window.
The meetup was set for noon, and the closer the clock ticked to the hour, the more your mind began to spiral.
It had been ten months since he last saw you. Ten months since he had you bent over your own bed, your face pressed into the pillows, ravaging you like an animal.
You were growing anxious. What if he had lost interest? What if he took one good look at you and realized you were nothing like the woman he had been infatuated with all this time?
The bell above the door chimed. You glanced up, and your breath caught in your throat.
Bucky was right there. He looked just as handsome as the day you met him. His presence seemed to take up the entire space of the coffee shop, just as it had when he first approached you at the grocery store.
His eyes swept across the room. The moment they landed on yours, your thighs instinctively clenched together. He was wearing that same cold, stern expression he had when he first told you to strip for him.
Naturally, it did things to you.
He marched over to your table, dragged the chair back, and dropped into the seat directly across from you. He didn’t bother with a polite smile, and his gaze didn’t warm up at all.
Was he angry? Was this a nuisance to him—taking time out of his busy day just to see a girl he slept with ten months ago?
“Bucky,” you breathed, forcing a polite smile. “How are you—”
“Where have you been?”
You blinked. You were about to stammer out a quick excuse, but he breezed on past.
“Ten months without a single word from you.” He leaned closer across the table. “Where have you been?”
Despite his harsh tone, he was anxiously bracing himself for your answer. He expected you to say you had lost interest, or that you found a boyfriend to practice your new... sexual experiences on. You hadn’t even given an explanation yet, and he was already fuming with jealousy.
You looked down at your coffee mug, avoiding his gaze. Looking him directly in the eye right now was simply too much to handle.
“I’m sorry I haven’t kept in touch,” you mumbled. “Ever since… that night, I’ve been… uh—how do I even say this?” You chuckled awkwardly, scratching lightly at your cheek. “I guess I’ve been feeling a little ashamed of myself.”
Bucky watched your shoulders slump as your hands fidgeted nervously in your lap.
“Ashamed?”
“Ever since we slept together, I’ve felt insecure about not being able to... keep up with you.” You winced. “I mean, you’re obviously experienced—I had a great time, and everything—but it made me realize that, at my age, when everyone else seems to be out there having fun and figuring things out, I’m nowhere near as experienced as they are.”
Your voice dropped lower as you glanced around the room.
It wasn’t exactly the kind of conversation suited for a small, intimate coffee shop.
Bucky frowned, crossing his arms. Your explanation wasn’t giving him the reassurance he had hoped for.
“So you were embarrassed about sleeping with me?”
Your eyes widened.
“No! It’s not like that.” You shook your head. “I had an incredible time with you. You gave me an experience I’ll never forget. I mean...” You leaned forward, lowering your voice to a conspicuous whisper. “You were the one who took my virginity, after all.”
That, at least, managed to draw the hint of a smile from him.
“It’s just...” you hesitated. “I’m ready to start dating, and in the current dating scene, sex matters, you know?”
There it was.
The sentence Bucky had been dreading.
While he had spent the last ten months thinking about you—worrying about you, searching for some way to reconnect, replaying the video you’d filmed together and jerking off to it, moaning your name—you had spent those same months looking forward to a future with someone else.
“So...” You hesitated. “After reading all those comments on your videos, the ones talking about how good I sound, and remembering the offer you made ten months ago to film another one...” Your gaze dropped briefly. “If that offer still stands, maybe you could teach me?”
“Teach you?” Bucky repeated, the words leaving him almost like a scoff.
Just as innocent as the day he first met you, you nodded shyly.
“Teach me how to be better at sex.”
An awkward silence took the space between the two of you.
You were preparing yourself for rejection. For Bucky to push back his chair, walk away, and decide this conversation had been a mistake. After this, you wouldn’t be surprised if he even blocked your number and your profile, cutting off the last connection between you.
Instead, he studied you for a very long moment.
“You know,” he said slowly, his gaze finding yours, “the comments have been asking us to film a video together, right?”
The look he gave you was difficult to read—careful, calculating, and almost suspicious.
“I know,” you said bashfully.
“If you want me to teach you,” he said, leaning forward as his voice dropped soft and intimate, “then we’re going to do the same thing we did before, but I want this done at my house instead. I’ll record.”
He paused, studying your reaction.
“And this time, I’m posting it online.”
You sat there frozen.
It wasn’t exactly the compromise you expected, but you couldn’t say you were entirely surprised. After disappearing from his life for months, after leaving things unresolved between you, part of you knew he would want something in return.
Bucky leaned in closer, his hand finding yours on the table. His fingers curled around yours, giving them a reassuring squeeze.
“You’ve read the comments,” he said. “You might be insecure about your experience, but my viewers love you. They’re curious. They want to know who the woman behind that voice is.”
Heat rushed to your face. The confidence in his words only made your pulse quicken, and the slow sweep of his thumb across your knuckles wasn’t helping at all.
“I’ll teach you everything you want to know,” he continued. “I’ll take care of you. You know I will.”
For a moment, his confidence faltered and his eyes looked pleading, revealing something almost hopeful beneath it.
“What do you say, doll?”
Your heart had been pounding ever since Bucky sat down across from you at the coffee shop. It hadn’t slowed once—not during the conversation, not during the drive over, and certainly not now as you stood behind him while he unlocked his apartment door.
Bucky stepped aside, holding the door open for you. After a moment's hesitation, you stepped inside.
The studio apartment was dimly lit. The blinds were drawn, leaving only the warm glow of a lamp to light the room. In one corner sat a computer setup—his workstation where he recorded and edited his videos.
Your breath caught at what was displaying on the monitor.
Your chat history.
His studio was the definition of a man cave. What caught your attention, however, were the sex toys scattered throughout the apartment without a hint of shame.
Some of the toys were immediately recognizable from his videos. Having been a longtime viewer, you had seen them often enough to identify them at a glance.
Bucky tossed his keys onto a nearby surface and motioned for you to follow him toward the bed. As you approached, your gaze landed on something unfamiliar at his bedside table.
“What’s this?” You pointed to a toy shaped like the lower half of a woman’s body. Unlike the others, you didn’t remember ever seeing this one in any of his videos.
Bucky glanced at it. “Oh, that?” He came to stand beside you. “Custom made. I use it off-camera.” His tone was casual, almost dismissive. “Had it modeled after you.”
You were suddenly grateful for the low lighting, because that meant he couldn’t see the stunned expression that immediately crossed your face.
Modeled after you?
Your eyes drifted back to the toy, taking in the details—the shape of the hips, the skin tone, it was an unmistakable similarity. What shook you up, though, was the tear in the toy around her upper abdomen, a sign that Bucky’s cock tore right through the silicone.
The sounds of his belt buckle being undone drew your attention back to him.
“Had it set to the maximum tightness,” he explained gruffly, setting the belt down on his chair and reaching for the familiar camcorder he used before. “Still not nearly as tight as you felt—but it made do during those ten months you were gone.”
A moment later, he lifted the camera and pointed it in your direction, the red light flickering to let you know it was on.
“Go ahead,” he prompted, watching you. “Undress.”
You bit your lip as you stood in front of him, feeling far more self-conscious than you expected.
For some reason, the atmosphere felt infinitely more tense than it had the first time you undressed for him.
Bucky seemed to notice your hesitation immediately. He lowered the camera slightly.
“What’s wrong?”
“I don't know about this, Bucky.” You fiddled with your fingers, unable to meet his gaze. Instead, you focused on your bare feet against the floor. “What if I'm not good at this?”
A slow, patient sigh escaped him.
Without a word, he set the camera on the bedside table. It remained angled in a way that still captured your body, but his attention had shifted entirely to you. His hands found the hem of your shirt and lifted it up, letting his fingers tickle your lower belly.
“Are you feeling shy, doll?” he murmured softly.
The question was quiet enough so that the camera wouldn’t pick it up. It wasn’t meant for an audience. It was just for you.
“Look at me,” he commanded gently. “You’ve got a perfect, tight body. There are a lot of people that would kill to be in my position, and you’re scared to show it off?”
He lifted your shirt up until it exposed the lace of your bra. His large hand cupped over your breast, giving it a squeeze that made you gasp softly.
Bucky grinned. “Ah, there she is.”
While his left hand fondled your tits, his other hand crept up to your chin, tilting your head so you were forced to look at him. His eyes wandered down to your lips—exposed, plump, and vulnerable.
“When you get a boyfriend—you’ll have to learn how to kiss,” Bucky murmured. “Do you know how?”
The question felt almost condescending. He should already know the answer. You were still inexperienced, still clueless, but despite it all, you couldn’t help the ache that began to form between your legs from the way he talked to you.
Your voice came out soft and trembling, but to Bucky, it sounded like music to his ears.
“… Teach me?”
A low growl vibrated from his lips as he closed the distance in one, smooth motion. His lips collided with yours—hungry and consuming—letting his tongue delve past your lips and into the wet warmth of your mouth.
He held your face tight, forcing you to take every inch of his tongue and every surface of his lips. It was hot, messy, and wet. During every second of his ravishing, his hands continued to explore your body, groping you through your bottoms. He held you so close, you could already feel him throbbing against your leg.
“Fuck,” he groaned against your lips, pulling away slightly to catch his breath. “Still taste so good. So sweet, just for me.”
He stepped away, breathing just as hard as his dick felt.
With the warm lamp glowing next to him, it outlined the sheer size of his dick throbbing in his pants. You watched it pulse, a little wet spot forming near the tip, before his large hand came down with deep, circular rubs to soothe the ache.
“Bucky…” You gasped softly.
His other hand snatched the camera off the bedside table, nearly knocking down the picture frames. With a shaky hand, he lifted the camera up to you again.
“Strip.” He commanded, rougher this time. “Strip. Now.”
Your heart raced. His patience was fraying, and without upsetting him further, you began to undress. You abandoned your top, your pants, all until you were left standing in nothing but your panties and bra.
Bucky groaned at the sight, his palm working faster over his clothed erection.
“God, look at that,” he zoomed in on the wet spot collecting at the front of your panties. “You’re fucking soaking for me, doll. And all I did was kiss you.”
Shame flooded your face. As you unhooked your bra and worked for your panties next, Bucky’s voice pulled you to a stop.
“No,” his hand shot out, catching your wrist. “Keep those on. I want to see the mess you’ll make after having my dick in your mouth.”
With his grip tightening around your wrist, he ushered you to the ground until your knees made contact with the floor. He tugged his pants down with force, and his cock sprang out heavy—slapping you in the cheek and making you wince.
He was big and hard. Seeing him up close like this, with his hand around his shaft and his tip rubbing against your cheek, you weren’t sure how you took him the first time.
“Do you remember the first time you sucked my cock? When you tried fitting it all in on your first try?” he rasped a chuckle, slapping his cock against your face and smearing his pre-cum over your wet lips. “Your mouth was so small—you could hardly fit anything past the tip.”
You flicked your tongue out, giving his cock a shy kitten lick just to tease him.
“Oh, fuck,” he shuddered. “You slut. You want it in your mouth again? Wanna try again for me?”
He pointed the camera closer to your face, his other hand tangling in the back of your hair, nodding you closer to his shaft.
“Come on. Open up. Show me what you remember.”
You licked the pre-cum that was beading at the tip. It tasted just like it did the first time—salty and thick. Bucky groaned, his hand tightening in your hair, pushing you forward for more.
You opened your mouth, letting your lips wrap around the swollen head. His cock was warm and hot, already twitching in your mouth and he wasn’t even halfway. Encouraged by the camera and his breathy grunts, you sunk your head deeper.
Bucky felt like he could cum right there. Your mouth was still so tight and inexperienced. He was half tempted to pin you against the side of the bed and face fuck you until his balls were dry—but he forced himself to hold back.
“God. Is this—fuck—the best you can do, really?”
He brought his camera down, the lens pointing right where his tip disappeared in and out of your plump lips, making sure to pick up every wet squelch that left your mouth.
“You can do better than that,” he hissed, pushing his cock deeper into your throat. “I know it hurts, baby. Just remember what I said the first time. Stretch those lips, relax your jaw, breathe in and out of your nose.”
You fluttered your lashes as you looked up at him. Your eyes were sheen with tears that threatened to spill out from the ache of your mouth being stretched open. He rocked his hips forward, making you gag and choke.
“Oh, christ,” he grunted, his cock twitching as your throat tightened around him. “You guys listening to that? She’s gagging for me.”
He was talking to his potential viewers. Your eyes widened with embarrassment as an instinctive moan left your lips and vibrated around his cock.
“Mph!”
“Fuck, she’s sloppy—drooling all over my floor, but her mouth is so tight. Could cum just from this,” he started drawing his hips back and forth, forcing himself deeper.
He angled the camera closer to your face, capturing your pleading eyes and stretched mouth.
“Does it taste good, sweetheart?” he asked, despite knowing your inability to answer. “Come on, show that pretty face off for the camera.”
With your mouth stuffed full of his cock, all you could do was nod in desperation.
“Damn, what a good girl. The fans are going to love this,” he let out a shaky laugh.
His hand kept your head still, and without warning, he pushed his hips even deeper into your mouth. He pushed until your jaw ached from the stretch and your nose made contact with the dark, musky curls sitting on his pelvis.
Bucky tossed his head back, letting out a deep, pleasurable moan.
“Ohh, shit.”
You gagged and choked, your hands finding his bare thighs as you attempted to push your head away for a quick breath. His cock was sitting heavy on your tongue, and drool began to shamelessly drip down your chin and onto your thighs.
Despite your mouth being overworked, you were getting wetter by the second.
“Shh… shh. I know, baby. Just stay right there.” Bucky cooed, his blue eyes hazy with lust. “Just let it sit in your mouth. Breathe in and out through your nose. That’s it.”
You did as instructed, keeping your mouth stuffed full of cock like a good girl. But every time you breathed in, all you could smell was him. His musky, masculine scent only made your head spin with desire even more.
Another deep groan tore from his chest before he gripped your hair tight, pulling you away from his cock with a wet pop. Saliva mixed with his pre-cum drew from your lips like a silver string as you coughed for air.
“Fuuck,” he groaned, fucking his hand for a few pumps as he watched you struggle.
Bucky’s cock was angry, pulsing and throbbing with a mind of its own. His cock was sheen with your saliva, and he was dripping out so much pre-cum, he looked just about ready to cum right then and there.
“Goddamnit. Ten months later, and your mouth is still good enough to make me almost fucking cum,” he hissed angrily. He bent down, catching your stray tear with his thumb. “Don’t cry, pretty girl. You wanted me to teach you, didn’t you?”
He spoke so gently in a way that might’ve fooled his viewers, but every word that left his lips felt hauntingly patronizing.
You nodded with a sniffle. “Y—yes…”
Bucky smiled, his eyes softening as he took in your utterly debauched state.
He knew he was being a little mean, but he couldn’t help it. It’s what you deserved after ghosting him for ten months.
“That’s a good girl. My girl.” He nodded to his bed, standing up. “Go.”
Swallowing hard, you pushed yourself up—your mind dizzying and your legs feeling like jello from standing up too fast. You crossed over his crisp, white sheets—the mattress dipping under each crawl.
You didn’t know what position he wanted you in, so you played it safe and laid flat on your back.
Bucky’s expression was completely unreadable. His eyes were dark, his breathing labored, but his cock was still stiff, angry, and unsatisfied.
He adjusted the camera, zooming in on the cute bow on your panties.
“Spread your legs. Show everyone how wet you are after getting a taste of my cock.”
Biting your lip and turning your head from shame, you slowly spread your legs. With your thighs wide and your damp panties on full display, Bucky’s gaze somehow felt even heavier and more tense.
He growled, a deep rumbling sound of satisfaction. He stepped closer, meeting you at the bed. Every dip and creak from his moving weight made your heart race. His camera lens was focused solely on your panties, highlighting the growing wet patch on your crotch.
“Mm,” he hummed, his fingers dragging up and down your underwear, letting the fabric cling against your slick folds just underneath. “So wet. Could smell you from here, baby.”
You felt your body growing weaker by the second.
You wanted to beg him to fuck you—to take you just as he had the first time. But with the camera pointed steady in his hands, you knew he was trying to drag this out for as long as possible.
“Bucky,” you panted, eyes pleading. “I can’t take it anymore. I need your cock—”
“Aw, you’re begging?” Bucky huffed a laugh. “Ten months without a single word, and now you’re in my bed, demanding for my cock. That’s real cute, doll.”
Bucky brought the camera up to your face, and instinctively, you shied away from it. Despite your agreement to film, the lens pointing directly at you made you burn with an embarrassment you didn’t feel the first time.
Maybe because, in the back of your mind, you knew he’d be posting this one online—meaning you’ll be watched by thousands of people.
Sensing your hesitation, he lowered the camera with a slight frown, brows furrowing.
“Do you want to stop, doll?”
Stop?
Your heart clenched, eyes widening as you faced him.
“Stop?” you repeated softly, making sure you heard him right.
The softness in his eyes made your body feel warm. Bucky lowered his camera completely and angled it in a way that wouldn’t capture you in this vulnerable state. He was serious. He would stop for you if you changed your mind, despite your initial agreement to this as the compromise.
“If you don’t want me to upload this, I won’t.” He reassured. “I’ll keep this video for myself—just like the first one.”
His hand found your hip, his thumb tracing soft and gentle circles with a tenderness that only encouraged you to give yourself to him completely.
“I promise,” he added.
“No. I… I want to do this,” you searched his eyes, trying to soothe your nerves. “I can do it, Bucky. Please teach me.”
It was hard to ignore the way his cock hung heavy between his legs—twitching at your admission. The corners of his lips tugged up in a satisfied, smug smile.
“That’s my good girl.”
While one hand repositioned the camera back to you again, the other found the waistband of your panties, giving it a gentle tug downwards. With the fabric slipping slipping down your thighs and past your ankles, you hissed at the cool air greeting your wet cunt.
“Christ. You soaked the fabric right through, doll.” He held the garment up, the lamp highlighting every glistening wet spot as he made sure to capture your essence on camera.
He leaned over you with a grunt, setting your panties down on the side table. Your eyes followed his movement, and you sucked in a breath at seeing the toy he modeled right after you—resting there with a loose hole and an obvious tear in the abdomen.
It was haunting, almost like a warning for what you’re about to take.
Bucky nestled himself in the space between your legs, letting his length rest heavy on your stomach. His tip tickled your belly button, grinning proudly at the size comparison of his cock to your body.
“Did you fuck anyone else after me?” he rasped as he rocked his hips back and forth, grounding his cock against your belly.
You shook your head, face blistering from the sensation.
“No, Bucky. There was no one else…”
A satisfied groan tore from his lips. He grabbed himself at the base, guiding the tip toward your entrance.
“Is that so?” he mumbled. “Let’s see if you’re telling the truth.”
With a slow forward push of his hips, his tip fought against the tightness of your entrance. He sucked in a breath as he slipped in deeper, and your walls immediately clenched around the intrusion. You were so tight—Bucky had to grit his teeth to keep his composure.
Whimpering, you held onto his shoulders for support as he stretched you from just the tip. “Fu—fuck..”
“Fuck, baby. Still so goddamn tight. Just breathe in and out,” he gasped, his voice thickening in a way that made it sound like he was trying to calm himself down. “In and out while I sink into you deeper. That’s it. Good girl…”
Your back arched off the bed as he filled you. Your legs were stiff around him, your lips whimpering and mewling with every inch he was forcing your tight body to take. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your temple as he stretched your pussy out with just half his cock.
“Have you been keeping up with my videos?” He asked.
You couldn’t bring yourself to answer. You were too stuffed—too concentrated on trying to get your body to accommodate the sheer size of him.
“I—I haven’t—” you answered truthfully.
He clicked his tongue in disapproval, pointing the camcorder to where the top half of his cock disappeared in and out of your tight cunt.
“The videos would’ve scared you,” he pushed his cock a little deeper, making you cry out. “Kept breaking my toys. All my damn fleshlights are torn right through. Had to keep ordering new ones, but fuck, they didn’t feel nearly as good as your tight, virgin pussy did.”
The broken sex doll that laid on his bedside table was certainly a testament to that.
Bucky’s hand found balance near the side of your head, his muscles and veins popping from holding his weight while the other hand was too occupied filming every inch of his cock delving deeper in your pussy.
“How does it feel, baby? Still as big as you remembered?”
“Still big, Bucky,” you winced when he angled his pelvis, his cock twitching in time with every clench your pussy gave him. “I’m trying to take it all—to big the good girl that you remembered—”
He tossed his head back with a groan. He tried his best to control himself—he really did. But the longer he stayed inside your warmth, the more his mind started to fray.
“Fuck—so cute. Such a good girl,” he groaned, sheathing himself completely inside until his dark curls were greeted with your wet folds. “Oh my god.”
Bucky stilled inside you, basking in your warmth. Your body felt like a wet, tight hug wrapping around his cock. This was the sensation he sought after the day you left. The very feeling he’d been looking for in the useless sex toys he was constantly ordering.
Now that you were finally here—pinned beneath him and his camera—he was afraid that if he moved, he would cum right there on the spot.
“Bucky?” your voice was soft, breaking into a gentle moan. “Are you okay?”
His eyes fluttered down to look at you, and his breath caught.
Your hair was fanned out so beautifully against his white sheets. Your body was laid bare and perfect for him. You asked the question in such a soft and innocent tone—it did nothing to dull the ache in his balls and did everything to make his heart heavier.
He should be asking you the question, with you lying there stretched out with more than you can take, but alas.
“You’re asking if I’m okay?” he huffed a raspy laugh, shifting his hips to deliver a deep and hard thrust inside you. “No, I’m not okay. I want to fuck you right through the mattress. Want to split you open and make you cry on my cock. But I can’t—I have to control myself and teach you how to take me again.”
The red light of the camcorder flickered in the dark room as he began rocking his hips, his cock sliding in and out of you—capturing every moment of him claiming you a second time.
The bed started to creak, accompanied with his grunts and your soft moans of pleasure.
Bucky’s breathing was heavy, every deep, punishing roll of his hips making your eyes roll back.
The tip of his cock was kissing your cervix so sweetly, you felt your body giving out. He was right—your pussy was acting like a vice, wrapping impossibly tight around his thick shaft, refusing to let him go.
The camera shook in his hand as he aimed it directly at your hips. He had failed to capture the moment he pumped you full of his cum last time, and he was going to make damn sure he got it right tonight.
“Not a single drop going to waste,” he panted, his hips rutting uncontrollably against yours. “Gonna pump you full—God. Should fill up your womb so you’ll never leave me again.”
Your heart started to race as his words danced in your mind. Surely, this was just make-believe dirty talk. A performance he put on for the camera to secure a good payout from his loyal subscribers, right?
But as his body moved even more erratically, the bed groaning under every hard, bruising thrust, you began to fear otherwise.
“Fuck—this little slut thought she could use my cock to practice for other men,” he laughed, the sound deep and condescending. “Said she wanted to learn how to take dick for her future boyfriend. What a fucking joke.”
Your face burned with humiliation. You couldn’t believe Bucky was airing out your private confessions to his viewers like this.
“Oh my god! Bucky, please don’t say that—”
But your protests were useless. Your pussy was already spasming, clenching around him in a tight, weeping mess at every degrading taunt that left his lips.
“Ah, fuck. My sweet girl is milking me so hard—she doesn’t want to let go.” He chuckled, watching the wet friction of your hips through the camera screen. “You want to cum for me?”
You nodded, letting out a pathetic whimper.
Bucky leaned over you, shoving the camera close to your face. “Come on, baby. You’re on camera. I need you to speak up so everyone else can hear you.”
Pleasure was coursing through your body in ways that a simple vibrator could never match. Ten months without Bucky—and without touching anyone else—had left you chasing a high you couldn’t replicate. It was never like this.
You nodded frantically, losing all control over your own autonomy as tears of pleasure blurred your vision.
“Yes, Bucky! Please—please, please, I want to cum!”
Your cries were loud enough to peak the camera’s built-in microphone. Your walls clamped down around his cock, pulsing and fluttering as your back arched off the mattress with a loud moan, letting the climax rip straight through your core and down to very tip of your toes.
Bucky groaned, his entire body going stiff as your pussy milked him ruthlessly. Fuck. He missed this. He missed the tightness of your cunt. He couldn’t find this sensation anywhere else.
“Christ. Look at that,” he growled into the camera, his hand shaking as he kept the lens focused on where you squeezed around him. “She’s squeezing me so tight—it nearly hurts. Fuck, I’m gonna cum too.”
His balls slapped against your pussy with every hard thrust. He was chasing his release—his face twisted into a mask of pleasure as he felt his balls tighten and his cock twitch. You were already past your high, but Bucky forced you to ride it out for him.
“Shit, the idea of her having sex with someone else...” he snarled to the camera, his voice breaking as he slammed deep into your pulsing heat. “...of someone else’s cock buried deep in what’s supposed to be mine. I’m gonna fucking lose it.”
You cried out his name, your nails digging into his back as he used your body ruthlessly, just like one of his sex toys.
“Fuck, fuck—shit—fuck!”
A litany of curses spilled from his lips as his cock buried all the way to the hilt.
He shuddered violently, pinning your hips flat against the mattress as his orgasm tore through him, flooding every surface of your womb with thick, warm seed. He held himself deep, marking you from the inside out, leaving his cum to fill you completely until it was dripping onto the sheets.
Bucky brought the camera down with a shaky hand, capturing the way your puffy slit was pulsing around his cock, and the way his cum trickled out of you.
“There we go,” he breathed, satisfied. “Captured every second of it, baby.”
Ensuring that you kept your end of the bargain, Bucky uploaded the video to his profile.
Before hitting post, he texted you multiple times to make absolutely sure you were comfortable with your face and username being shown.
When you finally agreed, you never expected the video to blow up overnight. You knew Bucky was a popular content creator, but perhaps the sight of a woman’s body—your body—in the thumbnail stood out against his usual solo content.
Today, you sat at your desk, pulling up his profile out of habit, just like the ritual you used to have ten months ago. Your mouse hovered over the video, and you hesitated before clicking.
Two million views.
A wave of nerves hit you—the thought of being perceived by two million strangers while completely bare and vulnerable was overwhelming. Yet, for some reason, the idea of it excited you more than a girl like you should admit.
You finally clicked the link. The video started with you stripping for him, then dropping to your knees, and just minutes later, you were sprawled out bare on the mattress while he pumped you full of his cum.
You were already soaking through your underwear just watching it, your thighs rubbing together shamelessly from the memory of being filled by Bucky. The way his breathy moans sounded so much more enthusiastic than they ever did in his solo videos filled you with absolute pride.
You made him feel that good.
And apparently, you made his entire comment section feel good, too.
Daddywants2play: hooooooooolyy fuck. she’s so hot. my balls are so heavy just from watching her tits bounce. u lucky dog
Bwasexual: Omg!!! Do you guys need a third?
pegm3please: God so fucking hot. Is she going to upload anytime soon?? Just gave her a follow.
Your brow rose at the last comment.
Gave her a follow?
Instinctively, your mouse hovered to the top right of the screen where the notification bell was displayed.
It showed over 99+ alerts. You were used to seeing two at the absolute maximum—a like from Bucky on one of your comments, and his reply.
Bracing yourself, you clicked it, and a wall of notifications flooded the screen with dozens of different usernames following you. Your follower count had gone from exactly one—Bucky’s account—to well over a thousand in just a single night.
You couldn’t believe it.
People loved watching you.
They loved you enough that, despite you having zero videos posted, no profile picture, and an entirely blank description, they were hitting follow anyway—eagerly expecting to see more. You mentally patted yourself on the back for having the foresight to remove the links to your personal social media accounts beforehand.
A warm flush traced your face. The crazy part was, it wasn’t from embarrassment at all.
It was pure excitement.
Without thinking, you snatched your phone off the desk and dialed a familiar number. It only rang twice before a deep, sleepy voice answered on the other end.
“Hey, doll,” Bucky rasped. “Everything okay?”
“I just saw the video,” you said, the words tumbling out fast. You couldn’t contain your excitement. “I woke up to a little over a thousand followers—and there are so many comments!”
He paused on the line. You could hear the rustle of sheets as he sat up.
“… And are you okay with that? Do you want me to take it down?”
You bit your lip. You couldn’t believe what you were going to say next. “I’m more than okay with it. But… um…”
Bucky’s brow furrowed. He pulled the phone away from his face for a split second to make sure you were still on the line.
“Sweetheart, what is it?”
A breathy sigh left your lips. “I… I want to become a content creator, too. Will you teach me?”
And just like that, the air left Bucky’s lungs completely.
Everything he could possibly want—and more—was finally being served to him on a silver platter.
This meant more videos, more collaborations, and endless opportunities to have you completely to himself.
“Yes,” he swiped at his camcorder and car keys. “I’m coming over. Be ready for me.”
hopping off the bed turn my swag on. happy almost one year anniversary to pornstar bucky and the first bwa collab. once again, thank you to my dear friend @unificsation for the premise. thank you to @barnesonly for the cyber sex bucky edit she made inspired by this fic that i goon to nightly. thank you to @blowingbarnes and @buckybunni for being pornstar bucky's number one fan (i never forgot) thank you to @houseofhyde for giving me the inspiration to write this after sum silly joke. and thank you for all the love and support for part one. i would like to dedicate this oscar to you guys /j
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Summary:: a bad grade ruins you. Problem is, he's a moody,grumpy old man. Oh,wait — that's your type.Tension slowly builds between you until it snaps,and so does he.
Warnings:: I don't even know where to start lol,18+only,Student–professor dynamics,age gap (not stated),smut,angry — ANGRY sex,spanking,Bucky being a grumpy man,reader making a very QUESTIONABLE life choice lmao,Yelena being a menace,PIV then doggy,I probably lost it at the anatomy lol,table sex,he calls reader pathetic,sir kink,unprotected sex,no aftercare
Word count:: 12k
Bucky Barnes never imagined he’d find himself in the hallowed halls of academia.Once, a long time ago—in a completely different life—he had something to do with politics. Too much, in fact. Long enough that he eventually turned his back on it. There was nothing heroic about the decision, no grand realization. He just… got tired of it. Also..he sucked as a congressman,but that's beside the point.
The university, though, it felt like the next step,or at least it was the only place where people didn’t ask too many questions.Still, strange, wasn’t it? Him, a teacher? Bucky didn’t fully understand it himself.
He got a position in the history department, and if he had to choose, Modern Military History (20th–21st Century) was the only subject he could more or less speak about.Not from books or lectures, no, from somewhere else entirely.
Maybe that was the trouble all along. He didn't teach like the others, those petty and dull idiots.He didn’t care how well someone could memorize dates, and he was especially unimpressed by nicely worded but empty answers. His students quickly learned that you couldn’t “slide by” in his class.
You either knew the answer… or you were lost. And if you were lost? He knew it in a heartbeat.Most of them hated him, called him cruel, impossible, but it didn't sting. Truth was, he knew it too. He had become this bitter old soul. A grumpy old man.
At the university, Bucky Barnes’s name became a concept pretty quickly.Not in a good way.
Freshmen heard about him in their very first week. Not officially, of course. Information like that never made it into any syllabus or orientation guide. It was passed along in hallways.
“Don’t take Barnes’s class.”
And if you were foolish enough to ask why, you'd just get this hollow little laugh. The 'you poor thing, you'll understand soon enough' kind.
There were stories too.Small, half-true,half-exaggerated ones.That once he just stared at a student for minutes after an answer, without saying a word.That he sent someone out of class simply because they “weren’t mentally present.” That he never raised his voice, yet somehow it was worse than shouting.
It all began in a dreamy haze of coffee steam, where laughter intertwined with the faint glow of your phone screen, half-listening to your friends' chatter. And then someone dropped his name.
“Barnes.”
“Jesus, no.”The reaction was immediate
“Who the hell is Barnes?”Your heart fluttered, igniting curiosity.
For a moment there was silence, then your friend just shook her head.“Modern Military History. History department.And if you have a choice, don’t take him.”
For some reason, it drew you in, didn't scare you away. It was intriguing, like a mystery.Not that you needed it.Your International Relations degree already had plenty of courses,but it would look good. A slightly “harder” class. Something more than pure theory. Seemed like a good idea then.It didn’t last long.
After the first class, you knew you made a mistake, tragic mistake. It wasn't about not understanding; it was deeper. There were no easy answers,you could memorize. No safe feeling that if you studied enough, you’d be fine.
Bucky Barnes didn't teach like that; he asked questions,and when you answered, he didn’t tell you if you were right.
He just looked at you,judging you all silently.Like he was waiting for something you hadn’t even managed to put into words yet.
You're a good student. International Relations make sense—connections, analysis, all the right things to say. But this…this was different. Every answer felt incomplete. Wrong.
But it just… didn't work. And that was the real tragedy. You were lost.Your notes were filled with unanswered questions, lines underlined desperately. Things that would've been clear in another class, but here… it always felt like you were missing something.
When you got your first paper back, you already had a feeling.The red ink wasn’t excessive. It wasn’t covered in corrections, not every second line crossed out.Just a grade. And underneath a short note.“try harder”
It wasn't just one bad grade. The first felt like some warning.Something you’d fix later,find the right answers,read more.But then the second came, and the third... after that, who's counting? Your Pages were bleeding with red ink.But you knew, that your answers weren't a mess,that's what made it ache. It just wasn't enough for him.
You really tried, to see the world through his eyes. But the more you chased the answers,the deeper you fell.
Then came that paper in the hazy night, the same tired hope that maybe this time things would turn out a little brighter. But the grade, it was just the same as always. And the note at the end made you snap.
'You're still writing what you think I want, not what you really mean.This isn't high school. Effort doesn't buy you nothing here.'
Suddenly it wasn’t just that you weren’t doing well.It was that he could see it clearly,and he wasn’t helping you fix it.Just letting you run into the same wall again and again.
That night, you just sat there, lost in your notes and books like they could help you. But you weren't exactly reading,you just...well,stared.You closed the book, made up your mind. You were going to office hours.
...
The café was crowded, as it always was after classes.Somehow, you stumbled upon a table tucked away in the corner.Your cup sat half-empty in front of you, but you hadn’t even noticed how long you’d been stirring the same coffee.
“Okay,” Yelena finally spoke, watching you with narrowed eyes.“Something's off.”
“Nothing at all,” you whispered, a little too fast.
Natasha let out a quiet scoff over her mug.“That wasn’t ‘nothing’s wrong’ stirring,” she noted dryly. “That was ‘I’m about to do something stupid’ stirring.”
Wanda tilted her head, studying you carefully.“What happened?”
You hesitate, then let out a sigh. “Barnes.”
That was enough. A name like a curse.Yelena recoiled. “No.No, no, no.”
“I haven’t even said anything yet,” you looked at her.
“Don't need to, sugarplum,”she murmured. “Anything with 'Barnes' in it is automatically a tragedy.”
Natasha set her mug down and looked at you.“What grade did you get?”
“That's beside the point—”
“How bad?”
You went quiet for a moment.“…it was more than one bad grade.”
Wanda’s expression tightened slightly.
“Okay,” she said softly. “And?”
You took a breath, like you were about to drown.“I'm going to his office hours.”
Yelena laughed. “This is a joke, right?”
“No.”
“Then it's even sadder.”
Natasha just stared. “Are you sure,you want this?”
“No,” you confessed.“But nothing is working out. No matter how hard I try. And…” you shrugged. “At least I'll find out what he wants.”
"Nothing," Yelena breathed, "That's the cruelty of it. He wants nothing, just stares until you see all your life's pretty little mistakes shimmering back at you."
Wanda spoke up softly, "Heard someone went to see him… came out more lost than before."
“Thanks, that’s very reassuring,” you muttered.
Natasha shook her head slowly "He doesn't play by the rules, sweetie."
You raised a brow, a flicker of skepticism. "This is a university. There must be rules."
Natasha’s gaze darkened for a moment.“Yeah,” she said quietly. “There should be.”
Yelena leaned in, "Don't let him pull you into that strange, wicked game of his, okay?"
“He won’t,” you said.
“Everyone says that.”
Wanda took a gentler approach.“If you go… just… don’t take what he says too personally,” she said softly. “He’s… different.”
"Yeah, I noticed."
Natasha sighed. "When are you going, love?"
"Tomorrow."
Yelena groaned, "Too late to stop you, I suppose?"
"Yes."
"Shame."
For a moment, there was silence.The noise of the café buzzed dully around you, but at the table everything remained strangely tense.And you just stared into your cup.Because you had already decided.
When the time came standing in front of the door, it suddenly didn’t seem like such a good idea anymore.
The hallway was too quiet.Occasionally someone passed in the background, but the sounds were muted, like they didn’t quite belong here.
Your hand hovered over the doorknob, not quite daring to touch.This was foolish.Just a simple consultation.Nothing more.And yet…something held you back.Maybe all those stories you’d heard about him. Or the way he looked at you in class, like he knew exactly that you weren’t where you were supposed to be.
Or maybe it was simply the unknown,you had no idea what to expect.For a moment, the thought crossed your mind to just leave.To make excuses, to postpone until the next grade.
Then you sighed and pressed the handle down.The office was surprisingly neat. Not warm, not inviting, just… neat.Papers lined up on his desk with a soldier's precision, a few books stacked in the right place.
There were no personal items. No photos, no small details that might reveal anything about him.As if he didn’t really inhabit the space.
He was sitting behind the desk.He was studying a paper, pen in hand, as if he had completely forgotten that anyone might come in. Or as if he was deliberately letting you stand there like an idiot.
Then finally, he spoke up,his voice was like velvet."Close the door."
You obeyed on reflex, a puppet dancing to his tune.The click echoed too loudly in the silence. Only then did he lift his gaze.
And he looked at you, with the same knowing look as in class. Too goddamn sharp. He held it a moment too long, then laid the pen down."You wanted to see me."
No shit,Sherlock.You swallowed the first response that came to your mind and stepped closer. “Yes. About my… grades.”
His eyes drifted to the papers, like he already knew which ones you meant."I know," he breathed.
Of course, he did. He always did."Sit," he murmured, gesturing to a chair.You sat, maybe a little more stiffly than you would have liked. He leaned back in his chair, arms resting loosely on the desk, but his gaze never left you.
“My grades,” you sighed. “They’re not really… going well.”
“I noticed,” he replied dryly.
You were about to beat this man up.
“What don’t you understand?”
You blinked.“Well… all of it. I’m trying, but—”
“Specifically.”His voice wasn’t loud, but it stopped you.“Which part?”
For a moment, you searched for the words.“I don’t know what you expect.”
Bucky tensed, but he didn't say a thing.He just leaned in, pulled a page from the stack, and placed it on the desk.He pushed it toward you.It was your paper,covered in notes.
“Here,” he whispered, showing a paragraph. “What did you mean by this?”
You looked down at your words. It was familiar once, but now it just made you more confused.“That… intervention causes instability in the long term.”
“Yes, you wrote that down,” he crooned. “But what does that really mean?”
You looked up, searching his expression.“Well… that—”
“I’m not asking for the textbook definition.”
Your jaw tightened,like a piano wire about to snap.“Then what are you asking for?”
Bucky watched you, like he was deciding if this was worth the headache.Then he stood up,walked around the desk and stopped beside you.
Not too close, but just enough that you could feel his presence.He pointed at the paper.“If you want to do this, then do it properly. What does this paragraph mean?”
You took a breath.“Tension increases. Local forces… react, and—”
“How?”
You faltered for a moment.“Well… resistance, conflict—”
“That’s very general.”
Everything went silent after that.He didn’t move, just watched you,and you sat there, staring at your failures,feeling like you had to rethink everything from the beginning.
Bucky finally spoke.“It’s not that you don’t study.It’s that you don’t go deep enough.”
It was the truth, not a cruel lie and that's why it stung so much.“Okay,” you whispered finally, your voice strung tight. “And how do I dive deeper into this?”
Bucky stepped back to the desk.“Start by not speaking in generalities.” He picked up his pen.“Specific situation. Specific consequence.This isn’t an IR essay.”
He leaned over the paper, underlined a few words, then shifted it so you could see better.“If you write ‘instability,’ then break it down. Who reacts? How? What happens next? Don’t skip steps.”
You watched him as he spoke. He didn’t overexplain, didn’t try to phrase things nicely—he just went through the mistakes as if it were the most natural thing in the world. There was no impatience in him, but not much kindness either.
“Look,sir,I tried to be specific,” you said, a bit more defensive than you intended.
He cut you off, a smile playing on his lips, so calm it was unsettling.“It's not specific enough,” “This”—he tapped the page—“is an introduction. Not analysis.”
You bit your lip, gazing back at the page. He was right,it really did seem… empty. Like you had just circled around something without actually saying it.
Bucky went on,his voice was low.“It's not about pretty words.The goal is to understand what you’re talking about. If you understood it, you wouldn’t write it like this.”
"Then how, tell me?" you asked, more honestly than before.He looked at you, piercing, as if deciding whether you were just playing a part.
Then his gaze returned to the paper.“Pick a specific example. A situation. Say, an intervention. Describe what happened step by step. Who acted, who reacted, what the consequences were. Don’t skip anything.If you can do that, it’ll be enough.”
You listened, trying to catch his words. For the first time, it felt within reach, a glimmer of hope. It wasn't easy, no, but at least there was something to hold onto.
But your eyes wandered from the script,to him.How he sat there, a statue in the twilight, as if this whole performance meant nothing. No nerves, no masks, no desperate attempts to impress. Just a soldier, standing his post.
And the strangest thing of all was,how cold he was, not in a polite way,but in that closed off way.You were left wondering if he had always been like this, a ghost haunting his own life.Or if it was just…what the war had made him.
Everyone knew the legend, the stories whispered in the dead of night. The rumors, the headlines, the half-truths painting a portrait of the Winter Soldier;that past no one talked about openly, but everyone knew was there.Perhaps, that was the answer.
“Are you paying attention?” His voice pulled you back.
You looked up at him.“Yes.”
Bucky was staring right through you, the pen still poised like a weapon.He held your gaze for a moment longer, as if checking, then looked back down at the paper
The professor continued speaking as if nothing had happened.“You don’t need to write a novel.” he drawled, eyes skimming your notes.“It just needs to be precise. If you can’t lay it out properly within two pages, then you don’t actually understand it well enough.”
He tapped the paper once more with his pen, then set it aside.“Use your sources, but don’t hide behind them. That’s the other problem.”
You nodded, though by now you were only half paying attention to what he was saying. The other half of your focus had shifted—to him. It was hard not to. Up close, he was even more striking than in class.Not in some picture-perfect kinda way. His face, a sharper cut than most and his gaze carried a constant trace of fatigue, even as it stayed alert.
And then there was that beard of hid—salt and pepper, just enough to make it obvious he wasn’t your age. Not even close.That alone should have been enough to put a firm stop to any kind of interest, and yet…The lines visible beneath his shirt didn’t exactly help your situation at all.
You flinched slightly when he spoke again.“Will this work?”
You quickly looked back down at the paper.“Yes, I think so.I’ll rewrite it.”
“Good.”
Silence settled between you at his words.You were about to stand when he spoke again.“You’re not bad, by the way.”
You froze for half a second, then looked up at him.“Sorry?”
Bucky didn't meet your gaze at first, just turned a page in your notes.“Your thinking isn’t bad,” he added. “You just don’t use it.”
Gee thanks. This man really knew how to charm a woman,not that he was trying to. Still.. how do you reply to something like this? 'thanks,professor.That's really kind of you.'
“Thank you…” you said eventually, a little uncertain.
He just gave a small nod,as he chuckled.“Bring it back next week.”
That chuckle made your day,as you moved toward the door, you caught yourself almost looking back,but you didn’t.There was this strange tension still clinging to you in the hallway.
Your steps were automatic, but your thoughts were somewhere else entirely—back to that desk, the papers, the way he looked at you, the way he said, 'You're not bad'.
You couldn't decide if it helped at all, or if it just left you more lost than before.
...
Natasha, Wanda, and Yelena were already sitting at the café at the same table as last time.It was as if they always gravitated to the same spot whenever someone arrived with drama.
Yelena spotted you first. A smile barely gracing her lips. "Well?" she breathed, leaning back. "Was it survivable, or are we diving straight into the trauma now?"
Natasha didn’t even look up from her mug.“Judging by your silence, it wasn’t fun.”
You sat down among them, and for a moment, only the smell of coffee filled the space between you."It wasn't… bad," you sighed eventually.
Yelena laughed. "That's what you say when it was real bad, huh?"
“It’s not what I expected,” you continued. “He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t humiliate you. He just… looks at you. A lot.”
Yelena just snorted, like it was some tired old joke, replayed a hundred times in her mind. “Yeah, that’s what they call it at the university. The Bucky stare.”
You blinked, all innocent. "The… what, exactly?"
Natasha's lips curved into this faint smile.
“Don’t start,” Yelena said quickly, though she was already laughing. “Seriously. It’s a thing. If he looks at you like that, people either rewrite their entire assignment or suddenly discover a new life purpose.”
Natasha shrugged.“So,” she said, grinning, “did you also get hit with the ‘Bucky stare’?”
You went all quiet at the question, then just shrugged.“Well… yeah. Because I have to rewrite my essay.”
A second of silence followed,then Yelena burst out laughing— like that was the best punchline she’d heard all day.“Of course,” she said between laughs. “That is so typical.”
Natasha just smirked, shaking her head a little, like she couldn't decide whether to cry or laugh with you.
"That's not 'getting hit'," Yelena says, still grinning, "that's a diagnosis, baby."
Wanda laughed more quietly, mostly into her cup, but there was a warm, familiar softness at the corner of her eyes.And you just sat there among them, and for the first time that day, it didn’t feel quite so heavy.
Wanda tilted her head slightly.“And what did he say?”
You went quiet for a moment. The words still felt strange on your tongue.“He said I wasn't bad.”
Yelena almost choked on her coffee.“He said that?”
Silence drifted back,Natasha slowly placed her mug down."From him... that's practically a love letter."
Your breath hitched at her words.A sudden warmth crept up your neck, painting your cheeks in a rosy hue. Did you just blush because of that grumpy old man?
"It wasn't sweet," you snapped back. "It was more like he was stating a fact."
Wanda smiled faintly.“That might actually sound worse than Yelena’s version.”
Yelena leaned back in her chair. “And what the hell do you even want from this man?”
Breath caught in your throat.Oh,you had ideas,a lot...“I just… want to understand,” you said quietly at last. “What he’s asking for. Because what I’m doing now—it’s not enough for him.”
Natasha's eyes narrowed just a touch. "And what if what he's asking for is just… impossible?"
You didn't say anything to that.You were determined to do the impossible.The noise of the café seeped back in between you—the clink of cups, the murmur of conversations, laughter somewhere in the background.
Wanda broke the silence. "What exactly did he say?"
You sighed.“He said not to write in generalities. To be specific. And that if I can’t explain it in two pages, then I don’t understand it.”
A ragged breath escaped your lips,“He said not to write in generalities. To be specific. And that if I can’t explain it in two pages, then I don’t understand it.Still… there’s some logic to it,” you said. “It’s like he actually wants me to think.”
Natasha didn’t answer right away. She just watched you for a moment. Then, with slow, theatrical grace, she set her mug down.“Hmm.”
Yelena’s head snapped up immediately.“What does ‘hmm’ mean?”
The redhead was still watching you.“Nothing,” she said, her voice dripping with dangerous innocence. “Just interesting how much you’re trying to understand him.”
You frowned, feeling your heart beat a little faster against your ribs.“That’s the point, isn’t it?”
“Sure,” Yelena cut in,a glamorous smirk spreading across her face. “It’s just that people usually aren’t this enthusiastic about someone tearing their essay apart.”
A faint smile appeared on Wanda’s lips too.“You do talk about him a bit more than about an average professor,” she noted gently
“I don’t,” you shot back too quickly, your voice betraying you.
Yelena laughed.“Oh, you do.”
Natasha tilted her head slightly, her red hair falling over her shoulder.“You’re saying things like ‘there’s logic in it,’ ‘he actually makes me think’…” she listed with cold, calm precision. “That’s already bordering on a secret fan club.”
“I’m not a fan of him,” you pressed your lips together, feeling the sudden rush of heat color your cheeks.
“Yet,” Yelena added immediately, her voice sweet as poison.
“Yelena,” Wanda said, though a soft laughter danced in her throat.You just looked down at the dark swirl of your coffee for a moment, as if that bitter black liquid held all the beauties of the world.
Yelena leaned forward, resting her elbows on the cold wooden table.“So it wasn’t just the ‘Bucky stare’ that caught you…”
You looked up, meeting her gaze.“Then what?”
Yelena’s smirk widened.“It was Bucky himself.”
“Nothing happened!” you shot back instantly.
“Yet,” Yelena repeated.And though you tried to hold your breath, to keep your composure, you felt the sudden, burning rush of fever color your cheeks.The worst part of it all…was that maybe, just a little, they were right.
The weekend slipped through your fingers almost without you noticing.On Friday night, your plans had been so sweet, so simple. You only wanted to "take a quick look" at the essay. Just open the screen, read the words, maybe rewrite a line or two.
But then, you got stuck.Suddenly, your notes were scattered across the wooden desk, heavy books left wide open everywhere, and the laptop screen cast a glow into the darkness. Beside you, the coffee had turned ice-cold hours ago, but you didn't even notice how many times you had refilled the porcelain cup.
With every single sentence you typed, his voice was there, echoing softly in the back of your mind.
“Don’t speak in generalities.”
“What exactly does this mean?”
“This is nothing but an introduction.”
God,you wanted to impress him.You rewrote the first paragraph.Then, you tore it apart and did it again.And then, one more time.Every word you chose felt too empty, too hollow.
You weren't just searching for what you were supposed to say; you were chasing after what it actually meant. Who reacts. How they fall. What happens when the damage is done. You built the thoughts step by step.And it began to take shape.It wasn't perfect but it wasn’t entirely foggy anymore.
On Sunday night, you leaned back in your chair, your eyes fixed on the glowing screen. The essay sat there waiting for you. It was shorter than the last draft.
Finally, with a soft click, you closed the laptop. A quiet sigh escaped your lips into the empty room.
The weekend died too quickly.By Monday morning, that familiar, heavy ache was already blooming in your chest. The essay lay hidden in the depths of your bag, feeling heavier than it ever should have. It was only a few pieces of paper.And yet... it meant everything. It meant him.
Time dragged its feet, moving in slow motion as the hour of your meeting crawled closer. The afternoon classes stretched out into an endless blur, the professors' words losing all meaning. You found yourself staring at the exact same line of text over and over again, your mind too haunted to understand a single word.
Then, suddenly, the world narrowed down. You were standing right in front of him.The same heavy wooden door. Only this time, you knew the danger that waited on the other side.You closed your eyes for a bittersweet second, letting a shaky breath escape your lips.
Your hand moved on its own, operating on pure instinct, but it froze for one fragile moment right on the brass doorknob.You’ve been in this room before.You survived it once.This is just another hour of your life. Get it together.
Finally, you turned the handle and stepped inside.The office was exactly as you had left it. It was orderly. Too orderly.And there he was,sitting behind the heavy desk, hunched over his papers like the rest of the universe didn't even exist.
Then, his voice broke the heavy silence.“Close the door.”
You shut the door behind you, and this time, the click of the lock sounded less like a trap or maybe you were just getting used to the cage.
His gaze found yours in a fraction of a second.“Did you rewrite it?”
Right, straight to the point.You nodded, your heart hammering against your ribs as you reached into your bag for the paper.
“Yes.” You held it out to him. For less than a heartbeat, the tips of your fingers brushed against his skin. It was barely a touch, nothing more, but the sudden heat of it rushed through your veins like a drug.He took it from your hand immediately.
You sat down in the leather chair before he could even tell you to. You knew the rhythm of his game by now.He scanned the first page. His eyes movedp across your lines, pausing only once or twice at certain words.He didn't say a word.Without even realizing it, your hands tightly clasped together in your lap.
After what felt like an eternity, he turned the page.Finally, he rested the paper onto the dark wood of the desk.
“This is actually something,” he said at last.There was no praise in his voice. It was just a cold, hard fact.
A tiny, hidden breath escaped your lips—you hadn't even realized you'd been holding it inside, suffocating in his presence.
"At least I can see you're trying to think now," he murmured.It was almost a compliment.
He tapped the paper with a slow, deliberate finger."This part right here," he said, pointing to a paragraph where the ink seemed to bleed into the margins. "It actually… means something."
He looked up, his eyes catching the fading light. A smile touched the corner of his lips."A dangerous development."
You blinked, caught in the sudden warmth of the room."Excuse me?"
He leaned back, untethered, looking for the first time like a man off the clock, a soldier putting down his armor in the dark."If you keep this up, I might actually be forced to give you a passing grade."
a second, the world stood perfectly still.Then, a laugh slipped from your chest. Did he just make a joke?
It caught him off guard.His brow arched, and a short, dry chuckle escaped him."Don't misunderstand," he added quickly, his voice dropping back into that familiar gravity. "It's still far from perfect."
"I figured," you said, the smile still lingering on your lips.The corner of his mouth twitched again. "But at least it doesn’t hurt to read anymore."
Huh."That’s progress," you shot back.
He looked up at you then, truly looked at you. For a fleeting second, it wasn't that sharp gaze he always wore. It was something else—something blue,nocturnal and soft.Oh,you were fucked.
"So… does this mean I'm not a completely hopeless case?" The question was half-joke, half-dark truth.
Bucky’s brow arched."I didn’t say that."
"Shame," you sighed. "I was just starting to believe it."
"Look at you," he murmured, his eyes drifting back down to the ink on the page. "You're growing.Talking back already."
"Just adapting," you shrugged, your voice dripping with sweet indifference. "Survival instinct."
He looked up again at that."Good," he said, his voice dropping an octave."That’s a useful skill."
Bucky leaned back over the desk and pulled the paper in front of him again.“This here,” he said, his pen cutting a definitive line underneath a sentence. “It’s still too general. If you write ‘escalation,’ then you have to show how it happens. Who moves first, who reacts, what the consequence is.”
He pushed the page slightly closer, a small gesture meant to invite you into his space. But you… you didn’t really see it.
Instinctively, you leaned forward, squinting at the black ink on the page.Bucky paused,the steady rhythm of his lecture just stopped. He looked at you, his gaze curious in the quiet, before he slowly tilted his head to the side.“What are you doing?” he murmured.
You looked up, caught off guard by the sudden stillness. “What?”
His eyes stayed locked on yours, but that strict, academic expression was completely gone.“You’re squinting.”
A second of pure silence hung between you. Then you exhaled, letting your shoulders drop as you gave up the act.“Yeah…” you shrugged, a tiny, helpless smile playing on your lips. “I can’t really see from here.”
Bucky laughed,It wasn't that restrained, quiet chuckle from before.It was a short, genuine laugh that completely broke through his usual seriousness. Hearing it made something untamed spark in your chest, and you laughed too.
“Are you serious?” he asked, the warmth of his smile still lingering.
“Completely,” you nodded. “I just need it… a bit closer.”
“Let’s start with you actually seeing what you’re doing wrong,” he murmured, his voice dropping low.
“That would help,” you muttered, the words disappearing into the space between you.
Paper in hand, he rose from his chair and walked around the desk.You instinctively straightened your posture as he drew near. He didn't rush, nor did he hesitate—he simply stepped into your space with an easy grace.
He placed the paper on the desk right in front of you, then leaned over you slightly, resting one hand on the edge of the page.“Can you see it now?” he murmured.
He was too close.He wasn't touching you, he hadn't even fully bent down over you—but his presence suddenly became overwhelmingly real. His scent, his voice, the calm.
“Yes,” you finally said, a second too late. “Yes, I can see it now.” you added.
“Great.”His voice drifted back to its usual quiet cool, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. His finger slowly traced the lines of text.“Right here,” he pointed to a sentence. “This is almost good. But you’re still skipping a step.”
You nodded, though for a fleeting second, your mind was anywhere but on the words.“I understand,” you said softly.
He didn't speak for a moment, the silence stretching tight between you. Then, he leaned a fraction closer to point out another line.“And here, this is better,” he added. “Do you see the difference?”
This time, you actually looked at the paper, desperate for a distraction.“Yes…” you said slowly. “Here it’s actually broken down.”
“Exactly.”
You leaned in a little as well, just to take another look at the corrections. And somehow… it stayed that way.Your hands remained on the desk, not fully pulled back, because you were still pretending to read the fading ink on the paper. His hands were there too, anchoring the other side of the page.Too close.
His metal arm caught the pale light differently than anything else in the room. It looked colder. Foreign. A heavy relic from a different life. And yet… it felt completely natural on him.For a moment, neither of you moved.Then Bucky’s gaze dropped to your hands.
He had only just noticed the dangerously small distance between your skin and his cold steel. A small tension crossed his face, a sudden fracture in his composure.“Sorry,”
Then he pulled his metal hand back slightly on the dark wood of the desk.“Sometimes… I forget,” he murmured.His voice was more rigid now, but it wasn't cold.
You glanced up at him.“It’s fine,” you said quickly, your voice barely a breath.For a heartbeat, he still didn’t look at you. He stared down at the desk, lost in some distant thought.
Then he finally raised his eyes.He looked...vulnerable in a way that made your heart skip.“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he added.
You instinctively shook your head.“You didn’t.”
Silence settled over the room again. The paper stayed between you, but his hands no longer hovered quite as close.
“That’ll be enough for now,” Bucky said.
You nodded, fingers lingering on the edge of the mahogany desk.“Thank you,” you whispered.
“Don’t thank me,” he replied, not even looking up. “Work with it.”
You finally turned toward the door.“Bye,” you said, looking back over your shoulder.
“Bye,” he answered simply.
The heavy wood door clicked shut behind you. You started walking. One high heel clicking against the floor. Then another.
Panic crept into your mind.Your bag still held your notebook, your essay, your notes. Everything was fine.
Except one thing.You hadn’t agreed on the next time.He hadn’t given you a time. Hadn’t said whether you could come again. Hadn’t said “bring it back next week,” like before.
You stood there in the hallway, staring back at the door.Then you let out a slow breath.“Okay… what was that?” you whispered.
...
The music hit you first, even before the door.Inside, the place was dim, washed in flickering lights and a bass so loud it seemed designed to erase thought entirely. People blurred into each other in the space, glasses clinked, someone laughed too loudly somewhere behind you.
You just stood there in the doorway.“Okay,” Yelena’s voice dripped beside you, sharp as a switchblade. “Something is very wrong.”
Wanda observed you more carefully, sipping something dark, but she nodded too. “It shows on your face, darling.”
“What shows on my face?” you asked automatically, too quickly.
Yelena grinned. “That you either failed or fell in love.”
“Yelena! I'm not in love with him.”
Natasha glanced at you sideways. “So you failed?”
“I didn’t fail,” you said eventually, staring at your chipped fingernails.
“So what is it then?” Yelena commented, leaning against the seat.
You didn’t answer for a moment, watching the ice melt in someone else's abandoned drink.“The consultation… was weird.”
Wanda leaned forward slightly, her silver rings catching the blue light. “Weird how?”
You ran a hand through your hair, completely undone. “He was explaining something, pointing at the paper, and I couldn’t really see because I was squinting.”
“That already sounds bad,” Yelena muttered.
“And then he asked what I was doing, and I said I couldn’t see that far.”
Yelena burst out laughing, loud enough to wake the dead.“You what?”
“I couldn’t see!” you defended yourself, burying your face in your hands. “What was I supposed to say?”
“‘Excuse me, professor, I have a romantic proximity issue.Come closer.” Yelena joked.
“It wasn't even romantic!”
Natasha set her cup down with a soft click. “For now.”
“Natasha!”
Wanda tried to stay serious, but her eyes were glittering with amusement. “And… him?” she asked .
“He… laughed.”
That shifted the air at the table for a second. The teasing faded.Yelena slowed down, her glass stopping halfway to her lips. “Wait. He laughed?”
Natasha looked at you, her gaze turning serious. “That’s new.”
“He’s not as cold as everyone says.” you explained.
Yelena snorted. “Oh, he’s cold. Just in the ‘legend slowly warming up’ phase.”
Wanda tilted her head slightly. “So what now?”
You shrugged, the weight of the hallway returning to crush your chest. “I don’t know. I don’t even know if there will be a next time. He didn't say.”
Then Yelena leaned back, crossing her legs.“This man functions like a badly documented DLC.”
Natasha nodded slowly, a knowing smile playing on her lips. “You’re going back.”
It was the day of the essay submission in class.Nothing special had happened before it. Same room, same chairs, the same low rustling sound students always made when they tried to figure out how much they were supposed to fear this course.
You placed your paper on the desk with the others.Bucky walked down the row, collecting them one by one. He didn’t say much—just the occasional nod, a brief glance at each submission.
When he reached yours,h took it, skimmed it, then placed it in front of him like all the rest.After a few minutes of silence, he continued the lecture.
At the end, he told you that this is better.The class slowly ended, students started packing up, chairs scraped, conversations began to form.
You gathered your things too.And, completely irrationally, it suddenly hit you. You expected more.All that effort, all that overthinking—just this?
Sure it was a better grade and he gave you half a sentance.You should have moved on.As you stood up, the room gradually emptied around you.
Bucky was already turning his attention to the next stack of papers.And you walked out with that strange, hard-to-name feeling that something you had treated as important had suddenly become… ordinary.
The hallway was already half full by the time you stepped out of the classroom—familiar voices, laughter, hurried footsteps blending into a kind of restless background noise as everyone rushed to their next class or made their escape home.
“So?” Yelena was on you immediately, like she’d been waiting there the whole time. “Did you survive?”
You stopped in front of them for a moment before answering.“It was better,” you said finally.“I got a better grade.”
Yelena let out a short, satisfied huff.“Finally. That means we’re celebrating.”
“That’s good,” Natasha nodded. “Told you he wouldn’t destroy you.”
But Wanda didn’t look away.“And?”
You hesitated, then shrugged lightly.“That’s it.”
A brief silence settled between you.Yelena narrowed her eyes.“What do you mean, ‘that’s it’?”
You exhaled.“He took it, looked it over, said it was better… and that was it.”
Natasha tilted her head, watching you more closely now.“You don’t seem very happy about that.”
“But that was the goal, wasn’t it?” you said, trying for something casual. “A better grade.”
“Sure,” Yelena replied dryly. “And yet you look like you just got fired.”
“I didn’t get fired!”
“Then what?”
You didn’t answer right away.The hallway felt louder than before.“I don’t know,” you admitted after a moment. “It’s just…”
You glanced down, then back up, your voice softer this time.“It’s just… weird. There was always something before. Now it’s just… over.”
Natasha’s lips curved into a faint smile.“Then go back to office hours.”
You looked at her.“I don't know how...”
“Ask something.”
You sighed, shaking your head.“That’s not how it works.”
Yelena raised an eyebrow.“Oh, it absolutely is.”
After a brief pause, Natasha pushed herself off the wall.“Come on,” she said. “Before you change your mind.” And without really thinking about it, you fell into step beside them.
Yelena watched you intently, her eyes lit up with absolute mischief.“Okay. Then we fix it,” she declared with unwavering confidence.
“Fix what?” you asked, narrowing your eyes at her with instant suspicion, fully aware that her version of 'fixing' usually involved property damage or psychological warfare.
“You,” she shot back without a single second of hesitation.“Obviously. Because right now, you are a complete mess.”
Natasha was already rubbing her temples as if physically bracing herself for the incoming disaster.“This is going to be bad. I can already feel the headache this is going to cause all of us.”
“No, this is going to be brilliant—actually, scratch that, it's going to be a masterpiece of modern strategy,” she corrected.
“Listen to me. If you’re this tragically affected by your professor—”
“I’m not affected!” you interjected, your face flushed with a violent crimson as you tried, and failed, to defend your dignity.
“—then it’s time to completely abandon whatever useless defense mechanism you're running and radically change strategy,” Yelena continued.
Wanda let out a soft laugh, her eyes crinkling as she watched the chaotic dynamic unfold.“I have to admit, I’m genuinely curious to hear what you've come up with.”
“Option one,” Yelena announced proudly, raising a single finger into the air. “You write a catastrophically bad essay.”
You made a sharp noise of protest immediately, your jaw dropping in sheer academic horror.“No! Absolutely not!”
“Yes!” she shot back, as if ruining your academic standing was a perfectly reasonable sacrifice. “Just bad enough that he has no choice but to call you back for another one-on-one consultation.”
Natasha slowly shook her head, looking at Yelena with a mixture of disbelief and mild impression.“That might genuinely be the single worst piece of advice I have ever heard in my entire life.”
“Thank you,” Yelena nodded graciously, accepting the criticism as a high compliment. “But don't clap yet, because there’s more.”
“I’m deeply, deeply scared of whatever else is in your head,” you muttered.
“Option two: you march right up to his desk, look him dead in the eye, and say, ‘I strongly disagree with your evaluation of my work.’”
“But I agree with it! He was completely right!” you stared at her in total disbelief, wondering if she had lost her mind.
“A minor detail, completely irrelevant to the grand scheme,” she waved it off with a dismissive flick of her wrist. “The actual grade doesn't matter. The point is the tension. The point is starting the conversation.”
Wanda was smiling, resting her chin on her hand as she leaned forward.“Okay, I’ll give you that one. That’s definitely more of an excuse to get him alone than the first option.”
“Exactly!” Yelena nodded rapidly, pointing at Wanda with an air of immense satisfaction. “Finally! Someone in this room actually gets the vision.”
Natasha turned her attention away from Yelena and looked down at you.“Or...you could just do what a normal student does and ask him a genuine question about the next lecture topic.”
“That’s too normal, Natasha,” Yelena complained, frowning deeply and crossing her arms. “Where is the flavor? Where is the drama in just being a regular student?”
“None of these options are normal. You people have a distorted view of reality.”
“You’re not normal either right now,” Yelena shot back. “Look at what you’re stressing over.”
Wanda stepped a bit closer to you.“You don’t have to go in there and ‘seduce’ him,” she said gently. “Just… find a simple, human reason to talk to him.”
Natasha nodded encouragingly.“And you can do that. You’re smart, you're capable, and you don't need a crazy scheme.”
Yelena crossed her arms tightly over her chest, a stubborn pout forming on her lips.“But if you do choose option one, you have to tell me first. Because I want to see the look on his face when he reads it.”
“I’m not doing that!” you laughed, finally breaking under the weight of their absurdity.
Yelena grinned at you, her mischievous energy returning in full force as she leaned in closer.“So… now that we've established your lack of options, when exactly are you going back to his office?”
You rolled your eyes so hard it practically hurt.“I’m not going back. The case is closed. I am a ghost to him.”
“Of course you’re not,” Yelena said, her voice dripping with an overwhelming amount of sarcasm.
...
You absolutely didn't mean it seriously.You truly didn’t think you were capable of such reckless stupidity.When Yelena had first loudly blurted out that insane proposition, you had just rolled your eyes so hard it physically hurt, dismissing it as classic Belova chaos.
And yet…here you were, hours later in the suffocating silence of your own room, sitting frozen at your wooden desk, staring blankly at your half-finished essay under the harsh glow of your desk lamp, deliberately crossing out a structured sentence just to painstakingly replace it with something weaker and agonizingly generic.
Your hand hovered, trembling slightly, as the ink tip of your pen paused just a millimeter above the ruined page.
“This is absolutely ridiculous, you have officially lost your mind,” you muttered under your breath, you kept going, dragging the pen across the paper.You didn't ruin the piece completely; you couldn't bring yourself to do something that devastating to your academic pride. It wasn't an aggressively bad essay, or filled with obvious errors. It was just… disappointing.
When you finally leaned back in your chair to review the finished product, a deeply unsettling sensation crept over you.
Once class began, you went through the familiar routine of handing in the assignments along with everyone else. However, you held onto your specific papers for a fraction of a second longer than necessary before placing them onto the growing stack, almost as if you were desperately hoping you could still reclaim them.
Of course, you couldn’t turn back now.Bucky moved methodically down the rows of desks, collecting the pages one by one with an practiced efficiency. When he finally reached your seat, he took your essay in the exact same casual manner as he had taken all the others, offering absolutely no outward reaction.
It was entirely expected, after all, because there was no logical reason for him to behave any differently.He returned to his desk, sat down, and immediately began reading through the submissions.
The entire room fell into a heavy silence, which was punctuated only by the soft, rhythmic rustling of turning paper. During this time, you found yourself paying far too much attention to his every movement, analyzing his posture with an intense focus.
The exact moment he reached your essay, you caught the subtle shift in his demeanor. It was visible in the sudden stillness of his posture as he paused mid-action—not in an obvious way that anyone else in the room would ever detect, but you knew his habits well enough to notice.
He remained focused on your page for a moment significantly longer than necessary, then deliberately flipped back to the previous section to read it once more.Your stomach instantly dropped with anxiety because you knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he had noticed the change.
Even so, he didn’t cast a single glance in your direction or utter a word of disapproval; he simply placed your paper down with the rest of the completed stack and moved on to the next task. Somehow, that complete lack of an immediate confrontation felt infinitely worse than an angry outburst.
He finally stood up to address the room again.“Most of the essays you submitted today… were perfectly fine,” he stated calmly. “A few of them were actually particularly good.And one or two represented a distinct step backward.”
Your heart skipped a beat in your chest, and though he still didn’t look directly at you, you knew with absolute certainty that he was referring to your work.For the very first time since the critique began, he lifted his gaze from the desk, and this time he looked straight at you.
The contact didn’t last long, but it lingered just long enough to deliver an unmistakable message.“We will be talking about this after class,” he said simply.His voice remained incredibly calm and suddenly, you weren’t nearly as confident as you had been before that this entire scheme had been a good idea.
The class went on as if nothing had happened.Bucky explained with the same calm, precise rhythm as always—concepts, examples, questions—everything in its place, everything logical, everything easy to follow.And you… tried to pay attention.You really did.
But your thoughts kept slipping back to the exact same two statements: “A step back” and “We’ll talk about it.” Great, this was a disaster.
Every now and then, you glanced up at him, almost without realizing it.He, on the other hand, didn’t look at you once.As if he had already forgotten the whole thing.
The class slowly drifted toward its inevitable end. Pens slowed down, note-taking completely faded away, and students started shifting impatiently in their seats while bags quietly zipped shut around you. It was that familiar, restless atmosphere when everyone knows the lesson is almost over.
But you didn’t move from your spot. You didn’t pack your things. You just sat there in silence—and waited. You knew exactly that you weren’t going to just walk out of the room with the others.
Bucky closed his notebook and let his gaze sweep across the room for a brief moment.“That’s all for today,” he said clearly.
Chairs moved immediately, casual conversations sparked up, and life seemed to rush back into the room all at once. You stayed exactly where you were. You watched as people slowly filtered out, noticing how the room grew emptier with every passing second.
You didn't rush to move, because you didn’t want it to look like you were staying on purpose—even though it was entirely obvious.Within minutes, only a few of you remained in the classroom. Then there were fewer. Until finally, the last door closed, and it was just you and him.Bucky calmly sorted through the papers on his desk, acting as if your presence didn’t matter to him at all. But he didn’t send you away, and he didn’t look up immediately either. You stood up, then walked over to his desk, taking it step by step, and finally stopped right in front of him.
His steady gaze landed on you immediately, heavy with expectation.“What happened?” he asked.
There was no preamble. He didn't bother with any polite small talk. You held his sharp gaze for half a second before looking away.
You shrugged your shoulders.“I don’t know…” you said, speaking a little too quickly to sound natural. “I just had a lot of other things to do.”
Bucky’s calm expression didn’t change at all.“Did you,” he replied flatly.
“Well… yeah, actually. I’m not even a history major. I just took this class as an elective...”
Even as you said it, you could tell it didn’t sound right, and the words seemed to hang heavily between you.
Bucky’s expression tightened slightly.“I see,” he said, and his voice had gone noticeably colder.“Then was it a conscious decision?” he asked.
“What?” you breathed, the word slipping out before you could stop it.Now he was looking directly at you, his piercing gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that made it impossible to look away.
“To put less effort into your work.” There was no accusation in his voice, no anger behind his words. And somehow, that complete lack of emotion made it feel infinitely worse than if he had yelled.
“No…” you said, shaking your head slightly as you tried to find your footing. “I just—”
“Because if it was a conscious choice,” he cut in calmly, his voice smooth and entirely unbothered, “then we can stop this right here. You can simply drop the course.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” you said finally, your voice dropping much quieter than it had been before.
Bucky didn’t move an inch, his posture remaining perfectly still and composed.Somehow, that calm, expectant silence was far worse than any angry outburst or harsh reprimand he could have given you.
You let out a long, shaky breath and shook your head slightly.“That… sounded incredibly stupid,” you added, looking down for a brief second. “I’m sorry.”
He didn’t soften his features or offer an easy smile of forgiveness.But that earlier sharp, biting coldness in his demeanor seemed to dull—just a tiny fraction.
“I know this history class isn’t my major,” you continued.“I just… completely failed to manage my time properly this time around.”
Lie,lie,lie.You just wanted drama and mostly his attention.Did you regret it? Well...yeah. Will you probably get more office hours? Yeah!
Bucky remained completely silent for a long moment, letting the heavy quiet stretch out between you.After a tense silence, he finally offered a slow, barely perceptible nod of his head.“Alright,” he said
“Then you’ll fix this,” he stated, his voice flat. It wasn’t a question, leaving absolutely no room for negotiation. “Same topic,” he added, his voice cutting through the silence. “But this time—be specific.And you bring it back.”
You swallowed hard, feeling the sudden dryness in your throat. “I will,”
Then, after what felt like an eternity, his rigid shoulders relaxed and he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod of approval.“Good,don’t be late.”
You nodded in understanding, the movement simple and deliberate.“I won’t,” you replied softly.
“Alright,” he murmured.That was all there was to it.He didn't say another single word to you.
You were the one who made the first move to break the stillness.You gathered your scattered notes from the table, moving perhaps a little too quickly, just to give your trembling hands something to focus on.
You didn't stop moving or hesitate until you finally reached the safety of the door.Your hand was already resting on the cold metal handle.You could have turned around and said something more to him.But you chose not to.Instead, you pressed the handle down and stepped out into the brightly lit hallway.
The background noise of the building returned to you instantly — distant conversations, heavy footsteps, and someone laughing somewhere down the hall.
...
The weeks that followed, darling, they just kinda dissolved like a memory. One revision turned into endless nights.Just one more question, one more glance… always a reason to drift back.
A reference, a forgotten word, something never fully clear. All accidental, of course. Your talks turned less formal, less… armored.Bucky, he didn't soften, no,but… the rhythm changed.
Fewer explanations, more of that sweet silence. And those silences, strangely, they didn't sting. They just lingered. And in the glow of it all,you started to notice things about him.
Things you shouldn't have noticed. The first was how he remembered small details. Not grand gestures, not prying questions. “You're squinting again,” he'd say.
You'd fire back, "I'm not squinting," before even looking up.
“You are.” And he'd be there, standing over the pages, pointing with his pen. “You can't see,”
Coffee.
You realized it after the third or fourth time you stayed longer than you were supposed to. He always had one on the desk, usually already half gone by the time you sat down. Black,no sugar,no milk. And always cold by the end of the consultation, because he never drank it while talking.He’d take a sip only after you left, if at all.
You also started picking up on his timing.He always arrived before everyone else.The first time you got there ahead of schedule, you expected an empty room. Instead, he was already there, papers laid out, everything in place, like he’d been there for a while.He didn’t look surprised to see you.Just nodded once and continued like it made no difference.
Another thing was that he didn’t repeat himself.If he explained something once, that was it. If you didn’t get it, he wouldn’t rephrase it right away — he’d wait. Give you space to figure it out, like he expected you to.
There were other things too.Like how he never checked his phone.Or how he always remembered exactly where you left off last time, without asking.Or how his voice dropped slightly when he was explaining something more complicated, like he expected you to follow even. if he made it harder.
Or that you loved his hands.There was one time when you both reached for the same page.It wasn’t dramatic,your fingers just barely touched, nothing more than a second, maybe less.But neither of you pulled back immediately.And the thing you loved most? That his hands felt warm.
After that, you started noticing the way he said your name.He didn’t use it often,most of the time it was impersonal, efficient. But occasionally, when he wanted your attention immediately, he’d say your name first.
When you looked up, sometimes you’d find that he wasn’t looking at the paper anymore, but at you, just for a brief moment before his attention shifted back as if nothing had happened, returning to that same controlled, neutral focus like it hadn’t meant anything at all — like none of it had, even if you couldn’t quite convince yourself of that anymore.
As the weeks went on, one thing became increasingly obvious to him,you were there too often.Sometimes it was a question about the assignment. Sometimes it was something you “just wanted to quickly check.” Sometimes there wasn’t really a reason at all, not one you could clearly explain even to yourself.
Bucky never commented on it,he never said it was too much. Never told you to stop coming,never treated it like something that needed to be corrected.Truth was — he enjoyed you,so he simply allowed it to happen.
But somewhere in the back of his mind, something else stayed with him.That one essay.The bad one.As if someone had pulled back on purpose.Just enough to be incorrect, but not enough to fail.Just enough to create a reason to come back.
Bucky didn’t ask about it,didn’t bring it up.But now, with you appearing in his office again and again over the following weeks, something about it settled differently in his mind.
It hadn’t been a mistake.And it hadn’t been about the essay.It had been about him,but he didn't comment on it. Because he had no idea what to say, but also there was no reason for him to make you leave.
Bucky didn’t check the clock,he didn’t need to. He already knew when you were supposed to be there.
The papers lay neatly arranged in front of him on the desk, the pen in its usual place. Everything exactly where it belonged.He was waiting for you.
His eyes shifted to the door just before the knock came.“Come in,” he said.
The door opened and you stepped inside.He looked at you briefly.“You’re late.”
You set your bag down.“Not really,” you said, calmer than you should.No further explanation followed,you didn’t offer one.
He gave a small nod.“Show me.” he reached for your papers, but didn’t look down at them yet.
Barnes read through the essay, this time moving much slower than usual. It was not because he was actively looking for mistakes in the text; it felt more like he was carefully weighing every single sentence individually in his mind. He liked what you had to say.
You did not speak in the meantime—in fact, you did not even dare to breathe too loudly. You just sat there, completely still.
When he finally set the paper down, he did not speak right away. Instead, he placed the pen on the desk with calculated precision. Only then did he look up to meet your eyes.“This is good.Very good.”
Huh. That was new.
You could instantly feel your face betraying your relief, the corner of your mouth lifting. It was not a full smile. In that moment, you felt exactly like a dog that had been trying its hardest to behave all day and finally received a well-deserved pat on the head.
The corner of his mouth moved, just barely, creating a faint, almost imperceptible curve. Of course, you noticed it immediately.
“Was that… a smile?” you asked, leaning back in your chair.
“No,” he said. The reply was simple, completely automatic, and devoid of any emotion.
Your smile only grew wider at his stubbornness. “Yes it was.”
“It wasn’t,” he repeated, maintaining the exact same even tone, refusing to give you an inch.
Sensing his defensive walls going up, you leaned forward slightly over the desk, invading his space just enough to tease him. “I think it was.”
“You’re wrong,” he said, his voice flat.
“Do you always say that with this much confidence?” you asked, though your eyes never wavered from his face.
“When I’m right, yes,” he replied, his tone steady, matching the unwavering intensity of his stare.
The corner of your mouth twitched, fighting back an amused grin.“And when you’re not?”
“Then I don’t usually say it out loud,” he admitted quietly.
You smiled a little, the tension in your shoulders relaxing just a fraction.“That’s pretty honest.”
“I don’t play games,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, sounding almost like a warning.
Was he...flirting with you? Or are just delusional?
You tilted your head slightly to the side, studying the rigid line of his jaw. “No?”
“No,but you do,” he said calmly, though the slight tightening around his eyes betrayed his composure.
You didn’t move for a long moment, freezing in place as the weight of his words sank in.Then, deliberately breaking the distance, you leaned forward slightly across the wooden desk. “I’m not playing,” you said, looking straight into his eyes. “I’m just noticing things and acting on them”
His eyes blinked a fraction slower, getting darker, and entirely focused on your lips before snapping back to your eyes. “Like what?”
This time, you didn’t blink, holding his gaze with absolute certainty.“That sometimes you look at me for too long when you think I don’t notice.”
Bucky didn’t move a single muscle after that, barely even breathing.“That’s not a correct conclusion,” he said at last, the words dragging out of him.
You smiled, a slow, knowing expression spreading across your face.“I didn’t say it was correct.I just said I noticed.”
“You should go,” he said.His voice was terrifyingly calm, devoid of any anger or panic.
“I should,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper, yet steady enough to fill the quiet space between you. “But I’m not going to.”
Bucky didn’t just move; he snapped. The carefully constructed wall of military discipline he spent decades building vanished in a single, breathless second.
In one fluid, powerful motion, he stood up, pushing his chair back so hard it screeched against the floorboards. He leaned over the desk, invading your space entirely, forcing you to look up at him.
Before you could even register what was happening. His fingers wrapped firmly around your waist.“You think this is a joke? I told you to leave.”
You didn't pull away. Instead, your hands found their way up to his chest, your fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt, feeling the frantic, heavy thudding of his heart beneath.
You looked up, your eyes wide, meeting his dark gaze. You didn't say a word,you didn't need to. The defiance in your eyes was the only invitation he needed.
Bucky let out a ragged growl.Then, he closed the remaining distance.His lips crashed against yours with a desperate intensity that took your breath away. His hand at your waist tightened, lifting you slightly, pulling your body flush against his hard chest until there was absolutely no air left between you. His other hand flew up, his metal fingers surprisingly warm and unbelievably careful as they tangled into your hair, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss.
The kiss wasn't gentle at all.It was a hungry release of weeks of unspoken tension, stolen glances, and agonizing restraint.
He tasted like mint and unfiltered hunger. Every swipe of his tongue, every desperate press of his lips felt like a man dying of thirst. He was consuming you, pouring all his unspoken words, his dark past, and his fierce devotion into the kiss.
Bucky didn't give you even a single second to catch your breath.Before the daze of the first kiss could clear from your mind, his metal hand slid from your hair down to your hip, while his flesh hand gripped your thigh. With a single, effortless surge of super-soldier strength, he lifted you up.A sharp gasp left your throat as he swiped his arm across the desk, carelessly sending the neatly stacked essays and pens flying onto the floor. The papers scattered like confetti in the quiet room, but neither of you cared. He set you down on the edge of the cleared wooden surface, stepping deeply between your thighs to lock you in place.
He crashed his lips back onto yours with double the intensity. It was a wild, bruising kiss that made your toes curl. Your hands scrambled up his shoulders, your fingers tangling desperately in his hair, pulling him closer, matching his frantic energy with your own.Bucky groaned into your mouth, the sound deep and vibrations rattling through his chest.
His hands grew bolder, sliding up under your shirt, his warm skin sending a shockwave of electricity through your spine. He pinned you against his body so tightly you could feel every muscle in his chest tightening, his breathing ragged and completely out of control.
He tore his mouth away from yours for a split second, only to bury his face into the crook of your neck. His hot breath brushed against your skin right before his teeth nipped playfully, then dangerously, at your pulse point. You threw your head back, a breathless sound escaping your lips, which only made him press himself even harder against you.
“You’re driving me insane,” he growled against your skin, his voice raw, completely undone by the smell and taste of you. “You know that?”
“Well,” you whispered, your voice thick with desire. “I think you’re finally losing it.”
Bucky didn't deny it. Instead, a low groan escaped his throat. “I lost it the moment you smiled at me,” he confessed against your throat, before his lips traveled down to your collarbone, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.
His metal hand shot up to the collar of his shirt, and with a single, impatient tug, the top buttons flew off, bouncing quietly onto the wooden floor. He ripped the fabric open, exposing the hard, scarred planes of his chest and the sharp line of his collarbone.Before you could even take in the sight of him, his flesh hand grabbed the hem of your shirt. His eyes locked onto yours, asking a silent, burning question. You answered by raising your arms, and in one swift motion, he lifted the shirt over your head and tossed it carelessly somewhere into the dark corner of the room.
“Look at me,” he commanded softly, his voice vibrating directly against your chest.
God,you loved it, when he bossed you around.He slid his hands down to the button of your jeans, his metal fingers surprisingly warm and precise as they made quick work of the denim. At the same time, his mouth slammed back onto yours, completely swallowing your gasp as he began to slide the fabric down your legs, lifting you slightly off the desk to completely strip away the final barrier between you.He looked at you, his eyes scanning every inch of your body with a raw, reverent intensity that made you flush from head to toe.“You're beautiful,” he breathed out, his voice so deep and raspy it sent a delicious shiver straight down your spine.
You leaned back slightly on your hands, arching your back and looking down at him with a hooded, playful gaze, trying to keep your composure despite your racing pulse.He reached down, his movements fast and impatient now, unbuckling his belt and shedding his own trousers in one smooth motion. The moment he stepped back between your thighs, completely unburdened by clothes, the heat radiating from him was intoxicating. He was all hard muscle, sharp angles, and beautiful, battle-worn skin.
He leaned forward, pressing his chest back against yours, his hands sliding under your thighs to lift them around his waist. You locked your legs securely behind his back, pulling him as close as physically possible.“Bucky,” you gasped, your fingers digging into the muscles of his back, feeling the contrast between the warm, smooth skin of his right side and the cold, intricate seams of his metal shoulder.
He rocked his hips against yours in a soft, torturous preview of what was to come, making a desperate whimper escape your throat.“Say my name again,” he commanded against your mouth, his breathing completely ragged.
His metal hand slid up to cup your jaw, holding you still so he could look directly into your eyes. “I want to hear it again.”You looked straight into those fierce blue eyes, your heart hammering against your ribs.
“Bucky,” you whispered, your voice thick with desire, tightening your grip on him. “Please.”
That was the final breaking point. His gaze darkened with pure, unfiltered possession. He shifted his grip on your hips, aligning himself, and with a deep, breathless groan, he pushed forward, burying himself inside you in one deep, masterful stroke.
You let out a long, trembling exhale, your legs tightening around his waist as your body slowly adjusted to the overwhelming fullness of him.— “Bucky...” you whimpered, your fingers digging into the hard muscles of his shoulders, silently begging for movement.He lifted his head, looking down at you with a gaze so fiercely possessive it made your heart skip a beat.
“I’ve wanted this,” he confessed, his voice dropping into a rough, gravelly whisper that vibrated straight through your bones. “God, you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this.”
Even now, with your legs wrapped tightly around his waist and your breath hitching with every micro-movement of his hips, you couldn't resist having the last word. “Why do you think I wrote that essay so horribly wrong?” you spat out, your voice laced with a bitter, provocative edge. “I wanted to see how long you’d play your stupid, perfect soldier routine before you finally snapped.”
“You think I didn’t notice that?” he murmured, his voice laced with a smug confidence.“You think this is a game?” he growled, his voice dropping into a low, terrifying register. “You think you can just mess with my head for weeks, pull my strings, and then mock me for it?”
You gasped as he suddenly drove forward again, deeper and harder than before, as if punishing you for the confession.“You're so cockdrunk,it's pathetic.”
Before you could even answer, he suddenly stopped. With a sharp, ragged exhale, he pulled completely out of you.The sudden cold and loss of his warmth made you gasp, but you didn't even have a second to breathe. His metal hand grabbed your waist, and his flesh hand gripped your shoulder. With a single, brutal surge of super-soldier strength, he gripped your body and flipped you over on the desk.
Your stomach slammed down onto the cold wood, sending the remaining papers flying. He pinned your upper body down, lifting your hips high and leaving you completely exposed and helpless, facing away from him.
“You wanted the Winter Soldier?” Bucky whispered viciously against the back of your neck, his hot breath making your skin crawl. “Fine. You got him.”
The sharp, heavy crack of his flesh hand slamming against your bare skin echoed loudly through the quiet office. A shocked, high-pitched gasp tore from your throat, the stinging heat of the impact instantly blooming across your skin
“That’s for the weeks of playing games,” he muttered.SLAP.Another hard, punishing strike hit you, making your hips twitch reflexively. The pain was sharp, but the rush of adrenaline and the sheer humiliation of being completely his made your core ache with desire.
He didn't give you a single second to recover. He grabbed your hips with both hands, his grip tight enough to leave bruises, aligned himself, and drove himself back inside you from behind in one deep, brutal, uncompromising stroke.
A choked sob escaped your lips as he began to move with a relentless, punishing speed. It was raw, angry, and fast. The desk groaned violently under the impact of his heavy hits. There was absolutely no gentleness left—this was him taking what was his, breaking through your defiance and forcing you to submit to his strength.
You dug your fingernails into the wood of the desk, your head spinning from the sheer intensity of the friction and the stinging heat on your skin. You hated his control, but you were completely consumed by it, crying out as he pushed you harder and deeper than ever before.
“Look at the mess you made,” Bucky commanded, his voice tight and breathless as he slammed into you, his chest crashing heavily against your back.He reached forward, his metal fingers tangling into your hair and pulling your head back just enough to force you to see the ruined desk, the scattered papers, and the utter chaos you had triggered.
“This is what happens when you push me,” he gasped out, his breathing completely wild, his body running on pure, unfiltered adrenaline.The tension inside you snapped like a tight wire. Your body went rigid, your muscles clenching around him in a tight, desperate spasm as a violent, overwhelming release tore through you, leaving you completely breathless and sobbing into the wood.
seeing you break finally pushed Bucky over the edge. With a deep, guttural roar of pure frustration and surrender, he drove into you one last, devastating time. His whole body shook violently as his own explosive climax ripped through him, pinning you flat against the desk under his heavy, sweaty weight until neither of you could move.
For a long moment, he didn't move a single muscle. His face was buried in the crook of your neck, his hot, erratic breath scalding your damp skin. The anger in the air hadn't fully evaporated; it had just transformed into something thick, heavy, and intensely possessive.Slowly, deliberately, Bucky lifted his head.
His metal fingers, still tangled in your hair, tightened just enough to force your head back up, making you look at the mess of papers on the desk again. His blue eyes, dark and entirely unreadable, caught your reflection in the darkened window pane across the room.
“Say it,” Bucky growled softly against your skin, his thumb rubbing a slow, heavy circle over your hip. “Say: Thank you, Sir.”
Bucky let out a long exhale—a sound of absolute satisfaction. The rigid tension in his shoulders finally relaxed just a fraction. He leaned down, pressing a hard, lingering, and surprisingly warm kiss to the back of your neck, right over your pulse point.“Good,” he muttered,
Italian Tour Guide!Bucky x American Tourist!Reader
Summary: You need to unwind, and the answer is a just-girls-vacation to Italy, starting with the island of Ischia. Enter James, the sexy boat tour guide who you instantly connect with. As you slowly let down your barriers and give in to the spirit of island life, you and James grow very, very close.
Word Count: 10.6k (oops)
Content: smut (MDNI, 18+ ONLY) - fingering, oral m receiving, semi-public sex, bucky bending reader over a half wall (thanks @heldbybarnes for the inspo in your contractor fic!), uncut Bucky
A/N: Please for the love of god, do not get in my inbox or replies with your hot circumcision take, pro or con. Italian guys are usually uncut, statistically, and this would be a new experience for reader because American guys usually are circumcised. These are just the facts, and I am not taking a stance on this as an issue in general. If you get weird with me I will block you. Kisses!
It’s practically a hundred degrees in the shade, but at least the breeze off the Mediterranean somewhat tempers the scorching heat.
You stand on the dock, in your bathing suit coverup and the sun hat you’d hastily bought in a little corner shop, squinting through your shades as you scan the horizon. Natasha stands by your side, her hand sheltering her eyes from the sun as she looks along with you. Behind you, Yelena and Kate fan their faces and scroll through their phones, wincing at the UV index.
Natasha had been the one to plan everything. She’d dropped the proposed itinerary in the group chat three months ago under the heading, girls trip!!!!
It’s not in your nature to let go of the reins and give yourself over to the whims of your friends. But it had been a long year, and it was only halfway over, already leaving you burnt out and badly in need of a vacation. So you’d said fuck it and agreed.
You decide that fuck it will be your vacation mantra. You will squeeze every drop of leisure out of this trip, so help you god. You will make this vacation your bitch.
Your group has spent almost a week on Ischia so far, a lovely little island off the western coast of Italy, for those too snobbish to deal with the tourists clogging the Amalfi coast. Or so Natasha claims. She’s the expert, after all. It’s been heaven so far. Massages, thermal springs, afternoons lounging by the ocean or with a cocktail by the pool. You've been relaxing like you’re being paid to do it.
The itinerary today consists of a personal boat tour around the caves and castles of the region. Natasha had spoken highly of the tour guide, who she’d been communicating with by email, stating that he came highly recommended. You’re just excited to soak in the sights and get some day drinking done.
A small boat starts to close in from the distance, pulling in to dock. Off the boat steps a man in sunglasses — tan, broad-shouldered, and terribly, unfairly gorgeous.
You’re suddenly grateful that you put a little more effort into your appearance this morning.
Yelena lowers her sunglasses dramatically. “Whoa.”
Natasha, smooth as silk, steps forward and introduces herself in perfect Italian, offering him a friendly but firm handshake.
The man smiles. Jesus, that face could launch a thousand ships.
He removes his sunglasses and hooks them into the collar of his shirt. “Your pronunciation is very good,” he compliments Natasha. “I’m James. Good to meet you.”
Stunned by the gorgeous sea-blue of his eyes, you blurt out, “You speak English?” Stupid question. Obviously he speaks English. You could kick yourself.
His eyes move to you, briefly flicking over you from head to toe, and he chuckles good-naturedly. “It’s helpful in this line of work.” He tosses a wink in your direction, which almost sends you into a cardiac arrest, and then offers, “Can I help you ladies with your bags?”
Before you or anyone can answer, he reaches for the cooler dangling from your hand, his fingers brushing yours. At this point, you’re fairly sure you’re experiencing a medical emergency, and you let him take the cooler because you are temporarily frozen to the spot. He smiles again, just at you, before taking Natasha's beach bag and the few other incidentals the other girls brought for the boat.
Yelena hooks her arm into yours and starts whispering excitedly. You focus on remembering how to breathe.
One by one, he helps each of you onto the boat, offering a chivalrous hand so none of you slip. His palm is warm and calloused and you are being very, very normal about it when you place your hand in his. You convince yourself that you’re imagining things when his hand lingers a few seconds longer than it strictly has to.
Once the tour begins, James is surprisingly easy to talk to. It helps that there are many beautiful things to look at other than his face while he speaks. His relaxed manner immediately puts all of you at ease as he tells you the names and histories of nearby castle ruins. There is the slightest ghost of an Italian accent when he speaks English, but when he speaks in Italian, it’s a little mesmerizing. You feel like you could listen to him talk all day.
He sails the boat into a cave and kills the engine, inviting all of you to swim in the cool of the shade. You do your very best to not act shy or intimidated as you strip down to your bathing suit with the rest of the girls. You shouldn’t be concerned with the male gaze. You’re on a girls trip, after all.
But you can’t resist glancing back to see if he’s looking, and your skin warms when you see that he is. His gaze isn’t lecherous, but it’s certainly appreciative, and he doesn’t seem embarrassed to have been caught. His eyes don’t stray from your form, either, despite the three other beautiful women on the boat.
Suddenly, Kate slips on the edge and screams girlishly, grabbing into your arm and taking you with her as she tumbles into the water, and the moment passes.
Once you all have had your fill of exploring the cave, he sails you all to a slightly more open spot, the sunlight spilling over a nearby cliffside and warming the waters to a pleasant bath water temperature. As the boat slows down, a gust of sea-breeze carries away your hat and deposits it into the sea about twenty feet away.
“Oh no! Hat overboard!” Natasha cries, giggling at your put-out expression.
As the boat comes to a stop, James steps out from behind the wheel. As you move to descend the ladder to rescue your hat, he briefly places a hand on your arm.
“Stay. I've got it.”
All the girls’ jaws drop, including your own, as James peels off his shirt and tank top, kicks off his sandals, and tosses his sunglasses. There's just enough time to admire the ripple of his back muscles before he dives right into the water.
“Wow…” Kate marvels. “Gentlemanly.”
“Holy shit. This guy is unreal,” Yelena mutters.
In record time, James cuts through the water and retrieves your hat. Once he returns to the boat with a victorious smile and very wet, very tan abs on display, you do a very poor job of maintaining eye contact as you thank him and shake the water out of your hat.
After almost an hour of swimming with the girls, the UV index and your grumbling stomach give you a good excuse to return to the boat. The girls snicker and whisper as you climb up the side ladder, leaving you and James on your own for the time being. You do your best to ignore them. You're just getting lunch, after all.
But when James reaches out a hand to help you up, his other hand finding your waist to steady you as your wet feet skid underneath you, food is the absolute last thing on your mind.
The two of you dig into the cooler anyway, cracking open a pair of beers and picking at the fruit and cheese Natasha had picked up from the market this morning. You try your very hardest not to stare at the way his tank top clings to his still-damp muscles, or the way sweat beads and trails down the column of his neck. You fail catastrophically.
As you recline in the shade with a towel draped along your shoulders, James asks you questions about your life in America, your hobbies, your career. His eyes don’t wander from you as he listens to the answers, giving you all of his attention. It's extremely flattering. He listens to you drone on about your awful job without complaint. Eventually, you grow tired of the sound of your own voice, and decide to ask questions of your own.
“You have almost no accent. Are you from here?”
He nods. “Born and bred. But I went to school in the states. Came back for summers until I graduated and decided to move here full time.”
“Can’t blame you. It's beautiful here,” you sigh.
He shrugs, the warmth of his gaze landing on you again. “The states have their own kind of charm.”
It feels very much like he’s not really talking about your homeland. Your eyes instinctively dart away from his, trying to hide a smile and a flush that you can’t blame on the heat.
He smiles easily, taking a swig of his beer. “But it’s good to slow down. This is a good place for that.”
“Definitely,” you agree. “You have family in America?”
“My father is American, my mother was born here in Ischia.”
“How did they meet?”
“My father studied abroad in Amalfi. He met my mother at a bar one night, and the rest is history.”
You raise an eyebrow in disbelief. “That must have been hard for them. The language barrier, the different cultures—“
He shrugs again. “Not as hard as you’d think. When you know, you know.”
You don’t really have anything to say to that, your brain going dumb underneath the intensity of his eyes on you. Luckily, you’re saved from having to craft a reply when Yelena climbs back up onto the boat and wraps herself up in a towel.
“So, James," Yelena asks with a deceptively innocent tone as she sits down next to you, “what does your girlfriend get up to while you sail around with tourists all day?”
You discreetly elbow her in the side. “Lena—“
She turns to you with a devious expression. “What? I'm just making conversation.”
James laughs softly. “She's busy, ehm… not existing?”
“No way are you single,” Yelena protests. “That doesn’t make any sense. You're ridiculously hot and you own a boat.”
You groan and drop your face into your hands. “Oh my god, Yelena—“
“I have discerning taste,” he replies with a shrug. So quick that you almost miss it, his eyes flick back over to you. Yelena raises an eyebrow at you and says nothing.
You could just about die, but the arrival of the two other girls on the boat saves you from death by flirtation.
The boat tour is drawing to a close, much to your disappointment, but James insists there is one more spot that you all don’t want to miss.
He steers the boat towards a more populated swimming area, a smattering of families laughing and splashing in the sun. Then he surprises all of you by stripping off his shirt again and joining everyone in the water. Kate, Yelena, and Natasha applaud and hoot as he descends the ladder and lands in the Mediterranean with a splash. You just try not to stare like an idiot as he grins at you, shaking his hair like a wet dog while the rest of the girls squeal.
As you float and swim and feel the sun on your skin, you think — this really is a beautiful place. Maybe the most beautiful. Everyone here seems free and happy in ways you almost never feel. You're sincerely sorry to be leaving Ischia in a few days.
The sound of shifting water nearby catches your attention, and you turn to find James approaching you.
“Can I show you something?” he asks, his smile gleaming in the sunlight.
Over his shoulder, the smiles of your friends are encouraging. Kate even flashes you a thumbs up.
Fuck it.
“Why not?” you reply, summoning your most carefree self.
He swims out towards a nearby rock formation, and you follow in his wake. When you both arrive, he places his hand on your shoulders to move you. You fight back the shiver that threatens to run through you at the warmth of his touch.
“Turn this way. Good.”
You’re facing the west, where the sun is just beginning the descent from its zenith. You’re not sure yet what you’re supposed to be looking at, so you glance back at James for guidance.
“Now go underwater and open your eyes.”
The slightest whisper of anxiety creeps into your chest. You're not a surprise kind of girl. Giving up control has never been your strength. “Am I gonna see something scary?” you ask nervously, aware that you’re being a bit silly.
But James doesn’t laugh, doesn’t make you feel silly in the slightest. “No. Just trust me.”
For some reason, you do.
With a deep breath, you submerge yourself beneath the surface of the water and open your eyes.
You don’t know what you were expecting, but it certainly isn’t this. Against clear, green water, tiny bubbles lit up gold by the sunlight fizzle from the sea floor up towards the surface. It’s unlike anything you’ve ever seen. You stare around you in wonder, only to find that James has descended below the surface with you.
His eyes find yours, and even underwater, there’s something warm and certain in them, something that makes your stomach flip like you’re sailing a ship through a storm. When you can hold your breath no longer, you break through the surface, laughing and gasping for air.
James resurfaces alongside you, eyes crinkling at the corners as he observes your mirth.
“That’s amazing,” you huff enthusiastically as soon as you have enough air to get the words out. “It’s like we’re in a champagne bottle.”
Treading water, James inches closer to you. “Hai degli occhi bellissimi,” he murmurs, so softly you’re not sure if he meant to say it out loud, or for you to hear it.
You have no idea what it means, but the way he said it makes your heart beat just a little faster. “My Italian isn’t as good as Natasha's," you reply.
“Means you have beautiful eyes,” he says simply, earnestly.
“Oh,” you say softly, a little too stunned for an elegant reply. “Thank you. Y-you have beautiful… everything.”
That gets a laugh out of him, and you giggle breathlessly too in spite of your embarrassment. Just as the moment feels ripe with possibility, just as his eyes slip to linger on your mouth, the atmosphere is disrupted by a distant ruckus. Hoots, hollers, and wolf whistles carry across the water from the boat, where the rest of the girls have gathered to spy on the two of you.
You roll your eyes at their antics, but James just laughs again in that easy, unbothered way of his. “Come on,” he says, swimming in the direction of the boat and looking over his shoulder at you. “We can’t keep your friends waiting.”
The boat speeds back towards shore, back towards the dock and the towncar that will take you back to your hotel. Soon enough, the fantasy of the flirtatious Italian stranger will be nothing more than that — a fantasy. You shove down the growing disappointment and focus on the whip of the breeze in your face, the salt spray, the warmth of the sun.
James once again insists on helping unload the bags when the boat is docked, and politely assisting the ladies in dismounting. His hand squeezes yours just slightly in passing, and you briefly entertain the thought of asking for his number, before talking yourself out of it. He's at work. It's probably good business to flirt, especially with tourists who he’ll never see again, who will leave glowing reviews with the booking agency. It probably doesn’t mean anything.
As James and Natasha settle up, he continues to make idle conversation. “Anything fun planned for this evening?”
Kate pipes up. “Just dinner.”
“Where?”
Natasha gives him the name of the restaurant, (her Italian accent flawless, you note with mild irritation), and James unexpectedly frowns, shaking his head.
“No. Absolutely not. It’s a tourist trap. And the food is terrible.”
“What would you recommend?” you ask.
He quickly pats his pockets, pulling out a sharpie and a crumpled receipt, and carefully writes out a restaurant name and address. “Here.”
He presses the piece of paper into your palm, his voice low and warm and familiar. “Trust me, you’ll like it.”
It feels like it’s just for you rather than the whole group, and you feel your embarrassment flare up. Your girlfriends are probably watching from over your shoulder, with gleeful grins on their faces.
You’re jolted from your reverie when Yelena slings an arm around your shoulder and says to James, “You should meet us for dinner!”
Your head snaps in her direction, your eyes wide with surprise and a little mortification.
James laughs softly, his hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. Dio mio, his arms. “I don’t want to intrude on your, ehm… girls trip.”
“You wouldn’t be. We'd love to have you,” she purrs, squeezing your shoulder almost hard enough to bruise, her eyes darting between you and him as if to communicate, say something!
James doesn’t reply, and he looks at you like you’re the deciding vote. Like he won’t insert himself where he’s not wanted, and he’s trying to figure out if he’s wanted.
Fuck it, your brain chants in the background.
“You should come,” you blurt, then backpedal your enthusiasm just a bit, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “I mean, if you don’t have other plans.”
A dazzling smile spreads across James's face, and he shrugs. “Why not?”
“Please feel free to bring any of your hot Italian friends,” Yelena adds nonchalantly.
“Should we call and make a reservation?” Kate asks, already googling the restaurant name on her phone. “Can we even get a reservation this late?”
“I will take care of it,” James assures her with an easy, dismissive wave of his hand. “Go relax. Drink. Enjoy the sun. That's what life is about.”
You all make your goodbyes, and the relief that it will only be a few hours before you see him again washes over you. Of course, that relief is followed by a colony of nervous butterflies that take residence in your stomach, their fluttering worsened by the way his eyes follow you as you all pile into the towncar.
Despite James's instructions to relax, absolutely no relaxation occurs back at the hotel.
The car ride is a half-squealed debrief that has you hiding your face in your hands, the rest of the girls jostling you playfully and plying you for details. As soon as you arrive back at the hotel room and the door closes behind you, you’re swarmed. Natasha and Yelena spend at least an hour critiquing outfit options for you, digging things out of their own suitcases and throwing them in your direction. After you shower off the traces of seawater clinging to your skin, Kate harasses you into letting her do your hair, promising that she won’t make you look ridiculous.
While you’re trapped in the bathroom, Natasha shouts over the roar of the hairdryer, “Your new boyfriend just texted me, dinner is at 8!”
You groan dramatically, but inside, your heart does a tarantella.
Once you've been poked and prodded and lotioned and potioned, Natasha wraps you in a strategically selected sundress – one with a hem that just brushes your knees and a neckline that ‘does you serious favors.’ You insist on a stop at the hotel bar before the car shows up — you desperately need a warm-up cocktail (or two) to calm your nerves, if you’re going to get through tonight without embarrassing yourself.
After a drive up a winding cliff side that turns Kate a little bit green, you arrive at the restaurant. It's gorgeous, all beachy stucco walls and blue patterned tiles. The hostess leads you all to an outdoor seating area with a breathtaking view of the Mediterranean.
Of course, leaning on the railing is another breathtaking view. James stands overlooking the sea, the evening breeze ruffling his hair, looking every bit like a priceless fresco you could find in a museum. His head turns to see your group walking up, and his eyes practically light up when they land on you.
You already know you’re done for.
There’s a handful of other patrons at other tables, and a small dance floor (you note with some trepidation), but the patio is mostly dominated by a large table reserved for your group. Already sitting down at the table are a few friends James invited, making good on Yelena’s request. A broad-shouldered man with sandy blonde hair and a dangerous smirk, another with shaggy hair and kind eyes and a deceptively muscular build, and a leggy brunette with dark eyes that Yelena eyes appreciatively.
James introduces them one by one, but you don’t absorb their names because his hand rests at your lower back, and you can feel the warmth of it through the thin fabric of your dress.
He pulls out your chair as you sit, the wine is poured, and the evening begins.
James's recommendation doesn’t disappoint. It's a set menu, with plate after plate appearing from the kitchen as the night progresses. Fresh seafood, decadent pastas, and seemingly endless bottles of wine.
It’s hard not to give in to the jovial atmosphere, especially once the wine loosens you up. James’s friends and yours volley interesting and humorous stories back and forth, with James chiming in to translate the occasional language gap. When he’s not playing translator, he leans in to whisper asides and little jokes to you, so close that his breath tickles your neck and sends shivers down your spine.
Halfway through, a guitarist comes through and everything livens as music fills the air. He takes requests from the restaurant patrons, sings duets with those drunk or brave enough to sing with him. As food gradually disappears but the drinks keep flowing, restaurant staff pass out novelty percussion instruments and pull people up from tables to dance.
Naturally, because everyone has officially had enough wine for the usual inhibitions to disappear, your entire table migrates to the dance floor.
You’re just buzzed enough to bust a move without tripping all over yourself and the people around you. And you’re not dancing with James, per se, but you’re not not dancing with him. He's just in your orbit, one of many people moving to the music around you, one that you just happen to interact with occasionally. That is, until he maneuvers you into a spin, and his hand finds your waist to draw you close, and then you are very much dancing with him.
His laughter and yours cut through the music, your bodies moving in time with each other in a way you don’t bother to overthink, close enough to be intimate but not obscene.
His mouth dips towards your ear. “Mi piace come ti muovi.”
God, that accent never fails to unravel you, even clueless as you are to the content of what he’s saying. “What does that mean?” you ask over the din of the music.
He turns you into another spin and replies, louder, “You are a wonderful dancer.”
You throw back your head in laughter as you nearly crash into him on the spin’s recovery. “You are such a liar!”
“I don’t lie,” he insists, his arm snaking around your waist and pressing your body close to his. “This you cannot fake.”
Emboldened by the feeling, you drape your arms around his neck and feel the music, your hips moving in conversation with his, and for a little while, everything else fades away.
The evening winds down, the car arrives to take you back to the hotel, and regretfully, it’s time to say goodbye again.
Under the backdrop of the sparkling night sky, James catches your elbow and asks softly for your phone. With a shy smile, you hand it off to him, and he quickly types his number into a new contact.
“You will call me?” he asks as he slips it back into your hands, standing close enough that you can breathe him in, the intoxicating mix of his cologne and sweat.
You raise an eyebrow playfully. “You want me to rack up your phone bill with international calls?”
“For you, I don't mind.” His hand finds your waist again, and he presses his lips to your cheek in a soft, lingering goodbye. You feel the slight scrape of his stubble and the fan of his breath on your skin, and maybe it’s the wine still in your system, but you feel a little weak in the knees.
After the rest of the girls load into the towncar, thanking James profusely and singing snatches of songs heard earlier in the night, he helps you in one last time. You squeeze his hand softly as you part, and you hope against hope that this isn’t the last time you’ll see him.
You wake up with the wine hangover of the century. Nevertheless, the only regret you have is that you didn’t kiss James. Well, you also regret not doing all the other things that come after kissing, either. But life is full of if onlys, and you resign yourself to letting this become yet another one of them. After all, you have one more night in Ischia, and then you all head back to the mainland. This is hardly the time to get in over your head with a guy you barely know.
With no big ticket events on the itinerary today, you spend the morning nursing your hangover in bed and slowly repacking your bag. When the afternoon rolls around, you and the girls rally enough to head down to the beach for one last hurrah in the sun and sand.
Of course, a hangover is no match for the spirit of the girls trip, and when six o’clock rolls around, you all venture back to the hotel bar for the aperitivo, wetting your whistles with the first drinks of the evening. After accompanying Kate for a bathroom break, you return to the table to find Yelena with your phone in her hands.
“What are you doing?” you ask, already feeling suspicious.
Yelena looks up, caught with her hand in the cookie jar. "Don't be mad.”
You snatch the phone from her hands, only to see the screen open to an exchange of texts with none other than James (whose contact she has changed to Sexy Italian Boat Man).
“James and his friends are meeting us for drinks,” she says cheerfully.
You try and fail to be mad, but secretly you’re thrilled. Still, for the sake of feminism, you have to at least pretend to be irritated. “I thought this was supposed to be a girls trip,” you point out, crossing your arms in faux disapproval.
She pulls you back into your chair with a serious look. “Babe. You have a shot with the hottest man on the continent, possibly on earth. And no offense, but you really need to get laid.”
You drop your jaw, outraged, but Yelena's face is the picture of innocence. “I'm just being a girl’s girl! And maybe I want to see that hot little brunette number again.” she waggles her eyebrows over her drink. “Have a girls trip of my own.”
The drinking establishment Yelena picked is… well, trashy. There's no other word for it. Fun, but trashy.
LED lights flash in blues and greens along the walls. The music is loud and danceable, and the drinks come in test tubes of many colors, labeled with cheeky pun names that James has to translate for the English speakers of the group.
It's the perfect place to get tipsy, dance your ass off, and flirt with a hot stranger. All activities you definitely plan to engage in tonight.
Ever the gentleman, James buys a round of test tube shots for the group, and everyone snatches one from the bar top. As you try not to fidget with the hem of the dress Yelena lent you, you select something bright blue that smells like coconut and poor decisions. When you toss it back, it tastes all right, but the aftertaste burns like jet fuel, making you wince. Everyone around you makes a similar face before breaking out into laughter and chatter.
The bartender lines up a new set of test tubes, and you start to feel brave enough to flirt. You glance up at James, who stands just next to you, playing it devastatingly cool. You pluck another shot from the bar top like a dare.
“So, if we’re gonna keep meeting like this, you’re gonna have to teach me some Italian,” you declare, leaning closer to him to be heard over the music, or maybe just to be closer to him.
“Is that so?” he replies, following your lead and picking up a shot as well.
“Mm-hmm.” You lick your lips, tasting the leftover rum and curaçao, watching as his eyes follow the movement shamelessly.
James taps his plastic test tube against yours and says slowly, clearly, “Cin-cin.”
“Cin-cin,” you repeat. “What does it mean?”
He smiles, lifting the shot to his lips. “Cheers.”
Not to be caught falling behind, you toss back your shot, the second already going down easier than the first. Discarding your test tube on the bar top, you toss your hair out of your eyes and say, “Teach me another.”
Without missing a beat, he responds, “Balla con me.”
“Balla con me,” you echo, a little more clumsily, a question mark in your eyes.
“Dance with me.” He takes your hand in his and begins to pull you in the direction of the throng of rhythmically writhing bodies.
You feel the thrum of the baseline through your feet, vibrating in your chest. You feel the heat radiating off all the people around you, the warmth of arms around you as James brings you in close. The lights flash, the music pounds, and you move with him like your body already knows his.
The shield of strangers between you and the eyes of your friends makes you bolder. You feel anonymous, like you could be anybody. Like you could be the kind of girl who dances far too close with a guy she’s only known for a day.
So you do.
You turn in his arms, guiding his hands to your hips as they sway to the rhythm. He takes the invitation to shift closer, his chest pressed to your back, his hips right against the swell of your ass. The beat turns filthier, and you don’t shy away from it.
Your hand wanders upward, behind your head to find purchase around the back of his neck as you move together, fluid, dangerous. His hands wander too, not feeling you up — he’s far too much of a gentleman for that. One hand splays against your ribs, keeping you pressed firmly against him as you dance. The other moves your hair off of your neck as he leans down, his lips grazing the shell of your ear and almost making you shudder.
His voice is low, warm, rumbling along with the bass line down to your bones. “Baciami.”
You huff something between a laugh and a sigh, turning in his arms again to face him.
“Baciami,” you say, copying his pronunciation to the best of your efforts. To better hear each other, your faces are so close that your noses almost touch. “What does that one mean?”
“Kiss me.”
The sway of your hips slows, until they come to a stop. In the dim, colored lights, you can just make out the way his eyes dart from yours, down to your lips, and back again.
Standing in the middle of a crowd of strangers in a country where you barely speak the language, you follow through on your words.
It’s everything you imagined it would be, and more.
Like everything else about him, his lips are warm. They move with instinct, with certainty against yours. It comes as naturally as dancing with him — the give and take, the dominance and surrender. His tongue nudges gently at your lips for permission, then sweeps into your mouth when you open for him. He makes a low, satisfied sound that you feel more than you hear.
You’re completely pressed against him from thigh to chest, but your arms drift over his sculpted shoulders and behind his neck to pull him somehow closer. Just like in the restaurant, everything fades away except his mouth and yours, your body and his.
His tongue strokes against yours, slow and decadent and filthy as the beat of the music. He tastes of sweat and amaretto and something addictive you can’t name. With the music blaring all around you, you moan shamelessly into his mouth, taking comfort in the fact that no one can hear it but him. Your hips tilt forward without permission from your brain, unconsciously seeking relief from the tension building within you.
One of his hands leaves your waist, trailing to your lower back and stopping there, fingers bunching in the fabric of your dress like he wishes he didn’t have to stop.
Eventually, you both need to come up for air, and you break apart from each other, nearly gasping, still close enough to breathe each other in.
He speaks just loud enough to be heard over the music. “Vieni a casa mia.”
You blink, a little stunned, a lot turned on. “I think I understood that one.”
There's a laundry list of reasons why you shouldn’t go home with him. He's almost a stranger. You're in a foreign country. You’ve been drinking. You have a ferry to catch tomorrow. You're technically here with your friends.
Guilt surges in your chest as you glance back towards the bar. “My friends—“
James, glancing over the heads of strangers between him and the bar, chuckles and assures you, "I think they’ll get over it.”
Through a break in the crowd, you see Kate and Natasha engaged in what appears to be some kind of drinking contest with the boys. Yelena and the brunette, Ava, are surreptitiously sneaking off in the direction of the bathroom, holding hands.
Yeah, you’re the least of their concerns right now.
His hand lingers at your lower back, his thumb tracing very distracting circles that burn through your shirt and into your spine. “Per favore,” he murmurs in your ear, and you’re pretty sure it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever heard.
“That means ‘please’,” you say breathlessly, when you manage to find command of the speech centers in your brain.
He hums approvingly, his other hand brushing hair away from your face and cradling your jaw. “I like how you say that.”
He's certainly very persuasive.
You’re a grown up, with a smartphone that can share your location. You’re buzzed, but not even close to drunk. You've taken krav maga lessons. You can handle yourself. And James is a professional contact of Natasha's, making him more trustworthy than a stranger walking off the street.
When he looks at you like that, every reason that you shouldn’t give in slips through your fingers like sand.
You take a deep breath. “Fuck it. Okay."
You still take precautions. You have James type the address into your phone and you text it to Natasha while he settles up the bar tab. When he summons a cab via a nearby taxi stand, you dictate the address to the driver in stilted Italian. You're not an idiot, after all. James bears your precautions without comment, gently pressing his lips to the back of your hand when the cab begins to move.
Because you still have some remaining class, the cab ride is an exercise in mutual restraint. You can still feel the ghost of his lips on yours, and he doesn’t let go of your hand, this thumb tracing sweeping arcs across your knuckles. Stolen glances and heated looks probably give the two of you away to the cab driver, but you keep a careful distance anyway. For now.
His apartment is, like him, stupidly charming.
He gently takes your purse and sets it on a nearby table, stepping back to let you briefly explore. It's a little on the small side, with an outdated kitchen and a few cracks in the floor tiles. James opens a set of curtains and a sliding glass door to let the night breeze in, and just outside is a small patio and an adorable breakfast nook, a half wall overlooking the vast, glimmering black of the sea and sky. You slip off your sandals and gravitate towards the door instantly, that view of the water never failing to take your breath away even after a week on this island.
James guides you wordlessly out onto the patio. Cool stone underneath your feet, you walk forward and place your hands on the half-wall, gazing outward. The warm night breeze kisses your skin, and you let your eyes flutter shut. His arms surround you again, his chest to your back like it had been at the club — but different now. Still charged, but softer, less urgent.
His lips meet the curve of your neck, pulling a sigh out of you. “Bellisima.”
You laugh softly, knowing that word. “I bet you say that to all the tourists.”
He smiles against your skin. “Maybe. But I don't do this.” Strong hands guide your hips, turning you in his arms, and his lips find yours again.
It's slow and sweet at first, but it doesn’t take long for the two of you to pick up where you left off at the club. Your ass and the backs of your thighs meet the cool plaster of the wall as he presses against you, his hands leaving warm trails as they roam over your spine, your waist, down to your hips.
His lips begin to explore as well, starting with the corner of your mouth, moving to the hinge of your jaw, the long line of your neck. Your pulse hammers in your throat as he nips gently and soothes the skin with his tongue, before his lips wander close to your ear again.
“Toccami,” he murmurs, the lesson continuing.
You repeat the word in a whisper. “Toccami.”
That smile plays at his lips again as his eyes find yours. “Very good.”
The praise settles low and hot in your belly, and one of his hands leaves your hip to intertwine his fingers with yours.
“Means ‘touch me’,” he translates softly.
You nod in understanding. Keeping his gaze, you drag your interconnected hands up your torso, pressing his palm to your breast and arching into it immediately.
“Toccami,” you whisper again, a plea instead of mere repetition.
He hums his approval, squeezing you gently and watching what it does to you with rapt attention. His other hand works the strap of your dress off your shoulder and his mouth descends, trailing hot, wet kisses over your collarbone, your chest, the soft curve of your breast that sneaks above your neckline. The hand still at your breast zeroes in on your nipple through the fabric of your dress, his thumb circling the numb slowly, firmly. You turn to putty in his hands, pliant and aching and gasping wordlessly for more, more.
His hands move lower to take your waist and lift slightly, and suddenly you’re sitting on the edge of the half wall. His eyes find yours, seeming to search for lingering reservations, or permission to keep going. You become briefly, acutely aware that you’re outside, and this isn’t exactly a secluded neighborhood. Anyone walking by on the sidewalk fifty feet away could hear you, even see you. But you’re on vacation, dammit, and you’ll never see any of these people again, and you really don’t want James to stop touching you.
Your legs part in invitation, and the hem of your dress rides up your thighs. James slots himself between them in an instant, his palms sliding along the newly exposed skin, his mouth closing over yours again.
You can’t remember the last time someone made you feel like this — sexy and free and so turned on you’re almost dizzy with it. The rough warmth of his palms drift higher, higher, until his thumb grazes your inner thigh, just shy of the edge of your underwear, so close to where you ache for him.
His lips part from yours just long enough for him to ask roughly, “Okay?” and wait for your reply. You nod eagerly, your mouth already slack with want before he’s even really touched you.
James groans as his hand moves to the growing wet patch on your underwear. He strokes you there, licking into your mouth once again to swallow the needy sound that escapes you.
His fingers graze your clit through the soaked fabric, and you practically whine into his mouth as your hips buck to chase his touch.
When he breaks the kiss to breathe, you beg shamelessly, “James, please, more.”
He immediately obliges, nudging the fabric to the side and finding that same spot, circling the bundle of nerves slowly but with precision. The touch lights you up, your brain going fuzzy with pleasure.
Your hands gather fistfuls of his shirt to help keep yourself upright, to pull him close and bury your face in his neck as mortifying sounds begin to spill out of your mouth. He allows it for a minute as he patiently winds you up, your breaths turning to little huffs and pants interspersed with moans. But in time, his other hand finds the nape of your neck, gently pulling you back a few inches and angling your face up towards his.
“I want to see you,” he says gently, before slowly sliding a finger into your entrance.
Your head drops back at the sensation, your eyes fluttering closed. Soon enough, one finger becomes two, working you open without any hurry while his thumb keeps up those delicious little circles against your clit. He adjusts the angle here and there, exploring, searching, until the arch of your body and the desperation in your voice signals to him that his fingers have found their destination.
They stay there, curling against that spot and coaxing you towards the height of your pleasure until your thighs tremble, until you whimper his name without care for if the neighbors would hear, until your body is strung tight like a bow and begging wordlessly for release.
“That's it,” he encourages you, pressing his forehead to yours. “Let go for me.”
A few more pathetic sounds escape, and you’re shuddering around him, intense pleasure moving through you like a tidal wave, washing over every corner of your body before gradually retreating. His eyes don’t leave you for a second, the awareness of being watched so intensely turning you on even more, prolonging the orgasm until your fingers slacken their grip on his shirt and you collapse slightly against him.
“Perfetta,” he mutters against your temple, then presses the gentlest of kisses there.
Once you come back to yourself a little and his hand finally retreats, you turn your attention to him. With your tiny dress rucked up to your hips and all of his clothes still in place, you feel a little exposed comparatively. One by one, you unfasten the buttons of his shirt and push the garment open, gazing at him appreciatively, like a marble statue you somehow get to admire up close.
As your eyes drag down his form, they catch the way he’s obviously hard and straining against his linen pants, despite being so, so patient with you. Your lips gently graze along his jaw, fingers trailing from his chest down to his abdomen, until they rest at the button of his pants.
“You gonna let me return the favor?” you ask, your voice still a little weak, but full of want.
He chuckles softly and kisses you in what feels like a very enthusiastic yes.
As smoothly as you can while working blind, you unbutton his pants as you kiss him, drinking in the satisfied groan he lets out when your hand sneaks past the waistband of his boxers and wraps around the base of him. You give him an experimental stroke, and something unusual catches your notice. He’s softer than you’d expect — not soft as in not-hard, because he’s evidently very, very hard. He's softer in texture than you’re used to.
And then you remember an offhand comment Natasha made about Italian guys, about how certain… cultural customs were different from America’s.
You’re a little caught off guard, but the thought of him being uncut doesn’t bother you. In fact, you suddenly find yourself extremely curious.
“Do you have a condom?” you mumble against his mouth.
As he goes for his wallet in his pocket, you slowly and deliberately ease yourself off the wall and sink down to your knees in front of him. When he realizes what you’re doing, his efforts stall for a second, like his brain is rebooting. And then he’s pulling out his wallet like nothing happened, though his fingers move just a little faster as he plucks a condom from its depths and shoves the wallet back into his pocket.
You take the time to carefully free him from his boxers and get yourself a good look. Honestly, it’s not as different as you’d expected, possibly because he’s (clearly and achingly) hard. His cock is a nice length and a very nice girth, decorated by veins that make your mouth water, with a soft fold of skin hugging the tip. You wrap your hand around him and stroke again, fascinated by the way the skin retreats when guided by your hand, by the way his breath hitches as you work him.
Once he manages to unwrap the condom, he holds it out to you — you’ve already got your hands on him after all. But you hesitate, a little unsure of the mechanics involved in accommodating the… bonus features in question.
“Maybe you should do that part,” you say, trying not to appear as awkward as you feel.
James looks down at you with a split second of confusion, and then it dawns on him, and his hands replace yours to roll the condom onto himself with practiced ease. “Right. American. I almost forgot.”
His expression turns slightly concerned, maybe even self-conscious, which is the opposite of what you want. He starts to ask gently, “Do you still—“
You nudge his hands away, grip him firmly at the base, and lick a long stripe along the underside of him in answer.
He lets out a startled sound, halfway between a chuckle and a moan. “Fuck, okay.”
Deciding that it can’t be that different from how you would normally give head, you follow your instincts, growing more confident with each swirl of your tongue over his cock, with each little noise he can’t hold back from making.
When you close your mouth over the tip and sink down around him, part of you wonders how it would feel without the barrier, what it would be like to feel that softness along your tongue, down your throat. The thought sparks some excitement, but not enough to overthrow your good judgment. You really like James, but you’re not trying to halt everything for an in-depth conversation about testing and past partners. And your fuck it mantra only goes so far.
The head of his cock hitting the back of your throat brings you back to the present, and you deftly work your hand over the remaining length you don’t manage to take. James groans, low and rumbling, his hand flying to your hair to ground himself. Encouraged, you begin to set a slow rhythm, enjoying yourself far too much to rush this. Every helpless, grateful sound he makes makes you even wetter, makes you throb for him in ways you haven’t felt in a long, long time.
Your eyes drift upward, and the ruined look on his face, the fluttering clench of his abs as he tries to control himself turns you on even more. You moan around him wantonly, try to take him even deeper, hollowing your cheeks on the uptake.
His hand tightens in your hair as he speaks breathlessly. “Aspettare.” Because you don’t know what it means, you assume it’s encouragement or praise from the way his hips twitch unconsciously. So you keep going, sinking your mouth down onto him again.
But then his hand cups your jaw. “Stop, stop,” he urges you gently as he withdraws, removing his cock from your mouth and gripping the base himself.
You look up in concern as you wipe your chin with the back of your gand. "Didn't you like it?” you ask, a little hoarse.
He nods, his other hand reaching to pull you up off your knees and into his arms. “Liked it too much. You are… incredible.”
James kisses you, slow and deep, moaning softly at the taste of himself on your tongue. Then he pulls back, fixing you with that stare full of intensity and desire. “I want to fuck you now.”
The barely there lilt of his accent, the wrecked rasp of his voice, the bluntness of the statement — it all does several overwhelming things to you. Heat throbs demandingly between your legs in response.
“Okay,” you murmur, incapable of a witty reply at the moment. “Right here?”
He nods again. “Right here. Can’t wait.”
His hands close over your hips and turn you until you’re standing how you started this, your back to his chest, his mouth on your neck. A playful nip, a reverent kiss, and then his hands move you again, pressing firmly but gently between your shoulder blades until you’re bending forward. Your forearms meet the top of the half wall, and your pulse roars in your ears when you realize the implication of this position.
James makes an approving sound, squeezes one of your ass cheeks, and then fully hikes the hem of your dress up and over your hips.
You feel the drag of your underwear down your legs, the sudden exposure of all your most sensitive parts on display in the night air. You gulp nervously and grip the edge of the wall. You've never done anything like this before – any of this, really. Nerves mingle with arousal in the pit of your stomach.
Behind you, you hear the wet slide of his hand on his cock, slowly pumping himself, and the anticipation makes you shiver.
“Is this still okay?” he asks, his hand settling softly at your lower back.
You decide that you’re going to be brave about this, because the building desire in your gut is too demanding to ignore, because you’re not ready for this to stop. Because in spite of your nerves, you want it, bad.
“Please, James.” You deepen the arch of your back, practically presenting for him, too turned on to be as mortified as you would normally feel doing so.
He mutters something in Italian that you don’t catch, and he notches the head of his cock at your entrance, easing himself inside you.
It’s the perfect stretch, filling you so well your eyes almost roll to the back of your head when he bottoms out. With his hips flush to your ass, he groans appreciatively, leaning over to plant a kiss between your shoulders.
“You feel so good,” he mutters into your skin before straightening up, pulling out and thrusting languidly into you again. “So fucking good.”
With every roll of his hips into yours, you push back to meet him. It's relaxed and unhurried. Not punishing, not rough. Just pure sensation, two people enjoying each other’s bodies. The rhythm stokes your desire into a smoldering fire, gradually building higher and higher with each thrust.
His hand grips your shoulder for leverage as he drives into you from behind, slow but unrelenting. The position is vulnerable, but somehow makes you feel powerful at the same time – especially as his murmured praise underscores the wet slide of your bodies moving together.
The intensity climbs higher and higher, your moans growing more frequent, your head dropping down onto your forearms when it becomes too much to keep it aloft. Unable to help yourself any longer, you slip a hand between your legs to play with yourself, so close to the edge you can taste it.
Even though you can’t see it, you can feel that James is affected by the way your cunt squeezes around him in anticipation of the fall. His grip at your shoulder tightens, his thrusts hit deeper and become less controlled.
“Fuck, I — right there, I’m right there,” he pants, voice straining and desperate.
“God, James," you half-moan, half-sob, your free hand gripping the half wall with white knuckles.
Your fingers work furiously at your clit as he buries himself deeper and deeper, and it seizes you all at once — spikes of arousal and pleasure that you feel down to your very marrow, muscles contracting with every wave of it. Your cry is something barely recognizable as your own voice.
James groans something unintelligible in Italian, thrusts as deep as he can and stays there — hips twitching, cock pulsing, his torso folding over top of you as he holds you close and shudders softly.
The sounds of the waves in the distance, labored breath, and the engines of faraway scooters and cars blend into white noise, soothing you as you float down from the high. James presses his sweaty forehead to your shoulder, sighing with satisfaction.
“That was good,” he says simply.
You laugh breathlessly and push yourself up on your forearms slightly, regaining some use of your limbs. “Yeah. That was really good.”
With a soft grunt, he pulls out of you and helps you stand up straight, pulling the hem of your dress back down with his usual care and tenderness. Carefully, he removes the condom and tucks himself back into his pants. He leaves his shirt unbuttoned, his chest glistening with beads of sweat that make him even more difficult to look away from.
His lips brush your hairline in a lingering kiss, and he mutters, “Let’s go to bed.”
“Tired already?” you tease, your fingers sliding underneath the fabric of his shirt and grazing his ribs.
James shakes his head as his eyes rake over you shamelessly. “I want to get you out of this dress.”
Strong arms wrap around your waist, bringing you close, his nose nudging playfully against yours. “And I want to taste you,” he adds, his eyes dark and full of desire that still burns for you even now.
Your mouth goes dry, and your knees go even weaker.
“The bed is more comfortable than the wall,” he points out casually.
You nod dreamily. “That sounds… perfetta.”
He laughs, kissing your cheek affectionately. “Perfetto. Perfetta is feminine, for you.”
You roll your eyes and kiss him, dispensing with the Italian lessons for the moment. “Just take me to bed, James.”
You wake up to possibly the most heavenly smell on earth — freshly brewing espresso.
Last night, after all of your spirited activities, you’d fired off a check-in text to Natasha and collapsed into James's linen sheets, the night breeze floating through the open window. You'd slept like the dead, the pleasant weight of his arm slung around your waist and the sounds of the sea pulling you under.
Now, when you open your eyes, the bed is empty beside you. You stretch your limbs, reveling in the pleasant soreness that lingers heavy in your body, and reach for your phone.
The first thing you see is a text from Yelena, timestamped forty-five minutes ago.
good morning slut!!! text when you get this so we know you’re still alive and didn’t receive the dick of death
You roll your eyes, smirking, and type up a reply.
i lived bitch
Your phone buzzes just a few seconds later.
so proud of you :) nat says ferry at 1:00, do NOT be late. let me know if you need me to pack your shit
You wince at the hour, wishing you had a little more time to get your life together, and a little more time to spend with you-know-who. Sighing, you pry yourself from the comfort of his bed, shrug on his discarded button-down from last night, and venture out to the kitchen.
You find James puttering about the kitchen in only his underwear, humming softly under his breath. A moka pot sputters on the stovetop while he spreads jam on a few pieces of warm toast. When he spots you, that easy grin spreads across his face and he reaches for your hand. His eyes migrate down your form, noting his shirt on your back and your bare legs beneath it, and he looks immensely pleased.
“Smells good,” you mumble, rubbing sleep from your eyes.
James pulls you into his arms, planting a brief but affectionate kiss on your lips. “Buongiorno.”
“Morning,” your reply, smiling up at him wearily.
“You leave today.” It's a statement, not a question, and you detect a hint of disappointment in his voice as his arms tighten around you.
You shrug, already resigned to your fate. “Yeah. Ferry to Sorrento this afternoon. I gotta get back to the hotel.”
“You have time for coffee.” Another kiss, this time pressed just underneath your jaw. “And a shower.”
“Is that your way of telling me I stink?” you ask facetiously, raising an eyebrow.
“It's my way of keeping you longer.” His lips continue their descent down the slope of your neck, and he reaches down to squeeze your ass playfully. “And getting you naked again.”
A cappuccino, a slice of toast, and a long and steamy shower later, you’re running behind farther than you’d like to be. It's looking like Yelena will have to pack your suitcase after all, but James, in true gentlemen fashion, offers to save time by driving the group out to the ferry.
Wearing your dress from last night onto the ferry is a no-go. It's a rumpled wreck, and wearing a hemline that high before sunset totally screams walk of shame. James generously offers you a button-down and a pair of drawstring linen shorts from his closet. You have to pull the drawstring tight so the shorts don’t fall off of you, and you’re sort of swimming in the shirt, but at least you look moderately appropriate for daytime. The shirt smells like him, which is a bonus.
You offer to send them back by mail once they’re washed. James shakes his head and insists that you keep them, as a little memento of your time in Ischia. The idea makes your chest ache with a bittersweet feeling.
It's a bit of a squeeze to fit all the girls and the luggage in James's Fiat, but they make it work. They're on their best behavior when you and James pick them up from the hotel (having been warned via text that you will push them off the deck of the ferry if they embarrass you). There's still a lot of giggling and conspiratorial looks and thinly veiled innuendo.
Before you know it, you’re all standing dockside, waiting to board the ferry among various strangers. The final goodbye looms over your head, like a dangling sword about to stab you in the heart.
Yelena loudly announces that she, Kate, and Natasha will bring the luggage on board, shoves you in James's direction, and starts grabbing bags before he can try to convince her to let him carry them. The girls escape up the ramp with their bags, leaving you alone with him.
James takes your hand in his, pressing his lips to your knuckles. “You will call me, yes?” he asks.
“I will,” you reply, meaning it. “If you’re ever in the states again, come see me.”
“If you ever decide to quit your job and come live the good life here, let me know.”
You laugh in surprise. Because that would be crazy. “I don't know about that. Once your country figures out air conditioning, or ice water, maybe I'll consider it.”
He shrugs, grinning. “It was worth a shot.”
Something delicate and uncertain hangs in the air for a moment, until James surrenders to it and wraps his arms around you, his lips finding your ear one last time.
“Non dimenticarmi.”
You pull back a few inches to look into those devastating, oceanic eyes. “What does that mean?”
His fingers brush your windswept hair away from your face, his expression soft and fond. "Don't forget me.”
Your heart seizes up in your chest again.
“I could never do that,” you promise.
In the full knowledge that your friends are certainly watching from the deck of the ferry, and not giving a damn about it, you stretch up onto your tiptoes and kiss him. You take as much time with it as you can afford, closing your eyes and trying to memorize the taste of him, the feeling of his arms around your waist, the notes of his cologne.
After a moment, your lips part from his reluctantly. James squeezes you in one last embrace, then sends you up the ramp to board the ferry with the last of the passengers. At the top, you look back. He's still standing there, looking like a dream, and he pulls a hand out of his pocket to wave.
You wave back, then turn to go find your friends before you do something stupid like change your mind, like run back down the ramp and into his arms like a rom-com heroine who doesn’t have to deal with consequences after the credits roll.
As you move through the crowd of passengers, Natasha waves you over from near the bow. You arrive to a chorus of exaggerated kissing sounds and lewd moans from the three girls. But once Nat sees your downtrodden expression, she immediately takes you in her arms, telling you all about the things in Sorrento that will cheer you up and take your mind off Sexy Italian Boat Man.
“I give it six months before he comes to the US to visit her,” Kate mutters to Yelena, thinking you can’t hear her over the lap of the waves and the noise of the crowd.
Yelena scoffs and whispers, "I give it a year before she moves here.”
synopsis: approaching a random man at an art gallery you never would’ve expected to meet the artist. And when he invites you back to his place he helps give you an idea of his inspirations.
pairing: Yandere!Artist x fem!reader
content: making out, rough sex, praise, fingering, hair pulling, cum eating, clit smacking, orgasm control, pussy drunk, overstimulation, clitoral stimulation, fucked out on dick, painting you in cum, aftercare.
Yandere!Artist stared down at his art, encased in glass like it was something precious. Meanwhile he loathed it. While everyone was begging his manager to let them host it in their galleries he wanted to burn it to ash.
To watch it wither away like the love that had created it. And that’s when he saw it, a blurred figure appeared in the glass like a blossoming Pheonix rising from the ashes.
“Do you like the painting?” Your voice asks and it echos straight into his soul.
He whirled around to face you, half convinced you weren’t real at first but rather an angel. But as he met your gaze he was left breathless by your beauty and thoughtfulness.
“You look like you’re burning lasers into that piece so I can’t imagine your answer is yes,” you said amusedly. Yet he was still struggling to respond.
“It, uh, has some bad memories attached to painting it,” he admitted as he felt those bad emotions fade before you.
Your eyes went comically wide. Apparently not realizing that you were standing in front of the piece’s creator. Apologies awkwardly sputtered from your lips and as professional as he tried to be he couldn’t help but crack a grin. Letting you see it with a cute quirk of his head.
Yandere!Artist saw the next sorry die on your tongue and his grin widened. So reactive. He wondered what else he could make you do.
If this was how you reacted untouched and teasing then what pretty faces and sweet noises would you make for him once he got his hands on you? He’d touch every curve and drip until he could sculpt out a replica.
So he asked to show you around the gallery if only to spend a little more time with you. Something about you utterly fascinated him. And while the two of you walk through the exhibits he found himself asking to listen to your feelings about the art instead of talking himself. Another strange phenomenon he blamed you for.
Together you walked around the gallery countless times. The two of you lost in a flow of endless conversation till the place closed. A flicker of annoyance shot through him as a guard informed him they need to leave for the night.
Even as he left the two of you alone you lingered, not wanting to part. He sensed you lean in closer to him, sensed the hope. It would be a bad idea, he shouldn’t. Not again.
“Would you like to come to my place for a nightcap?” He asked as he whirled around to face you.
At first he expected you to take things slowly. You looked like the shy type. But the second the door shut behind him you pounced. As his lips met yours in a messy desperate kiss he knew he was gone for you.
His hands roamed all over your curves as he stumbled with you toward his bedroom. Hands memorized every inch. When your feet hit the edge of his bed he spins you around and folds you over in half. His feet kick your knees apart and pull down your clothes, gazing closely at the wet stain on your panties.
“Tsk, messy girl. Someone’s gonna have to clean this up.”
He ghosted his fingers along your clothed folds, listening to you gasp and tremble against him. Long strings of white gooey essence stretches wide as he pushes your panties aside, a long grown leaving him at the sight.
Then his fingers spread your folds open to the cool air till your arousal drips on the floor. Only then does he swipe his long digits down your slit, swirling them around your clit and exploring everything. Cataloguing every reaction you give him.
Fuck, he’s had enough, needing you on his cock this instant. You whimper so prettily as he withdraws and sheds himself of his clothes. Then he’s kissing up your frame, hand curling in your hair like the stroke of a brush, and he pull. Hard. Till your back is arched so nicely for him.
Yandere!Artist loved seeing you cry out at the jolt of pain combined with the sensation of feeling his long length spearing through your drenched folds.
Using the opportunity of having your mouth parted for him he stuffs his wet fingers in there, ordering you to suckle on them and taste how soaked you get for him.
He shuddered as your screams of pleasure vibrate on his hand while he works you down his shaft. Fuck, every part of you is like heaven. It’s as though a muse is caressing him as your silken walls glide down his cock and suck him in deeper with every thrust.
As needy to be inside you the same way you are. His free hand moves down to your belly, pressing on the bulging imprint of his cock and it’s like something in him snaps.
He ruts into you harder and harder every time you scream for more around his fingers. With his hold he keeps you pinned against him, not giving you a second to breathe without him filling up your entire being.
The force of his thrusts driving in so deep it’s like he’s rearranging your guts and leaving a permanent place for his cock to live. A shudder rolls through him and he presses against your back like he could merge you two together.
With a swivel his hips he desperately looked for your sweet spots until you wail harshly, your back arching to take him impossibly deeper. A near manic bubble of laughter leaves him.
“Did I find it, huh, pretty? Look at her thanking me so nice. I’m fuckin’ spoiling this pussy,” he rasps in your ear. Then in a blink of an eye he slips his fingers out of your mouth and smacks one, two, three wet swats right on your swollen sensitive clit.
Yandere!Artist watches like a predator who’s finally caught their prey when your body jolts forward, strangled shrieks echoing against the wall as you cum. The way your cunt clamps down and milks his cock for everything that it’s worth sends him into the ultimate state of bliss.
By now he’s so drunk on your pussy as he fights to fuck you through it no matter how hard you’re suffocating and squeezing his cock.
“C’mon, mmph, gimme more. I know you can do it, baby. Paint my cock with your cum, wanna drown in you,” he groans, lost in the sensation of having you wrapped around him.
It takes all the strength he has left to work you through your release, talking you through it the whole way, and continues right into the next. Even as you whine and squirm beneath him he just starts building you up again. He knows how sensitive you are.
Every tremor of your body coils back up his cock, making him tingle all over. His face falls into your neck and he inhales the scent of your sweat glistening on you.
“Hmm, not done with you yet, muse. Just one more. It’ll be quick.”
Yandere!Artist lies to you so sweetly but he can’t help himself when it comes to you. He fucks into you nice and slow for this one. Basking in the feeling of you throbbing against the veins on his length. You two just fit together like two broken puzzle pieces.
He’s falling.
He knows he’s falling again. The warning bells are nothing but white noise as he grinds the leaking angry tip of his dick into your gummy cervix till you’re nothing but a fucked out mess on the bed.
Yandere!Artist needs to cum so bad yet doesn’t want the moment to end. But the sight of you covered in his cum is too hard to resist. So his hand slips back between your legs, much gentler this time, and expertly rubs your clit. Not wanting to finish until you have. Just like he begged you for.
He waits to the point you cum where his fingers on your clit quicken but he pulls out with a sharp jerk of his hips at the same time. He was so close. So close to coming inside of you.
Instead he shoots spurt after spurt all over your back, painting you in his release. It’s the closest thing to a masterpiece he’s ever made.
Afterwards, taking care of your every need, cleaning you up and whispering sweet nothings about how good you were for him and how perfect you felt, the lovely noises you made, and all about how much he wants to keep you. He drags you into his embrace and molds his front to your back. You fall asleep surrounded by his warmth and comfort.
The next morning he finds you walking around his studio. Stopping in front of a painting that looks eerily similar to the one you saw last night at the gallery. He comes up and hugs you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder. Wanting to see everything through your eyes.
“Are these part of a series, what are they supposed to represent?” You ask softly in the undisturbed light of morning.
Yandere!Artist chuckles at your question but squeezes you tighter. As if afraid that you’ll disappear any minute.
“They’re actually paintings I make whoever an ex of mine breaks up with me. It’s just a freak accident that one gained so much popularity.”
Your lips twist into a frown as you stare at the bold red painting. “Well now I regret complimenting it so much,” you say as if displeased imagining him with someone else.
Yandere!Artist grins at your response as it feeds the dark hungry side of himself that wants to wrap you up and never let you go.
“Don’t worry, I don’t plan on ever having to make another one of these again,” he murmurs and places a chaste kiss on your pulse before letting you go.
It takes a moment for his words to properly sink in. They’re sweet words, really. So you have no idea why they unnerve you so much as you watch him waltz over to the kitchen, whistling a happy tune.
⭐︎ warnings: nsfw, smut, friends with benefits, secret relationships, jealousy, blood and wounds, war, fluff, angst, light banter, mutual pining, slight chef!bob x reader moment, possessive sex, pussy pronouns, breeding kink
⭐︎ wordcount: 12.2k
⭐︎ a/n: based on this request. thank you sm for the suggestion because it helped me out of my slump. ohhh knight!bucky how i yearn for you
synopsis:
A maidservant’s only job is to tend to the princess's every whim. But despite the warnings of everyone around you, you can't help but fall for the one person you shouldn't, and that was the kingdom's trustiest knight and the princess’s sole protector—James Barnes.
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Being the maidservant of a princess came with both its advantages and disadvantages.
You were constantly on your feet, up before the sun rose and down long after it set. Your body was in a permanent state of ache and strain from lifting heavy baskets of laundry up and down several flights of stairs, and your fingers were often raw from the needle poking through thick fabrics.
Princess Daphne always barked the wildest commands, keeping you and the other maidservants running around the palace to satisfy her every whim and desire.
It was hard, tedious work, but it gave you a roof over your head and a decent enough pay. And in this day and age, with the war against Sokovia, protection was the most important thing.
You could live in a beautiful home, but none of it mattered if Sokovian soldiers could barge past the kingdom gates at any moment with their weapons and horses at the ready.
With knights posted at every corner, the palace became your sanctuary.
There was one knight in particular who always seemed to linger near the maidservants’ chambers on the highest floor. A window sat right outside your room in the hallway, offering a clear view of the grounds where that same knight always stood on guard.
“James,” you greeted him with a sigh, still catching your breath from the long climb up the stairs.
He turned toward you, his usually tense, focused shoulders easing slightly at the sight of you.
A small, rare, and gentle smile tugged at the corners of his lips.
“You know—when it’s just me and you, you don’t have to call me James.”
A sheepish flush crept over your face as you approached him.
There was a true sense of family among the palace workers; the bond between the maidservants was like a sisterhood, and you were close with many of the chefs. Late at night, when the palace fell asleep, you and the other servants would gather at the kitchen tables to laugh and drink long past midnight.
The knights hardly ever got the time off or the leisure that you and the other maids enjoyed. But for Bucky, just seeing and talking to you was enough.
He stepped toward you, his heavy armor clinking with every movement. “Long day?”
“Mhm,” you mumbled tiredly.
Finally stripped away from the presence of royalty, you were free to speak as sluggishly and as improperly as you liked.
A soft exhale left Bucky’s nose. His right hand—flesh and human—came up to caress your cheek, while the other, metal and forged by the kingdom’s greatest blacksmith, cradled the other side of your face.
The touch was cold and made you shiver, but nonetheless, it was still Bucky.
Your Bucky.
“Sleepy girl,” he muttered, his thumb tracing your cheek as he stared down at you, strands of long, dark hair falling over his face. “You’ve been working so hard, haven’t you?”
A little whine left your mouth as you stepped closer into his space, letting yourself bask in his touch.
He chuckled softly, pulling you against his chest and pressing a gentle kiss to your temple.
“I should let you retreat to your bedchambers,” he spoke quietly. “But I don’t want to let you go. I haven’t seen you all day. Is that selfish of me?”
“Very selfish of you, James.”
“I told you not to call me that.”
You smiled, tilting your head back against his chest to look him in the eye. “Oh—I apologize, Bucky.” You teased.
Bucky grinned, his hand trailing down to your chin and lifting it, presenting your lips to him—the prize he’d been seeking all day.
“That’s my girl,” he mumbled.
Just as he leaned in to find the salvation he’d been starving for, the door to your bedchamber swung open. Your roommate, Yelena, poked her head out and scrunched her nose in disgust.
“Ew,” she dragged out childishly. “Is this what you knights usually do on your time off? Stick your tongue down an unassuming maidservant’s throat?”
Your face burned with embarrassment as Bucky pulled away, glaring daggers in Yelena’s direction.
He clicked his tongue. “Unassuming,” he repeated in a grumble.
He looked back down at you with a soft, disappointed sigh.
“I shall let you rest.” Using his gloved hand, he brought your fingers to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of your palm. “Goodnight, maiden.”
Bucky stepped aside as you retreated toward your bedchambers. Yelena held the door open with her body, arms folded tightly across her chest as she continued to glare him down.
“Yelena,” you hissed at her quietly as you slipped inside, “stop.”
After throwing one last look over her shoulder at Bucky, Yelena finally pulled the door closed. Inside, your roommates and fellow maidservants were already settled for the night, snug and comfortable on their cots.
Natasha was brushing out her hair, a knowing, teasing glint in her eyes. “Did you have fun with soldier boy out there?”
You gasped softly at her direct question. “N-Nat—!”
“You know, soldier boy didn’t even spare us a glance when we walked up the stairs,” Wanda added, swinging her feet over the edge of her bed as she stood up. “It’s as if the knight recognizes the sound of your footsteps by heart.”
All eyes were on you, and you wished the floor would simply open up and swallow you whole to save you from the relentless teasing.
“You ladies are unbelievable—”
“Am I the only one who doesn’t find this funny in the slightest?” Yelena barked, a disapproving look on her face. She glared harshly at Nat, then Wanda, and finally you. “If word gets out that a maidservant is having an affair with a knight—no, the Sergeant himself—we’re all ruined!”
You frowned, undoing the ties in your hair as you made your way to your side of the room.
“I wouldn’t call it an affair,” you explained. “We haven’t put a title on…” You swallowed hard, twisting the hair tie between your fingers, “…this arrangement.”
Yelena ran a hand down her face. “That’s even worse!”
“Yelena, calm down,” Natasha cut in, glancing at you from her bed. “But as harsh as she's being, she is right.”
You kept your head down, trying to appear fixated on the hair ties and pins scattered across your dresser. You knew they were right—that being in any kind of relationship with one of the kingdom’s knights was nothing but trouble.
Especially when the knight in question was Sergeant Barnes—the very man entrusted to watch over the princess.
“You are in love,” Wanda pointed out gently from across the room. “We can see that. But you have to believe us—we’re only looking out for you.” She approached you, setting a gentle hand on your shoulder. “Falling in love with a knight will bring nothing but heartache.”
Words were just words until they were spoken by the right person. Yelena and Natasha could doubt you and Bucky all they wanted—but it was Wanda’s voice that truly made the realization sting.
Because Wanda was a maidservant who had fallen for a knight, just like you.
His name was Vision, and he had been felled in a battle against Sokovian soldiers. While they were deep in their secret affair, they had been told the same things over and over.
“You could get us all in trouble.”
“You’re only thinking for yourself.”
But before word could ever get out about Wanda and Vis, he passed away, leaving Wanda to grieve in total isolation.
She couldn’t even attend his funeral, and her name couldn’t be left in his will.
It pained you because, despite the sanctuary and comfort of living in the palace, you still wanted more. You wanted to be with the man who stood just outside your bedchambers.
“I know,” you said quietly, looking up at the other girls and forcing a smile to show them you were okay—that this was okay. “And I understand. I won’t let it come between us.”
It was a promise you had made countless times, but you knew you would always run back to him.
You were kneeling on the floor, adjusting the hem of Princess Daphne’s dress as her blue eyes bored into the large window to her right rather than the full body mirror in front of her.
“Is it just me, or are the roses in the garden unkempt?”
There was no one else in the room, so this was her attempt at a conversation. Most of these ended with her complaining about some minor issue, leaving you to simply nod in agreement.
You glanced over your shoulder, taking in the roses. They didn’t look out of place—maybe a few weeds were overgrown nearby, but nothing unruly.
“The roses do look unkempt these days, Your Royal Highness,” you agreed anyway, bringing your attention back to the skirts.
She hummed. “The gardener has been fruitless lately, has he not?”
“I believe Mister Alexei has been feeling unwell, Your Royal Highness,” you explained politely.
Princess Daphne raised a brow, looking down at you as you fluffed her skirt. “Whatever for?”
You pressed your lips together, glancing up to meet the princess’s eyes. “His wife passed away, Your Royal Highness.”
“I see,” she sighed softly. “That’s a shame.”
You stayed quiet as you continued to fix her dress. You finally rose from the floor, letting out a soft groan as you pulled yourself up. You smiled, admiring your own handiwork on the princess’s back, but her mind seemed preoccupied with something else.
“All finished—”
“I would like for you to tend the gardens today.”
You blinked at the sudden request. “I… the gardens?”
“You fill the vases with the most precious and stunning flowers every morning,” she said with a guileless smile. “So, I am entrusting you to tend the gardens.”
You truly didn’t know what to say.
You had never been ordered to work the grounds before—sure, you might have plucked a stray weed or offered a hand to Alexei when the days in the palace were slow and long, but never like this. That was what a gardener was for.
But knowing Princess Daphne, she couldn’t tell the difference between someone arranging a bouquet and someone maintaining an entire estate.
And you were nothing but a maidservant. How could you refuse, anyway?
“I… yes,” you bowed your head. “It will be done, Your Royal Highness.”
“Wonderful!” Princess Daphne beamed, clasping her gloved hands together as she stepped off the pedestal without your assistance. “I expect the roses to be vibrant and lively once I return from my promenade!”
Once Princess Daphne left her bedroom, you stayed behind to tidy the mess she had left in her wake. When the room was back in order, you made your way down to the gardens.
Outside, the sun was baking the garden soil. Your nostrils were immediately hit with the scent of dirt and blooming jasmines.
You managed to find a pair of old, oversized gardening gloves—likely Alexei’s—in a shed, and after tucking your skirts as best you could, you dropped to your knees before the rosebushes. The work started easy, clearing away small weeds and tossing them into a pile.
But then, a thick rooted weed tucked right at the base of a vibrant red rose was giving you a run for your money.
You gripped it tight, bracing your feet against the stone path, but it wouldn’t budge.
“Come on,” you hissed under your breath, your face heating up from both the sun and the exertion.
With a frustrated huff, you desperately heaved, putting your entire body weight into it. The root finally snapped, but the sudden lack of resistance sent you flying backward. You tumbled through the air like a fool, losing your balance until you landed with a dull thud right in the middle of a freshly turned hydrangea bed.
The Queen’s favorite flower.
You sat there for a moment, stunned, with your legs sprawled out and dirt smeared all over your… toosh.
The heavy clinking of metal hit the stone pavement, stalking closer and closer. Bucky loomed over you, his long hair catching the light from behind as his heavy cape draped over his shoulders. He didn’t offer a hand immediately, wanting to take in the sight of you sprawled out and dirty.
He rested his gloved hand on the hilt of his sword, a slow, devastatingly handsome grin spreading across his smug face.
“Don’t tell me the princess has you working her gardens now.”
You looked around to see if anyone else was near, but it was just him.
“Bucky,” you greeted with a breathless smile. “Don’t tell me the princess has you clearing the garden perimeters.”
Bucky’s grin widened as he extended a hand. When you took it, he lifted you from the dirt with ease.
“If the princess believes there are any threats out here, you can start by eradicating these,” you said, lifting the weed in your hand for emphasis.
He chuckled softly, reaching out to brush away a bit of soil that had caught in your hair.
“No, actually,” he said. “The princess sent for me. She wants me to accompany her on her promenade through town.”
“Oh,” your smile faded slightly. “I see.”
Bucky nodded, standing tall in his armor. All you could think about was how, while the man you loved was out strolling and shopping with the princess, you would be here in the dirt, working far beyond your usual station.
He tilted his head, leaning down slightly to get a better look at your expression. “Is there something troubling you?”
I don’t want you to promenade with the princess, even if it is your job.
I want you to stay here with me instead.
“Nothing,” you lied, forcing a smile as you clutched the weed tighter in your gloved hand. “It’s a lovely day outside for a promenade—I’m sure it’ll be a good change of pace from guarding the palace all day.”
Bucky furrowed his brow, noting the way your shoulders slightly slumped and how your voice had grown quiet. He reached out and caught your hand with his gloved one, running his thumb gently over your knuckles.
“The promenade won’t last forever,” he promised, his eyes searching yours. “And once you’ve finished tucking the Princess into bed, I’ll be posted near the gazebo south of the palace.”
He stepped even closer until his tall frame shadowed yours, the cold metal of his chest piece brushing against your bodice.
“Meet me there,” he whispered, his thumb still tracing slow, gentle circles over your knuckles. “Behind the willow trees. No other knights patrol that far down, and the sound of the water will drown out... everything else.”
Drown out everything else.
You knew exactly what he meant. This wasn’t the first time you two had snuck away past your working hours just to find comfort in each other’s arms.
Bucky’s gaze dropped to your lips for a quick, hungry second before he pulled back just slightly to maintain appearances.
“Tonight, after the moon hits its peak,” he murmured, quiet and low. “Don’t make me wait for you, sweetheart.”
Your heart thumped faster in your chest. Now, the only thing left to do was count the hours until you were in Bucky’s arms again—a thought that made the day drag on far slower, despite the mountains of work piled up before you.
“Tonight,” you repeated with a genuine smile. “I shall be there.”
Bucky smiled softly, satisfied with your answer. “Good—”
“Sergeant Barnes!” the King shouted from across the garden, where he stood by the shade.
Bucky’s body went stiff as a board, his hand instantly dropping from yours as he snapped into a formal salute. You quickly stepped away, desperately brushing the loose soil from your skirts and keeping your head bowed low.
“Your Majesty,” Bucky’s voice lacked the warmth he shared with you just a moment ago.
He moved toward the King, leaving you behind without another glance.
The King didn’t even spare a look at the messy hydrangeas or at you—the dirt smudged maidservant trembling beside them. His eyes were fixed solely on his most trusted knight.
“Sergeant, the Princess is ready for her departure,” the King lectured with authority. “Why are you lingering in the gardens when your charge is waiting at the carriage?”
“My apologies, Sire,” Bucky replied, a mask of stoicism and professionalism taking over him. “I was merely ensuring the perimeter was secure before leaving the grounds. I am headed to the stables now.”
The King gave a curt, stiff nod, though he didn’t look pleased. “See that you are. In these times, the Princess’s safety is paramount. We cannot have our best men distracted by trivialities.”
The King’s gaze flickered momentarily toward you—a cold, passing look that made you feel like nothing more than a piece of garden furniture—before he turned back to Bucky.
“Move along, Sergeant.”
“At once, Your Majesty,” Bucky said.
He turned to leave, but for a split second, while the King’s attention was turned away, Bucky’s gaze broke rank.
Over his shoulder, he stole one last look at you. You were already back on your knees, picking at the weeds, and Bucky’s heart clenched. He wished he could spend his days right next to you.
In his eyes, you shouldn’t be the one picking the flowers, but rather the one receiving them.
But all he could do for now was tear his gaze away and head for the stables.
With the Princess gone and the garden task finally completed, you followed the distant yet familiar sounds of clinking copper and boisterous laughter down into the belly of the palace.
The kitchens were a different world entirely. As soon as you pushed through the heavy doors, the scent of roasting garlic, fresh rosemary, and baking bread enveloped you—a welcome relief, even after being stuck outdoors in the fresh air all morning.
At the center of the room, several maidservants were perched on the edge of the prep tables, their legs swinging as they broke fresh bread and shared it with the kitchen crew.
“Look what the cat dragged in!” Yelena called out, her mouth half full of loaf. She beckoned you over with a sticky hand. “You look like you’ve been rolling in the trenches.”
Natasha looked up from where she was leaning against the counter, a cup of cider in her hand. “And it looks like you didn’t have your knight in shining armor to save you this time.”
“That’s because the Princess is strolling through town today, which means Sergeant Barnes is busy looking after her,” John, one of the cooks, mentioned from across the kitchen, not looking up from his work.
Wanda motioned for you to take the empty seat next to her. “Hours have passed, and the Princess should be returning soon. Eat now, unless you want to wait until midnight.”
Your stomach grumbled as you stepped deeper into the kitchen to claim your spot.
“I’m starving,” you groaned tiredly, sinking into the seat. “What are you all feasting on?” You smiled, taking in the mountain of bread crumbs and various loaves scattered across the table.
Yelena nodded toward the back of the kitchen. “Bob has been locked away by the ovens all morning. He calls it focaccia—” she lifted a piece of the bread, “apparently, it’s all the rage in the southern kingdoms.”
You glanced over to see Bob carefully dimpling the surface of a fresh loaf with his fingers, drizzling it with a generous amount of olive oil and pressing sprigs of rosemary into the dough.
“He’s even made a special companion for it,” John called over his shoulder, “a savory onion and fig jam.”
Wanda slid a small wooden bowl and a thick, airy slice of the bread toward you. The loaf was golden brown and glistening, pockmarked with herbs that smelled divine. The jam was a deep, thick purple that smelled of caramelized sugar.
“Try it,” Wanda encouraged. “It’s much better than the dry biscuits we usually get. He even added a bit of honey to the jam to cut the salt.”
You tore off a piece, dipped it into the jam, and took a bite. It had a satisfying, golden crunch on the outside but remained soft and pillowy on the inside.
“Mmm!” You beamed, eyes widening as you reached for another piece. “Bob—this is delicious! If you’ve been cooking like this all this time, how haven’t I had a taste until now?”
“It’s because you spend most of your free time with Sergeant Barnes rather than us,” Yelena teased, rolling her eyes, which earned her a sharp nudge in the shoulder from Wanda.
Across the kitchen, Bob’s ears turned a shade of pink that you noticed even from your seat.
“Thank you,” he mumbled, keeping his focus fixed on the dough in front of him. “I’ve been trying something new… so I’m glad you like it.”
“Aw, look at that,” Yelena teased, turning her entire body to stare at the baker. “You’ve got Bob all flustered now.”
John snickered, glancing at Bob, whose face only burned a deeper shade of red.
“Careful with that one, Bob,” he warned, pointing his whisk at you. “Getting too close to her will only get the kingdom’s mightiest soldier’s blade pressed against your throat.”
The entire kitchen barked in laughter at John’s comment. You should have been embarrassed by their relentless teasing, but instead, you just felt bad for Bob. The poor man was stammering in the corner, desperately trying to dismiss the attention.
“Hey now,” you called out, focaccia crumbs still clinging to your lips. “Don’t tease the guy. He’s the only one keeping you all fed.”
Laughter still hung in the air, and for a few minutes—away from the pressure of your chores—you were all just a group of friends rather than a squadron of dirty servants.
The enjoyment continued until the melodic tolling of the courtyard bells rang out. In an instant, as if a switch had flipped inside everyone’s head, the boisterous noise died. Everyone scrambled to their feet to collect themselves.
“The promenade is over,” Natasha said, setting her cider down and wiping her hands on her apron. “Back upstairs, girls. Princess Daphne will be expecting us.”
“I didn’t even finish my loaf!” Yelena’s complaints were ignored by everyone else as they hurried toward the doors.
Wanda stood up, giving your arm a gentle squeeze. “The Princess will likely want a bath and a change of clothes immediately. Go on—I’ll change her sheets so they’re ready for her to lie down.”
You swallowed your barely chewed bite in one hard gulp. “Right. I’m going.”
On your way to greet the Princess, you collected a set of freshly pressed towels along with various soaps and aromatic oils for her bath.
You scrambled up several flights of stairs, lungs burning, hoping to reach her chambers before she did.
With your heart beating wildly in your eardrums, you rounded the corner and stopped short.
Princess Daphne was already lingering at the entrance of her bedroom, but she wasn’t alone.
Bucky was standing right beside her.
And against your better judgment, you pressed yourself into the shadows of the wall, gripping the wicker basket tight as you listened in.
“My knightly duties do not require me to escort you all the way to your chambers, Your Royal Highness,” Bucky said, his tone formal and polite.
Princess Daphne giggled, pressing a gloved hand to her mouth as she flushed beneath the knight’s gaze.
“Please, when it is just us, you must call me Daphne,” she sighed, her voice drifting into something dreamlike. “Just as I shall call you Bucky.”
You felt your heart drop.
As far as you knew, you were the only one who called him Bucky. It was a name he had reserved for the people closest to him. You knew he had served the palace long before you arrived, but the reminder of the closeness he shared with her was a sting that never failed to make your heart ache.
“Thank you for accompanying me on my stroll through town, Bucky,” Princess Daphne continued, as you winced from behind the corner.
“Of course,” Bucky nodded politely. “With the rising tensions against the Sokovians, it is my duty to put your safety above all else.”
“You always make the gloomy days brighter and the dangers feel so much smaller,” she smiled.
“I am glad to hear that, Your Royal Highness,” Bucky hummed, his gaze flickering to the door of her bedchambers. “Shall I take my leave, then?”
The Princess frowned, her expression turning pouty. “I told you to call me Daphne.” She looked around with a sigh. “And no need—it seems my maidservant has yet to arrive—”
Your feet moved before you could think, and you rounded the corner, acting as if you had just arrived and hadn’t been eavesdropping the entire time.
“I apologize for the wait, Your Royal Highness,” you said, bowing politely with the basket still in your hands. “I made sure the towels were freshly warmed for your arrival. I can prepare your bath right away, if you’re ready.”
Bucky turned toward you, his eyes widening slightly in surprise.
“Oh,” Princess Daphne was surprised, her hands folding primly at the front of her dress. “I would like that very much.”
You stood there for a moment with a polite, awkward smile, waiting for the Princess to grant you permission to enter, but she didn’t.
So instead, the three of you remained in a tense, silent standoff.
Bucky’s eyes were fixed on you. His posture was stiff, his gloved hands tightening at his sides as if he were fighting the urge to reach out.
Princess Daphne cleared her throat, glancing at Bucky. “You are dismissed, Sergeant Barnes.”
He didn’t reply immediately—not until the Princess called for him once more, her voice sharper this time. “Sergeant?”
“I… my apologies,” Bucky said, finally turning to face her. He bowed low. “Your Royal Highness.”
He glanced at you, offering nothing more than a short, professional nod. For someone of his rank, it wasn’t customary to acknowledge a maidservant, but as he walked past you, you felt the subtle, intentional graze of his glove against your skirt.
The ghost of his touch made the hair on your arms stand up.
“The bath, then?” Princess Daphne spoke up, snapping you back to attention.
“Yes—of course, Your Royal Highness,” you stammered, scrambling to recover your composure.
You pushed into her bedchambers and moved toward the bathing area, immediately drawing the steaming water.
The Princess followed close behind, peeling off her silk gloves. She didn’t wait for you to ask about her day, as she was already glowing with excitement to recount her afternoon.
“He truly is a marvel, isn’t he?” she sighed, watching the water swirl into the marble basin. “The way the villagers part for him—he has such a presence. Or perhaps it was simply because he was standing beside me. And yet, he was so attentive today. He held my parasol the entire time we crossed the market square without me even having to ask.”
You kept your back to her, focusing on the steam radiating off the tub as your jaw clenched at the image.
“He is a man very dedicated to his duties, My Lady,” you managed to say.
“It’s more than duty,” she countered, her voice drifting into a dreamy haze. “When we stopped by the fountain, he told me that my safety was the only thing on his mind.”
Steam continued to fill the room as the tub rose with nearly scorching water.
You knew, deep down, that Bucky only said those things because it was his job—just as your job was to nod and smile at every word the Princess spoke. But a selfish part of you was seething with jealousy at the thought of anyone else walking by his side.
“Do you think he finds me charming?”
Your eyes widened and the vial of bath oil slipped from your hand, splashing more of the aroma into the water than intended. You turned to look at her, the word “I—” dying on your lips.
“It’s so hard to tell with men like him,” she continued, unlacing her bodice with a sigh. “So stoic. So guarded. But I saw the way he looked at me today!”
There was so much you wanted to say, but the words withered at the sight of her.
Having served her for so long, she had grown comfortable being nearly bare in your presence. As she let her hair fall—the silky blonde locks you had pinned so carefully earlier—her slender, graceful frame made your heart ache.
She was so beautiful, and standing in the same room as someone as beautiful as Princess Daphne felt like a cruel insult to your own heart.
But that was okay, because you would see him tonight. Unlike Princess Daphne, you would see the real version of him—the version of Bucky who gave you nothing but his warmth and his heart.
So, until then, you simply bit your tongue and nodded with a hollow smile.
“It is impossible not to find you charming, Your Royal Highness.”
The night crept on, and while the other maidservants were long asleep, you slipped out of the bedchambers. With quiet, tiptoeing steps, you made your way down the stairs and snuck out the back of the palace toward the gazebo where you and Bucky had agreed to meet.
The night air was cold and breezy, the shawl around your shoulders fluttering in the wind as you treaded through the grass.
Bucky was right—no guards were posted on this side of the palace.
As you sat down, your eyes drifted to the left. Tucked away behind the trees and bushes stood the small cabin where the kitchen crew rested. The lights were out, meaning the cooks were likely all in bed.
While you waited, the only things keeping you company were the hooting of owls and the gentle chirping of crickets.
By now, it was well past midnight, and your earlier excitement was slowly fading into exhaustion.
You found yourself yawning every few seconds, your eyelids growing heavier with each passing minute.
Had Bucky been caught up in other duties?
Had he forgotten?
Or worse—was everything Princess Daphne said true?
Had he realized his heart belonged elsewhere?
An hour had passed, and your heart began to ache the longer you sat alone without a trace of him.
You knew you had to be up early for your morning duties, so with a tired sigh, you pushed yourself off the bench and pulled your shawl tight.
As you stepped down from the gazebo, the sound of crunching grass echoed in the distance. Your eyes snapped open, your heart leaping at the possibility of him finally appearing.
But as the figure stepped into the faint, warm light of the gazebo, your shoulders deflated.
“Bob?” you asked, your voice sounding more disappointed than you intended. “What are you doing out here?”
Bob blinked, looking just as confused as you were. “I stayed behind in the kitchen,” he said, hitching a thumb over his shoulder. “I wanted to perfect the focaccia.” He lifted the loaf, which was carefully wrapped in a white cloth.
He stepped closer into the light, his eyes trailing you up and down. He took note of your thin sleeping gown with nothing but a flimsy shawl to cover the rest of you. Your face warmed in embarrassment as you wrapped the shawl tighter around you, though it salvaged nothing.
“What are you doing out here?” Bob returned the question.
“I’m… um—waiting for someone,” you replied meekly.
Bob glanced around, the crickets filling in the already awkward and suffocating silence when he found no one else near.
“… For how long?”
“I haven’t been out here long,” you lied, only finding yourself more embarrassed being caught in this predicament. “I was just starting to head back, actually.”
Bob pressed his lips together as if he wanted to say something. He knew you weren’t telling the truth, and any worker within the palace could piece two and two together.
Instead of leaving you be, he stepped up into the gazebo to meet you and lifted the loaf in his hands, changing the subject for your comfort.
“I think this is the best loaf I’ve made,” he said, unwrapping the cloth and revealing the gold-crusted focaccia with herbs laced at the top. “Want to share it with me?”
You looked back toward the palace. You really should have gone back inside, knowing just how early you’d have to rise in a few hours to tend to the Princess.
But at the thought of returning to your cold, lonely cot with nothing but the empty promise Bucky left behind, the warmth of a friend didn’t sound bad at all.
“Just for a moment,” you whispered, and Bob smiled gently.
You sat back down on the wooden bench, and Bob settled beside you, careful to maintain a respectful distance. He carefully tore the focaccia in half, the crust crackling over the chirping of the crickets.
“Here,” he said softly, handing you the larger piece. “It’s still warm.”
You took the piece in your hands and bit into it—no jam this time, but the taste was even better than the one you had earlier that day in the kitchen.
It was delicious, and you didn’t even need to shower him with compliments. The satisfied look on your face told Bob everything he needed to know. He smiled, his expression warming as he bit into his own piece.
For a moment, you two just sat there in silence. The only sounds were the crunching of bread and the wind rustling the leaves in the trees. Bob didn’t push for answers or smother you with questions like the girls usually did back in your chambers.
You two just sat there, enjoying each other’s company under the stars.
“You’re an incredible cook, Bob,” you said, gazing up at the dark sky. “I wish people outside of the palace could taste this—it’s exquisite.”
Bob wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his shoulders hunched modestly.
“I told myself that when the war is over, I want to open my own bakery one day.” He looked up at the sky with you. “It’s always been my dream.”
You glanced at Bob. He had such a faraway look in his eyes that your heart could only ache for him.
Sokovian soldiers had been sweeping through the streets, stripping people from their families and tearing down local businesses—wreaking havoc everywhere they went. For the lucky few handselected to work in the comfort of the palace, it was like a dream compared to the world outside.
But even though many workers had aspirations beyond these stone walls, they knew deep down that safety came before all else.
“Well, when you do open up your shop,” you said, nudging him in the shoulder with a reassuring smile, “I’ll be the first one in line.”
Bob smiled at you. “What about you? What do you want to do when the war is over? Will you stay here at the palace?”
“Does anyone actually want to stay at the palace?” you joked, and he chuckled softly.
“No. I want what any other woman would want. I want to get married, have my own family—” Your smile faded slightly at the thought. “Maybe a cottage somewhere deep in the forest, by a river. A place where my husband can go hunting while I stay home with the baby.”
But even if the war ended tomorrow, you knew that future was a ghost.
Even if everything went exactly as planned, the only person you could imagine sharing that life with was Bucky—and he was the Sergeant of the Howling Commandos. They were the elite, the knights specifically curated to guard and protect the royal family at all costs.
He could never leave his post, even if he wanted to.
Bob knew it, too. It was why he didn’t press you with more questions. He simply rested a hand on your shoulder, offering a silent sympathy.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
You forced a smile. “It’s okay.”
Another silence settled between you, the crickets filling the space before Bob sucked in a breath to continue.
“I know you hear this plenty of times,” he started gently, “but you deserve so much better than—”
“Hey!”
A rough voice shouted from across the yard, followed by the sound of heavy boots thumping frantically against the grass. Both of you snapped your heads up, and your breath hitched at the sight of Bucky.
He looked as though he hadn’t slept in days.
He looked angry, his entire body tense, and his left hand—the cold metal of his prosthetic—rested firmly over the hilt of his sword.
Bob scrambled to his feet, hands raised in surrender to show he meant no harm. You quickly stood up beside him.
“James—”
“What the hell are you doing past your post at this hour?” Bucky seethed. He didn’t even look at you—his icy glare was focused entirely on Bob and Bob only.
“I—I was just about to head to bed, sir,” Bob stammered, his hands still raised. “I was just finishing up some work in the kitchen and—”
“Bullshit,” Bucky spat, stepping into the faint light of the gazebo. “All I see is a mere cook who has forgotten his place—a foolish boy who thinks he’s entitled to roam the grounds after dark. You’re a cook, Reynolds. Your duty begins and ends at the stove.”
You winced at his cruelty. You knew Bucky could be rough—it was how he had earned his rank, but Bob didn’t deserve this.
“James, calm down—”
“You will not tell me to calm down, for you are interloping on palace grounds as well,” Bucky snapped, cutting you off so harshly that you flinched.
“I meant no disrespect, sir,” Bob whispered, his voice trembling.
“Then get out of my sight before I decide your presence here is a threat,” Bucky threatened, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword. “Back to your hole, baker. Now.”
“Y-yes, sir!”
Bob scrambled down the steps of the gazebo, sparing one last, sympathetic glance over his shoulder before retreating toward the dark cabins. Bucky watched him with a tense jaw, his face twisted in disdain until Bob reached the door and shut it behind him.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Bucky had never spoken to you like that.
Usually, your meetings were filled with the hushed, gentle tones he shared with no one else. But tonight, he spoke to you as if you were just another servant—and that hurt more than his shouting. Instead of running to him for a hug as you usually did, you stayed rooted to the floor of the gazebo, your body tense, unsure of what he would do next.
Bucky slowly turned back to you, his eyes piercing, cold, and completely unwelcoming.
He stepped fully into the gazebo, his gaze trailing down your thin nightgown before landing on the white cloth Bob had left behind on the bench. He picked it up slowly, examining it as if it were evidence of a crime.
“You broke bread with the boy?”
You didn’t dare to speak.
“Answer me,” Bucky commanded.
“I waited for you,” you said instead, your voice trembling.
Bucky fell silent, the cloth in his hands lowering at your quiet admission. For a moment, it seemed as though he had been snapped out of his defensive daze, and you took the opportunity to continue.
“I waited for over an hour,” you said, wrapping the shawl tighter around your body defensively. “I have to rise in merely four hours—you know that. And yet...” Your voice started to shake, your face scrunching as you tried to will away tears. “You stood me up.”
Bucky parted his lips to speak, but you breezed right through him.
“Not only that—but you treated Bob with such blatant disrespect! He’s my friend, and he did nothing but keep me company and feed me!”
Bucky’s eyebrow twitched at that, his voice coming out pettier than he intended. “I didn’t realize that kid was of such importance to you.”
You blinked, your face scrunching at his words. “Don’t tell me,” you scoffed lightly in disbelief. “Are you jealous?”
He made a face. He could deny it all he wanted, but the way his jaw set told you the truth.
“I am many things,” he said stiffly. “But jealous? I am not.”
You crossed your arms over your chest, shaking your head. “Oh, I’m sure.”
“And even if I was,” Bucky stepped closer, invading your space until he was looking down at you. You made no effort to move, standing your ground despite the height difference. “Is that so wrong?”
Your brows furrowed. “Funny for you to say. I heard you had an excellent time being out with the Princess today.”
Bucky’s face became a mask of confusion. “What?”
“About how charming you were,” you said with bitterness. “She said you held her parasol and that you looked at her… differently.”
Bucky let out a dry, humorless rasp of a laugh, running his gloved right hand through his hair.
“Looking at her differently? That’s unbelievable,” he scoffed. “And you know it is my job to do as I am told.” He took another step, his shadow completely looming over you. “And charming, is it? What do you think? Am I charming?”
He was taunting you now, but you refused to let him distract you from the fact that he had stood you up.
“You’re ridiculous, James,” you spat. Your hands tightened on your shawl as you tried to push past him, but he grabbed your arm firmly enough to hold you in place.
“Wait—” he sighed, his shoulders finally easing as the defensive walls came down. “I’m sorry. It was never my intention to stand you up—I swear it.”
He squeezed your arm gently—a silent plea for you to hear him out.
“I was with the General,” he spoke, his voice getting quieter. “The meeting… it went on for hours. There were maps, ledgers, reports from the front. It’s Sokovia. The news is bad, and the King is panicked.”
He met your eyes, and you could finally see the raw regret and exhaustion behind them. “The Sokovian line is breaking through the southern pass. It’s getting worse, and the General is scrambled. He spent three hours arguing over troop placements and supply routes—I… I couldn’t just walk out.”
Bucky tugged on your arm gently, guiding you to face him. His left hand moved to your chin, his thumb stroking your cheek to keep your focus on him as he explained.
“I was supposed to leave tonight. Right after the meeting adjourned, I was ordered on a scouting mission to the front lines. I wouldn’t have even had time to find you to say goodbye.”
Bucky was leaving?
You sucked in a sharp breath, a wave of regret washing over you for being so quick with your accusations.
“But… you’re still here,” you whispered, your eyes searching his.
“I am,” he nodded, tilting his head down to stay in your line of sight. “Rogers and Wilson… they volunteered to take the mission in my stead. They’re out there right now, just so I could be here—with you.”
Bucky’s hands trailed from your face down to your arms, eventually finding your hands and cradling them in his larger palms. He brought your hands up to his face and leaned down, pressing soft, gentle kisses to your knuckles.
“There is never a moment where I’m not thinking of you, and God—the thought of you waiting for me this entire time… I can’t even fathom it,” his voice broke as he pressed another kiss to your skin, looking up at you through his lashes. “I swear to you—I would never leave you alone.”
He stood tall again, releasing one of your hands while his other crept up to tangle in the hair at the nape of your neck. He tilted your head back slightly, holding your gaze under the dim gazebo light.
“And as for that outburst earlier…” He exhaled, the sharp edges of his pride finally softening into embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I’ve been on edge, is all. I never meant to take it out on you, my dear.”
Bucky didn’t wait for verbal forgiveness—he took it from the silence and the way you gazed up at him, your eyes softening in the moonlight.
He leaned in, his breath warm against your chilled skin before his lips finally met yours. It was a soft, yet desperate press, a low groan escaping him at the feeling of your warmth against his own.
When he pulled back, it was only to pepper kisses across your forehead, his eyes closed tight as if he were memorizing every inch of you.
“You are a sight for sore eyes,” he murmured against your skin, his voice a gravelly, broken thing.
He kissed your temple, then the tip of your nose, his hands sliding from your hair down to the small of your back to pull you flush against his chest, you shivered from the cold armor. “A beautiful, beautiful sight.”
You sighed softly, your body unable to help but crave his touch—to crave him.
And all Bucky wanted to do was make love to you.
He stepped back, his eyes never leaving yours as he began to remove his armor pieces one by one. You moved to take your shawl off, setting it on the bench behind you as you reached for the straps of your dress.
“No,” Bucky cut you off coldly. “Keep it on. I want to tear through it myself.”
You swallowed hard, your face warming as you obeyed. You stood there, watching him as he watched you with hungry eyes. As he stripped away the layers of leather and steel, his breathing grew heavier. When he reached his belt, his fingers fumbled clumsily for a moment before he stepped back into your space.
He closed the distance again, his lips trailing down the line of your jaw to the sensitive skin of your neck. You let out a shaky breath, your head tilting back to give him better access as his mouth explored you.
“I’ve missed you,” he mumbled, the words muffled against your throat. He began to suckle gently, marking you between words. “God, I’ve missed you so much it hurts.”
“I’ve missed you so much too, Bucky,” you moaned softly. “So much.”
Bucky groaned against your skin, satisfied by your confession as his touches grew needier. His metal hand trembled slightly as it gripped your waist, pulling you so close there wasn’t any space left between you.
He whispered sweet nothings into the crook of your neck, each sentence making you writhe beneath him. “You smell so good.” “You’re so soft.” “So pretty.”
Bucky’s hands were everywhere all at once, a contrast of heat and cold as he explored the curves he had spent all day dreaming about. His flesh hand groped at your hip while his metal fingers seared through the thin fabric of your nightgown, mapping out the expanse of your lower back.
“I’m sorry,” he rasped against your ear. “I’m so sorry for keeping you waiting, my dear. I’m going to make it up to you. I promise.”
Your heart raced as his lips found yours again. His tongue pushed past, sweeping against yours as he kissed you hungrily.
Now stripped of his armor, Bucky pressed his hips forward, and you gasped softly at the feel of him—his cock, thick and hard, straining against his pants as it poked against your lower belly.
Your body already felt so empty without him. There was a building ache between your legs that only he could remedy.
“Bucky,” you sighed softly against his mouth. “I need you.”
“I know, my dear,” Bucky groaned, rolling his hips against your stomach once more, letting you feel just how hard he was for you. “You don’t know how badly I needed you today.”
His hands wandered down to grope your bottom through your dress, bunching the fabric in his fists as he lifted it up past the curve of your ass to squeeze you more.
“Missed your legs wrapped tight around me,” he breathed. “Missed you moaning my name.”
Bucky couldn’t wait any longer.
His strong arms wrapped tight around your body, picking you up and laying you gently on the floor of the gazebo. He spread your legs, nestling himself between them. With a rough hand, he found the hem of your skirt and lifted it past your thighs, exposing your undergarments. He impatiently found the waistband, tugging them down roughly past your legs to expose you to the cool night air and his hungry gaze.
“Fuck,” he muttered, his tongue darting out to wet his lips at the sight of your glistening cunt—already puffy and begging for him, and he hadn’t even put it in yet.
“She missed me, hasn’t she?” he hummed, staring at your pussy as he began palming himself over his pants. He felt pre-cum trickle at the tip, staining the front of his trousers. “Bet I can just slide in so easily. She wouldn’t even put up a fight.”
You watched, breathless, as Bucky pulled himself out of his pants. His cock sprang forth, so thick and so heavy, as pre-cum dripped from the tip and onto the floor.
“Christ,” you said, voicing your thoughts out loud.
Bucky grinned, his flesh hand gripping the shaft as he pumped himself slow and steady. “When was the last time we fucked, sweetheart?”
You swallowed hard, trying to mask your embarrassment at his vulgar words. “I… I don’t know. Nine… ten days ago?”
Bucky hummed. “Haven’t fucked you for a little over a week and you’re already seeking attention from other men, aren’t you?”
Your eyes widened at his words, and you couldn’t help a small, huffing laugh. He really was jealous—and that jealousy only seemed to spur him on, because his cock twitched in his hand as he stroked himself.
“Gotta claim you again,” he mumbled so quietly, it was like he was speaking to himself. “Gotta remind you who you belong to.”
With his metal hand bracing his weight over you, he rubbed his cock up and down your cunt, soaking himself in your juices. Your back arched off the floor, your hips wiggling for more of him, but Bucky only clicked his tongue.
“What an eager little thing,” he taunted.
“Bucky,” you whined, wiggling your hips until your entrance caught his tip. “Pl-please...”
Bucky groaned, squeezing his eyes shut as he felt your warm, wet opening catch around his sensitive tip.
He was so hard it was nearly painful. He had planned to take his time and savor this moment—but with the war in the back of his mind, he felt a desperate, driving need to fuck you as hard and as much as he could while he was still alive.
With a low growl, his hand found the back of your thigh, hiking it up and spreading you wide. With half of his tip already inside, he adjusted himself so he could sink even deeper.
“Goddamn,” he breathed, his muscles straining with the effort it took not to fuck you into the floor right then and there. “Just as I thought—so fucking wet… can just… slide right in.”
You hissed, your hands finding Bucky’s broad, bare back and clawing at the muscle as his thick cock stretched you out with each passing thrust. You could feel him throbbing deep inside you—searingly hot as your cunt welcomed him.
“Mine,” Bucky gritted through clenched teeth as you bottomed out against his pelvis, sheathing him completely.
To him, the feeling of your pussy was like a much needed, warm, tight hug after a long, stressful day.
“Ten days,” he breathed against your ear. “Ten fucking days—don’t think I’m gonna last long inside you, baby.”
“Don’t care,” you mumbled, wrapping your legs tight around his waist. “I just want to feel you, Bucky. Every inch of you.”
Bucky groaned, his flesh hand sliding up to your neck and applying pressure. He held your gaze, his eyes dark and blown out with lust, as he began rocking his hips back and forth. He moved slowly and sensually, forcing you to feel every swollen pulsing ridge and vein.
The sound of your pussy squelching around him filled the quiet gazebo. The mating press position made you feel utterly helpless—completely and devastingly stuffed.
“Oh my—Buck, too… too much.”
“Too much?” he repeated raspily, staring deep into your eyes as he continued to fuck you slow. “But sweetheart, this is me taking my time with you. You’ve taken harder.”
“I know,” you winced, your legs squeezing him tighter. “It’s just been… ten days—”
“Ten days and you’ve already gotten so tight for me again,” he murmured, his pace increasing. “Means you haven't been fucking anyone else.”
Your face burned as you stammered, “Of course not—”
The words that left your lips made Bucky’s heart soar and his cock pulse.
With a sharp exhale, he increased the pace. His thrusts slapped harder and deeper, making you bounce against the floor as you clung to him. The wet, vulgar sound of his skin hitting yours echoed under the gazebo roof, a testament to his hunger for you.
Bucky looked down at you, taking in the sight of your dress hiked up and ruined, your hair fanned out across the floor. You looked so beautifully destroyed, and something in him only wanted to ruin you more.
“Jesus,” he muttered, his blue eyes trailing down to where your bare hips tilted to meet him. He watched in awe as his cock disappeared in and out of you, his shaft slick.
“You look so good like this,” he rasped, his metal hand digging into your thigh to spread you even wider. “Sprawled out for me. Mine. Just mine.”
Bucky leaned in, his teeth grazing your exposed shoulder as his movements became sloppier and uneven.
“Seeing you like this always makes it so damn hard to leave,” he rasped against you, his balls growing heavier with each thrust. “Makes me want to do things to make sure you stay.”
You were a babbling mess beneath him, your voice reduced to broken sobs and incoherent pleas. You couldn’t even form words anymore, just soft, high pitched whimpers that only made Bucky’s grip on you tighten.
“I want to breed you,” Bucky confessed shamelessly. “Wanna give you a piece of me—so when I’m out there fighting, or when you’re away from me, you’ll still have me. I want to pump you so full that you’ll always be carrying a part of me.”
You body clenched at the implication of his words. He groaned at your tightness, gritting his teeth as he continued.
“Need to…” Bucky thrust deep, “pump you full…” He felt his balls growing tighter, felt himself getting closer. “Going to have to make you my girl for good.”
Your eyes rolled back as Bucky used your body for his pleasure. He was so much bigger than you, so much stronger, and all you could do was be the woman he needed as he fucked himself into you. You moaned, your body getting wetter and tighter as you felt yourself getting close.
The gazebo and the starlit sky above started to blur as tears prickled your eyes from the overwhelming sensation of being fucked.
“You like that?” Bucky breathed warmly against your skin. “You like the idea of being full of me? Of my own seed... dripping down your pretty legs?”
Your head was spinning as you nodded frantically.
“Yes!” you cried out. “Yes, Bucky—please! I’m yours… all yours—I want to be full of you!”
“Fuck,” Bucky moaned. With your hands still tight around his shoulders, he circled both his arms around your waist, lifting you from the ground and pulling you flush against his chest.
He repositioned you until you were straddling his lap, held aloft by his strength alone. Bucky’s arms wrapped tight around your body—the scent of sweat and sex mingling as he buried his face in the crook of your neck.
“Bounce on it, baby,” he muttered roughly. “Fuck—bounce on me ‘til I cum.”
Your fingers laced through his long, dark hair, giving it a tug as you fucked yourself down onto his cock.
Bucky groaned, his head pressing into your shoulder as his hands moved from your waist to your hips, his thumbs digging into your skin to help guide your rhythm. Every time you moved down, he met you with a hard thrust upward that sent sparks through your body.
“That’s it, sweetheart,” he rasped, his eyes fluttering shut as you began to quiver and squeeze around him. “Just like that.”
“Bucky… I’m—I’m going to—”
“I know, baby,” he rasped, holding you tighter against his chest. “I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”
I’m not going anywhere.
“D-don’t go,” you whimpered against him, your body tightening as you clenched around his cock, letting yourself unravel all over him.
Bucky growled, low and deep in his throat, as his arms pinned you tight against his chest. With one last rough thrust deep into your cunt, he finally broke.
Thick spurts of cum surged from him as he began pumping you full. He slowly rocked his hips in gentle motions, letting his seed settle and mix inside the heat of your body.
“Good girl,” he praised with a gravelly rasp. “My sweet, precious girl.”
You let yourself melt into his touch as you two fought to catch your breaths.
Still perched on his lap, you felt him nuzzle his face into your chest, his hands roaming your back gently, mapping every inch of you as he came down from his high.
“So perfect,” he mumbled.
You looked down at him through your lashes, and the sight of him made your heart ache. You wanted to stay like this forever—with Bucky always by your side, holding you and making sweet love to you while he praised you with gentle words you wouldn’t want to hear from anyone else.
He told you he wasn’t going anywhere in the heat of the moment, but even you knew he could only mean so much.
“I don’t want you to go,” you said, your voice broken as you were reminded of his duties after tonight. “Please, just stay with me.”
Bucky let out a long, heavy sigh, his grip on you softening tenderly. He pulled back slightly to look at you, his thumb gently brushing away the sweaty strands of hair that clung to your face.
He didn’t pull out, he stayed joined to you, his cock still half hard and soft inside, wanting to keep that connection for as long as the world would allow.
“I know, sweetheart,” he whispered. “I know.”
He began to press soft kisses all over your face— your damp forehead, your cheeks, and your lips.
The reality was that after tonight, Bucky would have to be posted at the front lines along with his comrades, Steve and Sam. He would have to ready his blade, preparing for war at any given moment to lay his life down for a royal family instead of living on for the woman he loves.
But instead of letting that feeling take over, he gently pushed your hair back, looking deep into your eyes.
“Right now, let’s just enjoy the moment,” Bucky murmured gently, caressing your cheeks. “Me and you—we’re together now, and that’s all we can ask for, right?”
He spoke so soft, but you knew deep down he was feeling that hurt just as much as you were. You nodded, forcing a shaky smile despite the tears that threatened to escape.
“Right,” you whimpered.
“Don’t cry,” Bucky sighed softly, his thumb coming up to wipe the tear that spilled anyway, before leaning in to press another kiss to your lips. “I’m right here, baby. Right here.”
The sounds of crickets, soft breathing, and the gentle rustle of leaves filled the gazebo as you two held each other. His hands trailed down to your waist, his thumb rubbing gentle circles over the fabric of your crinkled nightgown.
“When the war is over,” you brought up carefully and quietly. “Do you think we’ll have a chance to be together?”
Bucky went still for a moment before a small, hopeful smile tugged at his lips—he didn’t have high hopes at all, but the smile you returned meant it was enough to reassure you.
“In a perfect world, where there is no war and no duties to bind us separately, I’ll always choose you.”
The sun that rose the next morning was the brightest it had ever been that month.
You found yourself in a happier mood, and everyone around you could tell.
“What’s she smiling about over there?” Wanda asked as she folded freshly washed white cloth.
“What do you think?” Natasha grinned, watching out of the corner of her eye as you hummed to yourself, handwashing towels.
“She’d usually be complaining about her back by now,” Yelena chimed in. “But she’s just singing to herself like some mentally deranged—”
“I can hear you all, you know,” you said over your shoulder without looking back. You pushed off your seat with a groan, stretching before you lifted the bucket of dirty water in your hands.
“I’m going to dump this outside,” you announced to the rest of the group. “Maybe bask in the sun for a bit—who knows. It’s a pretty day.”
“Okay, but don’t be long,” Natasha called out as she pushed the tower of folded clothes to the side to work on the next batch. “We have a lot to do today.”
“I won’t,” you reassured as you pushed the door open with your back, heading out of the cleaning chambers and into the warm sunlight.
As you dumped the water out onto the grass, birds chirped and the trees rustled gently in the spring breeze. Bucky was out there, somewhere, huddled in formation with the other knights as they scouted south of the kingdom.
After last night, Bucky had told you how he and the others had a mission that required them to be on their horses before sunrise. But later that night, he would meet you at the gazebo again.
He was the kingdom’s strongest soldier, and you knew he was more than capable of taking care of himself. But every time Bucky was out on a mission, you couldn’t help but pray for his safety.
You always hoped that he would return home without a scratch, falling back into your arms once again.
You gathered the empty, damp bucket and reached for the door, but you stopped short at the sound of horns blaring from the top of the guard posts.
Your head snapped up immediately at the unexpected sound.
Was this a drill?
The kingdom hadn’t made any announcements for a drill today—unless you had missed it?
As you raised your hand to shield your eyes, squinting past the sun, you saw the frantic movement of the soldiers at the top of the towers. The distant shouting was getting louder, and you watched in confusion as they began to ready their crossbows.
“Sokovian flags on the horizon!”
“Soldiers are pushing back from the southern bridge!”
“Alert the town! Citizens to the shelters! Get down!”
Your ears rang as everyone around you scattered in a frantic, panicked hurry. The horns continued to blare, crying out a symphony of war and ruin. Palace workers ran around, bumping into you as they retreated toward the safety of the cleaning rooms you had just stepped out of.
You knew you should run. You should follow them into the dark, stone safety of the cellars.
But the only thing you can think of was the southern bridge.
That was exactly where Bucky was stationed.
A hand clamped onto your arm, making you wince and snapping you out of your haze.
“Are you trying to get killed?” she hissed over the bustle of the crowd. Natasha yanked you backward, dragging you into the sanctuary of the cleaning chambers.
Inside, the room was unrecognizable. The neat stacks of folded white linens had been toppled and trampled underfoot. Buckets were overturned, soapy water slicking the floor as servants and workers scrambled toward the trapdoor leading to the deep cellars.
“Oh my god,” you breathed. “How—”
“They’re saying they’ve already made it inside,” Natasha yelled over the noise. “Sokovian spies were already within the kingdom just yesterday—soldiers are barging right into the palace as we speak.”
You felt your blood run cold.
Sokovian soldiers were already threatening to tear down the palace, and the kingdom’s strongest soldier wasn’t there to protect it.
“Where are the others? Yelena? Wanda? Bob—”
Natasha led you toward the trap door, cutting you off. “They’re already inside—”
The doors of the cleaning chamber shattered inward before she could even finish.
Sokovian soldiers stomped through, their armor dark and their weapons already leveled. “Clear the room!” one of them shouted, and before you knew it, the sharp crack of muskets and the whistle of crossbow bolts filled the air, splintering the wooden tables around you as the others screamed.
“Down!” Natasha screamed, shoving you to the floor as a projectile embedded itself in the wall where your head had been seconds before.
“To the back doors,” you hissed at her, pointing behind her. “Quick!”
She nodded, ducking behind you as you both scrambled for the exit. You burst out into the rear garden, the air already suffocating with smoke from gunshots and the sounds of people shouting over one another.
“The grapevines,” you shouted, pointing to the heavy wooden trellis that led to the outer wall. “We can climb over and reach the forest. The trees are thick enough to give us cover—”
Natasha didn’t let you finish before she grabbed your arm, already running in the direction you had pointed. “Let’s go, then!”
As you ran, a sharp crack sounded from your right. Natasha let out a choked gasp, her body crumpling as her leg buckled and blood blossomed through her skirt.
“Nat!”
You turned back, reaching out to grab her arm, but the world suddenly turned into a blinding flash of white.
A cannonball screamed through the air, striking the stone archway just above you. The impact was nearly enough to deafen you—a force strong enough to throw you backward.
You hit the ground hard, the air driven from your lungs.
Everything went silent, replaced by a high pitched ringing in your ears that drowned out the war. Dust and debris rained down, coating your tongue in grit and stinging your eyes. Through the haze of gray smoke and broken stone, you tried to move, but your limbs felt heavy.
You felt yourself deteriorating, the sounds fading in and out as your vision began to blur.
A concussion set in, your head aching and your body going numb while the world around you began to crumple and fall apart.
“Get the Princess to safety!” the kingdom’s soldiers shouted over the noise. “Go, Sergeant!”
Your head throbbed with an ache as you craned your neck, struggling to see the what was unraveling in front of you.
Through the thick dust, a familiar silhouette broke through the haze.
It was Bucky—his armor and silver blade flashing through the smoke. Following close behind him, a figure huddled low — the Princess, disguised under a dirty, oversized cowl to conceal her identity.
Ah, there he was.
Your heart thumped weakly in your chest as a strange, hollow peace settled over you.
Bucky was alive. Your Bucky.
He was alive, and he was protecting the princess.
You smiled faintly, and though your heart ached to reach for him, you knew it was futile. You couldn’t even feel your legs anymore, pinned beneath the heavy stone debris. The blood pooling around you was enough to tell you that the end was near.
But at the very least, in this moment as the war claimed you, you knew the person you loved was still standing.
And that was all that mattered.
In the chaos, amidst the smoke and the screaming, Bucky caught sight of you out of the corner of his eye.
His entire body froze. The soldier who never hesitated, the very man who served as the kingdom’s ultimate sword and shield, went completely still.
His blue eyes widened, locking onto your broken form, taking in the blood, the dust, and the way you struggled to even lift your head.
Any other soldier would have seen your body and deemed it a lost cause, a life not worth the delay. But for Bucky, every duty was forgotten as his feet began to move—away from the Princess, and toward you.
“Sergeant Barnes! What the hell are you doing? Get back in formation!”
“Barnes! Get over here! Protect the Princess!”
“The Princess is exposed! Cover!”
“Barnes!”
Several commanding voices roared after him, but Bucky didn’t look back. He didn’t care about the crown or the certain court martial that awaited him, or even the noose.
All he cared about was you.
Heavy footsteps thundered near your head, and for a moment, you feared it was a Sokovian guard coming to finish the job. They dropped to their knees beside you, and trembling hands cradled your neck to lift you up.
“No, no, no,” it was Bucky who rasped, his voice frantic as he wiped the dirt from your face. “Hey… hey, look at me. Open your eyes, sweetheart. It’s me—stay with me. Come on, stay with me.”
You tried to speak, but all that emerged was a soft, wet cough.
His thumb brushed the dust from your cheek, leaving streaks in its wake, while his blue eyes searched yours for any sign that you were still there.
“Bucky…” you whispered, the sound barely audible over the roar of the nearby fire.
“I’ve got you,” he choked out, leaning his forehead against yours. He ignored the shouting soldiers and the Sokovian arrows whistling overhead. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere—you have to stay. You have to stay awake for me.”
He began to pull at the debris with a desperate strength, refusing to let the world take the only thing he cared about.
“I can’t—I can’t move my legs,” you choked out, your body feeling useless as he tried to lift you.
He was finally able to pull you free and cradle you in his arms, lifting you bridal style as he ran. You didn’t know where he was going, nor did you care. All that mattered was being here, held by the person you loved most.
“Just stay awake, okay? Promise me you’ll stay awake.”
“Bucky—”
“We’ll get you somewhere safe—I swear it—”
“Bucky,” you tried again, your voice a soft, fragile thread.
As he ran, Bucky tilted his head down to glance at you, his eyes searching yours to make sure you were still there.
“I love you,” you whispered suddenly.
Bucky’s stride faltered for just a moment as a choked, broken sound escaped his throat.
For a second, the face of the stoic soldier crumbled, and his eyes grew glossy with tears that threatened to spill over. But he forced his jaw to tighten—forced himself to get back into that same resolve that kept him alive til now.
“No,” he rasped, his voice hardening from vulnerability to a command. “Don’t say that. Not yet. You don’t get to say goodbye.”
He pushed himself faster, his boots skidding over the blood slicked stone of the courtyard as he dodged the falling debris of the palace.
“You save that,” he muttered, his breath hitching as he ducked behind a crumbling stone pillar to avoid a spray of Sokovian arrows. “You save those words for when we’re back at the gazebo—you save them for when the sun is up and there isn’t a drop of blood on this grass. Do you hear me?”
He looked down at you again, anticipating a response—anything to show that you were still alive—but your breathing was growing labored in his grip.
“I’m not letting you go,” he promised. “You hold on to me, and don’t you dare close those eyes.”
Bucky continued to run, and the world around you was nothing but a darkened blur.
The sounds started to grow distant, and in this moment, even on the verge of death, at least you were held by Bucky once more.
Bucky kept his promise—and more.
Even in a world that wasn’t perfect, bound by duties that often kept you both far apart, in the end, he would always choose you.
thank you to the anon for that lovely request and for entrusting me to write it. if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!
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Warnings: Cult shit, Monster fucking (if you consider Jack-o-lanterns monster?), unprotected PIV, non-con, ROUGH sex (degradation, humiliation, spitting/swallowing, choking, spanking, slapping), exhibitionism/voyeurism, loss of virginity, anal (painal really), Bondage by vines (you'll see it), slight breeding kink, all mistakes are my own
Author's Note: So... um... this is.. well you see those tags. Proceed with caution. This is by far the filthiest most depraved ass fucking shit I have ever written (but not thought of) and I would apologize but I'm not going to. Happy Halloween, my fellow dirty whores.
Also a massive shout to @gaysindistress for being the amazing beta that she is. Thank you dearly for making sure I wasn't too out of the box with this one.
You hear the thud of your car’s hood sound from behind you before a shuffling of heavy combat boots make their way over to where you’re perched on the trunk.
The mechanic in front of you rubs his hands off on a towel as he stands before you. Meeting his gaze sends a shiver down your spine as you notice all the little details about him. His long dark hair, pink chapped lips, and the thick black ink that covers his skin on his forearms. And then there’s his eyes. Those deep dark eyes that pierce through you as if they’re staking a claim to your entire being.
There’s something unsettling about his demeanor but you can’t quite put your finger on it. As if there’s something hiding beneath the surface just waiting to pry its way out of the tight shirt across his broad frame and tear your throat out. Maybe it’s your general unease around others when you’re traveling alone, or maybe it’s just him.
You’re snapped back to reality when he gruffly speaks, “Radiator’s busted. Ain’t gonna be goin’ anywhere ‘til it cools, even then you might make it a mile or two ‘fore it overheats and blows again.”
Fingers meet your temples when you realize how much shit you’re truly in. Far away from any civilization, on the last bit of what little inheritance you got from your grandmother, and a busted hand-me-down POS car your ex so graciously lent you. You’re not surprised it broke down in the middle of Who-Cares-Ville, but you were hoping to get it at least somewhere with actual consistent cell reception.
With a deep sigh, you meet the mechanic's gaze and manage to stumble out “O-okay. How long do you think it would take to replace? And… um… how much?”
“Well, we’d have to tow it to the garage to do a full check-up and see what we gots in stock but, far as I can tell an import like this we’d have to order somethin’ in. Could run you up to about a thousand, but I don’t got a real quote for you ‘til I can get it in the shop.”
As you take in his words, you realize the reality behind the situation you’re in. You’re well and truly fucked. You don’t have that much but it’s not like you have any other option either. Not like anyone’s going to come to your rescue, or ever has for that matter.
You acquiesce with what the mechanic has laid before you and hop into his truck as he hooks your car up to the end of the tow.
It’s a few hours later when you find yourself bored out of your mind in the creepy little rundown “Liho’s Purrrfect Retreat.” A local bed and breakfast that the mechanic - Ari as you later learned his name - had suggested for you. The bed is… well a cot more like with squeaky springs and a scratchy quilt. The bathroom faucet drips tinged what you hope is water, and the shower floors are covered in grime. It’s not the most luxurious place you could stay but it was right within your budget.
The woman at the front desk - Natasha? Natalie? Natalia? - did manage to tell you about a town event that “just have got to attend”. She told you all about the town, the local shops and people, the general gossip and that only once every 90 years they hold an event on the eve of Samhain that helps to restore the town’s glory, or something like that. You weren’t fully listening beyond her instance that you find a costume and join them. You tried to resist but when she offered the room to you at half price you couldn’t turn that down. Not with the looming payment of however much a new radiator will cost you.
She mentioned something about an antique clothing store as well as a few other boutiques but urged you to find something suitable before the event’s proceedings so that you can ‘truly present yourself before the rest of town.’
As you find yourself walking down the street in search of a simple outfit you can pass off as a costume, your eye catches on a short pearlescent white dress in a window. Walking closer you’re drawn in by the design of it. The off-shoulder bell sleeves with a plunging V neckline show off more than you’d typically like to but the lace draping of the skirt hugs the mannequin's form nicely. There’s something ethereal about it that urges you inside the store.
A petite redhead behind the counter seems to sense you before you even hear the chime of the door signaling your arrival. Before you can even ask to try on the dress - she’s already headed for it as if she knows the reason you’re here.
Wanda - as her name tag suggests - leads you to the back of the store to the changing rooms. As she hands you the dress, you notice she has small little scars that look as though her mouth used to be sewn shut. When you go to thank her, she gives a quick nod, closes the curtain for you, and stalks off.
When the dress sits comfortably against your body, you turn to face the mirror. Your reflection meets your gaze and you realize the dress fits you perfectly, as if it was made for you years ago in preparation for when you would find it. It hugs your every curve and exposes more than you’d normally be comfortable with, but… it doesn’t make you uncomfortable like things normally do. It feels right, it feels almost intimately perfect, like you could spend the rest of your life in this dress.
Changing back into your old clothes, you take a peek at the price but are unable to find a tag. Opening the curtain, you see Wanda patiently waiting with shoes in her right hand and something shiny in her left.
She doesn’t speak but hands over both items - a pair of shiny platform boots and a long necklace with a weird sigil at the end. It looks almost like a carved jack-o-lantern face on top of a pentagram. Matching it is a ring Wanda urges you to put on.
You walk with her up to the front and as she rings you up and shows you the total. Thankfully, you breathe a sigh of relief that everything came to be much much lower than you expected. You still have to worry about how much the car repair will cost but you at least have enough for the outfit and room.
Sending a quiet thank you before stepping out of the shop, you see what you think is a glow of orange in Wanda’s eyes as she nods in response and moves to the back of the shop. Making your way back to the bed and breakfast, you stop by the mechanic shop to see if Ari is around still looking at your car.
Unfortunately, you don’t find him nor do you find your car anywhere. Something seems off. Your car wouldn’t have just disappeared like that? Not like it could go anywhere far at least. You shake off your unease at the situation once again and continue on back. It’s getting dark out and if you don’t hold up your end of Natasha’s deal you know she’ll charge you full price.
It’s only about a half past 9pm but you can see the moon shining brightly in the dark sky when you finish getting ready per Natasha’s instructions. Your hair is up in a silk ribbon, the new dress lightly grazing your thighs, the necklace Wanda had insisted you wear sits between your breasts and showcases the sigil on it that matches the ring she told you needed to be worn alongside it. Opaque tights cover the rest of your legs to keep you warm during the night’s events and platform boots Wanda gave you to match the dress.
You glance at yourself once more before you realize you need to head out. You’re not sure where you’re going but you know Natasha mentioned that it may be far on foot. As you step outside the bed and breakfast, you pull out her notes giving you directions on which way to go and set off to your right - or is it to your left?
You do your best to follow the instructions given to you but it’s hard to read what’s written. You're thankful that the moon lights your path and you can see that the same sigil you wear around your neck and on your finger is scrawled at the intersections on Natasha’s instructions. Following these takes some time and you’re finally led to what appears to be a… corn field.
Two torches light up the entrances into the field just behind two scarecrows that look almost real. They point towards the empty space between the stalks as they rest on hay bales. Inching closer in fear they might come alive - you’ve seen enough videos of scare actors to know better - you cautiously make your way past them and into the field.
You huff, already getting lost in the field. Natasha never mentioned that you had to find your way through a maze in order to find everyone else. As you wander through the corn stalks, you find an intersection that leads you both left, right, and forward. Nothing gives you a sign on which is the correct path but you move to the right in hopes that your high school gym teacher wasn’t wrong when she said to always stay against the rightmost wall to get out of a maze.
A few more twists, a few more turns and suddenly you hear some chanting. Looking around you don’t see any lights or people. You’re not sure where it’s coming from as it sounds all around you, but you hope that the chanting means you’re near the end.
Continuing on a mist seems to form darkening the field completely and making it harder to find your way through this maze. Before long, you’re at another intersection that looks oddly like the first, though you surmise that it must be your mind playing tricks on you again. Opting to move forward instead of right, you hear the low chanting around you get louder with every step you take. With renewed hope that this means you’re getting closer to the end, you increase your pace. Taking turns through the maze leads you right back to where you were before though - at an intersection that seems to be where you’ve been before.
This time however, it looks different, somehow it looks wider like it’s expanded out. As you look around to see if there’s any sign of where to go you look back up at the sky and notice how the moon appears blood-red and darkening everything around it.
Suddenly, you hear a rustling behind you. You freeze as you turn around.
Behind you is a figure taller than you’ve ever seen and wider than you could have expected. Its back is to you showing a dark black floor length cape that stands up from the neck. As the figure turns, you see a large pumpkin on broad shoulders. The face carved into it is what makes you freeze. Two eyes, and a wide set jagged mouth are aglow with mischief at your presence.
The chanting around you has overtaken everything but the haunting laugh the pumpkin-headed man in front of you is making at your fear. You pivot on your feet and take off away from him. Not caring whether you run deeper or get lost further in the maze, you just know you need to get out.
Your foot catches on a rock in your path and you tumble to the ground. Bracing your arms, you manage not to hit your head but you’ve lost all sense of your surroundings.
That haunting laugh is heard closer than you expected as you scramble to get up. Panicking, your hands land on the ground and push you up to your knees. The laughter is gone as soon as you turn your head around to peer behind you, seeing only an empty corn maze.
Turning your head back around - the Jack-O-Lantern is bent over you with that jagged grin spread wide. His gloved hands catch your chin in a tight grip and force you to meet the gaze of the pumpkin-headed figure of your nightmares. The pumpkin carvings shift into a dark smirk, “Oh, sweetling, you think you can just run?” He tsks and shakes his head as he drops his hand from your chin. The voice is familiar but you can’t quite place it.
You’re frozen like a deer in headlights. This can’t be real can it? There’s no possible way. You must have hit your head somewhere along the way. Inhaled too much carbon monoxide from the piece of shit car you were driving before.
What you miss is the figure walks around behind you, places a foot on your back and slams you back down prone.
Vines come from the darkness and encase your limbs making you immobile. Hands and arms laid out in front of you and legs together behind. Everything becomes all too real when you feel your skirt flipped up and a hand softly rubs your ass before a loud SMACK hits you painfully.
A loud scream ensues as you try to scramble free, only to be pulled tighter in the vines. Turning your head causes vines to wrap around your head and neck, forcing you to face forward and feel a tightness hold you in place.
He hums appreciatively from your reactions. Then you feel all of his weight on top of you, head next to yours before he takes a deep breath, scenting you. “Mmm lucky you came along, so lost in your path. A sacrifice was going to be made either way tonight,” You feel a wetness lick up the side of your face, "and you’re so much sweeter than anyone they could have given me from the town.”
Hands roam the sides of your body, squeezing and groping all parts of you as they make their way down to your ass again. As you try to wiggle out of His grasp, you hear a chuckle before a hand snakes its way between your thighs.
You feel his fingers wrap around your thin panties and rip them completely to shreds as the vines wrapped around your limbs turn you on your back and spread your legs up and out. The figure you saw before with a frightening carved pumpkin head has changed. He’s no longer the monster you saw, but the man who looked at your car on the side of the road. Ari stands before you with a faint orange glow in his eyes and a mischievous smirk at your predicament.
“Look at you, sweetling. All tied up and at my mercy.” Ari looks you over appreciatively while you try to close your legs and curl into yourself
“P-please! Just let me go! You can’t do this.” You plea for his mercy.
Faster than you can blink Ari is on top of you and his face is inches from yours. That orange glow seems to shine brighter with every whimper escaping your mouth. You try to turn your head away from him but a hand snatches your chin again and forces you to meet his gaze.
In the same moment you feel a slight pressure as something prods at your entrance. “Oh? All this struggling, huh, sweetling? And for what? So you can pretend that you aren’t drenched for me?”
“No! Please stop, please don’t do this, please,” You whimper as you continue to try to get away. Feeling something thick and blunt rub your slick folds up and down, before rubbing the small nub hidden between them. You squeak out and freeze at the unknown feeling that pulses through you as he circles that small spot. Pleasure starts to slowly overtake the fear of the situation you’re quite literally tied up in.
A slick wet noise continues for a beat as your body relaxes in his hold. And then suddenly you feel something much thicker pushing its way into you.
All at once you’re speared on the Jack-o-lantern’s thick bulbous cock. Screaming out from the stretch he feels like he’s tearing your body in half from the size. You’ve never felt such searing pain there, but you’ve also never had another person show any interest in seeing what was between your legs before either.
Little whines and grunts can be heard for you as Ari starts to pound into you, not letting you readjust to his size. His large hands hold your soft hips in place while he pumps away, and stares into your eyes with a devilish grin.
Tears stream down your cheeks as you hear his grunts and moans of how good you feel beneath him. Closing your eyes you try to black out all sensations, pretend like you’re with someone you intended to give your virtue away to, pretend you’re not even here. But Ari isn’t having that.
He tsks at you trying to send your mind somewhere else and you feel a stinging on your cheek from the force of his hand making contact with your face. “Uh-uh, keep your eyes open for me.” You succumb to the flaring pain of being taken against your will, letting out choked sobs when you’re able to catch a breath.
Acquiescing, you meet his gaze and keep your eyes open as the hand that slapped you earlier slowly makes its way down to your throat and you feel a tightness there - but not from the vines wrapped around it.
Somehow, Ari’s grin grows even wider like the carved menacing pumpkin facade he bore earlier. His hand starts to squeeze a touch enough to wear you can still breathe but you’re acutely aware of the measured breaths you have to take.
“Open,” he commands but the confusion of what he’s asking is written all over your face. Your throat is released enough to where you can take a full breath but as you do another slap happens before his hand returns to your throat and you hear a growled “I said, Open. Your. Mouth.”
Complying, your mouth opens wide. A resounding “good girl,” is heard that makes your pussy flutter around Ari’s cock. “Oh? You liked that, hmmm? You wanna be my good girl, sweetling? Then do as I say.”
In the next second, Ari spits directly on your face and in your mouth. Another slap followed by “Swallow, be my good girl.”
You do as instructed and swallow Ari’s spit. Eyes rolling back into your head and pussy fluttering between your thighs. You’re not sure what you’re feeling anymore but there’s no pain and only pleasure. A cresting is continuing to happen and you feel so close to an edge.
Before you can reach it, Ari pulls out of your sore pussy. “Awww, sweetling, giving up already? That’s no fun. I love your tears, your sobs, your whimpers. Why don’t you plead for mercy again, hmmm?”
A slap is made to your puffy clit and then you’re being turned back onto your stomach. Suddenly, you feel something at your rear entrance. Your fight instincts start kicking back in at the threat your pumpkin-headed assailant has given you.
Those large hands move from your hips down to your plump ass and spread your cheeks open to him, granting him a full view of how gaping your little pussy is after his cock tore you in half - and of the tight little back entrance he intends to take next.
He manages to slip a thumb in, massaging it around the ring and testing its elasticity. You react to his touches as expected, trying to wriggle away and push him out. “N-No! Not there, anything but that please. Please. I’ll do anything but that.”
“You keep clenching like that, it'll be a lot worse for you not me, sweetling.” Whimpering out you try to relax at his touch until he adds a second thumb and stretches you wide as possible.
Ari hums but your pleading only ignites a frenzy within him. Before you know it, the blunt tip of his cock is at your puckered hole. “Anything, huh? You’ll do anything?”
“Yes! Yes! Please! I’ll be good, please just don’t put it there.”
Ari swipes his cock between your folds and then plunges into your pussy one more time. You screech at the unexpected intrusion again, but give in and try to be good for him like you promised.
A few rough thrusts have your eyes watering before you try to scramble away again. Before you can notice though, he pulls himself completely from you to line himself up to the hole just above and sheathes himself fully.
You close your eyes as you scream out into the darkness of the maze. Trapped between the ground and Ari’s impossible grasp. The pain from before is nothing compared to what you feel now, and you start to dissociate again before his right hand pulls your head up and back by grasping your throat, and his left pulls your hips up and the rest of your torso up.
Tightening his hand around your throat you start to lose consciousness with how little oxygen you’re able to breathe in. Each thrust causing Ari to strengthen his hold on your throat to the point you start to relax and limply comply with the motion.
He releases you and slaps you again to bring you back. “Awww, poor little girl trying to escape me again? There’s no hope for you at this point, sweetling. You’re mine now, and you’re not going anywhere.”
Ari laughs into the darkness as you open your eyes and try to focus on your surroundings. In doing so, you notice how the scenery around you has changed. You’re no longer lost in the corn maze set to trap you, but in an open field surrounded by what you can only assume are the townsfolk that sacrificed you to this being.
You spy Natasha and Wanda scattered in the circle surrounding you. Reality crashes as you hear them chanting and swaying with each other. Looking down you notice that you’re atop white markings in the dirt that make up the same sigil as the necklace and ring you were forced to wear.
This whole time, from the very beginning, you were just a pawn in Ari’s game. A mouse led into a trap and there’s no way out.
You close your eyes again as you choke out questioningly, “Why? Why me? Why this?”
Ari’s thrusts slow before he places his head on your shoulder and whispers quietly in your ear. “Why not? You were there. So ripe for the taking, so sweet, so fresh and untouched. Why did Eve eat the apple? Because she could. Because I could.”
Laughter is heard as he pushes your face into the ground and holds your face there. Ari’s thrusts get harder and sloppier. “Oh, sweetling, you have no idea what’s in store for you after this. I meant what I said, you’re mine. And there’s one way to seal the deal and accept this sacrifice. You’re going to bear my child and become mine forever.”
Realization dawns at Ari’s meaning as you feel him pull from your tight back entrance and spear himself back into your slickened pussy. He continues his assault with grunts and moans about how good you feel, how you’re going to be so beautiful taking all of his seed, and how you’ll take all of him forever.
Your face is scraped across the dirt as your body is pushed flat to the ground when Ari slams all of himself inside you and spills all of his cum as deep as it could possibly go. “That’s my good girl, take all of me, take all of my seed.”
You start to get dizzy from the pain. You hear mumbling from the townsfolk in the distance and the faint voice of Ari instructing them to prepare something. A light kiss to your hairline and a whispered “you did so good for me, sweetling. We’re almost home and then you can rest,” before you lose consciousness.
So... everyone okay? We make it to the end alright? How's your ass feeling? L:il sore? Need a massage and epsom salt bath? Thank you so much for reading and getting this far! Let me hear your thoughts.
tear you down, wear you out.
⤷ bucky barnes x fem!reader ⌇ 14.3k
✶ ― SYNOPSIS. to everyone else on the team, you're a ball of sunshine, a quick-thinking spy, a genius pair of eyes keeping track of anything suspicious during missions. to bucky, however, you are the bane of his existence, the knife in his back, the ire in his blood. he'll stop at nothing to get you kicked off the team, even if it means risking his own life. unfortunately, he never planned for this: you pinned beneath him on the training mat, wide-eyed and fully aware how hard he is against your thigh. based on this request.
warnings.ᐟ mdni! no use of y/n, new avengers era, spy!reader, enemies to lovers, smut (switch/dom-leaning!bucky, unprotected piv, oral - m & f receving, 69ing, fingering, face riding, ab riding, knifeplay - m receiving, manhandling, biting, dirty talk, dick+pussy pronouns, spit, one spank, like a second of thigh fucking + choking, voyeursim/mirror kink? idfk basically they are fucking and watching, bucky puts the reader in a headlock :), backshots ayo! honestly they're kind of fighting and fucking at the same time? idk just read it pls, i'm baring my horny soul to you here!), bucky's pov & he's so annoying (i love him), one-sided enemies to lovers bc bucky's a loser and you're literally just vibing, spy!reader, lowkey himbo!bucky, bickering, jealousy, unwanted sexual advances ( not from bucky ), angst, fluff, gun violence, description of injuries + blood, a bad guy that i made up in my head therefore he sucks and has a very lame name :) for the purpose of plot: bucky is the 'leader' of the new avengers.
ᯓ★ hyde𝄒s input. pray for me y'all, i'm going through something unimaginable 😔 (attempting to write a new fic after peaking w/ manchild)
follow @houseofjekyll + turn on notifications to know when i post a new fic!
Gun to his head and a demand to say one good thing about you? Bucky is taking the bullet.
In every sense of the word, you’re a good person. You’re a reliable partner, a shadow that lurks among crowds and keeps an eye out for your teammates. You’re patient, always the last to raise your voice when tensions are high and the others are divulging into a cacophony of outrage. You help Bob with the dishes, you give John tips on how to get blood out of his suit, you invest your time into researching methods to ease Ava’s chronic pain, you take care of Yelena’s guinea pig when she’s away on missions, and you encourage Alexei on all of his awful PR stunt misadventures.
It’s no wonder that the rest of the team adores you, yet, for reasons he can’t explain, Bucky can barely tolerate your presence for more than a minute without breaking out in hives and debating putting his own skull through a wall. The worst thing about hating you is knowing it’s irrational.
“Someone’s approaching your nine, James,” maybe, he ponders as your voice speaks through his earpiece, it’s your peculiar insistence on using his first name. “Roland Andrews, big shot lawyer and son of tech billionaire, William Andrews. His father has been accused of tax fraud more times than you clean your knives yet he always seems to get away with it, scot-free.”
Sure enough, the stout figure of a prematurely balding man is creeping along the left of Bucky’s peripheral. The champagne in his hand isn’t sweet enough to mask the bitter taste of admitting you’re correct.
“Thanks for the encyclopedia dump, what’s it to me?” Or maybe it’s the fact you make him irresponsible, nerves too frazzled to remember to be discreet when he speaks over the comms — the couple to his right are staring at him confused, surely wondering why he’s talking to himself.
“His father has been linked to the likes of Kingpin and, more relevantly, Hydra. So if we’re hoping to investigate the rumours of their resurgence…” As if your voice in his ear isn’t enough, fate chooses the perfect moment to have him spot you over the rim of his champagne flute, standing across the museum hall, sparkling beneath the chandelier. Your eyes are somewhere else; unlike how the small crowd surrounding you has busied themselves with focusing on their own reflections in the glass, you seem to take genuine interest in the exhibit behind the pane. “Sorry, I assumed you read the mission brief.”
No, he hadn’t. In fact, the time that should have been dedicated to reading the brief had been wasted on watching you. Specifically, the way your knee bounced across from him on the Quinjet. Had the plane not landed when it did, Bucky would have leaped over and put a stop to your distracting movement.
“I was busy,” this time he makes sure it’s but a whisper, loud enough for only the mic to pick up. “What do we know about his father’s links to Hydra?”
“Not much, unfortunately. Rumours, at best. An entire history of funding them, at worst,” the man grows closer while your voice grows more distant over the earpiece, an interference of two strangers conversing near-by. “He’s closing in on you. Leave the line open.”
Bucky wants to disobey.
He wants to turn off his mic and drop it into the remaining bubbling liquid in his glass. He wants to rip out the earpiece and crush it beneath the heel of his italian leather shoes. He wants to make a big scene, point down the length of the display hall and announce your presence to each and every overly-wealthy, underly-empathetic tech-head and government body within the vicinity.
It matters little that he would be blowing your cover, unveiling your role as a quiet partner of the Avengers, and subsequently putting the oligarchs in the room on edge. It would all be worth it, even the part where he’d be risking his own place within the team, if it meant you would get the boot and no longer be here, hovering in his peripheral like a persistent, buzzing little bee.
Unfortunately, a baritone voice stops him from giving into his wildest fantasy.
“Good evening, Congressman Barnes,” Roland Andrews is every bit the image of a hot-shot lawyer, right down to the Rolex living obnoxiously on his wrist and the bottle of cologne he appears to have doused himself in. “Though I suppose it’s just Barnes now. Avenger Barnes? It’s hard to keep up with all those… heroic names.”
“I know he’s insufferable, James, but unclench your hand. You’re a second away from snapping the innocent neck of that champagne flute.”
His fingers almost tighten as you whisper through his earpiece.
“Do they call you Lawyer Andrews-”
“You’re being hostile!” Bucky can feel your eyes on him, unnerving him.
He bites back a scoff, coughs up a plastic smile, “Just call me Mr Barnes.”
“So, you've heard of me,” of course that is all a man like Roland would pick up on, salivating at his mouth for that little morsel of validation to feed his ego’s belief in his right to be in a room like this, surrounded by the other ‘big-deals’ who managed to wrangle themselves an invite to the exclusive event.
“It’s hard to tell from all the way over here but I swear you knowing his name has got him so excited, he’s popped a boner,” you’re in his ear again, just as Bucky takes a sip of his drink.
The sharp inhale he pulls almost causes him to choke and, for a moment, he can’t help but shoot a quick glare your way.
A glare you don’t even notice, too invested at blinding a stranger with your aggravating smile.
“Yeah, well, don’t go feeling too flattered,” a twisted feeling of satisfaction nestles itself in his gut as he watches the man’s face fall to a frown. “I know your father.”
If decades of being a puppet through which others’ enacted evil and bloodspill had taught James Buchanan Barnes anything, it was to notice everything. The way his shoulders straighten a little at the mention of his father. The way his weight shifts from his right foot onto both. The way the pupils of his alcohol-stained eyes stretch an inch, growing with his interest.
For a lawyer, he’s got an awful poker face.
“Is that so?” While the man’s mouth is stoic, his voice is laced in intrigue.
“Well done, you’ve got him hooked. Now, reel him in.”
Bucky is really wishing he’d shut off the line.
“We once worked together,” there’s always a bitter aftertaste that comes with a lie, that’s what Bucky has come to learn, like his mouth is physically rejecting his own dishonesty. “You could even say, we’re old friends.”
“My father and you,” he’s familiar with that tone behind the lawyer’s words. Not disbelief but disgust, the kind one stares down at a wretched bug with. “Worked together? He never told me he’d taken any interest in your campaign for congress.”
“You know what you have to do,” you’re watching again. He knows it because the hairs on the back of his neck rise and his chest feels tight, like it’s boxing his lungs in.
“Like I said, old friends,” Bucky had thought the scheming and the calculated words would all come to an end alongside his term in congress. It’s missions like this that remind him it never ends, not when he’s stuck inside a sandbox full of snakes, waiting for him to turn his back on them for a chance to take a bite. “Our organization met some obstacles a few years back. But, what’s that old saying? Cut off one head, two more shall take its place.”
There Mr Andrews goes again, spilling all his secrets onto his visage. There’s a subtle stilling of his breath, a twitch in his left brow, a parting of his lips.
Recognition stares Bucky in the eye. And, for the first time since he regained his mind, it seems Hydra is staring at him too.
The torture, the mind control, the words that turned him into an unfeeling monster…
“Say it,” you’re there to cut off his next thought, his next memory.
As easy as slipping on a tailored suit, those old words roll off Bucky’s tongue, “Hail Hydra.”
Like a wave, ice cold and chilling to the bone, nausea washes over him. He blinks and, behind his eyelids, a montage of violence that wears his face yet lacks his soul. Pain shoots up his left arm, nonsensical and impossible in every way, yet it's there all the same, stabbing at his metal arm and lingering along the missing nerves.
What a punch in the guts it is — after so many years of working on himself, bettering himself, remembering himself — to be cruelly reminded of his inability to ever fully escape his past. No pardon and no psychologist could ever suck the evil fully out of James Buchanan Barnes, so long as he was living beyond his lifetime and walking amongst the collateral victims of his violence.
Instinct commands him to reach for two things.
First, a glance over at you. Closer than before, hovering among a crowd of eager-eyed suits. Just like the rest of his team, you have them effortlessly wrapped around your finger, clinging onto every ounce of attention you fill their cups with.
A sneer on his lips, the soldier looks away.
And, secondly, he tilts his glass up and reaches for a final sip.
“Good boy, James,” this time, he does choke.
Champagne burns the back of his throat and his neck nearly snaps at the speed his head turns to you, still playing your cards of flattery to your crowd of loyal watchers and completely unaware of the paleness taking over Bucky’s face, the anger clenching its fist around his heart, and the heat melting his loins.
Why would you say such a thing? How could you say such a thing, and have the gall to not even be looking at him? It isn’t fair, in any universe, for you to be so unaffected while you nearly kill him with three words. You must not be human, must not be real, must not be trusted.
There, that’s what it is.
Bucky doesn’t trust you, that must be why he wants you gone.
“Beautiful woman,” Rolland Andrews commands Bucky’s attention back to him, and that’s when the soldier realises his mistake.
He’s been staring at you, openly and undoubtedly, making the subject of your investigation not only aware of your existence but of Bucky’s interest in your whereabouts.
His right palm is growing sweaty.
“You think?” Bucky makes a point of taking two steps to the right, blocking the view of you over his shoulder and forcing a load of eye contact onto the lawyer. If he plays his cards right, he can pivot the conversation away from you and back over to the point of the mission. “I hadn’t noticed. She’s just-”
“His assistant,” there’s your voice again, but it isn’t in his ear. It’s by his side and accompanied by you coming fully into view between the two men. Bucky watches your hand shake the outstretched paw of Mr Andrews before you turn your attention onto him, a mellow smile pairing well with the red of your lipstick. “Sorry to interrupt, Mr Barnes, but there’s been an incident downtown that requires your assistance.”
He doesn’t mean for his eyes to narrow, but that’s just the kind of reaction you inspire in him: confusion and disgruntlement.
“What a shame,” there’s nothing confusing about the way the lawyer’s leopard-like eyes are glued to the neckline of your dress. Perhaps the soldier’s jacket would be of better use over your shoulders. “You’re stealing him away just when our conversation was getting interesting.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, sir!” You slip right past Bucky’s attempt to grab your forearm, and lay a hand on the man’s shoulder, a faux apology in your gaze. “But this really is a pressing matter. Here,” you’re back to keeping your hands to yourself, too busy rifling through your clutch to entertain whatever perverse thoughts are growing in Andrew’s mind. “Take Mr Barnes’ card, perhaps we can arrange for you both to continue this conversation somewhere a little more private.”
As easy as a dog herds sheep, you escort a bewildered Bucky Barnes away from the target.
You lead the charge, weaving through the clusters of people so effortlessly that he struggles to keep up, his path occasionally thwarted by an unmoving mass and forcing him to watch as you continue your pursuit of the up-ahead, leaving nothing but the shape of your dress to follow. It’s only once the chill of the night bites at exposed skin that he manages to catch a hold of you, halfway down the entrance staircase.
“What was that?” He seethes into your ear from one step behind, hand wound around your arm.
“Smile, James,” you glance back at him, “unless you want to end up on the front page of the news with accusations of mistreating your poor assistant.”
Waiting beneath the staircase sits a promenade of black cars and personal drivers, queuing up to collect their decorated debt otherwise known as their employers. Alongside the white light of burning headlights, there’s the incessant flash of cameras going off, a wall of photographers and journalists hungry to catch a glimpse and steal a moment from those attempting to flea the event’s festivities.
“You’re not taking another step until you answer my question,” he mutters all the same, grip reinforcing itself on your arm.
Despite that, Bucky doesn’t stop you from journeying down another two stairs.
“Your question wasn’t very clear,” at this point he’s certain you must be doing it on purpose, picking and choosing the words you need to drive the soldier up the wall.
“I had him right where we wanted him, and you-”
“I what?” Again, you’re looking back at him, and again, you’re smiling perfectly for the cameras, manoeuvring him to loosen his grip on your arm and switch to locking elbows instead, just in time for the press to take notice of his presence and begin turning their lenses. “Come on, use that caveman brain of yours.”
“Do you get a kick out of ruining my missions?” He registers a shout of his name, and then another, and then another.
Like a pack of starved vultures, the press scramble to gather at the bottom of the stairs, microphones and cameras grasped in their talons as they screech out questions he has no intention of answering.
“We’ve been over this before, James,” if you’ve noticed the fact he is descending slower in light of the chaos that awaits, you say nothing. You simply match his pace. “I get a kick out of helping.”
Bucky remembers the last time you said those very words, both of you lost in the outskirts of France and struggling to find any signal. When he was sure that would get you reprimanded for inefficiency, you pulled through and managed to salvage the mission.
Before that, there was a late night in Tokyo, where you and Walker boarded the jet with blood drying into the cracks of your fingernails. Despite the bloodshed, the mission was a success, and Bucky’s chastising words aimed at you fell upon deaf ears.
In truth, he still the first time you said those words, two days into the job and faced with his interrogative eyes in the dark of the kitchen whilst you were trying to sneak away with a midnight snack.
“Funny, cause you never seem to help.”
“Roland Andrews may be an obnoxious asshole but he’s not an idiot,” as you lift your foot to tackle another step, the heel of your shoe catches on the hem of your dress. His elbow locks and his vibranium hand is steadying you before he can even ponder what a satisfactory sight it would be to watch you roll down the stairs and strike out the press in some twisted game of bowling. Much to his own disgruntlement, his subconscious doesn’t know how to let harm come your way. “He wasn’t about to confess in the middle of the Smithsonian that your old torturers are planning a resurgence. Thanks to me, he has your card. Which means he has your number, which means he’ll call.”
His pride won’t give in and allow him to tell you it’s a good plan, so he narrows his eyes and questions it instead, “Why are you so sure?”
The press are so close now, a mere three steps below, yet he hears you perfectly clear among all their harmonious yelling.
“Like you said, you had him right where we wanted him,” his eyes follow your own as they glance backwards. At the top of the stairs, Rolland Andrews stands watching you both leave. “Trust me, he’ll call.”
Five weeks pass before the call arrives.
On a Thursday morning, six forty three am, with dawn smearing the horizon in shades of tangerine, Bucky wakes from a dream he can’t quite remember. There is light, there is laughter, and there is someone laying by his side, keeping count of his heartbeat while he traces constellations over a naked thigh. Then, the phone rings and he’s thrust back into his body, sweating beneath sheets and consumed by the empty space to his right.
On the other end of the line is not the most-anticipated Roland Andrews. It’s his assistant, with a voice as chirpy as a bird singing its morning song, relaying a short list of demands veiled as an invitation — one of which leads him to now, four hours later, pacing the living room while you wax poetic about your genius, world-saving, revolutionary plan.
The very same plan that’s going to send Bucky to his belated grave.
“Absolutely not,” he says for what feels like the millionth time, metal fingers tangling themselves in the web of his hair. The sting against his scalp is the only thing that seems to ground him, aiding him in holding back even a modicum of the frustration your persistence is simmering within him. “Over my dead body.”
“It makes perfect sense, James,” in opposition to his own rabid demeanor, you’re cool as ice, spread out atop the couch and sipping away at your morning coffee. Movement is occasional, optional — in the desperate times when he’s intercepting the path between your eyes and the television, where reruns of some awful reality show hold your attention captive. “Come on, you know my plans always work.”
They do, and he hates it. Despises it. Wishes you would hurry up and screw up enough to stop being put in harm’s way. But no, you just have to be perfect at everything.
“How many more times do I have to say it? No,” like a broken record or an ever-looping echo, he’s repeating words, over and over, all in the futile hope you’ll sniff out the suspicious nature of Andrews’ demand and agree to Bucky’s terms instead.
“You’re being stubborn,” you lean to the left, trying to catch a glimpse at the screen past his stoic stance.
Perhaps a little overzealous, Bucky had hoped your proposal of continuing the conversation somewhere private would be just that: private. It seems the lawyer and his different definition of privacy had other plans in the form of a summoning to attend an exclusive gala at his family’s estate. The point of contention, however, is the request tacked on at the end of the invite: Mr Andrews requests your assistant come too, as his personal date for the evening.
“And you’re being reckless!”
“Newsflash, that’s kind of my job.”
The first thing Bucky learnt about you was your history — better said, your lack of history.
A life lived in silence. Quaint and quiet are pretty synonyms for invisible. Your existence is nothing but a blank, untraceable slate, up until you at last appear on the proverbial map of agents and demons, as merely a drop in the ocean formerly known as S.H.I.E.L.D.
Sometimes, Bucky thinks he remembers seeing you. Just once, with the Winter Soldier shielded by shadows in Pierce’s office. You stood on the other side of bulletproof glass, a mournful Steve to the right of you and the despicable mass of Alexander Pierce in front of you, face painted in faux sympathy and a hand squeezing down on your shoulder. But the waters of his memory are murky and leave him needing to come up for air before he can ever make a real shape out of anything.
After the downfall of Hydra, you returned to being a ghost. Unheard from and inactive, until the war between heroes, a silent partner in Sharon Carter’s ploy to steal back Steve’s shield and Sam’s wings. While Bucky was turned back to ice, you were running around Europe, protecting the whereabouts of the men who fought for his freedom. Then came the dark days, after half the world turned to dust. Somewhere along the record books, you became a mercenary.
An agent turned killer for hire, and one of the top earners under Valentina’s payroll. When the time came for her to do away with all the loose-ends of her crimes, you were lucky enough — or just busy enough — to ignore her deadly invitation into the furnace that housed Bob. Seven weeks after he was declared an Avenger, Miss De Fontaine turned up at the tower’s door with you. Sweet smile, sharp senses, one job: look out for the team.
From agent, to mercenary, to glorified babysitter.
“Your job is to gather intel, to be an informant, to keep a close eye,” the pacing has seized and Bucky has now taken to facing you, right knee popped out and hands on his hips, the very image of a parental figure mid-lecture. “It’s not your job to answer to some daddy’s boy on a power trip.”
“This might be our only chance to get a lead on the Hydra rumours,” whether it’s prompted by the change in his stance or by your own disinterest, you reach for the control and turn the television off. “You owe it to yourself to let me help.”
The only noise that remains is you two bickering, while the rest of the tower’s inhabitants are sleeping away their morning how you had hoped to — before a certain soldier pulled you out of your slumber—: undisturbed and uninterrupted.
“I’m going alone,” before he can even fully commit to his sentence, you’re standing up and rounding the coffee table.
“Please, just take a minute, breathe, and think about this rationally,” your approach is one that calls for peace, the demeanour of someone trying to calm a street cat: hands stretched out in front of you and a plea in your eyes that screams ‘please don’t run away’. “Andrews isn’t just inviting you to one of his posh parties, James. He’s testing you, trying to see how easily you’ll grant his request. He wants to see how much he can trust you. I’m tougher than I look, okay? Let me be the collateral to you getting the answers we need.”
One of the worst things about you is your ability to make a good point, even out of a damn circle. Your argument is just the correct mixture of rational, impactful, and personal to almost have him giving in and accepting your offer to help.
But, why should you have to be tougher than you look? Last time Bucky checked, your skill is stealth and brains, not muscle — he is all the muscle you, or, better said, any mission could ever need.
Though frozen in thought, the soldier can see those open arms growing closer, and closer, and closer. You’re two inches away from resting your hand on his hunk of vibranium when Bucky finally reacts, flinching out of a touch he doesn’t quite get to feel and turning away from you.
“I’m not pimping you out,” he shakes his head, voice stern and brow furrowed. “Not to Andrews. Not to anyone. You’re an agent, not an escort.”
“Honey traps have existed since way before your day and age-”
“I’m the leader of this team, my word is final,” for his own self-preservation, he’ll pretend he doesn’t notice the smile sliping down your face. “You’re not coming.”
Bucky’s beginning to doubt this team knows the definition of the word ‘leader’.
Otherwise, he wouldn’t be dressed to the nines and looking like a ten, people-watching out the tinted window of a car in an effort to distract himself from your reflection in the glass and the cloud of titillating spice your perfume floats his way.
Of course you end up coming with him to Mr Andrews’ event, and so Bucky Barnes has to result to gaslighting himself into believing this is what he really wanted all along: him in another suit, you in another dress, and nothing between you but the thinning space of a middle seat. The illusion shatters each time he recalls that the silk resting atop your skin has been hand picked by the lawyer himself, delivered to Bucky’s office with a note that conveniently never found its way to you — For that pretty assistant of yours, Barnes. Tell her to wear nothing beneath.
The subtle strain of your hardened nipples has him uncomfortably aware that you’ve complied with Roland’s request, despite being none the wiser to its existence.
“Don’t drink anything you’re not there to witness being poured,” his throat is raw from the lack of use, the forty minute drive in silence nearly coming to an end as the grand gates to an estate come into view. “I don’t trust Rolland Andrews, there’s something… off.”
“Yes, James, that’s why we’re here.”
“Did you just-” His head finally turns away from the window to look at your image in full dimension, something more than just a poor-man’s imitation of you in the window. “Did you just roll your eyes at me?”
“Roll my eyes at you? Never, my dear leader!” And you have the audacity to offer him a mint, hand mid-rifle through your purse. He accepts it, and prays the sharp flavour on his tongue will be enough to calm the jitterbug traversing through his veins. “I was trying to catch a glimpse at my brain, that’s all.”
“The only chance of seeing your brain is with a microscope,” the gates open slowly, dramatically, and do nothing to aid in the soldier’s uneasy feeling.
“Have you ever considered becoming a motivational speaker?” You chirp, and cross your right leg over the other. “With words as kind as that, I feel empowered to take on the world!”
Once more, you’re a liability to Bucky, a distraction in the shape of a shin peeking out. He’s not usually so bothered by a woman’s skin… But when it belongs to someone he loathes entirely, it’s hard not to seeth at the sight of it.
At the top of an obnoxiously long driveway sits the Andrews estate, a courtyard mansion stripped right out of the Renaissance and sticking out like a sore thumb atop nine acres of flat terrain. Cars are queued up, one after the other, slowly rounding a central water feature, disposing of their passengers, and driving back out of the expensive lot. Unlike the Smithsonian, not a single member of the press is circling the masses with screeching questions or invasive cameras, and, in a twist not even the soldier expects, he almost wishes there was someone, if only to document whatever evil may take place beyond those walls.
“Tell little miss Totally-Spies she looks pretty,” for a moment, Bucky mistakes the voice for his subconscious… But no, it’s just Yelena, no doubt laughing at him all the way over on the Quinjet.
“What? No she doesn’t,” something bitter comes over his tongue. “Tell her yourself.”
“How can I tell her when she is not wearing a wire, genius?” Bucky takes a mental note, adding Yel to the list of women who have rolled their eyes at him this evening — so far, it's two for two. “Oh, and do you copy? Walker says to check our connections before you two step into your high-school Hydra reunion.”
“Of course I fucking copy-” He should have retired to a farm when he had the chance.
The evening does not unfold in the disastrous way Bucky anticipates — it’s even worse.
Barely a foot in the door, the man of the hour conjures before you both as if from thin air. He greets you first, hands laying themselves over all the right places to rile Bucky’s nerves as the man pulls you in to press a sloppy kiss against your cheek. The smile you shoot at the soldier is one of pacifism, a non-verbose reminder to remain calm and focus on the object of your mission.
Since he cannot spare you from Andrews’ wandering touch, Bucky intercepts the wine glass he attempts to hand you, swallowing it down in one large gulp with the blind hope that his super soldier serum has any possible inbuilt date-rape repellent.
Rolland Andrews is possessive, infectious — an invasive species that is destroying the already endangered ecosystem of Bucky’s tolerance. As the night unfurls, he wears you like the watch on his wrist, a silent jewel perched on his arm and paraded throughout the room. Expected to smile and encouraged to stay quiet, you play your role to perfection. Bucky can’t help but watch you, study the way you shapeshift into someone he’s never met, a chameleon whose nature it is to blend in with her surroundings.
For hours, he’s forced to watch the light shade of your dress be eclipsed by the lawyer’s dark tux. Across the room or stood among the same circle of oligarchs, the sight of you burns his eyes all the same. To add salt into the agitated wound, he has yet to achieve a moment of real privacy with Andrews. And, so, the soldier decides you are not a distraction, but an obstruction.
If Bucky’s eyes stick to you like glue, it must be for two very simple, extremely logical, and completely impersonal reasons.
Firstly, despite the lack of respect he’s afforded by you all, he’s a good leader — a man made of responsibility, who has sworn to take care of his agents, no matter how often he flirts with the idea of you being kicked off the team. And, secondly, in hopes that you’ll notice the panicked widening of his eyes and help steer the lawyer into taking Bucky someplace private to resume their dealings from the Smithsonian’s gala.
It’s not until he finds himself in the mansion’s central courtyard, lost in a mass of swaying bodies and nursing his fourth whiskey on the rocks, that Bucky loses sight of you.
You’re gone, until you’re not. A glimmer of light in the corner of the soldier’s eye, beckoning him to look up. Row after row of empty balconies protrude from the mansion’s walls, staring down onto the festivities below. When he finally spots you, his stomach drops.
“Something’s wrong,” he reaches for the comms like it’s a crutch, something that will steady this uneasy feeling.
“Don’t be cryptic, Bucky,” Yelena’s voice rings through within a moment, somehow sounding equally alert as she is bored. “It does not suit you.”
Traveling over quicksand is easier than moving through this crowd — Bucky would know. He makes it seven steps, sight glued to you, before a solid figure forces him to look away.
After carving out a new path to get inside the home, his eyes find you right where they left you, “She’s on a top-floor balcony.”
“O…Kay? Are you worried she is going to fall in love with the view and betray us?”
“No!” His sudden outburst garners a few looks. Bucky pushes harder through the rows of bodies, neck tilting to watch how your dress dances in the wind. “No. It’s just… weird.”
To the left of you Bucky notices the blurry shape of Rolland Andrews. Were he as logical as you, perhaps he’d see this as the perfect opportunity to snatch a moment alone with the lawyer. Instead, all he sees is a threat at your side, causing a fresh wave of nausea to crash over him and his footsteps to fall a little faster.
“Why?”
“Because she’s afraid of heights,” the words are a reflex, pouring out of Bucky with no thought put behind them — the only thought he seems capable of is you.
“She is?” Walker jumps on the line. “When did she mention that?”
“She didn’t mention it,” an elbow digs into him as a woman stumbles over her heels and, suddenly, a martini glass smashes to pieces on the floor and the stench of vermouth stains his clothes. “I just noticed.”
“Oh, so you notice things now?”
“Don’t say it like that,” he quietly chastises Yelena as he side steps both the woman profusely apologising and the stranger approaching him with tissues in their hands.
There’s no time for interruptions or distractions, he needs to keep moving.
“Like what? This is just my voice.”
“Like there’s something you’re not saying.”
“Busted,” the Widow’s tone conjures outrage inside him, and stains his ears in hues of red. There’s a tight feeling in his chest, in his throat, uncomfortable and unwelcome as she continues to speak. “I’m just thinking how much someone needs to watch her to notice that.”
It only takes him a second to notice you are uncomfortable, cornered against the balcony’s ledge while the target of your mission hides his face in the crook of your neck, arms much stronger than your own caging you in.
Perhaps this is all the makings of Bucky’s own feelings, his own discomfort at the sight of an agent under his care being put in this position, somehow being irrationally projected up onto you. Too good at your job for your own good, never once has he known you to let your guard slip. Does your disdain of heights affect you so viscerally that it’s now cracking away at your hard-shell exterior?
A throat clears itself over the comms.
“Yeah, well, it’s not exactly hard to tell when you sit through a six hour flight with her bouncing her knee,” remembering to reply grows harder as he continues to search for a break in the crowd of foreign faces.
There’s an ache in Bucky’s neck, one that promises to be unforgiving when he wakes up tomorrow morning. Putting his pain on the backburner, he tilts his head back further.
“It must have been so hard for you,” something curls up inside his loins, ashamed, as Walker speaks, mockery bleeding through the speaker. “Wishing she was bouncing on your dick inste-”
“I’m going up. Get the jet as close as you can.”
The pieces fall into place in perfect harmony: a doorway back inside the mansion appears on his right, just as Rolland disappears off the balcony and leaves you all by yourself.
The ascent is one of desperation, a disgraced angel scrapping its way back up the stairway to Heaven. Bucky tackles the marble steps in pairs of twos and threes, using the length of his legs and the strength in his muscles as an advantage to cut down time. When he reaches the top floor, each breath is the result of a heaving chest and sweat is pooling at the base of his neck.
The third room on the left is where he finds you, back turned on the view of the courtyard and lip caught between your teeth.
“What are you doing out here?” He doesn’t mean to startle you, to have your shoulders jump in surprise at the sudden appearance of his voice, but it’s like he just can’t help himself, he cannot stand another moment of seeing you like this — hunched in on yourself, itching to be anywhere but where you stand.
“James,” amidst your fear, you’re still more level-headed than he’s ever been around you. While most see your disregard of your feelings and fright as another testament to your skills, he’s increasingly finding it to be a sign of recklessness. Would it kill you to put yourself first, for once? “Get lost! If Andrews comes back and finds-”
“Finds what?” Bucky challenges as he steps out onto the balcony. There’s your perfume to greet him, again, washing over him with the breeze of the night. “Me speaking to my assistant?”
A stare-off ensues, one that gives him far too much time to notice how the moon sits reflected amidst a pool of stars in your eyes, then you finally huff in defeat, “Dammit, you’re right.”
“For once.”
“Feels nice, doesn’t it?”
Something else feels nice when he catches a glimpse of your smile.
Not the sly, temptress curls of your lips you’ve been shooting at Rolland all night, but the loud smile — the one that puts your teeth on display, and pushes the swells of your cheeks up, and wrinkles the corners of your eyes. Bright and real, the kind that lights up the whole tower when it's an ungodly hour and you spot Bucky emerging into view as you dig into your usual midnight snacks.
A heavy gust of wind arrives to remind you of where you are, sweeping the smile right off your lips.
Anxious feet dance beneath the trail of your dress, the click of heel upon marble reaching his ears. As any good leader should, he takes a step closer and takes a hold of your wrist, too aware of the shake in your hands to fully envelope them with his own. He moves one step back towards the room and beckons you to follow.
“Come on, let’s get you away from the ledge-”
“Wait, just a second,” you’re turning to fully face him, invading his space.
For a moment, it feels like the world is caving in around you both, the walls of the universe nullifying the distance between you with a force greater than gravity. All he can see, all he can smell, all he can feel is you. His lungs are running out of oxygen. When was the last time he took a breath?
You’re in the air, and in his eyes, and pressing a single finger to his cheek.
“You’ve got something on your face, righttt… Here!” You inch back enough to display your pride and joy to him, a single eyelash perched on the tip of your finger. How is it that something so tiny, so inconsequential can capture your attention so easily, while Bucky — for all his power, and all his valor, and all his strength — can barely get you to look at him most days? “Make a wish.”
A myriad of words dangle off the tip of his tongue, thoughts that have echoed through his head from the moment you stepped foot into his life — not just as a ghost in Steve’s stories, but as someone tangible, and real, and blood-boiling. I wish you would… Leave the team, stop helping, notice when I clean your gun, realise it’s not Bob who keeps ordering all the food you like, acknowledge that I don’t like you, inch closer and kiss me.
He doesn’t get to make a single wish.
All he gets is the harrowing view of playful eyes staring at him, unaware of the glowing red dot dancing up the length of your face before coming to a halt at your temple.
With no time to alert you, Bucky pulls your frame against his and dives back into the room as a bullet cuts through the air. Both of you tumble to the ground in a tangle of limbs before the soldier hauls you behind the wall. With the comfort of you hovering at his back, tucked safely against him, he peeks his head out just in time to catch the sniper’s laser stretched out across the courtyard. A second shot is fired, and a window is blown to smithereens.
“We’ve got an active shooter situation,” he barks into his microphone, ducking out for another glimpse at the sniper’s location. “Third floor, west wing, can’t tell which room.”
“James,” he barely registers the soft call of his name.
“On it,” Yelena responds, a thread of ease to weave his fraying mind back together.
“James.”
“You two get to the roof, I’m bringing the jet around,” as John’s voice fills the line, so does the sound of the plane’s engine.
Selfish as he is, Bucky can’t just walk away from tonight, can’t let you being put in harm’s way, again, all be for nothing.
“Leaving compromises the mission, Walker. I need to speak with Andrews first-”
“Bucky!”
The soldier’s neck snaps to look at you, a rush of whiplash burning down the left side. The yell knocks something out of you, your back slowly descending down the length of the wall while your legs give out beneath you. Like a mirror, he mimics your movements, coming to a crouch beside you on the cold floor.
Bucky can no longer smell the spice of your perfume. Now there is only metal, something sticky that drags down his throat upon inhaling and fights its way out of him. Sickly sweet and traumatically familiar, his limbs freeze in its presence.
“You’re bleeding,” he speaks with wonder, disgust, disbelief as a river of red flows down the length of your left leg.
“Listen to me,” there’s an eerie calm in the way you’re speaking, one that does not pair well with the way your hands tremble through their attempts to drag your dress up. Four hands work faster than two, and so his own join you in your mission, flinching to grab at the meat of your thigh upon the wound coming into view. “I need you to make me a tourniquet.”
“Andrews set this up,” his eyes feel like they’re about to fall out their sockets, opened wide and refusing to blink as his brain short circuits out of control. Nothing seems to be making sense. He spotted the sniper, just in time, and got you away from the danger. So why is there a bullet lodged in your upper thigh and why are his hands stained with your blood? “That sniper was meant to kill-”
“Hey!” There’s a sharp sting against his scalp and his attention jumps right up to your face. “Snap out of it. You keep saying you’re the leader of our team, yeah?” He nods into the grip of your fingers, letting the tension of straining strands knock the sense back into him “So be a leader, cut off the bleeding, and get us both out of here. Alive.”
The skirt of your dress winds up ripped in half and tightened in a knot around your upper thigh. You shoulder the pain like a champion, quiet and unbothered if not for the grip he lets your nails dig into his arms with, and the permanent indent of your teeth clamping down onto your lip. Eased back onto your feet, the soldier tolerates a total of three winced steps before he’s scooping you up into his arms and against his chest, silencing your protests with a pointed look.
“There’s a door at the end of this hallway, around the corner,” your voice is methodical, running through words like they’re programmed to come out of you rather than something you’re conjuring with your own mind. “That should get us up to the roof.”
“How do you know that?” He’s moving as carefully as he can, painfully aware of your blood drying into his skin.
“Lesson one, James,” the return of his first name has never stung so much. “Always know the layout before you enter a building.”
A shot rings out from behind before he can respond.
Emerging from the stairway is one of Andrews’ bodyguards, weapon on display as he openly fires at you both. Bucky doesn’t even have to tell you to reach into the hidden compartment of his suit, your fingers already fishing out his gun and pointing it over his shoulder.
The guard fires again and Bucky ducks to the right, leaving the bullet to lodge itself in the wall. As he picks up his pace, you fire a few rounds back at your attacker.
“Instead of wasting our bullets, maybe try aiming next time,” Bucky snaps as you blow out a window.
“Sorry, aims a little shaky right now on account of the whole bleeding out thing,” you fire and miss, again. “They don’t exactly teach you this at spy school!”
“Spy school?” He parrots back, readjusting his grip on you.
The end of the hallway is close enough he can taste the sweetness of freedom and the chill of the night air.
“Less questioning my methods of distracting myself with humour,” a final shot rings out in Bucky’s ear before he hears the unmistakable sound of a body hitting the floor. “More getting us to safety.”
Yelena is already awaiting you both as you reach the rooftop, a spray of someone else’s blood across her cheek. The pair work in unison to move you onto Bucky’s back and, as the familiar shape of the jet comes into view, the soldier warns you to hold on tight before grabbing hold of the dangling rope ladder. Climbing his way up to safety, Yelena follows close behind.
“Get us out of here, Walker!” Bucky’s quietly thankful for the blonde’s outburst, too busy tending to you to take control of the situation.
Guiding your frame down to the floor, his hand finds your face, your skin cold to touch despite the sweat dripping down your forehead.
“Tell me again how your plans always work,” he says in an effort to keep you awake, the weight of your eyelids growing with each slow blink you take.
The war zone of your leg is too much to handle, yet something compels him to take a peak, turning his own stomach at the bloody wound. Were he more sane of mind, he’d question why it’s affecting him so gravely after a whole century of working in the field of guts and gore. Tightening the bloodied scraps of your dress is of far more immediate concern to the soldier.
“Don’t go throwing your ‘I told you so’ party yet,” your voice is weaker than he’s used to, none of that calm confidence that shakes up his bones. Uneasy fingers tear the necklace off your neck and drop it into his palm, flipping the feature gemstone over and presenting a nearly unnoticeable bug microphone. “Let’s just say Andrews gets mouthy when he gets touchy.”
Bucky replaces you with a new enemy — time.
Where it used to fly, now, clipped of its wings, it crawls. There’s a drag behind every second, a noticeable existence surrounds every minute. Hours turn to days, and days fade into weeks. Midday in the tower is chaos, no level-headed voice to break through the yelling egos, while his midnights are quiet, somber, absent of any loud smiles when he creeps into the kitchen for a glass of water.
You being kicked off the team was never supposed to go like this.
It was supposed to be harm-free, a necessary solution to the problem of your hazardous lifestyle. It wasn’t supposed to be due to a bullet slicing right through your thigh, forcing you into temporary sick leave.
Worst of all, Valentina refuses to give up your location — citing some bullshit excuse about protecting your rehabilitation from any distractions. The soldier would sooner believe it’s the team she means to save from distraction, prying their focus away from whatever awful, stomach-turning, mind-numbing state you’re in.
Five months have passed, winter has brought destitution, and the team has slowly winnowed down those involved in the Andrews’ conspiracy to reestablish Hydra. Thanks to your little bugging trick, Rolland’s hands now only touch the steel bars of a jail cell, his father’s enterprise of tax fraud has at last been brought down, and any real hope of seeing you fully removed from your role as spy has fled Bucky’s grasp.
What is in his grasp, however, is the handle to your bedroom.
One turn of the latch and he confirms what he already knows awaits him beyond the door: an empty room full of your absence. It’s a cruel ritual that takes place when the soldier finds himself alone in the tower — John is visiting his kid, Ava and Yelena are somewhere in Europe working on extraditing someone, Alexei and Bob are in the West Coast negotiating PR deals. And Bucky is completely alone. Or, at least, he should be.
Until he hears a crash followed by a slew of words a nun would never dare repeat.
Knife in hand, Bucky treads through the tower with practiced ease, a silence in his steps reminiscent of his days as an assassin. He sticks to shadows, avoids any sparse ray of sunshine bleeding in through the windows as he clears the place, room by room. On his way past the empty maintenance room, the intruder makes noise once more and alerts him to their location: the training room.
Carefully pushing the door open, the last thing he expects is a high-pitched scream.
“Oh my god, James!” Hand clutched to your chest, your back is hunched over in search of both a steady heartbeat and breath. “Why are you sneaking around like some crazed serial killer?”
“Me?” The heavy door slams behind him as he pushes further into the room, the mirrors that circle the room reflecting his slow approach towards you and the way he safely tucks his knife away. “You’re the one banging around the place like a burglar!”
“Oh please, who on Earth- No, actually, in the entire universe would want to steal your stinky vests and rusty weights?”
He knows that he should reply, that he shouldn’t settle for you speaking to him in such a way. But he can’t. Not when you step out fully from behind the leg press and put your skin on display, the tiniest pair of black running shorts clinging to the plush of your thighs.
The visible loss of muscle definition is to be expected, yet it still hits him in the chest like a sledgehammer, knocking the wind right out of his lungs. The lack of usual bruising should be a comfort, yet it pulls on one of his heartstrings until it snaps, another reminder of how you’ve been out of commission. And then there is the scar.
Resting atop the outside of your left thigh is a patch of fresh skin. It stands out in both its colour and texture — an almost waxy, freshly polished finish behind the way it reflects the angry white lights of the training room ceiling. The scar tissue is new, gnarly, and squeezing at his throat with its existence.
You weren’t supposed to get hurt.
“What are you doing here anyway?” He forces himself to speak, and rips his eyes away from your thighs in search of distraction.
“I was going to do some weight training but, as you can see,” your outstretched hands point at the cluster of fallen weight disks. “The whole thing decided to collapse on me.”
“You’re supposed to be on medical leave,” there’s a pinch in Bucky’s forehead as he pries you away from picking up the mess, the permanent frown you rouse in him at long last returned. “How are you still finding ways to be a nuisance?”
An evil torturer wrapped in lycra, you reach for something to the right of him as he’s knelt down to grab the final disk, putting your legs perfectly on display before him.
“It’s all for the love of the game, James.” At your airy giggle, he looks up and finds you smiling down at him, one hand slipping inside a familiar boxing glove before you’re landing a cushioned, mock-punch against his cheek. “We should spar.”
You’ve changed your shower gel. Bucky can smell it on your skin: once a wall of musk and earth, now layers of something fruity and floral. The deep inhale that follows is intended to stabilise him but only seems to unnerve him even more.
“Not happening,” he tries to grab at your wrist, but you twist it out of the way, leaving his hand to brush over your midriff. “Leave.”
“But I just got here,” you whine, and Bucky must be suffering from an injury of his own — a concussion, perhaps — because something carnal is melting into his loins at the sound, sight, smell of you. “Do you know how hard it was to get Valentina off my back? C’mon, train with me.”
“I’m not fighting you,” at last successfully grabbing a hold of you, he rips his boxing glove off your hand and tosses it over his shoulder to land elsewhere in the room. “You’re injured.”
There’s a downside to capturing you: you’re touching him now, too, prying his hand off your wrist and leading it southbound.
“Pft, that was a flesh wound! See?” You press him against your thigh, the ghost of a gunshot beneath his fingertips almost enough to distract him from the warmth of your flesh. Almost, because he feels it, just like he feels you: alive, present, tempting. “I’m fine, so fight me, Barnes.”
A lingering brush along your thigh follows the soldier’s ascent, snagging on the hem of your shorts as he rises off his knees and towers over you. His hand snaps back to his side like it’s just touched open flame, skin blistering under the heat of feeling you, rebuking your touch.
“No,” he brushes past you, shoulder bumping shoulder, and manages no more than five steps.
“Winner chooses the punishment,” you barter, delicate fingers grasping around Bucky’s forearm and holding him in place in the centre of the training room. It doesn’t matter where his eyes run to hide, he sees you in every mirrored crevice of the walls. “Any punishment.”
The fighting tug he puts up against you is powerless, a flicker of the strength coursing through the livewires of his veins, but it’s easier than letting himself believe he’s giving himself up to your will.
A pause of intense staring between you both persists until the soldier cracks like an egg, “As soon as you surrender, you’re going back on sick leave.”
“Surrender’s a big word for you, James,” you wink and he feels himself falter. “Better get used to the shape of it in your mouth.”
Bucky’s not at all disappointed when you drop his arm in exchange for stretching out your muscles. Not one bit. That deepening of his frown? It’s nothing more than a side effect of realising he truly has to fight you just to get you to obey.
Facing each other, hands raised to the level of your eyes, the faux battle commences. Where the soldier pulls his strength, resulting to grappling with your punches and blocking the swipes to take at his feet, you ram full speed ahead. A kick to his shin, a knee to his guts, a failed attempt at tangling your legs around his neck — it seems Yelena has been training you in the Widows’ specialty.
You get the better of Bucky, eventually, taking advantage of the pause in his strategy that comes at the flinch of returning your injured leg to the ground. His right foot goes first, kicked out from behind, and then your shoulder shoves into him and knocks him on his ass.
“Best of three,” and he’s back on his feet within seconds, cutting off your incoming declaration of victory.
The second round is tougher, longer, one that doesn’t feature Bucky being as delicate as before. Still playing nothing but defense, his hands simply grab a little rougher, hold a little tighter, restrict your movements a little harder than before. You lift your leg and attempt to swing it at his face but the soldier is faster, grabbing your ankle with a firm squeeze and flipping you over.
But you like to play dirty.
A hand balling at his shirt, fingers that tighten their grip and rip him down alongside you. The cotton tears in two, all the while his vibranium arm flies out just in time to break his fall and save you from shouldering the entirety of his weight collapsing atop you.
Two chests that move in perfect sync — for each of his inhales, you exhale, and vice versa. Your limbs are both a tangled web of legs and arms, and your faces are suffocatingly slow, the warmth of your breath melting at his skin until a bead of his sweat drips down and lands on your lips. Holding his gaze with your own, your tongue licks off his residue and reaffirms why Bucky Barnes will always hate you.
“You’re reckless,” he seethes in your face, teeth bared like a feral animal as he slowly presses more of his weight down onto you — not completely, just enough to make you struggle through your next breath and give you a burn of the fire you insist on playing with. “You know that? Conceited, too, always bragging about your little plans that only work when something goes wrong.”
A light flickers overhead and his shadow casts over you a little darker, a little more all consuming, smothering you beneath the figurative weight of his outline.
“And you’re selfish,” he continues with no protest from you, lips slightly parted as you gaze up at him from your brows, a salacious parody of the famed Kubrick stare. “You don’t give a shit about how you distract me from doing my job when you go off script and make me worry about you.”
His mouth is a loose cannon, firing off thoughts he’s kept hidden under lock and key for far too long. It’s electrifying, freeing, sending a buzz of pent up energy right down to his toes as he spreads your legs with his own and presses even more of himself against you, pinning you to the foam mat beneath.
Motionless and trapped, you blink up at him with the desperation of prey longing to be free.
“You thinking of saying anything,” he quirks a brow, biting back the satisfied smile twitching at his cheek. “Or are you just going to keep fawning at me like a little doe?”
The glaze over your eyes fades away into something far more sinful, far more daring, as a fit of giggles bubbles out from your chest.
“Can’t you feel it, James?” You shift beneath him. “You’re hard.”
Denial is freezing cold, turning him into an iceberg — the real danger lurks beneath the surface of his Calvin Klein’s and is currently poking against your inner thigh.
Fury resolved through friction, you roll your hips up into him and render him useless, mouth agape in a broken attempt at capturing a grounding breath.
That’s all it takes for Bucky’s entire world to tilt over its axis as he’s flipped onto his back. Instead of the ceiling, his eyes find you, sitting atop his torso and pinning him between your legs. He tries to tilt his head down, better his view of your shorts riding up, but he’s met with an immovable force pressed against his neck.
“Close your mouth, James,” your hips swivel, inching up his body, and the blade of his own knife tickles his skin. “You’ll catch a doe. Or, actually, the doe will catch you.”
Try as he might, he can’t seem to pick up his jaw as you struggle to get comfortable atop him, the search for a seat quickly dissolving into a search for traction, your knees digging into the mat on either side of him while you cant your pelvis back and forth.
You pry off the tattered remains of his shirt with one hand while reinforcing the other’s grip on Bucky’s knife, the sweet sting of an almost cut teasing at his neck.
“I thought we were fighting,” an expert at self-sabotage, the soldier can think of nothing better to say to ruin this moment.
“Who says we’re not?” You chirp, tilting your head to the side and gifting him the inquisitive look of a puppy. “I am holding a knife to your throat.”
The blade scrapes at his skin as he swallows down a ball of nerves, a sharpened edge that effortlessly slices along his three-day long stubble. His body, more treacherous to itself than the days of mind-control, responds to you grinding against him by tightening the strain beneath the layers of gym shorts and boxers.
“Then hurry up and put me out of my misery,” he grits out, unsure of how exactly he wants you to do so.
Would slicing his neck work? It would certainly be a finite solution, if you did it right, a permanent end to his days of playing the role of dog herding up the headless sheep of so-called New Avengers. Maybe his request is not quite as dramatic, an exaggerated plea to be put back on his feet to spar with you one last time before he sends you on your un-merry way back to quiet nights and days of rehabilitation.
“I suppose, if you’re bored, you could always just…” you pause for dramatic effect, rolling your hips as you roll your tongue. “Surrender.”
The fever brewing in his loins, in his chest, all over his body has him fearing the worst — that he wants you like this, mounted atop him, one hand to his throat and the other laid flat above his racing heart.
No sooner than that wave of fear crashes over him, the knife begins to journey down his skin. Delicate as glass, you drag its pointed edge over the curve of his collarbone, through the valley of his chest, over the bumps and ridges of his abdomen. When the blade reaches the blockade of your body, you let it dance over your skin too. The soldier holds his breath as he watches it slip over your scar.
“You’re so good at sharpening knives, James. I bet this could just-” hooking his knife beneath the waistband of your shorts, an effortless flick of your wrist is all it takes to bring the fabric to ruins. “Cut right through cloth.”
When Bucky woke up this morning, he went back to bed.
Not for long, barely clocking in an extra twenty minutes of sleep. Realistically, he had not truly been tired — it was about principle, about enjoying one morning to himself where no one was going to interrupt him with news of the kitchen burning down or a world-ending crisis.
Right now, as he flickers all over the shape of you — naked from the waist down, pussy slicked by your own arousal and hovering a few inches above his skin — the soldier’s not so sure he ever did wake up.
You must be a dream.
“Fucking Christ,” is the tamest of things that come to his mind as he watches you.
And, oh, does he watch.
Eyes turned to steal, a metal force that locks them in place, unmoving and unblinking as you bring the knife to your core. Flat on its side, the sharp edge and its pointed tip angled safely away from the puffy, delicate, desperate flesh of your cunt, you draw the weapon up over the glistening folds and against the hidden pearl of your clit.
“Say ah,” is your only command as you bring the knife up to his mouth, where instinct has betrayed him and presented his tongue to you.
The taste of you stains his blade, a mouthwatering tingle against his taste buds that hijacks his system and hardwires a new addiction into him. Never again will he sink his knife into an opponent and not think of this, of you. You’ve cursed him forever, a hindrance that will haunt him even when you don’t.
You’re back to grinding against him, skin pressed to skin. Over his abdomen is a trail of your wetness that, upon noticing it, has his arm gripping at your undulating hips and guiding them down harder against him. There’s something magnetic in the way you move, holding his focus to every half-gasped moan that ripples out of you, and every strain of your muscles, and every roll back of your eyes.
It’s all so appetising, he could eat you.
“If you’re going to rut against me like a bitch in heat, at least do it on my face.”
“That’s no way to speak to a woman wielding a weapon,” despite the warning, you give no protest to the way his hands are leading you up and over his body.
Your knees now knocking at each side of his neck, the soldier salivates as you sit against his chest, your sweet pussy teasing him, too close and not close enough.
“What are you waiting for?” Bucky gruffs out, all his confusing feelings drowning in the pools of your eyes.
“Nothing,” the gentle shift in your voice has him stilling, heart sucked up into a mini-tornado before it lurches back into his chest. When your hand cups his face, he wonders what he did to deserve it. “Just admiring the view.”
“You can admire it from here,” the soldier regains some of his sanity in manoeuvring you up to his mouth.
You sink down onto his face and Bucky goes to heaven. Quite literally dies and meets his god — goddess.
Flattening his tongue, the soldier licks a tentative stripe up your cunt, hands squeezing tight against your waist and halting your attempt to flee from his touch. Once you’re secured in his hold, he’s diving deeper, tongue claiming ownership of your body for as long as you’ll allow him.
Sweet and heady, he smells your arousal all around him as your hips rejoin the dance in honour of your pleasure, the tip of his nose bumping against your clit once, then twice, then a third prolonged time while he presses you fully down on his face.
“God, James,” a full-chested moan ripples out of you and his knife at last slips out your grasp, meeting the floor with a cushioned thud.
Bucky has always known you would be the death of him, he just never imagined he would die like this. Tongue buried in the tight walls of your cunt, nose nestling into the repeated ruts of your clit, the all-consuming, brain-melting, life-changing weight of you pushed down on his face. If he’s to suffocate between your thighs, he’ll go happily into whatever after-life awaits him.
The soldier shifts his legs, bending them at the knee and planting both feet on the ground, driving your lustful stare away from his and glancing over your shoulder instead.
“Are you pitching that tent just for me,” you turn further around, one hand sliding over the expanse of his abdomen and dipping its fingers beneath his waistband. “Or are you always this hard during fights?”
Much to his own reluctance, Bucky lifts you off his mouth.
“Bit of both,” a featherlike touch brushes over the tip of his aching cock and nearly drives him feral, a hiss caught between his teeth before he sinks them into the meat of your thigh. “Fighting’s an adrenaline rush.”
“Then what am I?” You barely manage, voice divulging into a gasp as he bites you again, harder, tattooing indents of his teeth into your supple skin.
“You,” he drags the word out, just like he drags a soothing lick of his tongue over his bite mark. “Are a pain in the ass.”
The soldier can feel you trying to tug down his shorts but the angle is awkward and, for every inch of skin you reveal, the waistband slips up another two inches. And while it rouses a frustrated sigh out of you, it’s fully driving him into the depths of desperation, the epicentre of his heartbeat shifting from a thump in his chest to a throb in his dick.
So he’s more than complicit when you do a one-eighty.
“Since I’m such a pain in the ass,” you arch your back, pawing your way down the expanse of him, and Bucky swears he witnesses your hole wink at him, sticky and wet and inviting him back in for another taste as it hovers above his face. “Enjoy the view of mine.”
Each side of you sinks down on him in sync, your cunt against his lips and your mouth around his cock. You become everything, all his, grinding your hips against his tongue while your own lathers itself in the salty taste of his skin, gliding up the length of his dick.
Bucky’s left hand grips at your thigh while the other imprints his fingertips into the globe of your ass cheek, grounding himself with a squeeze of your flesh amidst the hazy clouds of pleasure that threaten to swallow you both whole.
The soldier decides you must be a masterpiece, crafted by the hands of a visionary genius and lost to the hands of time, only to wind up here, tangled atop the training mat with him, feeding him with a honey of sin and moulding something new out of him with a hand steadying the base of his cock while you swallow down all you can take of him. Even then, it’s not enough for Bucky.
His own hips lift off the floor, feeding an inch of two more into your gaping mouth before he soon hits the back of your throat.
“Wish I could see it,” the rasp in his throat makes it hard to speak, while the feeling of you gagging on his dick makes it hard to think. “That pretty little mouth of yours finally being put to good use.”
His fingers seek you out, passing over the puckered hole of your ass before burrowing themselves — middle and ring — into your cunt. While your hand busies itself massaging your drool along his shaft and over his balls, he’s switching between beckoning you towards him with curling fingers, pressing against the gummy walls of your pussy, and scissoring you open while his tongue laps up the molten pleasure you spill over his knuckles.
“There you go, doll,” there’s a thrill to running his mouth, unabashed and unguarded, spewing out the first obscenity that pops in his head and watching how you viscerally react, a whining, moaning, desperate thing falling apart just for him, because of him. “Take him as deep as you need. Practically begging me to paint that mouth white, aren’t you?”
You bob your head over him, the vibrations of your moans shooting right down to his base and pulling his balls tight and desperate for release.
“Want you to cum down my throat, James,” you grind back against him as he mouths at your clit. “Wanna taste how you surrender.”
That word snaps Bucky’s mind back into place, awakens him like a sleeper agent.
In a matter of seconds, you go from straddling his face to being shoved onto all fours atop the training mat, manhandled like the perfect ragdoll he wants you to be. Malleable and manipulated into whatever position, angle, hole he wants from you.
Even a saint, when faced with the sight of your arching back, couldn’t hold themselves back from landing a skin-tingling slap against your ass — and the soldier is no saint. The spank is not enough to bruise, just enough to have you choking on a breath and keening back into the apologetic kiss he soothes the stinging flesh with.
“Please, oh god,” you moan when, for old times sakes, Bucky helps himself to another taste of you, tongue prodding at your hole from behind.
“Don’t reckon he’s willing to save you now,” he punctuates his snark by spitting on your hole — not because you need the extra lubrication, but because he craves to see you dripping in at least one of his fluids.
You melt away the minute his cock enters you — one fatal thrust of his hips that burrows him all the way to the hilt inside of your dripping pussy — your arms giving out beneath the weight of your body and winding up outstretched along the floor as your face meets the ground too.
One shallow thrust, a barely-there roll back of his hips, and he feels your walls squeezing to hold him inside.
“‘S this what you were needing, huh?” The hand gripping at your waist is gentle, soothing, his thumb rubbing over your skin, yet his tone is anything but — authoritative, chastising, in charge. “All those times I berated you over your misactions, who knew I should’ve just tried fucking some sense into you.”
“Bucky,” your voice is muffled against the foam mat.
“Oh so now you want to call me that,” he tries another thrust, eyes glued to the view of his length retreating from the grip of your pussy lips, covered in your juices. “Finally feel close enough to me now that I’ve got you stuffed full?”
“So full,” you’re babbling and drooling, a wet patch forming just below where you press your cheek against the floor and glance back at him.
“You wanted to fight me, so go on,” it nearly kills him to pry his hands off you. “Use those hips like a fucking weapon.”
The soldier can tell it takes a moment for you to process his words, eyes glazed over as you gape at him from the floor, but you catch on eventually. Clench your walls, take a deep breath, and at last begin moving.
You fuck yourself back against his cock in slow, stuttered movements, fingers flexing along the floor in search of a piece of reality to grip at while your nails press into the foam, permanently marking the training room with evidence of your reckoning. The view is enthralling and tongue-tying, driving him mad in search of appraising words that falter into nothing but pleased hums.
His hands resist the urge to touch you, to guide you back against him, too stubborn in his desire to see you work for it, work for him. A pathetic mess sprawled out on the floor, yearning for any friction you can get from holding his cock snug within your walls and rutting your hips back against his own.
Bucky can only deny temptation for so long.
“Shh, atta girl,” every drop of mockery in his tone is intentional, heartfelt, his pity for you only going far enough to rouse a faux pout on his lips as he starts to meet your cunt with thrusts of his own and watches you start to sing a broken melody of moans and whines. “I know he’s big but you’re taking him like a champ, she’s taking me like a champ.”
A hand skirts down the expanse of your spine, enhancing the arch of your back as his hips slowly start to dig out a rhythm, fucking you deeper, harder, better. By the time his fingers reach the back of your neck, he’s forcing your head down against the ground and relishing in the sound of his balls slapping against your soaked folds as he works his dick inside of you.
One glance ahead sends Bucky down a new avenue of desire, something more primal and carnal stirring in his guts.
“Look at us,” his words are drawn out by wonder as the hand at your neck rearranges your head until your chin is pressing into the mat and your eyes face forward, meeting his steely blues in the mirror. “This is how it’s supposed to be. The leader on top, and you grovelling on your knees.”
Your reflections are nothing but sin, capturing every movement that passes between you both. The perfect dance of how your body welcomes him in. The way the soldier’s mouth gapes open, firing off capricious words and man-whore moans. The way your eyes are borderline lost behind your eyelids.
That last one has Bucky outraged, resolute to change the attention you give to the mirror.
The hand at your neck curls around the front and hooks you in the grasp of his elbow, before Bucky’s yanking you up, your back to his chest while he holds you in a headlock.
“You’re too perfect like this to miss, sweetheart,” he croons in your ear, eyes pinned to both your reflections. “So look.”
“James,” his name sounds like a blessing, brought out in your time of need.
He echoes your own name back to you, pleased to find your eyes blown wide open and equally as enraptured as he is by the show you’re both putting on.
Your hands find his bicep and cradle the capture it’s taken over your throat. Bucky finds himself wishing he’d peeled your top off, the tight fit compression gear denying him the luxury of watching your breasts bounce alongside his ministrations. Before he can lament for too long, his free hand graces over the scar in your thigh and there’s something more pressing that upsets him.
“That bullet was meant for your head,” a gasped out confession, interrupted by your hips grinding down on him. “I nearly watched you die. You think that’s fair?”
He hates the way you shrug, like the prospect of being permanently gone means nothing to you, “You still would’ve- Ahh- Caught Andrews.”
“I didn’t give a shit about him,” his face turns towards yours, nose flattened against the side of your temple as his lips brush over your cheek, breathing you in. “It would’ve all been for nothing if I lost you.”
“James,” you whisper, his thrusts brought to a complete halt under the intensity of your eyes — your real eyes, not a reflection — finding his own when you turn to face him. “I’m right here.”
He blinks, slow, and when his eyelids reopen, you’re still there for him to behold. Infuriating, blood-curling, heart-shaking you and that loud smile.
You give him what he needs most, hand finding his jaw and your lips meeting his. The kiss is careful and composed, an explorative union of mouths, until it’s not. Until he’s desperate, hungering for more of you, his tongue brushing into your awaiting mouth and his lips moulding themselves against yours in hopes they fuse you both together, forever.
Bucky finds it impossible to turn away from you, so you do it for him, fingers gripping at his jaw and forcing his gaze forward again, bringing him back to where he needs to be. In this room, with you in his arms and him in your cunt, equal players in this game of pleasure.
One last kiss seared down into your shoulder and the soldier’s back to fucking you properly, winding his hips back just to admire the way you welcome his whole length, embrace his whole girth so pliantly. There’s an end in sight, one that promises momentary bliss, and all he wants is to take you there, to the very brink of ecstasy.
“D’you want to cum?” He slurs in your ear, the hand at your thigh snaking its way over to pinch at your clit. “Yeah? Then say you surrender.”
“You surrender,” and, oh, you must feel so smart, his beautiful vixen, a choir of giggles spilling out of you.
He tightens his hold around your throat, flexes the muscle in his arm, and watches how the silence is choked into you, no noise remaining but a broken moan.
“C’mon, baby,” Bucky needs it, just as much as you do, that greenlight to finally let himself explode. “Wanna feel her squeeze me real tight. Say it, for me.”
“I sur-” You’re cut off by your own pleasure, a half-shrieked scream that rips out of you while the soldier does the impossible and, tilting at a new angle, fucks deeper, tip bumping against what has to be your cervix.
“Uh-huh, that’s it,” the mirror spills all his secrets and feeds you the sight of his kisses being peppered up your neck, against your cheek, and sweat-soaked strands of hair that sit glued to his forehead. “Say it nice and clear for me.”
“I surrender,” you manage the full word, barely, and Bucky’s so proud of it, of you.
Of how you fall apart for him, hands grabbing at his arm in search of something grounding amidst the chaos of your shaky legs, and spasming walls, and weepy eyes. Of how you give yourself up to him, let him guide you through the blinding haze of your orgasm, cunt swallowing every subtle nudge his dick bullies into it. Of how pretty you gasp his names for him, a spillage of Jameses and Buckys all over the training room floor.
And of how, as his own orgasm crashes over him, you help him too, don’t even protest when his cock leaves you empty, slipping out only to search for friction between your two thighs. You squeeze them around him, marvel at the blush of his leaking tip as it rocks back and forth up to your clit.
When Bucky spills at last, it’s with his teeth clamped down on your shoulder and a hand clutching at your thigh as the thick, hot, white ropes of his cum paint your skin.
Exhaustion melts you both to the floor. A few moments in grasping at breaths pass before his hands are turning you around, in search of your face. When he finds it, there’s still a challenge in your eye.
“I lost,” you concede. “What’s my punishment, sergeant?”
The only response he can muster is to roll his hips.
Seasons ebb and flow into new ones.
Spring blooms and brings flowers into Bucky’s life, a handful a week delivered discreetly in the dark of a midnight rendezvous. With summer comes the heat — in both the temperature and the accusatory looks from the team each time his hand lingers on you during debriefs. In autumn, the leaves come crashing down alongside the truth, a pile of ‘I knew it!’s mixed in with the disgruntled paying of debts to Alexei for winning the ‘When Will They Tell Us?’ betting pool. And now, a whole year passed in the blink of four eyes, winter has returned.
More aggressive than ever, it seems, as Bucky stares out the window to a sea of desolate white.
Perhaps it's not so much about the season as it is about his location, the clue very much being in the name: Iceland.
“Come back to bed,” a soft drawl from behind him, the gentle rustle of limbs stretching over a mattress. “It’s cold, James.”
Of course you’re cold, naked atop the wrinkled sheets with his fingerprints burned into your skin and his cum leaking out your slit.
The soldier rolls his eyes in feigned annoyance, turning away from the fogged up window and crossing over the creaking floorboards to rejoin you, grabbing the blanket — discarded during earlier activities — off the ground.
“That snow’s showing no sign of stopping,” he shares the observation as he crawls up the bed to you, lips brushing over your skin as he goes. At the top of your thigh, he pauses, takes the effort to kiss the marred skin gently, a silent ritual where he gets to thank whatever power in the universe delivered the bullet there instead of your skull. “We’ll be trapped here at least another night.”
“Oh no, what a shame!” Grabby hands that hook under his arms to drag him the rest of the way up to you. “I guess we’ll just have to keep warm somehow.”
The soldier holds you how he knows you like it best: his left arm as your pillow, his right one resting at your neck, and his legs tangled in yours in an indecipherable mess. Silence lasts but a second or two before his thoughts get the better of him, memories of how wrong the first part of today had gone with the arrival of the blizzard.
“Am I allowed to say I told you so yet?” Even with your eyes closed, he knows you’re aware of the teasing smile on his face.
“Do you really think I don’t know how to check a weather app?”
“You’re seriously stalling us both here while there’s bad guys to be caught.”
“There’s always bad guys to be caught,” your fingers flex in the grasp of his own, a satisfied sigh sweeping through your chest as you find warmth at last. Not from any blanket resting heavy on you, but from him and the way he holds you. “There’s not always a snowed-in cabin, or time to enjoy having my half-naked hunk in bed with me.”
“You’re making me irresponsible,” still, Bucky’s resting further into the pillow beneath his head, eyes welcoming the dark.
“When it comes to me, you’ve always been irresponsible.”
He has, and he hates it. Loathes it with every fibre of his being.
The worst thing about loving you is how entirely it consumes him.
“...Six, seven, eight,” you whisper out into the dark of the cabin.
“Mhmm,” a hand finds your thigh, fingertips tracing manmade constellations into your skin. “What are you counting?”
“Your heartbeat.”
+ extra hyde.
· my headcanon of bucky being incapable of processing emotions manifests in two ways: 1) unspoken yet undying devotion (manchild!bucky) and 2) deducing that any positive feeling must actually be a negative one because that's all he's ever known & thus mistaking love for hatred (the loser bucky present in this fic)
· besties, somebody needs to throw me an intervention on how to properly list warnings on a fic, it's getting ridiculous.
· dear anon who requested this: i hope you enjoyed, i'm sorry if you didn't! i know your request wanted banter, however, i was kind of worried too much banter would just turn this into the exact same reader i wrote in manchild and i didn't want to do that ( probably did it anyway by accident, oopsy daisy!)🧍♂️
· anyway i'm about to hit post like its a detonate button and the only safety distance from the explosion is to log out of tumblr for 24 hours, see you on the other side <3
· lore accurate photo of bucky in this fic;;
summary. most girls dream under the covers when the house goes quiet. you’re waiting for the soft scrape of boots on the fire escape, because the boy you’ve loved forever is climbing through your window, and this time he isn’t leaving before dawn.
word count. 6.5k
warnings. soft smut, 18+, MDNI, virginity loss (both reader and bucky), tit play, oral (f receiving), unprotected pnv, usage of nicknames (doll, sweetheart), no usage of y/n.
notes. kinda got stuck on the last part of babydoll, so please have this in the meanwhile. the images in moodboard do not depict the reader. there are no descriptions of the reader in this fic. both reader and bucky are above 18, but reader is portrayed as kind of innocent owing to the lack of sex education in that time period.
the window creaks just a little when bucky hauls himself through it. one boot catches on the sill so he has to hop awkwardly to keep himself from face-planting onto your rug.
moonlight stripes the room in silver and shadow, catching on the faded flower wallpaper your mama picked out when you were ten.
straightening up, he brushes dust off his jacket, and grins that crooked grin that always makes your stomach flip.
“thought your old man was gonna spot me climbin’,” he whispers, voice going low in a way it gets when he’s trying not to laugh. “nearly took a header into the rose bushes.”
you’re already tucked under the covers, heart going a mile a minute.
your parents left for bridge night an hour ago. they just said they’d be back late. and the house feels huge and quiet without them.
you pat the mattress beside you. “ma and pa left an hour ago. get in here before someone calls the cops on you.”
he shrugs out of his jacket, and slides in next to you like he’s done it a hundred times, even though this is only the third time he’s managed to sneak over.
the bed’s narrow. it's your childhood bed with the iron headboard that squeaks if you move too fast. and he has to curl around you so you both fit comfortably. well, comfort might be a bigger word.
he smells like the cold night air and the gel he uses to keep his hair slicked back, and something that’s just him.
his hair’s all messed up from the climb, cheeks pink from the cold.
“hi, doll,” he whispers, voice soft so the floorboards don’t give him away, and then he’s right there in front of you, hands finding your waist like they belong there.
you’re in your nightgown, the off-white one with the tiny roses your ma sewed on last summer, with the covers pulled up to your chin like some nervous kid. which you kind of are, tonight.
when you tip your face up, he meets you halfway.
you’ve kissed plenty. behind the bleachers after ball games, in the dark of the movie theater when the newsreels were on, pressed against the alley wall behind the diner when he walked you home from your shift the day before.
but tonight there’s no curfew ticking in the back of your head and no worry about headlights sweeping the street.
tonight the house is yours. and so is he. his mouth moves slowly, lazily almost, like he’s got all the time in the world to taste you.
you fall back onto the pillows together, the mattress springs groaning just enough to make you both freeze and listen for footsteps that definitely aren’t coming.
when it stays quiet, bucky huffs a laugh against your mouth. “think we’re safe now, sweetheart.”
“you always say that,” you whisper back, “and then mrs. gallagher’s dog starts barking.”
“mrs. gallagher’s dog can go jump in the east river.”
his mouth opens against yours again, tongue sliding in carefully like he’s asking permission even though you’ve done this countless number of times. you make that little sound you always make when he does it right, and his hands tighten on your waist.
sliding up your side, his thumb brushes the edge of your breast through the thin cotton, and you make a small surprised sound against his lips.
he pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes dark in the dim light. “that okay?” his voice is hushed.
you nod. “yeah. just… tickles a little.”
he smiles. a small one, a shy one. and kisses you again, much deeper this time.
his fingers keep exploring, tracing the neckline of your gown, slipping under the fabric to find skin. your breath catches when his palm cups your breast.
you can feel that he’s trembling a little and that makes you feel less alone in how your own hands are shaking.
“you’re so soft,” he murmurs against your mouth, like he’s surprised by it every time. his thumb brushes over your nipple and it stiffens instantly, sending a spark straight down between your legs. you arch without meaning to, and press closer to him.
you’ve never let him touch you like this before. you’ve thought about it— lord, have you thought about it. lying in this same bed you've had your hand pressed between your thighs, not knowing why you like it, but wondering what his hands would feel like.
but thinking and doing are entirely two different things, and now that it’s happening you feel heat crawling up your neck.
“jamie,” you whisper, not sure if it’s fast or too slow to your liking.
searching your face, he asks,“too much?”
you shake your head quickly. “no. just… feels funny… good funny.”
his grin comes back softer. “good funny’s the best kind.” he kisses the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, then the spot under your ear that makes your toes curl.
his hand keeps moving, gentle circles that make your nipple ache in a way you’ve never felt before. you didn’t know it could feel like this. like every touch is lighting little fires under your skin.
the buttons down the front of your gown are small and fiddly, and he fumbles with them, muttering “darn things” under his breath when the third one sticks.
a giggle slips past you as you reach down to help. together you get them open, and cool air hits your chest. he pushes the fabric aside slowly, like he’s unwrapping something precious, and when he sees you bare his breath stutters.
“you’re shaking,” you tease, even though your own hands aren’t much better.
“yeah, well, you’re beautiful,” he mutters, like that explains everything. his eyes are wide like he’s trying to memorize you. “jesus, doll.”
“don’t take the lord’s name in vain in my bedroom, james buchanan barnes,” you whisper, prim as sister mary margaret, and he snorts.
“sorry, sister.” but his hands are gentle when he pushes the gown off your shoulders, down your arms, until it’s bunched at your waist. you’re bare from the waist up now, and the shyness hits you.
“jeez. you’re… you’re so pretty.”
you want to hide, instinct making you cross your arms, but he catches your wrists and presses them to the pillow beside your head. “don’t. please. lemme look.”
there's a vulnerability in his voice even though you're the one who's undressed now. so you let him.
his gaze feels like a touch all its own. he lowers his head and kisses the slope of one breast, then the other. open-mouthed and soft kisses decorate your skin.
when his lips close around your nipple you gasp loud enough you’re glad the neighbors’ houses are far apart.
a tentative lick is what he starts with, then he gets bolder when you clutch at his hair. your nipple tightens under his touch, and he pulls back just enough to look.
“they do that,” he says, wonder in his voice, like he’s discovering something brand new. “in the magazines, the girls— well, they get 'em hard like this.”
“you and your dirty magazines,” you mumble, but you’re arching into his hand without meaning to.
“they’re educational,” he grins, but the grin fades when he lowers his head again and takes your nipple into his mouth again.
wet heat, gentle suction, and you make a sound you didn’t know you could make. his tongue flicks experimentally, and you feel it everywhere. your fingers thread through his hair, holding him there because stopping feels impossible.
he switches to the other breast, hand kneading the one his mouth just left, rolling the wet nipple between his fingers carefully like he’s afraid he’ll hurt you.
it doesn’t hurt. it feels like the fourth of july in your chest, sparks running down your spine. you’re squirming under him now, thighs pressing together, trying to ease the ache that’s building.
“jamie,” you breathe, not sure what you’re asking for.
he lifts his head, and his lips are shiny. “yeah? you okay?”
you nod fast. “more than okay. just—don’t stop.”
he groans like you’ve said something filthy and kisses down your stomach, pushing the nightgown lower as he goes. you lift your hips to help, and suddenly you’re naked except for your panties. those simple white cotton one with a little lace trim your ma bought you for your eighteenth birthday.
bucky sits back on his heels, just looking, taking you all in, and you want to die of embarrassment and also never want him to stop looking.
your hips shift restlessly against the mattress. there’s a throb starting low in your belly, an emptiness you don’t have words for. you’ve felt something like it before, alone in the dark with your own fingers. but never this sharp. and never this urgent.
bucky’s breathing hard now. his forehead ispressed to your sternum, “tell me if i do somethin’ wrong,” his voice stays muffled. “i only know what i read in those magazines.”
you should tell him to stop bringing up the magazines every single sentence because you cannot fathom him looking at other girls who aren't you, even in paper. but you're way too breathless for that.
“it's mostly just ladies in their undies. but sometimes there’s… diagrams.” his ears go pink. “fellas doin’ things with their mouths.”
your eyes widen. “their mouths?”
he nods, but there's a look on his face that tells you even he's a little unsure. “yeah. down… down there.” he gestures vaguely toward your lap and then looks like he wants the bed to swallow him. “i thought maybe… if you wanted… i could try.”
you stare at him. the idea is so shocking your brain stalls out for a second. “you wanna put your mouth on my… my…”
“privates,” he supplies helpfully, then winces. “geez, that sounds awful. your pussy, i mean.” he says the word like he’s testing it, and you can clearly see his cheeks flaming.
you’ve never heard him say that before. you’ve barely heard anyone say it. heat floods your face and other places. “jamie, that’s… that’s scandalous.”
“i know,” he says quickly. “we don’t have to. i just thought— the magazines say ladies like it a whole lot. and i wanna make you feel good. more than just kissin’ and touchin’ up here.” he cups your breast again gently. “but only if you want.”
you bite your lip. part of you— the part raised on sunday school —wants to say no, that’s too much. but the bigger part, the part that loves bucky barnes so fierce it hurts, wants to know what it feels like.
because you’re scandalized and curious in equal measure and nobody has ever told you about anything like this. your ma’s big talk was “keep your knees together till your wedding night” and that was that.
but this is jamie. your jamie, who’s been walking you home since fifth grade, who punched tommy hanagan for stealing your lunch in seventh, who held your hand the night your granddad died.
you trust him with everything else. why not this?
“okay,” you whisper finally. “but i’m… i’m nervous.”
“me too,” he admits, like he's relieved you said it first. “i never done this either. we’ll figure it out together, yeah?”
when you nod, he kisses you again. this one's sweeter, like he’s thanking you.
then he’s moving down the bed, pushing the covers aside. the white cotton stares back at him, but he looks at them like they’re silk.
his fingers hook in the waistband. “can i?”
you lift your hips in answer, and he slides them down your legs carefully, like he’s afraid you’ll change your mind any second. cool air kisses the curls between your thighs and you squeeze your eyes shut, mortified at him seeing a part of you, even you haven't properly seen before.
you kick your panties off when they get tangled at your ankles, and then you’re completely bare under him.
you squeeze your thighs together on instinct.
“hey,” his hands are on your knees. “open up for me, doll? just a little?”
“jamie—” your voice comes out squeaky.
“hey,” he says softly. “look at me.”
you open your eyes. he’s settled between your legs, propped on his elbows, gazing up at you with so much tenderness it makes your chest ache.
“you’re perfect,” he says. “every inch.”
then he lowers his head and presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh. another higher up. your legs want to close but he nudges them apart gently.
he’s staring again, closer now, and you feel yourself getting wetter under his gaze which is again — mortifying.
“it’s—pretty,” he says, awed. “all swollen and—god, look at you.” his thumbs part you, spreading you open, and you almost hide your face in the pillow.
“jamie!”
“sorry, sorry—just never seen one up close.” he sounds like a kid who just got a new bike for christmas. “this part here—” his thumb brushes something that makes your hips jerk—“that’s the part that feels best, right?”
“i don’t know!” you squeak. “nobody tells girls anything!”
“well i’m tellin’ you now,” he says. “gonna figure it out together.”
he leans in and you feel his breath first, warm against sensitive skin. then the flat of his tongue, one long slow lick from bottom to top, and your whole body lights up.
“oh my god.”
“tastes good,” he mumbles like he's embarrassed and proud all at once. “sweet.”
you’d laugh if you had breath. instead you just clutch the sheets, hips rocking without your permission.
pleased with himself, he does it again. and again. learning by the way you twitch, the sounds you make. when he circles that little bud at the top you nearly levitate off the bed.
“there,” you gasp. “right—right there, jamie—”
he focuses there, licking soft at first then firmer, figuring out the rhythm that makes your thighs shake. his hands slide under your hips, lifting you closer to his mouth like he can’t get enough.
he’s messy about it, truly inexperienced, getting your taste all over his chin, but the enthusiasm more than makes up for technique.
it feels… indescribable. like every nerve in your body just woke up and decided to sing at once. you’re wet. you can feel it. and he must too because he groans quietly, the vibration making you twitch.
you feel the pressure building, unfamiliar and scary-good. your legs try to close around his head and he holds them open gently but also somehow firm.
“james—something’s—i think i’m gonna—”
“yeah?” he pulls off just long enough to talk, voice muffled against you. “that’s it, doll. let it happen. wanna feel you cum on my mouth.”
you have no idea what that means exactly but your body does. long nights with your hands between your thighs never felt this good, never hit this high.
the wave crests suddenly, pleasure crashing over you so hard you cry out his name into the pillow to muffle it. your hips rock against his face, riding it out while he keeps licking soft through the aftershocks until you’re boneless and whimpering from overstimulation.
he crawls back up your body slowly, kissing your hip, your belly, between your breasts, until he’s hovering over you again. his mouth is shiny with you and his eyes are wild.
“was that okay?” he asks, doubt laced questions. “did i do it right?”
you pull him down into a kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue, and wrap your arms around his neck.
“you did more than okay,” you mumble. “i didn’t know it could feel like that.”
he wraps his arms around you, pressing kisses to your hair. “me neither. magazines didn’t say anything about how pretty you sound when you cum.”
you swat his chest weakly. “jamie!” but he pulls you closer, pressing soft kisses to your temple, then your jaw.
you’re still catching your breath, chest rising and falling quick over the rumpled sheets, when the curiosity hits you like a sudden itch.
you shift a little, legs still tangled with his, and poke him in the side like you used to when you were kids fighting over the last eclairs.
“hey,” you whisper, voice scratchy from all the noises you just made. “you said you saw pictures of girls doing… that. have you seen pictures of boys too? like, all of ‘em?”
bucky lifts his head and blinks slowly as if he's processing it, and then starts laughing. it's quiet at first, then louder until he has to bury his face in the pillow so he doesn’t wake the whole block.
you feel his ribs moving against yours and you start giggling too, because it’s such a dumb question but also not. definitely not tonight.
“doll, i got the equipment,” his voice is so fond. “i see it every day when i take a shower. ain’t exactly a mystery to me.”
you swat his chest, but you’re laughing harder now, the kind of laugh that hurts your stomach in the best way. “shut up, barnes. you know what i mean. like… close up. like you just did to me.”
he turns his head on the pillow, looking at you with that half-smile that’s been getting you in trouble since sophomore year. “yeah, i seen some. not as many. the fellas pass around the ones with dames mostly. but yeah, there’s pictures.”
you bite your lip, feeling bold and shy at the same time, the way you felt when you asked him to the sophomore dance even though everybody said girls weren’t supposed to ask boys.
“well,” you tryto sound casual and fail, “i ain’t seen any. and you just got an eyeful of me, so… fair’s fair, jamie.”
his eyebrows shoot up. he wasn’t expecting that. you can tell because his mouth opens and closes once like a fish, and his ears go pink. “you wanna see me?” he asks, like it's unbelievable what just came out your mouth.
“yeah,” you nod quickly before you lose your nerve. “i mean, i’ve only ever felt you through your slacks when you got hard like some kinda pervert when i kissed you. i wanna see what all the fuss is about.”
he laughs again. “pervert, huh? that’s rich coming from the girl who just came on my tongue.”
“james buchanan!” you hiss, but you’re grinning so wide your cheeks hurt.
he shrugs out of his shirt first, fingers fumbling the buttons because he’s watching your face instead of what he’s doing.
the shirt lands on the floor next to your nightgown, and you get your first real look at his chest without a undershirt in the way and between four walls.
there’s a faint line of hair running down the middle, and his shoulders are broader than you remember from swimming at the beach last summer.
you reach out without thinking to trace the scar on his ribs from when he fell off his bike delivering papers in eighth grade.
“still there,” you murmur, thumb brushing it gently.
“yep. you kissed it better back then, remember? told me i was gonna have a cool story.”
“you cried,” you remind him.
“i did not cry. i had something in my eye.”
“both eyes?”
he tackles you back onto the pillows, kissing you quietly, and you’re both laughing into each other’s mouths again.
when he pulls back his eyes are serious even though his mouth’s still smiling. “you sure?” he asks. “i ain’t exactly clark gable.”
“you’re better,” you say, and mean it. “you’re mine.”
you see in the way his throat moves, that it gets him.
standing up, his buckle clinks loud in the quiet room. and you sit up too, pulling the sheet to your chest even though he’s already seen everything.
he shoves his slacks down, steps out of them awkwardly when one foot gets caught, and then he’s just in his boxers. it's the white cotton gone a little gray at the waistband from too many washes.
there’s a bulge there that’s been pressing against your thigh all night, and now you can see the shape of him clearly. your mouth nearly goes dry.
“go on,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “all of it.”
bucky hooks his thumbs in the waistband and hesitates. “you’re starin’ like i’m about to do a striptease at the club.”
“maybe i want a private show,” you tease, but your hands are twisting the sheets.
he pushes the boxers down slowly, and his cock springs free, curving up towards his stomach.
you’ve felt it before, grinding against you in the back of movie theaters, but seeing it is different.
it’s thicker than you pictured, flushed dark, with a bead of wet at the tip. the hair at the base is darker than on his head, and to be honest, a bit curly.
bucky kicks the boxers away and stands there, hands on his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them. “well?” he tries for cocky and misses by a mile. “this what you were expectin’?”
you shake your head. it's not exactly no, but not an yes either. you're just overwhelmed. “it’s… bigger than i thought.”
he groans. “jesus, doll, you tryin’ to kill me?”
“no!” you say quickly. “it’s good bigger. i think. i don’t know, i’ve never—” you gesture helplessly. “can i touch it?”
he just nods. “yeah. please. i mean—if you want.”
you scoot to the edge of the bed, sheet still clutched to your chest with one hand, and reach out with the other. your fingers brush the length of him, and he jerks like you shocked him.
the skin’s hot, softer than you expected. when you wrap your hand around him, he makes a low sound.
“like this?” you ask, stroking him the way you’ve imagined when you’re alone in this same bed thinking about him.
“yeah—god, yeah—just like that.” his hands hover at his sides, then settle on your shoulders. “little tighter if you want. or not. whatever feels—ah—feels right.”
you experiment, thumb swiping over the head to spread the wetness there. “that part’s real sensitive,” he hisses. “like your—uh—the little button i found earlier.”
you keep stroking, watching his face, the way his eyes flutter half-closed. it’s power and love all mixed up, knowing you’re doing this to him. knowing he trusts you this much.
“does it always stick up like this?” you ask.
“only when i’m thinkin’ about you,” he says, and then winces. “that sounded cheesier out loud than in my head.”
you laugh and lean in to kiss his stomach just above where your hand’s working. “i liked it.”
he threads fingers through your hair. “you can—explore all you want, doll. i ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
you trace the vein along the underside, and feel the weight of his balls when you cup them. he jolts and mutters your name.
you lean closer, nose brushing the hair there to breath him in. he smells like soap and sweat and something sharper, and you want to memorize it.
“tastes salty,” you say after one brave lick at the tip.
bucky’s knees almost buckle. “christ, give a guy some warning.”
“sorry,” you say, not sorry at all, and do it again just to hear that exact sound he makes.
he pulls you upafter a minute, hands under your arms like you weigh nothing, and kisses you deeply, tasting himself on your tongue probably.
“your turn to lie down,” he says against your mouth. “i wanna look at you some more while you touch me. fair’s fair, remember?”
you let the sheet fall, nerves buzzing again because now you’re both completely naked in the lamplight. there's no more hiding.
pulling you close so your front’s pressed to his side, one of his legs slides between yours. his cock’s trapped between your bellies, hot and twitching every time you move.
bolder now, you reach down again, and he mirrors you, hand sliding between your thighs to pet you, still slick from earlier. you’re both shaking a little, breathing the same air.
“we’re really doin’ this,” you whisper, like saying it louder might jinx it.
“yeah,” he whispers back. “been waitin’ forever for you.”
“me too,” you kiss him while your hand keeps moving on him, learning every inch, every sound he makes when you do something he likes. his fingers circle that spot again, and you rock into his touch because it still feels like magic.
you realise he's not touching you to get you off, but just touching because he cannot seem to stop.
you shift your hips a little bit, feeling him against your thigh, and the question that’s been bouncing around your head since he climbed through the window finally tumbles out. “jamie,” your voice is small in the quiet, “is this… is this what people do on their wedding night? all the touching and the—the mouth stuff?”
hair falls in his eyes as he lifts his head, and gives you that look he’s had since you were kids. like you just asked if the sky’s really blue. “this is part of it,” his fingers still moving, touching you there. “but there’s more. the big part.”
you blink up at him, brain fuzzy from everything he’s already done. “more? like what?”
embarrassed and turned on all at once, his cheeks go red again. “you know. when the guy… puts it in.”
your eyes go wide. you knew that much. well, sort of. whispers from older girls at school, your ma’s tight-lipped warnings about “marital duties”
but nobody ever said how or what it felt like or anything useful. “oh,” you breathe. “that.”
“yeah, that.” he kisses your forehead, then your nose, like he’s trying to gentle the idea into you. “the magazines show it. and the fellas talk. but i ain’t never—obviously.”
“me neither,” you chime in quickly, like he might’ve forgotten. “so how do we even…?”
his shoulder bumps yours teasingly. “i guess we figure it out. like everything else tonight.” his hand leaves you to trail up your belly, and he rolls half on top of you again.
his cock nudges your thigh, leaving a wet streak, and you feel that ache start up again in your stomach. like your body already knows what it wants even if your head’s still catching up.
“you want to?” he is serious now. “we don’t have to. we could just keep doing what we been doin'. i liked that plenty.”
you think about it for a second because this feels big, bigger than sneaking out or stealing kisses behind the gym.
but again it's james, who told you he loved you first under the stars at coney island on the fourth of july.
“i want to,” you say, and it comes out steadier than you feel. “with you. tonight.”
his whole face softens when he kisses you, you understand it's just thank you without words. when he pulls back his eyes are shiny. “okay. but you tell me if it hurts or if you wanna stop, alright? i ain’t gonna be mad.”
“same goes for you,” you tease, poking his chest. “if i’m too much for you, james barnes, you just say the word.”
“doll, you’ve been too much for me since we were twelve. ain’t stoppin’ now.”
you both laugh and he reaches down between you, hand wrapping around himself to line up.
you feel the blunt head nudge against you, sliding through the wet heat, and you suck in a breath. it’s hotter than you expected, and bigger feeling than looking.
“little bit at a time,” he mutters, mostly to himself.
just the tip breaches you when he pushes forward slowly, and you both freeze at the stretch.
“oh,” you gasp, fingers digging into his shoulders.
it doesn’t hurt exactly. it just feels full.
“you okay?” his voice is tight, like he’s holding back hard.
“yeah. just… a lot.”
“tell me about it,” he mutters and his laugh is breathy. “you’re so—tight. jesus.”
when you wiggle a little to try and adjust to him, he groans out loud. “don’t do that yet, doll, or this’ll be over before it starts.”
“sorry,” you whisper, but you’re smiling because he looks wrecked already, with his eyes squeezed shut.
he rocks forward another inch and you feel yourself open around him, the burn starting now. your legs spread wider on instinct, knees hitching up to go right around around his hips.
“more?” his voice cracks.
“yeah. keep going.”
he slowly slides forward, pulling back a tiny bit each time to ease the way, until he’s halfway in and you’re both sweating. you can feel every throb of him inside you, the way he twitches when you clench without meaning to.
“god, you feel—” he starts, then stops, shaking his head like his words are failing him.
“you too,” you manage. “like—like you belong there.”
surging forward, he buries the rest of him in one smooth push, and you both moan at the same time. he’s all the way in now, hips flush to yours, and you feel so full you could cry.
he stills, while panting against your neck. “tell me when,” he whispers. “i ain’t movin’ till you say.”
you take a minute to just breath deep, letting your body get used to him. you can feel the burn fading, turning into something else. it's a sort of pressure that feels good when you shift your hips experimentally.
“okay,” you say finally. “move. please.”
he pulls out damn slowly, almost all the way, then slides back in to the hilt. the drag feels incredible in every way, making you arch up into him.
“like that?” he asks, like he's seeking reassurance.
“yeah—again.”
he finds a rhythm, shallow at first, rocking more than thrusting, watching your face like it’s the only thing in the world. your heels dig into his back, urging him deeper.
“harder?” he asks after a few minutes, when your moans get louder.
you nod fast and whisper. “yeah. i won’t break, jamie.”
kissing you deep like he never wants to leave, he snaps his hips sharper. the bed creaks under you both, headboard tapping the wall, and you hope the neighbors are heavy sleepers.
you’re climbing again, that same feeling from his mouth but deeper now, wound tight around where he’s moving inside you.
your hands roam his back, nails scratching whatever slope of muscle you can find, earning a shudder from him.
“i love you,” he mutters against your lips, over and over like he can’t stop. “love you so damn much.”
“i love you too,” you gasp into his mouth, letting him eat your words right off your tongue. “always—always have.”
shifting his angle a little, he grinds against that spot inside you that makes you see stars. your whole body tightens around him, clenching so tight you don't know where you end and he begins.
“there—right there—don’t stop—”
he hammers that spot relentlessly, one hand snaking between you to rub messy circles over your clit. the pleasure coils brutal, tighter and tighter until you’re sobbing his name into his mouth.
“bucky—i’m—”
“yeah,” he pants. “me too—god, you’re squeezin’ me—”
you come hard, clenching around him in waves, crying out into his shoulder to muffle it. he follows right after you, burying deep and spilling hot inside you with a broken groan of your name.
you think maybe this is what all the songs are about, the ones on the radio that make your ma sigh and your pa roll his eyes. this shaky, perfect thing between you and your jamie, built on years of shared candy and secrets and now this. your bodies learning each other in your childhood bedroom.
he collapses half on top of you, careful not to crush you even as he comes down from his high. both of you are breathing like you ran from brooklyn to queens.
and that's when you feel him pulse, still inside you where he belongs..
when he's finally caught his breath, he lifts his head with hair plastered to his forehead. a goofy grin greets you. “so that’s the more, huh?”
swatting his arm yet agaun, “yeah. think i like the more.”
it was nothing like the first time he kissed you, but also everything like that at the same time.
he kisses you again lazily, tasting salt and you, and stays inside, softening slow, neither of you willing to break the join just yet.
the steady thump of his heart against yours lulls you, but you fight the pull of sleep because you don’t want this night to end, not ever. and right then, with him still buried deep and your legs tangled tight, the world outside the window feels a million miles away.
“so,” you say after a bit, staring at the ceiling where the streetlight paints stripes through the blinds. “that was… the real thing. not just fooling around in steve’s car with the windows fogged up.”
“yeah,” he breathes, fingers drawing lazy circles on your hip. “the real thing.” he pauses wondering whether to say or not, then adds, “better than any magazine ever made it look.”
you feel your face heat up again, even after everything. “you’re comparing me to those girls?”
he props himself up on an elbow. his eyes are wide and serious, like he's deciding whether to defend himself or apologise. “no! god, no. those girls ain’t got nothing on you. they’re just— paper. they're posed and fake. this—” he gestures between you, hand waving vague at your naked bodies under the sheets—“this was us. it's us being messy, loud and perfect.”
you smile at that, reaching up to wipe the sweat off his forehead. “you weren’t so quiet yourself, jamie. thought for sure you were gonna wake the whole neighborhood when you—”
“shut up,” he groans, flopping back down and hiding his face against your neck. but he’s laughing too, you can tell by the way his shoulders are shaking. “i couldn’ help it. you were squeezin’ me like—christ, i don’t even know.”
“like a lemon?” you tease.
"sweetheart, there's so many things you coulda said and you went with lemon?" he snorts.
heat crawls up to your neck, the way he's teasing you back, reminding you of how much you love him and want him. "oh no, jamie! now i wan' the lemonade they sell in coney island."
blue eyes stare back at you in earnest, "i'll get it first thing tomorrow morning, what do ya say?"
"yes," you let the enthusiasm get to you as you pepper kisses over his jaw.
he mimics your antics, then finds your lips like that's what he was destined for and pulls you in for a slower, hungrier, deeper kiss.
you tilt your head up, nose brushing his jaw. “now now, what's that for, barnes?”
he huffs this soft laugh that shakes his chest. “tryin’ to figure out how i got this lucky,” he says. “and also wonderin’ if i hurt you more than you’re lettin’ on.”
"you didn’t,” you quickly say, pressing your palm over his heart to feel it thump steadily under your hand. “i mean, it stung at first, yeah, but then it was… i don’t even have words, james. it was you inside me. that’s all i could think. not pain. just you.”
his eyes go soft, that blue you’ve known since you were six and he shared his popsicle with you on the stoop even though it was cherry and he loved cherry.
he leans down and kisses presses a lingering kiss to your forehead. “kept thinkin’ i was gonna wake up,” he admits quiet. “like this was one of those dreams i have where we’re older and married and i wake up reachin’ for you and you ain’t there yet.”
your throat gets tight. you hate those dreams for him. hate that he’s had them since he was sixteen and his pa started talking about the war like it was coming whether they wanted it or not.
“i’m here now,” you whisper. “not goin’ anywhere.”
he nods against your hair, but you feel the worry still clinging to him. bucky’s always carried tomorrow on his back. you figure tonight just added a few more. what if you get pregnant? what if he ships out? what if this was the only time you get?
you push the thoughts awaybecause they’re yours too and you don’t want them ruining this.
instead you think about how safe you felt even when it hurt a little, how his arms shook but he held himself so carefully over you. you think about the way he looked at you when he came inside. like you gave him something huge and sacred and he knows it.
“you’re thinkin’ loud,” he murmurs, lips against your temple.
“am not.”
“are too. i can hear the gears turnin’.” he pulls back enough to see your face, thumb brushing your cheek. “tell me.”
you hesitate, then let it out in a rush. “i keep thinkin’ about how much i love you it hurts sometimes. like right now my chest feels too small for it. and i’m scared that’s gonna make me cry and then you’ll think you did somethin’ wrong.”
his face does this thing. it goes soft and fierce at once. “cry if you want,” his voice goes rough. “i love you so much it hurts me too. been hurtin’ since we were kids and i didn’t know what to do with it except walk you home every day and carry your books.”
you feel the tears prick and blink fast to wish them away, but one slips out anyway. he catches it with his thumb, kisses the wet trail.
“happy tears?” he asks, like he's uncertain.
“the happiest,” you mean it when you say.
he settles back down, tucking you closer, and you listen to his heartbeat.
your own thoughts drift softer now. how his shoulders felt under your hands, the little sounds he made when he was close, the way he kept checking your face like your pleasure mattered more than his. you think about how clumsy you both were and how perfect it still felt.
you think maybe love isn’t just the big moments like this. maybe it’s the quiet after, when he’s tracing your spine and you’re counting his freckles and neither of you needs to say anything because you already know.
“jamie?” you whisper after a while.
“hm?”
“when we get married someday… can our bed be bigger than this one? my hip’s kinda hangin’ off the edge.”
he laughs, this big rumbling sound that shakes you both, and rolls so you’re on top of him instead. his hands settle on your back.
“deal,” he says. “biggest bed in brooklyn. and no creaky springs.”
“and no mrs. gallagher’s dog barking,” he adds.
you smile into his neck, listening to him make plans like tomorrow’s promised, and for tonight you let yourself believe it is.
after all, you will always have the perfect night with the love of your life. and nothing's more perfect than all your firsts belonging to him.
my masterlist!
extras. i just googled ‘attractive actor of the 1940s’ and got clark gable’s name, so i have no idea who he is 😭 also, in my head, the war never comes and these two babies live forever. 40s bucky is such a sweetheart, i love writing him sm 🥹
pairing: scientist!bucky barnes x experiment!reader
warnings: 18+ NSFW, smut, daddy kink, dark!bucky, slight steve x reader, dubcon bordering noncon, stockholm syndrome, emotional manipulation, drugs, masochism and sadism, obsessive and possessive behavior, verbal abuse, mental illness, isolation, self-harm, mentions of the word "rape", angst, fingering, praise kink, innocence kink, medical malpractices, surgical inaccuracies, pet names, spanking
word count: 11.3k
main masterlist
a/n: please read the warnings listed before reading. i am not responsible for your media consumption. thank you to @danysdaughter and @iamthatonefangirl for giving me the courage to write this. clutching my shovel real close tonight ♥️
synopsis:
You are Bucky’s most prized possession. Your mind, body, and soul were crafted by his own hands—he gave you life, and he could just as easily take it away. He never imagined he’d feel threatened by his own creation, until the day you began to have desires of your own.
If you were to ask James Buchanan Barnes for the definition of ‘insanity,’ he would tell you “Insanity is a severely disordered state of the mind.”
If you were to ask him what the cause of insanity is, he would say “It’s triggered by a combination of many things. For example, if one becomes too fascinated—too fixated—on something to the point that it takes a toll on their mental health. It can shift their reality and potentially drive themselves to the very brink. It is a common denominator, I’ve noticed.”
If you were to ask him if insanity was correlated with craziness in any way, he would reply with “That’s exactly what it is.”
If you were to ask James Buchanan Barnes if he was crazy, he would say no.
Bucky never thought he was crazy—as a matter of fact, he was far from it.
From the day he found your corpse and brought you back to life through grueling experimentation, to the long months he kept you tucked away in the shadows of the hospital’s hidden basement laboratory—up until now, as he stood before you with a tray of cold hospital food in his hands.
No, he never thought he was crazy. Not then, and certainly not now.
“Darling? Daddy’s here,” Bucky murmured, knocking gently on the door.
He pressed his ear to the wood, waiting for a sound—that soft, gentle “come in!” he had taught you to say every time he arrived.
There was no sound.
Bucky smiled softly. He figured you were just asleep.
After looking around to ensure the coast was clear, as it always was, he pushed the door open quietly. As it shut softly behind him, a relieved breath escaped his lips at the sight of you.
There you were, lying on the cot on your side with your hands tucked beneath your cheek—sound asleep.
He couldn’t help his smile as he set the tray of food down on the table next to you. He sat at the edge of the cot, running his hand up and down your arm in a hauntingly slow motion. “I brought you dinner,” he whispered.
You only let out a sleepy moan. Bucky ran his hand down your hair, pushing it behind your ear. He frowned at how it felt beneath his fingertips. He had just brushed it this morning, and yet it was already a knotted, tangled mess.
“Come on, baby. Wake up. Your food’s not getting any warmer.”
He nudged you gently, but you still didn’t wake. He was beginning to grow impatient.
“Open your eyes for me,” he commanded, kneeling down as his voice rose.
When you still didn’t stir, his jaw clenched. Both hands found your shoulders, shaking you hard as he yelled in your face, “I told you to wake up!”
You jolted awake with a startled gasp, your eyes hazy with sleep as you stared back at the man in front of you. His grip on your shoulders was so tight it hurt.
He had yelled at you—what had you done wrong? Did you misplace something? Or was it simply because you had slept in?
Your master’s chest was heaving as he glared at you with wide, crazed eyes.
After finally getting your attention, Bucky’s breathing calmed slightly. Your eyes were wide with fear and your body was shaking, curling in on itself as if trying to make yourself as small as possible.
Your eyes—sunken, swollen, and bruised from his experiments a few days ago—were still prominent, and the sight of them made him feel even worse.
Slowly, he let go of your shoulders. “I… fuck,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair as he sat back on his heels. “I’m sorry, doll. I got ahead of myself.”
Your shoulders eased slightly, though not entirely.
“I just had a bad day,” Bucky went on with a sigh. “These idiots at the facility… they’re working me like a dog. They have me running all these labs, all these data sheets…” He rubbed the crease between his brows. “I’m just so tired. And all I wanted was for you to be waiting at the door to greet me.”
You felt your heart thump in your chest. You had to react carefully—otherwise, Bucky’s mood would only sour further.
“I’m sorry,” you said, pulling yourself off the short cot to meet him on the floor with a hug.
Your arms wrapped around his neck, your chest pressed against his. Bucky let out a sigh, his eyes fluttering closed in satisfaction as his large arms wrapped around you. His hands splayed across your back, pulling you in even closer as his nose nuzzled the side of your head, breathing in your scent.
Rubbing alcohol, acetonitrile, and just a slight hint of lavender. His favorite.
“That’s it,” Bucky cooed into your ear. “You can be so forgetful, but at the end of the day, you always know how to make Daddy happy.”
He pulled away slightly to look you in the face. “Look at you, your hair’s a mess.” His frown deepened again as he tucked the stray hairs away from your eyes. “What did you do all day while I was gone?”
“I’ve been reading—or… trying to read the papers you told me to read.”
Bucky smiled, reaching for the hairbrush on your bedside table. His hands found your hair, dragging the bristles through the tangled heap.
“You mean the books?”
You nodded.
He sighed wistfully. “I wish I could hear you read them out loud to me, but I haven’t had much time these days.”
“I know,” you said, sounding a little more solemn than you’d like.
Bucky heard the disappointment in your voice, and his heart broke. “Turn around for me.”
Still sitting on the floor, you scrambled around until your back faced him. His hand bunched your hair from behind as he did his best to fix the mess you created.
“Tell me more,” he prompted, encouraging you to continue.
“The words make my head hurt,” you explained, staring at the floor. “It’s all just… a jumbled mess of text. I don’t even know what half the words mean.” Your finger traced the cold, laboratory tile. “My head has been hurting a lot, and the books just make me feel worse.”
Bucky’s brush went still for a moment.
Every time the headaches came, you would start pulling and tugging at your hair, crying in frustration. You would roll around on the cot, hit your head against the wall, or yank at your own locks—anything to rid yourself of the pain. But you didn’t know that those things only made it worse. All you knew was to hurt the things that hurt you.
“Sorry, darling,” he said gently. “I need to operate on your brain to help fix this problem. Maybe this next experiment will help you remember words better—help you gain some of that reading memory back. I’ll find the time for it, I promise. I’ve just been so—”
“—busy,” you completed the sentence for him, a bitter bite in your tone. “I know.”
He paused again, and it dragged out longer this time. “Excuse me?”
“I already heard how busy you were the first time,” you mumbled. “I don’t need to hear it again.”
Bucky’s eyebrow twitched. He couldn’t believe this was happening. You were talking back to him?
He grabbed your shoulders, roughly spinning you around and making you yelp as you were forced to face him again. Before you could compose yourself, he pressed his face against yours, his hands cupping your cheeks with a hard squeeze.
“Where the fuck did this new attitude come from? Who the hell do you think you’re talking to, huh?” he seethed. “Did you forget your place? Did you forget who brought you here? Who took your sad, cold body from the grave and gave you a new life?”
You winced as he squeezed your face even harder.
“I gave you life. I made your heart beat again. I gave your brain a mind and your body a purpose. And if you disrespect me one more time, I can take it all away just as easily.”
That tone of his made your heart start to race. It was like a trauma response buried deep in your nerves he had rewired. Your vision started to blur as tears began to well up, spilling down your face before you even realized you were crying.
“I’m sorry,” you gasped, the words tumbling over each other. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it! I—I’m sorry, Bucky.”
You were apologizing profusely now, your hands hovering near his, not daring to touch him. You just wanted the pressure on your face to stop.
Bucky’s expression softened, just barely. He loosened his grip, his thumb brushing over your cheeks to wipe away the tears. He let out a long, weary sigh—the sound of a man burdened by… whatever it was you were to him.
He set the brush on the floor and pulled you back into his chest, hugging you once more.
“I’m sorry, doll,” he murmured into your hair. “I’m so sorry I had to do that. I hate when I have to talk to you like that, I really do.” He squeezed you tighter, his chin resting on the top of your head. “But I have to make sure you understand. How else am I supposed to get through to you? You know I only do it because I love you. I can’t have you forgetting who takes care of you.”
You stayed frozen in his arms, hiccuping between sobs.
When Bucky pulled back slightly to look at you, the small gap made you whine. He smiled in satisfaction. Of course—despite everything, you still needed him.
“There’s my girl,” he whispered. “Come here. Give Daddy a kiss.”
You wiped your eyes with the back of your hand, pushing yourself up from the floor just enough to press your lips to his in a soft, gentle kiss. That was all you wanted, really—just a kind gesture to remind you that Bucky cared for you as much as he claimed.
But then his hands found your face again, locking you in place before you could pull away. His lips began to explore yours hungrily. He pushed his tongue against the entrance, sliding in to dance against yours.
A moan of satisfaction vibrated in his throat, then to his lips where you felt it.
He always kissed you like he was starving. He kissed you until your lips were swollen and wet, until you were panting and your heart was racing. When he was finally satisfied, he pulled away, catching his own breath as he trailed his thumbs over your bottom lip.
“Beautiful,” he praised breathlessly. “Absolutely beautiful.”
Despite how he had treated you just seconds ago, you couldn’t help but smile. Being praised by him always made the pain worth it.
But your salvation didn’t last. Bucky pushed himself off the floor with a grunt. He extended a hand to help you up, but you remained where you were on the floor.
“W-where are you going?” you asked softly, staring up at him with wide, hopeful eyes.
He checked the watch on his wrist. “It’s getting late, doll. I need to head home and get some sleep. I’ve got a long day tomorrow—gotta be up bright and early for some projects at the facility.”
Your eyes widened. He had left you alone all day, and he was leaving already?
“No,” you protested weakly.
Bucky tilted his head. “No?”
You couldn’t imagine another night of silence. “Please,” you whispered with a voice crack. “Please don’t leave me yet. It’s so quiet and lonely here.”
Bucky’s hand paused halfway through his hair as he let out a sigh. He looked down at you, his eyes looking almost mournful. “You’re breaking my heart, darling,” he murmured. “You know I hate leaving you, but Daddy’s got to work. I do it all for you, remember?”
When he took a step away from you, that’s when panic started to flare in your weak heart and desperation took over completely.
You scrambled across the tile, your fingers digging around the fabric of his trousers as you clutched his leg.
“Don’t go!” you begged, looking up at him through another round of tears. “I’ll be good. I’ll read the books. I’ll do the experiments without crying—just stay. Please, just stay a little longer!”
Bucky froze, eyes widened in surprise. He looked down at your hands wrapped around his leg. A part of him wanted to laugh at this little attempt of yours. You were a just a weak, fragile thing. He could push you off and leave—it’d be so easy.
But instead of doing that, he just stayed put and smiled. He liked this. He liked the way you were anchored to his feet, reduced to a trembling mess at the mere thought of his absence.
Slowly, he sank back down to his knees until he was eye level with you again.
“You really don’t want me to go, do you?” he mused with a taunting purr. He reached out, tilting your chin up so you had no choice but to look at the hunger in his eyes. “You want me to stay here with you? In this cold, dark basement? Keeping you warm?”
You nodded frantically, a sob catching in your throat.
“Tell me then,” he prompted, his thumb tracing your jaw. “How bad do you want it? What are you willing to do to keep me here tonight?”
“Anything,” you admitted desperately. “I’ll do anything.”
“Oh,” Bucky’s smile grew wide. “You shouldn’t have said that.”
You tried to keep a brave face, to hold your ground, but the relief was too great.
Bucky let out a short, amused huff as he reached down, hooking his hands under your arms to haul you up from the floor. “Okay, fine. You win.”
He stood back and reached for his neck, slowly loosening the knot of his tie. You watched, mesmerized and trembling, as he pulled the silk from his collar and draped it over the back of the lone chair in the room. His fingers moved to the top button of his white shirt, then the next, and the next, until they were all unbuttoned.
Then he moved to his belt. The sounds of it making you shiver.
“I’ll stay with you,” he promised, his tone as sweet as honey—designed to make you feel safe, even when you shouldn’t.
He folded the leather belt slowly. Painfully slow, his eyes never leaving yours.
“And before I head to the facility, I’ll do a quick experiment on you tomorrow. We’ll fix those headaches and get your reading memory back on track, okay?”
With one hand still gripping the belt, he stepped closer. His free hand cupped your face, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.
“Think of it as my way of apologizing for my little outburst earlier,” he murmured against your skin. “I just want you to be perfect. I want you to be happy.”
He wasn’t leaving.
He was going to fix you.
You leaned into his touch as a small, fragile smile broke across your face. The tears you had shed before were no longer born of frustration—they were tears of relief.
“I love you, Bucky,” you whispered.
Bucky’s hand settled behind your head, rubbing gently to soothe you—the way a master might pet a loyal dog. He nodded towards the small cot in the corner.
“Lay down, doll.”
The light in the basement was always the same—artificial and blinding through the fluorescent tubes. After several blinks, you managed to force your eyes open against the piercing white light.
You let out a garbled groan. Your limbs felt extremely heavy, as if you were trying to move through deep water.
“Easy, doll. Easy.”
A deep, gentle voice cooed nearby. The cot creaked slightly as he sat beside you. As your vision cleared, you saw Bucky. He was already back in his professional attire—white sleeves rolled up his strong forearms. The room already smelled like he had his morning coffee.
He looked refreshed, while you felt like you had been disassembled and put back together again.
Which… in a way, you had.
Your fingers drifted up to the pain that throbbed in the back of your neck. You shuddered at the feel of the surgical tape and the fresh incision.
“The experiment went perfectly,” he said gently, his fingers replacing yours to check the bandage. “Your reading should be much sharper once the grogginess fades.”
You couldn’t even find the energy to be upset about him drugging you in the middle of the night—even if you should have spent those hours cuddling instead. The only thing that mattered was that he actually stayed.
“You’re still here,” you rasped, your throat scratchy and dry. A weak, hazy smile pulled at your lips.
Bucky smiled. He reached for a glass of water on the tray, holding it to your lips so you didn’t have to lift your head.
“I told you I would stay, didn’t I? I’m a man of my word.” He watched you drink, smiling as your dried lips softened from the liquid and the delicate column of your throat bobbed as you swallowed. “I even stayed through the morning to monitor your vitals. I’m going to be a little late to the facility, but for you? My baby? It’s all worth it.”
You leaned your head against his leg with a soft, content sigh. “Thank you for staying with me.”
“Always,” he whispered back, his thumb tracing over your cheek. “I have to go now—but when I’m gone, I want you to go back to reading your books.”
Disappointment settled in your chest, but the chemically induced state you were in made it too straining to fight back.
“I’ll be back soon with your breakfast.”
You didn’t care about food. All you cared about was Bucky. He was your true sustenance.
“How long?” you rasped, blinking up at him.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Alright?”
He leaned down to press a kiss to your temple. The cot creaked again as he stood up, and the sudden loss of his warmth made your heart clench painfully—more painful than the throb in your head.
“I love you, baby,” Bucky said, grabbing his blazer from the chair and heading for the door. “Be a good girl while I’m gone, okay?”
You nodded, and he offered a handsome smile. Then, he pulled the door open and shut it softly. The click of the lock on the other side finalized his goodbye, leaving you alone once again.
Bucky walked quickly from the hospital’s sub-level entrance, hurrying across the grounds toward the main facility. He looked like any other dedicated researcher running late for a briefing, but every time he left you, his mind remained back in the basement.
His mind was always on you.
His fingers fumbled with the middle button of his blazer as he forced his breathing to level out. He couldn’t afford to look ruffled. He turned a sharp corner near the east wing, head down as he adjusted his cuffs, and bumped squarely into another man.
“Woah, easy there, Buck.”
Bucky didn’t need to look up to recognize the voice.
“Steve,” Bucky exhaled, finishing the last button on his blazer with a tug. “Didn’t see you there. You’re up early.”
Steve’s gaze focused on the dark circles under Bucky’s eyes. “The shift change was a while ago,” Steve explained quietly. “I tried to page your office, but you weren’t there.”
Bucky waved a hand dismissively, stepping around Steve to keep moving towards his designated workstation. “Dead battery. I stayed late last night—lost track of time in the mounting data sheets—”
Steve extended his hand, landing on Bucky’s shoulder and forcing him to halt.
“You smell like…” Steve scrunched his nose. “Rubbing alcohol? Acetonitrile? That’s some heavy duty solvent for someone just looking at paperwork.”
Bucky’s heart let out a traitorous little thump. He gave Steve a deadpan look. “It’s a research hospital, Steve. What else am I supposed to smell like?”
Steve let go, but the look he gave his friend was anything but convinced. “You look exhausted. You’ve been spending every spare second in the south wing,” he sighed. “You’re my friend—and I worry about you, is all.”
Bucky averted his gaze. He didn’t have time for small talk. He had to review the latest labs and then fetch your breakfast. The longer he stayed out here, the longer you went hungry. Especially after the surgery, you needed to eat to recover properly.
“If there’s anything I can do to help loosen your load, even just a little bit, you know I’m always here.” Steve stepped closer, his voice lowering. “‘Till the end of the line, right?”
Bucky clenched his jaw. “Thanks, Steve. But I don’t need your help. I’m perfectly fine working alone,” he said, moving past him. Without looking back, he added, “I’ll let you know if my projects call for additional assistance.”
A few hours had passed, and ever since that interaction, it felt as though the universe had cursed Bucky with a jinx.
It was supposed to be a brief meeting—a few papers to peer review, perhaps a few charts to sign off on.
Christ, you were probably starving.
He could already picture it—your stomach curling in on itself, groaning and painful. He imagined your fragile arms wrapped around your belly as you cried in hunger. With the desperation that hunger brought, you might be clawing at your own skin. And since your body wasn’t being supplied with the nutrients it needed to recover, the post surgery throbbing in your head must be unbearable.
You could be pulling your hair or banging your head against the wall at this very second—and he wasn’t there to stop you.
He stared at the man sitting across from him. His boss’s frames kept slipping down his nose. His hair had more grease than the fast food joints across the street. His grimy hands shifted through the pages slowly. Painfully slow.
Bucky sat rigid, his foot tapping impatiently against the floor. He couldn’t dismiss himself—this was his superior, for fuck’s sake. But the longer he sat there, restless and useless, the more his mind spiraled.
His eyes flickered from his boss, to the clock, to the door.
“Is something bothering you, Barnes?”
Bucky swallowed hard. “Just… need to use the restroom.”
The man’s eyes rose sluggishly to meet Bucky’s. He paused—a silence long enough for Bucky to have gone and returned already. “Make it quick.”
Bucky pushed himself out of the chair, the legs let out a loud creak. He lunged for the door. He thought about sprinting to the canteen to fetch you something, but it was all the way across the facility. He didn’t have the time.
“Fuck, fuck!” Bucky hissed to himself, pacing the hall just outside the office.
The sound of approaching footsteps echoed nearby. Then, salvation appeared.
“Bucky? You doing alright?” Steve asked, glancing up from his papers to find his friend in visible distress.
Bucky froze, his breath getting stuck in his throat. Steve. The very man who had been with him through everything. Before he even came to the facility. Before he even made you. Steve was the one person he could trust with his life.
So why not trust him with yours? Just for the time being?
“Steve,” Bucky started with a frantic voice. The words tumbled out in a breathless ramble. “I need—I need your help. I’m stuck in a meeting with that grease trap Henderson, and she’s starving. She hasn’t eaten before the procedure and I can’t leave, but if she doesn’t get nutrients now, the rejection levels will spike and I’ll lose all progress—”
Steve blinked, his brows furrowing in confusion. “Wait, what?” He shook his head. “Who are you talking about? What procedure?”
Bucky stepped closer, grabbing Steve’s forearm with a grip so tight, it made him grunt.
“The south wing, sub-levels. Level four. I have her there, Steve. A woman—” Bucky glanced over his friend’s shoulder, making sure the coast was clear before continuing. “I’ve been… helping her, fixing her. But I have her locked in for her own safety, and I can’t get to the canteen and back without Henderson noticing I’m gone.”
Steve looked at Bucky as if he were seeing a stranger instead of a friend. “Locked in? Bucky, what the hell are you talking about? There are no active patients registered in the sub-levels. If you found someone who needs medical attention, we need to report this to the board immediately—”
“No!” Bucky hissed, eyes wide and wild. “No reports, and absolutely no boards. They’ll take her away, Steve. Please. I need you to help me. You said ‘till the end of the line’, didn’t you?”
Steve stood there, frozen with the papers in his hands.
“A woman,” Steve repeated quietly. “In the basement.”
“She’s my everything,” Bucky pleaded with a vulnerability that Steve has never seen before. “Just get a tray. High protein—soft foods. Use your clearance to bypass the canteen line. She’ll try to talk to you—but don’t entertain her. Just… give her her food, make sure she didn’t hurt herself while I was gone, and then leave quietly, okay?”
Steve let out a long breath.
He looked around the hall, checking for witnesses, before turning back to Bucky with a grim, reluctant nod.
“Fine,” Steve whispered. “I’ll get the food. But Bucky… we are talking about this the second you get out of that meeting. All of it.”
“Thank you,” Bucky exhaled, a sob of relief nearly escaping him.
He quickly shoved the keys to your room in Steve’s hand.
“Thank you, Steve. I knew I could trust you.”
It had been hours since Bucky left. You were curled on the edge of the cot, arms wrapped tightly around your growling stomach, trying to breathe through the nausea of starvation.
The grumbling was unbearable. You couldn’t have slept the hunger away even if you wanted to. It felt as though your stomach were eating itself from the inside out. Had Bucky forgotten you? He had broken his promise—but he said he was a man of his word. So where was he?
The sound of keys and the lock being undone sounded like music. Your heart gave a hopeful leap. Bucky always knocked—three soft, gentle taps that signaled he was coming to take care of you.
Unless you were asleep, he always waited for you to call out “come in!” to let him know you were ready to be his good girl again.
But this time, there was only silence before the door creaked open.
You didn’t care about the lack of a knock. You were too desperate, too hungry, and too lonely. You scrambled off the cot, your legs feeling like jelly as you rushed towards the door.
“Bucky! You’re back, I—”
You stopped.
The man standing in the doorway wasn’t Bucky. But he was as tall as Bucky, dressed in a white button up similar to Bucky’s, but it wasn’t him. He held a tray of food, but the stranger’s presence made you too terrified to reach for it.
Your breath hitched, a panicked wheeze leaving your lips as you scrambled backwards. Your heels dragged against the tile floor until your back hit the corner of the wall.
“Who are you!” you gasped, your bandaged hands coming up to shield your face. “Who are you? Where is he? Where’s Bucky?”
The man froze, his blue eyes widening in horror as he took in the sight of you—the surgical tape on your neck, the oversized gown, and the way you were cowering like a wounded animal.
Steve knew he shouldn’t speak to you, that had been Bucky's direct order. But he couldn’t fight his own instincts.
“Hey, hey… easy,” Steve cooed. He stayed by the door, slowly lowering the tray to a nearby table to show his hands were empty. “I’m not going to hurt you. I promise.”
Despite the man’s kind and gentle tone, you couldn’t help the panic flaring in your heart.
“You shouldn’t be here,” you sobbed, pressing yourself harder into the corner. “He said… he said I’m not supposed to see anyone. He’s going to be so angry.”
“Bucky sent me,” Steve explained softly, taking a cautious step. “My name is Steve. I’m Bucky’s friend. He’s stuck in a meeting and he was worried about you. He told me you needed to eat.”
You sniffled. “… Worried about me?”
He reached for a piece of bread from the tray and held it out toward you, not moving any closer. “I know you’re scared. And I know you’re hurting. But you need to eat, okay? Then I’ll be on my way.”
You swallowed hard, glancing at the bread. He had spoken you so kindly, so soft and gentle, and to you, that felt like salvation in this lonely and cold room. Even if it wasn’t Bucky.
You took a hesitant step forward while Steve stayed still. He didn’t move until you approached him, treating you as if you were a stray cat. You grabbed the loaf with trembling hands, gave him a wary look, and he smiled.
“Not poisoned. Trust me.”
He tried to joke, but you didn’t laugh.
After a few seconds, you bit into the bread, letting the taste linger on your tongue.
Then, you started scarfing it down like a rabid animal.
Steve stood there, staring at you dumbfound as you ate. Without looking at him, you began to ravish everything else on the tray with your bare hands. He could only stumble back and watch in horror.
As you were occupied with the food, he took a mental note of your state. Your legs were marked with rows of stitches. Your skin was tainted with burn marks and various scars. You had bandages wrapped around your hands, wrists, ankles, and neck. Bruises decorated your body.
You looked exactly like a woman who had been plucked from the grave and brought back to life, but you were hardly living.
It didn’t take long for you to finish. When you finally looked up, you stared at Steve, waiting for him to disappear back through the door.
“I know I said I’d be on my way after you ate,” Steve explained slowly. “But Bucky also wanted me to check on your…”
He paused. He didn’t know what Bucky wanted him to check on exactly, but looking at you, it seemed as though everything needed to be checked. For now, he pointed to the freshly wrapped bandage around your neck.
“He just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
When you didn’t respond, he took it as a sign to step closer. You scrambled back immediately, and his gaze softened.
“I know this is scary for you. You haven’t seen or spoken to anyone besides Bucky, isn’t that right?”
You stayed silent.
“Have you ever been outside this room?”
Your eyes flickered to the door, then back to Steve. You slowly shook your head no.
“Well, the outside world is beautiful,” he began, speaking in a gentle tone. “There are lots of trees, flowers… animals. Like squirrels. You’d like the squirrels, they’re just like you—always scurrying around, especially in the courtyards.”
With each word, he moved closer.
Mentally, Steve was cursing himself.
He was a man of honor, yet he was currently violating his best friend’s trust while feeding a captive woman—Bucky’s woman—empty promises he wasn’t sure he could keep. He was falling back on his own medical training, using the standard practices he’d honed over years of patient care, hoping the routine would calm you as it did his other patients.
“Maybe Bucky will let you see it for yourself one day,” he lied. “But right now, your body is in no state for it. You’re fragile.”
He was close enough now to see the faint blossoming of blood staining your bandages.
“That’s why I’m here—to check on you,” he said, reaching out a hand slowly, palm up. “I just want to see how the stitches are holding up. If Bucky’s friend helps you, you’ll get stronger faster. And the stronger you get, the sooner you can go outside. Doesn’t that sound nice?”
You hesitated, your back still pressed against the cold wall.
“Bucky wouldn’t want you to touch me,” you admitted softly. “He always calls me his perfect girl—his good girl. He likes that I’m untainted and untouched by anyone else.”
Steve paused, his eyes widening slightly.
Ah. There it was.
That was how he could get through to you.
Against his better judgment and his friend’s wishes, he brought his hand up to your cheek. It was a gentle, steady touch—the kind of contact you had been waiting for all day.
“Just a quick look,” Steve whispered. “Just so I can tell Bucky you were being a perfect, good girl for him.”
You shuddered under his touch, your eyes closing slowly as you leaned into his palm.
That was all you wanted—to be Bucky’s good girl.
“Okay,” you nodded. “You can check me.”
You reached for the hem of your oversized gown and lifted it, baring yourself to Steve.
To you, this was simply the natural sequence of events. There was no shame in your movements, only the ingrained memory of how your sessions with Bucky always concluded.
The check up was just a prelude. The intimate inspection that followed was the reward.
Steve’s breath hitched, his face turning a bright shade of red when he realized what you were doing.
“No! No, no, no. You don’t have to do that!” he stammered, wrenching his head away. “I just… I just need to see the bandages. Just the neck and wrists. Keep—keep your clothes on, please.”
He was trying so hard to be a gentleman, his movements jerky and awkward.
“Bucky always tells me to undress so he can check me properly,” you said softly.
That concerned Steve. He let out a sigh. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen naked patients before, but this was different. He told himself all he had to do was check your stitches and leave. Quickly.
“Fine,” Steve rasped. His eyes tried his best to stay focused on your neck—not the curve of your breasts or hips, or the innocence of your bare slit between your thighs.
He stepped closer and his fingers traced the stitches of your neck.
His eyes met yours briefly, and his heart raced.
You had such a hazy, expectant look in your eyes.
“Okay,” Steve choked out, his voice cracking as he stepped back to put a safe distance between you. “I’m done. The stitches look... they look clean. I’m going to go now.”
As he turned to grab the empty tray, you moved.
You cupped his face the way Bucky always did with yours and pressed your lips against his.
Steve froze, his eyes nearly bulging out of his skull. His hands found your shoulders, giving you gentle shove that forced you back onto the edge of the cot with a yelp.
“No,” he panted, his chest heaving as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “No, we can’t—I’m his friend, I’m not... why did you do that?”
You tilted your head, your brows furrowing in confusion.
“Because the check up isn’t finished,” you explained softly, your voice small and defensive. “Bucky says the examination isn’t over until he’s had his fill. He says that’s how I show him I'm getting better.”
“His fill?” Steve looked concerned.
“He says it’s part of the treatment,” you added, leaning forward slightly, searching Steve's face for the approval you were used to receiving. “Don’t you want to see if I’m better, Steve? Don’t you want your fill?”
The air left Steve's lungs.
His eyes traced down your body shamelessly this time—but not for the reason you expected. He took note of the faint bruises around your waist and thighs, and he felt sick.
Quickly, he crouched until he was eye level with you from where you were sitting on the cot. He clutched your shoulders, and you winced.
“Tell me,” Steve urged. “What is Bucky doing to you? Why are you in this state? How long have you been here?”
“I—I don’t—”
“Did he rape you?”
Steve expected a reaction—the typical trauma response to a word that heavy. Most victims would never confess it outright, but he could make out the answer from your reaction if you gave him one.
But all you did was blink at him as if he were speaking a foreign tongue.
“What does that mean?”
Steve didn’t know what to say. He let out a breath of exasperation and stood up. He couldn’t help you now, not with the risk of Bucky’s meeting ending at any moment.
“I have to go, but I’ll be back, okay? I’ll be back to get you the professional help you need.” Steve grabbed the tray and hurried to the door, his hand trembling on the handle. “Don’t tell Bucky what I told you. Please.”
The door shut quickly as he left.
But the lock didn’t click.
The hours following Steve’s departure were the longest of your life. You tried to do as Bucky asked—to sit on your cot and lose yourself in the pages of your books—but you couldn’t retain anything.
Your mind kept drifting back to Steve.
You liked the way he touched your cheek. He spoke of squirrels and trees and a world that Bucky never mentioned. Your gaze drifted to the door, and for the first time, it didn’t look like a shield protecting you from the world—as Bucky liked to call it.
It looked like an obstacle.
You knew you needed to stay put and wait for Bucky, but you couldn’t. You stood up and pushed through the door, moving carefully and slowly.
The hallway was bright, and as you wandered out, your bare feet felt freezing against the tiles. You didn’t know where the trees were, but you followed the hall, hoping it would lead to the courtyard Steve had mentioned.
You could already imagine it—running through the grass with Bucky, chasing the squirrels. A smile ghosted over your lips despite the tremor in your heart.
Then, a shadow fell over you.
“Going somewhere?”
You spun around at the familiar voice, a smile on your face so wide it made your cheeks hurt. “Bucky! You’re back! I was looking for the courtyard, I—”
The smile died the moment you saw his face. Bucky wasn’t happy. He had that scowl, the look you recognized whenever he was displeased, except now it was multiplied tenfold. His gaze was harsh enough to kill, and you could only imagine what he would do to you next.
His hand clamped around your upper arm, forcing you to cry out.
“Bucky, you’re hurting me!”
He hauled you back, dragging you down the hall towards where you had come from. He was breathing like an animal, his eyes darting around crazily to ensure the corridors remained empty—no witnesses.
He threw you back into the basement room, the door slamming shut as he locked it from the inside. He approached you as you collapsed onto the cot.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he hissed in your face, his hands tugging at his hair in frustration. “What’s this talk about a courtyard? What was the plan, huh? To just walk out? To show everyone in this facility what I’ve been doing?”
“I just wanted to see—”
“After everything I’ve done for you!” Bucky roared, lunging to grab your shoulders and shaking you once, hard. “I saved you! I rebuilt you! I spent every cent, every hour, every ounce of my goddamn soul making sure you were perfect. And you’re choosing to run? You’re choosing to escape me?”
“No, Bucky, I—”
“You’re ungrateful!” He was spiraling, his eyes glazed with paranoia. “Someone saw you. Someone must have seen you. Who was it? Did you talk to someone? Was it the security feeds? I’ll have to wipe them. I’ll have to start over.”
You flinched at his cruel words. The pain in your arm was unbearable, but his accusations hurt more.
“No one saw me—”
“You can’t be certain!” he screamed in your face.
When he saw the tears welling in your eyes, he backed off slightly. His heart was beating furiously, and he didn’t foresee his temper cooling anytime soon. He let out a heavy sigh, releasing your shoulders. He couldn’t believe Steve had forgotten to lock the door—and now, he had filled your head with stupid ideas of going outside.
“I have to operate on you again,” Bucky said, walking to his desk. He removed his blazer and began rolling up his sleeves. “It’s a shame, really. I didn’t anticipate working on you so soon after your recent experiment.” He reached for the gloves, jerking them on. “I should even lower the dosage of the drugs, just so you could feel just an ounce of the pain I felt when I found you in the hallway.”
He glanced at you quickly before looking back at his tools.
“You did this to yourself, darling.”
You quickly scrambled off the cot, rushing to him and wrapping your arms around his waist from behind. “Please! I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to disobey you, I swear! I—”
“I’ve been gentle with you,” Bucky said, his voice flat as he reached for a needle on the tray. He didn't even turn to look at you. “Maybe even too gentle.”
You held onto him tighter, burying your face into the expanse of his back as the fabric of his shirt dampened with your tears.
“Please, Bucky, please!” you sobbed. “I missed you so much. I was being so good all day. I read the books, just like you told me. I didn’t hurt myself. But it was so cold and so lonely.. and—and you were gone for so long. I just needed you. I just wanted to find you.”
Bucky didn’t move.
The hand reaching for the syringe hovered in the air, his fingers twitching. For a long moment, the only sound in the room was your crying. He looked down at the needle, then slowly, he pulled his hand back.
“You broke my heart,” he whispered. “You think your fruitless words mean anything to me now? After I found you wandering those halls like I meant nothing to you?”
“I didn’t—”
“Actions speak louder,” he snapped, still facing away. “What will you do to make up to me?”
“Anything,” you sobbed against his shirt. “Anything, Bucky. Just don’t hurt me. Don’t operate on me—please. I’ll do anything.”
Bucky stared at the wall, then at the needle, as if contemplating. Without turning around, his hands moved to his waist, the belt buckle echoing in the room as he undid the lather strap with slow movements.
“Put your hands over the bed,” he commanded. “Bend over.”
Your breath hitched in anticipation. You wasted no time rushing to the cot, placing your hands over the edge and bending over—exactly as instructed.
Your heart fought in your chest as you heard Bucky’s footsteps approach from behind. You heard the clinking of the belt in his hands, and then the air hit your skin as he lifted your gown, baring your bottom to his gaze.
The cold leather of his belt dragged slowly across your skin, and you shuddered, bracing yourself.
“Are you scared?” he murmured from behind you.
“Yes,” you whispered, your voice trembling so much it was barely heard. “Yes, Bucky. I’m scared.”
He leaned in closer, his chest brushing your back. You could feel the warmth, the scent of his cologne. When he spoke again, his voice was a low rasp against your ear.
“Good,” he breathed. “Fear is the beginning of wisdom, darling. It means you’re finally remembering who I am to you. It means you’re remembering that the world outside is just a fantasy, and this—this room, this bed, and my hand on you—is the only reality you have.”
He paused, the leather belt going still against your thigh.
“I didn’t want to do this,” he lied, smooth and deceptive. “But you forced my hand. I have to drive those silly thoughts out of your head before they ruin you completely. Before they ruin us.”
The belt lifted away from your skin, then came down hard with a whack against your bottom, jolting you and making you yelp.
“You’re so confused now, aren’t you, darling? I have a friend—my best friend come feed you, and suddenly you think you’re free to wander about? He was a fool. And so are you.”
Another whack.
“Ow!”
“It’s disappointing, really. I thought we were further along, doll. I thought you understood that you’re far too fragile for the sun. You’d wither like a flower, my perfect girl.”
Then another, and you let out a soft and shaky moan that was more breath than sound.
He leaned over you, the belt resting lightly against the back of your thighs as he watched the way your body reacted. He was being mean—his words were supposed to make you feel small, stupid, and utterly dependent—but to you, the condescension only felt like a caress.
With every smack, every word, you were arching your back and pressing yourself into him.
“Look at you,” he whispered, his hand reaching down to tickle the inner curve of your thigh. “I’m punishing you for being a bad, ungrateful girl, and yet..”
He paused, his fingers sinking lower and brushing against the wetness between your legs. It was slick, his middle finger gliding right through the folds. You gasped as he poked his finger against the entrance, and he could already feel you clench.
“You’re soaking wet for me,” he voiced in a way that sounded like disgust. “Even when I’m hurting you, you’re begging for me. Is this what you wanted when you walked out that door? To be caught and punished by your Daddy?”
Your face warmed with embarrassment. “No! I swear, I didn’t—”
Your words were replaced by a shameless moan when you felt Bucky’s finger slip into your entrance. He was only halfway in, yet he slid into you so easily. The way you stretched to accommodate his fingers was a testament to how much you needed him.
Bucky snarled against your ear. He was disappointed. He hated your denial—especially when your own body was betraying you, your hips rocking back to sink his finger deeper into your needy cunt.
But more than that, he hated how hard he was getting. He hated how much he wanted to rip his pants down and fuck you so hard that you’d be left crying and begging for his forgiveness.
“You could have it so easy if you just told me the truth,” he taunted. “But you like the struggle, don’t you? You like the attention—whether it’s good or bad. And you especially like it when Daddy’s being mean to you.”
He withdrew his finger slowly, the loss making you whine. His hands settled at your hips, he lifted you until you were standing on your tippy toes.
“Look at how you’re leaking for me,” he mocked, his eyes dark as he examined you. “A little attention from Steve, a little walk in the hall, and you come back to me looking like this. You’re like a little animal, aren’t you? So confused, so easily worked up by the first human who shows you a bit of kindness.”
Bucky grabbed your hands, wrenching them behind your back. He worked quickly, looping the leather belt around your wrists and cinching it tight.
You winced at the pressure as he restrained you, leaving you even more helpless than you were before.
“You’re right,” you whispered, face pressed against the cot. “I’m helpless. I can’t… I can’t function without you, Bucky. Please don’t leave me again. Hurt me. Kiss me. Just do anything so I don’t feel empty.”
Bucky hummed in approval.
He took a step back, and you heard the rustle of fabric and a zipper sliding down from behind. He didn’t utter a single word as he freed himself, but the sudden change in his breathing told you everything.
He began to stroke himself slowly. The sound was agonizing—that silky friction of his palm against his shaft, the shlick shlick noises of him spreading his pre-cum over and around his tip.
Every slide of his hand made you want to turn your head to look, to witness him in this state, but you knew better than to move.
You clenched your thighs together, your cunt pulsing as it reacted to the filthy noises. You were desperate to feel him, but you remained bound and helpless—exactly where he wanted you.
“Fuck,” he cursed, his breathing labored as he jerked himself off faster. “I should just finish right now. Let it all my cum drip to the floor—leave it there for you to stare at while I walk back out that door.”
His breathing grew even heavier. His movements quickening as he fucked his fist.
“But you’re so needy, aren’t you?” he whispered. “You wouldn’t let a single drop go to waste, would you, doll? You’d fall to your knees and lick it right off the tiles like my little pet, just to have a taste of me.”
You shuddered as his footsteps neared, flinching when his hand came up to cup your chin. He forced you to arch your back, making you strain to look up at him from over your shoulder.
“Is that what you are? My little pet?” He pressed the head of his cock against the curve of your ass, subtly rocking his hips forward. “My sweet girl that only functions when I’m inside her?”
“Bucky,” you breathed, squeezing your eyes shut. “Please. I can’t take this anymore.”
“Since you wanted to wander those halls so badly, I’m going to make sure you don’t have the strength to do it again. I’m going to fuck you so hard, doll, that you won’t be able to stand on those pretty legs for a week.”
One heavy hand landed on your hip, squeezing the flesh tight to hold you steady, while the other gripped his length, positioning himself at your entrance.
Then, surprisingly slow, he began to slide in.
The sensation was overwhelming. He was big—far too big. He knew you were fragile, and despite his harsh words, he didn’t want to truly break you just yet. That would ruin all the fun.
The stretch was slow and agonizing, yet perfect. You let out a broken sob, your fingers clawing at the thin mattress of the cot as your body was forced to accommodate him. He was thick, filling every inch of you, stretching you until you felt like you might break, yet your muscles tightened around him desperately—clinging to him like a hug that refused to let go.
“God,” Bucky hissed, his face twisting in both pain and pleasure. “So tight—even after last night…”
He kept pushing until he was completely sheathed inside, his dark curls tickling the curve of your ass when his pelvis finally met your bottom. He stilled there, his chest rising and falling as he waited for your body to accommodate him.
You could feel every ridge, every pulse inside, and in that moment, you wanted to cry.
You were so happy. Moments like this made your heart feel too big for your chest—because, despite everything, you were becoming one with the man you loved so dearly.
“Look at you,” he groaned possessively. “Taking all of it. Built just to hold me. Designed to take every inch... even if it hurts.”
Bucky began to move, his hips rocking violently as he started fucking you like an animal starved—as if he had been starving for this even longer than you had.
His hips slapped vulgarly against yours, and your eyes widened at the sudden, cruel change of pace.
“Oh—my!”
The cot beneath you began to groan, the frame creaking and rattling against the floor and the wall with every thrust Bucky gave you.
He leaned forward until his chest was against your back, his hand reaching around to grip the belt binding your wrists, using it like a handle to wrench your arms higher and force your chest deeper into the flimsy mattress.
“One taste of my cock and you’ve already forgotten everything that fool Steve told you, haven’t you?”
His pace became erratic, using your body like a sex toy. You were cock drunk for him, you were being his perfect, restrained little pet, your face buried in the cot pathetically while he claimed every inch of your body.
“You’re so pathetic, sweetheart,” he whispered affectionately and cruel. “Completely helpless. You can’t even touch yourself while I do this to you. You have to just lie there and take whatever I decide to give you.”
He slammed into you again, his cock rubbing deliciously against your tight, wet walls as they squeezed him for dear life.
“Ah, fuck... maybe if you keep being a good girl, I’ll let you suck on it later. How does that sound, hm?”
You nodded desperately against the cot, and mewling was the only answer you could manage.
The mere idea of being allowed to serve him like that—to have him look at you with something other than disappointment—it was all enough to make your head spin.
Bucky laughed darkly, you could feel his stomach vibrating as he was pushed up against your back.
“That’s it,” he growled. “Good girl. Daddy loves you, baby.”
Tears of overwhelmed pleasure started to spill down your cheeks at his admission.
He loved you.
Those four words were enough to make you fall apart right then and there as his approval was far more intoxicating than the pain and pleasure.
“Really? I—I love you too! I love you so much!” you squealed. Your cunt clenched around his shaft—squeezing him tight as if your body could prove just how much you loved him back. “I love you so much, Bucky. I love you. I love you.”
Bucky drawled out a long, tortured groan at the feel of you squeezing him. Buried deep inside you, he could feel you trembling, your body wound so tight it was nearly unbearable.
“That’s it,” Bucky cooed, his pace losing its rhythm as he fucked into you harder—chasing that delicious, sweet release. “You’re never going to walk away again.”
He leaned down, his pressing against your sweaty shoulder as he poured his devotions into your ear.
“I love you. Do you hear me? I love you more than anything. I’m the only thing you need. Just me and my love. You’re never leaving me again, doll. You’re staying right here where you’re safe—where you’re mine.”
He was chanting it now, a litany of possession that made your eyes roll back as you started to see stars.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.
“Don’t you ever leave me,” he growled, his hand tightening on the belt and jerking your bound wrists one last time. “Tell me you’re staying! Tell me!”
You couldn’t hold back anymore. He was fucking you so thoroughly, telling you exactly how much you meant to him, and you were desperate to show him he was your entire world.
“I’m staying! I’m yours!” you sobbed before you cried out in a pleasure that was so hot—it made you dizzy. Clenching your legs together, your pussy pulsed and convulsed as you let the pleasure wash all over your body.
Your entire frame shook and trembled, but Bucky didn’t let up. Every shake and vibration from you was just a stroke to his own pleasure, and before long, he buried himself as deep as he could go, his cock painting your pussy with his cum.
It was hot. It was too much.
He stilled, remaining plunged inside as he fought for his breath. Silence consumed the room. Then, the sounds of his seed—spilling out of your abused pussy and onto the tile floors took over.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Like a clock.
Bucky shuddered against your neck, the heat of his breath tickling you. He stayed draped over you as he slowly began to press soft kisses to your cheek, then to the curve of your jaw.
“Good girl,” he murmured, his thumb tracing your bare lower back while you warmed his cock with your body.
“My good, sweet girl. You did so well for Daddy. You always do.”
The atmosphere of the following morning was nothing like the night before.
Bucky had stayed the night with you. Again.
You were tucked over his arm, your head resting against his shoulder as you traced idle, wandering patterns across his bare chest. He was snoring peacefully, a soft sound that filled the quiet room.
Your heart felt full as you stared up at him with wide, adoring eyes.
His chest rose and fell in perfect time with his breathing, and you snuggled closer to his side.
“I love you,” you murmured, your finger tracing the outline of his abs. “I love you so much.”
Bucky slowly blinked awake, his eyelashes fluttering before he finally looked down at you. His eyes were clouded with the hazy, peaceful fog of a deep sleep he rarely ever got to enjoy.
“Morning,” he rasped.
A small, tired smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he took you in, his eyes softening at your adoring expression. “My girl.”
He slid his arm further under your neck, hooking his hand around your shoulder to pull you in until you were pressed tight against his side. He tucked his chin over the top of your head, nuzzling into your hair with a contented groan.
“Stay right there,” he murmured, his eyes drifting shut again as he squeezed you against him. “Don’t move. Just let Daddy hold you for a minute.”
And so you did. You both lay there for a long time, soft and snuggled up in each other’s arms.
But the peace, the silence, and the comfort didn’t last long.
The door—the one Bucky always made sure to lock with such clinical precision—was suddenly eclipsed by a violent crash that you made flinch.
Bucky bolted up, his body going rigid as his eyes snapped wide to the door.
“Bucky?” you gasped in fear, clutching his side. “What… what is that?”
“Fuck! Fuck!” Bucky hissed, the panic in his voice only startling you more. He threw his arm across your chest—not in a cuddle, but as a barrier, pinning you firmly behind his large body—as if hiding you.
He turned his head to catch your eye, a look in his blue orbs that you’ve never seen before. “Don’t—don’t say anything, got it? Not even a single breath of a fucking word.”
The door was kicked open, and a blinding flood of tactical lights and shouting turned your once private sanctuary into a war zone.
“He’s here! Target identified! Get him off her!”
Men in dark tactical gear you had never seen before swarmed the room, taking over the space that had once belonged purely to you and Bucky.
Before you could even process the intrusion, several agents tackled the very man who had been protecting you. The cot creaked and groaned as he fought to stay by your side, but even his strength was useless against so many men.
“Get your hands off me! Get away from her!” he roared, his voice louder and more frantic than you had ever heard it. He was terrified. You had never seen him lose control like this.
“She’s mine! You have no right—she’s mine!”
Bucky was going insane, fighting and kicking against the restraints of the officers. Everything happened so fast as the room blurred into chaos.
All you could do was sit there on the edge of the mattress and sob, reaching out for him in a confused daze.
“Bucky—”
Before your fingers could even brush his back, Steve was already there.
He pulled you into his arms, tucking your head against his chest to shield your eyes from the sight of the agents pinning Bucky to the cold tile floor.
“Don’t look,” Steve cooed, using that same comforting tone from the very first day you met. He held you tightly, his hand cupping the back of your head as he rocked you slightly to still your trembling. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, sweetheart. You’re safe now. I promise... he’s never going to touch you again.”
The sound of metal cuffs clicked in the room, accompanied by Bucky’s screams of your name.
“Get your fucking hands off of her!” Bucky seethed from the floor, his face pinned hard against the tile by a set of gloved hands.
“You traitor!” he roared, the word tearing raw from his throat. “You fucking traitor!”
Steve tried his best to ignore his crying friend, clutching your body tighter against his. You began to sob, your fingers clawing at Steve’s arm to let you go—to go back to him.
As the agents hauled Bucky towards the door, his feet scuffed and slid violently against the tile floor.
He twisted his head back, his hair a sweaty mess as his face was twisted in a rage that terrified you. Yet, despite the fear, his eyes stayed locked on yours until the very last second, and you couldn’t bring yourself to look away.
“Don’t listen to a thing Steve tells you, baby!” Bucky screamed, fighting against the agents. “He doesn’t know you! He doesn’t love you like I do! He’s just trying to tear us apart—”
Even with a dozen people there to ‘protect’ you, guilt settled in your chest.
Was this all your fault?
Did this happen because you wandered the halls the other day? Because you had dared to talk to Steve?
“You belong to me—only me!” Bucky continued to roar, forcing you to listen to him instead of your useless train of thought. “Stop ignoring me—say something!”
All you could do was sniffle and sob, muttering broken apologies into Steve’s chest that Bucky couldn’t even hear over everything else that was going on.
“I’ll come back for you,” Bucky promised as they dragged him out. His voice rang through the cold hallways that had once been empty, but were now teeming with strangers. “I swear it—I’ll find you!”
Bucky and the men rounded the corner, and his shouts began to fade. The basement grew quieter. Much quieter.
Everything you’ve known and loved had been stripped away from you within seconds. What were you to do now? Who was going to take care of you? You wanted to hate Steve for doing this—but he said he was protecting you. But Bucky also promised you the same thing countless of times.
You didn’t know what was real—what was right or wrong, and you don’t think you ever will.
With the sudden and unexpected loss of his presence, your mind felt… lost. But deep in your gut, a feeling you tried so hard to suppress out of fear for betraying Bucky, you felt relief.
Steve let out a shaky breath, his shoulders finally dropping.
“He’s gone,” Steve whispered, his voice partnered with a guilt he couldn’t quite hide.
He sounded like he was trying to convince himself as much as you.
“He’s gone, sweetheart. He’s never going to hurt you again.”
And for some reason, those very words only hurt you more.
The interrogation light shined directly into Bucky’s face, but he had grown so used to the glare that he no longer flinched.
Heavy cuffs bound his wrists, he only stared lifelessly at the metal biting into his skin. By now, the chains wrapped around his ankles felt as familiar as socks. His eyes were sunken into dark hollows, and his hair had grown out, lank and unkempt. You probably would have thought he looked ugly.
“James Barnes.” The man across from him sat down with a heavy huff.
His glasses were perched precariously on the bridge of his nose, and his pudgy fingers rifled through a thick stack of papers. With his greasy hair and impatient sighs, he looked exactly like Bucky’s previous boss, Henderson.
Bucky hated it.
The interrogator leaned back, watching the man across from him.
“The woman was dead before you found her,” the man began neutrally, his voice echoing off the sterile walls. “You robbed her grave, took her body, and performed several experiments on her—somehow managing to bring her back to life.”
Bucky stayed quiet.
“Where did you expect this experiment to go?” the man pressed, flipping a page in the file with a dismissive snap. “Would you have returned her to her family? To the friends she had before she passed?”
Bucky hadn’t blinked in three minutes, and hadn’t spoken for longer.
“What made you choose her, of all the other freshly buried bodies in that cemetery?”
Nothing. Not even a breath of a word.
“What was she to you?”
Bucky’s eyes remained hollow, his expression indifferent. He might as well already be dead.
“Did you love her?”
Bucky’s head tilted—just slightly.
Slowly, he lifted his eyes to meet the interrogator’s.
“More than anything,” Bucky replied.
He didn’t look away from the interrogator, but his mind was already miles outside the concrete walls of the facility.
Behind his hollow eyes, he was already calculating. He felt the metal around his wrists, but he didn’t feel trapped. He felt like a spring being pushed down, gathering all this tension until he inevitably snaps. He could see it clearly—the precise moment he would finally break free.
It had been years since has been held captive. Since everything was taken away from him.
He wondered what you were doing right now. Without him there to guide your schedule, were you lost?
He imagined you in a park somewhere. He pictured you chasing squirrels, or perhaps laying in the grass and staring at the sun until your eyes ached. Or maybe you were reading one of those books he used to leave by your bed. He hoped you were reading. It kept your mind active. The books were good for you.
He’d find you.
It wasn’t a question of if, only a matter of when. He’d knock on the door of your new home—three times. Then, like the perfect girl you always were for him, you’d reply with “come in!”
The interrogator cleared his throat, leaning in closer.
“James,” he called for him, bringing his attention back. “Would you classify yourself as ‘insane’?”
For the first time in years, Bucky’s lips quirked into a smile.
Insane?
What kind of question was that?
“No.”
anyway how writing this fic found me
if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!
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summary: The only thing Bucky can think about while captured in Azzano is that he should've kissed you before being shipped off. Now that he's back home he's not going to waste his second chance, that is until he finds out you're engaged.
word count: 17.4k+
pairing: 40s!bucky barnes x fem!reader
notes: thank you to taylor swift for giving me the idea for this fic. i love 40s bucky and i haven't written for him much which is a crime because i want to squish his cheeks and kiss his face. anyways, here it is!
also let's ignore the fact that i would not be legally allowed to marry bucky in the 40s since i am in fact a colored woman... this is fanfiction for a reason!
warnings/tags: no use of y/n, 40s!bucky, bucky and steve survive, implied torture (but nothing graphic), reader is engaged, implied that bucky has ptsd/trauma from hydra, slow burn, yearning!bucky, soft!bucky, steve is kinda a third wheel (sorry steve), fluff, angst... like angst that hurts your heart, mentions of smoking/cigarettes, happy ending
Brooklyn, Winter 1943
The diner on the corner of 39th and Flatbush is nearly empty, save for the three of you crammed into a booth by the frosted window. The radiator’s been clanking all morning, groaning like it’s got a personal grudge against the cold, but the coffee’s hot, and the jukebox hums something slow and sweet in the background. Outside, the street’s blanketed in slush, but inside, it smells like syrup and bacon grease—the kind of comfort that never quite leaves you, no matter how many things the world decides to take away.
Bucky sits across from you, one arm slung over the back of the booth, his uniform jacket half-unbuttoned despite the cold. He’s been officially shipped out for months now, just home on a short break before heading back overseas. The dog tags around his neck clink every time he shifts, a tiny metallic reminder that you’re counting down borrowed time.
“You gonna finish that?” he asks, nodding at the untouched half of your pancake stack. His grin is easy, practiced—that same grin he used to use on every girl who batted her lashes at him on the boardwalk. Except with you, it’s softer somehow, the kind that makes your chest feel uncomfortably tight.
“You’ve already had three,” you reply, nudging your plate toward him anyway. “You planning to eat the table too?”
“Don’t tempt me,” he says, grabbing your fork before you can change your mind.
Across the booth, Steve snorts into his coffee, the sound half amusement, half warning. “One day she’s gonna stop letting you steal her food, Buck.”
“One day,” Bucky agrees around a mouthful, “but not today.”
You roll your eyes, trying to ignore how familiar this feels—how safe. The three of you have been orbiting each other for over a decade now, since back when Bucky used to yank Steve out of street fights and you used to bandage them both with whatever scraps of cloth you could find. Somehow, even after all the years, all the growing up, the rhythm never changed. Steve’s the cautious one, always watching out for everyone. Bucky’s the charmer, always grinning through the chaos. And you—you’re the one trying not to think about how the table feels emptier every time one of them leaves.
“You hear about that new Stark show next month?” Steve asks, leaning his elbow against the table. “Supposed to be even bigger than the last one.”
“Yeah,” Bucky says, swallowing the last bite of your pancake. “They’re doing some big fireworks display, I think. You should come, doll.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Me?”
“Who else?” His voice is light, teasing, but his gaze lingers. There’s something behind it—something that’s been hovering there for weeks now, maybe months. You don’t let yourself name it.
“Maybe,” you say, pretending to think it over. “If you ask nicely.”
Steve hides a smirk behind his mug. “Careful, Buck. Sounds like she wants you to grovel.”
“I can manage that,” Bucky says, leaning forward, his smile all mock sincerity. “Please, sweetheart, grace me with your presence at the Stark Expo.”
You try to roll your eyes again, but the way he says sweetheart knocks the air out of you just a little. You tell yourself it’s the coffee—too hot, too strong. “You’re impossible,” you say.
“Yeah,” Steve mutters, “but he’s charming, and he knows it.”
That makes Bucky grin wider. “Exactly. I’m a catch.”
You want to laugh, but instead you find yourself studying him—the crease of his smile, the faint scar above his brow, the way his hair keeps falling into his eyes. He looks older than he did last year, the war having carved faint shadows beneath the jokes. It’s subtle, but you see it—the flicker of something unspoken that sits behind the bravado.
When he catches you looking, he smirks. “What? I got syrup on my face or something?”
“No,” you say quickly, heat creeping into your cheeks. “You just—never mind.”
He tilts his head, amused. “Just what?”
“Just... look like you’ve been through a lot lately,” you finish softly.
For a moment, he doesn’t answer. His grin falters, just slightly. Then he shrugs, eyes dropping to the chipped edge of his coffee cup. “Yeah, well. Guess we all have.”
There’s a beat of quiet. The jukebox flips to another slow tune, and you can feel the weight of the world creeping in—the draft, the headlines, the growing ache of goodbye that none of you want to talk about. Then Steve, ever the peacekeeper, breaks the silence. “You know,” he says, pushing his cup aside, “when all this is over, we’re gonna go dancing again. Like we used to. Whole gang back together.”
Bucky glances at him, a spark of his old grin returning. “You promising that, punk?”
“Yeah,” Steve says. “I am.”
“Then it’s a date,” Bucky says, and his eyes flick back to you when he says it.
Your stomach twists. He doesn’t mean it like that—not really—but the words settle somewhere deep anyway. “Alright, soldier,” you say, trying for levity. “But you better not step on my toes this time.”
He leans closer, that familiar mischief in his eyes. “I never do, doll. You just get nervous.”
You scoff, pretending you don’t hear the double meaning in his voice. Outside, snow begins to fall again—soft, fleeting, like the moments you’ll soon lose.
---
The Stark Expo glows like it’s been dipped in starlight. The air hums with the crackle of machinery and laughter, and somewhere in the distance, a brass band blares out a tune half-swallowed by the roar of the crowd. You can smell popcorn and oil and the faint sweetness of hot sugar in the air. Brooklyn’s never felt so alive.
You walk between Bucky and Steve, both of them looking like they’ve stepped out of two different worlds—Bucky polished and confident in his pressed uniform, Steve still small, shoulders drawn tight in his oversized coat, his eyes bright with determination. They keep pace with you through the sea of people, shoulders brushing now and then.
Bucky keeps stealing glances down at you. It’s not subtle—it never has been—but tonight, there’s something heavier in the air between you. The way the light hits him makes his hair shine like warm bronze; there’s a smear of oil on his sleeve from helping a mechanic earlier, and the sight of it, ordinary and real, does something strange to your chest.
The announcer’s voice booms over the speakers, crisp and clear, “welcome to the Modern Marvels Pavilion and the World of Tomorrow! A greater world. A better world.” You tip your head back, watching the lights dance off glass and chrome. The future looks dazzling and impossible, and for a moment, you forget about the war creeping closer every day.
Bucky nudges you with his elbow, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You think Stark’s gonna make one of those flying cars work this time?”
“I think he’ll pretend it does,” you reply, smiling. “And half the crowd’ll believe him.”
“That’s optimism,” he teases.
“That’s experience,” you shoot back, and he laughs—that easy, golden sound that’s always been your undoing.
When Howard Stark strides onto the stage, the crowd cheers, and Bucky’s boyish excitement sparks. He’s leaning forward beside you, eyes shining, jaw slack like a kid seeing fireworks for the first time. “Holy cow,” he breathes as Stark gestures toward his levitating car.
You glance up at him—because of course he’d be more interested in the machinery than the spectacle—and for a moment, you just watch him. His expression is so open, so full of wonder, that it squeezes at something deep in your chest. The car sputters and drops with a metallic clank. Laughter ripples through the crowd. Bucky shakes his head, still grinning. “Guess it’s not ready for takeoff.”
You start to reply, but when you turn to Steve, he’s gone. “Steve?” you call, rising on your toes to scan the crowd.
Bucky curses softly. “Of course he—” He sighs, eyes already darting toward the nearest exit. “I’ll bet he went to the enlistment tent.”
You look at him. “Again?”
He runs a hand through his hair, frustration simmering under his calm. “He’s nothing if not stubborn.”
“Sounds familiar,” you murmur.
That earns you a look—half amused, half warning—and then he’s threading his way through the crowd, motioning for you to follow. You find Steve exactly where you expected—standing in line for enlistment, jaw set, chin high, ready to argue his way into a war he has no business fighting. Bucky reaches him first, the argument spilling out just like it always does, Steve insisting, Bucky trying to talk him down, the air between them thick with worry and loyalty and love.
You hang back a little, watching the two of them. You’ve seen this scene play out before—Steve’s fire meeting Bucky’s steadiness. You know how it ends, Bucky hugs him, the two trade barbs about stupidity and bravery, and Steve stays behind while Bucky walks toward the future with a rifle on his shoulder.
Except this time, you’re part of it.
When Bucky pulls away from Steve, you’re standing just beyond the gate, arms wrapped tight around yourself, trying not to think about how little time there is left. He spots you and the teasing grin he wore a second ago softens into something almost shy. “Hey,” he says, stepping closer. “Sorry about that. He’ll be alright.”
You nod, though the words feel stuck in your throat. “He always is.”
You fall into step beside him as the crowd begins to thin, the noise of the fair fading behind you. The night air is cool and damp, the city skyline a jagged cut of shadow against the sky. For a long moment, neither of you speak. The silence isn’t awkward—it’s familiar, like a melody you’ve both known for years. Then Bucky breaks it. “You know,” he says quietly, “I thought about asking you to dance back there.”
You glance at him. “Why didn’t you?”
He kicks at a loose bit of gravel, shrugs. “Didn’t want to make a fool of myself before I ship out. Gotta let you remember me as dashing and graceful.”
You laugh, soft and a little sad. “Oh, I think that reputation’s already in pieces.”
He grins, the sound of your laughter tugging one from him in return. “Guess so.”
The two of you reach the corner where you’ll part ways—your apartment’s only a few blocks down, his barracks in the opposite direction. You stop under a flickering streetlamp, its glow painting the edges of his face gold. He shifts, hands shoved deep in his pockets, and suddenly the air between you changes. The world narrows to just the sound of the wind, the buzz of the light, and the pounding in your chest. “You’ll write?” you ask, your voice small.
He nods. “You bet I will. And when I come back, you and me—we’re going dancing. For real this time.”
You smile, though your eyes sting. “You’d better keep that promise.”
He steps a little closer—close enough that you can see the pulse in his throat, the faint line of worry between his brows. “I always do.” For a second, neither of you move. His hand twitches like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t quite dare. The silence stretches, thick with everything you’ve never said. Then he exhales, low and rough. “You know, doll… if things were different—”
“Don’t,” you whisper, even though part of you needs to hear it.
He swallows hard, searching your face. His voice drops to a rasp. “I just—I don’t wanna go off thinkin’ you don’t know how much you mean to me.”
Your heart stutters. “I know, Buck.”
But that’s the lie you both settle for.
He leans in just enough that his breath brushes your cheek. You can smell the faint traces of smoke and coffee on him, familiar and grounding. For one suspended heartbeat, you think he’s going to kiss you. But then he steps back. “I’ll see you when I get back,” he says, his smile small, almost fragile.
You manage a nod, even as your throat closes. Your hand grips his arm for just a second before letting go. “Be careful.”
He salutes you with two fingers, that old playful gesture that’s always been yours, and then he turns away, his figure swallowed by the night.
You stand there under the streetlamp long after he’s gone, the world around you humming with the distant echo of laughter and music, the ghost of what might have been lingering like the last note of a song that never quite finished.
---
The stench of iron and smoke clings to the air. The sound of metal striking metal echoes through the cavernous facility—steady, relentless, like a heartbeat that refuses to die. Bucky’s palms are raw. The skin at the base of his fingers is split and burned from gripping tools that sear hotter than they should.
He’s been here long enough that time doesn’t make sense anymore. Days and nights blur together under the artificial light. There’s no sky, no wind—just the crackle of electricity and the cold bark of orders in German. The name Hydra carries through the hallways like a curse.
“Keep your head down,” Dugan mutters from beside him, his voice low, roughened by exhaustion. “Don’t give ‘em a reason.”
Bucky doesn’t answer. He’s too busy forcing his hands to keep working—tightening bolts, fitting metal plates, assembling pieces of a machine he doesn’t want to understand. He knows it’s a weapon. Everything here is.
He’s lost count of the days since they were captured. The tank had come out of nowhere, cutting down their unit, and then there was the flash, the fire, and the smell of burning oil. They’d run, ducked behind the wreckage, but the ground had shaken beneath their feet. And then—capture. The moment his wrists were bound in cold metal cuffs, he’d known that whatever this place was, it was worse than death.
Now, he works. Because working means living a little longer.
There’s a guard—Lohmer—who seems to have made it his personal mission to break him. The man’s boots are always somewhere nearby, pacing, stopping, waiting for a mistake. The first time Bucky faltered, Lohmer’s fist drove into his ribs hard enough to make him choke. The second time, it was a rifle butt to the jaw.
Tonight, the bruises have gone purple, deepening like shadows.
When the shift ends, they’re herded into a cramped barracks room with cracked concrete floors and rows of cots that smell of sweat and rust. The guards shove the last of them through the door and lock it behind them. The clang of the bolt echoes.
Bucky sits, breath ragged. He stares down at his hands, still trembling from the cold and the strain. Across from him, Jacques murmurs something in French that he doesn’t catch. Falsworth coughs into his sleeve.
“You alright, Sergeant?” Dugan asks, voice quiet.
“Yeah,” Bucky says automatically. “Peachy.”
He’s not. He hasn’t been for weeks.
When the others drift into uneasy sleep, he stays awake. There’s a small window high up on the wall—just a slit of glass—and through it he can see a sliver of sky, faint and pale. He stares at it until his eyes burn.
That’s when he thinks of you.
The memory of the Stark Expo hits him hard, sudden and vivid. The lights, the music, the way your laugh had rung out above the noise. You, standing under the streetlamp, looking at him like maybe you saw something worth waiting for. He can still see the way your breath had fogged in the cold air, the way his fingers had twitched with the urge to touch your face.
He should’ve kissed you.
God, he should’ve kissed you.
He presses the heel of his hand to his eyes, jaw tightening. The air smells of sweat and rust, but in his mind, he can still smell the faint sweetness of your perfume—that soft, lilac scent that clung to his uniform after you parted ways. He remembers the weight of your hand on his arm, the tremor in your voice when you told him to be careful.
He’d laughed. Told you not to worry. Told you he always kept his promises. Now he’s not sure if he’ll ever see you again.
He thinks about how you’d smiled that night, the corners of your mouth trembling just a little. He wonders if you’ve been reading the papers, if you know where the 107th was sent, if you flinch every time another list of casualties gets printed. He imagines you sitting by the radio, he imagines you crying. And it guts him.
Somewhere down the hall, a guard shouts. A man screams—short, sharp, cut off too soon. Bucky stiffens, every muscle coiled tight. He knows that sound. He’s heard it too many times. A moment later, the door to their barracks bangs open. Lohmer strides in, baton swinging against his thigh. His smile is all teeth. “Barnes,” he says, pointing. “You. Up.”
Bucky rises slowly, every bone in his body protesting. Dugan starts to say something, but one look from Bucky silences him. He’s learned there’s no point in fighting unless you can win—and tonight, he can’t. Lohmer drags him into the corridor, past other cells, past the smell of ozone and blood. When they stop, it’s in front of a steel table lined with restraints.
Zola stands on the other side, adjusting his glasses, his face unreadable. “The Sergeant has shown… resilience,” he says mildly. “Let’s see what makes him special.”
Bucky’s breath catches. “I’m not—”
Lohmer hits him before he can finish. When the pain comes, it’s all-consuming—white-hot, blinding, tearing through his veins like fire. He tries to hold onto something, anything, but his mind scrambles for an anchor and finds only you.
He sees you in the crowd at the Expo, face glowing in the electric light. He hears your voice—soft, teasing, alive. He remembers the way you’d said his name, how it had sounded like a promise.
If he lives through this, he swears, he’ll tell you. He’ll find you. He’ll ruin whatever’s left of that friendship if it means feeling your hands on his face just once. Then the pain swells until he can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t remember anything except your smile as the world fades to white.
---
The rain comes down hard over London, steady and cold, washing the last of the Austrian mud from the tanks that line the courtyard. The SSR base is alive again—shouting soldiers, whirring engines, the metallic clang of repairs echoing through the night. For the first time in months, there’s warmth. Food. Beds. Music crackling faintly from a radio in some nearby tent.
Bucky sits on the edge of his cot, staring down at his hands. They still shake, sometimes. Not from cold—not anymore. From something else. The serum that Hydra forced into his veins still burns beneath his skin, a restless thrum he can’t quite quiet. The medics said it was a miracle he survived. They don’t know the half of it.
He’s alive. But it doesn’t feel like it.
He runs his thumb along the edge of his dog tag, tracing the worn letters. Barnes, James Buchanan. He’d stared at it every night since Steve pulled him out of that facility, just to remind himself that he was still him. That he hadn’t been erased and rebuilt into something else.
Outside the tent, he hears laughter—Dugan’s booming voice, Steve’s steadier one, Peggy’s dry humor cutting through the rain. It’s comforting and sharp all at once. They’re celebrating a victory, the kind of moment that should feel like redemption. But all Bucky feels is distance.
He hasn’t slept more than an hour at a time since Austria. Every time he closes his eyes, he’s back there—the flicker of the lab lights, Zola’s voice, the metal biting into his wrists. And always, always, your face, like a ghost that won’t leave him alone.
He remembers how you looked the night he shipped out—the streetlight catching on your skin, the tremor in your smile. He remembers the promise he didn’t make. The kiss he didn’t take. He’d thought about you every day since.
When the war ended in the papers, you were supposed to be the reason to come home. But now, home feels like a foreign word. He hears footsteps crunch outside and doesn’t need to look up to know who it is. Steve’s gait hasn’t changed—measured, steady, and too big for the narrow tent aisles. “You look like hell,” Steve says lightly, brushing rain from his jacket as he steps inside.
Bucky huffs a laugh. “You’re one to talk, punk.”
“Fair,” Steve admits. “Peggy says we’re supposed to be wheels up for London command in an hour. You ready?”
Bucky shrugs. “As I’ll ever be.”
Steve’s quiet for a beat, watching him. “You been sleeping?”
“Define sleeping,” Bucky mutters, rubbing at the back of his neck.
Steve doesn’t push, just nods. That’s the thing about him—he never pries, but he always knows. “We’ll be home soon,” he says. “Brooklyn, maybe. You can see her again.”
Bucky’s stomach tightens. Her. You. The word itself feels like a wound. “Yeah,” he says softly. “If she even remembers me.”
“She will,” Steve says, firm but gentle. “You’re hard to forget, Buck.”
He smiles at that, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He doesn’t say what he’s really thinking—that the man who left Brooklyn isn’t the one who’ll be coming back. That you deserve better than someone who can’t close his eyes without hearing screaming.
When they reach London, the city is gray and alive, a strange mix of celebration and mourning. The SSR sets up in a refurbished government building near Piccadilly. There are briefings, missions, late nights in smoky war rooms. But there’s also laughter again. Steve’s grin. Peggy’s dry wit. The sound of rain on the windows.
And every night, when the noise fades, there’s you.
He catches himself imagining it—walking through your neighborhood again, knocking on your door, seeing your face when you realize he made it home. He imagines you laughing, hugging him, maybe calling him “idiot” for scaring you half to death. He imagines you still wearing your hair the same way, still smelling like lilacs. He imagines kissing you this time—no almosts, no stopping himself.
But every time he lets the thought take shape, something else follows, the look on your face when you see what’s left of him. The scar at his temple. The thinness from weeks of starvation. The tremor in his hands when he tries to button his uniform.
What if you flinch?
What if you smile, but it’s pity?
What if you’ve moved on?
He thinks about writing—just a letter, something to tell you he’s alive. But every time he picks up a pen, he can’t find the words. What do you write to the person who used to feel like home when you don’t know if you’re still the man she’s waiting for?
So he doesn’t.
He fights, he follows orders, he cracks jokes with the others when he can. But when night falls, when the rain starts again, he lies awake staring at the ceiling and whispers your name into the dark like a prayer he doesn’t deserve to have answered.
It’s nearly dawn when Steve finds him again, sitting alone on the edge of a cot, cigarette burning low between his fingers. “Couldn’t sleep?” Steve asks. Bucky shakes his head. Steve hesitates, then says quietly, “you know… when we get back home, she’s gonna be real glad to see you.”
Bucky doesn’t look at him. The smoke curls between them, soft and ghostlike. “Yeah,” he says finally. “I just hope I don’t scare her off first.”
Steve frowns, but before he can answer, the radio crackles with new orders, and the moment passes like everything else in war—half-lived, half-lost.
---
The train screeches into the station under a bright, brittle Brooklyn sun. The platform is overflowing—mothers, wives, siblings, children—all craning their necks for a glimpse of someone they prayed would come home. Flags wave, whistles blow, and through the chaos, the air thrums with a kind of happiness that feels almost unreal.
You stand near the edge of the platform, hands twisting in the fabric of your coat. You’ve been here since dawn, unable to sit still, unable to breathe properly since the radio announced that the 107th—the Howling Commandos—were finally returning home.
You’d heard the stories, of course. Whispers in the papers. The rescue at the Hydra base. The new Captain America leading impossible missions. It sounded like something out of a comic book—Steve, the sickly boy from Brooklyn, a hero now. And Bucky…
Bucky, who’d been captured. Tortured. Presumed dead.
The first time you saw his name in the paper, you’d gone still, coffee spilling down your wrist, the world narrowing to a single line of print. Then came the silence. No letters, no news. You’d mourned him quietly, privately—because no one had told you to stop hoping.
And now—now he’s on that train. Alive.
You spot them before anyone else does—the tall figure in the blue uniform, unmistakably Steve, waving off the applause, and beside him, a man in an olive coat, his cap pulled low. For a moment, you think your eyes are playing tricks. He looks older, thinner, his face marked by shadows you don’t recognize. But then he lifts his head, and you see it—the same crooked smile, the same soft blue eyes.
Your heart breaks and heals in the same instant. “Bucky!”
You don’t remember moving. One second you’re frozen, the next you’re running—pushing past the crowd, calling his name again, louder this time. He looks up, startled, and when he sees you, something inside him cracks open.
He steps off the train just as you reach him, and before he can say a word, you throw your arms around him. It’s not graceful. You hit his chest hard enough that it knocks the air out of both of you, but his arms come around you immediately, strong and sure, holding you like you’re something he’s dreamed of and never expected to touch again.
“Jesus, doll,” he murmurs, his voice rough. “You’re really here.”
You laugh through the tears you didn’t realize were falling. “You’re—you’re alive.”
He chuckles softly, the sound trembling. “Guess I am.”
You pull back just enough to look at him, your hands still fisted in his coat. There are scars at his temple now, faint lines etched around his mouth that weren’t there before. He looks like a man who’s seen too much and survived it anyway. “You look—” you start, then falter.
“Terrible?” he offers with a wry grin.
“Different,” you whisper. “Older.”
His gaze softens. “So do you.”
Behind you, Steve clears his throat, smiling that earnest, boyish smile that doesn’t quite match his broad new shoulders. “You gonna share, Buck, or is this a private reunion?”
You laugh again, turning to hug him next, and Steve wraps you up like the brother you never had. “You did it,” you say against his shoulder. “Both of you. You came home.”
“Told you we would,” he says. “Didn’t I?”
“You said a lot of things,” you tease weakly, pulling back to look between them. “Not all of them true.”
Bucky chuckles. “She’s got you there, pal.”
The three of you stand there for a while, letting the noise of the station swell and fade around you. For a few blessed minutes, it’s almost like before—three kids from Brooklyn again, laughing about nothing, forgetting the rest of the world exists.
When you finally leave the platform, Bucky keeps close. He walks beside you and Steve through the busy streets, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets, smiling politely at the strangers who nod or wave. But every now and then, you catch him looking at you—quick, quiet glances that hit like a pulse beneath the skin.
It’s like he can’t quite believe you’re real.
You lead them to the corner diner, the same one you used to haunt before the war. It’s changed a little—new paint, new jukebox—but the smell of coffee and bacon grease is the same. The waitress recognizes Steve immediately, gushes about the newspapers, and sets you up in your old booth by the window.
When the coffee arrives, Bucky’s hand lingers on the cup for a long time before he drinks, as if relearning the taste of ordinary life.
“So,” you say, trying to fill the silence. “What happens now? You two back for good?”
Steve nods. “That’s the plan. The SSR’s wrapping things up here in the States. They’ll probably find something else for us to do, but—”
“Home’s home,” Bucky finishes for him, voice low.
You smile. “Good. I missed this.”
Steve grins, leaning back. “What, me and Buck bickering over pancakes?”
“Among other things.”
For a moment, it really does feel like nothing’s changed. You catch Bucky’s eye over the rim of your cup and he smiles—small, private. You feel warmth bloom in your chest, unfamiliar and dangerous. Then the bell above the diner door rings. You glance up, and the world shifts again.
Andrew steps inside—tall, clean-cut, still in his office clothes. His eyes find you immediately, and he smiles. The engagement ring on your finger feels suddenly, painfully heavy. “There you are,” he says, crossing the diner. “I stopped by your place—they said you’d come down here. I thought I’d find you with—” He stops mid-sentence when he sees the men at your booth. Recognition flickers in his eyes. “Captain Rogers,” he says, extending a hand. “An honor.”
Steve stands, polite as ever, shaking it firmly. “Just Steve, please.”
Then Andrew turns to Bucky. “And you must be Sergeant Barnes. She’s told me about you.”
Bucky rises slowly, every trace of warmth gone from his face. He takes Andrew’s hand, grip measured, voice smooth. “All good things, I hope.”
“Of course,” Andrew says with a tight smile.
You can feel the tension rolling between them—two different kinds of manhood colliding. Bucky’s eyes flick to your ring before he looks away, and something in your chest twists painfully.
Andrew drapes an arm around your shoulders, casual and proprietary, and presses a kiss to your temple. “We should get going,” he says softly. “Dinner at my parents’ tonight.”
You nod, but your throat feels tight. You turn back to the table. “I’ll see you both soon, alright?”
Steve smiles, warm and oblivious. “You better.”
Bucky doesn’t say anything. He just gives a small nod, eyes unreadable.
When you step outside, the air feels colder. Andrew’s talking—something about promotions, a friend’s engagement party—but his voice fades into a blur. You glance back through the diner window. Bucky’s still watching you. For a heartbeat, you meet his eyes—the same blue that once promised laughter and mischief and safety. Now they’re tired, sad, full of things you’ll never be able to say.
Then Steve says something, Bucky looks away, and the moment breaks.
You turn, forcing a smile for the man at your side, and walk away—the ring cold on your finger, the ache in your chest sharp and familiar. Behind you, in the glow of the diner window, Bucky’s still there, his coffee untouched, and tells himself he’s happy just to see you again.
---
The weeks that follow are an echo of a life you all once knew—familiar rhythms layered over a city trying to remember how to breathe again. The war is over, but Brooklyn still hums like it’s waiting for the next siren. Windows are patched with new glass, ration posters fade on the walls, and people fill the streets again with laughter that still sounds uncertain.
For the three of you—you, Steve, and Bucky—it’s as if the world has been rewound, though the edges don’t quite line up anymore. The diner booth is still yours, the coffee’s still weak, the jukebox still sputters out old love songs. But Bucky doesn’t joke as much now, and Steve sits taller, his shoulders too broad for the space. You try to ignore the differences—or maybe you just pretend not to notice them.
It starts small. You thread your arm through Bucky’s as you always did when you walk down 39th. He still lets you, though now his body goes a little stiff at first, then softens as if he remembers he’s supposed to. Sometimes you’ll reach for him without thinking—to tug him across a street or to steady him when he’s distracted—and the jolt that runs through him is subtle but real.
He hides it well. He always did.
What gets him most isn’t how you’ve changed, but how you haven’t. You still hum under your breath when you’re nervous. Still tap your nails against your cup while you talk. You laugh easily, throw your head back the same way you did when he’d tease you before the war. You still look at him with that same open warmth that once made him feel like the luckiest man alive, and now it just makes him ache.
He doesn’t know how to fit himself into this version of Brooklyn—this version of you.
You’re engaged now. He reminds himself of it every time he sees the ring on your hand. Sometimes it catches the light and glitters against your coffee cup, a tiny cruel flash that digs under his ribs. Andrew is polite enough, decent enough, the sort of man who never raises his voice and always says please and thank you. He brings you flowers, takes you to dinner, shakes Bucky’s hand and calls him “pal.” Bucky shakes back, every muscle in his jaw tight.
He tries to be happy for you—really tries. You deserve safety, something whole. Not a man who wakes up drenched in sweat, fists clenched around ghosts. He tells himself that every time he sees you laughing at something Andrew says. It doesn’t make it hurt less.
There’s a night in late August when the three of you go out for drinks, the kind of night that used to belong to another lifetime—before uniforms, before blood and cold and loss. The bar’s crowded, cigarette smoke curling in the air, the jazz band so loud you have to lean close to be heard.
Steve’s grinning, shouting over the music about some newspaper interview he’s been roped into, Peggy’s name slipping into the conversation now and then, unguarded. You tease him mercilessly, and he blushes red as ever.
Bucky watches, smiling, sipping his whiskey too slowly. When you lean against him to whisper something—a joke, a memory—your hand finds his arm like it used to, fingers curling into the fabric of his sleeve. It’s innocent. It always is. You don’t see the way he freezes for a half-second, the way his breath catches before he forces a smirk in return. “You always were the funny one,” he says softly, almost lost beneath the brass.
“Only because you two were hopeless,” you tease back, and he grins—that old, dangerous grin that used to get him out of trouble and into more of it.
The moment stretches a little too long. Then Steve says something that makes you laugh again, and Bucky looks away. Later, when you all spill out into the street, the night air cool and damp against your skin, you loop your arm through his again without thinking. “Will you walk me home?” you ask, same as you always did.
He wants to say no. He wants to say he shouldn’t. But he just nods. “’Course.”
Steve peels off in the other direction, calling something about meeting tomorrow, and then it’s just the two of you.
You walk in silence for a while, your heels clicking softly against the pavement, your hand light on his arm. The city hums around you—car horns, laughter, music drifting from open windows. Everything feels the same, except it isn’t. “You seem quiet tonight,” you say finally, glancing up at him.
He shrugs. “Guess I’m still getting used to being back. Feels strange.”
“I can imagine.” You hesitate, then smile. “But it’s good. Having you home. I missed this.”
He swallows. “Yeah. Me too.”
You stop at a crosswalk, the streetlight painting your face in amber and shadow. For a moment, he forgets how to breathe. You’re looking up at him like you used to—the same soft tilt of your head, the same easy trust in your eyes.
And then he sees the ring glint again and feels the ground tilt beneath him. He forces a smile. “Your fiancé treating you right?”
You blink, surprised by the question. “Of course. Why?”
He shakes his head quickly. “No reason. Just—you deserve good things, is all.”
You smile faintly, a little shy. “He’s kind. Steady. My family likes him.”
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Sounds perfect.”
He means it to sound light, teasing even, but it lands heavier than either of you expect. You both fall silent. The only sound is the rumble of an approaching trolley and the faint hum of music from somewhere down the block.
When you reach your door, you turn to face him, still holding onto his arm. “You’ll come by again soon, won’t you? For dinner maybe? Andrew’s been wanting to cook for everyone.”
He almost laughs. Andrew’s cooking? The thought alone feels wrong—some man he doesn’t know standing where he used to, in your kitchen, touching the things that used to belong to the three of you. But he just nods. “Sure, doll. Whatever you want.”
You smile, squeeze his arm, and then, as if you don’t know what you’re doing to him, you step close and kiss his cheek. “Goodnight, Buck.”
His breath catches. It’s so quick, so ordinary, but it burns straight through him. He watches you disappear behind the door, the soft click of the latch echoing louder than it should. He stands there for a long time afterward, hands in his pockets, staring at the space you left behind.
When he finally turns away, the night feels colder. He tells himself that this is fine. That this—your friendship, your laughter, the arm he’s still sure he can feel linked through his—is enough.
But as he walks back down the quiet street, he knows it isn’t. Not anymore.
---
There’s another night in September, one of those in-between evenings when summer hasn’t quite let go. You, Steve, and Bucky are back at the diner—your diner—sharing a plate of fries while the jukebox hums some slow swing tune. The booths are full, the air smells like coffee and salt, and for a while, it almost feels like before.
You’ve kicked off your heels under the table, your feet brushing Bucky’s every now and then. You don’t even notice, but he does. Every time.
Steve’s talking about some meeting with the SSR, something about military reorganization and “civilian roles.” You’re listening with a faint smile, chin propped on your hand, your other hand absently tugging at the sleeve of Bucky’s jacket, straightening it like you always did when he wore his old coat crooked.
He watches your fingers instead of listening. The sight of your hand on his arm—small, certain, unthinking—stirs something both grounding and unbearable in him. When you glance up and catch him staring, you give him that same teasing grin you always used to. “What?”
“Nothing,” he says, voice rougher than he means. “Just… forgot how much you talk.”
You laugh, a quick, bright sound that draws a few curious looks from other tables. “That’s a lie and you know it.”
Steve rolls his eyes. “You two sound exactly like you did when we were fifteen.”
“Means we haven’t aged a day,” Bucky says with a smirk, though the weight in his chest says otherwise.
You smile at that, soft and fond. Then your gaze flicks toward the window, and you sigh. “Andrew’s picking me up soon.”
Bucky’s smirk falters. “Right. Of course.”
“Don’t sound so thrilled,” you tease, nudging his shoulder.
“Just jealous the guy gets to drive that fancy car of his while I’m stuck on the trolley,” he says easily. But the joke doesn’t land the way it used to.
A silence settles—not awkward, but charged. You look like you might say something, but then the bell above the door rings, and Andrew walks in. He’s polite as always, all charm and pressed shirts, waving to Steve and offering a quick handshake to Bucky. “Evening, fellas.”
“Andrew,” Bucky says evenly. “How’s work?”
“Busy. But I can’t complain.” He smiles at you then, and the way you light up—not as bright as you used to, maybe, but still real—is enough to make Bucky’s chest ache. “Ready to go, sweetheart?” Andrew asks.
“Yeah,” you say softly, standing and slipping on your coat.
Bucky stands too out of habit, like the gentleman he used to be. “See you around, doll.”
You glance back at him over your shoulder and smile. “You will.”
When the door closes behind you, the air feels heavier. Steve looks at him, knowing but kind. “You alright, Buck?”
Bucky exhales through his nose. “Never better.”
After that, he starts seeing you less. Not because you’ve changed anything—you still invite him for coffee, for dinners, for quiet evenings where you, Steve, and Andrew talk about nothing at all. But Bucky starts finding reasons to miss them. He tells you he’s got work, or errands, or that he’s tired.
The truth is, every time he sees you with Andrew, it kills him a little. The way Andrew’s hand rests casually on your back when you walk through a door. The way you lean toward him when you laugh. The way you still look at Bucky like you’re waiting for him to say something that he never will.
He spends more time at the docks now, helping unload cargo. The physical work keeps him grounded. He doesn’t talk much to the other men—they all recognize him as the war hero from the papers, whispering his name like it belongs to someone else. Maybe it does.
Sometimes, late at night, he takes the long way home past your street. The windows are lit warm and soft, and he can almost hear your voice drifting out through the open glass. It’s masochism, maybe, but it’s the only thing that makes him feel real.
A week later, Steve finds him on a park bench overlooking the river. “You’re torturing yourself,” Steve says, sitting beside him.
Bucky doesn’t look at him. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yeah, you do.”
The water glints silver under the moonlight. Bucky flicks his cigarette into it, watching the ember vanish. “She’s happy,” he says finally. “That’s all that matters.”
Steve’s quiet for a moment. “You sure about that?” Bucky glances at him then, brow furrowed. “I see the way she looks at you, Buck,” Steve says. “The way she lights up when you’re around. You really think it’s just friendship?”
Bucky’s throat tightens. He wants to deny it. Wants to say it’s all in Steve’s head. But the truth sits heavy in his chest, undeniable. “It doesn’t matter,” he says at last. “She made her choice.”
Steve studies him, sympathy in his eyes. “Maybe. But maybe she’s waiting for you to give her a reason to make a different one.”
Bucky laughs softly, humorless. “Yeah? And what then? I ruin what’s left of the only good thing I got?”
“Maybe you fix it instead,” Steve says quietly.
They sit in silence after that, the wind carrying the smell of salt and the faint sound of distant laughter. Bucky doesn’t answer, but Steve doesn’t press.
That night, Bucky dreams of you again. Not the war, not the pain—just you. Standing under that streetlamp, same as before, smiling up at him with eyes that look like home. He wakes before you can speak, the ghost of your touch still burning on his skin.
He sits up, heart pounding, and realizes that whatever he’s been trying to bury all these months—all these years—isn’t going anywhere. The war might be over, but he’s still fighting the same battle. And this time, the only thing he’s in danger of losing is you.
---
Late autumn settles over Brooklyn like a sigh. The air has that crisp edge that smells faintly of rain and coal smoke, and the trees along the sidewalks have begun to let go of what’s left of their color. Every street corner feels familiar, but quieter—like the city itself is still learning how to live again after the war.
You’ve spent the last few weeks tucked into wedding plans, your days filled with appointment books, fabric samples, and letters from relatives who suddenly remember your existence. The apartment smells faintly of starch and lavender, and the table is perpetually buried under swatches of ivory silk and lace.
Andrew’s handwriting covers half the notes in a neat, efficient scrawl: dates, times, addresses. You fill in the margins with doodles—vines, petals, tiny hearts—absent-minded things you used to sketch when you were supposed to be paying attention to something else.
And when you’re not working on the wedding, you’re with Steve and Bucky. The three of you still orbit each other, even if the rhythm has changed. Steve helps where he can—moving furniture, offering his larger-than-life charm to shopkeepers who’d otherwise ignore you in crowded stores. Bucky tags along sometimes, quieter now, his smile a little tighter around the edges.
He doesn’t say much these days, but you still feel him—the weight of his gaze when you laugh at something Steve says, the way he steps instinctively closer when you’re walking down a busy street, like his body’s still wired to protect you even when there’s nothing left to fight. You notice, though you don’t let yourself linger on it. You can’t.
It’s one of those chilly afternoons when the three of you end up downtown, balancing boxes full of wedding supplies between you. You’re moving through the narrow aisles of a florist’s shop, the air thick with the scent of roses and damp earth. “I don’t know,” you murmur, studying the bouquet in your hands. “These seem too stiff, don’t they? I want something softer, more natural.”
Steve, ever practical, squints at the arrangement like he’s inspecting troop formations. “Looks fine to me.”
You laugh. “You said that about the last three, too.”
“Well, they all look fine,” he says, a little helplessly.
Bucky smirks faintly, leaning against the counter, sleeves rolled up, hands tucked into his pockets. “You’re askin’ the wrong audience, doll. Between the two of us, I don’t think we’ve bought flowers that weren’t apologies.”
You glance up at him, caught off guard by the flicker of humor—the first real one you’ve seen from him all day. “Is that right?”
He shrugs, but his smile lingers. “Pretty sure every girl I ever gave flowers to had just finished tellin’ me off.”
“That’s because you deserved it,” Steve mutters.
Bucky grins. “Yeah, maybe.”
The sound of your laughter fills the small shop, and for a moment, it’s like time folds back on itself—the three of you as you were before the war, teasing and bright, untouched by the years between.
But then the florist asks about delivery dates, and the spell breaks. You glance down at your notes again, biting your lip as you try to recall the schedule. Bucky watches the motion, the way your teeth catch the soft skin, and something unravels inside him.
It’s the same nervous habit you had when you were sixteen, sitting at that diner booth and worrying about school, or the future, or whatever small storm was brewing in your head. You’d always do that—chew your lip until it was raw—and he’d tease you, reaching out to nudge your chin lightly with his thumb until you stopped.
He used to know everything about you. The songs you hummed when you cooked. The way you liked your coffee. The sound you made when you were trying not to laugh. Now he stands three feet away and feels like a stranger.
Later, after you’ve settled on a bouquet and paid the deposit, the three of you step outside. The cold air hits hard, sharp with the smell of rain. You draw your coat tighter around yourself and glance up at the sky, half-expecting snow. “Thanks for coming,” you say, glancing between them. “I know this stuff isn’t exactly your idea of a good time.”
Steve smiles. “You kidding? Beats punching Nazis.”
Bucky gives a quiet snort of amusement but says nothing. He shoves his hands deeper into his coat pockets and looks down the street instead. “You sure you don’t mind helping with deliveries next week?” you ask. “The caterer’s sending samples, and the venue wants us to test the layout.”
“Course not,” Bucky says, still not meeting your eyes. “Just tell me when and where.”
Something about his tone makes you pause. “You don’t have to, you know. I don’t want to take up your time.”
He glances at you then, his eyes soft, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t worry about it, doll. I got nothin’ but time.”
You try to return the smile, but it falters. There’s something behind his words you can’t quite name—a tiredness that doesn’t belong to a man his age. You want to ask him what’s wrong, but Steve’s already talking about dinner plans, and Bucky’s gaze has shifted back to the street.
That night, you’re sitting at your kitchen table, flipping through your notebook. The apartment is quiet—Andrew’s out late again, working—and you find yourself staring at your lists without reading them. The flowers, the venue, the dress… it’s all supposed to be exciting, but it feels like you’re building something in the wrong shape.
You think about Bucky—the way he’d smiled today, the way he’d looked at you when you laughed. The way he’d gone quiet again afterward. You shake the thought away, turning another page, but your pen hesitates above the paper.
You still write his name sometimes. Just his initials, tucked into corners, the way you used to when you were a teenager doodling in the margins of your homework. You tell yourself it’s habit. Nostalgia. But it feels like something more—something fragile, dangerous, and alive.
Across town, Bucky’s sitting on his narrow bed in the boarding house, the lamp beside him casting a weak yellow glow. He’s got an envelope in his lap—an invitation to your wedding, embossed and perfect, the edges faintly smudged from where you must have handled it.
He turns it over in his hands for a long time, his jaw tight. Then he sets it on the nightstand and leans back against the wall, staring at the ceiling. It should make him happy, seeing you getting everything you’ve ever wanted. It should feel like closure.
But instead, it feels like the world is slowly erasing him —like he’s watching the one thing that tethered him to his old life slip quietly out of reach. He closes his eyes and tells himself he’ll keep helping. He’ll keep smiling. He’ll be your friend. He’ll do all the right things.
Even if it kills him.
---
The following week arrives gray and drizzly, the kind of November day where the streets shine wet and the light never quite breaks through the clouds. The city hums quietly—horns in the distance, footsteps on slick pavement, the smell of roasted chestnuts from the corner cart.
You’ve invited Steve, Bucky, and Andrew to your apartment for a small “planning dinner.” Nothing formal—just a way to go over some details before your mother and Andrew’s parents join for the final tastings next weekend.
The dining table, usually cluttered with fabric swatches and half-burned candles, is covered now with plates and notebooks. You’ve spent the whole day rearranging, making sure everything looks right. There’s a neat little spread of sandwiches, cookies, and tea laid out, and your engagement ring glints whenever you reach for a cup.
Bucky’s the last to arrive. He hesitates on the landing before knocking, half tempted to turn back. But then he hears your voice through the door—that light, hurried tone he’s heard a thousand times—and he knocks once before he can talk himself out of it.
You open the door with a smudge of flour on your wrist. The smell of something warm and buttery drifts out from the kitchen. “Buck!” you say, smiling. “You made it.”
He grins back, awkward and genuine all at once. “Wouldn’t miss it, doll.”
You let him in, taking his coat and hanging it carefully beside Andrew’s. The apartment feels cozy—too small for four people, maybe, but bright and alive with the hum of conversation. Steve’s sitting on the sofa with a cup of tea, papers spread over his knees. Andrew’s standing by the table, sleeves rolled up, carefully arranging sandwiches on a platter. “Glad you could join us,” Andrew says pleasantly, looking up. “We were just about to talk food.”
“Dangerous subject,” Bucky says, pulling out a chair. “You sure you want my opinion?”
“Only if it’s good,” Andrew jokes.
You laugh, and the tension eases for a moment. They spend the first twenty minutes talking about seating charts and table settings, Steve occasionally chiming in with comments that make you laugh and roll your eyes. Bucky mostly listens, offering a word here or there when you ask him to weigh in.
He watches the way you move, the way your fingers hover over the list as you read it aloud, how you press your lips together when you’re thinking. Every detail feels sharper than it should, like his mind’s cataloging every part of you to hold onto later.
Then Andrew says, “Oh—speaking of food, I talked to my mother today about the luncheon menu.”
You glance up, smiling. “Oh? What did she say?”
“She’d love to prepare some of the dishes herself. Thought it’d be a nice personal touch,” Andrew explains, flipping through his notes. “You know, her cucumber sandwiches, that salad she makes with the dill dressing—your favorite.”
Bucky’s fork stops halfway to his mouth. He doesn’t say a word, but something in his chest goes still. Your expression flickers—not enough for Andrew to notice, but Bucky sees it. A tiny hesitation. A half-second of polite confusion. Then your smile smooths back into place. “Right,” you say gently. “That’s lovely.”
Andrew beams. “I told her you’d be thrilled. She’ll start prepping this week.”
Steve nods approvingly. “Sounds fancy. I’ve never had cucumber sandwiches before.”
“Oh, they’re very refreshing,” Andrew says cheerfully. “Perfect with tea.”
“Sure they are,” Bucky mutters under his breath, his tone too quiet for anyone but you to catch.
You shoot him a look, small but sharp, as if to say don’t. He gives a slight shrug, leaning back in his chair. The rest of the conversation moves on—table linens, music, who will walk you down the aisle—but the air feels different. Bucky can’t stop hearing Andrew’s voice echoing that one word, favorite.
He remembers the real story. The diner, years ago. You’d ordered a sandwich with cucumbers and took one bite before making the most disgusted face he’d ever seen. He’d teased you for it, and you’d shoved your plate at him, muttering something about “texture” and “godawful smell.” He’d laughed until you threw a napkin at his head.
It was such a small thing—ordinary and stupid—but somehow, it feels enormous now. Because Andrew doesn’t know. He doesn’t know the girl who once snuck a stray cat into her parents’ kitchen, who carried three pairs of gloves every winter because you always lost one. He doesn’t know that you used to hum Gershwin when you cooked or that you hated thunderstorms but loved the smell of rain after.
He doesn’t know you. And Bucky realizes, with a quiet ache that steals the breath from his lungs, that he’s the only one left who does.
After dinner, Steve leaves first, promising to help you haul boxes to the venue next weekend. Andrew lingers a few minutes longer, kissing your cheek before heading home. You see him off at the door, murmuring soft goodnights, and when you turn back, Bucky’s still sitting at the table, arms folded, eyes fixed on the empty plate in front of him. “Thanks for helping tonight,” you say, voice careful. “I know it’s not the most exciting thing in the world.”
He looks up slowly, a faint, wry smile on his lips. “Exciting’s overrated.”
You roll your eyes affectionately and start gathering the dishes. He stands to help, wordlessly taking a stack from your hands. The quiet between you feels different now—heavier, but not uncomfortable. Familiar, almost. You wash, he dries. It’s easy, practiced, like slipping back into an old song you both know by heart. When the last plate’s done, you lean against the counter, exhaling. “Andrew’s mother’s really going all out. It’s sweet of her.”
“Yeah,” Bucky says lightly, though something sharp threads through his tone. “Sweet.”
You glance over at him. “What?”
He shakes his head. “Nothin’.”
“Bucky,” you press, arms folding. “Don’t do that. What?”
He hesitates, then shrugs. “Just funny, s’all. You always hated cucumbers.”
You blink. “What?”
“Cucumbers,” he says again, half-smiling. “You used to pick ’em off your sandwiches and dump ’em on my plate. Said they tasted like cold soap.”
You stare at him for a second, caught off guard. The memory is so vivid it startles you—the diner, the cheap plates, his teasing grin. “I… guess I did.”
“Guess you forgot,” he says quietly. You open your mouth to answer, but the words stick. The kitchen feels smaller suddenly, too quiet. His eyes are on you, steady and sad, like he’s seeing something you’re only just starting to remember. He clears his throat, looks away, and grabs his coat. “Anyway, I should go. Long day tomorrow.”
You nod slowly. “Right. Of course.”
At the door, he pauses. “Goodnight, doll.”
“Goodnight, Bucky.”
When the door closes, you stand there for a long time, your back to it, the faint smell of soap and tea still clinging to the air. You don’t know why the stupid detail bothers you so much—why it leaves your chest tight and your eyes stinging. But you can’t shake it.
Because he’s right. You do hate cucumbers.
And you can’t quite remember when you started pretending otherwise.
---
It starts as something small, almost imperceptible—a ripple under the surface of a life you’ve been trying to convince yourself is whole. After the night of the cucumber remark, everything feels… tilted. The moment itself had been nothing, really. A few harmless words in a quiet kitchen. But they’d cracked something open that you’d spent months keeping tightly sealed.
Now, the smallest things catch at you. Andrew’s laughter, too practiced. His kisses, always polite and brief. The way he talks about the future in tidy, well-planned sentences—his job, the house you’ll have, the way “Mrs. Reid” rolls so easily off his tongue.
You smile when he says it. You always smile. But inside, there’s this quiet voice that keeps asking, when did you stop belonging to yourself?
You start noticing how often you nod when you don’t agree. How many times you laugh even when something doesn’t strike you as funny. How you smooth over the rough edges of who you are to fit the life that’s being built around you.
It isn’t bad, you tell yourself. Andrew is a good man. Gentle, thoughtful. He works hard, treats you well, makes sure you never walk home alone. He listens when you talk—or at least, he listens enough to respond in all the right ways.
But sometimes, when he looks at you across a dinner table or from the driver’s seat of his neat little car, you get the sense that he’s seeing a version of you that isn’t real. A woman built from good manners and careful words. A woman who never picks fights, never rolls her eyes, never swears when she drops something heavy.
And every time, you think of Bucky. Of the way he’d grin when you cursed, teasing you just to see if he could make you do it again. Of how he never flinched when you disagreed with him, never made you feel smaller for it. Of how, somehow, he could read your silences better than most people could read your words.
You try not to think of it, but the thought follows you like a shadow.
You see Bucky again a week later, almost by accident. You’re on your way back from the tailor with your arms full of packages—bolts of fabric, invitations, a box of new gloves. The wind’s sharp and biting, tearing at your hat, and you’re juggling everything when a voice behind you says, “you always did try to carry the world by yourself.”
You turn, startled—and there he is. Bucky stands a few feet away, collar turned up against the cold, hair mussed by the wind. He looks better than he did last week, or maybe it’s just that he’s smiling, a little shyly, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to.
“Buck,” you breathe, shifting the packages. “What are you—”
“Was passin’ by,” he says easily, stepping closer. “Figured you could use a hand.” You start to protest, but one of the boxes slips, and he catches it before it hits the ground. He looks at you with that same half-smirk he’s always had—the one that makes your heart stutter for reasons you don’t want to name. “Still stubborn as ever,” he murmurs.
“Still nosy,” you shoot back automatically, though the words come out softer than you intend.
He grins, just a little, and takes the rest of the boxes from you before you can argue. “C’mon, doll. I’ll walk you home.”
The walk is quiet at first. The city hums around you—the whistle of a streetcar, the chatter from shop doors, the faint smell of roasted nuts from a vendor down the block. The two of you move in step like you used to, your gloved hand brushing against his sleeve every so often.
It feels almost normal. Almost easy. He asks about the wedding, and you tell him bits and pieces—the dress, the flowers, the venue—but even to your own ears, it sounds rehearsed, like you’re reading from someone else’s script. When you trail off, Bucky glances at you sideways. “You happy?”
The question lands like a pebble in a pond—small, but the ripples keep spreading. You blink, caught off guard. “What kind of question is that?”
He shrugs, eyes on the pavement. “Just seems like a thing a guy oughta ask his friend before she gets married.”
You laugh, but it doesn’t sound right. “Of course I’m happy. Why wouldn’t I be?” He doesn’t answer, just nods slightly. The silence stretches between you until you add, “Andrew’s good to me. You’ve seen that.”
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I’ve seen it.”
Something in his tone makes your stomach twist. The rest of the walk is quieter. You talk about safe things—the weather, Steve’s latest SSR gossip, a new bakery opening down the street. When you reach your building, you pause at the steps, clutching your packages tighter than necessary. “Thanks for helping,” you say.
“Anytime,” he replies.
You linger a moment longer, the wind tugging at your coat. “You should come by Sunday. We’re having dinner with Steve. Just the three of us, like old times.”
He hesitates, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “You sure that’s a good idea?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Then, finally, “alright. Sunday.”
You smile, relieved. “Good.” When you go inside, you can feel his gaze following you up the stairs. You don’t look back.
Sunday comes, and with it, a quiet warmth you didn’t know you’d been missing. The three of you sit around your little kitchen table, laughing about nothing—the way Steve still can’t cook, the way Bucky still eats like a man starved. For a few hours, it’s as if the years between you’ve been peeled away.
You pour coffee while Bucky leans back in his chair, sleeves rolled up, telling a story about one of the guys from the docks. His voice is rich and low, easy with laughter. You’ve missed that sound more than you realized.
When the story ends, Steve gets up to wash dishes, leaving you and Bucky alone for a moment. You watch him quietly. The curve of his jaw. The scar by his temple. The way his eyes crinkle when he smiles. You shouldn’t look at him like that, but you do anyway.
He catches your gaze and holds it. Something flickers between you—familiar, dangerous. You open your mouth to say something, anything, but Steve comes back, clattering dishes, and the spell breaks. Later, after the dishes are done and the laughter’s faded, Bucky lingers at the door. You walk him down to the stoop, saying goodnight like always. The street’s quiet, washed silver by the lamplight. “You really are happy?” he asks again, voice almost lost to the wind.
You hesitate. “I’m supposed to be.”
He studies you for a long moment, then nods, as if that’s answer enough. “Take care of yourself, doll.”
He starts to turn away, but you reach out, catching his sleeve. The fabric is rough and warm under your fingers. “Bucky.” He looks back, and for a heartbeat, everything stops—the air, the sounds, even your own pulse. You want to say something. To tell him that you don’t know how to do this—how to want two different lives, how to stop pretending. But the words won’t come. So you just let go. “Goodnight.”
He hesitates, then tips his head slightly. “Goodnight.”
When he walks away, you stay there for a long time, the cold biting through your coat, your heart pounding like it’s trying to tell you something you already know. And somewhere down the street, Bucky doesn’t look back—because he’s afraid that if he does, he won’t be able to keep walking.
---
The afternoon is one of those deceptive early-winter days—bright sun, brittle cold, wind that nips at your cheeks but never quite steals the warmth from the light. The four of you—you, Andrew, his mother, and Steve—have spent the better part of the day at the reception hall, finalizing decorations and seating arrangements. Bucky had tagged along under the excuse of “lifting heavy things,” but truthfully, he just couldn’t stay away.
The hall itself is beautiful in that sterile, echoing way—pale walls, high ceilings, windows that catch every bit of sunlight and spill it onto the polished floors. There are samples of floral arrangements along one wall, stacks of folded linens, a small buffet table with coffee and pastries that have long gone cold.
You’ve been moving nonstop for an hour—bending, rearranging, lifting centerpieces, trying to visualize how it’ll all come together. You’re tired, your hands ache, and the hem of your skirt keeps catching on your heels.
Bucky watches from the side, sleeves rolled up, arms crossed. Steve’s beside him, dutifully holding a roll of seating charts while Andrew and his mother discuss silverware with the event planner. “Careful, sweetheart,” Andrew calls as you lean over to move a stack of chairs. “You don’t have to do that yourself.”
You smile, trying not to sound as breathless as you feel. “I’m fine. Just making sure the space works.” It’s right about then that your purse slips off the chair where you’d set it—and the entire contents scatter dramatically across the floor. Lipstick, coins, a small notebook, a handful of folded receipts. You let out a startled sound, bend to grab it—and promptly hit your knee on the edge of the table. The pain is immediate and sharp enough that the word slips out before you can stop it. “Goddammit.”
The sound echoes, far too loud in the open space. For a second, the entire room freezes. Andrew’s head snaps up from where he’s been talking with his mother. She blinks, the faintest twitch of disapproval crossing her expression—not much, just the tightening around her mouth, a small flicker of polite discomfort that might have gone unnoticed if Bucky hadn’t been watching her.
Steve looks like he’s about to laugh, then catches himself. Bucky turns away, biting down on the grin that’s already threatening to break loose.
You flush hot, half from embarrassment, half from frustration. “I—sorry. Table jumped out at me.”
Andrew recovers quickly, his voice smooth, reassuring. “It’s alright, darling. Maybe watch where you’re stepping next time.”
You nod, forcing a small laugh, and crouch to gather your things. You can feel your face burning. Bucky moves forward before you can stop him, crouching beside you. “Here,” he murmurs, low enough that only you hear it. His gloved hand brushes yours briefly as he hands you your lipstick. “You kiss your fiancé with that mouth?”
You shoot him a look, half scandalized, half amused despite yourself. “Don’t start.”
He smirks. “Couldn’t help it. Been too long since I heard you swear.”
“Should I be flattered that you missed it?”
He shrugs, sliding a coin toward you with one finger. “Maybe I just missed you.”
The words hang in the air a moment too long. You swallow, eyes flicking to his, but before you can respond, Andrew’s voice cuts across the room, “everything alright?”
You stand quickly, clutching your things to your chest. “Yes. All fine.” Bucky rises slower, expression carefully neutral, though you catch the flicker of amusement still dancing in his eyes.
The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of polite conversation and half-hearted planning. Andrew’s mother offers notes on napkin folds, Steve provides the occasional grunt of agreement, and you smile so much your cheeks hurt.
But you feel Bucky’s gaze every time you speak. Every time you laugh too softly or fidget with your gloves. When you finally leave the venue, the daylight’s already fading into that soft gold that makes everything look warmer than it is. Steve walks ahead with Andrew and his mother, deep in conversation, while you and Bucky lag behind, the cold air frosting your breath. He glances sideways at you. “You okay?”
You exhale a laugh. “Just humiliated myself in front of my future mother-in-law. Totally fine.”
“She’s gonna live,” he says with a grin. “Hell, I think it was worth it just to see her face.”
You groan. “She looked like I’d cursed out a priest.”
“She kinda did,” he teases. “Never thought I’d say this, but I missed hearin’ you swear.”
You glance at him, smiling despite yourself. “You’re impossible.”
“Maybe. But you used to call me worse than that.”
You roll your eyes. “When you deserved it.”
He laughs, genuine this time—the sound so warm and familiar it hits something deep inside you. “You got a mouth on you when you’re mad, sweetheart. Don’t pretend otherwise.”
“I was sixteen,” you protest, shoving your hands in your coat pockets. “Everyone had a mouth at sixteen.”
“Yeah,” he says softly, looking ahead. “But you had fire.” That quiet tone—low, almost reverent—steals the humor right out of the air. You look up at him, but he’s not smiling anymore. His eyes are distant, thoughtful. You walk the rest of the way in silence. Not uncomfortable, just… heavy. The kind of silence that carries too many words neither of you can afford to say.
When you reach the corner where you’ll part ways, you stop. “You’re walking the wrong direction again.”
He smirks faintly. “Never said I was goin’ anywhere in particular.”
You hesitate. “You didn’t have to come today, you know. I know it’s not exactly your kind of thing.”
“I didn’t mind,” he says simply. Then, after a beat, “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”
“I’m fine,” you lie automatically.
He studies you for a moment, then tilts his head slightly. “You’re allowed to be more than ‘fine,’ you know.” You open your mouth, but no answer comes. He gives you a small, tired smile. “See you soon, doll.” You watch him walk away, hands shoved deep in his pockets, his figure fading into the crowd until he’s gone.
That night, Andrew calls—his voice smooth, polite, talking about dinner with his parents and the guest list. You listen, answering when you need to, but your mind drifts elsewhere. You think of the way Bucky had knelt beside you without hesitation. The quiet teasing. The memory of your younger selves flashing between you for one breathless second. You think of how Andrew had said, “watch where you’re stepping,” and how it had sounded less like concern and more like correction.
You hang up the phone with a headache and a hollow ache in your chest. When you turn off the light, you whisper into the dark—a soft, frustrated word that you’d never say out loud. Bucky would have laughed. And for the first time in a long while, you do too—quietly, bitterly, but real.
---
The night of the dance comes almost by accident—one of those things Steve insists on, claiming it’ll “do everyone good to get out.” He’s been helping with a fundraiser for returning veterans, something organized at a converted ballroom downtown. There’ll be live music, dancing, food, and a chance, he says, to feel normal again.
You’d refused at first. Between fittings, dinner invitations, and endless lists from your mother and Andrew’s family, your days already feel like borrowed time. But Steve is relentless—and Bucky, of course, is going. So you give in.
The evening is cold enough that your breath ghosts in the air as you step from the cab. The building glows warm through tall windows, laughter spilling onto the street in bursts as couples sweep in through the doors. Music drifts faintly out—brass and strings, something upbeat and elegant.
You smooth your gloves, nerves prickling under your skin. Andrew couldn’t come; a late dinner with a client, he said, promising to make it up to you over the weekend. He’d kissed your cheek on the way out the door, already thinking about something else.
Now, standing under the soft halo of the marquee lights, you almost turn back—until you hear a familiar voice. “Hey, doll.” Bucky’s leaning against the doorframe, coat open, tie slightly undone. He’s smiling—that lazy, easy grin that used to make your stomach do strange things when you were younger.
You exhale. “You look—”
“Don’t say it,” he warns playfully. “I already know.”
You grin despite yourself. “You were going to say it anyway.”
“Maybe,” he admits, pushing off the wall. “You look beautiful, by the way.”
It’s simple, unembellished, and it lands harder than it should. You nod, trying to keep your voice steady. “Thank you.”
He offers his arm with a flourish. “Shall we?” You take it before you can think better of it. The hall inside is alive—bright lights glinting off polished floors, the air full of warmth and perfume and brass. A small band plays near the stage, their instruments gleaming under the glow. Couples swirl across the floor, the sound of laughter weaving with the rhythm of the music.
Steve finds you both near the entrance, already grinning, already holding two glasses of champagne. “You made it!”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” you say, smiling.
Bucky raises a brow at the glasses. “Since when do you drink the fancy stuff?”
Steve shrugs. “Figured I’d start celebrating before anyone gets sentimental.”
“You’re the sentimental one,” Bucky teases. “You cried when you saw that puppy in the paper last week.”
“Yeah, and you didn’t?”
You laugh, shaking your head. “You two haven’t changed a bit.”
For the first hour, everything feels easy. You sit together at a table near the floor, watching dancers spin, the band switching between swing and slower numbers. Steve gets dragged onto the dance floor by a brunette in a red dress, who you’re pretty sure is Peggy, leaving you and Bucky to nurse drinks and trade quiet jokes.
But as the night wears on, something shifts. The music slows. The lights dim slightly, turning everything gold and soft. Couples begin to drift together, the chatter thinning into quiet laughter. You’re fiddling with your glass when Bucky stands. “Come on.”
You blink up at him. “What?”
He nods toward the floor. “Dance with me.”
“Bucky, I don’t think—”
He extends his hand, palm up, eyes steady. “It’s just a dance.”
Your heart stutters, but you take it. His hand is warm around yours, solid. The other settles lightly at your waist as he guides you into the rhythm. It’s slow, easy—the kind of song that sways more than moves, leaving space for breath between every step.
You haven’t danced together since before the war. Back then, it had been all laughter and clumsy steps—your heels on his boots, his grin bright enough to fill the room. This feels different. Older. Heavier. You can feel the weight of his gaze on you, even as you try to keep your eyes anywhere else. “So,” he says quietly, his voice just audible over the band. “Big day’s coming soon.”
You nod. “Two months.”
“You nervous?”
You laugh softly, though it sounds a little hollow. “Should I be?”
He shrugs, eyes flicking down to yours. “Guess that depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether you’re happy.”
You swallow. “You’re starting to sound like a broken record.”
“Maybe,” he says, smiling faintly. “But you still haven’t given me an answer.”
You look away, focusing on a couple nearby, the woman’s patterned dress catching the light as she spins. “It’s not that simple, Bucky.”
“Doesn’t have to be.”
The music slows further, the last few bars stretching out. His thumb traces an idle circle at your waist—so small you almost think you imagined it. You glance up at him. “You’re staring.”
“Can’t help it,” he murmurs. “I’ve spent half my life lookin’ out for you, and the other half trying not to.”
Your breath catches. “Bucky—”
He shakes his head slightly, cutting you off before you can say more. “Don’t worry. I’m not gonna ruin your night.” The song ends, but neither of you move right away. You’re still caught in the slow sway of it, the warmth of his hand, the nearness of him. Finally, he steps back, the loss of his touch like stepping into cold air. “Thanks for the dance, doll.”
You nod, voice soft. “Anytime.”
He smiles—that quiet, sad smile that doesn’t reach his eyes—and turns away before you can say more. You stand there, trying to steady your breathing, watching him move toward the bar. The crowd shifts around you, but everything feels strangely far away—the music, the laughter, the shimmering gold of the lights.
When Steve returns, flushed and grinning, you force yourself to smile. You make small talk, you drink another glass of champagne, you laugh in all the right places.
But every time you glance across the room, Bucky’s already looking at you. And when the band starts another song—something slow and aching—you can feel the pulse of it in your bones, the echo of his hand still at your waist. You know, with sudden terrible clarity, that the world you’ve built is about to crack.
The cold hits like a slap when you step outside the ballroom, the sudden quiet almost deafening after the swell of brass and laughter. The sky is a heavy gray-black, the kind of night that promises snow. Streetlights cast soft circles on the pavement, and the air smells faintly of salt and smoke.
You pull your shawl tighter around your shoulders and exhale, trying to steady yourself. Inside, the party is still going strong—laughter, footsteps, clinking glasses. You can still hear the echo of the band through the doors. The sound feels far away, like it belongs to someone else’s life.
You hadn’t meant to come out here. You just needed air. Space to breathe. You’re halfway down the steps when the door swings open behind you. “Figured I’d find you out here.” You turn. Bucky stands in the doorway, coat over one arm, his expression unreadable. His hair’s a little messy from the heat inside, his tie loose. He looks nothing like the man who’d smiled and danced with you an hour ago. He looks like someone who’s come to do something he can’t take back.
“Hey,” you manage, your voice thinner than you’d like. “Needed a minute.”
“Yeah,” he says, stepping down beside you. “Me too.”
The silence stretches, filled with the low hum of the city and the distant sound of a passing car. You look out toward the street. “It’s getting late. I should—”
“Don’t go yet.” It comes out sharper than he means, and he runs a hand through his hair, sighing. “Sorry. Just—just wait a minute.”
You hesitate, then nod. He steps in front of you, close enough that you have to tilt your head to meet his eyes. The lamplight catches the faint scar at his temple, the sharp line of his jaw. You can see the muscle in his throat move when he swallows. “You can’t marry him,” he says quietly.
The words hit like a physical thing—not shouted, not dramatic, just certain. You stare at him, the wind tugging at your shawl. “What?”
He exhales hard, almost laughing, not because it’s funny, but because he’s run out of ways to hold it in. “You heard me.”
“Bucky—”
“Don’t.” His voice cracks slightly, the word raw. “Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talkin’ about. You’ve been pretending long enough.”
You step back, shaking your head. “You don’t get to say that.”
“The hell I don’t.”
“You don’t,” you repeat, louder this time, the tremor in your voice betraying you. “You had years, Bucky. Years to say something, and you didn’t. You went off to war, and you didn’t write, you didn’t—”
“I thought I was dead!” he shouts, then lowers his voice quickly, the sound cracking in the cold air. “I thought I was dead, and when I wasn’t, I didn’t know how to come back. You think I wanted to ruin what we had?”
“You already have,” you whisper.
He laughs—quiet and bitter. “Yeah. Guess I did.” You turn away, hugging your arms around yourself, staring out at the blur of passing headlights. Your breath clouds the air, your chest tight. He steps closer, voice low again. “I’m not tryin’ to hurt you, doll. I just—” He stops, searching for the words. “Every time I see you with him, it feels like I’m watching somebody else live your life. And I can’t keep doin’ it.”
Your throat tightens. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I do.”
He reaches out, hesitates, then lets his hand drop. “You think I don’t see it? The way you look when you’re with him—polite, careful. Like you’re walkin’ on glass. You used to laugh with your whole body, you know that? You’d throw your head back and snort like it was the funniest thing you ever heard. You don’t laugh like that anymore.”
You blink, and your vision goes blurry. “That’s not fair.”
“It’s true.”
You shake your head, half laughing, half crying. “God, you think you can just come back and tell me I’m unhappy? You think you can just say that and everything changes?”
He takes a step forward, closing the space between you. His voice drops, rough and steady. “No. I think I can tell you the truth. I love you, and I have since before I even knew what that meant.” The words hang there, suspended in the cold air, heavy enough to change the shape of the night. You stare at him, heart pounding, your mouth open but no words coming out. He laughs again, softer now, broken. “I know. I know I’m too late. But I’d rather ruin what’s left than spend another day pretendin’ I don’t still feel this way.”
You whisper, “Bucky, stop.”
He shakes his head. “I can’t. Not this time.”
“Don’t do this to me.”
“I’m not doin’ anything to you,” he says quietly. “I’m tryin’ to be honest. For once.”
You step closer without realizing it, until you’re only a breath apart. The air between you feels electric, sharp, full of everything you’ve both been avoiding. “You don’t get to tell me you love me now,” you say, voice shaking. “Not after all this time.”
He swallows. “I know.”
You look up at him—his eyes, his face, the way he’s looking at you like you’re something precious and painful all at once. “Then why are you saying it?”
“Because I’d rather you hate me for it than never know.”
He reaches out, fingers brushing your jaw. You should pull away. You don’t. The touch is so light it barely registers, but it’s enough to make your heart lurch. You realize you’ve been waiting for it—for years, maybe.
And then he kisses you.
It isn’t careful. It isn’t perfect. It’s desperate, aching, years of silence collapsing into one impossible moment. His hand finds your face, yours fists in the front of his coat. He tastes like smoke and whiskey and regret.
For a second, you let yourself fall into it—the familiarity, the warmth, the terrible rightness of it. Then reality slams back. You break away, breathless, trembling. “Don’t,” you whisper. “Please.”
He takes a step back immediately, hands raised like surrender. “I’m sorry.”
You shake your head, voice thin. “No, you’re not.”
He opens his mouth, closes it again. “You’re right. I’m not.”
You stand there in the cold, neither of you moving, the echo of the kiss still pulsing in the space between you. Finally, you turn. “I have to go.”
He doesn’t stop you this time. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know.”
You walk away, your heels striking the pavement, each step harder than the last. You don’t look back, because if you do, you’ll break. Behind you, Bucky stays where he is, the wind tugging at his coat, the sound of the music from inside drifting faintly through the doors. He runs a hand over his mouth, as if he can still taste you, and lets out a shaky breath that turns white in the cold air.
When Steve finds him later, still standing outside under the lamplight, he doesn’t ask what happened. He doesn’t need to. “Guess she went home,” Steve says quietly.
Bucky nods, staring down at the street. “Yeah.”
“You okay?”
Bucky laughs once, soft and bitter. “Not even close.”
Steve doesn’t say anything after that. Just claps a hand to his shoulder, solid and wordless, before leading him toward home.
That night, you sit on your bed in the dark, your shawl still around your shoulders, your hair still styled from the dance. The mirror across from you reflects a version of yourself you don’t recognize—flushed cheeks, tear-stained eyes, a ring on your finger that feels heavier than gold.
You press your fingers to your lips and close your eyes. The ghost of him is still there—the warmth of his hand, the tremor in his voice when he said your name. You tell yourself it was a mistake. That it won’t happen again. That it doesn’t change anything. But deep down, in the place where you’ve hidden everything that still feels alive, you already know it does. Because no matter what happens next—no matter how much you tell yourself otherwise—that kiss didn’t feel like the end of something.
It felt like the start.
---
The morning after the dance dawns gray and breathless, the kind of quiet that feels like the city itself is holding still. You wake long before your alarm, eyes open to the dim light filtering through the curtains. The bedsheets are cold beside you—Andrew had stayed at his parents’ house last night after the dinner he mentioned, something about convenience, early meetings. You’d told him it was fine. You’d meant it.
But now, the silence in the apartment feels unbearable.
Your shawl is draped over the chair where you tossed it last night. One glove sits on the floor, half under the bed. Your lipstick is still smudged faintly around the corners of your mouth. You stare at your reflection in the vanity mirror for a long time—your eyes red-rimmed, your hair a little messed up from sleep.
You look like a woman who hasn’t slept. You look like a woman who’s done something unforgivable. You press your palms flat on the table, forcing a breath through your lungs. You should feel guilty. You do feel guilty—but not in the way you expected. The shame sits alongside something else, something more dangerous. You feel awake.
You make it through breakfast without tasting a thing. The paper sits unread beside your plate, the coffee untouched. Every tick of the clock seems louder than the last. You keep hearing his voice, low and rough.
You can’t marry him.
You used to laugh with your whole body.
I’d rather you hate me for it than never know.
You try to drown it out with reason. Andrew is good. Steady. The kind of man your parents dreamed you’d marry. He’s kind to you, even if his kindness sometimes feels more like careful politeness than love. You’ll have a warm home, safety, a life without turbulence.
Bucky is none of those things.
He’s reckless, restless, full of jagged edges and ghosts that won’t leave him. His hands still tremble when he doesn’t sleep. He disappears for hours to “walk,” though you suspect he’s not walking so much as running from his own mind.
But when he’d kissed you—God, when he’d kissed you—there had been no distance, no pretending. Just truth. Raw, terrible, beautiful truth. And now you can’t un-feel it.
You find yourself outside his building before you realize you’ve even left home. The cold gnaws at your fingers; your breath fogs the air. You’re in your best coat, a hat tugged low, gloves clasped tight as if they’re the only thing keeping you from shaking apart.
You stand there for a long moment, staring at the door. Every part of you is screaming not to go inside—but your feet move anyway. The hallway smells faintly of tobacco and cheap soap. The floorboards creak underfoot. You reach his door, heart hammering, and knock before you can talk yourself out of it.
It takes a moment. Then footsteps. Then the latch.
When the door opens, he looks… wrecked. Bucky’s hair is rumpled, his shirt half-buttoned, his eyes red-rimmed like yours. He blinks when he sees you, caught between surprise and something softer—something like disbelief. “Doll.”
“Can I come in?”
He steps aside wordlessly. The apartment is small—one room with a narrow kitchen, a half-drawn curtain separating the bed from the rest. There’s a record player on a crate, a mug on the windowsill gone cold. Everything smells faintly of metal polish and smoke.
You take off your gloves, set them down on the table, and stand there, unsure what to do with your hands. He’s watching you carefully, like he’s afraid if he blinks you’ll disappear. “I shouldn’t be here,” you say first.
He nods once. “Probably not.”
Neither of you move. The silence stretches. Finally, you force the words out, “what happened last night can’t—”
“—be undone,” he finishes for you. His voice is steady, quiet. “I know.”
You swallow. “Andrew—”
“Doesn’t love you the way you deserve,” he says, too quickly.
“Don’t,” you whisper. “Don’t make him the villain. He’s good to me.”
“I know he is,” Bucky says softly. “But he doesn’t see you.”
You turn away, pacing to the window. “You keep saying that. That he doesn’t see me. What does that even mean?”
He moves closer, not touching you yet. “It means he doesn’t know the way your hands shake when you’re excited. Or how you hum when you cook. Or how you hate cucumbers but love the smell of mint. He doesn’t know how you look when you’re mad and trying not to cry. He doesn’t know you fall asleep reading, or that you talk in your sleep sometimes.” You close your eyes. “He doesn’t know you,” Bucky finishes, voice low. “Not the way I do.”
“That’s not fair,” you whisper. “People change, Bucky. I’m not who I was before the war. Neither are you.”
“Maybe not,” he says, and now he’s close enough that you can feel the warmth of him at your back. “But you’re still you. The real you. And I’m still the fool who fell for you before either of us knew what love was.”
You turn around, ready to tell him to stop—but he’s looking at you with that same quiet honesty that’s always undone you. No pleading. No bravado. Just truth. Something in you breaks. “You think this is easy for me?” you snap, tears stinging your eyes. “You think I haven’t spent every night trying to make myself believe that I can do this—that I can marry him, smile, build a life that’s good, even if it’s not…” You trail off, breathing hard.
“Not what?” he asks softly.
“Not you.” The words hang there like a confession torn from your chest.
Bucky exhales slowly, eyes darkening. “Say that again.”
You shake your head, tears slipping free. “Don’t make me.”
He takes a step closer. “Say it.”
You look up at him, voice trembling. “It’s not you.”
He doesn’t move for a long moment, just studies your face—every tear, every tremor. Then, so quietly you almost miss it, “then don’t marry him.”
You let out a shaky breath. “Bucky—”
“Don’t marry him,” he repeats, firmer now. “Don’t spend the rest of your life pretending this never happened. Pretending you don’t feel it too.”
Your throat closes. “You’re asking me to destroy everything.”
“I’m asking you to be honest,” he says. “For once. Just with yourself.”
The silence that follows feels like standing on a precipice. You can hear the tick of a clock somewhere, the distant sound of a car outside. Finally, you whisper, “if I walk away from him, there’s no going back.”
“I know,” Bucky says. “But maybe that’s the point.”
You meet his eyes, and for the first time in months—maybe years—you feel something that isn’t fear. You feel clarity. You leave his apartment an hour later, the sun beginning to rise pale and pink over the rooftops. The streets are still quiet, the city half-asleep. You walk the whole way home.
By the time you reach your door, your fingers are numb, your heart raw. You set your ring on the table—gold glinting in the soft morning light—and sit beside it, staring until the sun burns through the window. When the phone rings, you don’t answer. Not yet. You don’t know what you’ll say to Andrew, not really. You just know it has to be true. And for the first time in a long, long while, that feels like enough.
That afternoon, Bucky finds Steve at the diner, coat unbuttoned, eyes still tired but different now—lighter somehow. Steve raises a brow when he slides into the booth. “You look like you haven’t slept.”
Bucky huffs a laugh. “I didn’t.”
“She come by?”
He hesitates, then nods. “Yeah.”
Steve studies him for a moment. “You tell her?”
“Yeah.”
“And?”
Bucky looks out the window, where sunlight spills across the street, turning everything gold. “I don’t know yet,” he says. “But for the first time since I came home… it feels like maybe things might be right again.”
Steve smiles faintly. “That’s something.”
“Yeah,” Bucky murmurs, fingers curling around his coffee mug. “It is.”
Outside, the city hums to life again—the promise of something new on the horizon. And somewhere across town, you sit by the window, your ringless hand resting over your heart, breathing in the quiet morning air. You don’t know what comes next.
But you know who you want to face it with.
---
It happens on a Sunday. The kind of pale, overcast morning that seems to hum with quiet finality—the sort of day that feels like the closing of a chapter, even before anything has ended. Your hands tremble only once when you lace your gloves. Then again when you look in the mirror and see the faint indentation where your ring used to sit. It’s strange how something so small could leave a mark so deep.
Andrew had called three times since last night. You’d answered none of them. You’d written him a letter—neat, careful handwriting, the kind of letter that doesn’t waste words. You apologized, you explained just enough, you didn’t say Bucky’s name. You thanked him for being kind. For being safe. For giving you a life you could have loved, if your heart hadn’t been somewhere else.
When you finished, you folded it, sealed it, and set it gently in his mailbox before you lost your nerve. Then you walked. The city feels softer than usual—washed clean from an early morning drizzle, streets gleaming faintly under the muted sun. People bustle past you in coats and scarves, voices muffled, the world continuing as if nothing monumental has shifted. But for you, everything has.
Bucky doesn’t hear the knock at first. He’s just come back from the docks, sleeves rolled up, hair still damp from the mist. There’s a record playing—something scratchy and old, the kind of jazz you used to hum when you worked beside him at the old diner near Flatbush.
He’s been trying not to think about you; he’s failing. So when the knock comes, soft but steady, he almost doesn’t answer. Some part of him is terrified to open that door, afraid that seeing you—or not seeing you—will finally undo him for good.
But he does. And there you are. Your coat’s damp at the hem, your cheeks stinging from the cold. There’s no ring on your hand, and your eyes—God, your eyes—look clearer than he’s ever seen them. “Hey,” you say, voice small but sure.
He blinks, then steps aside automatically. “You came.”
You nod, stepping inside. “I did.” The air in the room feels charged, the same way it did that morning in his apartment. But this time, there’s no hesitation between you. No guilt. Just a quiet certainty settling in your bones. “I ended it,” you say.
Bucky freezes. “You what?”
You meet his gaze. “With Andrew.”
He opens his mouth, then closes it again, struggling to find breath. “You sure?”
You nod once. “I told him the truth.”
For a moment, neither of you move. Then Bucky lets out a slow, unsteady breath and takes a step forward—one, then another, until you’re standing close enough to feel the warmth of him through your coat. “What did you tell him?” he asks softly.
“That I couldn’t marry someone I didn’t love,” you whisper.
He searches your face, voice barely a murmur. “And who do you love?”
You don’t look away this time. “You.”
The silence that follows isn’t empty—it’s full. Alive. Like the first inhale after years of holding your breath.
And then he’s kissing you.
It isn’t desperate this time. It’s steady. Sure. The kind of kiss that feels like coming home after too long away. His hand slides up to cradle your jaw, his thumb brushing the tear that slips free. You don’t even realize you’re crying until he murmurs against your lips, “hey, hey. Don’t.”
You laugh, half-sobbing, pressing your forehead against his. “I’m okay.”
“You sure?”
You nod, smiling through the tears. “Yeah. I think I am.”
He exhales shakily, relief breaking over him like sunlight. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear that.”
“Maybe I do,” you tease gently, your hand resting over his heart. He covers it with his own, fingers threading through yours. His pulse beats strong under your palm. You stay like that for a long time—standing in the quiet of his apartment, the city noise drifting faintly through the window. It feels fragile, this peace, but also real. Earned.
Eventually, he guides you to the small kitchen table, sets a kettle on the stove, and makes tea—the way he used to when you were kids, strong and too sweet. You sit across from him, elbows on the scarred wood, steam curling between you. He watches you for a moment, eyes soft. “You sure you’re okay?”
You smile. “You’ve asked me that three times.”
“Can’t help it.”
“I know.”
You reach across the table, covering his hand with yours. “I think I’ll be okay, Buck. For the first time in a long while.”
He nods slowly, thumb tracing circles against your wrist. “You know this won’t be easy.”
“I know,” you say. “But at least it’ll be real.”
He looks at you then—really looks—and you see the weight lift from him. The guilt, the fear, the quiet ache that’s been hiding behind his smile since the war. “Real sounds good,” he murmurs.
The weeks that follow aren’t simple. There are whispers, of course. Muted condolences from neighbors who think you’ve been jilted. Polite confusion from Andrew’s family. Your mother’s disappointment—quiet, tight-lipped, the kind that cuts deeper than yelling.
But there’s also laughter again. You and Bucky and Steve falling back into a rhythm that feels like the world before it went to hell—coffee at the diner, evenings spent walking home through the city, warmth slowly replacing what had been hollow.
Sometimes, it’s quiet—hands brushing on park benches, shared cigarettes in the cold, Bucky’s coat around your shoulders. Sometimes, it’s loud—dancing in his room to bad jazz, arguing about who cheats at cards, Steve rolling his eyes fondly from the doorway. And every now and then, when you least expect it, he’ll reach for your hand—just a touch, light and unassuming—and it’ll still take your breath away.
It’s early spring when you wake in his bed for the first time with sunlight spilling through the window, his arm slung across your waist. The city hums faintly outside—car horns, laughter, the world moving on.
You turn your head, watching him sleep. He looks younger like this. Peaceful, almost. You reach up, brushing your thumb along his cheekbone. His eyes open slowly, blue and soft, and he smiles—that same crooked grin that’s undone you a hundred times over. “Mornin’, doll.”
You grin back. “Morning.”
He leans in and kisses you, slow and easy, the kind of kiss that doesn’t ask for anything except the promise that you’re both still here. When he pulls back, he murmurs, “you know, I still think about that night at the Expo sometimes.”
You laugh, low. “When you vanished to find Steve?”
“Yeah,” he says, smile widening. “Should’ve kissed you then.”
You tilt your head, teasing. “You made up for it.”
He hums, pressing another kiss to your forehead. “Not done makin’ up for it.”
You smile against his skin. “Good.”
Outside, the city keeps moving—trains and laughter and sunlight spilling over everything. The world isn’t perfect. It never will be. But for the first time, it feels like yours again. And when Bucky pulls you close, his voice low against your ear, you know with absolute certainty that you did the right thing.
extra notes: this fic has been done for months, probably since tloas came out in october. i still think months later it's one of my favorites so i hope y'all liked it as much as i do <3
Masterlist — I do not consent to my work being re-uploaded, translated or fed into AI. Taglist
Pairing: 40s!Bucky Barnes x reader.
Tags: AU where Bucky doesn't fall from that train. Fluff. Strangers to lovers. Mild fake-dating. Rain confessions. Peggy Carter and Steve Rogers play cupids. 4k words. This was suggested by @j3susforlif3 <3
Warnings: canon divergences. Possible grammar or spelling mistakes. Kissing, confessions, making out. Very brief mentions of period-typical misogyny (not from any of our lovely characters). A few uses of the word Y/N
Synopsis: After a chance encounter makes Bucky Barnes aware of your existence, he becomes determined to take you out on a date. The group of old ladies at church has been asking where your boyfriend was for months. What's your deal? If Bucky can pretend to be your loving boyfriend for one afternoon, he earns himself an actual date.
Wind wrapped around the buildings of the city. Old newspapers and fallen leaves danced through the streets. People clutched their hats and jackets, shielding themselves with their arms or briefcases. November was taking a step to the side, and so was the autumn, saying goodbye with one of the windiest days one had seen in years.
Your day had been a mess all around. During the hours of the night, your cat had kicked your alarm clock off your nightstand, shattering the glass against your floor. You had only found out about it that morning, when your mother had practically stormed into your room, reminding you that you were half an hour late to work.
Peggy—God bless her soul—had managed to cover up for you. A woman in a rank as yours walked a thin line: one tiny mistake, a drop of coffee on the afternoon reports or a misspelt surname on somebody's forms and you were as good as gone.
The SSR headquarters were bursting with employees walking from one room to the other when you arrived. That was the kind of chaos you had always known was there but had never noticed. Usually, by the time most of the workers arrived at the place, you were long since buried in work. Arriving early was a comfortable routine.
Not today, though.
Everything that could have gone wrong went wrong. Your desk was clogged with enough files to last you an entire week. For the sake of maintaining a calm mind, you had chosen to ignore the five men who had given you disapproving glances. On top of that, Peggy had arrived with two new transcriptions of intercepted transmissions for you two to decode.
After a full day stuck at your desk, you were at your wits' end. So when the cold afternoon wind hit your face, you had little energy in you to care. You had only one goal in mind: go to your favourite bar. It was small and usually not busy. The owner was a friend of your family's who always received you with open arms and a drink.
The bell over the door rang when you walked in. The shelter of four walls and a rooftop allowed you to sigh in relief. You sat down by the bar, on the same seat you had occupied since you could remember.
Mr Davis was the owner of the place. "Y/N!" he exclaimed with joy, whipping his hands with a cloth before making his way towards you. "My dear! How are you? Do you want the usual?"
"I'm good enough." You smiled and brushed your hair back into place with your hands. "Not today. Coffee will do."
"Coffee? At this hour?" he asked, surprised, and got working on your order nonetheless.
"Long day at work. And I still have some files to go over when I get home. I need the boost."
Mr Davis clicked his tongue. "You've been working too hard. You need to take a break. Hilda told me to invite you and your folks to dinner the next time you show up 'round here. Consider this my formal invitation."
You laughed. The Davises had never had any children, and growing up, you had been like a niece to them.
Mr Davis served you your coffee and then paused. His eyes looked ahead, at one of the tables near the back of the shop. Two men sat there. One with blonde hair, sitting upright, and the other one with blue eyes and a lazy smirk.
"There are two fellas looking your way." He grumbled like a protective father. "Should I say anything to them?"
"What?" You turned around to see what he was talking about. He was right; one of the boys was looking directly at you with no remorse whatsoever.
"It's all right. Nothing that hasn't happened before," you brushed off with a wave of your hand. Mr Davis shrugged his shoulders.
Over at the table by the window, a whole other conversation was unravelling. James 'Bucky' Barnes had his chin rested on the palm of his hand as his elbow supported his weight on the table. His pink lips were curled into the kind of smirk he played whenever he got his eyes on something that she wanted.
"Huh, and she's friends with the owner." Bucky drawled out. His eyes were glued on you. On the way, you sipped your coffee, taking pauses not to burn your tongue. On how beautiful your face looked framed by the few hairs that the wind had blown astray.
"I know her." Steve commented, taking a sip of his drink. That caught Bucky's attention.
"And you're only mentioning that now?" His eyes widened, almost baffled that his friend hadn't revealed that information sooner.
Steve shrugged. "I thought you had recognised her, too. She works at the SSR. Same department as Peggy—a friend of hers, actually."
"Huh," Bucky chuckled to himself. "Now this just makes everything better."
—
The days that followed, you were a staple in James Barnes' mind. He hadn't expected you to be. Bucky was always one to notice pretty ladies and was definitely not short on charm. Usually, he asked girls out to dance only to forget their names by the second week that followed. It's not that he meant to be a skirt chaser; he just hadn't yet found anyone who managed to charm him enough.
Until you came along.
Bucky went from never having recognised you around the building to seeing you everywhere, every single day. You lingered a lot by the coffee machine, Bucky had first noticed. You wore mainly blue dresses and the same heels every day. On Wednesdays, your hair was usually tied, and you had the habit of tilting your head whenever you laughed. Adorable.
One morning, Bucky stood with a forgotten glass of water in his hand, watching you as you took a few leather folders off the shelves before sliding them back in, but into a different spot.
"You're staring, pal," Steve commented, hands on the pockets of his trousers.
"Every time somebody stacks a file in the wrong folder, she personally rearranges it. Can you believe that?" Bucky's voice came out quiet and admiring.
Steve patted him on the shoulder before shaking his head in amusement and walking away. Bucky barely looked away from your figure when he did.
"I think it's working. At least it's definitely working on his side." Steve mumbled once he reached Peggy.
She dropped the book she had been holding and smiled. "Only on his side?"
"They haven't exactly talked yet. Bucky saw her at the bar you told us to go to and has been looking for her everywhere since. He's observing and not acting—which, honestly, is unusual for him."
Peggy hummed. "I'll take care of it."
—
That same afternoon, Peggy found you at your desk. You were yawning and rubbing your eyes to try to keep yourself awake. One of your cheeks was reddened for having rested it against your knuckles for too long.
"Hello, busy lady," she said softly as she walked in. "Can't have you sleeping at work."
"You're right, Peg. I'm so sorry, I—"
She cut you off before you could continue. You didn't have to apologise to her, ever. She knew exactly how hard you worked and how much your job mattered to you.
"I have something that might wake you up. If you could be so kind, please find Sergeant James Barnes and have him fill these out." She placed yet another stack of paper on your desk.
She walked out, almost biting her lip. A nudge in the right direction, that was all. Bucky Barnes would certainly be capable of waking you up and hopefully even charm you enough to agree to go on a date with him.
You would get on like a house on fire. Bucky was all easy charm but also had a big heart. You were more than witty enough to keep up with him and grounded and welcoming in a way that would accept his hopes and fears.
For months you had complained about men who only talked about their accounting jobs and didn't bother holding doors open. Men who would cut dates short because they wanted to catch something specific on the radio, or men who would step on your feet when dancing.
During one of their dates, Peggy had told Steve how upset she was that she could always go out with him but had to leave you behind. She had fallen in love with a truly amazing man, and she wanted the same for you. Ergo, plan Bucky.
—
Bucky looked bored out of his mind. He was slumped on his chair by the time you found him. His pen had been set aside. A choice he had made to fight against the urge to scribble over the table like a schoolboy.
The cuffs of his shirt were wrinkled, certainly not the way he wanted to look when you shared your first conversation. He had it all planned out. He would comb his hair using that expensive hair gel he had bought for his sister's wedding and wear that tie with the red lines that his mother always insisted made him look more handsome.
Bucky had a whole suave speech rehearsed in his head. He would brush his arm against yours when walking towards the coffee machine and drop the witty comment that better suited the day. Something about a co-worker, or the news, or the weather, or music and literature if he had the luck to find out what you were interested in.
But fate works in interesting ways. "Sergeant Barnes?"
Bucky's gaze lifted from the wooden table. The moment he realised just who was standing in front of him, he stopped like a deer caught in the headlights. Your earrings were shaped like two flowers, and your lips were coloured red like a rose—would you like it if he gave you roses? Did you prefer some other flower? Or would that perhaps be too bold? Bucky didn't know you, after all. But, oh, he wanted to.
You cleared your throat, calling his name a second time. "Mr Barnes?"
Bucky shook his head as the embarrassment struck him back to reality. "Hello…ma'am… yes, yes, that would be me. Just 'Bucky', please."
"Right, Bucky." You paused, smiling through the briefly awkward moment. You opened the folder that held the files and dropped them on his desk. James Buchanan Barnes. Twenty-seven. Unmarried. Fought in World War Two. Former Howling Commando.
"Howling Commandos, huh? I think I've heard about you," you murmured, hands clasped together over your lap.
Bucky's heartbeat tripped. You had heard about him—even if just a glimpse of his name, you knew who he was. "Well, thank you. I'd like to think we did some good."
You hummed to yourself. "So do I."
A beat of silence followed as Bucky filled out the various blank spaces. You looked at him. The way he almost pouted when he focused and how he almost seemed to whisper the words he was reading to himself.
"You work here awhile?" said Bucky after a few more moments.
"Me? Yeah, for a couple of years already. Joined a few months after Peggy."
"Huh. It's odd we haven't crossed paths before. I would certainly remember if I had met someone as beau—interesting as you before." That Bucky Barnes smirk was starting to crawl onto his features again. The boy had his moves planned out like a chess player about to win a tournament.
"Interesting?" you laughed, just as he had intended you to do. "You barely know me. How do you know I don't live in an apartment with no furniture and have no hobbies outside of my job?"
"I'm good at reading people. As for me not knowing you well yet, there's a very easy solution to that. And you're in luck, doll, because I am very happy to oblige." He leaned back on his chair, almost too sure of himself, with his arms open and inviting.
"You're asking me out on a date, James Barnes? Right here at work?" you teased him. This man was amusing, and there was no way that you would make things easy for him.
"Our shifts end in two hours. I can ask you again by the entrance at six sharp if you'd like."
"Very well," you finally agreed. "Find me, then."
—
Time flew after that conversation. What had gotten into you? You were an independent woman, not a teenager who blushed over some pretty fella winking an eye at her and asking her to meet him after school. And there you were, with your pulse raised high due to something other than caffeine.
You couldn't explain this feeling, and neither did you want to. Bucky was a guy you had only just met but who you had been aware of for a while. He had that about himself; he was impossible not to notice.
Hanging out with him could certainly do you no damage, right? After all, almost every old lady in town had been beginning to wonder why a woman as beautiful as you had found no partner yet. Which led you to the perfect idea.
If Bucky were truly determined to show he was a good man for you, he would certainly have no trouble in going with you to the local church's event on Sunday. For the last few years, you had been attending those simply because the ladies liked having you there. You were a young woman with a lot of charm who was always interested in hearing their stories and sharing gossip.
Over time, however, the conversations shifted away from Mrs Hughes' husband and Lillian's wild teenage boyfriends and closer to your romantic life. Just when would you bring a handsome man on your arm, they wondered.
That very weekend was the answer.
When Bucky found you by the exit of the SSR building, looking a wee bit too sure of yourself, he knew trouble was coming—and he, for one, loved trouble.
"Here I was thinking I would have to convince you to let me take you out, but that face tells me you already got a plan of your own." Bucky crossed his arms and leaned against the wall.
You smirked, crossed your arms and took a step closer. "If you want to play this game, we will play it for real. The ladies at church have been insisting I bring a man over to their events."
Bucky's face brightened with mischief. "I see where you're getting at. I stand by your side, on your arm, all afternoon long. I ain't against the idea of it, doll, but it's not exactly what I had in mind when I pictured us going on a date."
"That's where my deal goes," you continued. "If you successfully manage to pretend that we've been in love for months in front of the ladies—who, believe me, have the sharpest instinct for lies and terrible men that I've ever seen—you win yourself a date. For real. Just you and I."
Bucky paused, pretending to weigh out his options while knowing perfectly well what his answer would be. "Now we are speaking the same language. Don't wear your nicest dress on Sunday; save that one for our date."
If those were your terms, then so be it. Bucky would learn to play by your rules.
—
Bucky picked you up early that day. He wore a suit much better tailored than the ones you had seen him wear at work. His hair was combed back—he looked every bit the gentleman he wanted to show you that he could be.
He was smiling easily, pretending as though he hadn't been thinking of this all week long. "Well, good afternoon, sweetheart."
You laughed and closed the front door behind you. "You are getting a tad too easy on those pet names."
Bucky shrugged and offered his arm out for you to take. "Me? I'm just getting into character. Making sure I am in the right mindset if I have to pretend to be your fella all afternoon long."
Bucky's family owned an expensive car, which he had parked right in front of your house. It was New York, but the war and the previous economic crisis had made cars a rather rare sight. There was more behind James Barnes than what you had expected. The distance to Mrs Wiley—Rosie, as she always insisted that you called—was short enough to walk, but Bucky had insisted on driving you.
He opened the door for you, of course. He drove slowly and made just the right amount of small talk. You discussed what your story should be. How you met, where your first date had been, and which song you liked to dance to together the most. Bucky told you about his interests and paid particular attention when you told him yours.
Mrs Witley's house was a light colour, and the gates on the front were adorned with various types of flowers. On the back, she had an even wider garden. Every time, she insisted on hosting the meetings and events. She had the habit of serving everyone more tea than what they could actually drink.
Bucky was standing up straight and with his chin up. His arm had been laced through yours. He knocked on the door and waited for a reply.
"Are you nervous?" You asked him.
He shook his head, self-assured. "Not one bit. Too busy thinking about where I'm taking you afterwards."
Before you could bite back, the door was opened. "Y/N, darling! Finally, you're here. And Christopher Columbus, you brought a man with you."
Bucky smiled and nodded his head. "Pleasure to meet you, ma'am. I'm James."
"Come in, you two. I must tell all the ladies that you have finally found yourself someone!"
The rest of the women were gathered around a table in the backyard. They were sharing stories but completely quieted when you walked in. All of their gazes turned towards you in adoration.
Rosie grabbed Bucky by the arm, affectionately pulling him in front of you. "This is James—look at him!"
All the ladies gasped, some even standing up and walking towards you. "Is it true?" Lillian asked you, "Are you truly going steady?"
You laughed and you nodded, squeezing Bucky's arm. In return, he smiled sweetly. "Yes, yes we are."
"Tell us, James, how did you meet? What do you do for a living? Are you certain you treat her fairly?" They asked all at once.
Bucky chuckled. One flash of his baby blue eyes, and he had each and every one of the ladies under his spell. Bucky Barnes was handsome and charming and knew exactly how to use that to his advantage.
He complimented their dresses and the food. He scratched whatever his ma had told him about flowers and used it to create small talk with Mrs Witley. From time to time, he kissed you on your cheek and whispered something in your ear. You leaned against him and sipped your tea.
"Let us tell you, James, we've been waiting forever for her to bring somebody for us to meet," Mrs Hughes added. "She's such a lovely young girl, and we're more than thrilled that she's found you."
"Thank you, ma'am. I'm just doing what any man in his right mind would do." Bucky's hand brushed your back. His head stood high, as though he were proud of himself.
"You remind me of a boy I used to know when I was twenty-three. Oh, the old times," Lillian lamented. "I always thought I would marry him. He had the same eyes as you."
Bucky laughed. "Well, I don't make it a habit to break hearts. There's nothing for you ladies to worry about." They all cooed in return. One of them even started to whisper about wedding plans: which dress would look the best on you, if your hair should be braided, and who they were or were not inviting.
Bucky smirked and turned to look at you. He leaned down and pressed his lips against your ear. "You better have nothing to do tomorrow night, 'cause I'm claiming that date you owe me." His breath was warm, and his words made you feel giddier than they had the right to.
"I guess you've won, then," you sighed out, surrendering and not complaining.
"You ever doubt me?"
—
By the time the meeting ended, clouds had cast over the sky. The chatter had extended longer than you had intended. The ladies had been all too preoccupied with the boy in your arm.
"I didn't mean for this to drag out this long, Bucky. I'm sorry." You apologised once outside the house.
"None of that. My pleasure."
Then, hesitantly, you stepped closer. You rose on your tiptoes and placed your hand on his arm for balance. You pressed your lips against Bucky's cheek, and he nearly melted on the spot. Thunder rumbled in the distance. "I'll see you tomorrow."
"You're not walking home. It's about to rain. Let me drive you, please." Bucky begged, almost, in a low murmur.
"Alright."
He drove you home quietly. Over the span of a single afternoon, you had grown comfortable with his presence. You had expected it to be hard, to struggle to hold Bucky and smile as though you were in love with him. You thought that he would stumble over his words and act like a man who was just eager to get his prized date.
You made dating look believable, and maybe you believed it, too.
When Bucky pulled over by your house, you knew exactly what to do. Rain droplets stained your hair and clothes, and he had insisted on getting rained on with you. Under the storm, Bucky looked more electrifying than ever. He opened the door of the car, stepping aside for you to get off.
"Bucky," you murmured.
He hummed in response instantly. His lips were parted and his face was too close. You had stopped breathing because there was something else you needed. "I actually enjoyed today."
"Me too. Good that you did, because I ain't letting go of you now."
You stepped closer, heart on your throat. "Don't you dare."
Before you could notice, your lips were on his. With a rush of boldness that you had no idea where it had come from, you pulled him by the shirt. Bucky Barnes wasn't a fool, so he kissed you back. He wrapped one arm around your waist; it was warm despite the rain, and it made your whole body tingle. His free hand cupped your cheek, angling your face just right.
He wouldn't let you pull away, and you could not find it in you to complain. You hooked both of your arms around his neck. Bucky kissed you deeper, and you bit his lip. He laughed and squeezed your waist to scold you.
Once he was done kissing you silly, he pulled away. You were soaking wet and breathless. "Bold," Bucky whispered.
"You bring that out," you replied. When Bucky tried to slowly strip himself away from you, you pulled him back in. "Come in," you said, nodding towards your house. "You'll catch a cold."
"I think the chatter about dating me might've got to your head. Don't your parents live there?"
"They do, yes." You looked unfazed by what you were suggesting.
"You think I should meet your ma? After I just kissed her daughter like that? How am I supposed to explain all this?" He gestured to both of you—the wet clothes, the messy hair.
"Good for you, James Barnes; you are very good at inventing stories."
warnings ۶ৎ 18+ mdni. modern au. explicit smut, body insecurity/body image thoughts, jealousy, miscommunication, pool party tension, wet swimsuit, oral sex, fingering, multiple orgasms, protected piv, dirty talk, praise, possessive bucky, semi-public tension, soft aftercare.
synopsis ۶ৎ bucky spends the whole pool party trying not to stare. you spend the whole pool party thinking he can barely stand to look at you.
a slippery pool step, one bitter comment, and tony stark’s guest room fix that problem rather loudly.
evie’s input ۶ৎ not beta read. tumblr is a bitch for making my format go to shit. but please enjoy folks. dividers by @/cursed-carmine
you bought the swimsuit out of pure delusion. pure, bright, sun-drunk delusion, the sort that made sense at two in the morning with your laptop glowing against your face and natasha sitting beside you on the bed, eating chips directly from the bag while telling you that black one-pieces were for women hiding from federal charges or their own thighs. she had said that with such calm authority, such casual violence, that you had clicked away from the perfectly safe black one-piece and ended up on a page full of colors that made you feel personally attacked. cherry red. powder blue. white, which felt like an invitation for god to humiliate you. green, which nat said would look pretty on your skin and you said would make you look like a decorative salad, and then she had hit you with a pillow hard enough to send two chips flying into your blanket.
so you picked the dark blue one.
dark blue seemed mature. forgiving. almost responsible, if swimwear could be responsible. it had a low back that made you sit up straighter just looking at the model, and the top had little gold rings at the straps, small enough to pretend they were classy instead of slutty. the bottoms sat high on the hips, which nat called flattering and you called invasive. still, you ordered it. you even paid for express shipping, which felt like signing a contract with your own downfall.
now, standing in tony stark’s guest bathroom with the swimsuit cutting into places you had never invited fabric to develop an opinion about, the delusion had fully left your body. “this is a hate crime,” you mutter at your reflection, tugging the side higher, then lower, then higher again, like one of those positions will suddenly unlock a new body. “against me, specifically.”
the mirror gives you no sympathy. it just shows you exactly what you are trying very hard to survive. thighs. hips. stomach. skin. actual human flesh, very rude of it. you turn slightly, regret it, turn back, regret that too. the swimsuit is pretty. that may be the worst part. if it were ugly, you could blame the swimsuit. but it is pretty and soft and fitted, which means the problem is clearly you, and that feels legally actionable.
natasha knocks twice, then opens the door like locks are a decorative suggestion. she is wearing a black bikini and a loose white shirt, hair braided back, sunglasses resting on her head. she looks like she has never feared a changing room mirror in her life. maybe she killed that fear at sixteen and buried it in a forest. “if you’re dead in there, say something,” she says, leaning against the doorframe with a drink already in hand.
you glare at her through the mirror. “i’m suing you.”
“for making you look hot?”
“for elder abuse.”
“you’re younger than me.”
“for emotional elder abuse.”
her mouth twitches. she steps inside, closes the door with her heel, and turns you by the shoulders before you can protest. the inspection is quick and blunt, clinical in the scariest possible way, then her brows lift. “yeah. you’re wearing it.”
“you didn’t even pretend to think.”
“i did think. silently. very sexy of me.”
you pull at the bottom again, mostly so your hands have a job. it feels safer when your hands have a job. otherwise they might wander up and cover your stomach or your chest or your face, and then nat would make one of those sounds. a small sound, barely a sound, the kind that says she loves you and also wants to shake you until your bones make music. “it’s too much,” you say, quieter.
“it’s a pool party.”
“exactly. people will be near pools. with eyes.”
“tragic.” nat takes another sip. “people might also have necks. horrifying world.”
you make a face at her, but your fingers have started twisting the hem of the towel around your shoulders. the towel is the only thing keeping you from turning around, putting your shorts back on, and telling everyone you’ve developed a sudden aquatic allergy. chlorine intolerance. water-related moral conflict. any excuse with a medical-sounding word might work on steve. sam would ask questions. tony would ask if the water offended you personally, then offer to replace it with imported glacier melt.
bucky would look at you. that thought is the whole disease. bucky barnes looking at you in this swimsuit is either going to kill you outright or make you wish it had. he is already too much in normal clothes. jeans, shirts, those stupid henleys that cling to his shoulders with religious devotion. shirts in general seem desperate around him. fabric has never looked more underpaid. and now there is a very real chance that you will walk outside and find him shirtless by the pool, all broad chest and sun-warmed skin and dark hair falling around his face, and you’ll have to behave like someone who pays taxes and owns a toothbrush. impossible.
even worse, he may look at you and then look away. the thought is small. mean. familiar. he does that sometimes. looks away when you enter the room like your presence is a lamp turned directly into his eyes. you’ve built a whole religion around it. bucky finds you irritating. bucky tolerates you for nat’s sake. bucky can flirt with cashiers, grandmothers, dogs, possibly dangerous machinery, but when it comes to you, he either teases until you want to bite him or turns cold like you spilled something on his favorite memory.
“he’s already here,” nat says.
you blink at her. horrible woman. witch. spy. roommate. “who?”
“the pool boy.”
“tony has a pool boy?”
“no, but if he did, i’d respect his commitment to the theme.” nat watches you through the mirror. “barnes. he’s outside with steve and sam.”
your mouth goes dry. very mature reaction. very dignified. you deserve an award for remaining upright. “thrilling.”
“he asked where you were.”
“to insult me?”
“probably to write a poem.”
you snort despite yourself, then hate the sound for being too fond. bucky inspires many feelings in you, most of them medically confusing. rage, attraction, pettiness, fondness, the strange urge to press your face into his chest and stand there until society collapses. you used to think crushes were supposed to be fun. light. giggly. yours feels like chewing glass while a beautiful man laughs in another room. “i’m putting clothes on,” you announce, turning toward the pile you abandoned on the sink.
natasha catches the towel before you can turn it into armor. her face softens, which is alarming. she is much easier to handle when she is threatening people or calling men idiots. tenderness from nat tends to make you confess things. “you can wear whatever you want. but if you’re changing because barnes might see you, i’m going to be annoying.”
“you’re already annoying.”
“i have levels.” her hand squeezes your shoulder once. “he’s one guy.”
“he’s a large guy.”
“still one.”
“that’s debatable. he has the surface area of three men.”
she smiles into her glass. “come outside.”
you stare at yourself again. the gold rings at your shoulders glint under the bathroom lights. a soft breath leaves you, slow and unwilling. the girl in the mirror looks terrified, which is rude, because you were aiming for bored. maybe indifferent. possibly mysterious. something with less of a wet-cat energy.
bucky is one guy. one guy with eyes. one guy who probably won’t even look long enough to form an opinion. that is worse. “fine,” you say, grabbing the towel and wrapping it around your shoulders instead of your body. “but if i cry, i’m pushing you into the pool.”
nat opens the door, smug and fond. “deal. i swim beautifully.” you hate her. you follow her anyway.
sunlight hits you like a personal accusation. tony’s summer house is all glass, white stone, obnoxious wealth, and views so good they make you suspicious. the pool stretches across the back patio in a ridiculous blue sheet, bright enough to look fake, with lounge chairs lined along one side and a shaded outdoor kitchen on the other. music plays from speakers hidden somewhere in the landscaping, low and expensive. the air smells like sunscreen, grilled pineapple, chlorine, and the rosemary bushes tony probably paid someone to make look effortless.
everyone is already there. wanda is stretched on a lounger with sunglasses over her eyes, red hair spilling over one shoulder. vision sits beside her reading a book in the sun like a man who has never sweated once in his life. steve is by the grill, wearing swim trunks and a white shirt he left open, looking like a recruitment poster for sunscreen safety. sam is in the pool, arguing with clint over a foam football. tony is wearing sunglasses indoors, technically outdoors, but under the shaded bar, so spiritually indoors. bruce is speaking to pepper near a bowl of fruit like he has been assigned fruit diplomacy.
and bucky. bucky is near the far side of the pool, one foot up on the lower rung of a lounger, laughing at something steve says across the patio. shirtless, obviously. cruelly. swim trunks low on his hips, hair tied back in a loose half-bun, a pair of sunglasses hanging from the collar of the shirt he has abandoned on a chair. his skin is already touched by sun, golden at the shoulders, marked with faint scars and old history, and your brain takes one look at him and files for retirement.
of course. of course he gets to look like that near water. like some mythological punishment. like a sailor’s bad decision. like if marble got warm and developed a bad personality.
you stop near the sliding door. nat keeps walking. traitor. sam sees you first. “hey, finally! we were about to send a search party.”
“i was in the bathroom for seven minutes,” you call back, which is mostly true if you ignore the years spent negotiating with your own reflection.
“seven minutes in woman time,” tony says, lifting his drink. “so either twelve seconds or a fiscal quarter.”
“rich men shouldn’t speak,” you say, and tony points at you like you’ve wounded him.
“see, this is why i invite you. keeps the ego limber.”
that gets a few laughs, easy and warm. you can handle them. most of them. everyone here has seen you in pajamas, sick, angry, half asleep, and once crying over a video of a dog getting prosthetic legs. skin should be nothing. thighs should be nothing. a stomach should be nothing. human bodies have been happening for ages. terribly common things.
then bucky turns. it is fast. too fast. his smile is still there from whatever steve said, wide and relaxed, and then his eyes find you and the smile fades in pieces.
you go so still the towel slips down one shoulder.
he looks at your face first, then lower. hardly a second, maybe less, barely enough to count, but your body counts it. the line of his gaze touches your swimsuit, the bare places around it, the curve you have spent twenty minutes trying to negotiate with, and then he looks away.
just like that. his jaw tightens. his hand curls around the back of the lounger. his attention swings back to steve with such sudden force that you almost laugh. there it is. there it fucking is.
you knew this would happen. stupid, stupid girl. standing in a bathroom telling yourself he was only one guy when that one guy apparently needs to look anywhere else the second you show too much skin. amazing. beautiful. maybe you can walk straight into the pool and keep going until you reach a new continent. the patio sounds louder now. sam’s laughter, clint yelling about cheating, ice clinking in tony’s glass. everything keeps moving around you with obscene casualness. no one else saw it. no one else felt the tiny, sharp slice of it. bucky looked at you and looked away, and everyone else gets to continue eating fruit.
natasha glances back. you arrange your face into something flat and vaguely hostile. a familiar costume. better than the swimsuit.“drink?” she asks.
“yes.”
“alcoholic?”
“aggressively.”
tony hears that and brightens. “finally, someone with taste.”
you make your way toward the bar, aware of every step. the swimsuit feels too tight and too revealing and somehow too loud. bucky is across the patio, speaking to steve. he does not look again. that is fine. excellent. merciful, even. you hope he develops hiccups. tony slides a drink toward you. “for the lady with the aggressive liver.”
“thank you. sorry about your personality.”
“accepted. i bought another one.”
sam hoists himself out of the pool with a dramatic groan, water streaming down his shoulders. He grabs a towel, wiping his face, and his gaze flicks over your swimsuit without the weirdness men can sometimes bring to it. Just appreciative, warm, and easy. “Damn. Look at you.”
your fingers tighten around the glass. for one stupid second, praise lands in a place that has been sitting empty for too long. you lift your brows, aiming for casual. “is that surprise?”
“that’s respect,” sam says, pointing at the gold ring on your strap. “little fancy thing going on. i see you.”
“it’s swimsuit technology.”
“no, that’s a whole look. hey, buck.” sam turns his head before you can stop him. “you seeing this?”
murder becomes briefly understandable.
bucky’s shoulders go rigid. Steve looks between sam and bucky with the pained expression of a man witnessing a grenade roll under a picnic table. the second stretches. maybe two. your drink sweats against your palm. bucky does turn, but his eyes barely make it to your shoulder before skating away again. “yeah,” he says, voice rough enough that it sounds dragged from his throat. “i see it.”
that is worse than silence. you swallow. “fantastic. all votes counted.”
sam squints, sensing something in the air with the survival instincts of a man who has chosen chaos as a hobby. “you okay over there, terminator?”
bucky’s mouth moves into something that could pass for a smile in poor lighting. “fine.”
“sounds painful.”
“sam.”
“what? i’m checking on my friend.”
“check quieter.”
you take a long sip. It is sweet, cold, and strong enough to make your teeth feel clean. Wonderful. Tony Stark may be a public hazard, but the man stocks good alcohol. You let the burn settle on your tongue and decide, with the private little click of a door closing, that this is fine. Bucky can avoid looking at you. Great. Wonderful. Plenty of people have eyes.
Sam, for instance. Sam is grinning at you, towel around his neck, eyebrows lifted. He is handsome and safe and not Bucky, which immediately lowers his value in the ugliest part of your brain. But he complimented you. He looked at you without flinching. That counts for something. “you getting in?” sam asks, jerking his chin toward the pool. “or did you dress up to intimidate the tiles?”
“both can be true.”
“come on. clint’s cheating and i need a witness.”
you glance toward the water, then toward nat, who has settled beside wanda. Then, against all better judgment, toward bucky. He is looking at his drink. Very invested in it. Possibly falling in love with it. Good for them. your drink goes onto the counter. the towel slides off your shoulders and onto a chair before you can give yourself time to become normal again. Cool air brushes over your bare back. Too many places. Too much skin. Your arms fight the urge to cross over your middle.
Bucky’s head turns a fraction. You see it. You hate that you see it. The movement is so tiny anyone else would miss it, but you have a tragic little doctorate in James Barnes pretending indifference. His eyes make it to your legs this time. Then his mouth presses flat, and he turns away again.
Fine. Your chin lifts. “i’m a terrible witness,” you tell sam, stepping toward the pool. “i lie under pressure.”
Sam laughs and offers his hand from the water like he is helping royalty down from a carriage. “perfect. we’ll frame clint together.”
The pool is cold at first, a shock around your calves as you sit on the edge and lower yourself in. You bite back the sound that tries to escape, mostly out of pride. The water closes around your waist, then your ribs, and for a second the swimsuit stops feeling like a spotlight. Underwater, everything blurs kinder. Your hips, stomach, thighs. The body becomes a body again. Less evidence. Less argument. Sam tosses you the foam football. You catch it against your chest with both hands, splashing yourself in the face. “very athletic,” clint calls.
you wipe water from your eyes. “i’m preserving my mystery.”
“your mystery is that you suck at catch.”
“my mystery is that i haven’t drowned you.”
That gets a laugh from wanda. Nat smiles behind her sunglasses, proud and terrible. You start to loosen after that. The water helps. The drink helps. Sam helps too, in his loud, easy way, making you feel included without making you feel studied. He shouts fake strategies, accuses clint of crimes against recreational sport, and once spins you by the shoulders to aim your throw while you laugh so hard pool water gets in your mouth.
It should be enough. It almost is. Then you glance over and see Bucky watching. He is no longer pretending to listen to Steve. His sunglasses are on now, hiding his eyes, but his head is angled toward you. His arms are crossed over his chest, one shoulder leaning against a patio pillar, sun catching along the metal of his left hand where it grips his own bicep. There is nothing soft in his posture. Nothing open. He looks carved into place.
Caught, he turns his head slightly. Of course. Your laugh thins. Sam says something, but you miss it. Maybe your name. Maybe a joke. The pool sounds muffle, slipping in and out around your ears. Bucky can look from far away, apparently. From behind sunglasses. From a place where you cannot look back properly. The second you are close enough for him to have to acknowledge you as a body with feelings, he finds the nearest wall or drink or horizon.
There’s a special sort of humiliation in wanting someone who seems vaguely offended by the evidence of you. “you alive?” sam asks, splashing water near your arm.
You blink back to him. “unfortunately.”
“you looked like you were plotting.”
“I plot as cardio.”
“that explains the stamina.”
Bucky’s jaw moves across the patio. You see that too. Tiny. Annoying. Delicious, if you were a healthier person. A reckless little thing uncurls in your chest. It is petty and hot and stupid, so naturally it feels almost holy. You turn back to sam with a brighter smile, the sort that probably looks normal to everyone else and insane to Nat. Sam raises his eyebrows. Brave man. “teach me to throw better,” you say.
He narrows his eyes. “this a trick?”
“i’m asking for athletic help. cherish the moment.”
Sam laughs, then shifts behind you in the water, hands hovering over your elbows before settling lightly when you nod. It is friendly. It is nothing. It is two people in a pool with a foam football and a crowd of friends around them. But you feel Bucky before you see him. His attention has weight. A dark little weather system rolling over the patio. Sam adjusts your arm. “okay, elbow up. no, less like you’re threatening the ball’s family.”
“I am threatening its family.”
“gentle. release here.” His hand taps your wrist.
Across the patio, Steve says something to Bucky. Bucky does not answer. You throw. The ball arcs beautifully for half a second, then smacks clint square in the forehead. The silence is immediate. Then clint sinks under the water like a betrayed submarine. You clap both hands over your mouth. Sam loses his mind laughing, one hand braced on your shoulder as he folds forward. Wanda sits up. Tony lowers his sunglasses. Steve looks concerned. Nat looks delighted. Clint resurfaces, hair plastered over his face. “attempted murder.”
“self-defense,” you gasp, still half laughing, half horrified. “you had criminal energy.”
“You hit me in my innocent head.”
“no jury would convict her,” sam says, wiping his eyes. “that was art.”
A sound comes from the patio. Low. Short. You look before you can stop yourself.
Bucky is laughing. Not loud. Not like sam. Barely more than a breath, but his mouth has curved despite whatever terrible thing he has been doing with his face all afternoon. He is looking at you now. Fully. Sunglasses pushed up into his hair, blue eyes narrowed against the sun, and for one ridiculous moment, all the air in the day seems to gather in your throat.
Then he catches himself. The smile fades. His gaze drops to the water near your waist, moves away, and he reaches for his drink. It is a slap with no hand.
Your smile goes with it. The water suddenly feels too cold. “i need another drink,” you announce, heading for the stairs before anyone can see your face arrange itself badly.
Sam calls after you, still laughing about clint’s tragic head injury. Nat’s sunglasses follow you from the lounger. Bucky stays by the pillar, but the closer you get to the edge, the more you feel him there. A terrible awareness. Like walking past a stove you know is on. Your hands grip the metal rail as you climb the pool steps. Water streams down your body, cooler where the breeze hits. The swimsuit clings hard now, slick to your skin, making every curve more obvious instead of less. Wonderful design choice. Truly innovative cruelty. You reach for the towel on the chair, but it is farther than you thought, and the stone under your wet feet is slippery.
Your heel slides. For one bright, stupid second, you are suspended in pure indignity. Then a hand clamps around your upper arm. Not sam. Not nat. Not anyone safe enough to survive.
Bucky. His other hand catches your waist, broad palm spreading over wet skin, fingers pressing into the soft give above your hip. The contact goes straight through you with such force that your brain empties. Chlorine, sun, his skin, the faint spice of whatever soap he uses, all of it crowds too close. Your hand lands on his chest to steady yourself, and he is warm. Warm and solid and right there, which is deeply unfair for a man who has spent the afternoon treating eye contact like a hostage negotiation.
“careful,” he says.
One word. Low. Rough. Stupid. Your embarrassment catches fire. You laugh. It comes out bitter, thin at the edges, nothing like the easy laugh you gave sam. Bucky’s fingers tighten once at your waist, and that little pressure makes the whole thing worse. “relax, barnes.” You pull your hand from his chest, hating the wet print your palm leaves behind. “you don’t have to touch me longer than necessary.”
The whole patio seems to keep making noise, but in your little corner, the sentence has teeth. Bucky goes still. His hand stays on your waist for half a second too long, then leaves like he has been burned. The absence is immediate and awful. You hate him for touching you. You hate him more for stopping. His face has changed, though you refuse to name the change. His brows draw together, mouth parting slightly as if he has lost the next line. Good. Let him lose something. “What?” he says, quiet.
You grab the towel and pull it around yourself, too late to feel covered. “Nothing.”
His eyes narrow at that, and for once he does not look away. “That didn’t sound like nothing.”
“You’re very observant.”
“Don’t do that.”
A laugh tries to crawl out of you and dies ugly. “Do what?”
“Act like I did something to you when all I did was catch you.”
You look at him then. Really, probably too much. Big mistake. His skin is still damp at the temples from sweat or the pool water someone splashed earlier, and the sun catches the blue of his eyes so sharply you want to be mad at nature. His chest rises under your gaze. Your palm still remembers him, every warm inch. A handprint in reverse. “you looked away,” you say, and the words escape before pride can shoot them down.
Bucky’s face tightens. “When?”
You hate him. You hate him so much you could kiss him until both of you forget language. “Forget it.”
You turn away, but he catches the edge of the towel. Not enough to pull you back, only enough to stop the escape from being clean. “When?” he repeats, and the softness in his voice is so much worse than anger.
You should have kept your mouth shut. You should have stayed in the bathroom and sued Natasha from there. Instead you’re wet, half naked, humiliated, and Bucky Barnes is holding your towel like it matters. “When I came out,” you say, staring hard at the bar instead of him. “When sam called you. When I got in the pool. Pick one, you’ve been consistent.”
His grip loosens. For a second you think he will explain. He might laugh. He might say you’re imagining things. He might finally cut the whole sickness open and tell you he does not want to look, and then maybe you can be free through the healing power of public devastation. But he says nothing. Of course he says nothing.
Your eyes sting, which is unacceptable. Chlorine. Obviously chlorine. You pull the towel free and walk toward the bar with as much dignity as a woman can manage while dripping on expensive stone. Behind you, Steve says Bucky’s name. Low. Warning. Or concerned. You do not turn around. Tony is pretending very hard to examine a lime. “Drink,” you say, dropping onto a stool.
He pushes one over without commentary for maybe the first time in his life. “Hydration adjacent.”
“your discretion is unsettling.”
“i’m multifaceted.”
You take the glass. Your hand shakes once, barely. You curl it tighter until it stops.
Across the patio, Bucky remains near the pool steps, one hand low on his hip, the other rubbing over his mouth. Steve stands near him now, speaking quietly. Bucky shakes his head. His eyes cut toward you. This time, you look away first.
Pool parties become less fun once you have emotionally exposed yourself near a wet staircase. A tragic discovery. Someone should tell the youth. The afternoon drags onward with the mean persistence of a song you cannot skip. People eat. People drink. Sam retells the clint football incident with increasing betrayal of facts, making himself sound like a coach and you sound like a trained assassin. Clint claims he can see sounds now. Wanda orders him to stop making it tempting to hit him again. Tony brings out enough food for a wedding and calls it “light snacks,” which makes you wonder if billionaires understand hunger as a concept or merely as a branding opportunity. You sit with nat under the shade, towel around your shoulders, swimsuit drying tight against your skin. The drink has made you warmer, loose at the edges, but not enough to soften the place Bucky opened and then abandoned. He has stayed away. Not dramatically. Not in a way anyone could call obvious. He helps Steve with the grill, talks to Sam, lets Tony make jokes at his expense. He is normal.
That might be the ugliest part. You are sitting here with your nerves scraped raw, and he gets to hold a plate of grilled chicken. Do you want to talk about it?” nat asks.
“No.”
She hums, sipping from her straw. “Do you want to lie about it?”
“Desperately.”
“Go ahead.”
You stare at the water. Sam is trying to shove clint off a float. Clint has accepted death with more grace than expected. “I’m having a nice time.”
“Terrible lie. Try again.”
“I enjoy sunlight.”
“Worse.”
“Bucky Barnes is a normal man whose opinion does nothing to my blood pressure.”
Natasha’s mouth curves. “Almost funny enough to pass.”
You pick at a loose thread on the towel. The fibers are soft, expensive, probably worth more than half your closet. Tony’s towels have better career prospects than you. “He looked at me like he wished I’d worn a tarp.”
Nat says nothing for a second. Her silence is rarely empty. It moves around, checks exits, evaluates weak spots. “That’s what you saw?”
You glance at her, defensive already. “I have eyes.”
“Unfortunately, yes. Dramatic ones.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.” She turns her head a little, and you follow her gaze against your will.
Bucky is standing at the grill beside Steve. His posture is casual enough for a stranger. Not for you. You know his casual. This is held too tight at the edges. His shoulders are set, left hand curled around a bottle of beer he has barely touched, eyes trained on the pool with such grim commitment that the pool may owe him money. “He’s been weird all day,” nat says.
“He’s always weird.”
“With you, yes.”
“That’s very comforting.”
She nudges your knee with hers. “You two are exhausting.”
“There is no two. There’s me, suffering heroically, and him, being confusing and broad.”
“Broad?”
“Don’t make me defend my vocabulary. I’m injured.”
“You slipped.”
“Emotionally.”
Natasha laughs softly, then reaches over and plucks the drink from your hand. “Slow down.”
You glare. “This is theft.”
“This is friendship.”
“Friendship would let me make poor choices.”
“I let you buy the swimsuit.”
“That was attempted murder.”
Her hand squeezes your knee once. “He’s looking again.”
Your entire body betrays you. It wants to turn. It wants to pretend it has not been starving for that exact sentence. You hold still with the grim focus of someone defusing a bomb under poor lighting. “Good for him,” you say.
Nat’s smile turns small and unbearable. “You’re allowed to like being looked at.”
“By normal people, maybe.”
“Barnes is many things.”
“Normal does seem optimistic.” The words come out light enough. The thought under them sits heavy. Bucky looking at you feels dangerous because you cannot tell what he sees. All day, you have been trapped between wanting his attention and being wounded by how he spends it. Too quick, too hidden, too late. You want him to look in a way that lets you rest, which is insane. A person should not need another person’s eyes to feel real in their own skin. There are self-help books about that, probably. You have not read them because they would tell you to journal and you would rather eat sand.
Tony calls everyone for food, and the shift saves you from Nat’s terrifying accuracy. Chairs scrape. People gather around the long outdoor table. You end up between wanda and sam, safe enough, with nat across from you and Bucky diagonally down the table beside Steve. Diagonally is awful. Diagonally means accidental glances. Diagonally means you can pretend to look at the salad and still see his hands. Diagonally means his knee might bump yours if the table were smaller, which it is not, thank God, or no thanks to God, depending on where you are in your moral development.
Food helps. A little. Grilled corn, charred sweet at the edges. Watermelon with feta. Skewers. Tony’s obscene little sliders made with buns so soft you briefly understand wealth. You eat more than you expected, mostly to give your mouth a reason to stay busy. Sam leans closer while reaching for the corn. “You ever think about joining a league?”
You stare at him. “For what, pool homicide?”
“Foam football. You’ve got raw talent.”
“I injured one man.”
“That’s how legends start.”
You laugh, easier this time. Sam is lovely. Sam is safe. Sam has never once made you feel like a bug under glass or a prayer no one taught you how to say. His attention is warm and uncomplicated, and maybe that is why it fails to do the thing you wish it would. You want it to. That would be convenient. You could turn your head and smile at the man making you laugh, and your body could decide to be sensible for once. Across the table, Bucky’s fork scrapes softly against his plate.
You glance up. His eyes are on Sam’s shoulder, where it nearly touches yours. His mouth has gone flat again. When his gaze shifts to yours, it stays. No sunglasses now. No immediate retreat. You should feel triumphant. You feel pinned and furious and too warm under the towel.
Sam keeps talking. You answer. Probably. Words happen from your side of the table. Bucky looks away first, but slower this time, and that almost makes you angrier.
After food, Tony declares a mandatory sunset swim like a man whose money has left him unfamiliar with the word optional. Wanda declines by pretending to sleep. Vision declines with such politeness that Tony thanks him. Steve gets dragged in by Sam. Clint goes willingly after shouting that the water may heal his head trauma. Natasha sheds her shirt and dives so cleanly that half the patio claps.
You mean to stay on the lounger. You really do. Then Bucky sits on the chair two spaces away with a beer and no intention of swimming.
You stand.
“Coming in?” sam calls from the pool.
“Apparently.”
Bucky’s head lifts. There. There it is again. That first startled drag of his eyes as your towel drops onto the lounger. This time you catch all of it. He looks at your shoulders, your chest, your waist, the high cut at your hips, the damp lines where the swimsuit still clings from earlier. His throat moves. His fingers tighten around the beer bottle.
Then he looks away. Again. The hurt comes faster now, less sharp and more tired. You have run out of ways to be surprised by it. “You coming?” you ask before you can stop yourself.
Bucky looks back. “What?”
“In the pool.” You gesture toward everyone else, voice mild enough to deserve applause. “That large wet rectangle behind you.”
Sam laughs from the water. Steve watches Bucky with the concerned patience of someone looking at a friend about to step on a rake. Bucky’s eyes flick toward the pool, then to you. “I’m fine here.”
“Tragic. We’ll notify the rectangle.”
That gets a laugh from Tony. Even Bucky’s mouth twitches, but it dies before it becomes anything useful. “You scared?” you ask.
The words are easy. The ache under them is less so. You want him to rise. You want him to refuse. You want him to look. You want him to leave. You want so many impossible things at once that your own skin feels crowded. Bucky leans back in the chair, jaw set. “Of you?”
“Of fun.”
“Terrified.”
“Figures.” You turn before he can answer, stepping into the pool with all the dignity you can scrape together. The water feels warmer now after the heat of the day, soft around your knees, your waist, your ribs. Sam splashes near you, and you splash him back half-heartedly. The game restarts in some altered form. Someone throws a beach ball. Tony judges from the side with a drink, claiming he is “morally participating.” The sky slowly bruises pink and gold over the trees.
You laugh again. You even mean some of it. But Bucky stays on the chair. He stays dry and distant, one elbow on the armrest, beer untouched, gaze roaming everywhere except you until it does not. Then you feel it between your shoulder blades, across the back of your neck, sliding down where the swimsuit reveals more than it hides. If he is disgusted, he has a strange way of torturing himself with it.
Maybe he is bored. Maybe he is judging. Maybe he is thinking about someone else. Maybe you are pathetic. That last thought arrives with such calm familiarity that you almost miss the ball flying toward your face.
“Duck!” Sam shouts.
You duck too late. The beach ball clips the side of your head, harmless but startling, and you stumble back with a laugh that turns into a yelp when your foot misses the pool step under the water. This time, you do not fall. This time, Bucky is already there.
The splash of him entering the pool sends water up over your arms. You barely process the movement before his hand catches your waist under the water, bare palm meeting bare skin, fingers firm enough to halt every thought you were trying to have. His other hand closes around your wrist, anchoring you while your toes find the step.
The whole pool erupts around you. Sam says something. Tony whistles. Clint declares another murder attempt. None of it matters.
Bucky is in the water. Bucky is touching you.
Bucky’s hair is wet now, loose strands clinging near his jaw. His chest is inches from yours, water beading on his collarbones, eyes fixed on your face with the sort of focus that makes you feel both held and dissected. The metal hand around your wrist is cool. The flesh hand at your waist is warm even underwater. Your body, treacherous little idiot, forgets every insult it has been rehearsing and leans a fraction closer. “Careful,” he says again.
The same word. Same roughness. Less distance. Your laugh barely works this time. It leaves your mouth thin and tired. “You need a new line.”
His eyes drop to your mouth. Stay there. Move back up. “You need to stop slipping.”
“I’m sure the tiles are honored you blame me.”
“Wasn’t blaming you.”
“No, you’re just leaping into pools now. Very casual.”
His hand slides half an inch on your waist as someone’s wave rolls against you both. The movement is tiny and devastating. Your stomach pulls in under his palm before you can control it, and his fingers flex like he felt the reaction and had to restrain his own. Sam clears his throat loudly. “Everybody alive?”
Bucky does not look away from you. “Yeah.”
“You sure? That looked like a rescue.”
“Wilson,” Steve says, warning plain in his voice.
“What? I’m just asking. Man moved like a torpedo.”
Your face heats, and that saves you. Embarrassment brings language back. “I’m fine,” you say, trying to step back.
Bucky lets go of your wrist. His hand at your waist lingers. You glance down at it. He follows your gaze and releases you, slow enough to feel intentional, quick enough to hurt. “Fine,” he repeats, almost to himself.
You step away, wrapping your arms around your middle under the water. The swimsuit feels nonexistent now, yet somehow everyone can see the exact place his hand had been. Maybe there is a mark. Maybe your skin has announced it to the patio in bright letters. “I’m getting out,” you say, mostly to the water.
Bucky’s brows pull together. “Again?”
“Try to survive it.”
Sam says your name softly as you pass him, but you keep moving. The pool steps are kinder this time. You grip the rail, climb carefully, and grab your towel with wet hands. The sky has gone warmer, streaked with orange, and the air makes goosebumps rise along your arms. You head toward the house before anyone can ask.
The sliding door is blessedly close. The kitchen inside is cooler, dimmer, quiet except for the hum of Tony’s expensive refrigerator and the muted thump of music through glass. You leave wet footprints across the tile and feel guilty for half a second before remembering Tony could probably buy new tile by blinking. The towel goes tighter around you. Your face feels too hot. Your chest feels worse. Everything is tangled. Bucky looked away. Bucky watched. Bucky refused to get in. Bucky jumped in without thinking. Bucky touched you like instinct. Bucky let go like regret.
A normal person would accept complexity. You prefer suffering. The kitchen island has a bowl of cut limes, a bottle of tequila, and a tray of tiny desserts covered in plastic wrap. You peel one back and take a mini tart just to have something to destroy. It tastes like lemon and butter and wealth. You chew angrily. “stealing dessert before dinner’s fully over?”
You close your eyes. No. Absolutely no. The universe can go bother someone else.
Bucky’s voice comes from the doorway behind you, lower after the pool, rougher around the edges. You keep chewing. Swallow. Pick up another tart because dignity left hours ago and dessert is here now.
“Tell tony,” you say. “He’ll have me arrested by the pastry police.”
Wet footsteps cross the tile. He has followed you in dripping too, which should make him less intimidating. It does not. The room fills with him, chlorine and sun and that clean masculine smell under it, the one that has ruined many evenings and one perfectly decent pillow you once pressed your face into after he left it on your couch. He stops on the other side of the island. You look at the tart tray instead of him.
“I was checking on you.”
“Very heroic. I’m eating a tart.”
“So I see.”
“Then your work here is done.”
The old rhythm tries to come back. Snap, deflect, survive. Usually he takes the bait. Usually he smiles or scoffs or says something that makes you want to throw a household object. This time he stays quiet, and the quiet crawls right under your towel. You reach for a third tart. His hand covers the tray.
You stare at his fingers. Human hand. Calloused. Thick. The same hand that had been on your waist in the pool, warm through the water, possessive for one second before he remembered he did not want to be. Your own hand hovers uselessly near his. Lemon sugar sticks to your thumb. “Move,” you say.
“Talk to me.”
Your laugh is small and mean. “About dessert?”
“About what you said outside.”
“I’ve said many beautiful things today.”
His fingers press lightly against the plastic wrap, making it crinkle. “At the pool steps.”
The room cools further. Somewhere outside, Sam laughs. The sound reaches the kitchen thin and far away, like it belongs to another life where people can swim and flirt and enjoy fruit without turning into an open wound near a marble island. “I said you didn’t have to touch me.” You lift one shoulder. The towel slips a little. His eyes move to fix on your face with almost painful discipline. “Seems clear.”
“No.” His jaw tightens around the word. “It doesn’t.”
“It really does.”
“Is that what you think I’m doing?”
There it is. Softer than you expected. Worse, somehow. He sounds angry, but the anger has nowhere clean to go. It sits between you, wet-haired and broad-shouldered and too close. You pick at the sugar on your thumb. “Standing in a kitchen?”
“Trying to stop touching you.”
A humorless sound leaves you. “Aren’t you?”
Bucky’s hand slowly leaves the tray. He comes around the island, and you hate yourself for how fast your body registers each step. Wet tile under his bare feet. The shift of muscle in his thighs. Water slipping from his hair to his neck. He stops beside you, close enough that you can see tiny droplets on his lashes. “You think that’s why I looked away?”
Your fingers curl into the towel at your chest. “I’m very tired of talking about where your eyes go.”
“I’m not.”
“Congratulations.”
His voice lowers. “Look at me.”
“No.”
He breathes out through his nose. A patient sound. Not gentle. Not quite. “Please.”
That word does the damage anger could never do. You look up, furious with him for asking nicely. His face is tense, mouth set, eyes darker in the dim kitchen. He looks too serious for a pool party. Too serious for you standing here in a damp swimsuit and a towel, lemon sugar on your thumb, embarrassment turning your throat tight. “Happy?” you ask.
His gaze moves over your face like he is trying to read something written under your skin. “No.”
That almost gets you. Simple answer. No joke. No little smirk to save either of you. Your own mouth opens, then closes again.
Bucky glances toward the patio doors. Outside, the others are loud and bright and drunk on summer. In here, the air holds still around the refrigerator hum and your wet footprints. “I looked away,” he says, each word measured like it costs him, “because if I kept looking, everybody out there was gonna know.”
You stare at him. It takes a second. Maybe more. Your brain receives the sentence, turns it over, rejects it, picks it up again, then shakes it until meaning falls out. “Know what?”
His laugh is almost silent, rough at the bottom. “Don’t do that.”
“I’m asking.”
“You know what.”
“I really don’t.”
His hand lifts, then stops before touching you. That restraint again. Always that. A hand held back like your skin has rules written over it. You hate it more than anything, and maybe you have loved it too, which is inconvenient and humiliating. His fingers curl into his palm. “That I wanted you.”
The fridge hums. Music thuds through glass. Someone outside yells for Tony to stop cheating at whatever stupid rich-man game he has invented. Your towel slips another inch down your shoulder. Bucky notices. This time, he does not look away fast enough.
Wanted. Past tense? Present tense? A cruel grammar question at the worst possible time.
“You’ve been acting like looking at me causes physical pain,” you say, and it comes out less sharp than you need. More wounded. Awful.
His eyes cut back to yours. “It does.”
You blink. Bucky looks almost mad at himself now, which is satisfying for one brief second before it becomes sad. “You walked out in that thing and I had two choices. Look away, or sit there with everyone watching me stare at you like I’d lost my damn mind.”
“That thing?”
His gaze dips. Brief. Hungry. No disgust in it. None. The realization makes your stomach hollow out and fill at once. “The swimsuit.”
“You hate it.”
His mouth parts, then closes. His brows draw down. “I hate that Sam got to tell you first.”
That sentence finds a deep, stupid place in you and presses there. You hate that place. It has no pride. “He was being nice,” you say.
“I know.” in his mouth, right now, it is not reassurance. It is surrender. It is a man admitting something he does not want to resent and resenting it anyway.
“He looked at you like a friend,” Bucky says. “That made it worse.”
You set the tart down slowly, afraid any sudden movement might shatter the room. “Why?”
His eyes come back to yours. “Because I didn’t.”
The answer moves through you like a slow spill. Outside, someone opens the patio door. You both turn your heads at once. Tony leans in halfway, sunglasses still on though the sun is dying. His gaze takes in the water on the floor, your towel, Bucky’s expression, the tray of tarts, and he immediately lifts both hands.
“Fantastic. Haunted kitchen. Love that for us.” He reaches blindly for a bottle near the door. “Pretend I’m rich furniture.”
“Tony,” Bucky says, voice tight.
“Gone. Emotionally, spiritually, legally.” Tony backs out with the bottle and slides the door shut.
The interruption should break the tension. It does not. It makes it worse. Now the world has peeked in and retreated. Now privacy feels chosen. You wipe your sticky thumb against the towel, then regret it. “People are going to come looking.”
“Let them.”
Your eyes flick to his. “That’s a bad idea.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re agreeing?”
“Trying something new.”
Despite everything, a tiny laugh escapes you. Bucky’s face shifts at the sound. Not a smile, exactly. More dangerous than that. Like the laugh handed him proof he had been starving for and now he is trying to keep from grabbing.
“I thought you were embarrassed,” you say, quieter. The words scrape more than they should. “Of looking. Of me.”
His whole body seems to pull toward you without moving. “Jesus.”
You flinch at the roughness, and he sees it.
“Hey.” His hand finally touches your arm, just above the towel’s edge. Warm, careful, barely there. Still enough to ruin you. “No. I’m angry at myself. Not you.”
“You keep looking away.”
“I was trying to be decent.”
“That felt awful.”
His thumb moves once over your damp skin. You wish it did less. You wish it did more. “I see that now.”
“Great. Character development.”
He huffs, but there’s no real humor in it. His eyes have gone to the place his thumb touches your arm. “I’m sorry.”
You blink again. Bucky apologizes sometimes. To other people. Usually with grumbles and half-smiles and enough charm to make forgiveness feel inevitable. With you, apologies are rarer. Maybe because both of you prefer biting to bleeding. Maybe because he never seems to understand where the wound is.
This one is plain. You have no idea what to do with it. “I don’t want your pity apology,” you say.
His thumb stops. “Pity?”
“Yes.”
“You think I’m standing here half naked in Stark’s kitchen, dripping on a floor that costs more than my first apartment, apologizing out of pity?”
“When you put it like that, it sounds stupid.”
“It sounded stupid before.”
You glare up at him, relieved by the spark of irritation because anger is easier to hold. “Careful.”
That word. His word. It changes something in his face, turns his attention heavier. Your mouth goes dry. Bucky’s hand slides down your arm, slow enough that you could move away. You do not. His fingers find your wrist, then your hand, lifting it between you. Lemon sugar still clings faintly near your thumb. His eyes meet yours, asking nothing aloud, and maybe you nod. Maybe your hand simply gives up and lets him.
He brings your thumb to his mouth. The first touch of his tongue is warm and wet and obscene in its quietness. He licks the sugar from your skin like he has all the time in the world, lips closing around the tip of your thumb for half a second before he lets it go. Your knees forget their duties. The island is behind you, so you lean back against it before your body can embarrass you further.
Bucky watches the movement. “There,” he says, voice rougher. “No pity.”
You breathe through your nose, which is impressive since your lungs appear to have resigned. “That was unsanitary.”
“Pool water’s worse.”
“Comforting.”
His hand stays around yours. “You always do that.”
“What?”
“Make a joke when you’re shaking.”
You glance down. Your fingers are trembling in his grip. Treacherous little things. You consider cutting them off. Too messy for tony’s floor.
“I’m cold,” you say.
Bucky’s eyes drop to the towel, the damp swimsuit, the little bumps risen along your arms. “Yeah?”
“Yes.”
“Want me to get you dry?”
There is nothing clean in that question. Maybe there could have been, from someone else. From him, with his mouth still wet from your thumb and his hand around yours, the words turn thick. You pull your hand back, mostly so you can breathe. “I can manage a towel.”
“I saw.”
“You saw me almost fall.”
“I saw a lot today.”
A pulse starts low in your body, slow and hot and deeply inconvenient. “You looked away for most of it.”
“I looked back.”
That shuts you up. His hand goes to the edge of the towel. He does not pull. Just touches the cotton near your collarbone, where it has started to sag from water and poor decision-making. “I looked back all damn day.”
You try to swallow. It takes effort. “Bucky…”
The patio door opens again. This time it is Nat. She takes one look at you, one look at Bucky, then at the wet floor. Her face gives away nothing, which means she has figured out everything.
“People are asking about dessert,” she says.
You stare at her helplessly. Bucky’s hand drops from the towel. He turns his head, expression suddenly murderous in a very contained, socially inconvenient way. “They can wait.”
Natasha’s brows rise. “Can they?”
“Yes,” he says.
Something about that single word, the calm certainty of it, makes your thighs press together under the towel. Nat’s eyes flick down for barely a second, then back up. You want the tile to open and swallow you. Preferably gently. With snacks. “Right,” she says. “I’ll tell them the kitchen is occupied.”
“Nat,” you hiss.
Her mouth curves. “What? By wet people.”
Bucky sighs like he is in physical pain. “Romanoff.”
“Relax, Barnes. I’m leaving.” She reaches for the tray of tarts, slides it away from you both, and pauses at the door. “Use one of the guest rooms. Tony has cameras in weird places.”
Your soul leaves your body. “What?” you choke.
Tony’s voice carries from outside. “I do not have cameras in weird places. I have cameras in strategic places.”
Natasha closes the door again. The silence after that is different. Less fragile. More aware of its own stupidity. You cover your face with one hand. “I’m moving.”
Bucky makes a sound that might be a laugh if he were less ruined. “Where?”
“Into the ocean.”
“Pool’s closer.”
“Too many witnesses.”
His hand returns to your waist, over the towel this time, and the casual possession of it melts the last few scraps of your brain. “Guest room’s closer too.”
You lower your hand. He is looking at you now. No retreat. No disgust. No careful sideways glance. He looks exactly how you had feared wishing for. Hungry and unsure and trying to make himself stand still. “This is a terrible idea,” you whisper.
“Probably.”
“People are outside.”
“Yep.”
“You were ignoring me two hours ago.”
His mouth tightens. “I was trying to keep my hands off you two hours ago.”
“And now?”
His fingers press into your waist, pulling you one inch closer. Not enough. Enough to make you greedy. “Now I heard what you thought.”
Your chest aches. “And?”
He leans in, slow. Gives you time. Too much time. Your eyes dip to his mouth, and he sees that too. Of course he sees that, the bastard. His lips brush the corner of yours, barely a touch, more breath than kiss, and your entire body answers like it has been waiting years for a command. “And I’m done letting you think it.”
The first kiss is almost gentle. Almost. That is what ruins it. Bucky’s mouth touches yours with restraint at first, warm and careful, and you stand there stupidly with your hand hovering near his chest. It has taken so long to get here that your body does not trust it. He kisses you once, then draws back just enough to look at your face, and something in that tiny pause makes you angry. “No,” you breathe, grabbing the wet hair at the nape of his neck.
His eyes darken. “No?”
“You don’t get to kiss me like I’m fragile after making me feel insane all day.”
The words are barely out before his hand slides behind your head and his mouth comes back harder. This kiss has teeth in it. Not cruel, not careless, but hungry enough to make your fingers tighten in his hair. He tastes like beer and lemon sugar from your skin. His other arm wraps around your waist, pulling you in until the towel is crushed between you and his damp chest, and you make a sound into his mouth that you would deny in court. Bucky answers with a low groan, and the sound breaks something open. The kiss turns messy fast. Your feet slip a little on the wet tile, and he catches you without breaking away, almost lifting you onto your toes. The island edge presses into your back. His hand spreads wide between your shoulder blades, then drags down over the towel, as if he hates every layer between his palm and the body he kept refusing to look at.
Outside, laughter rises. You jerk back. “Guest room.”
Bucky’s forehead touches yours for one second. His breathing is rough, uneven, gratifyingly ruined. “Yeah.”
He takes your hand. That simple thing nearly undoes you. His fingers lace through yours, warm and firm, and he leads you through Tony’s absurd house with far more purpose than a man dripping pool water should have. The hallway is cool and dim, lined with art that probably costs enough to rescue a small nation. You barely see it. You see his back, the muscles shifting under wet skin, the dark hair curling at his neck, your hand held in his like something he does not plan to misplace. A laugh bursts from the patio behind you, then the sound dulls as the hallway turns. Your pulse beats everywhere. Mouth, wrists, thighs, the places the swimsuit rubs too tight. You have spent hours wishing he would look, and now he is taking you somewhere private to do more than that, which means panic arrives right on schedule, prim little nightmare clipboard in hand.
What if he changes his mind when the door closes? What if this is heat and misunderstanding and chlorine? What if he touches you and finds every soft place you spent the day trying to hide? Bucky stops at the first guest room and opens the door. The room is airy, pale, ridiculous, with a king bed dressed in white and a view of the trees beyond the windows. Too pretty. Too clean. A room for people who have sex beautifully, probably, with matching underwear and no body anxiety.
You hover at the threshold. Bucky turns. His gaze drops to your face, then your hand still in his. “What?”
You hate the gentleness. You might start wanting it everywhere. “Nothing.”
He steps closer, slowly enough to make the hallway feel narrower. “Try again.”
Your fingers tighten around his. “I’m wet.”
His brows lift a fraction. “From the pool,” you snap, heat flooding your face. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face did.”
“My face is having a day.”
Despite yourself, a laugh slips out, small and anxious. His thumb strokes over your knuckles, and the laugh fades into something softer. God, this is bad. This is tender now, and tender is much more dangerous than horny. Horny you understand. Horny has a beginning and an end and terrible decision-making in the middle. Tender grows roots. Bucky steps into the room and draws you with him.
The door closes behind you with a quiet click. For one second, neither of you speaks. The silence fills with water dripping from both of you onto the floor, distant music, your own uneven breathing. His hand leaves yours. You miss it immediately, which is humiliating.
Then he reaches for the towel. “Can I?”
You want to say something sharp. Something clever. Something that protects the swollen, nervous thing in your chest. Instead, you nod.
He unwraps you slowly. Not theatrically. Not like some polished movie scene. His fingers fumble once at the tucked corner, and that fumble does more to you than smooth confidence ever could. The towel loosens, slipping from your shoulders, down your arms, catching at your elbows before he pulls it free and drops it onto a chair.
Cool air touches your damp skin. Your hands twitch toward your stomach. Bucky catches them. The movement is fast, but his hold is gentle. Both wrists in his hands, lifted slightly away from your body. His eyes stay on yours. “Don’t hide from me.” The words are low, quiet, and absolutely devastating.
You try to laugh. It barely forms. “That’s ambitious.”
“I can be patient.”
“You? Since when?”
His mouth twitches. “Since about three seconds ago.”
You breathe out, shaky but almost amused. He lifts your hands and kisses the inside of one wrist. Then the other. Your throat tightens. It is so stupid, how much that gets to you. A kiss there. Not your mouth. Not your chest. Just the soft skin where your pulse is making an idiot of itself. “I’m going to look at you,” he says.
Your face burns. “That sounds like a threat.”
“It’s a warning.” His thumb moves over your wrist. “A fair one.”
“Very gentlemanly.”
“Trying.”
You swallow. “Don’t try too hard.”
His eyes darken. The shift is immediate, and you feel it under your skin. The little softness remains, but something hotter moves through it, something less careful. His hands lower yours to your sides. He waits. Gives you the chance to lift them again.
You don’t. Bucky looks. This time, he lets himself. His gaze starts at your face, maybe for mercy, then slips down your throat, over the thin straps, the gold rings, the wet fabric clinging to your breasts. You feel each inch like touch. He looks at the curve of your waist, the high cut at your hips, the soft places you wanted to fold away. His jaw sets hard. A slow breath leaves him, and the sound is not disgust. Not even close. It is almost anger, but turned inward, like he cannot believe he denied himself this all afternoon.
Your eyes sting again. “Oh,” you whisper, then immediately want to slap a hand over your mouth. Not a standalone reaction, you tell yourself absurdly. Put it in a sentence, idiot. “You actually…”
Bucky’s gaze snaps back to your face. “Yeah.”
“You looked away.”
“I was an idiot.”
“That’s established.”
His smile is brief and strained. “Fair.”
His hands come to your hips, bare now, no towel, no water softening the contact. Skin to skin. You inhale too sharply and his grip steadies, thumbs pressing near the swimsuit’s edge. “You thought I didn’t like this?” he asks, voice dragging lower.
Your eyes drop to his chest, safer than his face by maybe half a degree. “You looked like you were suffering.”
“I was.” His fingers slide along the high curve of your hip, then stop there, squeezing once. “Sweetheart, I saw you come out in this and forgot what language I spoke.”
That sounds impossible. It also sounds like him. Rough, a little annoyed, painfully sincere under all that heat. “You recovered fast.”
“I didn’t recover. I panicked.”
The laugh that leaves you is shaky and wet at the edges. “That was panic?”
“Steve asked if I was having a stroke.”
Your mouth opens. “He did not.”
“He did.”
“Was he concerned?”
“Very.”
You laugh fully this time, and Bucky’s hands tighten like he wants to hold the sound against you. The laugh fades when he steps closer. His wet chest brushes the front of your swimsuit. Barely. Your nipples tighten under the damp fabric, and his eyes drop just long enough to notice before returning to your face. The restraint almost kills you. “Sam complimented you,” he says.
You blink, following the turn. “Yes.”
“You smiled.”
“He was nice.”
“I know.”
There it is again. Acknowledgment. His thumbs move, small circles over your hips that turn thought into warm static. “You hated that?”
“I hated how easy it was for him.” Bucky’s voice goes rougher. “He could just say it. Stand there in front of everyone and tell you that you looked good. I stood ten feet away acting like looking at you too long was gonna put me in the ground.”
You study him, the damp hair, the tense mouth, the eyes that keep trying to fall and climb back up. “Would it?”
“Yeah,” he says, and this time he does smile. Small, wrecked, honest enough to hurt. “Maybe.”
That does something worse than praise. Makes you ache. Makes you stupid. Makes you lift your hand to his chest, pressing your fingers over the warm skin where your palm had landed earlier. He looks down at your hand like he wants to thank it. “You could’ve said something,” you murmur.
“I thought I had time to figure out how.”
“Figure out how to say you liked a swimsuit?”
“How to say I wanted to peel it off with my teeth without getting slapped in front of Steve.”
Your fingers curl against his chest. He watches your face. “Too much?”
The question is sincere, but barely. Mostly he is reading you now, and whatever he sees in your expression pulls his mouth into something darker. “No,” you say, and your voice sounds smaller than you want. “Continue.”
His laugh is quiet. “Continue?”
“You heard me.”
“I did.” One hand leaves your hip and comes up to your jaw, thumb brushing near the corner of your mouth. “Trying to decide if I wanna continue with my mouth or my hands.”
Your knees feel untrustworthy. “You’re taking suggestions?”
“From you?” He leans in, lips grazing your cheek, not quite kissing. “Always.”
The word slides down your body and settles low, hot, awful. You press your thighs together, barely, but he is too close to miss it. “Yeah?” His lips brush your ear now. “That where it goes when I say that?”
“Shut up.”
“Been trying all day.”
“To shut up?”
“To keep from saying worse.”
His mouth touches your neck. Your eyes close before you can pretend dignity. It is only one kiss at first, warm and damp from pool water, placed under your jaw with almost unbearable care. Then another, lower. His fingers at your jaw angle your face up, and the little stretch of your throat makes the room tilt through your body without the phrase in your head. You grip his shoulder, nails pressing into skin.
“Bucky,” you whisper.
He hums against your neck. “That sounded nice.”
“Don’t get smug.”
“Too late.”
You would scold him, but his teeth scrape lightly over your pulse and the scolding falls apart into a weak sound. He hears it. Of course he hears it. His hand on your hip slides around to the small of your back, pressing you closer, and the hard line of him through his swim trunks meets your lower stomach.
Your entire body pauses.
Bucky goes still too, but only to let you register it.
“Oh,” you breathe, then rush to fix it, face flaming. “That’s, um. That’s there.”
He pulls back enough to look at you. His eyes are nearly black. “Yeah. It’s been there.”
Your mouth parts.
“All day,” he adds, almost cruel now, and the hand at your jaw keeps your face tipped up. “You want the truth? I had to sit down after you got in the pool.”
A tiny, helpless sound leaves you.
His thumb strokes your cheek. “No. Look at me.”
You do, barely.
“I’m gonna say things,” he says, voice softer but dirtier somehow, stripped of performance. “And you’re gonna believe me this time.”
Your throat works around nothing. “That’s demanding.”
“Yeah.”
“Usually people ask.”
“I spent all day asking myself if I was allowed to want you.” His hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers sinking into damp hair. “I’m done asking me.”
That should terrify you. It does, maybe. But it terrifies the part of you that has been begging for exactly this.
His mouth comes back to yours, and this time neither of you pretend at gentleness for long. You open for him almost immediately, and he groans into the kiss, the sound vibrating through his chest under your hand. His tongue slides against yours, slow at first, then deeper when your fingers dig into his shoulders. The kiss turns wet, hungry, breathing ruined between mouths. He walks you backward without breaking it, guiding rather than pushing, until your calves hit the bed.
The bed. White sheets. Guest room. Pool party outside. Bucky’s hands on you.
Your brain tries one last heroic effort at thought.
What if someone comes in?
Bucky’s hands move to your hips.
What if the door isn’t locked?
He turns you, sits on the edge of the bed, and pulls you between his thighs.
What if this changes everything?
His mouth leaves yours and moves down your throat, and your remaining thoughts scatter like birds.
He is sitting now, which makes him lower, makes your body the thing above him for once. It should help. It does not. His hands spread over your thighs, thumbs running along the place where the swimsuit cuts high, and he looks up at you with damp hair falling around his face. He looks wrecked. Actually wrecked. Like the sight of you standing between his legs has finished what the swimsuit started.
“You were hiding under that towel,” he murmurs, tracing the edge of the fabric at your hip.
You swallow. “It was cold.”
“Liar.”
Your face heats, but his mouth presses to your stomach before you can answer. Right over the swimsuit. Soft. Deliberate. You freeze.
He does it again.
Lower this time.
Your hands hover over his shoulders. You do not know what to do with them. Push him away? Pull him closer? Applaud? Cry? Move to Romania?
“Bucky…”
His eyes lift. His lips remain near your stomach. “Yeah?”
You hate the question. Hate how much room it gives you to stop him. Hate how badly you want him to keep going without making you beg for it. “That’s…”
“What?”
You glance away. “You don’t have to…”
He sits back so fast you regret speaking. His hands remain on your thighs, but the warmth of his mouth is gone. “Don’t.”
The single word is sharp enough to bring your eyes back.
His expression is serious again. “Don’t say I don’t have to. I know I don’t have to.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“I want to.” His fingers press into your thighs, almost too tight, then ease as he notices. “I have wanted to put my mouth on you since you walked outside.”
Your body responds so hard it feels unfair.
His eyes lower, following the tiny shift of your thighs. His jaw tightens. “Since before that.”
The room has become too warm. Your swimsuit is drying in patches, damp fabric clinging between your legs, and every tiny movement makes you aware of how wet you are under the pool water. Not just pool water anymore. Maybe not for a while. Horrible. Amazing. You may need medical attention. Or less medical attention and more of his mouth.
Bucky’s thumb slides along your inner thigh.
“You thought I didn’t wanna look.” He says it quietly, but the words carry a rough little bite. “You thought I looked away because I didn’t like your body.”
Your fingers curl into his hair. You do not answer.
He leans forward and kisses the inside of your thigh, just below the swimsuit’s edge.
Your breath leaves in a broken little rush.
His mouth lingers there. “I looked away because I wanted to do this in front of everybody.”
“Bucky,” you whisper, scandalized and so turned on you can barely feel your feet.
His lips move higher, still over skin, slow and warm. “Wanted to drag you out of that pool when Wilson had his hands on you.”
“He was helping.”
“I know.” His teeth graze your thigh. “Still wanted to.”
“You’re terrible.”
“Today?” His eyes flick up. “Yeah.”
His fingers hook under the swimsuit at your hips, then stop. The pause makes your skin prickle. He is waiting. Again. That careful, maddening decency under all the dirty want.
You nod, too fast.
His mouth curves, but it is not teasing. More relief than anything. “Words, baby.”
That name hits deep. Worse after the whole day of being looked away from. Baby means wanted. Baby means chosen. Baby means the towel can stay on the chair and the body you were trying to hide is now the only thing he seems able to focus on.
“Take it off,” you say.
Bucky closes his eyes for a second.
You almost laugh. Almost. Instead your fingers tighten in his hair, and that ruins him faster. His eyes open, and the polite thread in him snaps.
The swimsuit comes down slowly at first, peeled over your hips with such careful attention that you want to crawl out of your skin. The damp fabric resists, clinging where it can, and Bucky seems almost personally offended by it. He leans forward, mouth brushing your hip as he works it lower, then your lower stomach, then the soft skin above your mound. Every kiss makes the wait worse. Every inch exposed feels like a confession.
You expect him to look up at your face once you are bare.
He does not.
His gaze fixes between your thighs, and the sound he makes is quiet, dragged deep from his chest, almost pained. You try to close your legs on instinct, but his hands are already there, spreading warm over your thighs.
“Don’t hide,” he says again, rougher now.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“You’re staring.”
“Yeah.” His thumbs slide higher. “I missed a lot today.”
Your face burns so hot it almost hurts. “You can’t just say that.”
“I can.” He kisses the crease of your thigh, eyes still on you. “I am.”
The swimsuit slips lower, down your thighs, then to your knees. You lift one foot, then the other, and he drops the ruined damp thing somewhere on the floor. A wildly expensive room, white sheets, your swimsuit abandoned in a wet little heap. It should feel humiliating.
It does.
It also makes you throb.
Bucky’s hands return to your thighs. He sits there on the bed, still in his wet trunks, and looks at you like this is the first quiet moment he has had all day and he plans to spend it badly. Your arms cross over your chest, but he catches the movement at once.
“Hey.”
You glare, but there is no force behind it. “What?”
His hands slide around to the backs of your thighs. “Come here.”
“I am here.”
“Closer.”
“There is physically no closer unless I climb you.”
His expression changes.
Ah. Idiot mouth. Treacherous mouth. Mouth with no survival instincts.
Bucky leans back slightly, spreading his thighs more. “Then climb.”
Your body gives an almost embarrassing pulse at the command. “You’re very comfortable giving orders for someone who spent half the day staring at landscaping.”
“I had a hard day.”
“You had a chair.”
“I had you in that swimsuit ten feet away from me.”
“That must have been so difficult.”
He pulls you forward by the backs of your thighs, and the sudden movement makes your hands land on his shoulders. “It was.”
There is no joke in his voice now.
Your knees go onto the mattress on either side of him before you fully decide to move. Straddling his lap like this, bare while he is still partly clothed, feels obscene in a way full nudity might not have. His trunks are wet beneath you. The hard length of him presses up between your thighs, thick and hot even through fabric. Your hips jerk before you can stop them, and his hands clamp around you with a groan.
“Shit.” His forehead drops to your collarbone. “Do that again and I’m gonna embarrass myself.”
That should make you smug. Powerful. Instead it makes you needy in a way you did not agree to. You roll your hips again, smaller this time, dragging your bare pussy over the soaked fabric of his trunks. The friction is rough enough to make your mouth fall open. His hands grip your ass, helping and stopping at once, torn between instincts.
“Baby,” he says, warning and pleading in the same breath.
The word feeds something awful in you. You do it again.
Bucky’s head tips back, throat working, eyes squeezed shut for half a second. This beautiful, irritating man who looked away all day now looks as if your body might actually kill him. Good. Maybe balance exists.
“You like this?” you ask, and your voice is shaky, but the question still has a little bite. “Or are you going to look at the curtains?”
His eyes open.
You may have gone too far.
His hand comes up and catches your jaw, not hard, but certain enough that your hips still. “Say it again.”
Your lips part. “What?”
“What you said outside.”
The pool steps return all at once. Wet stone. His hand at your waist. Your own stupid voice, bitter and wounded.
“You don’t have to touch me longer than necessary,” you murmur, quieter now.
Bucky’s jaw flexes. His thumb strokes once along your lower lip, and the tenderness of it makes the shame worse somehow. “That.” His other hand presses at your lower back, bringing you down against him again. “Every time you thought that today, I want it back.”
You have no idea what that means until he kisses you.
It is not careful now. It is deep, claiming, his tongue sliding into your mouth as his hand guides your hips over him. The wet fabric drags against your clit, and you whimper into the kiss, the sound swallowed by him immediately. He does it again, rolls you down, grinds you over the hard shape of his cock, and the pleasure is dirty and sharp, mixed with the faint scratch of his trunks and the slickness between your thighs.
“Long enough?” he mutters against your mouth.
You clutch at him, face burning. “Shut up.”
His hand slips between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with such sudden precision that your whole body jerks. He rubs slow, tight circles, using your wetness and the water still on your skin, watching your face from inches away.
“Answer me.”
You shake your head, pride making a brave final appearance before dying in combat. “No.”
“No?” His mouth brushes yours, and his fingers press a little harder. Your hips chase the touch, humiliating you on contact. “Still not long enough?”
You hate him. You love him. You want to bite his shoulder until he says your name wrong. “Bucky…”
“That’s not an answer.”
His fingers dip lower, sliding through your folds, and his eyes go heavy at what he finds. “Fuck, sweetheart.” His voice drops into something rough and almost disbelieving. “You’re soaked.”
“Pool,” you manage, immediately ashamed of yourself.
He laughs then, a low sound against your mouth. “Yeah? Pool did this?”
His fingers push inside you, two at once, thick enough that your head drops forward to his shoulder. The stretch steals whatever joke you had left. Your hands claw at his back, and he groans like that hurts in the best possible way.
“Guess I owe the pool an apology,” he murmurs, pumping his fingers slowly. “Been mad at it all day for touching you more than I got to.”
Your laugh breaks into a moan. The sound is embarrassing, open, too needy, and he reacts to it with a thrust of his hips up against your bare thigh, his cock hard and trapped in wet fabric.
“Bucky,” you whimper, turning your face into his neck.
His fingers curl.
Your body goes liquid.
“There,” he breathes, and then seems to remember himself. “Yeah, right there?”
You nod into his skin, too far gone to be difficult.
“Use words.”
A sharp little pulse goes through you. He feels it. His laugh is quieter this time, almost awed.
“Oh, you like that.” His fingers press the same spot again, slow and deliberate, and his thumb finds your clit. “All that mouth at the pool, and now look at you.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.” His mouth moves to your ear, breath hot over wet skin. “You hated thinking I didn’t want you.”
That one splits you open more than his fingers.
You try to lift your head, but he holds you where you are, face tucked into his neck, body in his lap, nowhere to go but the truth.
“You hated me looking away,” he continues, quieter, filthy and tender in equal measure. “Hated Wilson saying you looked good because you wanted it from me. Hated that I sat there like an idiot when all you wanted was for me to come over and put my hands on you.”
Your thighs shake around his. The pleasure is building faster than you expected, pulled tighter by every word. He is too accurate. Too close. Too deep, and it is only his fingers, which makes you dizzy with terror over what the rest of him will do.
“I didn’t…” You try. Fail. “I didn’t want…”
He kisses under your ear. “Liar.”
“Bucky.”
“You did.” His hand around your waist slides up your back, holding you as his fingers fuck into you a little harder. “You wanted me jealous. You wanted me to see you. You wanted me to stop acting like a saint and do something about it.”
Your nails dig into him.
“There,” he says, sounding pleased and ruined all at once. “That one.”
You are close. Horribly close. Hips rocking into his hand now, your body making choices your pride would never sign off on. His thumb rubs your clit steadily, and his fingers hit that same spot until your vision goes soft at the edges. You bite down on his shoulder to keep from being too loud, and he makes a strangled sound, hips bucking under you.
“God, do that again.”
You do. Harder.
His fingers slip out of rhythm for one second, and that small loss almost makes you sob. “No, no, no, don’t stop.”
Bucky’s hand tightens at your back. “I’ve got you.”
“You keep saying things like that,” you gasp, words breaking as he finds the rhythm again.
“Yeah?”
“It’s annoying.”
He kisses your temple, and the sweetness of it almost tips you over. “Cum, then complain.”
That should not work.
It works.
The orgasm rolls through you hard enough to make your mouth open against his shoulder without sound at first. Then the sound comes, muffled into his skin, high and wrecked. Your hips grind down on his fingers, chasing every last pull of it, and Bucky talks you through it in a rough whisper that barely sounds like him anymore.
“That’s it, baby. Fuck, there you go. Just needed someone to touch you right, huh? Needed me to stop being stupid and put my hands on you.”
Your body shakes in his lap, every muscle loose and trembling. His fingers slow but do not leave right away. He lets you ride the last of it, forehead pressed to the side of your head, breath rough in your ear. The patio music is still going somewhere far away. Someone outside cheers. Maybe a game. Maybe a toast. The world is criminally unaware that you have just collapsed into a man you were pretending to hate this morning.
Then Bucky starts to pull his fingers free.
You whine.
The sound is pathetic. Immediate. You wish to file a complaint against yourself.
Bucky freezes, then laughs under his breath. “Greedy.”
“Shut up.”
His fingers slide out fully, wet and obscene between you. You mean to look away. You fail. He watches your face as he brings them to his mouth, licking them clean with a slow, dirty satisfaction that makes your cunt clench around nothing.
His eyes darken. “Saw that.”
“You see too much.”
“Not enough.” His hands go to your hips again, turning you carefully and laying you back on the bed before you can protest. The white sheets are instantly doomed, damp under your body, but Tony’s laundry issues are not your ministry. Bucky kneels between your thighs, still in his trunks, cock straining hard beneath the clinging fabric. “I’m making up for it.”
A nervous laugh leaves you as your head sinks into the pillows. “By staring at my vagina?”
His brows lift.
Your face burns. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face again.”
“My face likes you.”
“Your face is an idiot.”
“Yeah.” He presses a kiss to your knee, then lower, then lower again, hands sliding under your thighs to open you wider. “It’s got company.”
The first touch of his mouth between your legs almost makes you levitate.
He does not ease in. Not really. Maybe he means to, maybe he has some beautiful plan involving patience, but the second his tongue parts you, his control seems to go with it. His hands hook around your thighs, dragging you closer to his mouth, and the sound he makes against your pussy is so filthy you cover your mouth with one hand.
Bucky stops.
Your eyes fly open.
He lifts his head, mouth wet, eyes furious in the best way. “Move your hand.”
Your fingers loosen over your lips. “They’ll hear.”
“Let them hear the pool wasn’t the reason you left.”
Your whole body clenches. He sees that too. Obviously. Curse him and his newly unleashed observational skills.
“Bucky,” you whisper, scandalized.
He kisses your inner thigh, close enough to make you twitch. “Move it, baby.”
Slowly, your hand drops to the sheets.
He smiles against your skin. “Thank you.”
Then his mouth is back on you, and gratitude becomes a weapon. He licks into you with slow, messy strokes at first, tasting you like he has been denied water and blames you personally. His tongue drags from your entrance to your clit, lingering there until your thighs tense around his head. Then he does it again. Again. Learning with horrifying speed what makes your hips jerk, what makes your fingers twist in the sheets, what makes your mouth form his name without quite saying it.
You understand, distantly, that he is good at this.
Of course he is. Of course Bucky Barnes eats pussy like he has a vendetta against sanity. Of course the man who looked away all afternoon now has his face buried between your thighs with a concentration that feels almost insulting. Like he is determined to win an argument you did not realize your body had started.
His metal hand slides up your stomach, cool against heated skin, holding you down when your hips lift. The contrast makes you moan. His eyes flick up. He does it again, palm pressing lightly between your ribs as his tongue circles your clit.
“Please,” you breathe, though you have no idea what you are asking for.
Bucky hums into you.
Your back arches. The hum vibrates through every over-sensitive nerve he has already ruined, and your hands shoot to his hair. He lets you pull. Encourages it, maybe, with another wet, open-mouthed suck that makes your thighs clamp around his ears.
“Sorry,” you gasp, trying to loosen your grip.
He pulls back just enough to speak, lips shining. “Do it again.”
“What?”
His teeth scrape your thigh. “Pull my hair again.”
You stare at him, then obey with trembling fingers.
His eyes close for a second, and the expression on his face is so openly pleased that something inside you folds. This is him. Not the cold look-away version from the patio. Not the teasing version with everyone watching. This man, wet-haired and greedy, kneeling between your legs like he has found religion and plans to be terrible about it.
He lowers his mouth again, and this time you pull when his tongue presses inside you.
Bucky groans into your cunt.
The sound is enough to make your hips jerk up against his mouth. He holds you down, but barely. Like he wants the fight. Like every needy movement makes him worse. His tongue fucks into you, then slips back to your clit, alternating until you cannot predict anything except pleasure. It grows too quickly. Your last orgasm has left you sensitive, swollen, every touch brighter than it should be.
“Bucky, I can’t,” you gasp, then hate yourself because you absolutely can and probably will.
He lifts his head, but keeps his thumb moving over your clit in lazy, devastating circles. “Can’t what?”
“Again. I can’t…”
His mouth curves, wet and wicked. “You can.”
“You have too much confidence.”
“I have evidence.” His thumb presses a little harder, and your legs shake. “Look at you.”
“No.”
“Yeah.” He leans up over you, thumb still moving, mouth hovering above yours. You can smell yourself on him. The realization makes you clench so hard his eyes drop. “You gonna get shy now? After soaking my fingers? After grinding all over me like you were trying to ruin my life?”
“I was making a point.”
“You made it.” His lips brush yours. “Very persuasive.”
You mean to roll your eyes. He kisses you before you can, pushing the taste of yourself into your mouth while his thumb keeps working your clit. The kiss makes it dirtier. More intimate. Your hand wraps around his wrist, but you don’t pull him away. You hold him there, grinding up in tiny helpless motions as the pressure builds again.
Bucky’s mouth leaves yours only to speak against it. “You’re gonna cum on my hand, then I’m gonna fuck you. If that’s what you want.”
If. Somehow that word remains. A door, not a trap. It makes your eyes sting again, which is so deeply inconvenient while naked with a man’s hand between your legs.
“I want it,” you say, voice shaking.
His forehead touches yours. “Yeah?”
“Yes.” Your grip tightens around his wrist. “I want you. I wanted you all day. I wanted you before today, and you were horrible and confusing and shirtless, which was unnecessary, and I hate that you looked away, and I hate that I cared, and I want you to fuck me so badly I can’t think about any of it.”
Bucky stares at you.
For a moment you regret speaking. Then his mouth crashes into yours, and regret becomes impractical.
His fingers replace his thumb, sliding down and pushing into you again, three this time, the stretch sharper after his mouth. You gasp into the kiss. He swallows it, pumps his fingers deep, heel of his hand grinding against your clit. The pleasure turns immediate and rough, your body already primed by his mouth and his words and the unbearable fact of being wanted after hours of believing the opposite.
“That’s it,” he mutters against your cheek. “There’s my mean girl. Thought I lost you under all that pouting.”
You whimper and slap weakly at his shoulder. “I was wounded.”
“You were jealous.”
“You were avoidant.”
“I was hard enough to see God.”
A shocked laugh bursts out of you, then breaks as his fingers curl. “That’s vulgar.”
“You asked for honesty.”
“I did not ask for theology.”
He laughs into your neck, and somehow the warm sound mixed with the filthy rhythm of his hand tips you closer. You clutch at his shoulders, then his hair, then the sheets. Nothing helps. The orgasm comes slower this time, dragged out of you with cruel patience. Your thighs tense, stomach pulling tight, and Bucky feels the change before you can warn him.
“Yeah, baby. Give me that one too.” His mouth presses near your ear, voice a wrecked whisper. “Need it. Need to feel you cum before I get inside you.”
Need. From him. Bucky Barnes needing anything from you.
Your body gives in.
The second orgasm is messier, wetter, less contained. You cry out before you can bite it back, hips bucking into his hand, and Bucky groans like the sound goes straight through him. His fingers keep moving, slower but deep, dragging the pleasure until you are shaking and trying to push at his wrist.
“Too much,” you gasp.
He stops at once.
The loss makes you whine again, and he laughs softly, kissing your cheek, then your jaw, then your mouth with absurd sweetness for someone who just fingered you into temporary stupidity.
“You’re impossible,” he murmurs.
“Your fault.”
“Yeah.” His hand smooths over your thigh, gentle now. “I’m starting to like that answer.”
You open your eyes. He is above you, wet hair falling forward, mouth swollen from kissing and eating you, eyes on your face with such naked affection that it scares you more than the hunger did.
Affection is hard. Desire has a script. Affection looks at you afterward.
Your hand lifts before you can stop it, touching his cheek. He turns slightly into your palm. That tiny movement ruins you.
“You really wanted me?” you ask, hating the softness in your voice.
His expression tightens. “All day.”
“Before today?”
He presses a kiss to your palm. “Yeah.”
“How long?”
A pause.
The room becomes too quiet again, but this silence is not empty. It is full of him deciding whether to lie. He does not.
“Long enough to act stupid about it.”
“That could be any amount of time.”
“Months.”
Your chest squeezes. “Months?”
“Maybe longer.”
“You’re terrible at flirting.”
“I panicked,” he says again, like that explains the whole tragedy of him. Maybe it does.
You laugh softly. He smiles this time, real and quick, then kisses you. The kiss starts gentle, then deepens when your legs wrap around his waist. His cock presses against you through his trunks, and the teasing drag makes both of you go still.
He looks down between your bodies. “I need these off.”
“Finally, a smart idea.”
His hands go to the waistband, then pause. “Condom?”
Reality returns in a less catastrophic way. Important. Practical. You gesture vaguely toward the side table, then remember this is Tony’s guest room, not a hotel minibar for sex supplies. “Unless Tony keeps them next to the complimentary existential dread, I don’t…”
Bucky drops his forehead to your shoulder with a pained groan.
A laugh bubbles out of you, helpless and mean. “Very prepared seduction, Barnes.”
“I was supposed to be ignoring you by the pool.”
“You did great.”
He bites your shoulder lightly. You yelp, then laugh harder. His own laugh shakes against you, warm and frustrated, and the absurdity of it makes the room feel human again.
Then he lifts his head. “I have one in my wallet.”
You stop laughing.
His brows draw together. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re judging.”
“I am judging.”
“I’m a grown man.”
“With pool-party condoms?”
“One condom. Singular. Emergency.”
“What emergency did you anticipate?”
He gives you a look. “Apparently this one.”
You should make another joke. You truly should. But the thought of him having one, of this actually happening, drains humor out of you and leaves want in its place. “Wallet,” you say.
Bucky’s eyes darken again.
He climbs off the bed, and the loss of his body makes you cold for exactly three seconds before he turns toward the chair where his discarded shirt must be absent, then remembers his wallet is out by the pool with his things. His face changes into genuine despair.
You clap a hand over your mouth.
“Don’t,” he warns.
“You left your emergency outside?”
“I didn’t plan to need it indoors.”
You dissolve into laughter. It is quiet, desperate, half muffled, but laughter all the same. Bucky stares at you, then shakes his head, smiling despite himself. He looks younger like this. Less impossible. Still shirtless and wet and hard in his swim trunks, which does complicate the innocence.
“I’ll go,” he says.
“You are not going outside like that.”
His gaze drops to the obvious tent in his trunks. “Fair.”
You look around the room and spot a folded robe near the bathroom door, white and plush. Perfectly Tony. “Robe.”
“I’m not wearing Stark’s sex robe.”
“Guest robe.”
“Same thing.”
“You want the condom or a philosophical debate?”
Bucky points at you. “Stay there.”
You sink back into the pillows, naked and grinning like an idiot. “Where would I go?”
“Knowing you? Window.”
“Only if things get worse.”
He grabs the robe, pulls it on with visible resentment, and the sight of Bucky Barnes in a plush white guest robe with wet hair and a furious erection is so absurdly beautiful that you almost cry. He catches your face and pauses at the door.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
He narrows his eyes. “That smile says something.”
“It says hurry.”
That works. He leaves, closing the door behind him.
The second he is gone, you become aware of yourself again. Naked on white sheets. Swimsuit on the floor. Body cooling, thighs damp, mouth swollen. The laughter fades slowly, leaving a trembling little silence behind it.
This is real.
Bucky wanted you. Bucky is coming back. Bucky went to fetch a condom wearing Tony’s guest robe like some obscene, damp ghost of poor planning.
Your hand presses over your stomach. Not hiding now. Just grounding. It feels different under your own palm after his mouth, his hands, his eyes. Still yours. Still soft in places. Still carrying every insecurity from the bathroom mirror. But his wanting has touched it now, and you hate how much that helps. Hate how badly you needed someone else’s hunger to quiet the awful little voice in your head. Maybe you can work on that later. Maybe growth can wait until after orgasms.
Voices rise in the hall.
You freeze.
Sam: “Barnes, why the hell are you wearing a robe?”
Bucky, low and deadly: “Move.”
Tony, delighted somewhere farther away: “That is Egyptian cotton, by the way.”
Natasha laughs. “Let him live.”
Sam again, audibly grinning: “Is there a fire?”
Bucky says something too low to hear.
A beat of silence.
Then Sam barks out, “Oh my god.”
Your soul exits again, does a lap, returns out of morbid curiosity.
The door opens. Bucky steps in, face red, jaw tight, wallet in hand, robe still tied around him. He closes the door and locks it this time.
You stare.
He points at you again. “Don’t.”
“I said nothing.”
“You’re laughing with your whole face.”
“I would never.”
He stalks back toward the bed, tugging at the robe tie with enough aggression to threaten the cotton’s lineage. “Wilson knows.”
“Oh no.”
“Tony knows.”
“Tony knew before we did.”
“Steve looked proud.”
That breaks you. You roll onto your side, laughing into the pillow. Bucky tosses the wallet onto the bed and grabs your ankle, pulling you back toward him. The movement turns your laughter into a gasp. The robe falls open as he kneels on the mattress, and there he is, absurdity gone in a single second, his body over yours again, desire returning like a hand around your throat.
“Laughing at me?” he asks.
“Yes.”
His hand slides up your calf, over your knee, spreading your leg aside. “That’s brave.”
“I’m very brave.”
“You slipped twice today.”
“Physically brave and spatially cursed.”
His mouth twitches. He bends down and kisses the inside of your knee, then the thigh, and the laughter fades into a softer sound. “You okay?”
The question is quiet. It stops the teasing better than any command could. You look down at him, fingers resting in his wet hair.
“Yes,” you say. Then, more honest, “Nervous.”
His hand stills on your thigh. “About me?”
“About you seeing me.”
His face changes again, but he does not use any of the easy lines. No polished praise. No smooth answer. He moves up your body instead, covering you with his warmth, bracing one arm beside your head. His other hand cups your cheek, thumb damp against your skin.
“I see you,” he says. “I want you. Same sentence.”
Your throat tightens. “That’s unfairly effective.”
“Trying to be clear.”
“Terrible habit.”
His mouth brushes yours. “Can I keep seeing you?”
You nod. “Yeah.”
His lips press to your cheek, your jaw, your neck. “Can I keep touching you?”
Your legs part wider around him. “Yeah.”
His hand slides down between your bodies, and your hips lift when his fingers stroke through your folds again, gentle now, checking. Teasing. Both. “Can I fuck you?”
The bluntness sends a hot pulse through you. Your fingers tighten on his shoulders.
“Yes,” you breathe. “Please.”
Bucky’s eyes close for a beat, and when they open, patience is hanging by a thread.
The robe is shoved away. His trunks follow, dragged down his hips with a wet, clinging sound that would be funny if you had enough brain left. You do not. You are too busy staring. He is thick, heavy in his hand, flushed at the tip, and your mouth goes dry so fast it is almost comic.
Bucky notices. Naturally.
“Still judging my emergency condom?” he asks, tearing the foil with his teeth.
You look up at him. “Less now.”
“Thought so.”
The condom rolls on. His hand pumps once, twice, and your thighs press together around empty air. He sees that too, then settles between your legs and guides them open again. The head of his cock drags through your wetness, and both of you go quiet.
The first press against your entrance is almost too much.
He pauses there, forehead lowering to yours. “Tell me if you need slow.”
You hate that. You love that. You want to ruin him for it.
“I need you to stop talking like a responsible adult,” you whisper.
A short laugh leaves him, strained. “Sweetheart, I am hanging on by a thread.”
“Then stop hanging.”
His hips push forward.
The stretch is slow and full and immediate enough to make your mouth fall open. Bucky watches your face as he enters you, jaw clenched, breath breaking through his nose. He gives you the first inch, then another, then stops when your nails dig into his arms.
“Okay?”
You nod too quickly, body caught between ache and hunger. “More.”
His control slips for half a second. His hips roll deeper, and the sound that leaves both of you is ugly and perfect. He is bigger than his fingers, thicker than your imagination had kindly prepared you for, filling you in a way that makes thought stagger. Your legs wrap around his waist. His hand grips the sheet beside your head.
“Fuck,” he breathes, almost helpless. “You feel…”
You wait for the line. Pretty. Tight. Perfect. Something dirty and easy.
He lowers his face to your neck. “I’m gonna lose my mind.”
That is better.
You clench around him, and his hips jerk. His teeth press into your shoulder. “Do that again and this ends fast.”
“Maybe I want that.”
He lifts his head, eyes dark. “No, you don’t.”
Your body gives you away, warmth spreading under your skin. “Annoying.”
“You want me to take my time now.” He pulls out slightly, then pushes back in, slow enough that you feel every inch. “You wanted me to look, right? Wanted me to stop looking away?”
Your hands twist in the sheets.
He does it again, dragging the pleasure into something deep and almost unbearable. “I’m looking.”
You cannot answer. There is no room. He fills too much of you, his body heavy over yours, wet hair brushing your cheek, the scent of chlorine and him wrapped around every breath. His eyes hold your face as he starts a slow rhythm, each thrust smooth and deep, his mouth parting when you tighten around him.
“Bucky,” you moan, and his name sounds ruined.
His hand slips under your knee, hitching your leg higher. The angle changes, and his next thrust hits so deep your back bows off the bed. He groans, dropping his head to your shoulder.
“There?” he asks, already doing it again.
You nod, frantic. “There, please, there.”
“Yeah, baby.” His pace picks up, still controlled but rougher now, bed shifting under both of you. “Knew you’d sound pretty begging.”
Your face burns. “I’m not begging.”
He thrusts harder.
The words vanish.
“That sounded like begging.” His mouth presses to your cheek, deceptively sweet while his hips drive into you with enough force to make your fingers claw at his back. “Pool made you mouthy. My cock’s fixing it.”
The filth of it makes you clench.
Bucky laughs, but it breaks halfway into a groan. “Shit, you like that.”
“You’re so smug.”
“I’m inside you,” he says, breath hot against your mouth. “I earned a little.”
You would argue, but his hand slides between you and finds your clit. The first touch makes you jolt. After his mouth and his fingers, you are too sensitive, every nerve overfed and greedy. He rubs tight circles as he fucks you, watching your expression collapse.
“Oh, that’s it.” His voice turns thick, affectionate in the dirtiest possible way. “There’s my girl.”
My girl.
You fall apart a little just hearing it.
His eyes sharpen. “Yeah? That one?”
“Bucky…”
“My girl,” he repeats, and his hips hit deeper, harder. “Mine to look at. Mine to touch. Mine to pull out of the pool when she’s trying to make me jealous.”
You shake your head, but your body is a liar and both of you know it.
“No?” His thumb presses harder on your clit. “You didn’t like me jumping in after you?”
“You looked ridiculous,” you gasp.
“Yeah, well. You looked wet and half naked and mad at me. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
A laugh escapes you, then turns into a moan when he rolls his hips. He smiles against your mouth, kissing the sound away, and for a few seconds the rhythm becomes messy. Kissing, thrusting, breathing into each other, his hand working between you, your nails leaving half-moon marks in his shoulders. No clean choreography. No grace. Just damp skin, white sheets, the slap of his hips against yours growing louder, the ridiculous fear that someone outside might hear and the worse realization that you want them to know he came after you.
You turn your face into the pillow to muffle yourself.
Bucky catches your jaw and pulls you back. “No.”
“They’ll hear.”
“Good.”
“Bucky.”
His eyes are dark, almost feverish. “Spent all day watching you think I didn’t want you. Let them hear me prove it.”
Your orgasm rises so fast it scares you. It starts low, tightening through your stomach, then spreads until your thighs tremble around his waist. He feels it. His thrusts lose some smoothness, turning heavier, more desperate.
“You close?”
You nod, helpless.
“Say it.”
“I’m close.”
His mouth brushes yours. “Ask me.”
Your eyes open. “What?”
“Ask me to make you cum.”
The request should annoy you. It does. It also sends pleasure twisting sharply through your body, so your irritation lacks credibility.
“You’re impossible,” you whimper.
“Ask.”
His hips slow.
That is evil.
You grab at his shoulders. “Don’t slow down.”
“Ask me, baby.”
A second passes, filled with the obscene pressure of him buried deep and almost still, his thumb barely moving over your clit. You glare at him with whatever strength remains.
“Please,” you say, hating how breathless it is. Loving how his face changes. “Please make me cum.”
Bucky groans, and the restraint goes.
His hips drive into you hard enough to shove you up the bed, one arm hooking under your back to keep you close. His thumb works your clit faster, and his mouth moves over your jaw, your cheek, your lips, wherever he can reach while he fucks you. He is talking now, rough and uneven, less like performance and more like words escaping under pressure.
“Wanted this so bad. Wanted you so bad, sweetheart. Sitting out there in that fucking swimsuit, looking at me like you wanted to scratch my eyes out. Thought I was gonna snap when you smiled at Sam. Thought I was gonna drag you inside when you said I didn’t have to touch you. Stupid thing to say to me. Like I haven’t been thinking about putting my hands on you for months.”
Months. Again. The word breaks over you with the thrusts, with the pressure, with the hard heat of him inside you.
Your orgasm hits with his name in your mouth.
It is bigger this time, deeper, pulled from every place he touched and every place he looked. You cry out, hips lifting into him, cunt clenching around his cock so hard his rhythm stutters. Bucky curses against your throat, fucking you through it with short, rough thrusts that make the pleasure keep sparking long after the first wave should have ended.
“That’s it,” he groans. “That’s it, baby. Fuck, you feel so good when you cum.”
You cannot answer. Your body is trembling too hard, arms wrapped around him, face pressed into his neck as he loses the last of his rhythm. His thrusts turn desperate, deeper and less controlled, and something about that undoes you almost as much as your own release. Bucky, who spent all day looking away, is now buried inside you and shaking apart over it.
“Where?” he rasps.
The condom. Practicality. Again, somehow.
“Inside,” you breathe. “You have the condom, inside, please.”
He makes a sound against your skin, broken and almost grateful. His hips slam once, twice, then bury deep as he comes. His whole body tenses over yours, breath caught against your shoulder, hands gripping you like he needs somewhere to put the force of it. You feel the pulse of him through the condom, feel the weight of him, the shudder that runs across his back under your hands.
Then he softens by degrees.
His forehead rests against your shoulder. His breathing is rough, warm, damp over your skin. Your own body feels boneless, wrung out and too sensitive, thighs still locked around his waist like they have not received news of the ending.
Outside, someone cheers again.
Bucky huffs a laugh into your neck. “If that’s about us, I’m moving to Siberia.”
You laugh weakly, fingers combing through the wet hair at his nape. “That was my plan.”
“We can carpool.”
“After you get off me. You’re heavy.”
He lifts his head, affronted and beautiful. “You wound me.”
“You crushed me.”
“You wrapped around me.”
“You were available.”
His smile comes slowly this time, soft and disbelieving, and the sight hurts in a new way. Not bad. Just big. Too big for a guest room during a pool party. Too big for a body still buzzing from sex.
He kisses you once, gentle and quick. “I’m gonna move.”
You make a deeply embarrassing sound of protest before you can stop it.
Bucky pauses. The smugness returns in miniature. “Yeah?”
“Don’t start.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face is speaking.”
“My face has been through a lot today.”
He eases out carefully, and even that makes you wince. His hand strokes your thigh in apology, and the tenderness of it makes you look away. He handles the condom, ties it off, finds a trash bin in the bathroom, washes his hands. Normal things. Human things. Meanwhile you lie in Tony Stark’s guest bed naked, damp, and fucked so thoroughly that your bones feel rearranged.
When Bucky returns, he grabs the towel from the chair and wipes gently at the wetness on your thighs. The care makes your throat tighten.
“You don’t have to do that,” you murmur, then immediately regret the phrasing.
His eyes lift.
Right.
You both hear the echo.
This time, he does not get angry. He leans down and kisses the inside of your knee. “I want to.”
The answer settles over the old wound quietly.
You nod, unable to make a joke fast enough.
He cleans you with warm water from the bathroom after that, careful between your legs while you try not to squirm from sensitivity. Then he finds another towel, pats the sheets around you with the resigned air of a man who knows Tony will make comments for the rest of his life. Your swimsuit remains on the floor. He picks it up, holds it between two fingers, and gives it an unreadable look.
You lift your head. “Don’t insult it. We’ve all grown.”
Bucky’s mouth twitches. “I owe it an apology.”
“You owe me an apology.”
“I gave you one.”
“I want another.”
He climbs back onto the bed beside you, still naked, shameless in a way that should be illegal. The mattress dips under his weight. “For what?”
“For being weird at the pool.”
“I’m sorry.”
“For looking away.”
“I’m sorry.”
“For making me think you hated it.”
His face softens in that unbearable way again. He reaches for you, then pauses until you shift closer yourself. Once you do, his arm slides around you, pulling you against his chest. His skin is warm now, less wet, still smelling faintly of chlorine. “I’m sorry.”
You rest your cheek against him, listening to his heart. It is beating fast. Not hammering. You refuse to give it dramatic language. Just fast enough to comfort you.
“And for making me feel like I needed sam to tell me I looked nice,” you add, quieter.
His arm tightens.
A few seconds pass. Not empty. Not awkward. Full of that sentence sitting between you and breathing.
“You looked beautiful,” he says, voice low. “You looked so good I forgot how to act like a person. And that’s on me, not you.”
Your eyes sting again, which is becoming repetitive and rude. “You need to stop saying decent things after sex. It’s confusing.”
His lips press to your hair. “Would it help if I said something indecent?”
“Yes.”
“Your thighs almost killed me.”
A laugh bursts out of you, wet and startled. “Bucky.”
“I’m serious. National threat.”
“You’re so stupid.”
He kisses your forehead, smiling against your skin. “Yeah, but you like me.”
You go still for half a second.
He feels it.
The words sit there, too close to another word neither of you has touched yet. Like. Want. Months. My girl. All safer than the one with teeth. Bucky’s hand moves slowly over your back, giving you somewhere to put the panic.
“You like me too,” he says, softer, almost cautious beneath the tease.
You close your eyes. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“Don’t get greedy.”
His chest moves under your cheek with a quiet laugh. “Too late.”
A knock hits the door.
Both of you freeze.
Tony’s voice comes through the wood, bright with theatrical politeness. “As the owner of this house, its Egyptian cotton robe, and several traumatized guests, I would like to announce that dinner part two is happening in twenty minutes. Clothing encouraged. Applause optional.”
You bury your face in Bucky’s chest.
Bucky sighs. “Go away, Stark.”
“Gladly. Also, Wilson owes me fifty dollars. Carry on.”
Footsteps retreat.
Your face is burning so badly it may light the bed on fire. “I hate everyone.”
Bucky’s hand slides possessively over your hip. “Want me to get your clothes?”
The thought of walking back outside in the swimsuit after everything makes you want to dissolve. But then again, the old shame does not bite quite the same now. The swimsuit is still a damp heap on the floor. Your body is still your body. Your friends are still awful. Bucky is still a confusing, broad disaster.
Only now he has seen you. Touched you. Wanted you. Said it clearly enough that even your mean little brain has to work harder to ruin it.
“Eventually,” you say.
He hums. “Eventually sounds good.”
“You can’t keep me in Tony’s guest room forever.”
“No,” he agrees, hand moving lazily over your side. “But I can try for another ten minutes.”
“That’s ambitious.”
His mouth finds your neck, and the smile against your skin is warm enough to melt whatever was left of you. “I can be patient.”
“You said that before.”
“I lied.”
You laugh, and he kisses the sound before it can get away.
warnings: 18+ NSFW, small town au, banter, neighborly enemies to lovers, pervert!bucky (stealing nude photographs), photographer!reader, fluff, sexual tension, public sex, dirty talk, degrading, breeding kink, overstimulation, oral (f receiving), size diff and kink
word count: 11.9k
main masterlist || bwa stardew masterlist -'.🌾.'-
a/n: thank you to my precious and dear friend @pinksplace for hosting this incredibly fun event based on only one of the best games to exist. stardew valley. this is based on the character haley that you can romance in the game, so reader kinda has that mean, spoiled princess trope. I only ripped my hair out a million times writing this, so I hope you enjoy!
synopsis:
Living in Pelican Town wasn't all that bad compared to the city life you were used to. With the big farmhouse next door unoccupied, everything was quiet, peaceful, and scenic.
Then, Bucky Barnes moves in. Suddenly, you're waking up to the smell of manure, the squawking of chickens, and a farmer who's far too annoying—and far too hot—for his own good or your own comfort.
Living in a small town, far from the city bustle you once called home, was a change that required a slow and steady adjustment for most people.
You were accustomed to walking across massive city blocks with a shopping center on every corner. You were used to breezy dresses and high heels, always meticulously grooming yourself nicely before ever stepping out of your apartment.
Now, the clean, organized world you knew has been replaced by dirt, soil, and animals.
Heels have given way to cowboy boots. The apartment with the skyline view has been traded for a modest cottage, its windows looking out over the silent and empty farmhouse next door.
Surprisingly, the change in scenery didn’t take long to adjust to. Since moving here, you’ve carved out a life in a quiet corner of town, tucked away from the rest of the townsfolk. With the vast, unoccupied land stretching out beside you, you often find yourself lounging in the grass to sunbathe or wandering out with your camera to capture the blooming apricot trees in the spring.
It is comfortable, quiet, and— much to your surprise—doesn’t feel like a downgrade from city life at all.
Until one day, you woke with a start to the sound of chickens squawking uncontrollably right outside your door.
Are Marnie’s chickens running loose again?
With a tired groan, you pushed yourself out of bed—your hair poking out in every direction and your eyes heavy with deep, dark circles. You shoved the curtains aside, letting a bright, burning ray of sunshine through the glass to hit you square in the face.
Wincing, you blinked several times to adjust, but it didn’t take long for your eyelids to fly wide open at what you saw just beyond your window.
The once empty farmhouse next door was now cluttered with boxes and crates. Animals that belonged on Marnie’s ranch were roaming freely over the fresh grass where you used to lay out a towel to sunbathe.
Now, it was likely being littered with pig shit.
And in the center of the chaos stood a man you didn’t recognize.
Sweat dampened his dark hair, sending loose strands draping over his face. He had his back to you—his white tank top and jeans stained dark from dirt and a hard day’s work.
You couldn’t wrap your head around it.
Was someone actually moving in?
Or had Marnie run out of space and decided to rent this spot out, ruining the peace and quiet you relished in this corner of town?
To make matters worse, he revved the engine of a lawnmower and got to work, polluting the air with noise.
Grabbing your slippers and hastily throwing on a cardigan to cover your nightgown, you stomped out of your cottage and marched over to the farmhouse fence.
“Hello!” you called out, pulling the cardigan tight across your chest. “What’s going on here—?”
The lawn mower’s engine roared even louder, drowning out your voice completely. The man continued to guide the machine in a slow, methodical line, his back still turned to you. The smell of freshly cut grass and gasoline filled the air, mingling with the… less pleasant scent of the roaming livestock.
“Excuse me!”
Nothing.
You stepped closer to the fence, cupping your hands around your mouth. “Hey! I’m talking to you!”
He reached the end of a row and made a sharp turn, but he didn’t look up. His eyes stayed on the ground. From your spot by the fence, you watched the sun dance across his muscles as he maneuvered the heavy machine, sweat glistening on his forearms.
You waited until he drifted closer to the fence line before shouting again.
“Hey! Farmer boy!”
The mower sputtered and stalled, and finally, your voice pierced through the noise.
He glanced up, pushing sweaty strands of hair out of his face. You stood just a few feet away, arms crossed tightly over your cardigan—the hem of your nightslip riding up ridiculously high on your thigh, your hair a mess of bed tangles and your face twisted grumpily.
The breath left Bucky’s lungs—and it wasn’t because of the blistering sun burning his skin, or the morning’s hard labor.
It was because he had a beautiful woman standing right in front of him — a woman who was a total sight for sore eyes.
Bucky let go of the mower, wiping his grimy hands on his stained jeans as he sauntered toward you. Meeting you at the fence, he flashed a charming smile, the corners of his blue eyes crinkling as he reached out a hand.
“Hi there, beautiful,” he greeted smoothly. “I’m Bucky.”
You didn’t move. Your eyes followed his face, to the dirt caked between his fingers and underneath his nails, and then back at his face.
“Beautiful?” you repeated, scrunching your face in what appears to be disgust.
Bucky’s brows furrowed just slightly, but he didn’t let the rejection deter him. He slowly lowered his hand.
Since he arrived early in the morning—well before the sun even rose—everyone in Pelican Town had been so kind and welcoming. Several of the folks had come by to help haul his luggage and boxes, even helping him get the chicken coop set up and the livestock moved in.
When Bucky inherited his parents’ old farm after they passed, he’d had his reservations about returning. But after those initial interactions with the townspeople, he started to think that maybe life out here wouldn’t be so bad after all.
His parents, Winnie and George, had always told him that the town they grew up in was filled with the most kindhearted people you would ever meet—a place where neighbors looked out for one another and never hesitated to lend a hand.
But now, here you were, and you wouldn’t even meet him halfway for a simple handshake.
“Sorry, ma’am,” Bucky huffed with that southern drawl he inherited from his parents. “Just callin’ it how I see it. Just as you called me ‘farmer boy.’”
You returned his petty jab with a roll of your eyes.
“What is going on here?” you motioned to the mess surrounding him. “Is there some big renovation being done? Are you turning the farmhouse into a ranch or something? This is private land, you know.”
Bucky couldn’t help but smile at the way your voice rose in anger just from his mere presence alone.
He rested both palms on his hips. “Why do you care?” He nodded his head toward you, prompting an answer.
You hiked a thumb over your shoulder. “Because I live right there, and all the noise you’re producing is going to be a problem.”
He glanced over your shoulder, letting out a soft hum. “Oh, so you’re my neighbor? How cute.” He looked back at you, a playful gleam dancing in his blue eyes. “You’re also the woman who’s been crossing the fence—snappin’ pictures of my trees and layin’ in my grass to sunbathe on my private land. Ain’t that right?”
Your shoulders tensed.
You didn’t know a thing about this man—yet he knew exactly what you had been up to before he took over the farm. You shifted on your feet awkwardly and defensively.
“H-how do you know that—?”
“It’s a small town, darlin’. And Marnie was tellin’ me all about it while she was helpin’ me with the chickens.” Bucky crossed his arms, his grin widening once he realized he’d won this little back and forth with you. “Wasn’t too happy when I first heard about it—but after findin’ out it was a pretty girl trespassin’, well, I don’t mind it one bit.”
Bucky watched as you purposefully avoided eye contact, your face scrunching in either embarrassment or pride—he couldn’t quite tell which.
“The people who owned this farmhouse left several years ago, even before I moved here. Their names were Winnie and George—”
“My parents,” Bucky interrupted, pointing a thumb at his chest. “I’m their son.”
Your eyes widened.
Living in a small town, you heard plenty of stories about the people who lived here now and those who had long ago. It hadn’t taken long for you to learn about Winnie and George—the married couple who once called Pelican Town home. They had a massive arrangement of animals and livestock, always hosting parties and events on their land.
When Winnie got pregnant, they had moved across the country to give their son a “better life.”
But apparently, that country charm couldn't keep them away forever, because their son was back. And based on the looks of it, he was here to stay for good.
You blinked, the name finally clicking. “Y-you’re James?”
“Sounds pretty comin’ off your lips.”
Agitation boiled in your blood as you stared back at his handsomely smug face. You couldn’t believe this was who you had to deal with now.
“Wow,” you drawled sarcastically, glaring him down. “Are you always this charming?”
“For you? I can be.” Bucky motioned to the rest of the farm with a sweeping gesture. “And you better get used to it—because I’m goin’ to be livin’ here from now on, right next to that cute little cottage of yours.”
Your jaw hung once his words registered in your mind.
Living here? That meant you had to deal with all the animals, the loud lawn mower, and that awful stench.
That also meant no more sunbathing in the wide, open grass. No more pictures of the trees and flowers that grew in Winnie and George’s yard—the ones you were planning on making a scrapbook of.
“Any way you can keep the noise down to a minimum?” you huffed, trying to smooth over your agitation.
Bucky saw right through you, and his grin only grew wider because of it. “What? A little noise is already ruinin’ your beauty sleep?”
And most importantly, it meant dealing with a dirty, farm boy neighbor who didn’t seem to care at all about being neighborly, or your own well being.
You were about to snap something snarky back, but he was already revving the mower's engine, not even looking your way anymore.
“Look, princess,” he shouted over the noise. “If you want to keep takin’ your silly pictures for your social media or sunbathin’ on my lawn, by all means.”
Social media?
What kind of woman did this man think you were?
He finally looked up at you again, flashing another one of those charming smiles.
“Just be careful not to step in pig shit.”
Since then, you and Bucky had been stuck in a constant back and forth.
Every morning, you woke to the sound of chickens squawking at the top of their lungs, followed immediately by the pungent scent of pig shit drifting through your window.
You complained to Bucky several times, but he always just wiped the sweat from his forehead and shrugged. “Guess I’ve gotten used to the smell. Doesn’t bother me none. Just light some incense and call it a day, would ya?”
On weekends, you would hang your damp laundry to dry in the sun, only for Bucky to decide that was the perfect time to leaf blow his gravel path. He would send a cloud of dust, dried hay, and dirt straight into your damp, clean dresses.
When you stomped out of the house in a rage, Bucky would just grin, nodding toward your laundry line and the pink lace that were strung up on it.
“Cute panties.”
Then out of sheer embarrassment, you would retreat back into your cottage without uttering a single word in defeat.
The breaking point came one evening when you were walking home from an errand run in town. One of Bucky’s goddamn cows had drifted astray and was currently munching on the sunflowers poking through your fences. You could put up with a lot of things, sure, but your precious flowers were where you drew the line.
You dropped your grocery bags on the porch and marched to the fence, your blood pressure spiking with every petal that vanished into that cow’s mouth.
“Hey, stop that! Shoo!” You flapped your arms wildly, trying to look as intimidating as possible. “Go on! Get back to your own side!”
The cow didn’t react. She simply blinked her long lashes at you, a half eaten sunflower stem hanging out of her mouth like a cigar. When you stepped closer to give her a firm nudge, she didn’t retreat. The cow let out a hum of what sounds like appreciation, leaning her massive head into your shoulder and nearly knocking you backward.
She wasn’t scared of you at all.
She was smitten.
“No! No cuddles! You’re a trespasser!” you hissed, trying to shove the heavy beast back toward the fence.
The cow responded by letting out a long, wet lick that started at your wrist and ended at your elbow. You shivered at the contact—you had just showered!
A low, gravelly chuckle erupted from the farmhouse porch, a sound you hadn’t heard over your own frantic shooing.
Bucky was leaning against the railing with a half peeled orange in his hand, a smug little smile tugging at his lips. He was enjoying this.
“Well, look at that,” he called out, his grin reaching his eyes. “Seems like my Bessie’s got a taste of my neighbor. I’m jealous.”
“Bucky, get your cow!” you shouted, trying to wipe the cow slobber off your arm. “She’s eating my sunflowers! These were for the festival!”
Rather than rushing to your rescue, Bucky took a bite of the citrus, juices spilling over his lips. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as his dirty boots stomped down the wooden steps, until he finally met you at the fence.
“Bessie ain’t doin’ any harm. She’s a good girl, ain’t she?” He smiled mid chew, his hand coming up to pet Bessie’s head as he started talking to the cow instead of you. “You got a good lick outta’ her, right? Is she as sweet as she looks?”
Your eyes went wide at the blatant comment. You scoffed, trying to ignore the sudden, drastic spike in your heartbeat.
“You need to take better care of your damn animals, Bucky.”
Bucky exagerrated a frown, tilting his head as he played stupid. “I take plenty of care over my sweet Bessie.”
You crossed your arms, glaring him down. “I mean keeping your animals on your property and leaving mine alone.”
“But Bessie didn’t even cross your fence.”
“She’s eating my sunflowers!” you reminded him, motioning dramatically toward your mangled plants.
Bucky snickered at your little outburst. He didn’t know what it was, but seeing you riled up over something as small as sunflowers was far too entertaining. Maybe it was the constant scent of soil and manure messing with his head, but his short yet frequent interactions with you had been more interesting than anything else in town since he had moved in.
“Alright, Bessie,” Bucky cooed to the cow.
He kept one hand on her head, gently urging her away from your garden. He gestured toward the mangled stems. “What’s this festival you’re savin’ these flowers for, anyway?”
“The Flower Dance,” you said, your brows furrowed as if he already should have known the answer.
“Explain it to me, princess.”
You ignored the pet name. “Every year in the spring, the town hosts a dance in the center of the square. The whole place is decorated with colorful banners and flowers, and Gus sets up a buffet spread of homemade food.”
Bucky rubbed his chin, looking amused. “And there’s dancin’, I presume?”
“Lots of it,” you continued. “People partner up for a waltz. The girls show up in nice dresses and flower crowns.”
“And what about the men?”
Your eyes raked over Bucky—taking in the dirt caked on his boots and the fresh scuffs on his jeans. “Still average looking, at best.”
It seemed no matter how many insults you hurled at him, he remained entirely unfazed. His smile only grew wider as he stepped closer, leaning over the fence until you were nearly nose to nose.
“So,” he drawled, voice growing deeper. “Do you have a partner?”
You blinked, thrown off guard by the question. “Excuse me?”
Bucky’s posture shifted slightly. He looked down, dragging a calloused finger along the top rail of your fence, tracing the grain of the wood as he searched for the right words. From where you stood, you could tell he was trying to maintain that ‘cool guy’ exterior, but his faint, boyish smile gave him away.
He shrugged casually, though he still didn’t meet your eyes.
“Well... I was just wonderin’...” he started. “Since I’m new in town and all, maybe you could show me the ropes of this ‘flower dance’ thing. Seems like a lot for a guy to take in on his own.”
You cocked an eyebrow at him suspiciously.
“Sounds like you already got it all figured out,” he said, finally looking up. That smug smile returned to the corners of his mouth. “And a guy like me... well, it’d be a dream to take a woman like you.”
You let out a short, scoffing laugh.
He had been taunting and poking fun at you since the day he moved in—and now he was inviting you to be his partner for the Flower Dance?
Was he pulling your leg?
Instead of entertaining him, you just rolled your eyes and turned back toward your house.
“Very funny.”
As you gathered the groceries from your steps, you added without looking over your shoulder, “Control your animals, Barnes.”
It was like Bucky was trying to get back at you for rejecting his invitation to the Flower Dance—because from that day onward, he had been nothing but an aggravating pest lingering just outside your cottage.
Instead of being a slighty annoying and impractical neighbor, Bucky took your rejection with a tip of his hat and a doubled effort to be the most inconvenient man alive.
He started a ‘fence repair’ project that involved loud hammering at six in the morning—shirtless. When you stomped out of your house in a rage, he only grinned.
“Sorry, sweets. But the world doesn’t stop movin’ just ‘cause a pretty girl wants to get some sleep.”
You retaliated by accidentally spraying your hose at his freshly painted fence before it had a chance to dry, followed by a fake giggle and a chirpy “oops!”
This relentless back and forth went on and on, until you found yourself pinned beneath your grandmother’s heirloom vanity on an unfortunate Friday afternoon—the day right before the Flower Dance festival.
This vanity was the one piece of furniture that had survived the move to Pelican Town, and the one thing you were trying to preserve.
While you were trying to shimmy it away from a leaky pipe in the wall, the antique wood groaned. With a suspicious sounding crack that made your heart drop, the back leg snapped, and the entire heavy structure tilted, the vanity’s ornate mirror swinging dangerously toward the floor.
You caught it just in time, wincing as your shoulder braced roughly against the heavy wood, but you were pinned.
If you moved, the mirror would shatter and the delicate wood would splinter beyond repair.
In that moment, you didn’t know what was worse—being pinned beneath a very heavy, very important vanity, or the fact that your window was propped open and the only man in sight who could help you was none other than Bucky fucking Barnes.
“Bucky!” you shouted toward the window.
He heard you—you knew it—because as he closed the mailbox, he gave a subtle glance over his shoulder before pretending he hadn’t heard a thing. He went right back to sorting through his mail.
“Bills, bills, bills,” Bucky clicked his tongue, loud enough for you to hear. He shook his head. “More bills.”
“Bucky, get over here!” you shouted louder, trying to shift your feet, but the movement only made the vanity creak ominously. “I need your help!”
Bucky finally turned around, that stupid, smug smile tugging at his lips at the sight of your struggle.
“You sure about that?” he taunted, crossing his arms over his chest. “I don’t know—you look pretty strong to me. I didn’t expect that kind of muscle out of a girl like you.”
“I’m being serious, Bucky—!” you gasped, the wood sliding through your sweaty palms. You tried adjusting your feet again, but your sandals gave little to no traction against the wooden floor. “It’s going to—it’s slipping!”
As you scrambled to fix your grip, the vanity slipped straight through your fingers. You shrieked, jumping to the side just in time to avoid having your feet crushed as the heavy furniture crashed to the ground.
The impact made the entire house shake. Shards of glass exploded, skidding across the floor like ice as pieces of the wood on the vanity splintered off.
Bucky, who had been taunting you just seconds ago, was already moving toward your door before you could even notice.
“Shit, shit,” he cursed under his breath. He shoved the front door open, barging through and tossing his mail aside.
“Fuck—are you okay?” Bucky rushed to your side, crouching beside you. His warm hands found your shoulders as he gently pried you away from the broken glass.
The worried tone in his voice went in one of your ears and out the other. All you could do was stare at the wreckage before you, the glass scattered everywhere a clear testament to how shattered you felt inside.
“That… that was my grandmother’s,” you said with a shaky breath. “It’s the last thing I have of hers.”
Bucky stood beside you, sensing the tension in your shoulders as his teeth caught his bottom lip. You could feel the guilt coming off him for not helping you sooner.
Slowly, you lifted your head to look at him, your eyes wide in disbelief. Bucky looked like he was bracing himself for a round of yelling—a smart move on his part.
“I asked you for help,” you started, voice trembling as the rage began to boil in your blood. “I asked you for help, Bucky! And all you did was stand there and watch me struggle!”
You stepped closer, the soles of your sandals crunching against the glass as you shoved a finger into his chest. “You’re an asshole, Bucky. You’ve been a pest and a jerk since the second you moved in, and now the one thing that’s actually important to me is broken because you wanted to play some stupid game!”
Bucky could only stare at you completely wide eyed, as the angry shakiness in your voice softened into something more broken and small.
Your face—once scrunched in a pissed off snarl—gave way to a slight wobble in your bottom lip that Bucky caught immediately.
Maybe he should’ve retorted. He should’ve told you it wasn’t entirely his fault. But the way the tears started to prick at the corners of your eyes, threatening to spill over any second, made his heart ache in ways he didn’t want to admit.
Before you could shove him a second time, his large, calloused hands came up, gently catching your wrist.
“Hey,” he said, his voice surprisingly calm. “Stop. Don’t move. You’re gonna cut your feet,” he warned, looking down at your sandals.
“What—?”
“Here.” Bucky’s hands nudged your shoulders, guiding you to the edge of your bed slowly and carefully. “Just stay here, okay?” he murmured, crouching in front of you until he was at eye level. His eyes bored into yours, a small attempt to soothe your panic. “Don’t move an inch until I get the glass up. I’m goin’ to get my kit. I have the tools to fix this.”
“You can’t fix this, Bucky,” you choked out, wiping a tear away with the back of your hand. “The wood snapped. The mirror is in a million pieces.”
Bucky reached out, his thumb catching the tear that you missed to wipe.
“I can,” he said, and for once, there wasn’t a trace of smugness in his tone. “I’ve got some aged mahogany in the barn that’ll match this grain near perfect. And I know a guy in town who can cut a new glass plate by morning.”
He stood up, looking down at the broken glass and then back at you. “I’m sorry, princess. I really am. I’ll make it right. Just stay put.”
For the first time, princess didn’t sound like a condescending, backhanded compliment.
So, you obeyed.
You sat on the edge of your mattress, sandals discarded on the floor and bare feet tucked safely away from the danger zone as you watched Bucky go to work. He was meticulous, sweeping your broom across the wood to make sure not a single drop of glass was left behind on the floorboards.
Once the floor was clear, he kept his focus on the broken leg and the empty, ragged frame where the mirror used to be.
“This vanity must be important to you, huh?”
You kept your eyes down, picking at the fabric of your quilt. “I’m not really in the mood for your taunts, Barnes.”
“Hey,” he huffed, glancing up at you. “I’m not tryin’ to play at you, darlin’. I promise.” He frowned, his tone softening as he took in the saddened expression on your face.
“I know what it’s like, tryin’ to preserve an heirloom. My parents—” he swallowed hard, keeping a brave face just for you, “a lot of the stuff they gave me didn’t make the move back to Pelican Town. Which is ironic, ‘cause this was their home from the very beginning, you know? It could’ve been just fine if they kept their stuff here.”
You blinked, sniffling as you looked at him. Aside from that slight glimpse of vulnerability when he’d asked you to the festival, this was the most he had ever shared about himself.
“I’m so sorry,” you said sympathetically, not really knowing what else to offer him in a moment like this.
Bucky offered a small, weary smile.
“Don’t be,” he groaned slightly as he knelt back down, opening the drawers of the vanity to carefully remove your belongings so he could get started on the repairs. “What’s all this?”
He started pulling out various bottles and products—makeup brushes and perfumes that looked far too expensive and meticulous for a girl to be bothered with in a town like this.
“Well, look at that,” Bucky let out a low whistle, turning a tube of designer lipstick over in his calloused palm. “What is this? Chanel? Dior?” He glanced up at you, that same spark returning to his eyes, though it was softer now—less of a bite and more of a tease. “Always wondered how a farm girl kept lookin’ like she just stepped off a runway in Zuzu City.”
“What’s wrong with a girl wanting to look her best?” you scoffed, feeling a little embarrassed.
Bucky grinned at the sound of you finally getting your spark back.
He reached back into the vanity, pulling out a small scrapbook. As he moved it, a handful of photographs slipped from between the pages and fluttered onto the floor.
Your eyes flew wide as the photographs hit the floor—some of them landing face up, while others landed face down.
You scrambled off the bed, trying to snatch the photos, but Bucky was already sweeping them up. He stood, holding them high and well out of your reach.
“Wait—don’t!”
“Oh?” Bucky’s brow arched, as he playfully tilted his head at you. “What do we have here?”
“Bucky, stop playing around! Give them to me—!”
Bucky’s arm stayed locked high above his head, a deep chuckle vibrating in his chest as he flipped through the pages. The first few were random blurbs—bits of a poetry phase you had gone through that had lasted all of a week.
“Roses are red, violets are blue—? You write poetry?” he questioned, making your face burn with embarrassment.
“It was a phase! Just shut up and hand it over—”
He ignored you, continuing to flip through the book until his expression suddenly softened. His thumb brushed over the edge of a Polaroid taped to one of the pages with pink, polka-dotted washi tape.
“This is…” he breathed, his voice trailing off as he took in the photo of the apricot tree on his own lawn. He stared at the way the sun peaked through the branches, highlighting the orangey-pink fruit. “The tree on my lawn—my mom’s apricot tree. She grew that from a sapling.”
He continued flipping through the pages, his blue eyes trailing over each one carefully. He took in the way you arranged the different prints—candid shots of the townsfolk, the horses at Marnie’s farm, colorful cocktails from Gus’s saloon, and flowers. Lots of them. Flowers he recognized from both your lawn and his.
“You know… when the people in town mentioned you were a photographer, I just assumed you were an influencer,” he admitted. He gave you a lopsided grin, his gaze dropping back to the book. “Some… social media vermin.”
You scoffed, crossing your arms and raising a brow. “A vermin?”
Bucky grinned. “Yeah—I mean, you’re a good lookin’ woman, with all your fancy designer clothes and stuff—” he waved his free hand while the other held the book aloft. “I figured you’d be into all the selfies and modelin’ crap.”
“Well,” you huffed, trying to mask your bashfulness. “Sorry to disappoint you.”
“Disappointment is the farthest thing from what I’m feelin’, little doll,” he mused. He took in the photographs and the various little doodles of flowers in the corners of the pages, tucked neatly around the polaroids. “These are beautiful.”
You boasted about plenty of things—the clothes you wore, the bags you carried, the way you styled your hair. But photography and scrapbooking were more personal. It was the hobby that had helped you during the transition from the city to the farm. Some might deem it corny, but away from the expectations of social media—where strangers were updated through sugar-coated photos on a digital screen—you had turned photography into something private. Something more you.
“I…” you started, struggling to handle the look of adoration on Bucky’s face. “Thank you, Bucky. That’s very sweet of you.”
After taking in every page, he closed the scrapbook and handed it back. His attention shifted to the glossy prints dangling from his fingers, and he began sorting through them with a boyish grin.
“And these are the photos you’re goin’ to add to the book later, I take it—?”
Bucky stopped short the second his eyes landed on the next shot. Most were the same snaps of trees and the town, but there was one that made his breath hitch and his pants suddenly tight.
“It’s a little project I’m working on,” you explained, completely clueless and still a bit bashful. “A page dedicated to the different seasons. The trees are always changing, and the town looks completely different from spring to winter.”
Bucky stayed quiet, his shoulders tensing as his eyes remained glued to the photograph. He cleared his throat, his adam’s apple bobbing.
“I… see,” he said, his voice suddenly low and raspy.
Your brows furrowed. You couldn’t understand why he was so focused on that photo specifically. Curiosity getting the best of you, you tilted your head to peek at what he was looking at—and your heart dropped into your stomach.
Staring back at you was a selfie you had taken on your instant camera. You were sprawled across your bed, hair fanned out across the pillows. Your chest was exposed bare, one arm draped over your breasts, though if someone looked close enough, they could see the shaded curve of an areola peeking just past your forearm. Your body was angled to accentuate your curves, revealing the soft skin of your thighs and hips in nothing but a pair of lace panties.
Face burning a million degrees, you snatched the photo out of Bucky’s hands.
“Don’t look at that!” you shrieked, spinning away from him.
All Bucky could do was stand there—frozen, bewildered, and hard as fuck.
He could hear your frantic heartbeat from where he stood. And with your back turned, it was painfully obvious you didn’t want to talk about it.
“Right. Sorry,” he cleared his throat again, though he didn’t sound sorry at all. He turned toward the door. “I’m gonna—uh, grab my tools and start workin’ on this vanity, okay? I’ll be back!”
Before you could say a word, his boots were already rushing out the door.
He eventually returned with his tools and set to work on the vanity. While he worked, you tried to keep yourself busy, maintaining a respectful distance at all times.
From your open bedroom door, where he was crouched on the floor, Bucky still had a clear view of you in the kitchen making lemonade. You told him it was your way of saying “thank you,” but he knew the truth.
You were just trying to put as much space between you as possible after that photo.
But right now, the last thing he wanted was for you to be far away.
That image of you was scorched into the back of his mind, taking up permanent residence. Laid completely bare, hair fanned out, wearing nothing but those lace panties and an expression that screamed, “fuck me, Bucky!” — it was enough to drive him crazy.
As he watched you move around the kitchen in the little sundress that had made his mouth water the first day he laid eyes on you, a million thoughts raced through his mind just as fast as the blood was rushing to his dick.
Why had you taken a picture like that?
Who was it for?
Was there someone you were dating—someone you were sending those prints to?
Suddenly, a bitter spike of jealousy flared in his gut. The idea of you taking photos like that just to mail them off to some soft handed city boy prick made him want to burn the whole town down. His movements grew jerky and annoyed as he worked. The wood felt awkward in his grip, and his tools kept slipping.
“Shit,” he cursed, grabbing your attention.
You glanced over your shoulder, a glass of freshly squeezed lemonade in your hand. “Everything okay? Need any help?”
“Just peachy,” Bucky mumbled.
As he heard your footsteps drawing closer, he tried to adjust himself, willing away the erection that was vulgarly pressing through his pants.
“Why don’t you take a break and have some lemonade, then?” You held the glass out to him, a small smile tugging at your glossy lips—a view that didn’t help Bucky’s situation in the slightest. “Before the ice melts.”
Bucky’s gaze traveled from your lips down to your hands. They were pretty—small and soft as they curled around the tall glass. Even your fingertips were perfectly manicured.
You were being far too kind, offering him a drink while he crouched there on your floor, his mind dark and filthy as he imagined how those fingers would look slicked with his cum instead of condensation.
“Sure,” Bucky grunted, straining as he stood up. “A lemonade sounds good.”
The two of you stepped out onto the front porch for some fresh air, taking in the way the sun poked through the branches. Next door, the chickens were squawking and the birds chirping, but the domestic sounds did nothing to help the awkward silence between you.
You kept your gaze straight ahead on the grass and flowers, but you could feel Bucky’s stare lingering on the side of your face.
“So…” he started, and you mentally braced yourself for whatever was coming next. “That photo—”
“Oh, God,” you sighed, squeezing your eyes shut out of embarrassment. “Don’t start.”
Bucky raised his glass, letting out a huff of a laugh—though it didn’t sound humorous at all. It was just filler noise to cover his nerves.
“Well—it’s, uh... it’s a good picture,” he mumbled, staring at the ice cubes melting in his glass. “You look good in it.”
You felt like you wanted to shrivel up and let the wind carry you away. You avoided his gaze, turning your head to hide your burning cheeks. “You’re such an idiot.”
“All I’m sayin’ is,” he continued, mumbling even quieter as that jealousy bled through his voice,“whoever is gettin’ those kind of photos from you is a lucky man.”
You blinked, finally glancing at him.
“Lucky man?” You noticed the way his cheeks were flushed pink. “There is no man.”
Bucky froze with the glass halfway to his lips, his blue eyes snapping to yours. “No man?” he repeated, like he needed the reassurance.
“No,” you shrugged casually, giving him a small smile. “I just take those photos for myself. I spent years worried about how other people perceived me. When I moved here, I wanted to see myself for me. It makes me feel confident. Seeing myself like that is kind of empowering, you know? It’s for my eyes only.”
You let out a shaky breath, the embarrassment still very much there—but no longer because you were seen half naked. Now, it was because of how corny your explanation sounded out loud.
You glanced at Bucky out of the corner of your eye, trying to gauge his reaction, but he looked so deep in thought that you couldn’t make out a single one.
“For your eyes only, huh?” Bucky hummed.
When you gave him that little nod, Bucky knew he was doomed.
The jealousy that had been sitting like a pit in his stomach was drowned out in a damned instant the minute you said ‘no man.’ That meant he was the only one who saw that photo of you—that sweet, vulnerable side where you laid bare, warm and inviting. Bucky loved the fact that there was no man, and no one else after you.
To him, that just meant you were already his.
“Go to the Flower Dance with me,” he asked suddenly.
You huffed a lighthearted laugh. “This again?”
Bucky turned to face you fully now, eyes boring into yours so intently it was like he was giving you a silent warning not to even bother looking away.
“Let me take you to the Flower Dance. Let me be your partner. Let me dance with you.”
“Bucky, you can’t be serious—”
“I was serious the first time I asked you, and I’m even more so now,” he said, his brows furrowing as his voice deepened. “Dance with me.”
You bit your lip, hesitating.
When he noticed your silence, he stepped closer, standing over you until he was looking down at you completely.
“Consider it a thank you for fixin’ up your vanity.”
“Thank you? You made me struggle and didn’t help me the first time!” you countered, but Bucky didn’t budge. He didn’t fight back or laugh.
He was dead serious.
He wanted you to go to the Flower Dance with him as your date—and you had a very strong feeling he wasn’t going to take ‘no’ for an answer.
“Fine,” you reluctantly agreed, despite a smile tugging at your lips. “But just remember—it’s a thank you for fixing my vanity.”
Bucky grinned, finding himself very, very happy with your response.
To you, agreeing to the Flower Dance was just a fair trade—a thank you for his labor and a way to settle the score over your grandmother’s vanity.
But as Bucky watched you walk back into the house, his hand drifted to his pocket, letting his fingers brush gently against the glossy edge of the photograph—your photograph— tucked deep inside.
Having that naked, intimate piece of you hidden away against his thigh—a secret kept just for him—was a reward far better than anything else you could have given him.
He knew he was being greedy by stealing the photo and taking you to the Flower Dance, but he didn’t care. The photo was enough to drive him crazy tonight, but dancing with you tomorrow was the cherry on top.
It was Saturday morning—the day of the Flower Dance—and Bucky had been restless since dawn, and even more so the night before.
He lost track of how many times he had jerked off since he stole that photo. One time was right after he finished fixing your vanity. He had retreated to his farmhouse, slammed the door shut, and before he even kicked off his boots, he had his pants unzipped and cock in hand.
Another time was in the shower, then again right before he fell asleep, and… once or twice more as the clock ticked closer to the start of the festival.
It was shameless, almost pathetic, but when you were dealing with animals and manual labor all day, you had to relieve the stress somehow. And nothing relieved it quite like the memory of you sprawled across those pillows with those sweet tits pressed together.
As you made your way to the town square, you found yourself walking with a pep in your step. Your heels clicked against the pavement, and your sundress swayed at your hips with every stride.
You had taken lots of care to look better than usual today. You had woken up early just to have enough time for your hair and makeup, trying on three different dresses just to see which one made you look the best. You even found yourself wondering what Bucky was wearing—hoping, subconsciously, that your dress might actually match his outfit.
Fuck.
You were actually looking forward to see him and dance with him.
Your heart was beating far too fast for your chest. You could already imagine it—Bucky, finally rid of his grimy farm clothes and wearing a proper outfit, or his heavy boots stepping all over your sandals because he didn’t have a clue how to dance.
You found yourself grinning to yourself up until you made it to the bustle of the community square. Gus had his food spread out on a table beneath a canopy, potted flowers that were grown by the townsfolk were scattered about, and colorful banners were decorated across the lightpoles.
“What’s got you smilin’ to yourself for?” a familiar, deep gravelly voice interrupted you, stopping you in your tracks.
It was Bucky, wearing a nicely ironed button up tucked into his khaki pants that were held up by a nice, brown leather belt. Your smile faltered slightly—not because he looked terrible, but because he looked good.
Too fucking good.
He tilted his head, hands tucked deep into his pockets. “Hey, where did that smile go?”
“I… nothing,” you cleared your throat, hands primly behind your back as you took him in. “You look… good.”
You suddenly felt small as you watched Bucky’s eyes trace over you—taking in the way you did your hair and your makeup, down to the short hem of your dress. You watched as he caught his bottom lip between his teeth.
“That might’ve been the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” he joked before nodding to you. “You look beautiful.” He glanced around before taking a step closer, leaning down so only you could hear. “Kind of makes me a bit jealous knowin’ other people can see how pretty you are.”
Your face warmed, and Bucky expected you to back away from his boldness—but you stepped closer, batting your lashes at him in a way that drove him fucking crazy.
“Yeah, but they’re not the ones dancing with me, are they?”
With all the pent up frustration building inside him, that little taunt of yours felt like an open invitation to grab you and do whatever he wanted.
But instead, his tongue ran over his teeth as he grinned, amused by your comment. He extended a hand toward you.
“The dance is ’bouta start soon. Come on.”
Despite this being his first time ever experiencing a Flower Dance, he took initiative as if he had been doing this longer than you had. The live band propped up on the stage began to play, the acoustic guitars picking the same catchy tune you knew by heart from all the years you had attended before.
Women and men gathered hand in hand to get into position. Bucky led you to the very center of the crowd, standing tall in front of you. He guided your hand to his shoulder before resting his own large palm firmly against your hip.
You couldn’t help but chuckle at his sudden burst of confidence. “Wow, Bucky Barnes. Don’t tell me you actually know how to dance?”
“Course I do,” he huffed. “Just ‘cause I’m covered in dirt all day doesn’t mean I don’t know how to take a lady for a dance. Don’t sound so surprised.”
He pulled you in closer, and you looked up at him, your eyes wide and soft with a sheepish smile to match.
“You wouldn’t let me fall, right?” you teased, your voice barely sounding over the guitars.
“Never,” he promised, his grip on your waist tightening to prove it to you. “Not a single speck of dirt on that pretty little head of yours. I’ve got you.”
The music started, and as you two danced, you noticed how Bucky was pulling you closer and closer with each step.
His hand stayed tight at your waist before moving to your lower back, then back to your hips with a small, firm squeeze. The hand that held yours gripped tighter, reeling you in even more with every move.
As he spun you back into his chest, you felt the hitch in his breathing. You leaned back slightly, looking up at him.
“You okay, Bucky?” you teased with a smile. “You’re looking a little... stiff.”
God, those eyes and those glossy fucking lips.
Bucky let out a visible shudder before forcing a nod. “Dancin’ with a very pretty girl in my arms—it’s natural for me to be a little nervous, isn’t it?”
He spun you again, your short sundress flaring out like a ballerina—and he caught a quick glimpse of your bare thigh. Just barely. He wanted more.
He drew you in until your forehead was resting against his collarbone. He leaned his head down, his nose grazing the skin of your temple as he took a deep, shaky inhale of your scent—shampoo, vanilla, and the warmth of your skin from the sunlight. You smelled so good, and each inhale was doing serious damage to his self-control.
From his height, his gaze fell directly into the neckline of your dress. He had a direct, unobstructed view of the swell of your breasts, the fabric of your sundress moving against your curves with every breath you took.
It was the photograph come to life, only now he could actually touch you… just not in the complete ways he wanted to.
His hand on your back slid lower, his palms suddenly clammy as he pressed your hips tight against his. You gasped softly, your step faltering for a split second as you felt him.
A thick, heavy, warm bulge was straining against his khakis, pressing right into the notch of your thighs.
Bucky’s jaw was clenched so tight it looked painful, his eyes were somewhere over your shoulder as he tried to maintain a shred of dignity. He thought he was being subtle—that you were too caught up in the festival to notice how inappropriately turned on he was.
He was wrong.
Deciding to play a much dirtier game, you took matters into your own hands. He spun you around again, but instead of facing him, you tucked yourself right back into the curve of his body.
Your back hit his chest, and your ass ground firmly against his cock.
Bucky let out a shuddering groan that tickled against the back of your neck as he felt the curve of your ass press harder into his bulge.
Before he could even think about pulling away to save face, you reached over and grabbed his hands. Your fingers slid over his knuckles, guiding his large, calloused palms down until they were over your hips. You kept your hands over his, forcing him to feel the way your curves fit perfectly against his body.
“Shit,” he cursed, and you grinned.
Everyone else was too preoccupied with their own dancing to even notice Bucky’s predicament, so you continued swaying your hips against him to the music.
Every rub of your ass against his cock was like adding oil to the flames. Bucky’s nose nuzzled the side of your head, and you could hear his breathing get more labored the more you ground against him.
“Still nervous you’re dancing with a pretty girl?” you taunted. You felt him twitch against you in response.
He groaned, his lips so close to your ear that you could feel his hot breath. “You know exactly what you’re doin’.”
“And what exactly am I doing, Bucky?”
“You’re bein’ a goddamn tease.”
Your smile grew wider. “But you’re not exactly pushing me away, are you?”
His grip on your hips tightened enough to bunch the fabric of your dress around your waist. He hiked the skirt up higher, his hot palms gliding just beneath the hem to tickle your outer thighs — then higher, towards the sensitive skin of your inner leg.
You gasped softly when you felt his thumb graze against your clothed cunt.
“Keep tauntin’ me,” he growled against your ear, “and I’m goin’ to flip up this tiny skirt and fuck you right here in the middle of the square—where everyone can see.”
Your eyes traced over the crowd. Everyone was all smiles, too caught up in the joy of the festival to even notice the two perverts feeling each other up in the middle of it all.
“Then do it,” you challenged.
“You goddamn slut.” Bucky huffed a laugh against the back of your neck— no humor in it at all. “No. I’m too jealous for that. I wouldn’t want anyone else seein’ my girl like that.”
Your breath hitched. His girl?
“That’s funny.” You looked up over your shoulder at him, your eyes wide as you faked your innocence. “I don’t remember ever being your girl.”
Bucky’s cock twitched hard against your ass, and you knew right then that you won.
“Not my girl?” Bucky scoffed, spinning you around so you were forced to look him in the eye.
“You’ve been my girl from the minute I stepped foot back in Pelican Town. From the moment I laid eyes on you—I’d already decided you were mine. And you agreeing to dance with me today just confirmed it all.”
He ground his hips against yours, letting you feel his heavy bulge press against your inner thigh.
“If you don’t believe you’re my girl, then I’m just gonna have to prove it to you.”
You weren’t able to get a single word in as Bucky’s hand wrapped tight around yours.
He led you away from the crowd, pushing through with polite and gentle ‘excuse me’s that went completely against how roughly he was holding you.
He took you towards the shadows at the side of the saloon.
It was a narrow, unassuming alley, hidden from the main square by overgrown shrubbery and stacked wooden crates.
“Bucky,” you looked around breathlessly and no one was near, “what are you doing?”
He didn’t answer.
He shoved you back against the cool brick wall. He didn’t wait, and he didn’t waste his time asking, either.
His hands were already at the hem of your sundress, bunching the fabric in his fists and hiking it up until the cool spring air hit your hips.
Your eyes went wide, your heart fighting against your chest as you watched him fall to his knees.
You knew you should’ve stopped him.
You should’ve told him this was inappropriate—that anyone could walk in on you two right now.
But as he knelt there, his eyes boring hungrily into your thighs and his tongue darting out to lick his lips the second his fingertips found the waistband of your panties, you couldn’t find the breath to argue.
How could you possibly deny a predator his well-earned prey?
Bucky tugged your panties down your thighs and past your legs, tossing them aside. His hand rubbed up and down your thigh before hiking your leg over his shoulder, his hot touch making you shudder and grow even wetter as he stared at you intimately.
“God, look at you,” he groaned, palming himself. “What a fucking sight. All the men you danced with before I moved back into town didn’t get to see this side of you, did they?”
You only stared at him. When you didn’t answer, he gripped your ankle, making you wince.
“Answer me.”
“No,” you shook your head, swallowing hard. “Only you.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” he hummed, pleased. He leaned in, trailing soft, wet kisses along your inner thigh. “Dancin’ like a saint in front of the mayor, in front of all the townsfolk, just to be drippin’ wet for me like a goddamn whore.”
He leaned in, his hot breath ghosting over your sensitive folds, making you hitch a breath.
He looked up at you from between your legs, and you swore you could’ve melted right there at the sight of him. His eyes were completely blown out, staring at you in ways that should’ve made you afraid.
“I'm gonna taste every fuckin’ drop you made for me while you were rubbin’ that pretty ass against my cock. I’m gonna eat you until you’re beggin’ me to stop, and even then, I ain’t stoppin’.”
“Bucky… —ah!” your hand flew over your mouth once Bucky buried his face between your legs.
With your short dress bunched messily around your waist, Bucky’s tongue—hot and wet—swiped upward against your cunt, making you moan against your palm. He kept flicking his tongue up and down against the sensitive skin, and your fingers tangled into his hair, giving it a firm tug that made him groan against you.
“S-someone might... walk in on us—” a whimper broke from your lips as Bucky tilted his head, his tongue moving against your weeping cunt.
His hands slid up past your thighs to grab your ass, kneading and squeezing as he ate you out behind the saloon.
The mention of someone catching you only made his cock harder in his pants. He moaned against your slit, his tongue lapping at your juices as he licked and suckled on your sensitive pussy. The tip of his tongue found your clit again, flicking at it and leaving vulgar suckling noises in the quiet alley.
His finger poked at your wet and vulnerable entrance, sliding in easily as he fucked your clit with his tongue.
“Oh my god, Bucky—!” you cried out.
You were shaking, your back scraping against the brick as Bucky ate you out shamelessly.
As his tongue danced on your most sensitive spots and his finger fucked you in rhythm with his mouth, your hips began to buck uncontrollably against his face, and Bucky let out a muffled growl.
“S-slow down—fuck, I’m gonna cum—” you whimpered behind your hand.
He hummed in satisfaction, the vibration making your pussy tingle as his fingers dug into the soft flesh of your ass to hold you steady while he licked every last drop of you. Your back arched off the wall and you tried to squirm away to save face, but Bucky wouldn’t let you.
One hand stayed tight on your thigh and the other squeezed your ass, all while his face was tucked deep against your pussy, soaking in everything you had to give him.
“Fu—fuck, Bucky…” you whimpered as he slowly released your leg from his shoulder.
He leaned back on his heels, looking up at you, and the sight made your breath hitch. Bucky gave you a devilish little grin, his chin and lips gleaming with the wet sheen of your juices.
Between his legs, his bulge was straining against his khakis—a damp spot darkening his lap where his pre-cum had soaked right through.
You looked around frantically—coast still clear—before tugging your skirt down and adjusting the straps on your shoulders. “We… we should go. The rest of the town’ll be looking for us—”
Bucky pushed himself up from the ground, his large body blocking your path as his hands went to his waist. He began to tug at the fastenings of his belt.
“Where do you think you’re goin’?” he rasped in a low growl. “I’m not even close to done with you.”
You swallowed hard, staring up at him as you caught your breath from your release. “Bucky, we can’t. Someone will catch us—”
“No,” Bucky hissed, unzipping his pants and tugging them down. “Not until I get to cum—you’re not goin’ anywhere.”
He stepped closer, nudging his leg between your thighs as his hands found the hem of your skirt again. His hand trailed up, dragging the fabric up around your waist as he pinned you back against the wall.
Bucky’s hand wrapped around his shaft, and as your eyes trailed down—you let out a soft gasp.
He was big, thick, and pulsing in his hand. His tip caressed your clit, and he began jerking himself off against your warmth. He let out jagged breaths, his hand trailing down your thigh before hiking it up and over his hip.
“Ah—Bucky!” you cried out, holding onto his shoulders for support.
“Stay right here,” he commanded, his hands gripping your ass to hoist you higher against the wall. “Wrap those legs tighter.”
His cock dragged across your slit, his tip catching your entrance and making you gasp. He nudged his tip against your opening, testing the tension, and let out a shaky, ragged breath.
“So tight...” he rasped, the words sounding almost painful. “But you’re so wet for me, sweetheart. I could just slip right in.”
“Bucky, wait—you’re too big,” you whispered, your hands bracing against his shoulders.
You could already feel him stretching you, even just at the entrance. “I don’t think it’s gonna fit—and we can’t do this in public, someone is going to—”
Before you could finish, Bucky’s palm clamped firmly over your mouth to silence you. His eyes were dark, focused entirely on where your pussy hugged his tip.
“Shut up,” he hissed, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I can’t wait. The sooner I fuck you, the sooner we can get outta here.”
With a slow tilt of his hips, he began sinking himself inside you.
You let out a muffled, pitchy moan against his palm, your eyes rolling back as the sensation of him filling you made you see stars.
He was stretching you apart, claiming every inch of your body as he pushed deeper and deeper, until his hips finally pressed against yours.
He stayed there for a moment, buried to the hilt, his forehead dropping to rest against the crook of your neck as he let out a groan. “Fuuck, shit—”
He was so deep, his cock stretching your walls as his body pinned you so firmly to the brick that you couldn’t move even if you wanted to.
“There,” he growled against your skin, his hand still tight over your mouth as he watched the pleasure wash over your face. “Fits perfectly.”
Despite his words, his face was twisted and his jaw was clenched from how tightly your body was squeezing him.
As he started rocking his hips, his cock sliding in and out of your wet cunt, it took everything in him not to fuck you hard against the wall right then and there.
He knew you were still trying to adjust to his size, watching the way your face twisted as you tried to be a good girl for him.
He couldn’t believe it—the girl of his dreams, the girl from the very photograph he’d jerked off to from the night before until now—you were actually right here, taking his big cock inside your tight little pussy.
“A-are you okay?” he managed to muster, his voice rough as he stared at you with lustful, hazy eyes.
You whimpered before giving him a small, frantic nod.
He took that as his invitation to fuck you harder.
“God, you’re so fuckin’ tight—can barely move.”
He started to move faster, his cock sinking deep into your pussy and pulling out before slamming back in. His grip on your thigh was tight as he held you up.
“So goddamn wet too, sweetheart.”
“B-bucky… ahh—we can’t.”
“Can’t?”
He kept folding your leg over, trying to adjust you so he could sink even deeper, but the tension in your body wouldn’t let him. The angle was awkward. The wall was too cold, and he couldn’t get deep enough to satisfy the ache in his balls.
He wanted more.
He wanted to break you.
With a frustrated snarl, he pulled out of you roughly—the sudden loss of him making you cry out.
Before you could even catch your breath, Bucky grabbed your hips and spun you around, slamming your chest and face back against the cool brick.
“Hands on the wall,” he commanded cruely.
He bunched your sundress up around your waist, baring your ass to the cool air of the alley. He stepped back into you, his cock heavy and sprung, and grabbed your hair, tugging your head back so he could whisper against your skin.
“Since you’re so worried about someone walkin’ in,” he hissed, his hands gripping your hips so hard his fingers left marks, “I’m gonna make sure they get a real good view if they do.”
He lined himself up with your entrance again—his hot tip making you gasp.
Your cunt was still gaping from his fucking earlier, allowing him to slide in easily without much resistance this time.
As he sheathed himself inside you in one thrust, you let out a muffled cry, your fingers scraping against the wall to hold yourself up while he began to fuck you hard from behind.
“Fuck—love it when you’re screamin’ for me,” he groaned in pleasure.
Every wet slap of his balls against your ass echoed in the narrow alley.
He reached around, one hand squeezing your breast through your dress while the other stayed buried in your hair, keeping you pinned in place.
His eyes took in the way your ass bounced against his cock, the soft flesh jiggling with every move. He lifted the hem of your skirt higher to get a better view of your smooth skin rocking against his hips.
“You know, maybe you should just come live with me,” he rasped, his breath hot against your ear as he slammed into you again.
The thought seemed to fuel him, his thrusts getting deeper and harder. “It’d be so damn cute seein’ you walk around the house all barefoot and bred.”
What was he saying?
His filthy words felt more intense than the rough movements of his cock. He groaned, his teeth grazing your shoulder.
“That old farmhouse is big and lonely, sweetheart. Way too quiet,” he whispered. “It was my parents’ dream for me to start a family there. To have a house full of kids runnin’ around the farm, tendin’ to the animals.”
He pulled back nearly all the way out before thrusting back all the way in, making your knees buckle.
“I think you’d look real good carryin’ the Barnes name. Real good with a belly full of my babies while I work the fields. What do you think? Think you could handle being a farm wife?”
“B-Bucky,” you huffed a nervous laugh as his cock filled you completely. “What are you saying? Don’t be—hmpf—ridiculous...”
“Oh, come on, don’t be shy now,” he teased. “You can sunbathe on my lawn and take all the pretty pictures of the trees and animals for your scrapbook.”
His tongue darted out to lick the shell of your ear, his heavy balls continuing to slap against you as his cock hit your sweet spot over and over.
“And I’ll buy you all the lingerie so you can pose all cute in front of your little camera again,” he delivered a hard thrust that made you whimper and cry. “Take those sexy photographs that I can keep—maybe you can make a scrapbook out of those, too. Just for me.”
Your face burned with humiliation.
Here you were, being treated like a total slut by Bucky Barnes out in the open, and yet the thing that made you too flustered to even form a sentence was him bringing up your photograph.
“G-god...” you stammered. “Don’t bring that up!” you hissed, overcome with embarrassment.
Bucky just chuckled. “I have that picture, you know?”
Your pussy fluttered and clenched around his cock at his words—the tightness making him groan. You snapped your head around, face flustered.
“W-what!” you choked out. “You stole it?”
He could feel how much the idea turned you on, your body betraying your embarrassment by becoming even wetter and tighter as you realized he’d liked that photo enough to steal it for himself.
“Don’t exaggerate, doll,” he rasped, his hand tightening in your hair to pull your head back so he could see the shame written on your face. “I’ve spent all night staring at it. Staring at the way you were lookin’ at the camera, imaginin’ you were looking at me instead.”
His hips pushed against yours, forcing you to take another deep inch of his cock.
“I can’t even tell you how many times I’ve sat on the edge of my bed, jerkin’ myself off until I was shaking, just thinkin’ about what it would feel like to have the real thing under me.”
He groaned, his pace becoming more uneven and frantic as the dirty confessions spilled from his lips.
“Every time I closed my eyes, I was picturin’ you—my own fucking neighbor—just like this. Bent over, taking every inch of me while you cried my name.”
The way you were whimpering and fluttering around his cock meant that you were enjoying every sinful confession he was blurting out.
You had already came, your body sensitive and weak, but Bucky was fucking you right through it.
“B-Buck… I can’t—I’m sensitive—” you whined, knees wobbly.
He tossed his head back, feeling his balls drawing tight as your pussy milked him.
“Fuuuck,” he groaned, kneading your hips. “I want to cum inside. Wanna make my ma and pa proud—”
Bucky leaned down until his breath was tickling your ear again. “Please? Will you let me cum inside, sweetheart?” He pressed a soft kiss to your cheek. “I promise you—I’ll give you the good life, I’ll give it to you reaally good.”
You felt your breath get stuck in your throat.
He was asking for permission?
Your body tightened beneath him.
You were so close from cumming beneath him a second time, and the way his hips stuttered against yours was a sign that he was just mere seconds away from filling you up.
“Been dreamin’ of fillin’ you up with my seed since I saw that dirty little picture of you. Please, sweetheart. Just give me what I want.”
Footsteps crunching the grass sounded near you—too close—and the thrill of getting caught despite yourself made you finally let go.
“Bucky, fuck—I’m cumming—!” you cried out, but Bucky’s hand clamped over your mouth, stifling your moans as you rocked your hips back against his cock.
You rode the orgasm out while Bucky’s face twisted in a pleasure so intense—it was damn near painful.
“Fuck. Fuck. Please, baby, I can’t—” he gasped, stilling his hips to keep from breeding you. “Please—let me cum inside—”
You couldn’t believe that for all the filthy words he was spouting earlier, how in control and dominant he was, he was still asking for permission.
“Please, fuck—can’t hold it in. You feel too good—”
“Just cum inside, Bucky!”
He didn’t need to be told twice.
Bucky cried out a broken moan against the side of your neck, his hips twitching as he buried himself so deep it made your eyes roll back.
The first hot jet of his seed hit your womb, filling you so deep it made your toes curl in your heels. He gripped you tight, his whole body turning stiff as he pumped himself empty inside you.
He groaned, a long, broken sound that tickled your spine as he fought for his breath.
“God… like that—just like that… every last drop ‘til I’m empty, sweetheart.”
The footsteps outside the alley grew louder, then faded as the stranger passed by, oblivious to the vulgar scene unfolding just a few feet away.
Bucky stayed exactly where he was for a moment, his chest rising and falling against your back as he breathed your scent in. He was still twitching inside you, his cock heavy and pulsing as it leaked into your womb.
“There we go” he soothed, pushing the sweaty strands of hair away from your temples to look at you. “Lookin’ every bit of my girl.”
He kissed the temple of your forehead before slowly pulling out, the sudden loss of his warmth leaving you feeling cold and empty.
“Keep your legs together,” he murmured possessively, bringing the hem of your skirt back down to cover your slick thighs. “Not a single drop goes to waste. Keep it there ‘til it takes.”
He reached out gently, smoothing your hair and straightening the strap of your sundress until you looked at least somewhat presentable again.
He brushed the dust from the brick off your shoulders, his eyes softening at the sight of your debaunched face. The makeup you spent so much time working on this morning was now a smeared mess of his doing.
And somehow, to him, you looked even prettier.
“There,” he said, wiping the stray lipstick on your chin. “Let’s get back and enjoy the rest of the festival.”
He turned to fix himself, tucking himself back in as he adjusted his jeans and buckled his belt.
You watched him, still a little dazed and shaky legged, until he bent down to pick up your lace panties from the dirty floor of the alley. You reached out, expecting him to hand them back to you, but he didn’t.
“Lace?” he huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “You were askin’ for it.”
He folded them neatly and tucked them into his back pocket. He caught your confused look and flashed a boyish, almost innocent looking grin that looked far different from how he looked at you earlier.
“Bucky?”
“Right next to that precious photo I ‘stole,’” he intertwined your fingers with his, pressing a soft kiss to your lips as he led you out of the alleyway.
“For my growing collection.”
if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them! again, please be sure to check out the stardew valley inspired masterlist if you haven't already!
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Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, porn, masturbation, fleshlight, sex toys mentioned, p in v sex, innocence kink, sex recording, coercion, blowjobs, dirty talk, degrading, praising fingering, virginity loss, stalking, size difference kink, very cringe usernames.
word count: 9.7k
he's a busy man! masterlist
a/n: first post for bwa's buckyverse collab! so happy to have created this lil group of bucky writers to come together and make a series of bucky fics for you guys. credit to @barnesonly for reader's and bucky's username. if you find them cringe, blame her. /j
synopsis:
You’ve never had sex before, still untouched and completely inexperienced. But when you stumble across Bucky’s porn channel—you quickly become his number one fan. You’re always in his comments, always in his chats, and never expecting it to go anywhere beyond the screen.
Luckily for Bucky, your social media is linked to your account, making it easy for him to find you.
You were completely mesmerized by the video playing on the screen. The image of a large and strong muscular figure rutted his hips up into the silicone, slick with his precum and lube—the poor toy looking like it was on the verge of tearing apart in his large hands.
After stumbling across the account Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917, you were immediately hooked.
He never showed his face, but you didn’t need to know what he looked like to be entranced. His grunts and moans were engraved in your mind like a song you knew by heart. You were enthralled by the sight of his broad, sweat-slicked back, every movement etched into your memory. The sheer length and size of him held you captive, hypnotized. You had memorized the rhythm of his patterns right before he came, you knew it like the back of your hand.
His moans would rise slightly higher in pitch. His breathing would get heavier. He’d curse and grunt out, “fuck, fuck.” or “shit, fuck.”
And then it happens.
With one final thrust, he filled his toys to the brim with his cum, always thick and a creamy pearlescent white.
You had one hand tucked in your panties, rubbing at your clit as you came just in time with him. You tossed your head back against the pillow, panting and sweating from the aftermath of your self-lovemaking.
You withdrew your hand, catching your breath as the aftershocks of your orgasm faded. Moving lazily, you wiped your fingers clean before reaching for your phone. Just as always, you began typing out a comment—first in line the moment his new video drops.
Pleasure_Ring: Great video as always! It made me feel really really good! I can’t wait to see the next!!
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Thanks, baby. I’m glad you enjoyed it. That one was for you.
A minute passed by and another notification popped up on the bottom right of your screen, but this time, it was a direct message.
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: I just read your comment. You’re always so supportive. I wish you were here. I’d be fucking you instead of this flimsy toy.
Your face flushed after reading his message. He was always so quick to respond, and although he was pretty responsive to other commenters too, you couldn’t help but feel like his replies to you were always a bit more personal than the rest.
Pleasure_Ring: I really wish I was there too! But I admit, I’m a little scared just thinking about it haha.
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917 is typing…
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Scared? How come?
Pleasure_Ring: I’m a virgin. I’ve never had sex before.
Most people would find it pathetic to be flirting through a porn site. Even more would say it’s worse to be tangled in a para-social attachment to one of the biggest stars online.
And sure, maybe they're right. You were hooked on the mysterious man with the ridiculous username. But this was your ritual, your private indulgence, the part of yourself you never let anyone else see. Besides, you knew it would never be more than flirtatious comments flashing across a screen.
Men like him always had plenty of women waiting in their inbox.
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: A virgin, huh? That’s cute. What’s a sweet little thing like you doing watching videos like mine?
Pleasure_Ring: Because yours are the only ones that actually satisfy me. Any woman would be lucky to spend even one night with you.
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Oh, sweetheart… I don’t think you could handle a night with me.
Your heart thumps faster in your chest at his response. As much as you wished you could stay up and keep chatting, reality always kicked in. You had responsibilities, so conversations with him were usually cut off after midnight.
Pleasure_Ring: I don’t think I could either… but I’d still like to try for you.
Pleasure_Ring: It’s getting late, and I’ve got a shift in a few hours. Have a great night, Bucky. And thank you for another wonderful video. <3
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: So soon, doll? I was just starting to enjoy our little chat.
You stared at the screen, tempted to type something back to keep the conversation going. Glancing at the clock, you let out a reluctant sigh.
You logged off before you could second-guess yourself, because you knew that if you responded, you’d be up for hours.
And when Bucky refreshed the page, impatiently waiting for a response, your username was already gray and your status was offline.
Bucky laid back in his chair, finishing the last line of the description before hitting upload. He has never been great with captions—or usernames, for that matter… but lately, his descriptions weren’t just filler text to satisfy his fans. They were subtle messages, written only for you.
Need my pleasure ring to come help me out instead. Getting tired of using my hands and toys. Enjoy.
Once everything looked right, he clicked post. Same ritual, same time. Every three days.
The moment his upload went live, he sat up straight in his chair. The glow of the monitor lit his dark room, his eyes glued to the screen. Eleven minutes—that’s how long the video ran. By his calculations, you should already be online and commenting in twelve.
Two minutes in, he refreshed. Another two more minutes, he refreshed again. Over and over, because he knew. He knew you’d be the first one there in his comment section without fail.
You always were.
At this point, it’s been well past eleven minutes with zero notifications. In Bucky’s eyes, this was more than enough time for you to receive the notification, watch the video, and send a comment or a message like you usually do.
So why the hell weren’t you doing it?
He dedicated this video to you, goddammit. Actually—he dedicated all of his videos to you. But this one especially was planned, recorded, performed with you in mind. And yet, your account still showed offline.
He pumped himself for the first half of the video—his face nuzzled into the softness of his pillow. His groans and grunts were muffled as he fisted himself, his leaking tip grazing against the smooth fabric of his bed sheet, leaving a wet stain every time he grounded and bucked his hips.
Then about halfway through, he reached for the clear silicone toy. He positioned the camera against the headboard, sitting up straight as he started fucking himself with the toy—the clear silicone squelching and spreading wider as he rutted into it like an animal.
“Fuck, yes baby,” he groaned in the video. “S’fucking good, taking all this cock in your tight little virgin pussy.” He said.
And God was that line especially meant for you.
It was a damn good video—he was so fucking proud of himself. Which only made it harder for Bucky to understand why your account still showed offline.
With an annoyed sigh, he propped his elbow on the desk, chin resting in his palm, and refreshed one more time for good measure. When nothing changed, he clicked on your profile and began to lurk.
For all the attention you gave him, your account was practically a ghost. No videos. No profile picture. No caption. No name. You were only following one account—his. And you had one follower, too… also him.
Bucky never followed anyone else.
He scrolled down a bit, and his eyes widened at what he saw on the screen.
Your account was linked to your social media profiles—your Instagram and TikTok.
In order to create an account, you had to attach a phone number or email address. During sign-up, there was also the option to link your social media—tied to that same phone number or email—a small popup buried among the usual flood of terms, agreements, and permission requests that appeared in sequence.
So either you let it slip past you, your finger tapping carelessly just to get it out of the way.
Or… you wanted him to find you.
The cursor hovered over the link. Bucky sucked in a breath, clicking on your Instagram. When the screen finally loaded, his eyes immediately widened and his heart skipped a beat. Your profile was public. Your name was right at the top, and there you were in your profile picture—smiling, front and center.
Aside from his secret porn account, Bucky didn’t do social media. He couldn’t be bothered figuring out how it works, but he knew enough to recognize that Instagram was all about pictures and videos. And that was exactly what he needed.
Finally, he could see you.
His number one fan. His pleasure ring.
He scrolled down, coming across a mix of photos. Selfies, your eyes bright and innocent with a sheepish smile. Food. Didn’t care. Landmarks. Didn't care. Pictures of family and friends—he only looked for you.
There were beach shots, carefree and playful, your body posted in a skimpy bikini glowing in the sunlight.
His breath caught in his throat. His pants grew tighter. He shifted in his seat, trying to adjust the growing pressure between his legs. He leaned closer as he looked through every picture, careful not to accidentally leave a like in his wake.
“Damn, baby,” he muttered, staring at your pictures, unable to tear his eyes away.
He scrolled down, saving every single image that displayed your face and your body—each one feeling like a treasure.
All the pictures of you were seemingly innocent. Even in your bikini shots, you weren’t trying to show off. You didn’t jut your hips out or pose provocatively. Your pictures weren’t screaming for attention.
It was cute.
But it just made him want more. Need more. He would’ve loved to see you bend over just a little bit. Maybe even press your arms together to accentuate your cleavage.
God. He would’ve loved to see that.
His dick throbbed in his pants as he scrolled further down your Instagram. More selfies of you just meant more photos in his special folder. With one hand rubbing himself steadily and the other on the mouse, he hovered over your TikTok link next.
Once your page loaded, he felt his heart drop in his stomach.
There were only two videos, both of them being with your friends. It was some stupid trend you were doing—Bucky never understood the whole appeal of trends—but you were dancing to them, and his heart skipped a beat in his chest as he watched, captivated.
Your dancing was… pretty bad to say the least. Actually, it was awful.
But Bucky couldn’t tear his eyes away because he got a full view of your body. Every movement of your body, even the clumsy dance steps, had him entranced. The rhythm was completely off, but it didn’t matter. It was the way you moved, the curve of your body in each frame.
His cock was completely hard, poking and straining against the fabric of his sweatpants. He was palming himself for so long, his warm hand rubbing up and down against his throbbing clothed shaft—he didn’t even realize the precum leaking through his pants until his fingers grazed against it.
“Shit,” he grunted.
There was something about watching you—his once mysterious, loyal viewer and commenter—right here, in his monitor. Dancing. Your body on display, completely unaware, yet captivating in every move.
He grabbed the hem of his sweatpants and brought it down to his thighs, freeing his cock from the suffocating fabric. His hand encircled around his shaft, his grip tightening just slightly as he began pumping himself. He dragged his thumb over the wetness of his tip, smearing it over the head.
Bucky let out a low groan, his breathing growing heavy as he fucked his hand to the sight of you. With the other hand, he kept switching through your photos, moving faster as his cock throbbed helplessly in his grip.
He grunted and groaned, staring at his monitor with half-lidded eyes as he stroked himself. He stopped at another picture of you, a top down selfie with a low cut blouse. Your eyes—wide and innocent, batting up at the camera, the curve of your breast straining against the shirt.
A low moan rumbled from his chest at the sight. His hands moved faster and eagerly against his cock, precum leaking down from the tip to his shaft as he pumped and worked his throbbing dick.
“Fuck, baby. I want to cum all over that pretty face,” he breathed. “Gonna paint your face and tits with my seed—shit.”
Everything was overwhelming his senses right now. Your pure and clueless eyes, the way your lips—soft and plump—curved up into a smile.
Everything about you screamed ‘innocent.’
And the best part of it all, was that you were a fucking virgin. A helpless, clueless, little virgin. Perfectly ripe for the picking.
His cock throbbed hot and heavy in his hand, each pulse bringing him closer. He could hardly believe it—your social media, left wide open, public and linked straight to your account. Like an invitation.
Like you wanted him to see.
His fist worked faster, the slick sounds of his own hand echoing in the dark room. He was right there, teetering at the edge, when another one of your videos caught his eye. A casual clip, nothing special—just you laughing with your friends, the camera panning across a storefront in the background.
His heart lurched in his chest. He knew that place.
He blinked hard, his other hand flying to the mouse as he replayed the clip, pausing on the sign. His pulse roared in his ears. That store was only a few streets away. Which meant…
You were here. In his town.
“Fuck—”
The word ripped out of him as his body jerked. His cock erupted in his fist, hot streams spilling over his knuckles and thigh as he shook, riding the wave of release harder than he had in years. Harder than he had in any of his videos. The excitement, the discovery, the sudden nearness of you—it all came crashing into him, tearing his orgasm from the very pit of his stomach.
He slumped back against his chair, chest heaving, eyes still glued to the frozen frame of your smiling face.
You weren’t just his number one fan anymore. Fuck, you were real. You were so close, and now, he knew exactly where to find you.
He was still catching his breath when he switched tabs, his cock softening in his hand as he scrolled deeper through your pictures. Every shot held him captive. Was this how you felt when you watched his videos—entranced, unable to look away?
A few minutes had gone by when he heard a ping! sound from his other tab. He switched over, and there you were. Your account, blank as ever, no profile picture, no name, but now a message glowing at the bottom of the screen.
Pleasure_Ring: Loved your new video! It was amazing as always. I can’t believe your toy isn’t broken yet!
He felt his heart stutter in his chest. A needy grin curled at the corner of his lips. You were late to his video, but that’s okay. He had your videos and pictures to keep him at bay for now. His fingers darted across the keyboard, replying almost too quickly.
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Glad you liked it, doll. Took you longer than usual to show up tonight.
His fingers hovered over the keys, debating if he wanted to send this next message or not.
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Had me wondering if you forgot about me.
You took longer than usual to respond, and even though he was coming down from his post-release haze, his heart was still pounding anxiously in his chest.
Pleasure_Ring is typing…
Pleasure_Ring: I know! I’m sorry. I got distracted cooking dinner.
Pleasure_Ring: But I could never forget about you, Bucky.
His grip on the mouse tightened, and he felt his cock twitching again. God, he loved when you said—typed—his name. But the longer he stared at your words, the more restless he felt. He needed more.
He needed you.
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Dinner, huh? You had me worried there for a second. You’re usually the first one here. Couldn’t stand the thought of you forgetting me.
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: You know… I don’t even know your name. What should I call you, sweetheart?
He already knew it, of course.
He could say it out loud, taste it on his tongue right now if he wanted. But he wanted you to give it to him. To hand it over willingly.
He saw you typing, then stopping. Typing again, then stopping. The little dots taunted him, making his jaw clench. He hated this. He hated playing the waiting game—especially now that he knew you were just a few minutes away, living in the same town as him.
Pleasure_Ring: Do I really need to tell you my name? I kinda like being your little secret. <3
Pleasure_Ring: Besides… I think you like calling me doll, don’t you?
Bucky’s brow twitched in mild frustration, his cock throbbing in his lap again as his eyes traced your text over and over. You were a teasing little minx—taunting him, torturing him. He knew you were obsessed with him just as much as he was with you, so why the hell were you playing so damn hard to get?
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Come on, baby. Don’t be like that.
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: You touch yourself to my videos every night, and yet you can’t even share your name? Don’t make me beg for it.
He dragged in a sharp breath as he waited for your reply, his hand lazily stroking his half-hard cock while he leaned back in his chair, tension swimming through every vein.
Pleasure_Ring: You’re so silly, Bucky.
Pleasure_Ring: Why ruin the mystery? I kind of like it this way… just you and me, no names needed. <3
His cock was rock-hard again, straining for a second round. He wrapped his fist around it as he split his screen in two—one tab open to a photo of you smiling sweetly, the other to your chat box on the site. His strokes were slow, shudders slipping past his lips as he teased the sensitive flesh. Every pulse in his palm matched the flick of his gaze between your face and your words.
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: You won’t give me your name, but I bet you’d spread your legs wide and let me fuck you like the needy little slut you really are.
He was playing a dangerous game with that message. It was too direct, maybe even a little mean. He might even risk scaring you away.
But with your picture staring back at him, soft and innocent, how the hell was he supposed to hold back?
Pleasure_Ring is typing…
Pleasure_Ring: I would do anything you’d want me to if you were here.
His heart stopped. His cock throbbed violently as the words sank in, repeating it in his mind like a prayer. A sweet little virgin like you, so naive, so unknowing, willing to let a man like him do anything to you?
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Oh, sweetheart. You shouldn’t have said that.
He couldn’t hold back anymore. He stroked himself faster, pressure coiling hot at the base as he pumped his length with desperate need. Groans tore from his chest, hips jerking up into his fist as pleasure overtook him.
In his mind, it wasn’t just his hand—it was you. You on his bed, camera capturing every angle as you wrapped those innocent lips around his cock. You moaning, trembling, surrendering that precious virginity to a filthy porn star like him.
Pleasure_Ring: Maybe. But I really would do anything you’d ask me to.
And fuck, you lived in the same town as him. You actually lived in the same town as him.
It would be so easy to find you. To claim you. To stuff your tight, untouched little holes full of him until you were stretched and dripping, used just like one of his toys.
The thought alone was enough to make him come a second time. With his head tilted back, a low growl-like moan escaped his throat. His hips stuttered wildly as his release tore through him in sharp waves of pleasure, hot seed spilling over his fist until his hand was a sticky, soiled mess.
He slumped back in his chair, breath ragged as he wiped himself clean with hurried, clumsy hands. His fingertips grazed the keyboard, already halfway through typing his next message.
He couldn’t let the moment die, he didn’t want to lose you just yet.
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917 is typing…
But then your text bubble popped up first.
Pleasure_Ring: It’s late, so I’ll be going to sleep now. I’m sorry our conversation got cut short. But thank you again for your video! I’m already looking forward to the next one! <3 Nighty night, Bucky!
And just like that, your status flickered gray. Offline. Gone.
His hand froze over the keys.
What?
That’s it?
You showed up online extremely late, give him a few teasing words that leave him aching, and just… log off?
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Come on, baby. You can’t leave like that. Aren’t you having fun?
He knew you were offline, yet he sent the message anyway—clinging to the hope that maybe your status would flicker green and you’d answer him right away, being his number one fan and all.
A minute passed. Then another. And another.
He sat there, staring at the empty chat box, his foot tapping impatiently against the wooden floor. When it finally sank in that you weren’t coming back, he closed the porn tab with a long and disappointing sigh. Dozens of comments waited for him on his latest video, begging for his attention—but he didn’t care. He couldn’t be bothered.
All he wanted was you.
Your picture still glowed on his other monitor, your smile taunting him. He pulled his pants back on, leaning forward as his mind spun. You were so close—he could feel it. And with your account still open, still public, still inviting, he knew he wouldn’t stop.
He would find you.
And once he did, you would be his.
It had been three days since you last commented on his videos. Three days without your little messages, without your sweet words that fueled him through the long and lonely nights.
Bucky was restless.
He kept checking your account, refreshing the page, waiting for that familiar username that was dedicated to him to pop up in his notifications list again. But instead, you were busy elsewhere.
Your Instagram was suddenly so active. Story after story, pictures of food, photos of crowded streets, little story clips of you laughing with friends. They were all innocent things, but to him, they were breadcrumbs.
He looked closely at the background in your stories, taking screenshots and zooming in on shop signs and store logos. Most of these were ones he recognized. He compared timestamps, piecing together your routine slowly.
Each update you shared felt like you were inviting him in, pulling him closer without even realizing.
And no—he wouldn’t call himself a stalker. Sure, he scrolled through all your socials, jerked off to your pictures, learned your full name, the area you lived in, who you spent time with.
But that wasn’t stalking.
That was devotion.
He was your number one fan. Just like you were his.
Your cart wobbled against the tiled floor as you turned into the produce aisle. Today was your weekly grocery restock. The store was busy, noisy, and packed with people trying to weave in and out of each other’s way. You grabbed your phone out of your pocket and snapped a quick picture of the cotton candy grapes piled high in their cartons.
They were your favorite, and this was the only grocery store near your area that carried them.
Try these! They taste just like cotton candy!
You added the caption and posted it to your story, sliding your phone back into your bag before moving on. A few minutes later, as you rounded the corner towards checkout, someone brushed past your shoulder.
You glanced up, and a man stood there, tall and broad-shouldered.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, his voice low, achingly familiar. “Didn’t see you there.”
You smiled politely, brushing it off. “No worries.”
You went back to your cart, but for some reason, your gaze lingered on him for just a second longer. There was something… familiar about the way he carried himself, about the way his words came out and how he looked.
You shook the thought off and pushed the cart forward, but you didn’t get very far when he stepped behind you, resting a gentle yet heavy hand on your shoulder.
You glanced over and paused. The same man was staring at you, his eyes locked on yours with a look like that feels unsettling. You cleared your throat, shifting uncomfortably under his gaze.
“Uh… can I help you?”
His jaw tightened, his grip on your shoulder pressing just a little harder.
“...Pleasure ring?”
Those words rang back in your ears like a loud bell. Your eyes went wide and you felt like your heart dropped in your stomach. Your gaze darted quickly around the aisle, checking to make sure no one else was close enough to hear.
“I—I’m sorry? What did you just say?”
He narrowed his eyes slightly. “Aren’t you happy to see me?”
The longer you stare at this man, the realization hits you all at once. The thickness of his neck. The breadth of his shoulders. The sheer size of him, impossible to mistake. You’ve seen this frame before—night after night, on a glowing screen.
You leaned in slightly, whisper-yelling, “You’re Lord of The Rings nineteen-seventeen? You’re Bucky?”
The ridiculous username felt even more absurd now that it left your lips.
He didn’t even look around or even seemed to care about his alter ego being mentioned outloud. All he cared about right now was having you, right in front of him.
“...You haven’t been watching my videos,” Bucky said instead. His thumb brushed once across your shoulder, subtle but possessive. “Are you okay?”
The words should have sounded caring, but instead they struck you like an accusation. Your pulse quickened, panic rising up your throat.
He was watching you that closely?
He noticed?
How did he even find you here?
“I—uh—yeah, I’ve just been… busy,” you muttered.
You knew you should step back and pull away from his touch. This man was stalking you. Yet, your body betrayed you. The deep rasp of his voice sent a warm sensation trickling down your spine, curling in the pit of your stomach.
Creeped out or not, your body remembered him. It remembered his moans, his growls, the way he spoke dirty to the camera like he was speaking only to you.
“I’ve missed you in my comments,” he continued, his hand moving from your shoulder to the ends of your hair, twirling it with his fingers. “I’ve missed our cute little chats… haven’t you?”
You sucked in a breath.
The loud chatter of customers and grocery carts dimmed into the background noise. You should pull away, God you should pull away—but your body swayed just slightly towards him instead.
“Y-yeah,” your voice was soft and shaky. “I… I do too.”
The moment the words left your mouth, your stomach curled with dread. Yet, your body didn’t match your fear. Your chest was rising and falling faster, your thighs pressing together instinctively. You hated the way a tiny spark of excitement flickered inside you when he stepped closer.
Bucky’s mouth curled into a faint smirk, like he knows your own body is betraying you. He gave your strand of hair a gentle, teasing tug before letting it fall.
“That’s my good girl,” he murmured, his eyes tracing every curve on your face, studying you, taking you in.
You pressed your lips together, you stared back at him, captivated. He never showed his face in his videos—only his body, hands, and voice. You had always wondered what the man behind the camera looked like, and now here he was, inches away. He was unbelievably handsome. His gaze was intense. His voice was magnetic. You couldn’t look away, even if you tried.
“Are you nervous?”
You blinked at him. “What?”
A small chuckle escaped his lips, his hand lifted up to your cheek, cupping it softly and making your skin tingle.
“You teased me in your texts,” he reminded you, his voice deep. “Told me you’d let me do anything to you if I was with you.” His thumb brushed your cheek softly, almost soothing.
“How true does that still ring?”
Your eyes darted nervously around the aisle. A few people passed by with carts, sparing you both brief, casual glances. To them, it probably looked like nothing more than a man grocery shopping with his girlfriend, caressing her cheek tenderly.
But you knew better.
“I…” your lip trembled nervously. “I-It’s still true…”
His mouth curved into a slow, smug smile, as if he knew exactly what kind of effect he had on you—how easily your knees wanted to give beneath you.
“That’s my girl,” he murmured, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “My number one fan.”
You felt your stomach tighten. Every inch of your skin felt hot under his gaze. This was dangerous—you knew it. You were untouched, inexperienced, but the way he looked at you, the way his voice reached your ears, only made the ache between your legs grow heavier.
“How ‘bout we go back to your place,” he leaned in slightly, voice getting lower and dangerous, “and you do your grocery shopping later?”
Your heart felt like it could burst out of your chest. You glanced down at your cart, the cotton candy grapes you’d been so excited to buy, and then back up at him. The way he held you, the way his eyes burned into yours, the very offer you’ve been secretly dreaming of despite your nerves…
It made the idea of staying here feel like hell.
“Okay,” you breathed out. “Yeah, let’s… let’s go back to my place.”
A small, approved hum escaped his lips. He pulled his hand away from your cheek and trailed his hand down to your bare arm, down to your hands—interlocking his fingers with yours.
“Lead the way, princess.”
This was wrong. So dangerously, undeniably wrong. But you had spent countless nights dreaming about this man, the pornstar with the ridiculous username, and now he was right here, holding your hand.
He led you out of the store with a smile on his face, already looking proud to have you by his side even though you guys just met.
“I can’t wait to see your place, princess,” he murmured smoothly, stopping just outside the sliding doors. His gaze dropped down to you, quiet and expectant, waiting for you to take the lead.
“There are so many things I want to do to you.”
By the time you reached your front door, your heart was hammering so hard it felt like it might break free from your chest.
Your hands trembled so badly you could barely fit the key into the lock. Bucky stood behind you, his presence comforting yet demanding as he waited for you to open the door.
The door finally opened, and you felt an insane wave of embarrassment as soon as he stepped inside. Your apartment wasn’t exactly ready for company. You had shoes littered near the door, laundry draped over the arm of the couch, your desk drowning in clutter.
He looked around and let out a low and amused hum.
This was a terrible idea, inviting a stranger into your home. You’ve never done this before. But he’s not technically that much of a stranger if you two have been talking online for months now… right?
“Show me your bedroom, sweetheart,” he said, his tone gentle but leaving no room for disobedience.
When he sensed your hesitation, his chin tilted subtly toward the hallway, like he already knew exactly where your bedroom was. That smug smile never left his lips.
“Go on.”
You swallowed hard and turned toward the hallway, each step feeling heavy and anxious. You were nervous, extremely nervous. But the excitement of having a man in your home, this man you’d been secretly attracted to for months, sent a shiver of arousal down your spine.
You led him down the hallway, his footsteps heavy behind you. Pausing at your door, you glanced back over your shoulder. His smile widened, eyes glinting.
“You gettin’ shy, doll?”
Your cheeks burned, and with a shaky exhale you pushed the door open.
Embarrassment hit instantly. The bed was undone, white sheets tangled in a mess, with clothes scattered lazily across the mattress. He stood in the doorway, his silence madly deafening while you stood there nervously with your hands clasped behind your back, waiting for him to say something.
Finally, he stepped forward, the corner of his mouth curving upward.
“I like your room, princess,” he said smoothly. He stepped up to the edge of your bed, his fingers dragging lightly across the wrinkles in your blanket.
“Is there where you watch my videos?” he asked. “Do you touch yourself right here, in this bed?”
“I—I… do sometimes,” you confessed. You pointed your finger toward the desktop in the corner of the room. “Sometimes I watch… on my laptop.”
His head turned to follow your finger, a smile tugging at his lips. He strode toward the desk, fingers grazing over the surface.
“Yeah? This is where you chat with me?” his fingertips trailed slowly across the top, pausing over the chair. “You sit here, spread those pretty legs on this chair, and put your fingers in that tiny little pussy of yours?”
You fiddled with your fingers, too flustered to meet his gaze. “Y-yes…”
He came back to you, steps steady and eyes locked on your face. When he reached you, he took one of your hands, gently prying it from the other, holding it in his much larger one. His palm stroked against yours, tender in contrast to his words. Then he lifted your hand slowly, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles, his eyes half-lidded and dark.
“How did you find me?” you asked softly.
He exhaled, rubbing soft circles against your skin. “You stopped commenting on my videos. You stopped chatting with me. And I know it was only a few days…” his voice went softer, “…but doll, I missed you.”
Your heart fluttered wildly in your chest, your face hot and warm. The ache between your thighs pulsed with every word he spoke.
“I missed you so damn much. Couldn’t stop thinking about you…” he continued, pressing another kiss to your hand, then brushing your knuckles along the slight stubble of his jaw. “I couldn’t help it. I started looking through your account.”
You sucked in a breath, looking up at him as he continued.
“Your account was blank. No name. No picture. Nothing.” His voice dropped lower. “But your social media was linked, all public and left wide open.” His smile deepened, almost smug as he leaned in closer, his nose brushing yours.
“You wanted me to see them, didn’t you?”
His voice was so raspy and so hungry, it made your whole body shiver. You couldn’t trust your voice, especially not when you were so afraid it would crack and betray how timid, how inexperienced you really were.
“I-I… didn’t know—”
“Oh, but you did,” he cut you off, one hand still intertwined with yours, the other cupping your cheek. “You wanted me to find you. I bet you hoped I’d click, hoped I’d follow the trail…”
He spoke so confidently and so sure of himself—but the truth was something else entirely. You didn’t realize that your social media was tied to your account and you didn’t bother to check. You had only made that account to interact with Bucky’s videos only.
You should have been afraid. The way he tracked you down, the way he admitted to stalking your socials—it should have terrified you.
But it didn’t.
It only made your body burn with excitement, your core clenching with a hunger that only he can satisfy.
“You teasing little slut,” he murmured, his voice growing rough. “But you’re not a slut, are you? You’re a virgin—isn’t that right?”
You nodded. “I-I am…”
“And you’d still do anything for me? Anything at all?”
You paused for a moment. You knew exactly what he meant. He hadn’t followed you home for small talk.
Your body screamed yes, aching for him, but your mind shook with hesitation. You've seen his videos. You knew how rough he could be. How brutal his thrusts looked, how the silicone toys bent and threatened to snap beneath his strength. The way his grip tightened until his muscles flexed and strained—it was terrifying, yet intoxicating.
Could you really take him? You weren’t sure.
But God, you wanted to try.
So you nodded.
An approved and low growl escaped his lips. He leaned closer, pausing right before your lips.
“There are so many fucking things I want to do to you, princess,” he rasped. “First, I’m going to kiss you—then I’ll teach you how to really please a man. And after that…” his mouth curved into a wicked smile, “I’ll show you how a man properly pleases his woman. You understand?”
“O-okay.”
His lips pressed against yours.
It started off soft, patient, exploratory—until his hunger took over. The kiss deepened, his mouth grew reckless, his tongue desperate. His hands roamed greedily, gripping your waist, pulling you closer. He broke away only to tug at your clothes, then immediately slammed his lips back against yours like he couldn’t resist you.
“Fuck, sweetheart,” he groaned into your mouth. “You taste exactly like I imagined—maybe even better. Shit.”
Bucky was getting harder by the second, but truthfully, he’d been aching since the moment he laid eyes on you in the store. But now, with you trembling in his arms, he finally had you.
He caught your hand in his, guiding it down until your palm pressed against the thick bulge straining against his jeans, you shuddered at the contact. Your fingers started moving without you thinking, rubbing against him in small, and timid strokes.
He let out a low chuckle. “Look at you, baby. You want it so bad, don’t you?”
Your breath hitched, and you could only nod, meek and shy.
He moved your hand along his clothed length, forcing you to feel every ridge of him. His lip caught between his teeth as he let out a hiss of pleasure. He was so hard for you—so desperate—that he started to feel himself leaking just from the friction of your trembling palm.
“Fuck, baby,” he grunted, ripping your hand away from his crotch.
You blinked up at him, startled and confused.
He reached in the back of his jean pocket, pulling out a small camcorder. His breathing was heavy, and his eyes were dark.
“Baby,” he rasped, voice needy. “I want to record this. I want to see you undress for me… capture every second of it.” His fingers trembled as he flipped the device open, eyes half-lidded, fixated on you like a starving man.
“Bucky…”
“What do you say, baby?” he pressed, taking a slow step forward.
You bit your bottom lip, nerves tying your stomach in knots. You weren’t ready for this—not at all. But the thought of being behind Bucky’s lens, of being admired and captured the same way you had admired him through his videos, made your skin warm with anticipation.
He grabbed your hand gently. “I won’t upload it,” he promised. “This one’s just for me—to keep, to look back on. Think you can give me that, doll?”
His words were soft yet strained with a lust and desire that he was desperately trying to hold back. The ache between your legs pulsed harder with every word, and deep down, you already knew you couldn’t say no.
“…Okay,” you whispered. “I want to be put on display for you, Bucky. I want to be yours.”
A slow, satisfied smile curved his lips. “That’s my girl.”
He nodded toward the bed. “Stay there, at the edge. Watch me.”
You stood frozen, captivated, as he began to strip down. Shirt, jeans, everything—gone in moments, until his bare and large body stretched against your sheets and rested against the headboard. With one hand, he steadied the camcorder, and with the other, he reached for himself slowly.
“Take your clothes off,” he ordered, the red recording light blinking as the camera pointed straight at you. “I want every second of this. Give me a show, baby.”
Heat climbed your chest and neck as you began lifting your shirt, pulling it over your head. You glanced at him—and your knees nearly buckled. He was already stroking himself, precum glistening at the flushed tip, his chest heaving with each desperate pump.
“Good girl.”
You pushed your pants down, stepping out of them until you stood in nothing but your bra and panties. Your hands fidgeted nervously at your sides—not knowing what to do with them next.
“D-do you… want me to keep going?”
A dark chuckle slipped from his lips, almost mocking. “Oh, baby. You’re fucking adorable, you know that?” his hand pumped slow and hard, his cock twitching under his touch. “Yes. Keep going. Take it all off, nice and slow for me…”
Your fingers trembled as they hooked around the strap of your bra, sliding it off your shoulders before unclasping it. The straps fell loose, and you let it slip from your hands. The cool air rushed against your bare chest, making your nipples pebble instantly.
“Panties, baby,” he murmured, voice rough. “Get rid of ‘em.”
Slowly, you eased them down your legs, stepping out of them until you stood completely bare before him. Your arms instinctively folded in front of you, trying to hide yourself.
Bucky’s mouth curved into a smug grin. “Don’t you dare hide from me. You’re too pretty to cover up.”
Your arms dropped hesitantly at your sides, and his grin only widened.
“Good girl,” he rasped. He shifted against the headboard, spreading his legs wider, the thick length of his cock pulsing as his fist pumped it. “Now crawl to me, princess.”
“C-crawl..?”
His eyes darkened, his hand tightening around himself. “That’s right. On your hands and knees. Crawl over here like the sweet little virgin you are.”
Your breath caught, and for a second you thought you wouldn’t be able to move at all. But his hungry stare made your body obey before your mind could catch up. You climbed onto the bed, the mattress dipping slightly, and lowered yourself onto your hands and knees.
Slowly, you crawled toward him, the soft sheets brushing against your bare skin, your heart beating fast in your chest.
Bucky let out a low and approving growl, the camcorder following your every move.
“That’s it, baby… fuck—” he groaned. “You look so perfect like this. Like you were made to kneel for me.”
You swallowed hard as you approached him, staring at his cock—thick and hard, flushed at the tip. Your lips parted as you let out a soft gasp—the sheer size of him made your throat go dry.
“Have you ever had a dick in your mouth, baby?” he asked.
You can only shake your head no.
He let go of himself, his free hand sliding into your hair, guiding you closer to his lap. “Open that pretty mouth for me, doll,” he coaxed. “I want to be the first man you taste.”
How could something that big possibly fit in your mouth? His grip kept you steady, urging you forward.
“There you go,” he smirked, watching your nervous little breaths. “God, you’re trembling. Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll teach you exactly how to do it. All you gotta do is listen to me.”
“Stick out that tongue—yeah, just like that. Such a good girl.” His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth before pressing down on your lower lip, opening you wider. “Mm, look at you. Never done this before, huh?”
You shook your head, embarrassed, but he only chuckled.
“Of course not. My innocent little fan, saving herself for me,” he guided you closer until the blunt tip of his cock brushed your tongue, smearing precum across it. The taste was strange, salty and thick, and you whimpered softly at the unfamiliar sensation.
His laugh was low and condescending, but not cruel. “That’s it, baby. Don’t pout so cutely like that… only makes it harder for me to hold back.”
He stroked your hair, petting you like you were some pet while his hips gave a subtle roll forward, testing you.
“Just wrap those lips around me nice and slow. I want to see that sweet virgin mouth stuffed full of cock for the first time.”
Your lips closed timidly around him, sealing over the tip as your tongue flicked against it, tasting more of that salty, musky flavor. Your jaw ached instantly, but the way he groaned, deep and guttural, made you shiver with pride.
“There you go,” he praised, fingers tightening in your hair. “God, look at you. My perfect little virgin, already learning how to please me.”
You tried to sink further, taking more of him in, but the sheer thickness made your throat tighten. You gagged softly, tears threatening to well in your eyes, and pulled back with a desperate little gasp.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, thumb brushing your damp cheek. “That was good, baby. So fucking good. Just relax your jaw, take it slow. You’ve got such a tiny mouth—I didn’t expect you to take all of me your first try.”
His hand guided you down again, inch by inch, your lips stretching around him as drool began to slick your chin. He hissed through his teeth, head falling back against the headboard.
“That’s it… fuck, that’s it. God, you don’t even know how sweet you look right now, doll. Choking on my cock like you were made for it.”
You felt his cock pulse on your tongue, thick veins throbbing against the roof of your mouth.
“Fuck—baby—” he growled, his breathing ragged as his cock twitched violently. “Gonna—shit—gonna cum down your throat—”
Suddenly, his hand yanked you back, pulling your mouth off him with a wet pop. You gasped, spit stringing between your lips and his swollen tip, confused and dazed.
“W-what…?”
“Not yet,” he panted, his hand flying to his cock and holding it still, trying to calm himself down.
His chest heaved, his eyes glazed and hungry as he stared at your flushed, ruined face. “Not wasting my first load on your mouth, princess. I’ve been waiting too long for you.”
“Bucky…”
He leaned forward, thumb smearing your spit across your swollen lips. “No… I’m gonna be the first man to cum inside this virgin cunt.”
He adjusted the camera in his hands, sitting up straighter. “Lay down,” he ordered, nodding toward the mattress. “Face down, ass up.”
His words were so filthy and vulgar—it made your face burn—but still, you obeyed. Lowering yourself onto shaky arms, you crawled forward and eased your chest against the mattress. Your cheek pressed into the sheets as you raised your ass for him, baring yourself under his gaze.
The arch felt awkward, your back straining from holding the position. But the low, hungry sound that escaped from his chest sent a shiver of pride racing through you. You pushed yourself even higher, desperate to please him.
“Look at you. My shy little virgin, already posing like a whore for me,” the sound of the camcorder’s little beep made your body tense—he was recording this, capturing you in such a vulnerable position.
The mattress dipped as he shuffled closer, his large palm running over the curve of your ass. You gasped, burying your face into the sheets in embarrassment.
“You’re trembling,” he noted, squeezing the soft flesh in his hand. “You nervous, baby?”
You nodded weakly, voice muffled against the pillow. “Y-Yeah…”
“Mmm, but you’re already being so sweet for me,” he rasped, his thumb gently pressing against your wet, slit folds. “Your pretty little cunt is weeping just for me, sweetheart.”
You let out a soft gasp, the camcorder beeped again as he adjusted it to get a better view. His grin widened with hunger.
“Don’t worry, doll. I’ll take care of you. Gonna stretch this virgin pussy nice and slow… and make you put on the sweetest show for my camera.”
He teased your pussy, thumb rubbing over your entrance and his finger rubbing against your clit. You were already so wet—embarrassingly so.
“God, baby… you’re dripping,” he groaned, the camcorder beeping softly as he angled it lower. “All this for me?”
You whimpered into the sheets, trembling as he shifted his hand and pressed a finger, testing your tightness before slowly sinking inside.
You gasped louder, your whole body jolting forward against the mattress even though it was just his finger. “B-Bucky!”
“Shhh, it’s okay, sweetheart,” he murmured, leaning close. “Just my finger. Gotta test this tight little pussy before I give you more.”
He moved slowly, letting you adjust to his finger as you writhed against the sheets, your walls already fluttering helplessly around him. He slowly eased another finger inside, drawing out a desperate moan from you.
“So tight,” he groaned so low, almost like he was talking to himself. “So fucking tight—baby. Can’t wait to put my cock inside you…”
When he finally slipped his finger free, you sagged against the bed in relief—but then you felt him shifting behind you. The camcorder beeped again, and the feel of his heavy, thick cock pressed against your entrance—hot and throbbing.
You suddenly remembered how his toys would stretch helplessly around his thickness—literally on the verge of tearing. Your eyes widened. You weren’t sure if you could take him fully.
“B-Bucky…” your stomach started twisting with nerves. “You’re too big… I don’t think I can—”
“You can, baby,” he interrupted softly, steadying himself with a hand at your hip. He leaned close, his lips brushing your ear. “I’ll go slow. I’ll take care of you.”
He pushed forward before you could say anything. The thick tip pushed past your virgin walls. You cried out at the burn, your hands gripping the sheets.
“I know, I know,” he soothed, though his voice shook with restraint. “I’m sorry, doll. I’m so big, I know—but you’re doing so fucking good for me.”
The stretch hurt, but it also made a strange heat bloom low in your belly.
He kissed the back of your shoulder, keeping himself still while you trembled beneath him. “Breathe for me, princess. Let me in nice and slow… I promise—it’s gonna feel so good.”
Your fingers clawed at the sheets as you let out a high, broken moan.
“Shhh, that’s it, baby,” Bucky rasped, his voice thick with both lust and control. “My sweet little virgin… finally getting split open by a real cock.”
You shook your head against the mattress, gasping. “B-Bucky—it’s too big, I can’t—I can’t take it—”
He hushed you softly, his hand sliding from your hip to rub comforting circles against your trembling waist.
“Yes you can, doll. You’re made for this—you’ve been watching my videos every night. Studying me. Practicing with your pretty little fingers and wishing it was me, isn’t that right?” His cock inched deeper, slow but relentless, his breath hitching at the unbearable tightness of you.
“That’s my girl,” he encouraged, pressing kisses along your bare shoulder. “Doing so good for me. Ruinin’ this sweet little virgin pussy nice and slow…”
A sharp moan escaped you as he sank another inch inside, your body trembling around him.
“God… you’re squeezing me so fucking tight,” he groaned, teeth grazing your shoulder as he adjusted the camera with one hand, angling it to capture the stretch of his cock sliding in and out of you. The red light blinked, recording every second of your first time.
“Such a sweet little thing,” he moaned, condescending but tender. “Crying on my cock like you don’t love it—but listen to yourself, baby. You’re moaning like a slut already!”
Another desperate cry left your lips, and he groaned low in his throat. You adjusted your hips slightly, moving your back a bit to try and get comfortable. The slight movement made his hard cock pulse and throb inside you uncontrollably—the sensation unbearable.
“Oh, fuck—” he cursed, his breath catching. “Fuck. If you keep moving like that, doll… shit, I’m not gonna last.”
You shuffled your hips back, desperate for more, for him, even though the stretch burned.
“B-Bucky…” you gasped, your voice breaking into a moan. “You’re so big… too big… f-feels so good…”
That praise alone made him groan, his head dropping to your shoulder as his cock twitched inside your tight heat. His hand squeezed your waist, trying to stay in control, trying to savor it, but every little shuffle of your hips threatened to undo him completely.
“Fuck, doll,” he grunted. “You keep saying that—calling me big while you wiggle on my cock so cutely… I’m gonna lose it.”
You moaned again, arching your back to push into him, the words tumbling out between gasps. “Want you, Bucky… wanna take you all… please, you’re so big, fill me up, please…”
That was it.
A sharp growl ripped from his chest as he tossed the camcorder aside, the device landing forgotten on the sheets somewhere. Both his hands clamped down hard on your hips, holding you in place.
“Alright, sweetheart,” he gritted out, voice laced with hunger. “You asked for it.”
With one rough, needy thrust, he drove himself all the way inside, stuffing you full until his hips were flush against your ass. The sudden fullness made you cry out, your walls clamping down on him so tight it pulled another curse from his lips.
“Jesus Christ—this tight little virgin pussy’s gonna kill me,” he gasped, his fingers digging into your hips possessively. “You feel that, doll? That’s me—every fucking inch of me—buried inside you.”
Your cry broke into a helpless moan as he bottomed out, the stretch almost unbearable, but your body clung to him desperately. The way your cunt spasmed around his cock made Bucky curse low and vicious.
“Fuck—look at you,” he growled against your ear, pulling back only to slam in again, harder. “Taking me so deep, squeezing the life outta me. My sweet little virgin, getting ruined on my cock.”
“Bucky—ah—s’too much—” you whimpered, though your hips still rocked back to meet him.
His laugh was dark, breathless. “Too much, huh? Then why’s this greedy little pussy dripping all over me? You’re lovin’ it, doll. You’re lovin’ how I’m stretchin’ you out.”
Your moans grew louder, more desperate, every inch of you unraveling under his relentless pace. He held your hips so hard you knew he’d leave bruises, pounding into you like he wanted to brand himself inside your body.
“Good girl—fuck, you’re my good girl,” his hips moving rougher and sloppier. “Fuck. So much better than the videos, huh?”
“Oh my god,” you cursed, your face pushed up against the pillow. “I… can’t—gonna… gonna cum—” your walls fluttered and clenched down on him so tightly as you let your release take over you.
“Jesus—fuck, sweetheart—” he snarled, hips snapping erratically as he buried himself to the hilt. “Fuck, fuck! Shit… fuck.” His cock pulsed deep inside you, and with a final shuddering thrust he spilled into you, filling you full with hot, warm and thick seed.
The room was filled with the sound of your ragged moans and his guttural curses, both of you trembling through the aftershocks.
Bucky slumped forward, his weight pressing you into the mattress, his lips brushing the side of your damp and sweaty neck. “That’s it… that’s my girl. Took me so good.”
You were still trembling, your body sensitive and aching, when Bucky finally eased himself out of you with a slow, careful pull. You whined softly at the loss, burying your face into the sheets.
“Easy, doll,” he hushed, his voice husky but gentle. His big hands smoothed over your hips, down your thighs, rubbing away the tension he’d left behind. “You did so good for me. I’m so proud of you.”
You turned your head slightly, catching his smug little grin as he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your damp temple.
“Messy bed, messy girl,” he teased lowly, though his tone held nothing but warmth. He brushed your hair back from your flushed face and tucked it gently behind your ear. “Knew you were my number one fan for a reason.”
Despite your exhaustion, a shy laugh escaped you, your chest fluttering at his words.
“You’re… so full of yourself,” you mumbled weakly. “H-how did I do…?”
“You did so fucking good, sweetheart. Shit, I remember when I was a virgin too, baby,” he chuckled, pressing another kiss to the top of your head. “I was a whimpering, sensitive mess. But fuck, I had so much fun ruining you.”
Your face flushed hot, nuzzling your nose in his chest out of embarrassment.
He laughed softly, holding you tighter. “Get some rest, princess. We’ll go back for your groceries later.”
You couldn’t help but laugh again, small and breathless, before your eyes fluttered shut, comforted by his large hands on your waist and the warmth of his body wrapped around yours.
Days passed, and Bucky kept his promise. The video never showed up online.
He went back to posting his weekly content, but this time, there was something different. In one of his recent uploads, a faint audio clip played in the background as he stroked himself for the camera.
Your moans.
His grunts.
He never showed the footage on screen, but the audio was enough. Enough for you to recognize yourself, enough to leave you trembling in your chair, your fingers buried between your thighs. The thought of him getting off to your body, your sounds, over and over—it made you fall apart embarrassingly fast.
You slumped back in your chair now, thighs trembling, breath uneven as you dragged your hand away from your thighs. For a moment you just sat there, dazed, staring at the frozen video frame on your laptop.
Then a notification blinked in the corner of the screen.
You clicked it.
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Hey, doll.
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917 is typing…
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Can’t stop watching that little video we made. But I dropped the camera right before I got to stuff your pussy full of my cum.
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: How about we try filming another one?
