BAU’s Muffin

23-MDNI- Ace

[bau-muffin]

this will be separated by character. feel free to peruse 😘

“His Worst Enemy” - joel miller x reader

Put Your Trust in Me- a Javier Peña x reader series

Part 1 - Sexual Healing

Part 2 - ‘Til Tomorrow

Bonus

Aaron Hotchner x Reader

Live Mas

Pure Intentions

It’s All Wrong But It’s Alright

[fckmebarnes]

fell in love

beefy!tb*!Bucky barnes x f!reader

no word count. was edited but then tumblr didn’t save it so slight minor mistakes!

uh, yk the drill the watch is in the right hand instead and imagine the imagine flipped so it fits buck buck <333 enjoy!!! based off a dream i had so. also listened to megan the stallion’s fell in love for some of this teehee

“you cant wear stuff like that around me and expect me to behave.” you said in a half joking tone, half serious. more serious because the ache you felt reverberate through your cunt and spine was enough to know you were about to jump his bones if he wasn’t careful.

he raised an eyebrow looking at you, looking down at his shirt and then back to you with a curious look.

“my undershirt?” he laughed while he said this, noting this for the future but still surprised that something as simple as his undershirt would get you this riled up.

you nodded, biting your lip as you shrugged. you couldn’t help it, why did his bicep have to look that good in a simple undershirt that he usually always wore for work anyways? you couldn’t help but stare, not really caring if you figured it out or not. you just wanted those strong arms around your body while you rode him, took him anyway he let you.

he only laughed, clearly not taking you seriously. thats what annoyed you the most, flaring your inner brat for just a moment before you bit your lip, rolled your eyes and looked away.

he caught on.

“what’s wrong, sweetheart?” he strides across the room in a few easy steps, smirk on his lips as he comes up behind you in the living room, his boots discarded by the floor along with his suit jacket and tie. you could smell his cologne the second he came into your close space, the scent overriding tour brattiness for just a second before you felt his hands on your hips, pulling you close.

you huffed, crossing your arms and tried not to give in, but fuck — the way his strong arms were wrapped around your hips like his, pulling your waist flush into his, feeling him near your lower back, grazing the top of your ass.

you felt your cunt pulse. please, it seemed to beg you.

“c’mon, you cant be mad,” he murmurs, leaning down to brush his lips against the shell of your ear, before nipping it slightly and tugging it. “where would be the fun in that? let me make it up to you…” he suggests, and you shiver softly as he slowly grinds into you from behind, enticing you further and further in the softness and warmth of his broad frame taking out your space.

his cologne really contributed to the dizzy feeling he left you feeling almost all the time.

“dont you want to feel me here, sweetheart?” his hands find the bottom of your abdomen, pressing firmly as you let out a little sigh, giving him an answer without even realizing it.

there you were, hips on either side of his as your hands steadied yourself with the expanse of his broad shoulders. your fingers grazed over the soft scarring where metal met flesh. he groans softly, the skin always sensitive, no matter how much time has truly passed. he adored the way you were with his arm and his shoulder — you never lingered on it long enough to make him self conscious but he even knew that was far fetched. he never felt that way around you.

he felt his most confident self, with our without the arm.

you had felt the same way, thankfully but much to bucky’s surprise. he couldn’t imagine someone like you loving someone like him. but you did, you proved it to him every single day. there was hardly any room for him to doubt you.

especially when you were laid atop him like this, reaching between your legs a grabbing his hard cock. he kept his hands loosely on your hips, still sometimes nervous to touch you with his metal hand. but you encouraged him, as soon as you slipped the tip of his cock inside of you, you took both your hands and pressed them more firmer over his on your hips — signaling him that it was okay.

and he understood instantly. the moan that left your lips as you lowered yourself slowly on his cock, the shudder that ran through your body that he could feel because it happened to him as soon as it happened to you. you felt amazing, better than he could ever have imagined. no matter how many times he was blessed to make love to you, to pour himself into you, it always felt like the first.

“you feel so good, baby, fuck…” he couldn’t keep his eyes off yours as you lowered yourself more and more onto him, hoping that you could feel the love pour through his gaze, and you could. he didnt look at anyone else like he was you right now, he doesn’t think he had ever looked at anyone like this before.

you lean forward, pressing your forehead against his as you take all of him, moans slipping from the both of your lips, swallowed by each other. your lips find home against each other as his hands move your hips making his cock nudge deeper inside of you.

you couldn’t find any words right now but that was okay, bucky never minded doing most of the talking. he loved just seeing you enjoy yourself and fuck — the noises he was able to drag out of you in many, many ways was enough for him.

he’d do anything for you.

you rock into each other for a while, his hands roaming up your hips and against your sides before traveling back down your thighs wrapped around his, then to your ass, squeezing possessively. you let out a moan, hiding your face into his neck as he starts to move you on top of him. his cock slides easily in and out of your cunt, slick dripping down his shaft and making a mess under his lap and to his balls. he loved when he could get you this wet, opening up for him easily.

“that feel good, baby?” you nod your head in the crook of his neck, your lips parting against his skin as you nip on it, moaning softly. he could tell your body was slipping deeper for him, letting him take control — take care of you.

he continued his pace, feeling your cunt squeeze and writhe around his throbbing cock, the only sound in the room was the pants and moans exchanged in each others ears, the slight slaps of his hands on your ass cheeks. you gave some effort in moving your hips to the rhythm of his own with he guidance of his hands and fuck. it made you both feel closer to each other.

“buck…” you whined against his neck, nuzzling your nose deeper into his skin as if you could crawl in there and live in the space.

he kept going, and you could feel his cock throb deep inside you, before you sat up, stretching your back slightly enough so your chest stuck out, driving his cock deeper into your abdomen, he couldn’t help but press his hands against the small bump, both of you groaning.

“gonna cum this fuckin’ deep in you.” he groaned like it was a promise, and with the hungry look in his gaze as he watched you lean back enough to give him enough leverage to fuck up inside you, it only encouraged him.

“jus’ like that, sweetheart. stay right there, takin’ my cock so fuckin’ good.” he groans as he feels his balls tighten, leaning his head back with a moan as he screws his eyes shut and you squeeze his cock tighter, not letting him go because you knew exactly what you both wanted

“please,” you pleaded him, his body shivering with pleasure as you begged. it was simply a trigger for him as the second time you groaned another please, he let go with a moan, his fingers digging into your hips to keep you in place.

you moan with him, watching him as he grunts, starting a slower pace to keep him from being overstimulated. he didnt want to stop now. he leans his head forward to meet your eye before hes pulling out and he can feel his mess on his stomach just as soon as his tip pops out.

he quickly replaces it with his right hand fingers, a moan slipping from your mouth as you situated yourself more comfortably on his lap and he watches you take what you need, what you’ve needed the second he walked through the door.

you could feel yourself slipping away to the touch of him, curse words slipping out between moans as you felt your body teeter closer to the edge.

exactly what he wanted.

“there you go, sweetheart. oh fuck…dripping down my fuckin’ wrist…” he gruffs out, his thick fingers sinking in and out of you cunt that was dripping his cum. he loved fucking his mess back into you, watching as you drip down his arm and over his lap.

his eyes hungrily lap up the scene, eyes traveling up your body and watching your chest move with each move of your hips, lightly bouncing on his fingers. he did the rest of the work.

you grabbed his wrist, usually an indicator that you were close. he groaned softly, eyes finally making their way to your face, your eyes already closed and brows scrunched. he licked his lips, siting up more to kiss the column of your throat lightly, nipping at the thin skin with his teeth.

“fuck, bucky… im so close i —“ you let out a choked moan as his fingers curled inside of you, his thumb pressing against your swollen clit and moving in precise and steady circles, not breaking rhythm. he kept his metal arm wrapped around your back to cradle you, making sure you didnt have to do any lifting of your own body. he just wanted to feel you like this

“yeah, baby? you gonna make a mess on my fingers? add to mine?” he asks gruffly against your skin, muffled. he tastes your sweat on his lips as he licks them with each thrust of his fingers, his cock throbbing back to his half hard self as he felt you tighten around his digits, your fingernails digging bluntly into his skin keeping him there. he loved knowing what you loved, reading your body and how you reacted to his touch

he wanted to study your body forever. keep it locked in his memory, only him.

“yes, please i… fuck…” words were lost from you as you felt your hips stutter, your mind going blank as you felt your orgasm ripple through your body, squirting all over his hand and down his wrist, soaking the glass front of his watch. his eyes watched the mess unfold, his cock rightfully hard and pressing against your inner thigh, pre cum smearing on your skin.

“atta girl, just what i wanted… what you needed,” he groans, watching you ride your high as he slows his fingers, removing them and holding them up to the dim lighting, seeing the shine on his fingers, wrists, the small droplets of your squirt on his watch. he looks up at you, his metal fingers splayed out across the expanse of your back, holding you close as you semi lowered yourself back into his lap, his hard cock in between the two of you and snug up against the mound of your bush.

“I am not done with you yet, promise you that.” he nuzzles his nose into your neck, letting you catch your breath as he lazily kisses your skin, and you find yourself melting more into his gentle touch,

[fckmebarnes]

sugar on my tongue — j.b.b

bucky barnes x reader

bucky eats you out and finger’s you. that’s the plot. part two maybe??

EIGHTEEN PLUS!!!!! — some warnings - cunninglings. fingering. praising. pussy pronouns. breeding kink if you squint. size kink.

note: not beta read!!!! and no real word count lightly edited all mistakes are on me!

you don’t know how you got here, how long it’s been. how many orgasms he’s already pulled out of you.

all you knew was that it was one drunken night out at a few bars, just letting loose after a promotion at work that bucky had gotten. you were so happy for him and finally had a day where our body wasn’t deteriorating and where you weren’t swamped with work.

coming home with lips pressed messily together, hands roaming underneath clothing and daring to tear them off right as you both passed the threshold.

keys and bags were tossed carelessly, whines emitting form the both of you until bucky got fed up you weren’t somehow in his skin. he picked you up effortlessly, big hands supporting your underside as he carried you up and through the apartment to your shared bedroom.

before you could even think, your bottoms had been discarded and the soft feathery light kisses of bucky were on the insides of your thighs. he just couldn’t wait

lips parted, you looked down at him as he continued to kiss your inner thighs so softly, his eyes looking up at you through his lashes. his pupils blown out with lust and need. you couldn’t deny him. you needed him just as much.

your hands are fisted in his hair and your pulling him closer to your cunt, his nose nudging against your clit with each lick of his tongue as he tastes you. he couldn't help but press his own hips into the bed, his aching cock rubbing against the cool sheets, pre cum leaking into the fabric. he was making a mess and it was all because of the mess you were making on his own face

"right there, fuck...!" your nails dig slightly into his scalp and you feel a groan reverberate from him through your cunt, his face pressing harder in between your legs - egging him on.

you knew that he could hold his breath for a while, you knew that if he could die right now in between your legs he would, but you wanted to see how wrecked he looked before you came on his tongue, before you gave him anything

you tug his head up and off your cunt and he moans at the loss, his lips licking around his swollen pink lips, your slick coating his entire bottom half of his face, across the bridge of his nose and on the top of his cheeks

"baby.." his voice was broken with a moan, his eyes lidded as he looks up at you with a wrecked gaze. "please.." he didn't even know what he was begging for at this point - he just knew he got you here just like the two of you needed. like he needs to eat you up.

"bucky.." you mirror his own whine with your own, your own eyes glazed over. he cant keep his eyes on you as he looks back down to your soaked cunt, just waiting. he shifts back down to where he was, his eyes slowly dragging up the length of your cunt to your stomach, to meet your eyes - tounge poking out of his lips to lick once more.

"like sugar on my tongue, sweetheart..." he mutters softly before diving back down, licking at your swollen clit. he hikes your leg comfortably over his shoulder, letting you get more comfortable before taking his middle and ring right fingers and teasing your entrance. his lips lock around your clit as he sucks and sinks his two fingers into you slowly.

"oh, fuck... bucky..." you sink back into the bed, the pillows comfortable as they surround you, your gaze looking back down in between your legs to see bucky's eyes closed, nose deep in your mound. soft breaths coming from him as you felt his tongue swirl gently around your clit, his two fingers easing slowly into you and stretching you open

you knew you were leaking down his hand, making your own mess of the sheets along with him. its what he loved most about you in the bedroom - how messy you got just for him.

his fingers curled into you as he settled them all the way in to the knuckle, a moan leaving your throat as he starts to move them inside you, keeping them curled.

"that's it, baby. there you go..." he shushes you, coaxing you to keep making those pretty sounds as he works you open slowly, drowning himself in the taste of you, the sound of your wetness on his fingers, how warm you were against his own skin and just how fucking badly he needed to be inside you, make love to you.

"you sound so pretty, you know that? both of you, she sounds so good wrapped around my fingers...taking everything I give her..." he pulls away from your clit to look up and admire the way your laid out on the bed, no longer looking down at him but resting with your eyes closed, hands resting on his bicep that holds you down at the waist making sure you stay put. you looked so beautiful like this.

he pulls his fingers out to the tips, watching the way they pull out glistened inn your slick, before pushing them back in and looking back to your face, eyes traveling down your chest clothed in his shirt.

your stomach showing just enough from his raised shirt, your hip divets, those stretch marks he could kiss over and over again. he loved everything about you.

"feel so warm baby, so tight around my fingers..." he muses, looking back down to watch his fingers sink in and out of your perfect cunt, how every single time you squeezed him harder, not wanting him to leave. and he didn't. he never wanted to leave your warmth.

"more, please.." you mutter, eyes fluttering open as you look down at him and watch him watching his fingers. he grins as he takes his pointer finger and lines it up with your entrance as he pulls them out, before looking up at you and sinking the third in.

you moan softly, hips raising to get more of his fingers, faster if you could. he chuckles, pressing your hips gently back down, easing you open with three fingers. "shhh...slowly baby. wanna open her up for my cock, okay? wanna make sure you feel good too..." his thumb rests lazily over your swollen clit and your hips jolt slightly at the sensation, not expecting it but not shying away from the feeling

he smiles, shaking his head as he continues a steady and slow pace of his fingers working into you, making sure to keep you open for him with every stroke of his fingers. he watches you writhe under him, his cock aching against the sheets at how good you feel just because of him.

“doing so good for me baby,” he praises, hearing your cunt suck him in further. he groans as his cock throbs heavily, the tip soaked with his pre cum as he ruts his hips shamelessly.

“you gonna cum for me, hm? make a mess all over my fingers stretching you open?” he wants it so bad, he needs to see you make a mess all over his fingers and wrist. he needs to seek you be soaking for him.

you nod as your back arches gently off the mattress, enough to squirm in his arms. he grips a bit harder, the underside of his metal arm warm from having sat so long on your soft skin.

he liked to think he could feel that too.

“use your words, baby.” he encourages, picking up the speed of his fingers inside you, his thumb pressing more firm on your clit, working you up to the edge

“please, please bucky…wanna cum…wanna make a mess…” you whimper a quite plea, your stomach tightening as you grip him further, wanting him to tip you over

he smiles, looking up at you with a pleasant gaze as his thumb presses hard, quick and tight circles as he works your cunt and fucks you.

you feel him so deep inside you, curling his fingers as he makes sure you feel every single inch of him. he praises you as you clench his fingers, warning him you were close

“c’mon baby, give it to me. wanna feel you.” he groans alarms, feeling his cock throb at the anticipation of having you almost there. he takes his thumb away for a split second to replace with his tongue, lips wrapping round your swollen clit as he laps at you.

it sends you over, one hand gripping the sheets as the other holds on his vibranium arm, grounding you. feeling the metal plays whir under your touch as you cum with his name on your tongue

he’s praising you against your cunt, slowing his fingers as he fucks you and eats your through your orgasm, making sure to get every last drop.

he was addicted to you, loved the taste of how you were on his tongue, not wanting to go with anything else.

[smorgaswhored]

null & void masterlist

pairing: sugar daddy!Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut (p-in-v & unprotected, oral - f!receiving, fingering, creampie, lots of dirty talk, edging, p-pronouns, light p-inspection, mentions of somno and free use), dom!Bucky, power imbalance, sugar daddy / sugar baby dynamic, age gap (reader in mid-to-late twenties while Bucky’s in his early forties), mentioned illness/death of parents (minor characters), money troubles, i.e., debt, bills, etc., alcohol consumption, one instance of smoking, no mentions of y/n

word count: 31.8k

summary: The arrangement is simple enough: you give him friendship, he gives you a better life. But between the private dinners cozied up in a booth and the charity galas pressed to his side, it’s getting harder for you to hold up your end of the bargain when you’re starting to feel things for your sugar daddy that were not included in the contract…

PARTS:

part one

part two

part three

DRABBLES:

coming soon…

thanks for reading!🤍 check out more in my masterlist

[goldiwrites]

man on your mind, pt 2 - b. barnes

pairing: new avengers!bucky barnes x inexperienced fem!reader

word count: 10.2k (i'm sorry)

summary: You settle in at your new job as the New Avengers admin assistant. Everything is great, apart from the burning attraction you feel for your new boss. It's always lingering under the surface as you grow closer to the team, clouding your thoughts and driving you slightly insane. What's a girl to do?

warnings: (18+) MDNI, smut, explicit details of female masturbation, metal arm kink (i had to), vibrator mention, tension?, swearing, smutty thoughts (they need a warning ok), slow burn (we're in the trenches), drinking (tipsy, not intoxicated), teasing, y/n used a couple times, slight mention of insecurity (about sex/life experience), mentions of reader having curly hair and blushing, john is a dick, grammatical errors no doubt, partly proofread, let me know if i missed anything!

authors note: hi again! first time writing smut, excuse whatever mess i just wrote. i think i went feral? anyways, this got way ahead of me but it's fine. i am so shocked with how much love the first part got, especially with this being my first fic! thanks so much <3 i hope you enjoy part 2! y'all are not ready for the next part, she's gonna be another long one...please like, reblog, and comment x

part one

Monday morning came way too fast in your opinion. That’s usually how the story goes; you spend all week waiting for Friday, only to spend Saturday running errands you didn’t have time for during the work week, and then by the time Sunday hits you have the Sunday scaries and spend the whole day dreading work on Monday and repeating the cycle all over again. Even while you were unemployed the story was still the same - except at least you could sleep in and laze around the apartment in your pyjamas for a bit.

Now, you have a new job - a job that you feel seriously under qualified for. Sure, the interview—if you could call it that—went fine, but you had spent the whole weekend overthinking how you fit in with a team of super soldiers, ex-assassins, enhanced superheroes. Up until last week you had lived a fairly average sheltered life. Too sheltered, if you were being honest. You’d never had a boyfriend, only kissed a couple of guys at high school parties, and often felt like an outsider watching everyone’s lives move on around you while you felt stuck. 

College had felt like a waste of time - you struggled to make new friends and didn’t really care for what you were studying, you just felt like you had to go to college because that’s what everyone else was doing. Your high school friends stopped making time for you, preferring to spend time with whoever they were seeing that month, and you were sick of being the one always making the effort. You didn’t even end up graduating—no, the blip took that from you. One day you were walking to class with a coffee in your hand when you blinked and everything around you had changed. The whole world struggled once everyone came back so at least that made you feel a little less alone. You weren’t close with your family before the blip and they didn’t really care much after you were back—you felt like an afterthought in every aspect of your life.  

It was only a few months after you blipped back that you managed to find a job as a waitress at a diner. It was nothing glamorous, half of the customers were pigs who only communicated in grunts or filthy unwanted flirting, but it was where you met your best friend. It felt a bit like fate, like the months working at the sleazy diner were all worth it because you met your platonic soulmate there. You both had similar family situations so you became each others family—offering each other the unconditional love and support neither of you received growing up. 

While she teased you a bit, she never made you feel any less of a woman for your lack of experience. It was something you were insecure of occasionally—you felt like you were behind in life because you didn’t experience what everyone else did in their teen years. And it wasn’t due to a lack of wanting, god no. If anything you wanted it too much, but you could never get out of your head enough to put yourself out there. Now you were worried too much time had passed. Some days you felt like a fraud calling yourself an adult, like people only became an adult once they had sex—which is completely ridiculous to think that, but you can’t control what you think majority of the time. 

So yeah, getting ready for your first day working at the Watchtower had you feeling like a fraud. You didn’t feel like an adult at the best of times, and now you were working with people who would no doubt make you feel inferior—maybe not intentionally, but you would make yourself interpret it like that anyway. You didn’t want to change anything about yourself, it had taken a few years of therapy for you to feel comfortable in your own skin, but you felt that lingering sense of self doubt some days. You put on a little more makeup than you would on a normal day, ironed your black slacks and favourite coloured blouse, and spent an hour longer than you normally would on your curly hair routine. Anything to help you feel a bit more confident when in a room with superheroes.

“Aw, pretty girl! Dolling yourself up for your new boss, are ya?” Your best friend teased from her place leaning against your doorframe, watching as you looked in your full length mirror, your hands smoothing out nonexistent wrinkles on your blouse.

You glared at her through the mirror, cheeks pinking slightly. “Don’t,” you warned her. She had already spent the last few days teasing you about your attractive new boss and you really didn’t need her making you flustered about it before 8am.

“What? I’m just saying you look pretty! It’ll just be an added bonus if your boss notices it too,” she drawled out the last part in a singsong voice, turning to walk to the kitchen where she had two cups of coffee ready for you both.

You grabbed your bag off your bed, following her out to join her in the kitchen. You had already triple checked you had everything you needed for your first day in your bag, but you couldn’t help going though it again, needing something to do with your nervous hands. 

She noticed your shaking hands as you sifted through your bag, reaching out to hold your wrists gently. “I’m sure anyone else would be just as nervous working for the New Avengers, Y/N. Hell, I don’t think I could do it! I would’ve run for the hills when the car stopped outside the tower.” She let out a gentle laugh, her eyes showing just how much she believed her own words. “But you stayed. You went into the tower knowing you were about to meet some very intimidating people. And then when there was no one there to interview you, you still didn’t leave. You took one look at the state of the place and did what you do best—clean up everyone else’s mess. You are so much more than you give yourself credit for, and I think that’s why they offered you the job.” She finished her speech by squeezing your hands before grabbing her coffee cup. 

You were left a bit stunned by your best friend, tears forming at your waterline at her assuring words. Before things got too emotional, you tried lightning the mood a little. “You sure it wasn’t because I bribed them with steak and brownies?” 

“Oh that definitely played some part, I mean when was the last time you think someone made them dinner and dessert?” 

You started chuckling before glancing at the clock on the oven. “Fuck! I need to leave now before I miss the bus,” you quickly ran to the front door and grabbed your jacket off the coat rack. “Don’t forget about our movie date tonight. Love you, bye!” You yelled over your shoulder as you made your way to your apartment building’s staircase. 

You spent the hour long bus ride with your head leaned against the window, your 70s playlist softly drifting through your headphones. You watched as the city was waking up outside your window; friends with coffee cups in their hands walking down the street, a family chasing down their dog as it ran off after a cat, a couple exchanging soft goodbyes on the steps leading up to a brownstone.

You made it to the Watchtower with ten minutes to spare. Ten minutes to steel your nerves and rid any inappropriate thoughts that had been lingering since you first met Bucky—easier said than done. 

————————

Once you left after your ‘interview’ Bucky cornered Ava before she could escape to her room, gently commanding her to show him her injury. It wasn’t too bad, but he still grabbed a first aid kit to clean and stitch her up—he couldn’t have his fellow teammate in pain or risk her getting an infection. He was grateful that you had made a comment about it on your way out or else he never would’ve noticed, he was ashamed to say he was distracted by everything else that happened that day. 

He spent the days after cleaning and tidying the Watchtower before you officially started. He would say he didn’t know why he did it—it was the reason he hired you, after all—but truthfully he was embarrassed by the state of the place, embarrassed about what you would think of him them. He was ashamed of himself for letting the place get in such bad shape. His cleaning spree raised a few eyebrows from his teammates, John being the only one brave enough to make a comment—“expecting company Barnes?”—which earnt him a dirty tactical boot thrown at his head. He still caught sight of the red crawling up Bucky’s neck before the brooding soldier left the room in a huff.

The New Avengers noticed the slight shift in Bucky since he met you. They had no definite evidence but they all knew. They saw him take more than his fair share of the brownies you baked into his room. They heard him listening to the soft jazz song you had been playing when they returned from their mission. Little things that might’ve seemed innocent to the untrained eye, but they were all former mercenaries who knew to notice these small changes. Barnes was deviating from his normal pattern and the timing was no coincidence. 

Despite Bucky’s housekeeping efforts the tower was still in need of your assistance come Monday morning. The fridge was empty again, someone was still leaving empty toilet rolls in the bathroom, and everyone’s stomachs were cramping from switching back to ramen after the feast you had prepared for them. Bob was nursing a nasty bruise on his head from tripping over Alexei’s discarded boots, Ava developed an eye twitch from Walker’s constant whining over the lack of snacks, and Yelena had pulled all the cords out of the TV in frustration when her favourite streaming apps refused to load. Everyone was counting down the minutes until you returned to clean up their mess.

Bucky was eagerly awaiting your arrival in the downstairs foyer when he saw a flash of your hair through the window. Your back was to him, unaware that you had grabbed his attention. Your head was bobbing slightly to the music playing through your headphones, your hips swaying unconsciously. Without meaning to, his eyes zeroed in on your moving hips. You were wearing a totally innocent outfit, your trousers barely clung to your figure but his eyes seemed to find the exact spots they did cling and he was mesmerised. 

He managed to get back control of his wandering eyes just before you took your headphones off and turned around, ready to start your first day as the New Avengers admin assistant. You looked up and made eye contact with him through the window, your lips parting slightly in shock seeing your boss waiting for you downstairs.

A sharp zing traveled through your body at Bucky’s attention on you. He was supposed to be upstairs, you still had a few minutes before 9am and you weren’t quite ready to face the stoic soldier just yet. He somehow looked even better than he did last time, maybe because he wasn’t weighed down by post-mission exhaustion. His eyes seemed brighter, his lips pinker and even more enticing, his hair begging you to run your fingers through the soft strands.

Snap out of it. The logical voice in your head cut through your clouded thoughts. Shit. How long had you been staring at your boss unmoving?

Trying to recover from your momentary brain lag, you gave Bucky a small shy smile as you made your way through the building’s front doors. 

“Hi, sorry if I kept you waiting. I was just enjoying the fresh air.” Real smooth recovery.

Bucky didn’t seem to mind, dismissing your apology with a small shake of his head. “You’re fine, it’s not nine yet. I wanted to make sure you found your way inside okay.” He rubbed the back of his neck slightly before gesturing towards the security desk halfway between the front doors and the elevator. “Come this way, we’ll get your security clearance sorted before we head upstairs.”

Following his lead, you exchanged pleasantries with the guards before going through a small security briefing. One of the guards then gave you a swipe card with your credentials on it before Bucky steered you towards the elevator. 

You quickly discovered that Bucky Barnes was not much of a talker, and you had to physically bite your tongue to stop the nervous word vomit you usually tried to fill awkward silences with. It didn’t surprise you at all that he didn’t talk unless necessary, but the silence just made the heartbeat in your throat grow louder until it rattled your jaw. There’s no way his enhanced hearing didn’t hear the frantic pounding overtaking your whole body. 

After what felt like an hour—it was just over a minute—the elevator stopped on the floor you recognised from your first visit. You followed Bucky as he lead you to a room adjacent to the kitchen where his teammates were lounging on couches, the TV in front of them displaying static.

Your brows furrowed slightly at the static as Yelena perked up from her spot at your arrival.

“Good, you’re here! First job for the day: fix the TV.” 

Bucky raised a hand to silence her. “Do you not know how to say ‘hello’? Let her settle in before you start listing your demands.” 

Yelena rolled her eyes at him but ultimately settled back into the couch cushions, muttering something you think was in Russian. 

Ignoring her sulking, Bucky introduced you properly to the team given that last time they didn’t even say hello before they started stuffing their faces. 

A frown took over your face as you clocked the nasty bruise on Bobs forehead. You raised your hand towards your own forehead, lightly touching the area where his bruise bloomed. “You okay?” You asked him gently, your concern evident.

Bob’s face showed his surprise at your concern for him, his cheeks flushing slightly at your attention. “Yeah—yeah, I’m good, just a bump. Result of someone leaving their boots lying around,” he muttered quietly, eyes darting towards Alexei on the sofa opposite him.

The older man sighed, clearly irritated for being called out. “Alright, I get it! Sorry, I’ll try be better next time,” he barely looked up from the phone in his hands, his apology coming out halfheartedly. He didn’t really care, you were here to clean up after him now.

Bucky sighed from his spot next to you, knowing that his teammates bickering was about to start and he didn’t want you to have to deal with that before you got settled in.

“Ok, that’s enough. I’m going to give her a tour, behave yourselves while we’re gone.” His comment was met with annoyed grumbles and a mocking salute from John who was watching Bucky with a twinkle in his eye. 

“Whatever you say Barnes, you’re the boss.” Ava punched John’s arm, shaking her head at his teasing.

Bucky led you away from the common room with a gentle hand on your elbow, your nerves lighting up at his touch despite the layer of fabric between you two. 

You followed him in a slight daze as he showed you the gym down the hall. He pointed out the equipment that frequently needed replacing, his cheeks slightly reddening as he was the main reason they went through so many punching bags. You started to make a mental list, not wanting to forget anything and let the team down.

He showed you the other floors in the building, briefly showing you the living quarters but letting you know you shouldn’t need to do anything on that level—everyone was very protective of their personal space, understandably so. You wouldn’t want the admin girl going through your room either.

You audibly gasped when he showed you the level saved for the rare occasion they threw parties. You briefly noted the bar to the left of the floor to ceiling windows, but it was the view outside the windows that stole your breath. You could see all of New York City from them and you genuinely giggled in awe, walking towards them as Bucky trailed a few steps behind you. 

“It’s pretty surreal, right? I find looking at the city from up this high puts things into perspective for me,” Bucky murmured as he stood next to you at the windows.

He was studying your face as subtly as he could from his spot next to you, his brain short-circuiting when your bright eyes met his. He felt his heart rate pick up at the sight of your starstruck smile—he can’t remember the last time he saw something so beautiful. 

He cleared his throat, slightly shaking his head to snap himself out of his daze. He looked over towards the bar, trying to come up with something to say to distract himself.

“Um—you might need to check the bar stock once a week, Ava and Yelena often help themselves to the top shelf after missions.”

He continued his tour, showing you the medical bay and labs letting you know they were generally unmanned unless he put in a request with Val. “You don’t need to worry about maintaining these rooms, Val’s team takes care of it themselves in the off-chance they’re needed here.”

He left the laundry room to last, a bit worried about the damage the team has done since he last went in there. He rubbed the back of his neck as you both stood in the doorway, looking at the mess of clean and dirty laundry—it looked like a tornado had been through the room.

“Look, I’m going to be blunt—we are a bunch of slobs when it comes to the laundry and the kitchen. You will need to remind us daily to clean up after ourselves, I don’t want you to have to pick up our dirty laundry yourself.” He chuckled nervously, worried about your reaction to the disaster you were currently analysing.

You giggled slightly at his clear nervousness, the sound making every nerve in his body stand to attention. He liked your laugh, it made him feel like there was some good in this awful world. 

“Bucky, don’t worry. I lived in communal housing all through college, and even now I share the laundry room with the rest of my building. I’m used to dumping strangers washing in a basket to free up a washer for myself.”

“Ok well, please don’t bother with our tactical gear—I’m sure Alexei’s should come with a biohazard warning.” His attempt at a joke rewarded him with what was quickly becoming his favourite sound. God, it was like your giggles wrapped around him in a warm hug. 

All throughout the tour you had tried to control your thoughts the best you could, trying to make mental notes and lists while he mentioned important things about the tower. Still, you couldn’t help when your eyes and thoughts drifted to him.

He stayed a couple paces ahead of you, giving you a front row seat to the show that was his back in a formfitting black t-shirt. Your eyes focused on the way the shirt tugged tight across his shoulders, the lines of his muscles showing through the fabric. You watched as the muscles shifted with every step, subconsciously biting your lip at the sight. God, that can’t all be from the serum, you thought, he must spend hours in the gym every day. You wondered just how far his endurance stretched—how far did he push past the burning in his muscles, did he keep going even after his shirt was drenched in sweat? Your thoughts wandered dangerously—an image of him leaning over you with sweat dripping down his face, his intense blue eyes staring into your soul flashed through your mind. How long could he go for?

You felt your body heat skyrocket at the thought, subtly pulling your blouse away from your skin to try cool down a little. You’d only been in this man’s presence for a few hours and you were already feeling like a horny teenage boy. You took a few deep breaths in, hoping his enhanced senses didn’t pick up on the mess that was you a few steps behind him. 

Your eyes were drawn towards his back again, like a compass always points to magnetic north. The lights above you reflected off his bare left arm, a sight you weren’t blessed with when you first visited the tower due to his long-sleeved tactical gear. The gold detailing stood out against the dark vibranium, the arm whirring slightly as he reached forward to press the button for the elevator. You couldn’t take your eyes off the arm, the sleek metal had you mesmerised. You briefly wondered how the mechanics of it worked—could he feel with it like his flesh arm, could he feel the difference between hot and cold, could he feel the softness of skin under the metal fingers? You wanted—no, needed—to know. Would he be able to feel the flutter of your heartbeat underneath his fingers if he wrapped his hand around your ne—

The clearing of his throat snapped you out of your sinful thoughts, his head tilted slightly as he analysed your quiet form in front of him. He gestured his head towards the elevators open doors, “you alright?”

Your mind scrambled to get ahold of itself, struggling to reboot after your not safe for work train of thought. You plastered on a tired smile, hoping your face didn’t show the need coursing through your body. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just a lot to process, I guess,” you said to him, thanking the heavens above that your voice didn’t betray how unsteady you were feeling. 

What the fuck was wrong with you.

The elevator took you back to the level you were starting to know well, the rest of the team pottering between the kitchen and common room. Yelena jumped off the couch at the sight of you, “finally! Now can you fix the TV, pretty please?”

Bucky closed his eyes in irritation, his hands resting on his hips like a mother sick of her children’s shit. Before he had time to reprimand her again, you stepped towards the TV with a small chuckle. “Well, since you asked so nicely this time…” 

Bucky’s eyes followed you as you squatted down next to the TV cabinet, pulling out the mess of cords Yelena made. How had you only been here a matter of hours and already made the place feel like your own? He quickly diverted his eyes to the laptop on the coffee table when your pants stretched across your ass like a second skin. God, he hoped no one caught the way his body stiffened at the sight.

He didn’t understand this witchy spell you seemed to have him under. He had seen plenty of butts before—in much tighter pants than you were wearing. They never elicited this full body response from him, though. He had to get a grip of himself, he was technically your boss and these reactions to you were far past the line of appropriate workplace behaviour. 

Yelena was shaking with excitement as she watched you fix the TV. “It’s been four days since I last watched The Office, I was just getting to the good part!”

Your head shot up with a pleased smile on your lips, “you’re watching The Office? I love that show! What are you up to?”

Yelena had to restrain herself from squealing in delight at your common interest. “We should watch it together some time! I just started watching the casino episode before the TV fucked out on me.”

“Oooh, that’s a good one! I wish I could watch it again for the first time,” you said to the former Black Widow with a small smirk on your face. You grabbed the TV remote off the table as you troubleshooted what the problem was—you tried to hold in your laugh as you figured out she had been trying to connect to the wrong wifi. 

The rest of your first day continued with minor hiccups. Bucky gave you the laptop on the coffee table with the order to set it up however you wanted, and you quickly started making spreadsheets for all the mental lists you made throughout the tour. John’s sighs about the lack of snacks could be heard from the kitchen, so you made sure your second job after fixing the TV was doing a big grocery order.

While the job listing didn’t mention anything about being an in-house chef, you quickly figured out that the strong, fearless New Avengers knew less about cooking than you did. Yelena set off the fire alarm in the kitchen when her pot of mac and cheese caught on fire—how the hell she managed that, you had no idea. You gently, yet sternly, steered her away from the kitchen with an order to hit the gym before she set anything else on fire.

Bob sat at the kitchen island while you prepared lunch for the team. He didn’t say much, just quietly enjoyed your company while the rest of the team did whatever superheroes do when not out fighting bad guys. He found your presence calming—your soft smiles and gentle humming as you cooked quietened the chaos in his head a little. 

You caught Bucky hovering near the kitchen every ten minutes, appearing out of thin air to help you put away the groceries when they arrived, dipping a finger in the spaghetti bolognese for ‘quality control’, and checking in with you to make sure everything was running smoothly. It was sweet, but also unnerving. As soon as you managed to stop thinking about him and his arms, there he was, staring at you with an unreadable expression on his face. 

You didn’t know how you were going to hide your blatant attraction towards the man in a building full of highly trained spies. Going by the smiles you caught exchanged between Ava and Yelena, you weren’t doing that great of a job hiding anything. Maybe you could brush it off as first day nerves, how else would they expect a normal civilian woman to react to a gorgeous super soldier? Honestly, you deserved an award for not drooling every time you saw him.

By the time 4pm rolled around you had been staring unblinking at your laptop screen for at least ten minutes. Bucky was in the gym down the hall training, and had been for the last half hour. You couldn’t hear anything, but you could feel how hard he was working out. The weights thudded against the gym floor as he continued his deadlift sets, the force of his reps shaking the whole goddamn floor. The couch you were sat on vibrated each time he dropped the weights, causing you to bite your hand before a whimper slipped out at the fucking strength he must possess. You needed to leave before he finished—you were genuinely terrified of your reaction to seeing him with sweat slicked skin and muscles bulging after his intense workout.

Like an angel answering your prayers, Alexei stomped into the room and flopped down next to you before burping out his hello. “Get out of here, solnyshko. You’ve done enough babysitting today.” He reached over and started to ruffle your curls, causing you to yell out “hey!” before you realised he wasn’t going to stop until you stood up.

“Okay, okay, I’m going! Geez, didn’t someone tell you to not mess with a girls’ curls?” You chuckled as you closed your laptop and gathered your things. “Can you let the others know I said goodbye?” You asked earnestly, not wanting the team to think you ran out the door as soon as you could. 

Stepping out of the gym after his rigorous workout, Bucky could sense immediately that you were gone. The faint smell of your perfume lingered, traveling from the common room through his lungs and burrowing in his chest. He felt the coldness from the towers walls seep through his skin and leave a deep ache in his bones, his body struggling with the loss of your warmth. Jesus Christ, it’s been one fucking day. 

His muscles protested every step he made down the hall, the serum in his blood taking it’s time to heal his body after the workout. He hadn’t meant to go so hard, but he used each rep as a punishment for his wandering thoughts—a punishment for every cell in his body yearning to be near you. Bucky prided himself on being a man of discipline, a man with indestructible self-control. After everything he had been through he clung to his self-control and freedom like a lifeline, and now he had no control over his body’s reaction to you. He didn’t know what the fuck to do. 

————————

You finally felt your shoulders relaxing as you opened your apartment door, the smell of your best friends famous lasagne making you sigh in content. The lasagne she made when either of you needed comforting. That had you dropping your bag on the floor, rushing into the kitchen to make sure she was okay—because why else would she be making it?

You stopped in the doorway to the kitchen, seeing her humming along to the Fleetwood Mac song playing through the speakers, a small smile on her face. The complete opposite to what you expected. 

“What’s going on? What’s with the lasagne?” You asked hesitantly, still not understanding what was happening. Was she in the midst of a breakdown?

Her smile grew at the sight of you, touched by the concern in your voice. “Oh, I’m fine! The lasagne is for you, I figured you might need it after being in the same building as Bucky Barnes for eight hours straight.” She replied chirpily, throwing in a wink at the sight of your pink cheeks. 

The relief that flooded your body turned to disbelief at her cheekiness. “For fucks sake, you had me worried. And I survived just fine, thank you very much…” You trailed off as she raised her eyebrows at you with a deadpan expression on her face, not believing you in the slightest. 

“Ohhh really? You know, I thought we told each other everything—you don’t have to lie to me. Unless your day really was just fine, and the sexually frustrated look you’ve got going on is just for show.” She waved the spatula in her hand in a circle towards your face, insinuating that your frustration was written all over your face.

Slapping the spatula out of your personal space you gave her an exaggerated eye-roll and crossed your arms over your chest. “I have absolutely no clue what you’re on about. I had a completely normal day at my new job, with completely normal thoughts about my super average looking boss.” 

She cackled at your obvious lies, “mhmm, I’m sure…” She started plating up the lasagne for the both of you, nodding towards the fridge hinting at you to grab the wine. “Come on, step into the doctor’s office—let’s go over your symptoms.”

It took two bites of her lasagne for you to drop the façade and spill about your day. 

“He’s just always there…lingering nearby, making sure everything is going fine. Which is fair enough, I’m this new girl—a potential threat—just hanging out in a building with these pretty extraordinary people, of course he’s gonna keep an eye on me! But it’s like my body is on high alert whenever he’s near—I forget what I’m meant to be doing and can only focus on that fucking vibranium arm.”

You went into great detail about the arm to your friend, explaining how striking the gold is and the sounds it makes when he shifts his stance even a little bit. The rant about his arm then led into a rant about his shoulder muscles, which then led to a rant about his distracting training session. By the time you were finished recounting your day in close proximity to Bucky, your cheeks were flushed and it had nothing to do with the half full glass of wine in front of you.

“I know I joked about this the other day but genuinely, I will put my noise cancelling headphones on if you need a bit of me time tonight.” Before you could scoff at your friends suggestion she continued, “you’re obviously already pent up and a couple orgasms would do you some good, maybe they’ll help you feel more relaxed for work tomorrow—you don’t need me to list the scientific benefits, we both know them already. Just…think about it.” She smiled softly at your darting eyes, knowing you feel a bit weird talking about sex and intimacy sometimes. She lowered her voice in an effort to make you feel less awkward, “it’s natural, you know that. It’s not a dirty secret you need to be ashamed of.” With that, she took a sip of her wine and got up to clear the table.

You sighed, knowing that she meant well and that it was your own sexual repression that made the conversation feel awkward.

“You’re right, of course you’re right. But can we not talk about it like it’s a scheduled event…” 

“Aw, really? I was about to pencil it in the calendar on the fridge—10pm every Monday, Y/N masturbates.” You huffed at her teasing smile, resting your head in your arms on the table. 

“Yeah, yeah, make fun of the repressed virgin. Remind me, why are we still friends?”

“‘Cause one of my kinks is making you all flustered when we talk about sex,” you watched in dread as a slow smirk took over her face. “And now we know one of your kinks is Bucky’s vibranium arm.” 

The only reply you could come up with was giving her the middle finger.

By the time you collapsed on your bed you were too exhausted to try anything, your arms weighed down by an invisible force—you couldn’t even lift your hand to touch yourself if you wanted to.

————————

The rest of the week progressed how you expected it to. The team took no time at all to welcome you with open arms—you suspected it had to do your home-cooked meals they inhaled like oxygen. What’s that old saying—the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, right?

John was the first to get on your nerves, always finding something to complain about and mockingly calling you ‘princess’ when you let your annoyance for him show. He reminded you of a little brother—finding any reason to wind you up and running out of the room to avoid the consequences. He purposely left a bigger mess than necessary for you to clean up, and you hated the way he checked you out when you wore something that showed the tiniest bit more skin.

“Trying to get my attention, princess?” You felt your skin crawl at his insinuation and the sleazy smirk on his face. Luckily Yelena had your back, dragging Walker out of the room by his ear with a stern “say something like that again, and I’ll castrate you myself.” The rest of the New Avengers were just glad Bucky was out for a meeting at that time—they didn’t want to know how the former Winter Soldier would’ve reacted.

It took four days for Alexei to pull you into a bone-crushing hug, his bellowing laugh making your bones shake as you tried to squirm away from him. It was your fault entirely, you should’ve tried harder to control your facial expressions when he walked into the common room covered in mud and smelling like he crawled through a sewer. 

“This is what a real man smells like, solnyshko!” He exclaimed as he rubbed his dirt-matted beard across your temple. Despite it being one of the most disgusting hugs you had experienced, you couldn’t stop the giggles that wracked through your body. He was a boisterous and slightly destructive man, but you knew he meant well. It made you ridiculously happy that the team felt comfortable enough to be affectionate towards you when they barely knew you. 

Bucky was standing in the doorway watching the exchange with a faint smile on his face, the edges of his eyes soft and crinkling slightly. Like a moth to a flame, your giggles lured him closer—causing him to fight for control of his body, his muscles straining with the effort to keep his feet planted in the doorway. He turned around as Alexei gently lowered you to the floor, not wanting to get caught staring. Too bad for him, Bob had been watching him from his spot in the corner. He couldn’t wait to debrief with the girls once they returned from their intel mission. 

It was just past 4pm on Friday when Ava and Yelena crowded you sitting at the kitchen island, both freshly showered after their mission and wearing matching cheeky grins. “Put the laptop away and come have a drink with us,” Yelena pleaded with puppy dog eyes. They didn’t give you time to respond, the women easily lifting you from your stool as you yelped in surprise. You couldn’t help but laugh at their excitement as they guided you to the elevator. 

Ava bolted to the bar once the elevator doors opened, grabbing the top shelf tequila while Yelena connected her phone to the sound system. You were a little stunned, following behind them slowly—the last thing you were expecting was them inviting you to their post-mission drinks. 

You watched as Ava put ingredients to make margaritas on the bars countertop, her brows furrowing as her hands hovered over the tequila bottle. Picking up on the fact she didn’t know how to make margaritas, you rounded the bar and gently bumped your hip against hers to move her out of the way. “Margaritas? Don’t worry, I’ve got this,” you said to her, grabbing the tequila bottle and pouring some into the cocktail shaker. Chucking at her confused expression, you offered an explanation. “I worked at a bar for a couple months during college, margaritas were the the most ordered cocktail.”

An upbeat pop song blasted through the speakers as Yelena fist pumped the air. “Hell yes, I’ve been looking forward to this for the past two days!”

The three of you sat on the bar stools as you took the first sip of your margarita, your eyes closing and a hum slipping from you as the tequila warmed your throat. You couldn’t believe how easy it felt sitting with the two spies, catching up on the past week like old friends. 

Yelena jumped behind the bar to top up all three of your glasses, sharing a brief glance with Ava before directing her attention towards you. “So,” she started in a casual tone. “You currently dating anyone?” 

Your eyes fell to your lap, your hands twisting together anxiously. It was a completely normal question to ask and you had been waiting for them to ask about your personal life, but that still didn’t stop your shoulders from tensing slightly—something they both noticed. 

“Uh, I—no, nope. I’m not seeing anyone,” you stammered slightly, the tips of your ears going warm at their undivided attention on you. You don’t know why you were feeling embarrassed, from what you knew they were single, too. Something about this line of questioning always made you worried, though. Like you would say the wrong thing and they would see just how inexperienced you were when it came to dating. 

“Huh, good to know. Got your eye on anyone?” Your head shot up at Ava’s question, your eyes catching the small smirk both her and Yelena were sporting. Before you could fumble your way through a response, all three of your phones lit up on the bar top. 

Yelena was the first to grab her phone, her smirk turning into a full Cheshire Cat smile as she read the message Bucky had sent to the Watchtower group chat. “Just Barnes checking in from the safe house.” She made eye contact with Ava again, the two of them sharing conspiratorial smiles. 

“You know…he’s never checked in before,” Ava mentioned as she casually leaned her elbows on the bar’s sleek surface. “I wonder what’s changed…” She trailed off, her head tilting slightly as she looked at you, her eyes lighting up at the red now covering the apple of your cheeks. 

You grabbed your now full glass gulping it down in one go, relishing in the burn as it slid down your throat. You didn’t know what to do with the information. You knew what she was insinuating, that you were the reason Bucky was checking in. You couldn’t help but feel worried when he had left the day before to go on a solo mission, but you thought you covered up your worry well. Obviously not. 

Your phone lit up again in front of you, stopping whatever word vomit you were going to respond to Ava with. You picked your phone up, reading the text from your best friend letting you know she was going to stay at her new boyfriend’s for the night. In typical fashion, she ended it with a cheeky “you have the place to yourself tonight—have fun! ;)”. 

You took that as your cue to leave, your head feeling a little fuzzy and your body warm from the two margaritas. After bidding the two women goodbye with a promise to join them again next time, you made your way out of the tower. You stopped outside the front doors, deeply inhaling the fresh air in an attempt to calm your buzzing nerves. 

————————

You were regretting the two margaritas by the time you made it home. Tequila always made you hot and bothered, you knew that. You should’ve grabbed a beer from the bar fridge instead. You didn’t even like beer, but it would’ve been better than dealing with the tequila-induced fire running through your veins. 

You hadn’t felt this worked up in a long time. The tension from the past week had reached it’s boiling point, your body begging you for release. The bus ride home was torturous—the tequila making your thoughts zero in on one thing, Bucky. How he quietly commanded whatever room he was in, how he managed to shut Walker up with one glare, how his eyes always seemed to gravitate towards you. You thought about the lock of hair that would fall in front of his eye, the small crease in his chin you could see through the stubble, his intense eyes that softened when he looked in your direction. 

Heat rushed through your body at the thought of his shoulders and arms, the way all his shirts fit him so deliciously. You couldn’t stop yourself from thinking about his thick thighs, how comfortable they must be to sit on. Your heart rate spiked as you remembered his gym session on Monday afternoon—you could still feel the tremors running through your body every time he dropped the weights. You almost missed your stop to get off, too distracted by the thoughts of your boss to notice where you were. 

Those thoughts came rushing back as you stood under the hot stream of water in your shower, steam curling around you and fogging up the bathroom. The water pressure made every drop hit your skin like sharp shards of glass, the feeling making your body wind even tighter. Each drop caused currents to run through your body, adding to the growing throb at the apex of your thighs. You couldn’t deny your body what it so clearly needed.

Raising a tentative hand to your collarbone you followed the path of a drop of water with a single gentle fingertip. Your nipples hardened instantly, a small ball of heat flaring in your core at the barely there touch. You lightly circled your left nipple, your thumb joining your finger to give it a light pinch. Pleasure shot through your body instantly, a fire racing from your nipple to your core where you could feel wetness already gathering. Your head hit the shower tiles behind you at the feeling. Your other hand slid up your body from your hip cupping your right breast as you rolled the nipple between your fingers with more force. Your eyelids dropped at the combined sensation, a small sigh slipping through your parted lips.

As your eyes closed, an image flashed through your mind—an image of two hands much larger than yours moving your hands away, replacing them with one warm hand and one much colder. You whimpered at the thought, wanting to know how stark the difference between the hands would feel against your breasts. You pinched your nipples harder, your stomach and core trembling at the intensity of your need. Your dominant hand left your breast, trailing down your soft skin until it reached your mound—the heat radiating from your core making you gasp. Your hand continued it’s descent, your slick need coating your palm and fingers as you cupped your heat. You opened your eyes and looked down your body, the hand on your breast still rubbing your raw nipple as you moved the other hand away from your core—gasping in astonishment at the strings of slick clinging to your hand as you pulled it away. Holy shit. You had never been this turned on before.

You closed your eyes as your hand returned to your core, fingers parting your lips as you gently touched your throbbing clit—already enlarged and wet with your need. Your head rolled against the shower tiles at the small touch, feeling overwhelmed at your desperation. You gasped and shivered as you leaned your body against the shower wall, goosebumps rising on your skin at the contrast between the cold wall and the heat coursing through your body. You moaned as you put more pressure on your clit, fingers circling a little faster. Your desire squashed any worries about being loud, your mind solely focused on making yourself feel good after a week of pent up frustration.

The ball of heat in your core grew larger with every circle of your clit, coiling faster than you’ve ever experienced. Sinful images surged forward behind your eyes without your permission. A large muscular form in front of you, hands—one warm, one cold—clutching at your hips as he dropped to his knees, cerulean eyes turned midnight blue by his own intense need staring up at you. Soft pink lips tracing light kisses over your stomach, stubble scratching your skin just above where you needed him the most. A loud whine tore from your chest as you imagined those lips closing around your clit and sucking gently, hips grinding against your hand at the thought. You imagined his eyes closing as he tasted you, a deep guttural moan slipping from his chest and vibrating against you as he doubled his efforts. You imagined running a hand through his soft strands, tugging at his scalp when he sucked harder. You palmed your breast harder as your hips moved without thought, chasing the high that was building quickly at your lewd imagination. Your pussy clenched around nothing as you imagined him inserting a single cold vibranium finger in your tight opening, the digit curling and rubbing against the spot you couldn’t reach on your own. 

Shaky breaths left you as the pleasure coursing through your body climbed higher, the feeling bearing on overwhelming. A whine got stuck in your throat as your need dripped down your thighs, your eyes squeezing hard as you gasped out a desperate “please.” Your body was shaking from the exertion—your release was right there, stuck behind an invisible wall. Small tremors wracked your body as your fingers cramped from the speed they were going on your clit. Your other hand tugged and pulled at your aching nipple, causing a pained whimper to rattle out of you. 

The image of intense dark eyes staring into yours came back into your mind, Bucky groaning “come for me, sweetheart” against your core. Your back arched against the wall as your release flooded through you like tidal waves, your core pulsing hard as the coil snapped and ricocheted your nerves. You slipped down the wall as your trembling thighs gave out, a hand shooting out to the wall to support yourself. You gasped in deep breaths of air, your fast heartbeat making your whole body throb. 

Your high ebbed after a couple minutes, shame crashing through your system once you came down. You moved under the hot stream of water, washing away the evidence of your release and trying to burn away the guilt you felt thinking of Bucky in such an intimate way. You didn’t know how you were going to face him come work on Monday. 

————————

Your best friend came home Saturday afternoon looking completely blissed out and sighing like she was in heaven. She didn’t even need to tell you—she had a great time at her boyfriends. She spilled every little detail to you as you sat crossed legged on the couch, bowls of snacks and a bottle of wine shared between the two of you. You tried really hard to tamp down the jealous beast inside of you, a heavy feeling settling in your chest as you listened to her gush about how well her man treated her. It was something you had wanted for so long—ever since you picked up your first romance novel when you were 12. You felt that heavy feeling every time one of your friends talked about their sex lives. 

She wiggled her eyebrows at you when she asked how your night alone was. Stuck between not wanting to lie and not wanting to go into too much detail, you told her you worked out some of the frustration you had been feeling. You would’ve thought you told her you lost your virginity by her reaction—standing on the couch jumping up and down as she clapped her hands. After she calmed down she said you seemed brighter, like some of the tension had been lifted off your shoulders. You didn’t mention the guilt that was clawing at your chest, the feeling that you had betrayed Bucky’s trust by thinking about him while you touched yourself. The shame that squeezed your heart knowing that you were going to do it again. 

Your hands were shaking as stepped out of the elevator on Monday morning. You knew he was back from his mission—you had seen the message he sent the night before letting the team know he was on his way back. The message that came through right after you made yourself orgasm thinking about him, this time using your vibrator—a whimper of his name slipping out, the pleasure so intense you almost cried. 

Bucky was in the gym when his hearing picked up on the elevator chiming, signalling your arrival. His body screamed at him to move as your perfume made it’s way down the hall to him, wanting nothing more than to be near you after being away on his mission. Yelena was sitting on the floor stretching on the opposite side of the gym to Bucky when she caught his body stiffening mid-rep, something freezing him in place. A second later she heard a loud “Solnyshko!” from Alexei before your squeal followed. She smirked as she realised what had Bucky’s shoulders stiffening, what had his ears perking up like a puppy. 

“You know you’re allowed to go say hi, right?” She goaded the soldier, rising to her feet and exiting the gym not caring for his reply. He briefly heard her mutter something about emotionally constipated super soldiers before he took a few deep breaths and followed after her. 

You were in the kitchen assessing the damage the team had done over the weekend when Yelena slung an arm over your shoulders and poked your cheek with a finger. “I’m still a little hurt you left our drinks so quickly on Friday—I wanted to see how many drinks it would take for you to spill your deepest, darkest secrets to us.” You rolled your eyes at her teasing, trying not to show how the thought of that scared you. She would get along well with your best friend, you were sure of it. 

“Another time,” you muttered as you stepped into the pantry, trying to distract yourself with doing the stocktake. You felt every hair on your body stand to attention as Bucky walked into the kitchen, his presence an undeniable force. You couldn’t help turning around, your eyes meeting his striking blue ones briefly before they darted away. Your cheeks heated as the image of him on his knees flashed through your mind. God, please not right now, you thought. 

Bucky offered you a small nod in greeting before John walked in with a cheeky smile, his eyes slowly traveling up and down your body. Yelena shot him a warning glare which he chose to ignore, sauntering over to you and blocking you in the pantry. 

“You miss me, princess?” Bucky clenched his fists tightly at John invading your personal space, the urge to snap the man’s neck thrumming through his body. 

You hummed noncommittally, not wanting to show how uncomfortable John was making you feel. “Not at all,” you replied. 

Bucky watched as John leaned closer towards you, your tense shoulders giving away how uneasy you were feeling. “Walker, that’s enough.” He spoke in a low final tone. 

The blonde super soldier held his hands up as he finally walked away from you, “no need to get territorial, Barnes.” John winked at you once before leaving the kitchen.

Bucky’s eyes scanned your face to make sure you were okay before he turned around and left the room, returning to the gym to let out some of his frustration. 

Ava was perched on a stool at the kitchen island, a slight smirk on her face as she watched everything unfold. “Why don’t they just whip their dicks out and measure them already.” You laughed in surprise, the sound drifting down the hall, blessing Bucky’s ears and making him smile despite Ava’s crude comment. 

The rest of the week passed by similar to the week before. A couple of small day missions kept most of the team busy, and when they weren’t out they often found themselves gravitating towards you. They were getting even more comfortable with you—hugging you when you left for the day, the girls twirling your curls around their finger when they walked past you in the kitchen, Bob resting his head on your shoulder as you sat next to him on the couch. The only thing you didn’t appreciate was John tugging on your curls, and luckily you weren’t scared to slap his hand away with a glare. You didn’t want him touching you. 

Bucky was the only one who didn’t touch you. No, he made sure to keep you at arm’s length—preferring to watch you from across the room, despite his twitching fingers aching to reach for you. He had convinced himself he was fine observing you from a distance, it was safer that way. He didn’t want to know what you felt like under his fingers—he was terrified his touch-starved body would get one hit and refuse to let you go. He felt his blood boil every time John touched you, the anger rising in him and something protective making his chest clench. He felt proud when you slapped Walker’s hand away, but the anger sat deep in his bones at the fact you had to deal with John’s unwanted touches. 

Bucky noticed a shift in your scent, an earthy sweetness that haunted his thoughts as he tried to sleep. It curled around him and clung to his clothes long after you were gone and it was fucking doing his head in. He was tempted to ask if you had changed something in your routine, if you were using a different body wash. He had to go splash his face with cold water when he thought about what body wash you used, his mind spiralling dangerously about you in the shower. He wanted to tear his hair out over how much he thought about you.

He was both relieved and disappointed when you hurried out of the tower on Friday afternoon. Relieved he would have a couple days to get his shit together, to work on his self-control. Disappointed he wouldn’t see you for a couple days, wouldn’t hear you giggling as his team joked around, wouldn’t catch you humming and swaying as you cooked—thinking you were by yourself. He often found himself watching you from the shadows. 

————————

You were humming along to the Queen song playing through your headphones when you got home on Saturday afternoon. You had been out for lunch with old work friends and your feet were aching from trying to break in new Doc Martens. You climbed the stairs up to your apartment, opening the staircase door and walking down the hall to your door. You grabbed your bag to look for your keys when something caught your eye. The front door was slightly ajar, the sunlight from inside your apartment creating a sharp line against the floor of the dark hallway. You took your headphones off and shifted your head closer to the gap, straining to hear any noises coming from inside.

Your best friend wasn’t home, she wasn’t even close. She had left the night before for a romantic getaway with her boyfriend—a quick look at your phone showed her location near Niagara Falls upstate. You were certain you closed and locked the door when you left—this was New York City, you could never be too safe. 

You felt your heartbeat in your throat as a ball of anxiety sat heavy in your chest. Someone else had been here and you were terrified they were still inside. With a shaky hand you gently pushed the door open more. Your hand shot up to cover your mouth as a small gasp left you, your eyes tearing up at in the scene in front of you. Your living room had been fucking ripped apart. The insides of the couch cushions spilled out onto the floor, your TV and coffee table smashed, the coat-stand broken in half and your coats all over the floor. Books that once sat neatly on the wall shelves were torn apart, pages scattered everywhere. The pictures of you and your best friend were ripped in half, the frames they were once in shattered on the floor. A quiet sob wracked your body, your hand catching the wall as your knees went week.

Someone had destroyed your home, torn it to shreds while you were out. 

Your mind raced as fear flooded through you. What if they were still here?

You slowly stepped away as quietly as you could, not turning around until your back hit the staircase door. You sprinted down the stairs, not stopping until you were outside the building and at the busy park across the street. A busy enough area that you wouldn’t be attacked, right? You sat on a bench next to a young family, your hands shaking as you tried to grab your phone in your bag. The fear in your chest kept growing as you fumbled to grab the phone, your shaking and sweaty hands making it slip out of your grasp. 

Once you finally grabbed it you unlocked the phone and pulled up the contact number you had yet to use. You took a couple deep breaths in as you dialled the number, your foot tapping on the ground as you hugged your arm around your chest. Bringing the phone to your ear, he answered on the third ring. 

“Y/N? What’s wrong?” Bucky asked in confusion, not sure why you would be calling him on a Saturday afternoon. 

You breathed a sigh of relief at hearing his voice, your throat closing up as tears welled behind your eyes.

“Bucky, I-I need you, please.” Your voice cracked at the end, your cheeks growing wet as tears slipped free. “My apartment—someone broke in, and th—the place has been destroyed,” your breath started to come quicker, on the verge of hyperventilating as you spoke to Bucky. “I don’t know what to do,” you quietly whispered.

“Doll, shit, okay try to breathe—where are you? Are you hurt?” His deep voice came through your phone, a slight panic in his tone.

“No—I’m fine. I’m at the park across the street,” you replied shakily.

“Stay there, doll. I’m on the way,” he said gravelly. “Stay on the phone with me, okay?”

[heldbybarnes]

Can I request Bucky x reader, where reader blushes easily? Reader thinks it’s embarrassing, however Bucky thinks it’s adorable.

You’ve always hated how easily it happens.

It doesn’t matter if it’s a compliment, a teasing joke, someone saying your name a little too warmly—your skin betrays you. Heat climbs your throat, floods your cheeks, burns the tips of your ears until you’re sure you look like a malfunctioning traffic light.

And unfortunately for you, James Barnes has noticed.

It happens the first time he really pays attention to it in the kitchen of the compound. You’re leaning against the counter, explaining something about Sam’s disastrous attempt at baking cornbread, hands animated, voice light. Bucky’s not even listening to the story. He’s watching the way you glow when you laugh.

“Your face is red,” he says, tilting his head slightly.

You freeze mid-sentence. “What?”

He steps closer, metal hand braced on the counter beside you. His brows knit together in faux concern. “You okay? Feel hot?”

Your stomach drops. “No, I—” You reach up automatically, pressing your palms to your cheeks. They’re warm. Of course they’re warm. “It’s just—whatever. It happens.”

“What happens?”

“I blush,” you mutter, already turning away. “It’s stupid.”

He doesn’t respond right away, and that silence makes it worse. You busy yourself with the coffeemaker, refusing to look at him.

Then you feel it—his fingers, light and careful, tipping your chin back toward him.

“Why’s that stupid?” he asks softly.

Because it’s embarrassing. Because it makes you look flustered and inexperienced and like you can’t handle a single scrap of attention without combusting. Because it makes you feel exposed.

Instead, you shrug. “It’s just annoying.”

His thumb brushes over your cheek. The metal is cool against your overheated skin, and you nearly jump out of it.

“You’re blushing right now,” he murmurs.

You groan and try to duck away, but he laughs under his breath and doesn’t let you.

“Doll,” he says, eyes crinkling at the corners, “it’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”

That does not help. Not even a little.

The heat doubles. You shove at his chest lightly. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it makes it worse.”

He grins. “Oh, I see. So I’ve got this kind of power over you?”

You glare at him, which would probably be more effective if your face wasn’t the approximate shade of a ripe strawberry.

“I do not—”

“Your ears are red too,” he adds conversationally.

You bury your face in your hands.

From that day on, he treats it like a personal hobby.

It’s subtle at first. A compliment murmured just close enough to your ear for you to feel his breath.

“That color looks real nice on you.”

A quiet, “You smell good,” when you walk past him.

The first time he calls you beautiful in front of Steve, you nearly short-circuit.

“Buck,” you hiss under your breath as Steve politely pretends not to notice, “why would you say that?”

“Because it’s true,” he says simply, like that’s the end of it.

You can feel your pulse in your cheeks.

He leans closer. “And because I like watching you blush.”

“You’re evil.”

He looks entirely too pleased with himself.

But it’s not just teasing.

One night, you’re both sprawled on the couch in his apartment, a movie playing that neither of you are really watching. Your head is tucked against his shoulder, his arm draped around you.

It’s comfortable. Safe.

He’s tracing absent-minded circles along your upper arm when he says, “You know I don’t think it’s embarrassing, right?”

You blink up at him. “What?”

“The blushing thing.”

You immediately look away again. “We don’t have to talk about that.”

“Yeah, we do.”

His tone isn’t teasing now. It’s steady. Gentle.

He shifts so he can see your face better, his hand coming up to cup your cheek.

“It means you feel things,” he says. “You don’t hide it. You don’t shut it down.”

“That’s not always a good thing.”

“It is to me.”

You swallow. Your face is warm again, traitorous as ever.

He brushes his thumb along the apple of your cheek, watching the color deepen under his touch.

“Most of my life,” he continues quietly, “I was trained not to react. Not to show anything. They beat it out of me.”

Your chest tightens.

“So when you blush?” His lips curve slightly. “It’s like proof. You’re here. You’re alive. You’re feeling something.”

You hadn’t thought of it like that.

You’ve always seen it as weakness. As something to tame or hide.

But the way he’s looking at you right now—like you’re something precious and fragile and fiercely alive—it makes your throat ache.

“I still feel stupid sometimes,” you admit.

He leans down, pressing a kiss to your cheek. Not your lips. Not your forehead.

Your cheek.

Right where the heat lives.

“I think it’s adorable,” he says against your skin. “Makes me wanna say outrageous stuff just to see it happen.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “You already do.”

He smiles, brushing his nose lightly against yours. “Yeah. And I’m not stopping.”

“James.”

“Okay, okay.” He raises his hands in surrender, though his eyes are sparkling. “No more teasing tonight.”

You narrow your eyes suspiciously.

He waits a beat.

Then, softly, deliberately: “You’re the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Your heart stutters.

The blush blooms instantly, uncontrollable and bright.

He beams like he’s just won something.

“I said no more teasing,” you protest weakly.

“That wasn’t teasing.”

His expression shifts, turning serious in a way that makes your breath catch.

“I mean it,” he says. “The way you light up? The way your cheeks go pink when I look at you too long? I love that. I love that you don’t pretend not to care.”

You search his face for even a hint of a joke.

There isn’t one.

“You really don’t think it’s embarrassing?” you ask quietly.

“Not even a little.”

He presses another kiss to your cheek, then one to the other side for good measure.

“I think it’s honest,” he murmurs. “And I think it’s mine.”

That makes your entire face flare hotter than ever.

He laughs softly, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you into his chest as you hide your face against him.

“See?” he whispers into your hair. “Adorable.”

You groan, but you’re smiling now.

Maybe it’s not something to be ashamed of.

Maybe it’s just another way your heart insists on being seen.

And if Bucky Barnes wants to admire it like it’s his favorite sunrise, well…

You suppose you can live with that.

[heldbybarnes]

Heya, idk if youve done this before or not so..dk ima try xD

Thinking about bucky and reader in a relationship and stuff but like early relationship? Like dating for under a year? Getting comfortable hanging out at eachothers place and stuff. And bucky is wearing like short sleeves or tank tops because its warm and whenever he does reader just wants to chomp his flesh arm?(like soft bite because his arm just looks nice and soft) and idk one night they are on the couch watching a movie and his arm is around them and they nom and hes confused or something.

Idk i keep thinking about it xD hope im making sense and that this is ok, just cozy fluff i guess? Ill leave you with creative space to do what you want? Have a lovely day🧡

i want to gnaw on his biceps too

-------

This is one of those things you don’t say out loud because even you know it’s a little ridiculous.

You’re still in that early stage with Bucky Barnes where everything feels soft around the edges, where you’re learning each other in quiet, domestic ways instead of dramatic, world-ending ones. You’ve been dating for a handful of months now, long enough that your toothbrush lives beside his, long enough that you don’t knock anymore—just push his apartment door open and call out his name.

Long enough that you’ve started noticing things.

Like his arm.

Not the metal one—you noticed that immediately, fascinated and careful and maybe a little intimidated at first. No, it’s his flesh arm that sneaks up on you.

Because Bucky, apparently, runs warm.

And when the weather turns, he swaps out his long sleeves for henleys pushed up to the elbow, or soft cotton t-shirts, or—God help you—tank tops that leave his entire arm bare. Sun-warmed skin, muscle shifting under it, veins faintly visible, soft in a way that feels… unfair.

You don’t even know when the thought first hits you.

Probably the first time he stretched in front of you, shirt riding up, arm flexing as he reached for something on a high shelf. You remember staring. You remember thinking, very clearly:

I want to bite that.

You don’t, obviously.

Because that would be insane.

So you ignore it. Push it down. Pretend you’re a normal person who doesn’t look at their boyfriend’s arm and think yeah, I could just… chomp that real quick.

Except the thought doesn’t go away.

It lingers.

It grows.

It shows up when you’re sitting next to him on the couch, his arm slung lazily around your shoulders. It shows up when he reaches past you in the kitchen, his skin brushing yours, warm and solid. It shows up when he falls asleep beside you, arm tucked under your head, your cheek pressed to it like it’s your personal pillow.

And every time, your brain goes:

Bite.

You never do.

Until you do.

---

It’s late. One of those slow, easy nights where neither of you feels like going out, so you order takeout and let some random movie play in the background.

You’re curled into his side, legs tucked under you, his arm draped over your shoulders like it’s always meant to be there. He smells like clean laundry and whatever body wash he uses, something faintly woodsy, something that makes you relax without even realizing it.

The room is dim, lit only by the TV.

You’re not really watching the movie.

You’re very aware of his arm.

Bare. Warm. Right there.

Your cheek rests against his bicep, and you can feel the subtle shift of muscle every time he moves, every time he breathes. It’s soft, too—softer than it looks, which somehow makes it worse.

Your brain goes quiet for a second.

And then—

Bite.

Before you can overthink it, before you can stop yourself, you turn your head and—

Bite.

Not hard.

Not even close to hard.

Just a soft, quick press of your teeth against his arm. A little bite. A curious one. The kind you’d give something just to see what it feels like.

You freeze immediately after.

Oh my God.

Oh my God.

What did you just do?

Bucky stills beside you.

Slowly, slowly, he turns his head to look at you.

“…Did you just bite me?”

You don’t move.

You don’t breathe.

You consider launching yourself off the couch and out the window.

“…No,” you say weakly, still very much pressed against his arm.

There’s a beat.

Then—

“You absolutely just bit me.”

His voice isn’t upset. It’s not even annoyed.

It’s… confused.

Deeply, genuinely confused.

You lift your head just enough to look at him, cheeks already heating. “It was a gentle bite.”

He stares at you like you’ve just told him the sky is green.

“A gentle—” he cuts himself off, blinking. “Why?”

You open your mouth.

Close it.

Because how do you explain this without sounding completely unhinged?

“I don’t know,” you mumble, dropping your gaze back to his arm like it personally betrayed you. “It just looked… biteable.”

Silence.

You risk a glance up at him.

Bucky is staring at you, lips parted slightly, eyes wide in a way you don’t think you’ve ever seen before.

“You thought my arm looked biteable,” he repeats slowly.

You nod, just once, because there’s no going back now.

Another pause.

And then—

He laughs.

It’s not mean. Not sharp or teasing in a way that makes your chest tighten. It’s soft, incredulous, a little breathless like he can’t quite believe what’s happening.

“You’re serious,” he says, shaking his head. “You’re actually serious.”

You bury your face in his shoulder. “Don’t make fun of me.”

“I’m not making fun of you,” he insists, though there’s still laughter in his voice. “I’m just—” he exhales, running his hand through his hair. “I’ve been called a lot of things, doll. ‘Biteable’ is a new one.”

You groan quietly.

“I can’t believe I did that.”

He shifts beside you, adjusting so you’re tucked closer into his side again, like nothing’s changed.

“You didn’t even bite hard,” he adds after a second, glancing down at his arm. “I barely felt it.”

“That’s not the point,” you mutter.

“The point is, you looked at me and thought, ‘yeah, I’m gonna take a little nibble.’”

You make a strangled noise.

“Please stop saying it like that.”

He huffs out another quiet laugh, but there’s something softer underneath it now. Something warm.

After a moment, he nudges your shoulder lightly.

“C’mon.”

You peek up at him.

He lifts his arm slightly, offering it to you again.

“If you’re gonna do it, at least commit.”

Your eyes widen. “Bucky—”

“I’m serious,” he says, lips twitching. “Go ahead. Scientific curiosity or whatever.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Mm. And you’re a biter, apparently. We all have our things.”

You hesitate.

Just for a second.

Then—

Very carefully, very gently—

You bite down again.

This time, he feels it.

You know because his arm tenses slightly under your teeth, a small, surprised breath leaving him.

You pull back immediately, eyes wide. “Sorry—”

But he’s not upset.

He’s looking at you with something soft and fond and maybe a little amused.

“…You’re weird,” he says quietly.

Your stomach flips. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His thumb brushes absentmindedly over your arm, mirroring what you did to him. “But I think I like it.”

You smile, warmth blooming in your chest.

“You’re not gonna tell anyone about this, right?”

He smirks, just a little. “Oh, I don’t know. I think Sam would love—”

“James Buchanan Barnes—”

“Relax,” he chuckles, pulling you back into him. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

You settle against him again, cheek pressed right back to his arm like nothing ever happened.

Except now—

Now he shifts slightly closer.

Like he doesn’t mind.

Like maybe, just maybe—

He kind of likes being biteable.

[godmadeaterribleerror]

choose me

✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦

✦summary: bucky isn't your boss, but he's still off limits. and even if he wasn't, there's no way he'd ever go for someone like you. weird that he matched with you on a dating app then, isn't it?✦

✦warnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, modern!au, ceo!bucky, no use of y/n, mutual pining, virgin!reader, dating apps, no description of reader (pictures for aesthetic only), fluff, angst, love confessions, kinda boss x secretary, plot to earn porn, feral level smut, (fingering, teasing, stripping, soft dom!bucky, dirty talk, mean bucky but you're into it, teasing, possiveness, mutual masturbation, pussy spanking, praise kink, manhandling, dumbification, big dick bucky, p in v sex, creampie), soft!bucky outside of smut✦

✦wc: 13.9k✦

✦Author's Note: this one is for all my wound up "want love but afraid of intimacy girlies". we go through it. Enjoy!✦

Bucky Barnes is ruining your life, and he doesn’t even know it.

You wish you could blame him. Slash his tires and scream in his face, maybe drain the oil from his bike or mess up his lunch order. But he wouldn’t deserve that, and you’d just end up homeless on the street. You’d have to sell your body, but you’ve never been that good at sales, and begging Steve for your job back wouldn’t get you anywhere when you’d just given his best friend food poisoning.

And Bucky wouldn’t deserve that. He’s perfect. He’s a mountain you’d love to scale, if you hadn’t always been horrid at climbing. You’d dig your nails into his chest, and maybe just keep him at eye level forever. So you could watch that quiet joy that only shines for the people he really, truly likes.

You’re a member of that rare club. It’s taken years of small kindness’ and lingering in Steve’s shadow to get there.

Even if you wanted to, you’d never risk ruining that just because of some schoolgirl crush. Not when Bucky might make your heart stumble and your face heat, but he hasn’t taken away your wits.

The same wits that tell you, it’s not worth the risk.

It will never be worth the risk. You worked too hard to get where you are. It’s too good a job, to burn up because you have a few fantasies. Steve Rogers famously went through assistant after assistant, before you. When you’d asked Natasha why—Steve’s a perfect boss, he lets you take hour long lunches and use sick time as PTO, as long as you don’t tell HR—she’d just shrugged.

“It’s not Steve that’s making them quit.” She’d hummed, like you were supposed to know exactly what that meant.

You hadn’t. You still don’t. Best guess, he thinks that everyone can keep up with him and forgets to slow down and match pace. But you can keep up with him just fine. Without breaking a sweat. Sometimes you out-pace him, and that earns you a loud, approving laugh and small smirk from Bucky.

Bucky.

James. You’re trying to call him James, in your head. It’s more formal. Creates a larger gap, between private fantasy and reality.

In fantasy, Bucky is a hazy voice that creeps into your dreams and rough stubble that brushes over your cheek. You tangle the sheets and blankets between your legs in bed, and pretend he’s there, holding you tight. Dreams and scenarios play out before you go to sleep, where he backs you against a wall and declares that he’s loved you since he first saw you. Or he shows up at your door in the middle of the night, pleading because he can’t take being away from you anymore. Maybe all his stares at conferences and meetings finally amount to something, and he grabs your jaw and kisses you so brutally you both just fall onto that soft couch in his office.

But Bucky doesn’t just stare at you. It’s one of his weird little quirks that Steve calls just Bucky, and Sam calls creepy and weird, he’s lucky we love him.

You do love him.

Bucky’s perfect. When you’d met him, he’d seemed as if he’d fallen out of a silver screen or leather-bound book. You’d never understood fantasies about powerful men, until one with the brilliance of fifty suns had been adjusting his cuffs in front of you. You’d barely been able to breathe, and it’s only gotten harder since you’ve known him.

At first look, Bucky’s a sharp jawline, dark hair, and eyes that follow you into your sleep. He’s cold and standoffish in that annoying way that makes the fool in your heart babble about how you could melt him. He snaps and orders and doesn’t waste time on things that don’t matter, and you’d like to hear how his voice could go soft, if you could make it.

That fool in your heart is loud. It tends to get the better of you, until the object of it’s fleeting obsession shatters the illusion by itself. Most of your crushes take a sledgehammer and destroy the heroic visage you’ve made of them in a second. You just have to wait for it, and they save you from themselves.

But Bucky likes to ruin your life.

It’s been a year, since Steve hired you. Fresh out of college, nervous, and with what Natasha called doe-eyes.

You love Bucky more than you did at the start, and it’s incredibly rude that he won’t just cut it out so you can focus.

“How’s your mother?” You ask one night, when it’s just you and Bucky.

James. When you’re alone in a room with him, and the white sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to show off obnoxious muscles, it’s important to remember you should be calling him James.

“My… Mother.”

He’s staring at you like you’re crazy. Heat floods your cheeks, but you just nod. He doesn’t get to win.

“You said she was moving.” You shrug, and Bucky’s tongue flicks over his lips.

“I did say that.”

“Yeah. I know.” You pretend to turn over a paper. “I was there.”

Bucky snorts, and it’s enough to yank your attention up. He’s shaking his head with that tiny curve of a smile, and it makes your heart do something that might resemble overdrive.

“What?”

“Nothin’.”  

“What-“

“My mother’s doin’ just fine.” Bucky says, staring at you across the room. “She loved those muffins you made her. Got me and my sisters in a lotta trouble, for not bothering to make her a housewarming gift.”

You swallow. “Oh, I- I didn’t mean to-“

“Don’t hurt yourself.” Bucky—James, but it’s impossible to remember when he looks at you like that—smirks. “I’d want you over me every time, too.”

There’s no possible response you can think of, to that. Not one that makes sense, and isn’t humiliating. You look back to your papers, mumble a thank you, and try not to let Bucky’s low chuckle pool heat between your thighs.

You don’t succeed.

But that’s a problem for your vibrator to worry about, when you get home.

Because that’s where the fantasy. And the reality is always starker. Harder to escape.

Bucky is a mountain of a man, but you’ve never climbed anything at all. Not a tiny hill, not a slope, not even a bump in the road. The most basic things, that most people get out of the way in middle school, you’ve never even brushed against. Not on purpose. It’s just… Never happened. And you’re certainly not going to start doing anything now. With your older pseudo-boss and sort of friend. You don’t have a death wish, and you’re certain that rejection will kill you with the humiliation alone.

So in reality, you’re never going to risk anything. You’ve never had health insurance this good before. Steve buys you lunch every day—technically he buys himself lunch, but you’re allowed to get whatever you want—and you got to move out of your rundown apartment with the landlady who kept getting mad you dared to have trash, but refused to fix your broken heater. In New York.

You haven’t had freezing fingers in a year. Because now, you could afford gloves. And in the harsh cold of reality, no dick is worth more than a nice pair of gloves.

Bucky’s might be. Bucky and his smile and low laugh and nobleness and silent kindness and-

No.

Nothing’s worth it. Not when Bucky wouldn’t even want you anyway.

You’d rather have the gloves.

“You get a plus one to this event, you know?”

You look at Steve over the desk, frowning slightly. “Huh?”

Steve’s lips twitch. “You get a plus one.”

“Okay?”

“Wasn’t sure you knew.” He shrugs. Your frown deepens.

“Of course I knew. I send out all the invitations.”

“Hm.”

“What’s hm? What does hm mean?”

“Just hm. Do you have the numbers, about-“

“They’re in front of you, Steven.” You narrow your eyes. “What’s hm mean.”

“Told you, nothing-“

“What.”

Sam says that there are only three people Steve is afraid of. Natasha, Bucky’s mother, and you. At the time, you’d laughed it off and rolled your eyes.

With how his throat bobs and he avoids your gaze, you’re starting to think that last part might be true.

“You’ve just always had that plus one offered.” Steve mutters, looking at the reports like they’ve suddenly turned into something interesting. “Noticed you never used it. Wanted to, uh- Make sure you knew.”

“I knew.” You snap, and Steve sighs.

“Yeah, I thought you did.”

“Then why’d you ask-“

“You wanna get lunch?” Steve’s voice raises, and the conversation is clearly over. “I think I could go for some sushi, or- Mexican. Maybe acai?”

Those are three very different things, and it is your job to figure out which one he really wants. But you can’t stop thinking about it for the rest of the day.

You have never used your plus one. You’ve never needed to.

There’s never been anyone worth using it on, except for one, dumb, handsome man who already has his own invitation to every event, and never has a problem finding his own date. You’ve spent dozens of nights lingering at Steve’s side—because he can tell you all he wants to enjoy yourself, you’ll slack when you’re dead—and glaring daggers at the model hanging off of Bucky’s arm. Giggling at everything he says and trying to drift closer than the polite, respectable distance he keeps them at.

He lets you sit closer to him than he lets them. And they are all a little younger, so maybe he wouldn’t mind that you’re not experienced and-

You stamp those thoughts under your heel. Not worth it.

But is Steve’s noticed how you never bring anyone, maybe he’s noticed how you stare at Bucky as well. And if he’s noticed that, he might start looking closer. And if he looks closer, he’s going to realize that you’re in love with his best friend, and he’s going to tell Bucky, and you’re going to get fired, and lose your cool apartment and fuck, you aren’t emotionally prepared to be a prostitute-

You need a date.

It’s the safest, most logical conclusion. You study Steve across the room, and quickly decide against asking to be set up. That might get back to Bucky, and you don’t want him to know for reason that defy common sense. You can’t ask anyone at work, but all your friends are your co-workers. You could go out to a bar, but that sounds dangerous and exhausting, and you’re not even sure where you’d find the time.

Which leaves one option.

Dating apps.

There are millions of them. You know from college friends and social media that there are about five worth having. You download all of them, and spend the rest of your lunch setting up your profile. You’re by no means ugly, and you’ve got plenty of pictures in exciting locations thanks to Steve being unable to get through any work event without you there. You put down that you’re not sure what you’re looking for, because you’re really not. You lie about your job, because when you tell people you’re Steve Roger’s personal assistant, they usually get weird. You settle just secretary, even though Steve and Natasha would shout at you if they saw.

They won’t see. None of them will see.

And you’ll get a nice, boring date to the next event, and everything is going to be fine.

“You never tell me about your family.”

Bucky’s words are so low you almost don’t hear them. You look up at him in surprise, and hope the dim lighting hides your flush.

“You never ask.”

His lips twitch down. “I’ve told you about my family.”

“So?”

“Usually.” He mutters, glaring at his papers like the did something to personally offend him. “When you tell someone about yourself, it’s an… Exchange of information.”

“An exchange of information?” You snort. “Is that a CIA thing?”

“Not everything I do is a CIA thing.”

“Everything Natasha does is a CIA thing. And you were in the CIA together.”

“Nat was better at it than I was.” He grumbles. His brow does a tight-knit wrinkle thing, when he’s frustrated. For a grown man, it’s always rather adorable. “I’d like to know about your family.”

“I…” You blink at him, your brain turning fuzzy and useless.

He’s staring at you. Saying those words like they matter, and you can barely understand them at all.

“Why?”

“Because. We’ve worked together a while. I know… A lot about you.” He takes a deep breath through his nose, giving you a strange look. “You know about me.”

“Uh huh. That’s usually how being friends works.”

Bucky sighs. “Yeah, well. You’ve met my mother. She adores you.”

“She doesn’t adore me-“

“She adores you.”

He says it like it’s really not up for debate. You flush. “Oh- Okay.”

“Everyone you meet adores you.” Bucky grumbles, like that complete lie of a statement infuriates him. “And I tell you everything about me.”

You don’t think that’s true either. You know a lot about Bucky, but not everything. Steve says Bucky’s just like that—not big on sharing—so you hoard every bit of information he offers you like a dragon with gold, but it’s far from everything. “Bu- James-“

“Bucky.” He corrects, and you sigh.

He’s not making that part easy, either.

“Bucky.” You say, smooth and careful. “You know everything about me that Steve knows. I- I can tell you more. But I’m not all that interesting.”

“I disagree.” He mutters. “You’re impossibly interesting.”

You can only hum, pressing your thighs together as he just keeps staring at you. He shouldn’t be allowed to do that. It makes your brain slow down and all your thoughts turn honeyed and gooey. His hands are right in your eyeline, and he’s got those big, deft fingers that you’ve imagined tracing over your hips and lips, and he’s giving you compliments. Compliments like they’re just breathing, like he doesn’t even have to think about them because you could be all he sees.

“What do you want to know?” You mumble, desperate to move the conversation away from this. If you offer yourself too much of his attention, it’s going to drag you under like quicksand.

“What’s your favorite kind of flower?”

“My favorite flower-“

Bucky grunts, nodding tightly. You take a deep, slow breath, careful not to look him in the eyes.

“I don’t know. I’ve never really thought about it.”

Bucky grunts. “Well, what kinda flowers have people gotten you before.”

“I- I’ve never been given flowers.”

“You’ve never-“ Bucky cuts himself off, and you risk a glance up to see him scowling. “Ever?”

You can hear the what about that he won’t say. What about a boyfriend.

If he’s not brave enough to ask it—although you don’t understand why he’d care—you don’t have to be brave enough to answer it.

“No. Never ever.” You mumble, and you might dissolve into a mist of humid humiliation and confusing arousal.

You have Bucky’s attention, and you both wish he’d take it back and never want him to stop pushing. You’ve never had someone poke at you this much. It makes your core ache, and you’d rally rather not explore what that means right now.

“You need to sign these.” You shove some papers across the desk, staring at Bucky’s hands again.

They’re curled in fists. You’d like them inside you-

You mentally slap yourself, and force a smile onto your face, nodding to the papers. “Steve told me not to let you go home, until you did.”

Bucky chuckles at that, though there’s still a strange look in his eyes. “Not let me go home, huh.”

“Yes, sir.” You drawl.

Bucky’s knuckles go white. You could swear his voice gets lower.

“And how would you stop me from gettin’ home, kid?”

“With lots of talent.” You shrug, giving him a tiny smile. “And my body.”

Bucky coughs, and the desk jerks suddenly. His knee must’ve slammed against it. You shoot to your feet, ready to check on him, but he waves you quickly back down.

“Fine. I’m fine.” He scowls, scooting forward in his chair. “Papers.”

He makes a beckoning gesture, and you just stare at him.

“James, are you-“

“Bucky.” He grunts. “Papers, sweetheart.”

You nod stupidly, shoving the papers into his hands. You’re not sure what’s happening. Your thoughts are all still made of candy-clouds and goo, so you don’t want to overthink it.

It’s only when you get home, that you realize what he called you. I

Sweetheart.

You can’t blame him. He can’t know what that does to you.

You really need to find that date.

It happens in the middle of work. The worst possible place for it to happen.

Steve’s on a conference call, and you’re lying on his couch, swiping through dating apps. You’re only there in case he forgets something, and you don’t have to pay much attention for that. The voices of old, annoying men drone on and on and on in the background, and you have everything memorized so well that when Steve calls your name, you answer without even realty paying attention to what you’re saying.

The call is three hours for no good reason at all. You get bored.

Hence, the dating apps.

It’s almost as mindless as the call itself. All in all, the experience is turning out to be more of a fun game than an actual method to find a date. The next gala is creeping up, though. You refuse to give up.

But you’re also picky. And you keep comparing every profile you see to Bucky, which is deeply counterproductive.

Michael is handsome, and the exact same height as Bucky, but he’s built with corded muscle instead of the softer, thicker strength you’ve seen straining through Bucky’s suit. Henry has a picture of himself with kids—his sister’s, according to the caption—but you look at it and just think of when Bucky and Steve went to the children’s hospital, and Bucky had become such a soft and approachable person you’d been worried you’d get pregnant watching him.

Leon has nice eyes, but they’re not as pretty as Bucky’s. Cal is in the military, but he’s beaming about it in a way that makes you think he joined so he could run around with a big gun, while Bucky joined because his family needed the healthcare. Jake has a sweet smile, but it doesn’t make you feel bubbly like Bucky’s. Asher and Kyle both have high paying jobs—all their photos showing them driving Maserati’s and drinking expensive whiskey—but one of the things you’ve always loved about Bucky is how he doesn’t brag. His suits are less expensive and more well-tailored. His watch costs $150—he always grumbles that he just needs it to tell time—and he drives a motorcycle that Sam says he built from scratch.

You squint at Damien’s profile, and he’s got a motorcycle too. His caption says that he built it himself, and you don’t know anything about motorcycles, but you doubt he built it as well as Bucky did.

You swipe left with a sigh, and go onto the next profile.

James. 41. Business Manager. You give the picture a quick glance—beefy, shirtless chest that makes you drool a little, only the sharp, bearded jawline of the owner visible in the photo—and squint at the bio. Wealthy bachelor looking for his Queen.

You snort, and scroll lazily down. James’ Interests include music, cars, technology, dancing, family. No kids, but wants them. Looking for casual fun—you can’t be causal, or have fun, but it’s always nice to pretend—located thirty feet away, pet cat, smokes and drinks socially-

Located thirty feet away.

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

You sit up suddenly, rapidly scrolling back up to the photos and main bio. James, 41, Business Manager.   

Fucking- Fuck-

You click frantically through the photos, somehow burning alive and freezing to your bones all at once. James’ next photo doesn’t show his face either, instead displaying a fluffy white cat on his bare chest. You know that cat. You’ve fed and pet her, paying her more attention than Bucky himself whenever he brings her to the office. Alpine adores you. You have more photos of her on your phone than you do of yourself.

Next photo.

Bucky drinking at that Italian place he, Steve, and Sam always go to for celebrations. In the background, you can see Natasha flirting with the bartender. You remember that night. She’d taken him home, and you’d heard far too many details about how hot and submissive he was in the morning. You’d been happy for her, and sick with jealousy. You’d spent all of that night standing next to her, trying not to stare at Bucky while he and Steve drank.

Which means-

You pinch in on the photo, feeling a little sick when you find it. Shrouded enough in the background that you can only see it if you look, but you can definitely fucking see it.

Your lovelorn, sad expression as you stare at Bucky like he’s made of stars.

He’s seen this photo. Everyone who’s been on his dating profile has seen this photo.

You feel sick. You unpinch the photo, ready to maybe just fall back into the couch cushions and have them swallow you whole, and then it fucking happens.

Your thumb drifts a little to the right.

You swipe yes on Bucky’s profile.

And a little heart graphic overtakes your screen, the bolded words It’s a Match! Shoved into your face.

You scream, and throw your phone across the room.

Steve looks at you like you’re insane. You feel insane.

“Are you-“

“I need to go to the bathroom!” You shout, and Steve opens his mouth, but you’re already running.

You have to pass Bucky’s office—right next to Steve’s—to get to the bathroom. You pause to stare at him, unable to form any coherent thoughts but fuck and Bucky.

He’s on his phone. Reading something with a knit brow. You might actually be about to throw up.

Like he can sense you, he looks up.

Your eyes meet.

And you run away, as fast as you fucking can.

Steve is a lovely boss. When you tell him you need a week off for vague personal reasons, but that you can still work remotely, he tells you not to bother and just take the time without work.

“But- I can help-“

“I know. I’m telling you not to.” He gives you a small smile. “You’ve earned the break.”

“Steve-“

“You’re allowed to just rest,” he says your name kindly, and you shake your head. No. You’re not.

“Please give me something to do.” You plead, and Steve sighs.

“Kid, you don’t have to prove something-“

“Please.” If you don’t have anything, you’re just going to stare at your match with Bucky the whole time. And that’s a harrowing, deadly prospect of a way to spend your week.

Steve sighs, and gives in. You get a bunch of emails to send, and they’re just enough to distract you.

Barely.

Sometimes, you still manage to falter, and open up the app. Stare at the you matched with James three days ago! Banner at the top of the screen. Maybe he hasn’t seen it at all, and you’re hiding for no reason. He could be someone who never even checks who he matches with unless they message first, because he just gets so many matches. Jealousy stabs through your heart, sour and sharp, and you sigh.

It’s your best hope. That he’ll just never know.

But he matched with you, too.

He could just swipe right on every girl he sees. That’s a thing you hear men do.

Bucky’s not the type to do that.

He’s also not the type to be looking for his Queen. Maybe you don’t know him as well as you thought you did.

But you’re pretty sure you do.

This is making your head hurt.

Your real best bet is that someone’s been catfishing as James Barnes, but there’s no real hope of that with the bar photo. You’re going to have to quit your job and change your name. Maybe Steve can reference you to another similar job if you apologize enough. Maybe you can move to Alaska and learn how to be a fisherwoman. You’re not very patient. And you’re not going to be able to afford your nice gloves anymore. Maybe you should just die. The best option might just be dying-

Your phone buzzes.

Message from James.

You throw your phone again. He knows.

Death is looking lovely right now.

Your days off turn into a week off. Steve checks on you, but doesn’t push you to come back. If anything, he’s still trying to convince you to just take a real vacation.

“It’s going to help more than… What you’re doing right now.” He stands in the middle of your apartment, gesturing at your ice cream and the mess of clothing on the floor.

“This is helping plenty.” You mutter. Steve sighs.

“Look, I’m really not mad about you taking the time. I know you. You wouldn’t take it if you didn’t need it.”

“But?” You give him a pointed look, and his jaw ticks.

“But I wish you’d tell me what was goin’ on.” He says, sounding more sad than annoyed. “So I could help.”

You give him a tight smile. “Steve-“

“Anything you need. If I can’t get it, I’m sure Bucky or Nat could-“

“Steve.” You don’t want to hear about how Bucky can help you. Not when he knows perfectly well why you’ve gone into hiding. “I- I really don’t want to talk about it.”

Steve frowns, but lets it go. In the Steve way, where he keeps asking every time he visits, but always takes the no in stride.

“Can you at least tell me what I should be saying to everyone else?” He asks after a week. “People are noticing I’m missing my brain.”

You laugh softly. “I’m sick.”

“But you’re not.”

Not visibly. Your heart feels sick. Bucky’s sent you two more messages on the app, one into your personal number, and none on Teams, and you’ve read none of them. You don’t want to hear his gentle rejection, because it’s going to crush you into fine, little pieces.

“We’re worried about you.” Steve says. “And again, no rush to come back, but I don’t know how to work my own schedule and Bucky’s started pacing whenever I try to do your job, so-“

“Bucky’s pacing?” You blurt, and Steve blinks.

“Yeah? Think he misses you, too.”

You swallow, and glance at your phone. The unread messages.

Bucky only paces when he feels like something is wrong. Really wrong.

And you don’t want to know. That he’s been thinking about. That he’s been pacing. Because it all ends the same anyway.

“I’ll be back soon.” You mumble, flipping your phone face down. You don’t want to know. “Just- A few more days.”

Steve looks at you like he doesn’t believe you. You don’t believe you.

But you’re a big girl. You can survive a little rejection, and it doesn’t have to be anything at all.

You’re going to keep going, and this won’t have to have been anything at all.

Nobody asks, when you get back to the office. Nat and Sam check in that you’re okay, and Steve lets you pick lunch three days in a row—and you think he’s blaming himself for everything, which at least tells you that Bucky hasn’t snitched about anything—but the only thing waiting for you is a phone full of voicemails and a crowded calendar.

And Bucky.

Bucky, who almost acts like nothing even happened at all.

Almost.

He’s staring more than he used to, and he’d always stared quite a lot. When you’re left alone in a room together, he stares until you look up at him, before immediately coughing and looking back to his own papers. He lingers outside of Steve’s office until you ask if he needs to talk, and he shakes his head and runs off like a teenager caught trying to buy drinks. Nat shouts at him after two meetings where he wasn’t paying attention, and he mutters that he was distracted.

“What?! What could you possibly have been so distracted by that you missed every cue Sam gave you, five times in a row?”

He just shrugs, and you can feel his gaze burning straight into your heart. You bow your head, and pretend you don’t see it.

You still haven’t looked at the messages. You’re not going to. And he hasn’t brought it up, so it’s like nothing ever happened.

Like nothing ever happened.

But it happened. The world ended, but it also just kept spinning, and now you’re suspended in a world where Bucky doesn’t even treat you like a friend anymore.

Steve notices. Of course he does. Asshole.

“Did something happen?” He asks softly. “Did Bucky… Say something to you?”

You look up with wide eyes, mouth going dry. “Wha- What? No, Bucky- James and I, it’s fine.” You laugh, high and nervous. “Everything’s fine.”

Steve hums, and he doesn’t believe you. You can see it, shining in his eyes. “You know… I’ve known Bucky a long time.”

“I know. I’ve read the about page.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “No. I mean, yes, but-“ He sighs. “Bucky’s not good at… Talking. When something matters to him, he shows it.”

“Okay.” He’s shown you nothing but silence and stares.

“And he, um- He’s a good guy-“

“I’m aware.”

“I know you are, but-“ Steve sighs, slumping in his chair. “Just, if Bucky ever says something to you, or asks you to do something, and you don’t want to, don’t. I’d rather you piss him off then feel pressured. Not that he’d pressure you,” he adds quickly. “But if there’s ever… Anything. And I’ve been wrong about… Stuff. Just know you’re as valuable as he is.”

He’s speaking in riddles. This has been a long few weeks. “Okay.”

“Okay.” Steve nods, taking in a deep breath. “And is there… Anything you want to tell me? As my friend?”

It’s a mean card to play. You almost want to. Steve’s kind, and he gives good advice, and you believe him. You know that if you confessed your silent, raging love for Bucky, Steve would just support you.

But you don’t need someone to support you right now. You need someone to smack you in the face and tell you to stop being a baby about your crush not liking you back.

“No.” You give him a strained smile, and it hurts on your face. “Why, is there something you need to tell me?”

Steve stares at you for a moment, then slowly shakes his head. “No. Just… You were missed.”

There’s a long moment of silence, and Steve clears his throat.

“By everyone.”

You nod, useless tears stinging at your eyes, and look back to your work.

Later that day, Bucky goes into Steve’s office and they talk for two hours. You want to eavesdrop, but that would be a new, pathetic low.

You stare at Bucky’s head through the glass, and chew on a pencil until it snaps in half.

When Bucky leaves the office, he stops in front of your desk and lingers. You can feel the heat from his body, and you’d like to fall into it. He clears his throat, and you look up like he’d grabbed your chin and demanded it.

His eyes are shining on yours, and you’ve never seen his jaw clenched so tight. As if he’s disgusted, just from the sight of you.

“You look nice.” He rasps, and you can’t tell if you’re glowing or burning out.

“Thank you.”

He nods, looking up to the ceiling, then back to you. “We all missed you.”

“I’ve been told-“

“I missed you.” He says those words firmer. They sink into your core, molten and demanding, so overwhelming you’re not even sure what to do with yourself.

You’ve been staring at him too long. Words are failing you, thoughts are failing you, and-

“I, uh- I’ll leave you to it-“

“You too.” You breathe out, and Bucky stumbles back like you hit him. “I- I missed you too.”

He blinks. His nostrils flare, and he gapes at you with a red face. For a second, you don’t see the calm, collected man you know and adore so well. You see something closer to a teenage boy, fumbling and gaping and unsure what to do with his own strength.

You like him, just as much as you like the rest of Bucky. Love it.

Endlessly and uselessly love it.

Bucky turns on his heels, and almost runs back to his office. Your nails dig into your palms, and you force your attention back to your work.

It will pass. All of this, like every storm, is going to have to pass.

You get a night off. Steve has a date, and it’s the one part of his life you have and want nothing to do with. You were going to use the evening to catch up on more voicemails, until Sam shooed you out of the building like a bird. Go rest, woman.

You are resting.

By catching up on emails.

There’s a knock on your door, long after anyone should be out doing anything. You don’t move from the couch at first, because you think it’s a mistake.

Then the knock repeats. Louder than the first time. And someone shouts your name, muffled through the door.

Not a mistake.

Bucky. That’s Bucky’s voice.

You fall, trying to get up. Your knees feel like jelly, and you haven’t even seen him yet, but he’s already doing that thing where his attention makes you feel like you’re made of electric static. Sensitive and empty-headed in the best and worst way. You can barely stand it. You can’t really stand at all.

When you finally—somehow—make it to the door, Bucky’s standing on the other side like he’s awaiting inspection. Tall and silent, shoulders squared and arms behind his back, looking at you like you’re holding his life in your hands.

You stare at him. He stares back, and you can measure your every breath in heartbeats. Louder and louder in your ears.

“Hi.” You finally say, shifting on your feet, and his throat bobs.

“Hey.”

“What’re you-“

“I wanted to check on you.” He blurts, and you freeze. “And- Talk.”

You ignore that last part. It’s the last thing you want to do. “I’m fine.”

Bucky’s pretty lips tug down. “You took two weeks off.” He mutters. “You don’t even take sick days.”

You swallow. “I- I was trying to take care of myself-“

“By working the whole time?” He looks past you again, and you follow his gaze.

Right to your laptop, open on an email draft.

“You’re supposed to be takin’ tonight off too.” He says, a little scolding, and you stiffen.

“You’re not my boss.”

Bucky chuckles. Low and deep, shivering up your spine. “Trust me, doll. I’m fully aware of that.”

Oh. That does something nice to your core. You think you might be getting a fever.

“James…”

“Bucky.” He grunts, and you take an unsteady breath. Staring at his chest seems to be the most effective way to speak to him.

“Bucky, I- I’m fine, really-“

“I brought you flowers.” He says suddenly, and his hands shoot out from behind his back.

He’s holding out a large bouquet of roses and lilies, each in about three different colors. It’s a stark contrast to his black suit and neatly pressed white shirt, petals spilling and little bits of yellow pollen clinging to the stems. To the cuffs of his sleeves.

Bucky clears his throat, pushing the flowers a little further forward. You take them with shaking hands, a little worried they’ll dissolve the moment you touch them. They don’t. And Bucky clears his throat.

“I, uh- I gave you options, and-“ He shakes his head, rubbing the back of his neck. “Can I come in? Please?”

You can’t think of a good reason to say no. You don’t even think you’d get out the words, if you tried. So you nod, and step to the side.

And now Bucky’s in your apartment. Looking around at your things and licking his lips, nodding slowly. He fits into it, like a puzzle piece being slowly slotted in, and-

No.

You can’t think like that. It’s not going to help anyone, not by far.

He brought you flowers.

To apologize for breaking your heart.

Bucky looks back to you, bracing his hands on his hips. You swallow, hugging yourself tight, and neither of you dare to move. Bucky takes a ragged breath, looks to the side, and back to you with the strangest, most anguished expression you’ve ever seen on his handsome face.

“Tell me if I’m steppin’ over the line.” He starts, urgent and pleading. “You gotta tell me if I’m steppin’ over the line.”

“Bucky-“

“We both know why I’m here.” He takes a step forward. You take a step back.

Bucky freezes, and you take a shaking breath, staring at his shoes.

“I- I’m sorry.” You mumble. “I didn’t mean to-“

“You didn’t?” Bucky cuts you off, and you glance up to see him frowning. “At all?”

You blink. “No, I- I don’t know.”

“You don’t know if you meant it?”

You nod, and Bucky’s jaw works tight.

“Could you?”

“What?”

“Could you mean it?” He rasps, and your mouth falls uselessly open.

“Ja-  Bucky.” You shake your head, stepping further back. If this is a trick, you’re too fragile to fall for it. “I- I don’t know.”

“Why not?” He takes a step forward, your eyes trapped together. “Is it me?”

“Is it you?”

“Yeah, I- I mean- You don’t really date.” He clears his throat. “And Stevie’s never told me why, ‘cause- I’m not your boss, but I’m not not your boss- ‘s what Sam says-“

You’ve never heard him ramble. Never heard him speak like he’s not sure of the next work. It’s just as endearing as the display at the desk, but you’re even less sure what to do with it. “Bucky-“

“If it’s just me that you’re not- That’s the reason.” He’s standing over you now. Bowing his head. “Then that’s fine. I’m not gonna be an ass about it. But…” His shoulders slump. “If it’s not that. Then I- I’d like to…”

He trails off, giving you a hopeful look.

But you’re lost. Nothing he’s saying is making sense, and you’re almost being dragged under by the current of his words.

“What?” You repeat, more pleading than before. Bucky sighs.

“You never answered my messages.” He mutters. “Figured I’d need to ask in person. Needed to hear it.” He clears his throat, lips twitching. “Even if it’s a no.”

“Even…” You frown. “Even if what’s a no?”

His head shoots up, and his frown deepens. “I’m… Asking you out. On a date?”

Oh.

What.

Your surprise must be written all over your face, because Bucky looks bewildered. He can join the club.  

You just keep staring at him stupidly, and he says your name, slow and measured.

“You read my messages, right?”

You shake your head, and he groans.

“I- I’m sorry-“

“No, it’s- It’s my fault.” He mutters. “Nat told me you were oblivious-“

You cut him off indignantly. “I am not oblivious-“

“We matched on a dating app.” He drawls, lips twitching slightly. “And you’re shocked I’m askin’ you out.”

You scowl, hugging yourself tighter. “I thought you made a mistake.” You grumble, and Bucky chuckles.

He takes another step forward. Close enough that you can smell him, smell his cologne and aftershave and something deeper that’s just Bucky. You step back more out of fear that you were about to fall forward.

Bucky follows you.

Suddenly your pinned against your counters, Bucky’s arms braced on either side of your body. You swallow. Bucky’s tongue darts over his lips, and you think you did drown in his everything. You’ve been swept out to sea, and there’s no hope of being dragged out to shore.

And with how Bucky’s looking at you, you’re not sure you’d ever ask to be saved.

“You.” Bucky reaches up, brushing hair out of your eyes with a small smile. “Are not a mistake. And if someone’s been tellin’ you that you are.” He leans down, until your lips are almost brushing. “They’re damn lucky you’re lettin’ them make it.”

Dear God. You’re not strong enough for this.

“James…” You breathe out, and his brows knit. “Bucky. Don’t.”

He tenses around you. “Don’t?”

“Don’t.” You whisper, eyes dropping to his lips. They look so soft. “Don’t do this.”

Bucky leans a little back, but doesn’t pull fully away. “Why not? I told you, if it’s not ‘cause of me, we can work it out-“

“Bucky-“

“I’ll quit.” He says suddenly, and you gape.

“You’re the boss, you can’t quit-“

“There are like, four bosses.” Bucky waves you off. “Five if we’re countin’ you, which I am, and you do twice the fuckin’ work. I’ll just quit, and you can have my job, and we can-“

“Bucky.” You grab his shirt, and he falls silent immediately. “Just- Stop. You can’t quit, you shouldn’t-“ You take a deep breath, trying to focus on speaking instead of crying.

Bucky says your name softly, and big hands thread through your hair as you start to sniffle. It’s so pathetic, but you’re tired and overwhelmed and you can’t take him doing this to you twice. You’re not the kind of girl Bucky Barnes is going to want. Not for real. Not for long. And you can’t handle him pretending you are.

“It’s not nice.” You whimper, even as he tugs you into his chest.

Pressing your face into his chest is just as amazing as you’d always imagined. You wish you weren’t crying when it finally happened.

“What’s not nice.” Bucky prompts gently, and you swallow.

“You.”

“Me?”

You nod, wrapping your arms around his torso. Bucky pets the back of your head, words low and cautious.

“What about me isn’t nice?”

You shake your head, hugging him tighter. You can’t stop. It’s like a reflex. “You can’t- You can’t say that stuff. ‘S mean.”

“Me tellin’ you I’d quit for you is mean?”

“You don’t mean it.”

Bucky tenses. “I do mean it-“

“No, it’s not- I’m not-“ You swallow, breathing him in. “I don’t just wanna be…”

You trail off. Bucky prompts you softly. “Be what?”

“Be fun.” You mumble. “I can’t do fun, you know than, and- And if you’re not serious, then-“

“I’m dead serious.” Bucky grunts, and you swallow.

“James-“

“No. Listen to me.” He picks you up without a warning, sitting you on the counter so you’re at his eye level. You grab his shoulders, and he keeps his hands planted on your hips, almost holding you under his words.

Forcing you to hear them, as he watches you like you’re the most important thing in the world.

“I am serious about this. About you.” He grabs one of your hands, holding it between your bodies. “I have wanted you since I met you. Don’t look at me like that,” he squeezes your hand when you give him a doubtful frown. “I have. You are beautiful and smart and bossy, and I’ve been obsessed with you so much, Nat’s slapped me about it twice.”

You swallow, closing your eyes tight. You can’t look at him right now. “Your profile said looking for casual.” You mutter, and Bucky snorts.

“Last year, Sam made that thing for me. ‘Cause I was obsessed with Stevie’s new PA, and I needed to get under someone to get over it.”

“Hm.” You peek at him. He looks sincere. “Did you?”

“I got under many someone’s.” He shrugs. “Didn’t have Sam’s intended effect. Think I just wanted you more, after every time.”

You swallow. That does explain a lot about the profile, in hindsight. Those were all very Sam things to say.

“I want you.” Bucky murmurs, pressing a little closer. Your noses are bumping, and he’s still not looking away. “You’re in my dreams, and days without you are nightmares. Just- One shot. It’s all I need. Please.”

And God, you want to give it to him. More than anything. You want to tell him that he doesn’t even need his shot, he hit a bullseye a year ago and you’ve just been waiting for him to realize it since.

But-

“I’m a virgin.” You blurt, and Bucky blinks.

“Okay-“

“I can’t do what others can. For you. And I- I don’t know how anything works- Well, I know how sex works, I got an A in health class, but everyone got an A in health, but I got an A and paid attention, and-“ You’re rambling. “I just don’t know how dating works, or- Or relationships, and I’m not- You’re very- You.”

You gesture over his everything, and Bucky’s lips twitch.

“That a problem, doll?”

“No. God, no. You’re perfect, I’m just- Not? And that’s not really fair to you-“

Bucky grabs your face, and your cut off in a kiss.

You’ve seen kissing in the movies and on TV. Read about it a million times. It’s always all sweet and romantic, with swelling music and breeze and passion.

And nothing has done it justice at all.

Kissing Bucky is awkward for a second—his lips slotted over yours, your whole body frozen as it shuts down, then reboots—and then it’s like breathing. Your hands fly back to his shoulders, your legs spread so you can lean further forwards, and your lips move without a thought. Pressing against Bucky’s, moving in a dance he seems more than happy to lead, chasing at the slight chance that you could have just a little more.

One of Bucky’s hands finds this back of your head, and the other grabs your waist. Dragging you further forward until your chests are pressed tight, massaging the softness there in rhythm with his lips. You sigh, breathy and content, and Bucky presses further down. He’s all you can feel, muscle under your hands and love pounding in your heart. You nails scrape his neck, and he groans into the kiss.

The sound vibrates against your spread thighs. His hand on your waist flexes, fingers digging into the softness, and you gasp.

Bucky pulls back too fast, and you follow. Tugging him back, unwilling to let him go just yet. He follows for a second, tongue tracing over your lower lip, then yanks himself back.

His brow presses against yours, and you both breathe raggedly.

“I like you.” Bucky almost growls. His thumb presses over your swollen lips, palm cupping your cheek, and you melt further into him than you already were.

“Bucky-“

“You’re what I want.” He leans forward, demanding and pleading all at once. “Your body.” He pushes his hand under your shirt, rough fingers dragging against sensitive skin. “Is a bonus.”

You shiver, whimpering softly. You feel pliant. Dizzy, in a way that no flirting or video has ever rendered you before. You think Bucky might’ve sucked your soul out with that kiss. You’d like him to do it again.

But when you try to lean up, Bucky pushes you gently back down. You whine, and his lips twitch.

“You like me too.” He mutters, watching you like he’s somehow still unsure.

“Mhm.” You say, and he stands a little taller.

“How long-“

“The same.”

“Oh.” He grins. “Good. That’s- Good-“

You slam back up, kissing him with an open mouth and sloppy need. Bucky responds immediately, and heat is starting to build between your thighs. It’s not just going to go away with a little touching and petting. It’s almost painful. You need him.

Bucky pulls away again. You’re going to punch him.

“Jesus.” He mutters, staring down at your desperate expression. “You gotta slow down, baby-“

“Don’t want to.” You breathe, pulling at his shirt. “Want you, Bucky. Want you now.”

His throat bobs, eyes darkening, but he remains composed. “You… You’re a virgin-“

“Then show me.”

Bucky says your name, and now he’s the one begging. But you’re not letting him off this easy.

“Show me, Bucky.” You rest your chin on his chest, giving him your best pout.

He grabs your face between big hands, chest heaving as he stares at you. You offer a sweet smile, and his nostrils flare.

“Please.” You whisper. “Anything. I just want to feel you.”

“Feel me.” He echoes, like he can’t believe it. “You wanna feel me?”

You nod, and he presses his brow over yours his, his eyes squeezed shut.

“And you want me to show you.” He rasps. “All the different ways I can make you feel good.”

You nod frantically, almost clawing at his shirt. Bucky’s eyes shoot open.

“Yeah?” He grunts, and you whine.

“Yeah. Yes. Please-“

He grabs your jaw, grip hard and unyielding, folds over you like he’s trying to fuse your bodies together. His lips move, harsh and hungry, and his hand on your hip starts to knead the skin like he’s trying to leave a mark.

“Wanted this for so long.” He grunts, dragging his hand down to squeeze your ass. “Wanted you. So fuckin’ bad.”

You moan into his mouth, and Bucky sucks on your lower lip. You can’t have enough of him. He’s warm and leaves little fires everywhere he touches. You’d like them to sweep through you, overtake you and send you higher.

“So gorgeous.” Bucky’s hand moves lower, resting on your upper thigh. “Thought about you all the time, hated bein’ in a room and not getting to touch you, was so sure I was going to lose my damn mind not havin’ you be mine.”

“I- I wanted you too.” You breathe out, almost delirious from his kisses. “Always wanted it to be you, never- Oh-“

You lose your ability to speak for a second, when Bucky starts to kiss under your ear. Your body goes pliant and soft, and his growl against your skin sends a shiver up your spine. He’s holding the back of your neck now, guiding it to offer himself better access. You tug on his hair and he moans. It makes your knees wobbly.

“Never anyone else,” you breathe, and he seems to like that. The massive hand on your thigh shifts slightly, so Bucky’s thick fingers are grazing your core through your clothing.

It’s a perfect pressure where you’d been craving any of his attention, and it’s a promise of more later. Your legs give out, eyes fluttering as your brain short circuits with arousal.

Bucky picks you up like you weigh nothing. Your nails dig into the back of his neck as he sits you on the counter, back arching as he captures your mouth in another kiss.  

“No one else.” He mutters, hand on your neck slowly, possessively moving down your spine. “Never gonna be anyone else, doll. Not for you,” he nips at your jaw, hand on your thigh teasing the sensitivity under your shirt. “Sure as shit not for me. Been no one else since I started thinkin’ of you.”

Your breath hitches, and you lean back with wide eyes. “Bucky, you don’t have to-“

“I’m not lying.” He says firmly, dropping his brow against yours. You try to lean back, but he grabs your chin, forcing your eyes back together.

You blink at him hopelessly, grabbing at the collar of his shirt like you’re looking for balance. Bucky gives you a tiny smile, pressing his lips sweetly over yours. Another, softer promise.

“No one,” he murmurs. “Was ever gonna live up to you. First few months I’d fuck a girl and feel sick the next day. Like I’d done you wrong.”

“You- You didn’t-“

“Yeah, I did. We coulda been doin’ this a lot sooner.”

You flush, looking down to where your bodies are pressed so tight together. Bucky’s dress shirt and hidden muscle, both hard and gentle all at once. Your sleeping clothes and bare feet, swinging off the counter. You lean a little further into him, suddenly feeling rather small.

“What if I’m not…” You take a deep breath, frowning at the floor. “What if I don’t-“

Bucky says your name, concerned and caring, and you shake your head.

“What if I’m not the fantasy, Bucky.” You look back up with your best pleading eyes. “What if that- That idea of me isn’t worth what you thought?”

His brows knit tight, and you try to shirk away as he studies you. You can’t tell if you like it or not, but you know you feel bare. And you both want him to look away, and never go where you can’t reach him again.

Bucky’s lips twitch. He leans forward slowly, kissing each corner of your mouth before taking it fully under his. The kiss is hot and commanding, almost forcing your brain to slow back down. You dissolve into it, your thoughts a nice haze of Bucky. He guides your legs a little further apart, and takes both of your wrists in one of his hands, pinning them behind you.

“I love you,” he mutters. “I told you. And remember,” he pulls back with that lovely, secret smile. “I’m helpin’ you through it, right?”

You nod, and Bucky leans back forward, bumping your noses together.

“Trust me?”

“Yes.” You breathe, and he grins.

“Good girl.”

Heat floods between your legs, and oh. You like that. You’re shaking a little bit, you like it so much. Want it so much. Want Bucky.

Like he’s reading your mind, he rasps against your lips. “You enjoyed other things before?”

You nod, unable to tell if that’s another flush or just how turned on you are, and Bucky smirks.

“Like what?” He kisses your cheek, massaging your thighs. “Tell me what you like, sweetheart. What you want.”

“I- I want to be under.” You whisper, and you think his hands might be magic. Pulling answers out of you that you would’ve rather died with an hour ago. “Want you over me. Tell- Telling me what to do.”

Bucky hums, nosing at your neck. You close your eyes, forcing on.

“Tell- Tell me how good I’m doing. And- Other stuff.”

He leans back, and your core throbs at the shine in his eyes. Like he’s going to eat you alive. “Other stuff?” He rasps, and you nod weakly.

“If you can- Can do that.” It’s hard to focus, between his piercing gaze and the hand wandering between your legs. Teasing your inner thigh, until you’re voice is high and breathy. “Do that, and- and be-“

“Be a little mean?” He coos, thumb pressing over your aching button. You swallow, and nod.

“A little mean.” You echo, and Bucky grins.

“Yes, ma’am.” He kisses you again, slow and romantic, and you barely notice his hand moving away. “Think that’s enough outta you for now.”

“Wha- Bucky-“

He steps away. Without warning, Bucky just backs up, and you almost fall off the counter trying to chase him. He laughs, and pushing you back into place in a second, then moves away again. Where you can’t follow.

“Bucky, come back-“

“Nope.” He grins, like he knows you’re already too lost to chase him. He probably does. Asshole. “You want me to show you?”

You scowl. “James-“

“Call me whatever you want, baby. You ain’t gonna be able to talk at the end, anyway.” He braces his hands on his hips, raising a brow. “Want me to show you.”

He won’t come back until you answer, so you just nod, crossing your arms like a scolded child. Bucky grins, and you’re hoping for another good girl and kiss, but he doesn’t even lean closer.

“Alright.” He stands a little taller. “Strip.”

You blink at him. “What?”

“Strip.”

“Like, completely?”

“Hm.” He pauses, raking over your body in a way that really shouldn’t make you feel more turned on. “Yep. All of this, off.”

He waves to your body, and gives you a silent, challenging look. Like he’s expecting you to go back, and ask for that date first.

But at this point, you’re going to explode if he doesn’t make you cum. And you’ve never backed down from him before. You have no interest in starting now.

Slowly, you peel off your sweater. Your shirt. The cold air hits your bare chest, and not wearing a bra was the right choice. Bucky’s looking at you like he wants to eat you alive, the evidence of your effect on him straining through his pants.

Your nipples are peaked, and you awkwardly palm at them the way you’ve seen in porn. Bucky shifts on his feet, hand flexing like he’s trying not to reach for you, so you repeat the motion again.

“Pants.” He grunts, and you smile sweetly.

“Please?”

Bucky chuckles, like he can’t believe you. “Jesus, woman-“

“It’s polite-“

“If you don’t take your pants off.” He grunts, giving you a firm look. “I’m gonna rip off your pants and fuck you on this counter right now.”

You swallow. That doesn’t sound all that bad, but-

Something foolish and lovesick inside of your chest demands that tonight be special. So you move on from your breast, but give Bucky a nervous smile.

“Next time?”

He softens slightly, and nods. “Next time. Pants.”

You smile, and he smiles back. But the expression quickly shifts back into desire, as you shuffle out of your pants. You take your underwear down in one motion as well, leaving you completely exposed. At Bucky’s mercy.

And he’s just watching you.

Watching you and rubbing his crotch, where an erection is demanding attention. The lewd sight makes you fuzzy in all the right places, your own legs spreading a little wider apart.

You need him so bad it hurts. Your fingers dip into your wet pussy, clumsily rubbing your clit, and Bucky groans.

Suddenly he’s back against you, staring at your hand between your legs and panting like a dog.

“Look at you.” He groans, dragging his gaze back up your naked body. “Better than a dream.”

“Thank you.” Your hips buck up against your own, suddenly flimsy and useless hand. You’ve touched yourself before. With Bucky all around you, it’s simply not enough. “Bucky- You-You need to touch me-“

“I know.” He grunts, lips ghosting over yours. “Need you to be ready, just-“

His throat bobs as he cuts himself off, his hand on his own hard dick suddenly pressing against your pussy. A spasm shoots through your body, and you almost fly off the counter.

Bucky presses further down, attaching his lips to your neck and collarbone. His tongue flicks against a pulse point as he spreads your pussy lips. Rubbing up and down while his thumb circles around your clit, working you up and up and up. You’re panting in his ear, vulnerable and dazed, and Bucky hums against your skin.

“Shirt.” He grunts. “Get my shirt off.”

You nod, and it should be a simple task. But Bucky’s relentless. He suckles on your neck, leaving possessive bruises on your skin all while working your pussy and drawling in your ear.

“I know exactly how I want you, pretty girl.” He mutters, flicking your clit with his thumb. “Told you I’ve been thinkin’ about it forever. ‘Bout every single way I’d take you if I got the chance. And I’m gonna show you all of them,” he kisses over a bruise, teasing two fingers against your fluttering core. “But tonight, we’re takin’ it easy.”

You whine, fumbling with just the top button of his shirt. “I- I don’t want easy-“

“I know, baby.” He presses just the tip of his finger into your cunt, and you clench around him with a whine. “But you’re so sensitive.”

If you had the power right now, you’d hit him for saying it like that. All mocking and syrupy. Making you try to fuck your hips down onto his fingers. But Bucky just pulls fully out, moving his attention back to your swollen clit.

“You need to take care of the buttons.” He whispers, pushing down hard on the bundle of nerves. “They need a little extra attention.” He rubs his thumb back and forth. “Before we get goin’.”

“Fuck- Bucky-“ You breathe, almost slumped against his chest. Your fingers are shaking, desperate to just hold onto something as thighs spread as wide as they can go. “Fuck you-“

He chuckles, kissing the side of your head as his thumb picks up speed. “We’re getting there, needy girl.”

You scrape at his forearm, one hand still trying to pry his shirt open with no real resolve at all. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you, the asshole. Driving you insane with the teasing over your exposed entrance, never fully offering relief. You manage to get the top button open, but then Bucky pushes down hard on your clit, and an open moan falls from your lips as you double over.

“That’s it.” Bucky laughs, low and dangerous in your ear. “Doesn’t that feel good, baby?”

You nod, watching him move on you. “Bu- Bucky-“ You pull on his collar. “Help…”

“You’ve got it.” He says simply, spreading two fingers and dragging them between your pussy lips. “Just keep tryin’.”

There is no world where you have it, but Bucky’s words are enough for you to keep grasping fruitlessly at the fabric. Your head drops onto his shoulder, as you paw at his shirt. He laughs, rumbling through his chest, and slows his pace on your clit.

“All the ways I’ve pictured havin’ you.” He mutters. “This is the prettiest. Got you nice and ready, barely even touched you.”

“You’re- You’re touching me-“

“Not like I could touch you.” He says, a deep promise in his voice. “Told you, I’m going easy on my best girl. But if I wanted…”

He chuckles, kissing the side of your head. Pushing on your clit as your body starts to wiggle, trying to find more relief. “Bucky-“

“Every time I’ve seen you, layin’ on the couch.” He presses further forward, his bulge against your thigh. “I’ve thought about putting my hands all over your perfect fuckin’ body. Touching these tits,” he ducks his head, and your breath hitches as he kisses over the curve of your breast. “Touchin’ this sweet little pussy.” He plays with your clit like it a toy. “And makin’ you squirt all over Stevie’s nice cushions.”

“I’d look at you.” You gasp, holding onto his shirt for dear life. “In your chair. Wanted to sit on your lap.”

Bucky groans, hips jerking slightly. “Shit, I’ve thought about that too. Pinning you on my cock ‘till you’re sobbing, fucking you over my desk- Christ, whenever you’d bend over I’d just want to drag your ass back and fuck it ‘till you were drooling.”

“Fuck, yes.” You’ve given up on the shirt.

Your hand is wandering down between your bodies, and you rub against Bucky’s crotch, trying to return some of the favor. Bucky moans into your ear, pressing his hand flat over your cunt.

“Shit, you- Can’t just fuckin’-“ Bucky grunts your name, and you roll your hips against his hand.

“Need it. Need it, Bucky- Just- Your fingers, please-“

“No.” He mutters, his own voice gravelly as you squeeze him. “Can’t be patient, can you, sweetheart? Want this cock so bad you’re just grabbin’ for it, wasn’t even able to get my shirt off-“

“It’s a mean game.” You breathe, and he laughs, pushing his lips back over yours.

“You started it.” He brushes the hair from your face, easily moving you backwards until you’re just groping for something of him to hold onto.

“Why can’t you just- Just fuck me-“

“Because you wanted to be a good girl.” Bucky’s kisses are turning slow. Lazy. He’s groping your pussy again, but with far less purpose.

Just spreading your arousal and teasing everywhere you need him, driving you up to an edge you think might take away your mind. A mind you’d be happy to lose for him, if he’d just take it.

“And I want to show you.” Bucky rests his thumb over your entrance, his free hand pushing on your abdomen. Forcing you to stay still. “But you’ve got a greedy pussy, sweet girl. Think you need a little break?”

You shake your head—you do not want a break—but Bucky pushes his thumb a little harder, and you squeak.

“Bu- Bucky-“

“Look at me.” He orders, and you don’t have another choice. His voice is magnetic.

With just the top button exposing his sweaty collarbone and his erection evidence that he cares about this as much as you do, all of Bucky is magnetic. Gravitational. And it makes you feel so unbelievably good, just to be seen by him.

Being fucked by him might kill you.

It’s a risk you’re willing to take.

“Hi.” He smiles, and your lips wobble with need.

“Hi.”

“You still in this?”

You nod, and Bucky’s throat bobs.

“I’d like you to say it-“

“Yes, sir.” You can’t help yourself from saying it.

It’s supposed to be mocking. But your voice is still high, and Bucky looks at you like you’ve lost your mind.

“You’re lucky you’re so pretty.” He shakes his head, tone something between amused and exhausted. “Otherwise you’d be a really fuckin’ brat.”

You flush violently, and Bucky slaps your pussy once. Just enough to make you feel like you’ve been struck by lightning, and mold back into his whims.

“One day.” He drawls, one knuckle pushing up to press on your clit. “I’m gonna get you on my face. Let you ride me, fuckin’ suffocate between your legs.”

You’re shaking, watching him. He’s talking like he’s predicting the weather, but your head is running wild. The image of Bucky under you, forcing your cunt onto his generous mouth. It would be hot and wet, his hands would leave bruises, and, and-

“You’re so reactive,” he mutters, using featherlight swipes of his thumb against your clit. “Think I could make you squirt on me. It’ll be like this,” he starts to move in tiny, rapid motions back and forth. “Like this. But my tongue,” he licks up your neck, nipping at the underside of your jaw. “And your needy clit bein’ sucked like I’ve got some fuckin’ candy.”

He pinches your clit, and starts to roll it back and forth. You can feel a pressure, building and building. It’s almost blindingly good.

“You’re makin’ such nice sounds for me.” Bucky mutters. “Bet you’ll sound even better, coming apart all over my cock.”

You nod, humping into his hand. You need more, but just when you think it’s going to snap, Bucky’s hand moves back down. 

“You feel this, baby?” He circles his thumb against your hole, and you hum, eyes flutters. “She’s ready for me.”

“Yes.” You breathe. “Ready, Bucky, please- Wait-“

You almost whine when he pulls away again, but this time it’s for a good cause. Bucky rips his shirt off, tossing it to an unimportant corner of the room.

He’s a work of art. All thick, tanned muscle and scars from his time in the army. They ripple when he moves, decorate him like earned tattoos, and you want to map each one with your fingers. His arms are fucking tanks, reaching out for you, and you tumble into them without a thought.

Bucky hauls you into his arms, hooking under your ass and dragging you off the counter with only a grunt.

“Legs around me.” He orders, and you obey. It’s nice to be this close to him.

Plus the bonus, of getting to try and ride his chest while he carries you to your room. You stumble and giggle, trying to give him directions. Bucky shoves open your door with his shoulder, and you laugh as he walks backwards to the bed, his knees hitting the mattress and sending you both tumbling down.

“Shit- Bucky!” You shriek with delight as Bucky rolls you over, trapping you under his broad body. “Oh- Ooh-“

Your words fall off as he kisses you into the mattress, settling between your spread legs quickly. Your hands wander over the expanse of his back, and it’s a nice wealth to be crushed under. You’re losing cognitive function again, as Bucky ruts his still covered erection against your wet core. You don’t know how he’s kept it together so long. You feel like you’re going to cry with desperation, and you’re fully at his whims.

This is nice, though. It’s a hot pressure—still far from what you need, but enough to tide you over—and Bucky’s wall of muscle around might be the best things you’ve ever felt. Your tits pressed against his chest, his arms braced by your head as you just make out like teenagers. He glides one hand down, rolling your nipple between calloused fingers, and you gasp softly.

“Bu- Bucky-“

“I’m gonna start slow.” He murmurs, low and commanding. “Then pick it up. Fuck you ‘till you can’t walk, baby. Give you what you deserve.” He drops his hips, forcing you to stop grinding up. “That sound good?”

You nod, blinking hopelessly up at him, and he smiles.

“Good girl.” You get a sweet kiss on your cheek, his beard tickling softly. “Stay down.”

You don’t understand the request until he’s moving again, and suddenly it seems impossible. Being naked in front of him had been one thing. Naked, sprawled out in bed below him, and watching him strip is another thing.

Bucky sits up on his knees, never breaking eye contact as he pulls off his belt. You start to chew on your lower lip, and he moves back forward, stopping you with a gentle press of his thumb.

“Easy.” He murmurs. “Relax.”

You whimper, but try to. For Bucky.

And you think you might be turning into a puddle anyway, under the reverence in his gaze.

Bucky gets his pants off with practiced ease, and your mouth falls open.

His cock is thick and big. Veiny in a way you want to feel dragging against you, the head red and angry. Your breath catches as he starts to stroke it, just watching you wait for him.

Your legs close, trying to rub together for some friction. Bucky grabs your knee, and drags them back apart.

“Let me see you.” His thumb rubs in small circles. In a perfect rhythm, with his hand beating his cock. “Nice and relaxed for me, doll. Need you to be relaxed.”

You hum, watching him under hooded eyes. You can’t stop yourself from glancing down to his dick again. You feel empty, waiting for him. You’ve been waiting long enough as it is.

Bucky follows your gaze, and his lips twitch.

“You just walk around all the time?” He teases. “Waiting for some cock to fill you up.”

You nod, breathing through your mouth, and Bucky’s throat bobs.

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.” You whisper, dragging your gaze back to his. “Need to feel you, Bucky. Pleeease.”

He swears under his breath. “Legs a little wider. Now.”

You listen quickly, and Bucky lowers down. He drags his cock between the puffed, slick lips of your pussy, the head bumping against your clit.

“Dirty girl.” He hovers over you, watching your every breath as he plays with you. “So fuckin’ pretty, should be stuffed with cock all the time, shouldn’t you. Gonna keep you in my bed, fuck you full of me.” He kisses you quickly, his words getting rough. “My smart fuckin’ baby, begging for my cock.”

“Don’t- Don’t tease-“ You mumble, and Bucky grins.

“But you’re so pretty when I do.”

He kisses your cheek, and you feel raw. A live nerve, open for him and almost vibrating with desire. But Bucky’s hands are gentle against you. And you know.

He’s going to treat you well.

“You think you can let go for me?” His question is gentle. Almost soft. “Always workin’ so hard.” He notches himself at your entrance, and your breath catches. “I’m gonna take care of you, aren’t I.”

“Yes.” You whisper. “Please.”

Bucky grins, and kisses your lips. “That’s right. You just gotta take it.”

You don’t get to even nod, before Bucky starts to push in.

And you’re not a blushing nun. You’ve used your fingers, and even some toys. Tried to see what the big deal was. But it had just felt like something was inside of you, and kind of heavy, and mostly just annoying.

This is different.

Bucky splits you open, and it knocks the air from your lungs.

“Breathe.” He grunts in your ear, and you nod uselessly. “Breathe, baby.”

You gasp for air, burying your face in the crook of Bucky’s neck, and clawing at his shoulders.

He mutters your name, and you try to arch your back up, inviting more. You need more. Everywhere he isn’t feels cold and hollow. Bucky needs to smear himself all over you, or you’re going to lose your mind.

“More.” You manage to croak out, and Bucky grunts.

“Are you-“

“Yes- Fuuuuck-“

You moan, loud and shameless, as Bucky presses deeper in. He bullies your pussy open, thick cock pressing deep into you and making your feel more full than you could’ve ever felt possible. Your body feels like it’s singing, a shiver of delight pushing up your spine as he hits that spot inside you that you weren’t even sure was real.

Your pussy clenches involuntarily, and Bucky hisses in your ear.

“Shit- Relax.” His thumb snakes between your bodies, massaging your clit. “Let me in, babydoll, come on-“

The massaging helps. You melt into him with a shaking breath, head tipping back when he bottoms out.

Bucky’s head drops into your chest, his breath hot against your breasts. You’re just sitting in each other, in the sticky, feverish heat that might drive you insane.

“You feel… fuckin’ perfect.”

Bucky’s voice is a rasp, and he sounds like a man ruined.

You might have already lost your mind.

“You too.” You breathe out, and he chuckles.

The sound is a vibration, and you bite your lip as pleasure rushes right down to your toes.

“Oh… God.” You squeeze your eyes shut, clenching again, and Bucky grabs your hips.

“You gotta stop doin’ that-“

“Can’t.” You whine. “’S- You did it, you spent forever working me up, and- And now-“

His muscles shift around you, and that’s enough for your body to keen. Your back arches, pussy squeezing, and Bucky makes a guttural sound from his chest.

You squeak, when he pulls the tiniest amount out and slams back in. Your body goes completely limp, and Bucky pushes up over you, his cock still buried deep inside as he stares down at you.

“For someone who asked me to teach her, you’re bad at takin’ directions.”

“You- Bucky-“ He’s fucking you, shallow and slow. Just dragging back and forth. You might cry over it. “You- You knew that already-“

“I did.” He muses, pressing your hips further down. Forcing you to feel every thrust of his cock against your cervix. “It’s something that I love about you, y’know? So sweet and mouthy, all at once. My dream girl. So far outta my reach.”

He angles you a little up, letting him rut against your g-spot, and any chance of a sassy retort is knocked out of your head.

“Not right now, though.” His lips twitch. “Bet you’d tell me anythin’ right now, if I fucked you nice and properly. Fucked you like you deserve?”

Your head bobs, words slurred on lust. “Any- Anything, Bucky, oh my god- mmmmh-“

His thumb swipes your clit, and it’s like a tiny shock you can’t even react to. Your body jerks, but Bucky just pins you back into the mattress.

“Think I don’t want you to talk right now.” Bucky leans down, smirking as you blink with teary eyes. “We’re a little past that, aren’t we sweetheart?”

There’s something mean and powerful, radiating off of him right now. He really knows exactly where he has you right now. And you have no desire to be anywhere else. 

“Ye- Yes.” 

“Might’ve fucked you nicely, if we’d just talked a month ago.” He raises his brows. “But you made me wait for this pretty pussy. Hurting us both, baby.”

“I- I was-“

“I know.” He kisses your nose. “You are a fuckin’ brat. Bet you thought about this every time you touched yourself.”

“I- I did.” You confess. “Needed your cock, Bucky. You’re- You’re so big-“

You mewl, as he rolls his hips and slams back in. He kisses you, open-mouthed and sloppy, and you can feel your slick need running down your ass. Or just Bucky’s sweat, as he tenses with the effort to hold himself back.

Effort is visibly, slowly slipping.

“You feel that? Feel this dick inside of you?” He fucks a little harder, and your head rolls. “All yours, babydoll. This hard, just for you.”

You whine, and Bucky sucks on a soft spot at the base of your throat.

“You’re a natural.” He groans against your skin. “Made for this cock, made to be my pretty doll, and- shit-“

He rises back up, watching you with a dark, hungry gaze.

“You’re trying so hard, aren’t you. To not choke my dick with your tight little pussy.”

“I- I am, Bucky- Please-“

“You gonna be good and listen to me, now?”

You nod, doe-eyed and cockdrunk, and Bucky hums in satisfaction.

“Hands on my shoulders.” He instructs, and your body somehow finds the strength to listen. “Mouth open. No holding back, wanna hear how you like it. Hear you scream my name.”

He kisses under your jaw, and you moan loudly. Bucky’s lips curve, and he pulls a little further out than before.

“Just like that. Good, isn’t it?”

“So good.” You whine, and Bucky hums.

“Stay just like this for me, doll.” He drags fully out, then slams back in. You think you see stars behind your eyes, and a sound you didn’t know you could make is pulled from your chest.

“Buuccky-“

“I know. Needy girl, wound up so tight.” He sets a slow but brutal pace, his hands bruising into your hips as he holds you down. “I’ve got you now.”

And he does.

Bucky’s got you so good, you’re already ruined for anyone else.

He fucks you the same way he’s been kissing and touching you. Like he’s trying to lay a claim. Make it so there’s no question what he wants, no doubt in your head that this is anything but serious. His hips piston against you, but it’s not rapid. It’s the measured, strong work of someone who knows exactly what he’s doing.

If there’s a pleasure point on your body, Bucky’s finding it and using it. You babble, as he abuses your g-spot with the thick head of his cock. His kisses swallow your every moan and plea, and you can’t think beyond his massive body, completely draped over yours. You’re tangled together, his balls slapping your ass and hands wandering over your body like he owns it.

He drags your knees up to your chest, helping him hit even deeper. You’re so wet it’s smearing all over his cock, and the sight of him driving in and out of you is enough to make that pressure in your tummy feel like it’s going to explode.

Bucky’s beyond words himself, hunching over your and taking one of your nipples in his mouth as he grabs at the other. You mewl, eyes glazed over and body overwhelmed with the need to cum. You might scream if you don’t. You’re probably already screaming.

“I- I need- Bucky, please, please, fuck-“

You scratch at his shoulder, so close to toppling over the edge but unable to figure out how to just fall. Bucky grunts, slamming down harder. His tongue swirls your nipple, sucking the peak between full lips before he crashes back up. His kiss is sloppy and open. You’re writhing in the sheet, edged into complete oblivion and on the verge of tears.

“You having some trouble, babydoll?” Bucky teases, throaty and wrecked.

You nod, shaking with the need to snap.  Bucky hums, kissing you too sweetly to be productive.

“Let go for me.” He squeezes your ass. “Just let go.”

Bucky finds your clit, and barely even offers more than a tease before you’re coming with a scream of his name.

Your back flies off the mattress, your hips bucking, and you’ve never cum this hard in your life. The tension in you burst like fireworks, heat pooling down your pussy and your body trembling. Your vision goes white. You might black out for a second, the daze of pleasure clouding your gaze.

There’s nothing but Bucky, still pounding into you. The obscene sounds of it, his guttural moans and the slide of his cock through your spasming cunt. His thrusts are jagged and uneven, his mouth kissing you everywhere he can seem to reach.

He follows you quickly, thick ropes of cum painting your insides and dribbling out of your pussy.

Bucky kisses you one more time, before he pulls out. It’s slower, like he’s trying to memorize you. You reach up to cup his face, smiling against his lips, and he lets out a heavy breath.

“That wasn’t too-“

“Perfect.” You whisper, and he relaxes.

“Good. Good.” He rises back up, brushing away the hair stuck to your face.

For a second, you just watch each other.

And with Bucky looking at you like you’re the most beautiful thing in the universe, you feel like it.

He certainly treats you like it, too. Cleaning you up like you’re a princess, a treatment you never thought you’d want until it was Bucky offering. A warm, wet cloth between your thighs and a glass of water. He carries you into the bathroom, changes the sheets, then brings you back to bed.

He pauses after he sets you down, hovering around the mattress with a frown.

You scoot a little to the side, give him a hopeful look, and his shoulders slump.

He crawls into bed next to you, pressing his face into your breasts and holding you tight.

“We got things to talk about.” He mutters, and you hum, playing with his hair between your fingers.

“I know.”

“I was serious, about all of it-“

“I believe you.”

Bucky looks up at you with tired, but happy eyes. You smile, and they crinkle when he returns it.

It doesn’t matter if you’re the most anything in the world.

To him, you seem to be the world. And that’s more than enough.

“I’d like to take you out.” He says. “On a real date. Then the gala, too. If you-“

“Yes.” You beam. “Yes, please. I’d like that a lot.”

✦End note: bucky on a dating app has haunted me since tfatws. glad to do something with that.✦ ✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦ ✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦ ✦Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)✦

[bucksangel]

soft!dom!bucky thoughts™️ - spicy edition

since @kokeshi-mynx BROKE INTO MY HOUSE and DEMANDED that I write more softdom!bucky (aka she reblogged the first post and tagged it with "feed me more") I guess I'm forced to share more of my thoughts 🤷🏻‍♀️🤷🏻‍♀️

word count: 1.1k

warnings: 18+, MDNI, Daddy kink, dom!bucky, sub!reader, fluff, fingering, oral (f receiving), p in v sex, cockwarming, subspace, praise kink, spanking, lowkey housewife kink, pet names (princess), VERY mild ass-play, bucky is whipped

prev | masterlist | tip jar | ao3

soft!dom!bucky who loves sitting you on his cock when either of you are having a bad day. work was hell and you're too wound up to think? it's okay, you don't need to think. daddy's here, let him make it better. bucky’s having a little anxiety and his mind is too loud? can you make daddy feel better, princess? go ahead and take your shirt off too, let daddy play with your tits, it’ll help, promise.

soft!dom!bucky who takes intimacy seriously. your pleasure is his pleasure and he doesn't play around. there are times where the sex is more lighthearted, the occasional giggle slipping out if one of you fumbles, it's not as intense, but that's rare. bucky wants you to be happy and taken care of, and since he's the lucky bastard that's allowed to do that for you, he's always focused on making you feel his love, let it seep into your bones until there's not a single doubt that bucky worships the ground you walk on.

soft!dom!bucky who is big, but humble. he doesn't brag about his length or girth, even in the heat of the moment, but the first time you had sex he warned you that you'd need a lot of prep, and then spent almost five minutes reassuring you that you could take it when he finally stripped himself of his boxers. and maybe it was fucked up, but he couldn't deny that he got even more turned on when your eyes watered the first time he entered you. he barely got two inches into your tight hole before you whimpered, clutching his shoulders and bearing down on the intrusion. he cooed at you, kissed your tears away, and played with your clit, urging you to relax, that you were made for him just as he was made for you.

soft!dom!bucky who switches things up regularly, new positions or role play scenes he's thought up that keeps your sex life exciting. however, there are a few staples in regards to foreplay. for one, it usually lasts about an hour, fingers exploring your pussy slowly and carefully until you're stretched out on four of them. sometimes he'll lick and suck on your nipples or he'll nibble at the sensitive skin just below your ear, but he'll always get his mouth on your cute little clit. sucking it into his mouth and moaning when it causes you to get wetter, leaking down his wrist as he continues to stroke that special spot deep within you.

soft!dom!bucky who loves spanking you. not sharp, harsh slaps, but little swats to your backside while you're laying over his lap. he rarely ever spanks you as punishment, it's more for the simple pleasure of getting to make you squirm and moan, massaging your cheeks and letting his middle finger dip between them and tap your tightest hole a few times before giving you another swat. he loves playing with your body, lives for the moans and whines and pleas that tumble from your lips when you're overwhelmed with pleasure yet still begging for more, wants nothing more than to see that glazed over look in your eyes as you let yourself sink into the moment, floating on clouds and taking everything bucky has to offer.

soft!dom!bucky who never cums first. he never has with his past partners and he's not about to start now. no matter how good you feel, how tight and wet and hot your hole is, he has the self control to hold back his orgasm until you reach yours - preferably at least twice. if he were to be brutally honest with himself, watching and feeling and being the one to make you cum is better than any orgasm he could ever have.

soft!dom!bucky who loves coming home from work on a day you have off because that usually means you'll be in dolled up in nothing but one of his shirts and one of the dozen cute aprons he bought for you, toiling away over the stove after you've cleaned the entire house because he takes such good care of you and it's only fair that you return the favor, despite bucky insisting that you should never feel obligated to do anything for him. knowing that you know there's no pressure to cook and clean, it makes his tummy flutter a little. it's so endearing watching his princess fuss over his wellbeing when it's usually the other way around, but every so often he indulges in your wishes to sit in his lap and feed him because it makes you happy to take care of him too.

soft!dom!bucky who will never skimp on aftercare. it doesn't matter if it was a heavy scene or gentle lovemaking, he'll always pamper you after. it's pretty easy to get you out of your head, to get you all floaty and dumb, so expect him to cuddle you tightly to his chest after you've come down from your orgasm, wiping away any tears, smiling gently when you suck two of his fingers into your mouth, drowning you in kisses and praise. when you're a little more coherent, you always talk about what happened. what you liked, if there was anything you didn't enjoy - which is extremely rare - and what you would like to try again. he thinks it's extremely important to be communicative in any relationship, but especially one that has the power dynamics that yours does. then, he takes you to the bathroom and sit you on the toilet so you can pee, and will draw you a bath if you're up for it. most of the time you're too exhausted after sex to even think about getting clean - other than when bucky wipes you down - but bucky will then insist on showering the next day to make sure you're fully refreshed.

soft!dom!bucky who was genuinely surprised with the amount of restraint he had to not get hard the first time you called him daddy in public. it wasn't completely out of the blue, you both knew the gist of what was going to happen at home and bucky enjoyed laying the foundations of what was to come beforehand. you were out to dinner, sitting on his lap in a secluded booth near the back of the restaurant as he fed you, one arm wrapped around your waist to keep you pressed against him. the main course had been eaten and dessert was just brought out, bucky scooping a small piece of cake onto the fork and slipping it between your lips, staring intently as you chewed and swallowed, and nearly dropped the fork when you murmured, "thank you, daddy." he was sure his heart stopped, and the only thing he can think of as to why he didn't pop an instant boner was because he wasn't fully certain he heard what he thought he did. assuming he did, he asked, "what for?""you just make me feel so special," was your response, and bucky knew in his heart that he would do anything and everything to keep making you feel as special as he knew you were.

[metal-armed-muse]

LESSONS IN LOVE — chapter 2

PLEASE ME

BROTHER’S BEST FRIEND BUCKY X F!READER (college au)

SUMMARY. Being Steve Rogers’ sister meant years of boys looking at you like a warning sign. Now that you’re in college, your lack of experience becomes a major problem. So you ask your brother’s best friend to teach you everything. What starts as lessons becomes something neither of you have a name for yet.

WORD COUNT. 11.7K WARNINGS. college au, brother’s best friend trope, MDNI, inexperienced reader, smut, tit play, handjob, dick pronouns, pussy inspection, pussy pronouns, oral (f and m receiving), an attempt at teabagging, cum swallowing, vaginal fingering, dry humping, bucky cums in his pants. No use of Y/N. NOTES. You can imagine reader as Steve’s adopted sister, there will be no physical descriptions. One might argue this part is just porn without plot. One would be partially right.

Main Masterlist || Series Masterlist || 1 ~ 2 ~ 3

READ ON AO3

A week goes by, and you kiss him twice more.

Once on his couch on Wednesday, which starts because you sit down close enough that the intent is pretty clear. The second time is Thursday, at his door when you’re leaving, which starts because you turn around and he’s right there.

You’re getting better at it. More confident, less in your own head, less managing the moment and more just in it.  

Tonight is Friday, and you’re back on his couch.

“Can I try something?”  

There's no version of him that would say no to your question. “Yeah.”

“I want to — I want to start it this time.”

He doesn’t ask what, because he already knows. He settles back slightly, like he’s making room. “Alright.”

So you close the gap and kiss him. The kiss in itself isn’t any different. But it feels different when it’s yours to start. You bring one hand up to his jaw the way he always does to you, and you feel him still like the contact surprised him. That small victory does wonders for your nerves.

He kisses you back slowly, letting you lead, his hand coming to rest at your waist with a patience that you are choosing not to read too much into. You shift closer and his grip tightens, fractionally, like some reflex he’s only barely managing.

When you finally pull back, his eyes open. His thumb makes one slow pass over your hip. “That was good.”

“You could be more specific.”

“You didn’t hesitate.” His thumb again, same slow drag. “That’s the main thing.”

You’re close enough that you can see the detail of him. The line where his jaw meets his throat, the soft stubble that’s absolutely not helping right now. The lamp behind him is the only light and it’s warm and doing nothing to help you think straight.

“What’s next?”  

He looks at you for a moment, like he’s reading something. Then he stands up. Before you’ve quite registered what’s happening, his hands are at your waist and you’re being lifted. Foot-off-the-ground-lifted. He’s walking toward the bedroom with your face against his jaw, his mouth pressed to your temple. 

You don’t say anything. You’re not sure you could.

Thing is, you've been in his bedroom before. But this is entirely different. You’ve been there to to grab something, just passing through. You know the where the bookshelf is, you know he has a photo of you and Steve, you know he has a lamp that sits in the corner.

But one of that prepared you for being carried into it. The fact that it's Bucky carrying you.

He lays you down on his bed and looks at you. There’s something in how he does it, that makes your whole chest tighten up.

“I’m going to take your shirt off.” You realise he’s telling you so you know what’s coming, giving you time to say no before he does anything. “Along with the rest of your clothes. And then I’m going to put my mouth on you.” He watches your face process this. “Questions?”

“That’s — that’s a lot of steps.”

“It’s really not.” He reaches down and gets the hem of your shirt in both hands. You sit up to let him pull it over your head. When you’re back down, his eyes move over you in a way that makes you want to simultaneously stay very still and also disappear. 

His mouth finds your collarbone and works down slowly, hands mapping out the territory of your ribs, your waist, learning you, inch by inch.

He moves like he has a plan and also like the plan isn't the point. Like the point is every single inch of the way there.

But he doesn’t rush past your breasts. He cups one fully in his palm, thumb brushing slow circles over the nipple until it’s tight and aching under his touch. “These are sensitive,” his breath is warm against your skin. “We’re gonna take our time right here so you figure out exactly what you like. Tell me if it’s too much or if you want it harder.”

His lips close over your nipple and he sucks. Slow at first, then deeper, pulling the peak into his mouth that makes your toes curl. It’s nothing like the quick graze you expected.

This is hungry, his tongue swirling around it while he holds the suction. You arch hard, a shaky sound ripping out of you with his name. He switches to the other breast without breaking contact, sucking just as thoroughly, letting you feel every pull, every flick, until both nipples are swollen and slick and throbbing in the cool air.

You hadn't known it would feel like this. You'd thought that it would feel good, fine, whatever. You hadn't accounted for the quality of his attention. The way he's watching your face while he does it, checking, adjusting, reading you. It’s with the same focus he brought to explaining what made a good first date. It's the same focus and it's directed entirely at you. And you don't know what to do with that so you just make the sound his mouth is pulling out of you and try not to think.

When he finally releases them with a soft pop, he murmurs “you like that?” His dark eyes go over your face and decides it himself. “Yeah, you do. What about this?” He grazes his teeth over one sensitive bud, then bites down lightly, just enough pressure to sting in the best way. Your hips jerk and you moan outright, louder than you’ve ever let yourself be. He soothes the bite instantly with his tongue, then sucks again, harder this time, alternating between both breasts like he’s memorizing every reaction.

It feels like he's building a map of you for himself. For some purpose you haven't named yet. And won't name right now, because you can't think right now. Also because naming it would be a problem. His mouth stays on you longer than you thought it would, sucking and licking and testing until your chest is heaving and your thighs are trembling around nothing.When you press them close together, he says against your chest, “don’t do that.”

“Do what—”

“Squeeze your thighs.” His hand slides between your knees and parts them easily. “Keep them open.”

Something about being told that with his mouth still on your breast rearranges your brain chemistry entirely.

He makes his way down your stomach, mouth and hands both, leaving heat everywhere they go. His stubble drags across your ribs, raising goosebumps. It's a small thing, the scrap of his beard on skin.

It shouldn't be a significant thing.

It is, though.

His fingers find the waistband of your underwear and tug them down your legs and off.

Then he just looks. Both hands on your inner thighs, spreading you open under the warm light of his bedroom, studying your pussy with an attention that makes your face go absolutely warm, sweat beading at your temples.

“Bucky—”

“Give me a second.”

“You’re staring.”

“You’re so wet.” He runs his thumb, a sliver of a touch, through your folds, and your hips jerk. His words aren’t quite to you, more like something he’s noting down for personal records.

“I know." You're mortified that he's seeing this. “I know, I’m sorry, it’s—”

“Why are you apologising?” He looks offended almost. 

“Because it’s — it’s a lot.”

“Yeah.” He looks up at you, the blue of his eyes now only a ring. “It is. That’s good.” His thumb again, the same barely-there stroke, and you make a sound you weren’t planning on making. “That’s very good, actually.”

It’s the voice he uses when something matters to him. You've heard that voice applied to other things over the years. An arguement with Steve, the conversation with Jaxon before it got physical. It’s the serious kind of voice, the one that inevitably says ‘this matters to me.’

The fact that it's being applied to this, to you, like this, makes it harder to breathe.

He keeps your thighs spread open with his hands, and his voice is warm like he’s walking you through something just for the two of you. “That’s just your body showing me exactly what it wants. Nothing to be sorry about. I’m gonna touch you right here so you can feel what feels best for you. Just let me hear whatever comes out, okay? I want to know.”

His thumb strokes slowly through your folds, spreading the slick. He hums softly, when your breath hitches. “Breathe for me.” Then his thumb finds your clit and circles it once. It's soft, light and careful and your whole body jerks.

“Bucky—”

Eyes move to look at your face now. “Feels good?”

You make a sound that's both a gasp and a hum. He keeps the slow circles, then brushes over it with the lightest flick of his thumb. You gasp again, softer this time.

Bucky pulls the hood back just enough with one finger, gentle as anything, then circles again with a touch more pressure. Your thighs tremble under his palms and another soft moan slips out.

“Good girl. See how much wetter you’re getting?”

Does he realise you're not in any position to answer him…

His forefinger circles your entrance, for one small moment, you wonder if he's going inside. But he just collects the slick and brings it back to your clit in slow, patient strokes.

Just when you think you're used to what he's doing, he shifts down between your thighs and you feel his breath against your skin. That’s when you understand. When he'd said he's gonna put his mouth on you, he didn't only mean your tits.

“Wait — Are you — are you going to—”

“Yes.”

“With your — your mouth.”

“That’s generally how it works.”

“I know how it works, I’ve watched porn, I just —” You try to think of useful words, the verge of failing. “I didn’t think you’d actually —”

He looks up at you from between your thighs with the patient expression of a man who has all night. “You didn’t think I’d what?”

“I mean. It’s not — you don’t have to. Like it can’t be that enjoyable for you, it’s—”

“I want to.”

“But—”

“I want to.” He says it the second time like the first time didn’t register, which it didn’t, which he can tell. The second want is more enunciated, letting you know its value. “That’s not a polite offer. I want to put my mouth on your pussy. Are you gonna let me?”

The framing of that sentence evaporates any ability to construct a counter-argument. “Okay… yeah. Okay.”

“Now, relax.” He turns his head and presses a kiss to your inner thigh.  

“Why’d you start with your mouth?” You question, mostly just to be saying something, because silence right now seems like more than you can manage. “I thought — I figured you’d use your fingers first. Mouth seems more—”

“More what?”

“Intimate? I don’t know. I thought fingers came first.”

He looks up at you again. “Before I put anything inside you, I want your body to know what pleasure feels like. I want you to know what it feels like to want more before I give you more.” He holds your gaze. “Does that make sense?”

Your mouth is very dry. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.” And with that, his mouth meets your cunt. He exhales into you like he didn't mean to, this warm, involuntary breath, and it hits you that he wants this. He wants this specifically, not as the next step in the curriculum.

Because the sound he made when his mouth first touched you is not a teaching sound.

If you’d thought kissing him was breathtaking, this was on a whole another level. You decide to constantly remind yourself to breathe, because he sure as hell isn’t helping. 

The first sensation your register is heat of it. Just that, just warmth and the soft press of his lips against your core. His tongue drags slowly through your folds and your hand shoots to his hair of its own accord.

He licks into you like he’s learning you, cataloguing every place that makes you twitch and keeps coming back to it.

You've watched enough of him to know the difference between him going through motions and him when he’s actually into what he’s doing.

Now, he’s into what he’s doing. The sounds coming from him are laced with want. They aren’t even pointed at you. It seems to escape him rather than come from him. Like he forgot he was supposed to be in control of this. Like you're the one doing something to him.

When his lips close around your clit, you make a noise that could only be described as a cry. Only reassurance after that mortifying ordeal is that he makes a sound back.

His lips close around your clit again, and you have to consciously bite down to not let another noise out. 

Like he’s sensed your dilemma, he says against you. “You can be loud. No one’s going to hear you.”

“I’m not—” you start to object, but then he sucks and the rest of that sentence ceases to exist.

Your hand tightens in his hair without you deciding to. He actually groans at that, a vibration against your clit that shoots straight through you, and you loosen your grip immediately.

“Sorry—”

He comes off you just enough to speak. “Don’t apologise.” He looks up the length of your body at you. “You can pull it. You can do whatever you want with my hair. Grip it, pull it, push me where you want — however feels good. It’s for you.” A pause. “Yeah?”

He says it's for you. Like he wants to make sure you understand that. Like it matters to him that you understand that.

Only when you nod, and say yeah, does he go down. 

He eats you with with an attention, learning what you respond to and using it, building pressure with his tongue against your clit while his hands hold your hips steady when they try to roll up into him. 

At some point one hand leaves your hip and slides up your stomach to your breast, his thumb rolling over your nipple, and the moan that comes out of you at the combination is loud enough that you’re briefly grateful for thick walls.

“Bucky—”

A hum against your clit but he keeps going.

He hums like he's satisfied. Like that sound you just made is something he wanted.

Your hand is in his hair and you can feel him, how present he is in this, how little of him is elsewhere.

Nobody has ever been this entirely here with you before. Not that anyone has been with you before.

But even in the small ways like conversations, attention, the general experience of being in a room with people, you've always felt the slight elsewhere quality of other people's focus.

He doesn't have that. He's completely, entirely here. And not just now.

You know it isn’t something you should be analysing right this moment, but what he’s doing to you isn’t just physical.

Finally, your hand fists in his hair, the way he said you could. The sound he makes is something you’re going to be thinking about for a while. You know he’d said it was for you, but the way he’s responding, it’s hard not to think there’s a little something in it for him too.

You feel the tension building, coiling tighter with every stroke of his tongue, your thighs shaking either side of his head.

“Don’t stop,” you manage, “don’t — please—”

He doesn’t stop. His tongue works your clit in tight circles, his hand flexing into your hip. Everything tightens to a single unbearable point and then snaps. A sound tears out of your throat that you’ve never heard yourself make, your pussy clenching around nothing while he works you through every shuddering wave of it, slower now, softer. He draws it out until your legs are trembling and your hand in his hair has gone slack.

A kiss is pressed to your inner thigh. Then your hip. He’s moving back up your body and settling beside you. You try to remember what your name is.

“That was— I need a minute.”

“Take your time.”

You turn your head to look at him. His mouth is wet, his hair is a disaster from your hands, and he looks… he looks like someone who thoroughly enjoyed himself. There's something open in his expression, something that isn't quite contained, and you look at it for a second before he notices you looking and rearranges slightly.

You saw it. You aren’t in any condition to process it though.

“In porn,” you start and pause to catch your breath.

“Mm.”

“They make it look sort of — performative. Like they’re doing it but they’re also sort of doing it at the camera. That was nothing like that.”

“No.”

“That was—” You don’t have the word. “Better.”

He looks at you for a second with something in his face that he keeps mostly to himself.  “I’m glad it was.”

He disappears for a minute and comes back with a glass of water and a washcloth warm from the tap. Sitting on the edge of the bed beside you, he hands you the water first. His hand stays on your knee while you drink.

When you’re done, he’s gentle with the washcloth, so careful, taking care of you like it’s just the next thing he wants to do and not a task he’s ticking off. Your face is warm and you try not to feel too much about the fact that someone is doing this, that he’s doing this, without being asked.

You wonder if this is part of the curriculum or entirely something else. 

When he’s done he sets everything aside and looks at you. “You need anything else? Hungry, or—”

“No. Can — Can we just lie down for a bit?”

“Yeah, ‘course.”

He moves up the bed, and you roll toward him. That’s when you realise that he’s still in his sweats and his t-shirt. Entirely, fully dressed. And you are wearing nothing at all, which strikes you as a profound injustice.

“You’re still dressed.” Before he can say anything, you’re talking again. “That’s not fair.”

His eyes slowly drag over your body, which feels like a touch in itself. During the thorough once-over, he also appears to be giving this the serious consideration it deserves. 

Without another word, he reaches back and pulls his t-shirt over his head in that one-handed way that shouldn’t be as effortless as it is. “Lift up.”

As you straighten up, he puts it on you himself, guides your arms through, smooths it down over you. 

His face tips forward to press a kiss to your temple, just his mouth at your hairline for a moment. Your whole chest does something you’re going to deal with later.

He pulls the comforter up over you both. “Better?” 

You hum. Find the space against his side that your body has apparently already decided belongs to you, your cheek against his shoulder, his arm settling around you. 

He’s warm, too warm almost. It’s way too comfortable not to fall asleep. 

You’re not going to fall asleep though. You’re just lying here, that’s all, with his t-shirt pooled around your thighs and the smell of him close enough to be a problem and his heartbeat doing something steady under your cheek. 

There’s nothing to do and nowhere to be and his hand keeps moving, up and down, up and down.

This is nice.

He’s nice.  

You close your eyes. 

It's morning.

You can tell Bucky's awake because the arm around you is too still. Sleeping people don't hold that kind of stillness, it's a different quality entirely. He's doing a very convincing impression of someone unconscious and you're doing a very convincing impression of someone who isn't lying here thinking about his mouth.

Neither of you are particularly committed to either bit.

"You awake?" he asks after a while.

"No."

The sound he makes is almost a laugh. His thumb moves once over your shoulder. "How do you feel?"

You turn your head and he's already looking at you. The blueness of his eyes startle you in this grey light sweeping through the windows. 

There's something underneath the casual delivery of his question that is very much not casual.

"I'm fine, Buck."

"First time's a lot. Even when it goes well."

The fact that he says 'even when it goes well' like he's genuinely leaving the door open. Like he'd sit there and hear it if you say, ‘actually, I have a few notes.’ You don’t say that. You have no notes. 

"It went well. Quite well, actually. I'd go as far as really well."

"Yeah?"

"You were there."

"I was. Wanted to hear you say it."

That thing that's been quietly building since last night stirs again and you decide not to look at it directly. The part of your brain that is always oriented toward the next thing clears its throat. "I want to learn the other part."

He doesn't answer immediately. You fill the gap yourself. "How to touch someone. A guy. I want to know how to do it properly."

A breath. "Yeah. Okay."

"Should I … start with my mouth? Like you did?"

"No." He shakes his head once. "That's different."

"How?"

He's quiet for a second. You can tell he's actually thinking about how to say it rather than just saying something. "When I did that with you, it was because it was your first time. Even fingers can be a lot the first time. Guys don't need that. It's not the equivalent."

You think about it. It makes sense. The way he explains things always makes sense.

"Also, hands is easier to start. You'll know what you're doing before you're, you know. Down there."

"Right. And you don't need—"

Unlike you, it's not his first time. Any of this. You knew that going in, it was the entire point of coming to him, it was why you knocked on his door almost two weeks ago. And still there's a small stupid pang, that you are absolutely not going to mention.

He doesn't seem to notice. "So. Hands."

"Hands." 

The covers shift to reveal his torso. There’s an intense urge to reach out and touch the plane of muscle. You don’t.   

"Whenever you're ready."

You shuffle forward on your knees across the mattress until you're close enough that your body is almost touching his. He watches you with his hands loose at his sides, giving you the room. 

He's still in his sweatpants. You get your hands to the waistband and he lifts his hips slightly to help, cooperating without making it a whole thing.

You look.

For a full second, maybe two.

Because your brain is constitutionally incapable of silence, you say, "hi."

Bucky closes his eyes briefly, the expression of a man asking for patience from a higher power. "You don't have to greet it."

"I wasn't greeting, I was — it was a general hi." You look up at him. He looks back down at you. "He's really pretty."

Something happens to Bucky's face that he was not prepared for. His mouth does a thing, not quite a laugh, but also not not one. "He’s — That's not — people don't usually—"

"I’m just being honest." You look up at him and then back down. "He's also big."

"Okay."

"No, I mean significantly." You're doing the math and the math is concerning. He's not even fully hard yet. "How is he going to fit?"

"It'll fit."

"That's not an explanation."

"You don’t have to worry about that now. I'll make it fit.” There's a pull at the corner of his mouth, the effort of keeping his expression neutral while you sit there conducting what is essentially a full appraisal. "Are you going to touch it, or..."

The first contact is just your fingertips. Light, just along the length of him. He pulls in a breath and his hips shift, barely.

"You're so soft." You mean it genuinely. The skin of him is warm and smooth, absolutely not what you'd expected at all. "Like the skin. I didn't think it'd feel like that."

"Yeah." His voice has gone slightly strained.

You wrap your hand around him loosely. More curious than purposeful. He goes very still, the kind of still that takes effort.

Your thumb drifts up to the tip. There's a bead of precum there, you touch it. The sound Bucky makes is quiet and completely wrecked, his head dropping back for one unguarded moment before he pulls it back together.

You did that. Your thumb did that.

You swipe your thumb over the head again and he hisses through his teeth. "Keep doing that. And this is going to be a very short lesson."

So naturally, you do that again.

"Fuck — okay. I — I'm gonna move your hand."

He takes your hand in his and adjusts everything. The grip, the angle, the pressure, and wraps your fingers around his cock properly. His hand over yours. "Not that tight — Just like that. You feel the difference?"

"Uh-huh."

He does one slow stroke with your hand inside his, all the way up. His jaw goes tight. And he does it again. On the third one, he lets go of your hand, and drops his to the sheet.

You do it on your own. Same grip. "Like that?"

"Exactly like—" He stops as you do it again, his whole body jerking once. "Yeah. Yeah, that's—" His hand tightens its grip on the sheet. "Good."

You find the rhythm easier than you expected.

Bucky is quiet in a way that's the opposite of silence. His breathing changes, his throat moves when he swallows, and the hand that isn't gripping the sheet finds your knee and holds it. Like he needs something to hold onto and your knee was there.

You shouldn't be this focused on how he looks right now. You are. The flush starting at the base of his throat. The way his jaw has gone slightly loose.

You've seen Bucky composed in every situation you can think of. Watching that composure come apart because of your hand is doing something to you that has nothing to do with learning anything.

"Is this okay?"

"More than." He gets it out with some effort. His eyes are on you and they've gone dark, most of the blue gone.

"You can talk to me." You glance up to his half lidded eyes. "I told you things."

"That's different."

"How is it different?"

He opens his mouth, closes it. You get the impression the answer to that question is more complicated than right now warrants. So you let it go and keep your hand moving. 

When you twist your wrist slightly at the top, the noise he makes is involuntary. His hand comes off the sheet to catch your wrist.

"Where did you—"

"I was paying attention."

He stares at you. There are about four things happening in his expression at once and none of them are teacher friendly. He lets go of your wrist.

The sounds he makes are quieter than yours were. Held back, like he's rationed himself. But they're there. His hips move into the drag of your hand, just slightly, small involuntary pushes he's not entirely winning against. 

Warm puffs of breath are on your neck, as he drops his forehead to your shoulder. 

You've had his attention directed at you for two weeks but this feels different. This is him needing something to lean on and choosing you as destination.

His hips buck up, once, fully. Immediately, he pulls back fast. "Fuck — sorry—"

You want to tell him not to apologise, that watching him lose his composure is doing something to you. You don't say any of that.

He's close. You know it before he says anything, from the way his thighs have gone rigid and his breathing's come apart entirely.

"I'm almost — Stop." His hand closes around your wrist.

You let go and drop your hand back to your own knee. You knew what was coming but you didn't quite anticipate it. He exhales deeply and spills across his own stomach, his grip on the sheets going white for a moment, a low groan working out of his chest before his whole body goes loose.

Before anything sensible catches up with you, you reach out one finger and drag it slowly through the mess on his stomach.

There’s no lesson in curriculum that says you have to touch his release. You don’t care about it at this moment.

You're curious, is all. You've been curious about him in increments for the past two weeks and this is just the latest increment.

The sound Bucky makes comes from somewhere very deep and takes his whole body with it. At once, his hand snaps up and catches your wrist.

"Don't." His voice is completely wrecked. He looks it too. Undone in a way you haven't seen him before, fighting hard against something that might be a laugh and losing to both at once. "Do not."

"Why not?"

"Because." Completely black pupils gaze over you. "Because I just came and you're going to — Fuck. Why are you like this?"

"I was curious."

"Of course you were." He drops his head back against your shoulder and laughs.

You feel the laugh through his whole chest. You feel it against your shoulder and through your arm and somewhere behind your ribs. It's the kind of laugh that makes you want to make him laugh again.

His hand is still loosely around your wrist. He hasn't let go.

"Was that okay? Genuinely. Tell me if I did something wrong."

He lifts his head to look at you. "You did nothing wrong."

"The wrist thing—"

"Was very much not wrong." His voice is strained, but also a little offended, like you're being ridiculous. "Where did you even pick that up?” 

"I told you. I was paying attention. Do I get a grade?"

"You're not getting a grade."

"Feedback then?"

"The feedback is that you're going to be a problem."

You don’t know what he means by that. You don’t ask.

Two dates happen, but you are very intent on calling them lessons.  

The first one is a bookshop and coffee after, which Bucky picks because he remembered you mentioning it three years ago. You tell yourself normal people hold onto information like that. After all, you remember his favourite author too. 

He buys the book before you can get your wallet out. When you open your mouth, he says it's part of the curriculum, with a completely straight-face. You tell him that's a stretch. He shrugs and holds the door open.

The second one is harder to explain away. 

He cooks. Which was not on any syllabus you'd agreed to. You sit on his kitchen counter and talk for two hours before the food is even on the table.  

You're calling them lessons. That’s easier.

But why’s it becoming harder?

The next time you see Bucky it's a Thursday, and the word lesson doesn't come up at all. 

What does come up, eventually, is his mouth on your clavicle. The fact that there’s a movie playing matters less now than it did five minutes ago. Somehow, you've ended up horizontal with his weight half over you. His lips trail up to your throat. Tipping your head back, you give him more space to work with. 

But there’s one specific thing in your mind that needs attention right now. That’s been lying dormant for a week. "Teach me something." 

"I am teaching you." There’s no attempt on his part to untangle from you. In fact, he moves, rucking your shirt as he goes. His mouth takes in your pebbles nipple, and you make a sound you hadn't planned on, your hand going to his hair. He does it again, the slow suction almost pulling your body off the couch.

"That's not teaching me anything," you manage.

"Sure it is." He doesn't look up. "You're learning what you like."

"That's not—" He does it again and and you lose your train of thought.

There’s no point in being logical about this, you let him play with your tits however he pleases. 

After what feels like a lifetime, he surfaces. His face still rests on your torso as he looks up to you. 

"Can you please show me the next thing?"

"There’s a next thing?" His crooked lips tell you he’s messing with you. 

"You know what I mean."

"No, I don’t."

"Bucky."

“If you want it that bad, you can say it.” 

Trying to glare at him from this angle not only proves to be a minor exercise, but also futile because he just smirks. “Fine. Blowjob. I wanna know how."

He holds your gaze. Then he sits up, which means you sit up too. He's doing that thing where he actually thinks before he opens his mouth. The fact that it’s rarer in people makes you like him a little more. If that’s even possible. 

"Okay.” 

"Just okay?"

"Did you want a longer answer?"

"Well, for starters, I want to know how to actually do it."

His hand comes to the back of your neck. Before you've worked out what's happening, he's pulling you in. His other hand rests warm on your bare waist as he kisses you. "Sure you want to switch right now?" he asks against your mouth.

"Yes. I've been thinking about it since the handjob."

Something happens to his expression that he doesn't manage to contain. "Have you now?"

"Don't make it weird."

"I'm not making it weird." He sits back. You feel the absence of his warmth immediately. "Honest explanation or the polished version?"

"Honest, obviously."

"See what gets you a reaction, what doesn't. Same as everything."  

"Teeth," you say immediately. "And I don't know what to do with my hands. And how do I even breathe?"

"Don’t forget you have teeth." 

"I’m sorry, what?" 

"No, I just mean, if you’re just conscious of it — like keep it in the back of your mind, it's gonna be okay. Breathe through your nose. If you need air, just pull off, it’s not a big deal.”

“And what about hands?”

"Base of the cock, whatever you can't reach with your mouth. Or thighs. Both. Whatever feels right." A pause. "It’s okay if you can’t take all of it."

"What if I want to?"

"Then you'll gag and we'll deal with it."

A checklist forms inside your head as he speaks. "Okay but I have a genuine question. It's called a blowjob. But literally no one is blowing anything in the videos I’ve watched. So what is actually happening?"

His mouth opens, and then closes. Then the laugh comes out of him, a real one, helpless, the kind that takes his whole face. Your chest does something embarrassing at that sight.

Framing your face with both hands, the softest kiss is planted on your lips.  "You're" kiss "so" kiss "adorable" kiss "y’know" kiss "that?"

Oh God. You’re melting. You’re losing it all. Physically, you can hear your heart melt. But you take his face in your hands right back, mirroring him.

"I" kiss "know."

He grins against your mouth and kisses you properly this time, both thumbs drawing circles at your cheeks.

"Suction," he says when he pulls back. "That's the answer. Suction and tongue. The name's just a name."

"But why is it called that?"

"I — genuinely don't know." 

"You don't know?"

"I've never thought about it."

"How have you never thought about it?"

"Because it's never mattered before."

The way he’s tilting his head tells you he’s at least mildly curious about it. Proving you right, he pulls out his phone.

"Buck. No. Don't google it."  

"I have to."

"Bucky—"

He's already reading. His expression cycles between certainty and not quite confusion. "Okay so apparently, there are several competing theories."

"Of course there are."

"One is that it comes from a slang term for the act that has nothing to do with the literal — "

There’s nothing else to do but indulge him. "I don't want competing theories. I want one answer."

"Etymology is rarely that simple."

"Oh my god." You reach over and take the phone out of his hand. He lets you. "You just googled the etymology of blowjob."

"You asked."

"I didn't ask you to do it with that level of academic commitment." You set the phone face-down on the cushion. "Forget it. Never mind."

He's still smiling when he stands up. But the heat has returned, to him, and to you. 

What you don’t understand is why he’s standing. “I need you to sit.” 

“Why? This’ll be more comfortable for you.”

“I just — I wanna kneel.” 

"You don't have to kneel."

"I want to."

"You can do it just as well sitting down, it's easier on your—"

"Buck." You look at him. "I want to kneel."

An exasperated but equally fond sigh leaves him. He reaches back and picks up the throw pillow from the other end of the couch without another word, setting it on the floor in front of where he’ll be sitting.  

"Floor's hard," he says.

You don't say anything about that. You just kneel on the pillow and he sits on the edge of the couch. You're struck, not for the first time, by how completely not-strange this is. How it's just him. How that seems to be doing a lot of quiet heavy lifting lately.

When you tug at his sweats, he lifts to make it easier for you. You stare at his dick. His dick stares back at you. 

This is also the time you can show him that you’ve indeed learnt something. You start with the grip you know he likes, watching him thicken and pulse under your fingers until he’s rock-hard and leaking.

When you lean in and run your tongue, on the tip, through the slit once, his breath shifts immediately. 

His hand immediately flies to your head. You lick the tip again, slower this time, savoring the salty bead that wells up, then drag your tongue along the thick underside, tracing every throbbing vein from root to tip. The weight of him on your tongue feels perfect.

When his hand presses gently at the back of your head, you close your lips over the tip of him and suck, carefully. A whole body jerk accompanies an involuntary sound that he desperately tries to swallow back. You take a little more, tongue working the underside the way he’d said.

As you try to take more, your jaw strains with it. If he’d felt bigger in your hand before, he’s an entirely different story in your mouth. The stretch catches you off guard. 

He sees you struggling to take him, and he adjusts your fingers around his length. "Your hand — Whatever your mouth can't cover. That's what it's for."

Mouth on the upper half, hand at the base, you finally find the thing that makes his breath change. The slow drag of your tongue and suction combined makes him shudder, you notice. You do it again. Though they’re held back, the sounds coming out of him make it very difficult to concentrate on the task at hand.  

“Atta girl.” It slips out quiet, almost hard to catch.

The words hit low in your belly and you feel yourself clench around nothing. You almost lose your rhythm from merely two words. Chiding yourself, you try to recover. His hips twitch like the praise cost him the last scrap of control he had left.

The idea that you could make him forget himself, make him slip like that, make him say something he wasn't planning on saying.

You want more of that. You want all of that.

As you work him deeper, tongue dragging slow and wet along the underside with every suck, your eyes flick lower without meaning to. His balls are heavy and tight just below where your hand grips the base, skin flushed and drawn up. 

It is impossible to ignore now. You pull off.

He makes a sound of protest that is thoroughly undignified.

You glance up at him, lips shiny and breathing hard. “What about… those?” Sucking cock has your voice strained. “Do I — should I do something?”

“You don’t have to,” he says, reading it immediately, breath still ragged.

“But I should know, right?”

“It’s — if you want to, cup them first. Get a sense of it.”

He stands up without a word, feet planted wide in front of the couch, cock jutting out heavy and slick right at eye level. The new angle gives you everything you need.

His balls are warm and soft in your palm, making him go very still. You drag your tongue over them experimentally, feeling them draw tight under the wet heat. “Like this?” you murmur against the sensitive skin.

“God, yeah — fuck,” he breathes, thighs trembling. A raw and surprised groan rips out of him when you take one carefully into your mouth and gently suck. His hand fists tight in your hair and releases. “Christ.”

You switch to the other, licking and sucking with growing confidence, tongue swirling as his breath turns ragged. “You’re gonna make me lose it already,” he mutters. “If you don’t want me to blow already, you should come off.”

Satisfied with the way he’s shaking, you reach up and wrap your hand around his cock at the same time, stroking him slowly while your mouth stays sealed around his balls.

His hips jerk hard against your mouth. “Shit — wait—” His fingers slide into your hair and tug you off gently but firmly. “If you keep sucking my balls and jerking me off like that I’m gonna — fuck — cum way too fucking soon. Slow down. Please.”

You pull off from his balls to gently shove him back to the couch. He lands with a soft thud and a groan, and you immediately come back to his cock, lips closing over the head. 

This time you don't hold back. You want more of that.  More of everything. The sounds of him, the way his control keeps slipping in these small visible ways. 

Wet sounds fill the room alongside his ragged breathing. You stop being self-conscious about any of this entirely. Spit on your chin. His hand gripping your hair. You try to take him deeper than you have and it makes you gag, eyes watering. It’s a mess when you do pull off, coughing with tears pricking the corners. 

Without a word, his thumb comes to your chin to wipe it. "What did I say?"

"I almost had it."

"You didn't have it."

"I was so close."

"Take me back in your mouth. And stop competing with yourself." 

Mouth sliding back down, you take what you can and work what you have. His hips buck upward involuntarily, shoving deeper into your throat for one dizzy second before he catches himself. "Shit — sorry." He forces his ass back down. But the control slips again seconds later, another helpless roll that has you moaning around his cock.

You’re doing this to him.

His hand in your hair is gripping properly now. He says your name and it comes out rough. 

Till this time, you were so concentrated on him, you didn’t realise you were dripping wet. Those panties sure are soaked by now. 

"Come up." His hand migrates to your shoulder. "Come on, come up."

You don't. You remember his he pulled your hand during the handjob, and you don’t want that to fallen again. 

"Baby." The hand tightens. "I mean it — come up —"

It slips out. Just the once, just that word, clearly not planned. You stay where you are and look up at him through your lashes. He forces his eyes to stay open, to keep his gaze on you, but his jaw goes tight and his head drops back. The swear that comes out of him is helpless as his whole body goes rigid and still.

The first hot, thick rope of cum hits the back of your throat, salty and bitter and so fucking him. You swallow it down greedily, sucking harder through every pulsing spurt until he’s shaking and empty. 

The taste of him is all over your tongue. "Fuck," his voice is wrecked.

He is a sight as you sit back on your heels.  

His chest is heaving. There's a flush across his face and throat. He's looking at you from somewhere between wrecked and something else, something that's been showing up on his face more lately. 

"First time, you don't usually swallow. You don't know if you'll like the taste — that's why I was trying to—" He pauses to take a breath. "You should've let me pull you off."

Both of your hands go to his jaw. "Buck." You make him look at you. "I liked it. Very much. Can we do it again?"

Droopy eyes stare back at you, and you generously add, “not right now, obviously." 

Something gives in his face and he laughs. His hand comes up to cover both of yours where they're resting on him. Turning his head, he presses his mouth to your palm, warmth transferring from his lips. "Twenty minutes," he says into your hand.

"Fifteen."

"Twenty." A kiss to your palm. 

"Seventeen and that's my final offer."

"We can go straight to your cock. I'm ready."

Bucky looks at you. "No, you're not."

"I literally just—"

"Lie down."

There's no room in his voice for the conversation you were about to have. Because you know him well enough, you know that tone means he's already thought about this more than you have. It's annoying. You've gotten used to it. You lie down. 

He comes down beside you, and his mouth finds the side of your neck first, and then your jaw. "Have you done this before?"

The audacity of this man. “I’m sorry — If I'd done this before. Why would I be here?"

His lips press somewhere near your ear. "With yourself. Have you touched yourself?"

Oh. 

"Yes. Obviously." You didn't mean for the ‘obviously’ to come out quite so defensive. 

"This'll be different."

The audacity again. "Yeah, you’re gonna be better —"

"No, I just meant — my fingers are bigger."

Right. You take a breath. He's right, you know he's right. The size, and when you add his experience to the mix... "Okay."

"I want you to show me something first." When you turn to look at him he's already looking at you. He proposes it like it's simple. "How you do it. What you do when you're alone."

The heat that climbs your throat is immediate. "Bucky."

"You don't have to. But it'd be nice if you did."

"No I just —" You press your lips together. It's not that you don't want to. It's just that there's a difference between doing something and doing something with him watching your face for your reaction. "You'll literally be right there."

"That’s kind of the point." A quiet fact. 

Working up whatever nerve that requires, you slide your hand beneath the waistband of your underwear.

For the first few seconds you're almost entirely in your own head about it, hyperaware of him, of his attention. But your body doesn't especially care about that. It knows what this is. And gradually, the weight of being watched tips over into something else. The sound that comes out of you is not measured.

That’s when you register a movement without fully tracking it. You feel his breath against your inner thigh, you understand he's not beside you anymore, he's between your legs. Right there, watching up close as your hand moves under the thin fabric.

That is a lot of new information at once.

"Take these off." His hand is at the edge of your underwear.

To make it easier, you lift your hips. He drags them down and off in one slow pull and drops them somewhere behind him. The cool air hits your slick folds. But the most striking part of it all is that he's just looking, eyes dark and fixed on the way you're already glistening, the lips of your pussy flushed and wet from your own fingers. “God, I missed her.” The words slip out before he can stop them.

"Did you — did you just call my pussy 'her'?" The question comes out breathless though you're trying to sound sharp. You can't help picking at him even when your thighs are trembling under his hands.

He doesn't answer, so you naturally continue, "you wouldn't let me call your cock 'him'. But now you're out here naming mine like she's an old friend? That's rich." You manage to get the words out, but your voice cracks halfway through, the heat of his stare making it hard to keep the brat in check.

"That was different." The corner of his mouth twitches like he's fighting a smile. "But, you can do whatever you want, gorgeous."

Did he just — did he just call you gorgeous and send your nervous system into an overdrive? Or did he call your pussy gorgeous? Sometimes it’s hard to keep track, especially when you’re inches away from losing it. 

You try for a comeback, but there’s none, the words dissolve into a shaky moan before they’re even formed. Partly because his thumbs are already spreading you open again, exposing every slick inch to the cool air and his hungry gaze.

“Don’t stop on my account.” He urges your fingers to continue their motion, and you find your clit to work the slow circle you know. His hands stay spread open on your outer lips. 

His breath is warm against you and it is genuinely insane how much that alone is doing to you. You can feel yourself getting wetter under his gaze, which is embarrassing, and also apparently fine. Because when he notices, he makes a soft involuntary sound that vibrates right through your core. "Put your finger in for me."

For him.  

After a short shaky breath, you work one finger in.  The stretch is small and familiar but the sound you make is not.

"Just like that… fuck, look at you." You can feel him looking. Not at your face. "Leave it right there."

His thumbs, on either side of your lips, spread you open gently, slightly more. To look at you, at where your finger disappears inside your dripping pussy, at all of it, up close.

"She's soaking wet already." His thumb sweeps through your folds in one slow drag, collecting the slick until it shines on his skin. "Look at her pulsing for me."

A soft whimper leaves you as you try to keep pumping in and out of you. 

“Fingers out.” There’s an urgency to his voice now, eclipsing all softness there was there before. 

You draw your hand back, and you're about to just keep going, bring them up, towards you. But his hand closes lightly around your wrist. Redirecting you. 

He brings your fingers to his mouth, his lips closing around them, his eyes up and on yours while he sucks. He hums like this is a perfectly normal thing to be doing. 

The second he releases your hand, his face descends to your inviting cunt, sealing his mouth over your clit. Your hand goes straight to his hair. 

He groans at that, a sound that vibrates all the way through you, and his grip on your thighs tightens in response. 

The pain of it, just that slight pull of his hair under your fist, makes him groan again. You save this particular information in the box that’s been filing everything about him for almost many years now. 

He licks around your entrance, just teasing, testing, then goes back to your clit. You find yourself trying to grind up into him because your hips seem to have their own agenda now. When you roll up, he adjusts, tilts his head, his hands steady on your thighs, not stopping you.  

He looks up at you. Actually holds eye contact while his tongue moves against your clit, which is an absolutely unreasonable thing to do to a person. Your hand tightens in his hair. He makes that sound again.

Mouth wet, he surfaces to rest his chin on your inner thigh for a second. "I'm going to use my fingers now."  

"Yes," you say immediately. "Please."

His hand traces down your stomach, two fingers this time, slow through your folds. "Breathe."

"I'm breathing." You’re, in fact, not breathing. 

"Are you?"

It’s the second time you’re swallowing your words today. Because he decides to slide one finger through your entrance, no further, just to the first knuckle, and stops.  

"You okay?"

The stretch is different from your own. He's right about the size of it. But it's not too much, it's just new, it's just a presence you have to get used to. "Yeah, that's — yeah."

He pushes in slowly and it's very different now. The angle, the size, the fact that it's him and not you and that he's watching your face while he does it, which you are acutely aware of. When he's in fully, he stays there for a moment, unmoving. His thumb brushes over your clit, giving your body something else to focus on.

"Doing so good," he murmurs, as he curls his finger, just slightly, and your back bows off the bed. He does it again, finding the same spot, watching your face with that look of his. Patient. Like he has all the information he needs and is simply using it.

"Bucky—"

"I've got you, baby. You’re so good."

It’s the seventh time he’s called you 'baby'. You’ve tried not counting, but everytime it slips out of him without his knowing, it gets lodged into your brain.

His thumb keeps its steady circles and his finger moves in a slow drag. This is the point at which your body stops taking notes entirely and just exists in what he's doing to it. You pull his hair. He just hisses and keeps going.

"More. Buck — please." 

"Yeah? You can take me?"

"Yeah — please—"

He adds the second finger. The stretch makes you grip the sheets, makes a sound come out of you that breaks in the middle. He stills immediately. "Too much?"

"No." The word is out before you've finished thinking it. "No, don't stop."

He works them slowly, both fingers, curling and dragging while his mouth reattaches to your clit. Now, that and doing this at the same time is a lot. It splits your attention in a way that eventually gives up trying to split anything and just becomes one overwhelming thing.

There’s no warning this time, it happens suddenly without any notice, you come with your hand fisted in his hair and your face pressed to his pillow, sound muffled. His mouth works you through it slowly, drawing it out until your thighs are shaking.

When he finally slides his fingers free, you feel their absence immediately.

His lips press a soft kiss to your inner thigh, your pubic bone, and then just below your navel. Your whole body is doing something between boneless and stunned.

When he comes to rest besides you, his mouth finds yours. You can taste yourself on his lips and that is also a sentence you're going to need a moment with.

"You did so good for me," he murmurs against your mouth, and the way he says it is so straightforward. Something behind your sternum goes a little weak. His thumb moves over your cheekbone once. He pulls back to look at you.

You lie there and just try to breathe. He's propped beside you, his hand resting on your stomach, moving with the rise and fall of it. 

The lamp in the corner is doing something to the room, making it amber and small. 

"You know — you can’t just — just say ‘she’s pretty’ okay? That’s not — it’s not—"

"Mm." He hums to let you fumble through your sentence. 

You do. You fumble. "That — that was an incredibly unfair thing to say."

"Was it?"

"Yes!" Then, calming yourself down, "yes."

He laughs, a proper one, and you feel it through his ribcage where your arm is pressed against him. "I'll keep that in mind."

Your heart does something it's been doing more frequently around him lately. It’s a problem you’re currently not equipped to take a closer look at. 

Shifting away from his grip, you turn yourself to look at him. The thought that's been in the back of your head for the last twenty minutes makes itself known again. "Please give me your cock."

The remainder of his laugh doesn’t come out.  

"Bucky."

"I heard you."

"So—"

Taking your hand, he presses your palm flat against the front of his sweats. Where he’s hard. Properly hard. The heat and the shape of him is undeniable under your touch. "It's all yours."

The air leaves your body. The words leave your brain. All the blood in your entire cardiovascular system reroutes to your face in a single catastrophic second and you stare at his chest because you cannot currently look at him.

"I—" Nothing. You have nothing. Completely blank.

He doesn't move your hand away. If anything, he tightens his grip, just lets it sit there under his, while you attempt to reconstruct language.

"That's—"  The warmth of him through the fabric is not helping. "You're—"

"Yeah." You don’t know what you were about to say, so you don’t know what he’s actually agreeing to. But he doesn’t seem to have a problem with that. 

The smugness is radiating off him, and your voice comes out appropriately three times higher than usual, "I wasn't — I wasn't ready for that."

"You asked."

"I know I asked." Your face is genuinely so warm right now. "I asked and you—" You make a vague gesture with your free hand. "You can’t just — just do that ‘cause I asked."

The completely insufferable almost-smile at the corner of his mouth could power a city. He is enjoying every second of this.

"Stop looking at me like that," you tell his clavicle, because you still cannot bring yourself to look at him. Especially since your hand is enveloping his crotch, both enveloped by his own hand.

"I'm not doing anything."

You risk looking at his face, which is a mistake, because the expression on it is fond in a way that completely destroys you. You bring yourself to look back at his clavicle. 

His thumb makes one small stroke over your knuckles, where your hand is still pressed to him, still warm, and you feel it in your whole chest.

The gesture is less reassuring than it should be.  

Before you can process what’s happening, he shifts. Sits up properly, back against the headboard. His arm goes around your waist.

One smooth pull, barely any effort in it, and you're up — actually off the mattress for half a second — and then you're over him, knees sinking into the sheets on either side of his hips. 

The logistics of it take a moment to catch up with your brain. You're straddling him. You're bare from the waist down and he's still in his sweats and you're straddling him. 

You’re also not fully dropping your weight on him, just hovering, thighs tight with the effort of not fully sitting.

"Sit down." His hands rest at your hips, thumbs at the crease where thigh meets the curve of your ass.

"Bucky, I — I'm going to crush him."

Bucky sighs like a patient man, who’s tired of hearing the same thing for the hundredth time. "You're not going to crush him."

"I'm serious, Bucky—"

"So am I. Sit."

You try. That's the thing, you genuinely try. You shift your weight, start to lower yourself, and then the thick line of him presses up against you, the fear of crushing little Bucky surfaces again. You can feel him there, right there, even through the fabric, even from an inch away, and your nervous system is having a full board meeting about the implications of closing that distance. What if you actually crush him? 

"Still hovering," he observes.

"I'm trying."

"You're not going to crush me."

"You don't know that."

"I do, in fact, know that. I’m the experienced one, remember?"

Let there be a single moment where he doesn’t remind you of his sexual escapades. You almost consider retaliating by putting all of your weight on him in one go, but you need this guy, you need his cock. 

"Shut — shut up."

"Sit down."

"Bucky."

"Sit."

You make an undignified noise at him. He looks back at you like he’s content to simply wait, which he will, indefinitely, and you both know it.

But like everything with Bucky, he surprises you. One slow slide of his hand, down between your bodies, and his thumb finds your clit. It’s one light flick, barely anything. But your hips betray you completely. Your knees buckle and you drop fully.

The sound you make when you land on him is not something you'll be repeating in polite company.

The rough fabric of his sweats drags through your folds and presses flush against you. Your brain, which had been managing perfectly well up until thirty seconds ago, simply stops. 

His cock is right there, thick and hard under the thin cotton, pressed directly against your clit, and you are bare, not to mention wet and sitting on him. 

The moan that comes out of you has his name in it and very little else.

"Good girl. There you go."

You grab his shoulders. Mostly for something to hold onto, partly because the alternative is floating off the bed entirely.

"Bucky—"

"Feel that?"

You feel absolutely nothing but that, actually. The pressure alone is making your thoughts go sideways. Your hips twitch, chasing it without permission. 

His jaw goes tight and he tips his head back against the headboard for one unguarded moment before he levels out again.

His mouth finds your neck immediately. Open, dragging up toward your jaw and back down while one hand palms your breast, thumb working your nipple in slow circles until it aches. You press into his lap, just slightly, and feel him exhale through his nose.

"What are you—" Your own voice comes out strange. "Bucky, if you don't stop—"

"Don't stop what?" He says it against your throat.

"That. All of — just. Don't stop."

He laughs, low, the sound vibrating against your skin. "You want me to stop or not?"

"I want — stop asking me questions."

"Alright." He switches to the other side of your neck and you stop being able to track the conversation.

The thing is, every tiny shift you make drags your pussy across the front of his sweats. The friction is wet and warm and you are not entirely in control of your hips anymore. You rock forward, without even deciding to, and the pressure catches your clit just right and makes your teeth snap shut.

"Let's try something," he says.

You're mostly liquid at this point. "What?" It comes out slurred, half a word, because his cock is pressing exactly where it shouldn't be. He's also got his mouth on the underside of your jaw and your nipple is between his fingers. It's just a lot of ongoing information for your head to process.

He looks at you. His cheeks are already flushed and his eyes have gone the dark kind of blue. "Grind on me."

What? 

You just stare at him, hoping he’d give you something more than that. 

"Like this." His hands settle on your hips, guiding you. Forward, then back. Your clit drags across the ridge of him, making you bury your face in his neck. "Bucky—"

"Again." His hands repeat it. The same rhythm, forward and back. The fabric is already damp from you and the drag of it is obscene. "You feel that?"

You feel it fucking everywhere. "Yes."

"Just like that."

He keeps his hands on your hips for a few more strokes, setting the pace. Then lets go, one of them migrating to your nipple, the other to your back. Which means you have to do this yourself, in front of him, consciously. 

But soon enough, your hips find the drag again and the self-consciousness evaporates.

"There it is.”

The sounds you’re making are nowhere in your control. Small and helpless but rhythmic with your hips. And you can't locate any part of yourself that cares. His hand at your back presses you closer, and the extra pressure makes your breath hitch.

"You're soaking through my sweats," he says into your hair. He sounds ruined by this. "D'you know that? Can feel you through the fabric."

The fact that he's saying this out loud makes you grind harder and your moan is muffled against his neck.

"That's good, yeah." His voice has shed several layers of composure. "Keep going."

His breathing has changed underneath you, shorter, less controlled. With his chest rising and falling faster, you understand you’re taking him apart the same way he's been taking you apart this whole time.

There was some point where his attention, his hands, his mouth, all of it were directed at you, for you to learn. But it’s changed now. It definitely goes both ways. You can feel that now under your hips, in the way his hands are gripping you, grabbing your skin for more. It’s becoming less and less like a teacher.

It’s more like a person who is losing his grip on something. On several somethings.

An urgency finds you now, pace picking up solely because you need to see him as flustered as you are. 

"Fuck—" His voice is strangled. "Slow—"

You don't slow down. Your hips have their own agenda now, chasing something that's pulling tight and urgent in your stomach. Bucky's hands flex at your waist but they don't actually stop you, just hold on.

You're close. You know you're close because the friction has gone from good to unbearable in the space of about thirty seconds and your thighs are shaking and his name keeps coming out of you between breaths like punctuation.

"Bucky — I'm — don't—"

"I'm not going anywhere." Still ragged. His hand moves up your back, into your hair, just holding. "Cum for me."

Stuttering, your hips grind down one last time as your orgasm crashes through in waves. You feel him shudder underneath you, his grip tightening, his whole body going rigid.

Breathing his name into his shoulder, you both stay in a limbo.  

When you finally manage to open your eyes and lift your head, he's flushed. His neck and his cheeks and the top of his chest. Hair stuck to his forehead, lips parted, he’s breathing like he’s run across the campus.  

Something clicks when your gaze travels between his face and the dark, obvious wet patch spreading across his sweats. 

"Did you—"

His ears go pink. That alone is enough to confirm it.

"Bucky. Did you just—"

"Yeah." He scrubs a hand over his face. "I did." The tips of his ears are genuinely red and you've never seen this on him before. "I came in my sweats, yes, you don't have to—"

"You came in your sweats."

"I'm aware of what happened."

"Without me even—" You gesture at the general situation. "I was just sitting there."

"You were not just sitting there," he says, slightly pained. "You were. Doing all of that. For quite a while. And you're — " He stops himself, something crossing his face that he seems to decide against finishing. 

The laugh starts somewhere in your chest and works its way up before you can stop it. Helpless, falling out of you. You press your hand to your mouth but it's already too late.

"Go on. Get it out." He says dryly.

"I'm not—" You're laughing properly now, shoulders shaking. You can hear him hiss when you shift, your hips rolling just a fraction with the laugh, because your body hasn’t figured out how to stay still yet. The sound he makes is raw, like it got dragged out of him against his will.

“Fuck — give me a minute, baby, please,” he breathes, one hand clamping down on your hip to hold you there. Freezing you in place. His eyes are squeezed shut now.

“Shit, sorry—” the laughter dies in your throat. 

“Don’t be.” He exhales, eyes cracking open again. They’re still glassy, that post-cum haze making the blue look almost black. “I’m just… over-sensitive right now. You moved and it’s—” Another small hiss when you breathe too hard. “Yeah. That.”

You bite your lip, trying not to smile again even though the whole thing is kind of hilarious and kind of hot at the same time.  

His thumbs stroke slow circles on your hips. You feel the way his cock is still half-hard underneath all that mess, twitching every time your weight settles.  

You trace a finger along the side of his neck, right where his pulse is jumping. “Can I… give you a hickey? Just one. Or two.”

His head tips back against the headboard so he can look at you properly. The corner of his mouth lifts, tired but fond. “Hickey?”

“Yeah… I’ve always wanted to…” you trail off. 

“Have at it,” he makes space for your mouth, titling his head to one side. 

Immediately, you lean in and press your mouth to the spot just under his jaw, sucking slowly at first, letting your tongue drag over the skin until you feel him swallow hard. He tastes like salt and musk. Pulling back just enough, you see the little red bloom starting, then move lower, right where his neck meets his shoulder, and do it again. Teeth grazing just enough to make him hiss through his teeth in a completely different way.

His hand slides up your back, fingers threading into your hair. “Mark me up, gorgeous.”

So, you are gorgeous.

Main Masterlist || Series Masterlist || Next Part

EXTRAS. Thank you for reading. Hope that wasn’t just porn without plot. Last part will be up next Thursday.

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[metal-armed-muse]

A SIMPLE FAVOUR

bucky x fem! reader — college au summary. Bucky Barnes is your senior. That’s how simple it should’ve been. But when feelings come into the mix, nothing is ever simple right?

in which,

a simple favour somehow turns into a complicated affair.

word count. 19.3k warnings. college au — med school, slowish burn, smut, mdni, 18+, tit play, oral (f receiving), protected pnv, insecure reader, angst, hurt/comfort, impulsive reader who self sabotages, college girl acting like a college girl, bucky is described as a fuckboy, takes reader to watch a surgery. no use of y/n. notes. extremely self-indulgent, i miss med school man. but can easily be read as a college au, i just gave them med subjects. this is basically stuff that kinda happened to me and stuff i wish happened to me lol. in my college — like in many colleges in my country — there’s this unspoken rule, where a junior must obey their senior no matter what. so she can’t just say no when he asks her a favour. i’ve probably used bike and motorcycle interchangeably, please ignore that. Supposed to be posted like a month ago. Since I might be inactive in the following week, this is here now.

READ ON AO3

You had promised yourself you would not spiral today. That promise sits thin as you step out of the library, the familiar pressure of deadlines stacking one on top of the other until breathing feels like a chore instead of a reflex that keeps you alive. There is a quiet pride in having stayed back this late, in choosing tables and notes over distractions, in being the kind of second year who does not get noticed for the wrong reasons. You’re someone who slides through corridors without anyone remembering her name but still remembers every page she read, every line she underlined, every small victory that does not need witnesses.

It should have been a clean exit. Library to hostel. Bed. Maybe a shower if energy allows. A voice cuts through that careful plan. “Hey. Hey, wait.” Your name follows, said with the kind of casual certainty that makes your stomach drop because you do not remember giving it to a him. You slow before you mean to, hate yourself for it immediately, then stop fully because pretending not to hear it is useless now. He is leaning against wall near the steps, fourth year scrubs on, bag slung carelessly over one shoulder like rules never applied to him in the first place. Bucky Barnes.

The name exists in your head long before this moment, passed around in whispers and rolled eyes. The kind of senior everyone knows without knowing, the kind who never seems stressed, the kind who smiles like he expects the world to bend for him because it usually does. He looks at you like this is normal. Like calling you over has not just rearranged your internal organs. “Yeah… You. From second year, right?” The nod comes before you can stop it. Your mouth opens, and closes. Something about air refusing to cooperate. He does not seem to notice, or maybe he does and just enjoys it, because his smile tips slightly. “Good. I was hoping it was you.” Hoping implies intention. Intention implies choice. Your brain scrambles to keep up. He reaches into his bag and pulls out a record book, thick and familiar and immediately ominous. Oh no. He holds it out like a peace offering. It’s not. “I need this filled. Clinical entries. You know how it goes.” Of course you know. Seniors handing down record books like curses, juniors swallowing irritation because no one ever says no. It is tradition dressed up as mentorship, exploitation wrapped in smiles. You have watched others do it, complained quietly about it, sworn you would find a way out if it ever landed on you. It has landed on you.

“Uh,” your voice finally shows up. “I… I have my own, uhmm records. To finish.” He hums, just acknowledging a fact that does not change anything. The book does not move. His hand stays steady between you, patient in a way that feels practiced. “I know. Everyone does. You’re good at it though. Got neat handwriting. I’ve seen your stuff.” Being seen has never felt like a gift. It feels like exposure, like someone has pulled back a curtain you forgot was there. You wonder who told him. You wonder when he looked. You wonder why it matters. You take the book because not taking it feels impossible. Your fingers brush the edge of his fingers for half a second too long, heat flaring where there should be none. You hate that too. “Thanks,” he says, like you have done him a favour already. “I’ll need it by Monday. You can just slip it under my door. Room 318.” Monday. Your mind does the math without permission, counts hours you do not have, pages you do not want to fill, resentment blooming immediately. Your mouth wants to say no now, wants to choke the word out before it becomes habit. Instead, what comes out is a quiet okay that feels like a betrayal. Fuck. “You’re a lifesaver,” his grin widens, the phrase just sticks under your skin because you know he does not mean it. It is just something he says. Something that works. He pushes off the wall then, stretching like this conversation has taken nothing out of him, like he has not just fucked up your entire evening, possibly your entire week. “See you around, yeah?” You nod again, nodding seems to be all you can do around him. He walks away without looking back, already pulling his phone out, already elsewhere. The space he had left behind feels too empty and too crowded at the same time.

You stand there, blaming fate, blaming everything. Irritation simmers, edged with something that feels uncomfortably like embarrassment. Not because he asked. Because you said yes. Why couldn’t you have said no? The walk back to your room passes in a blur of footpaths and familiar turns, replaying the way he said your name, the way he smiled like nothing in the world could touch him. The unfairness of it all presses heavy. Fourth years like him float through med school like it is a game. People like you count pages and hours and caffeine intake and still feel behind. When the door clicks shut behind you, you drop your bag on the chair harder than necessary, the record book landing on your desk with a dull thud that feels deeply satisfying. “Oh my God,” you mutter, then louder, “Oh my God.” Your friend looks up from her bed. She has known you long enough to recognize the particular tension in your shoulders, the way your hands shake when you are trying not to scream. “What happened?” You hold up the book like evidence. “Bucky Barnes happened.” Her face shifts instantly, recognition blooming into something between amusement and sympathy. “No. Absolutely not.” “Yes,” your voice rises despite yourself. “He just handed it to me. Like I’m his personal assistant. Like I don’t have my own shit to do.”

“Did you say no?” The silence answers for you. A dramatic groan leaves her mouth. “You cannot do this. Seniors will see you coming from a mile away.” “I didn’t mean to,” you snap, then immediately soften because she is not wrong and that makes it worse. “He just… called me. And he smiled. And then suddenly I had the book in my hands and it was done.” You pace now, words spilling out faster, frustration finally finding a mouth. “Monday. He wants it by Monday. Do you know how much I have to finish by Monday? I barely sleep as it is.” Her expression becomes gentler now. “Why you though? He has friends. Groupies. People who would do it without complaining.” “Apparently my handwriting is neat,” the bitterness in your tone is obvious. “Apparently he’s seen my stuff. Which is creepy, by the way.” “That man has no boundaries. Also he’s hot, so no one calls him on it.” You stop pacing to glare at her. “Do not.” “I’m just stating facts,” she puts her hands up. “He’s a menace.”

“He’s a fuckboy,” you correct, the word slipping out with venom, satisfying in its accuracy. “And I do not have time for this.” The innocent book still sits on your desk, infuriating you. Pages waiting to be filled with cases you did not attend, observations you did not make. Your jaw tightens. “I should just give it back,” you say, more to yourself than to her. “Tell him I can’t. Tell him I have my own work.” She watches you for a moment, then smiles in a way that is all understanding and zero judgment. “And will you?” The answer tastes bitter before it even forms. You sink onto your chair, stare at the book like it has personally wronged you.

“No. Because I’m weak and stupid and I said okay.”

“You’re just too nice.” A humourless laugh echoes. “That’s not a compliment in med school.” She gets up then to cross the room, and peers over your shoulder at the offending book. “Look. We’ll bitch about him while you write.” That helps. The bitching. “He smiled at me,” the confession slips out before you can stop it. “Like I was already going to say yes.” “Because he knows people do.”

“I hate that it worked.” She bumps your shoulder lightly. “Welcome to being human.” You pick up the pen, flip the book open, anger and resolve tangling together in your chest. If you are going to do this, you will do it right. Not for him. For yourself. Because that is what you do. Because walking away has never come easily.

Still, as the first page fills under your hand, one thought forms inside your head.

Bucky Barnes is going to owe you for this.

Finishing this stupid record book on time might actually be the most irritating miracle you have ever pulled off. Two nights of cramped handwriting and squinting at borrowed case sheets, all for a senior who probably has not worried about a deadline since orientation week. There is a strange mix of pride and annoyance together in your chest. Pride because the pages look perfect, neat lines and careful diagrams, everything organized the way your brain likes it. Annoyance because none of it is even yours. Your roommate watches from her bed while you pack the book into your bag. “You actually finished it,” her voice is impressed and a little horrified. “I had no choice,” you zip the bag with more force than necessary. “If I didn’t, he would find me in some corridor and smile at me again and I would say yes to something worse.” She laughs like she understands exactly what you mean. “Go give it to him and be free.” Free is a strong word, but you take it anyway. The walk across campus feels lighter without the weight of guilt hanging over you. You rehearse what you are going to say in your head, something polite and quick and efficient. Here is your record book, thank you, goodbye. Nothing more. Definitely no unnecessary conversation. You spot him near the canteen. Of course he is surrounded by people. Bucky always seems to exist in the middle of laughter, like he attracts it without trying. A couple of fourth years, one or two juniors, faces you vaguely recognize. He looks relaxed leaning back on the bench. Your steps slow on their own. It would be so easy to turn around, to come back later, to avoid this tiny social nightmare entirely. But the book is in your bag and Monday is too close and courage, apparently, is a muscle you are forcing yourself to use. He notices you before you can talk yourself out of it. “Hey,” he calls out, like you are an old friend and absolutely not a nervous junior.

Every pair of eyes turns in your direction at once. Wonderful. Exactly what you wanted.

Trying to ignore the sudden heat crawling up your neck, you walk closer. “Um, I finished it.”

You hold the book out to him the way a student offers homework to a teacher. Careful, a little formal, maybe even a little scared. His eyebrows lift when he flips through a few pages.

“Damn,” he does not bother to hide the surprise. “This is perfect.”

Praise should not matter this much from someone like him, but apparently your brain did not get that memo.

One of his friends leans forward, curiosity written all over his face. You remember his name after a second. Sam.

“So, this is the famous second year with the magic handwriting,” Sam says, looking at you like you are a rare species. “Hey, listen, any chance you want to do mine next? I will pay you in coffee and eternal gratitude.” Your mouth opens, ready to spit out a polite refusal you have been practicing since last week, but Bucky moves before you can speak. His arm slides around your shoulders, pulling you a fraction closer to his side. “Nah,” he says easily, “she’s mine.” The words echo in your ears long after he says them. She’s mine. You know it’s not serious. It’s just a joke tossed out between friends. Still, your entire body reacts like it is not a joke at all. Your heart jumps. Your face heats. You suddenly understand why half the campus melts over him. Sam raises both hands in surrender. “Okay, okay, territorial much. I see how it is.” “Find your own hardworking junior,” Bucky grins, finally letting his arm drop from your shoulders. Though the ghost of the touch stays behind though. You stand there feeling ridiculous, trying to remember how to breathe normally, trying to figure out how to actually survive. “Thanks for doing this,” Bucky’s voice is softer now, like the rest of them are not even there. “Seriously, you saved me.” “It’s fine,” you manage, which is not true but sounds polite enough. “Just… don’t give me another one.”

“Cross my heart,” he promises, two fingers over his chest in mock solemnity. The group drifts back into their conversation and you prepare to make a quick escape, mission accomplished, when Bucky stands up and grabs his bag. “I’ll drop you off,” he says, like it is the most natural sentence in the world. Did you hear it right? Your brain stutters. “What, no, it’s okay, I can walk.” “I know you can walk,” he sounds amused. “But I’ve got my bike and you’ve done me a huge favor and I’m not letting you disappear like that.” People are watching again. You hate that people are watching. Refusing in front of everyone feels impossible, so you nod before you can overthink it. The bike is parked near the gate. It’s black, shiny and slightly intimidating. Okay, very intimidating. You have never actually sat on one before. He hands you the spare helmet without making it a big deal, and somehow that small kindness settles your nerves more than anything else. “Just hold on to me, yeah,” he says while you climb on behind him. Holding on to him sounds like a terrible idea for your already fragile composure, but the engine roars to life and instinct wins over dignity. Your hands settle lightly on his sides, trying to keep a respectful distance that disappears the second the bike moves. It feels strange and a little unreal, like you have stepped into someone else’s life for a moment. Bucky drives smoothly, confidently, like he does literally everything else. You tell yourself not to enjoy it. You enjoy it anyway.

When the familiar outline of your dorm comes into view, you’re surprised of the disappointment that blooms. The ride had ended too quickly. Sudden quiet wraps around the both of you as he cuts the engine. You climb off carefully, handing the helmet back, already rehearsing another quick thank you and goodbye. Bucky does not move to leave. He stays seated, one foot on the ground, looking at you with that same unreadable half smile. “So,” he stretches the word out, “what do you want?”

“What do I want… for what?” “For writing my record,” he clarifies. “Don’t say nothing because I know how much time that took.” The question catches you off guard. You had not even considered the possibility of getting anything in return. In your head, this whole thing was just an annoying duty, a favor extracted through seniority and social pressure. “I really don’t need anything… it’s fine.” He studies you for a moment, like he is trying to figure out if you are serious. Apparently the idea of someone not wanting something from him is a new concept.

“Okay… but I’m not accepting that answer.” “you don’t have to do anything,” you insist, as you feel awkward all over again. “I just did it because you asked.” “Exactly. Which is why I’m doing something because you helped me.” You shift your weight from one foot to the other, suddenly very aware of how close he is, how easily he holds your attention without even trying.

“Look… let me at least buy you dinner. As a thank you.” Dinner. Your brain immediately supplies a hundred reasons why that is a bad idea. He is a senior. He is Bucky Barnes. People talk. You do not do dinners with boys on bikes who call you theirs in front of their friends. You definitely don’t do dinners with Bucky Barnes. “You really don’t have to,” your voice is weaker this time. “I want to.” He says it like it’s simple, like it doesn’t carry any hidden traps. You try to find a polite way out and come up empty. “It’s just dinner,” he adds, reading your hesitation with annoying accuracy. “No weirdness, I promise.”

The easy confidence, the genuine gratitude and the tiny hopeful tilt to his expression, makes your resolve wobble. “Okay,” you hear yourself say, surprising both of you. “But only dinner.” His grin widens. “Only dinner. Scout’s honor.” You have no idea if he was ever even a scout, but the image makes you smile despite yourself. “Same time tomorrow,” he starts the bike again. “Be ready.” Before you can overthink or change your mind or list all the reasons this is probably a terrible decision, he gives you a small wave and rides off.

You stand there for long after he is gone, heart doing strange unpredictable things, trying to understand how a simple favor turned into this. Deep inside your chest, excitement and nervousness argue back and forth. Dinner with Bucky Barnes. Tomorrow.

Maybe this is a bad idea. Tiredness is sitting heavy in your shoulders, the kind that feels stitched into your bones after a long day of lectures and wards and pretending to understand things you only half understand. The sensible version of you knows exactly what tonight should look like. Pajamas. Leftover notes. An early night. Peace. Instead you are standing in front of your tiny mirror with a dress spread across the bed behind you, trying to decide if it looks normal enough to pass for casual and nice enough to pass for dinner. This is ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. You keep telling yourself that while you brush your hair, while you check your phone for the tenth time even though you know there is nothing new there, while you dig through your drawer looking for the one pair of earrings that make you feel a little less invisible. Getting ready for dinner with Bucky Barnes feels like preparing for an exam you never signed up for. Your roommate is out, probably somewhere with her own life that does not involve spiralling over a senior who asked for a favour and then offered dinner in return. He probably didn’t even mean it like that. That thought pops up while you smooth the front of the dress over your stomach, trying to ignore how nervous your hands feel. He said it casually, like he says everything, like inviting someone to eat is the most normal thing in the world. He did not ask for your number. He did not give his number. People who plan real dinners usually do those things, right? They exchange details and make proper plans and act like adults instead of just throwing out a time and disappearing on a bike like you see on movies. What if he forgot?

What if he only said it because he needed to look cool and effortless like he always does? What if he says things like that to everyone and never follows through because he is Bucky Barnes and the world follows him around instead of the other way? The more you think about it, the more stupid you feel for taking it seriously. You imagine him right now somewhere across campus, laughing too loud with people who are not you, maybe already at a party, maybe already making other plans that have nothing to do with a shy second year who writes neat record books. A small ache starts low in your chest and you hate it instantly. Why did you even get ready? You stand in front of the mirror, turning slightly from side to side, trying to see yourself the way he might see you if he ever actually showed up. The dress is simple and soft and maybe a little nicer than what you normally wear to class, and suddenly it looks silly. Like you tried too hard for something that might not even happen. Oh God, the thought of sitting here all dressed up for no reason, waiting for a message that never comes. This is embarrassing.

You start to take the earrings off, fingers fumbling more than they should. It feels safer to assume nothing is happening. It feels safer to crawl back into your comfortable routine and pretend none of this ever existed. You reach behind you and tug at the zipper, already planning how quickly you can change and wash your face and bury yourself under a blanket. He did not even ask for your number. That sentence loops in your head like a stubborn song you cannot turn off. If he really wanted to take you out, he would have made sure he could contact you. That is basic logic. That is common sense. You pull the dress down over your shoulders, halfway committed to the idea of forgetting the whole thing. But then your phone lights up on the desk. The sound is small but it freezes you completely. For a second you just stare at it, heart suddenly beating in a way that feels unfair. Notifications come from lots of people. Groups and apps and random spam messages. It does not have to be him. There is no reason to assume it is him. Still, you walk over to the desk like you are being pulled by an invisible string. One new message.

Unknown number : I’m here. Come down.

That is all it says. Your face heats so fast it almost hurts. It’s him. He remembered. He actually remembered. The room suddenly feels too warm and too small making your earlier embarrassment shift shape into something lighter and terrifying in a completely different way. He is downstairs. Right now. Waiting for you. And you are standing here with your dress half off like an idiot. You scramble back into it with clumsy fingers, tugging the zipper up again, checking your reflection in a rush of nervous energy. The girl in the mirror looks flustered and a little wide eyed, and there is no time to fix that.

Of course he remembered. Why would he not remember. He literally told you to be ready at this time and you convinced yourself he was lying because apparently your brain enjoys drama. Maybe this is not such a bad idea after all.

You do not want to read too much into it. You really do not. But the feeling is there anyway, impossible for you to ignore. It is only dinner. Just a thank you dinner between a senior and a junior. Nothing dramatic. Absolutely nothing life changing. Still, you catch yourself smiling at your phone like it personally delivered good news. This is how it starts, isn’t it? Tiny things that mean nothing on their own slowly adding up into something heavier. A hand on your shoulder in front of his friends. A ride on his bike with the wind in your face. A message saying he is here when you were sure he would never come. Do not get carried away. Do not turn this into a story in your head. You barely know the guy. He barely knows you. Getting attached to the idea of someone is a dangerous hobby and you have exams and responsibilities and a life that already feels full without adding complicated feelings into the mix. What if this is all in your head? What if he is just being polite and you are turning it into something bigger because you are not used to attention from boys like him? What if tonight is normal and friendly and you walk back to your room later feeling silly for letting yourself hope for anything more? You don’t remember getting down. When you push open the hostel door and step outside, the evening air hits your face gently. For a second all you can hear is your own heartbeat being louder than it has any right to be. But that’s when you see him. Bucky is leaning against his bike exactly the way you imagined he would be, like he belongs there, like waiting for people outside dorms is just another ordinary part of his day. He looks up the moment you appear, and the second his eyes land on you, something in his expression changes. A playful whistle slips out before you can even take three steps toward him. “Okay, wow… yeah, hi. You look… really pretty.” Nobody ever just says things like that to you so casually. Nobody ever looks at you like that either, like you are something worth pausing for. You have no idea what to do with it. “I… um… thank you,” you manage, this is as flustered as you can get and it’s not even two minutes in. He smiles at the reaction instead of pretending not to notice it. “No, seriously. I’m glad you didn’t bail on me.” “I almost did,” you admit before you can stop yourself. “I mean… not because of you… God, no. Just because I thought maybe you forgot.” His eyebrows lift slightly. “Forgot?” “Yeah,” you are suddenly aware of how silly it sounds out loud. “You didn’t ask for my number and I didn’t have yours and I just… I don’t know, I figured maybe you say things like that to people all the time.”

He studies you for a moment.

“Hey… no. I don’t do that. If I say I’ll show up, I show up.”

He says it like he actually means it, and you hate how much relief that gives you.

“Good to know,” you mumble, suddenly very interested in the ground.

He reaches for the helmet hanging on the handlebar. “C’mere.”

Before you can process what is happening, you’re stepping closer, his hands are gently lifting the helmet over your head. He adjusts it carefully, fingers brushing your hair back so it sits properly, tugging the strap under your chin with an ease that makes your stomach flip.

“Hold still for a second,” he murmurs.

“I am holding still,” you answer, trying very hard not to focus on how close he is.

“Yeah but you’re holding still like you’re nervous.”

“I am nervous.”

He chuckles softly. “That’s kind of cute, you know.”

The buckle clicks into place and he gives the top of the helmet a small affectionate tap. “There. Perfect.”

You genuinely have to remind yourself to breathe.

Climbing onto the bike feels a little easier this time, but not by much. Your hands settle on his sides again and you wonder if he can feel how tense you are through the thin fabric of his shirt.

“You good back there?”

“Uh-huh, yeah,” even though your heart is doing ridiculous things.

The ride to the restaurant passes in a blur of lights. It feels different tonight, less awkward and more intimate, like you are sharing a small secret with him that the rest of the world does not get to see.

When he finally pulls up in front of the place, he turns back slightly. “Hope you like Italian. If not, pretend you do for my ego.”

“I like Italian,” you answer quickly. “I mean… pasta is good. Pizza is good. Food in general is good.”

“That might be the most honest review I’ve ever heard,” he laughs.

Everything inside feels new and a little intimidating in the way unfamiliar restaurants always do. Bucky opens the door for you without making it feel like a grand gesture, just a simple natural thing, and you slip inside with a quiet thank you.

He pulls out the chair for you at the table.

Nobody has ever done that for you before.

“You don’t have to do all this,” you say, sitting down carefully.

“I like doing it.”

The menu becomes a safe distraction for a few minutes, something to focus on so you do not have to keep wondering what to do with your hands or your face or your nerves.

“Order whatever you want,” he tells you. “Don’t do that thing where you pick the cheapest thing to be polite.”

“I was not going to do that,” you lie.

“You absolutely were.”

“Okay maybe a little,” you admit, smiling despite yourself.

The waiter arrives and Bucky waits for you to speak first, like your choice matters more than his. You stumble through your order with a little too much hesitation, suddenly hyper aware of how ordinary your preferences sound out loud.

“That’s a solid choice,” he says once the waiter leaves.

“I don’t do adventurous very well,” you confess. “I like safe food.”

“Nothing wrong with safe. Safe is good sometimes.”

Conversation should feel awkward. It usually does for you. Sitting with new people always involves long pauses and overthinking and trying to figure out when to talk and when to stay quiet. But with him, words seem to find their way out more easily than expected.

“So,” he leans back in his chair, “tell me something about you that isn’t related to med school.”

Your brain blanks immediately. What’s there not related to notes, day-old scrubs and stethoscopes?

“That’s… a hard question.”

“Come on, there has to be something. Hobbies, embarrassing talents, secret dreams.”

“I can touch my nose with my tongue,” you blurt out, then immediately want to sink into the floor. Bucky stares at you for a second and then bursts out laughing, real and completely unfiltered. “That is not what I expected.” “You said embarrassing,” you defend yourself, your voice is small like that of a child, cheeks burning a little too much. “No, that’s perfect. I’m genuinely impressed.” The way he laughs makes it easier to relax. It makes you feel less like a nervous junior and more like an actual person sitting across from another actual person. He tells you stories while you wait for the food, small funny things about his friends and the chaos of fourth year. You learn that he drinks too much coffee and hates morning rounds and once fell asleep standing up during a lecture. None of it sounds like the larger than life version of him people whisper about. It just sounds human. “So you really did all that work just because I asked?” he asks at one point.

“Yeah… I complain a lot but I’m bad at saying no.” “I’m sorry about that, by the way.” “About what?” “Putting it on you like that. I should have asked properly instead of… whatever that was.”

The apology catches you off guard. You had not expected that from him at all. “It’s okay. I survived.” “Still… thank you. Really.” Food arrives and fills the table with warm comforting smells, and for a while the conversation slows into easy quiet. He asks if you like it and you nod with your mouth full, making him grin. He pays attention in a way that surprises you. Notices when your glass is empty. Notices when you hesitate over the dessert menu. Notices little things you are not used to anyone noticing. “You don’t talk much,” he says suddenly.

“I know.” “Is it because you’re shy or because you think everyone else is dumb?” A small laugh escapes you. “Definitely the first one.” “That’s a shame. I think you probably have smart things to say.” Your fork pauses halfway to your mouth. “You don’t even know me that well.” “I know enough… and id like to know more.” Somewhere between the main course and dessert, the nervous knot inside you loosens. You start answering more without overthinking every word. You ask him questions too, and he answers without making you feel like a kid for asking. This feels entirely new but safe. Things that usually don’t belong together for you. By the time the plates are empty and the bill arrives, you realize with a tiny jolt that you do not actually want the evening to end yet. “Ready?” he asks.

You’re not. “Yeah.”

“So,” he says as you reach the bike, “dinner was okay.” “Dinner was really nice,” you correct. “Thank God. Because I was low key worried you’d hate my choice and never talk to me again.” “I would have at least finished the food before ignoring you.”

“You definitely know how to humble a guy,” he laughs. You stand there just looking at him, helmet in your hands, trying to hold on to the feeling of the evening before it slips away into ordinary life again. He looks at you with that same easy smile he had when you first came downstairs, but now it feels different. “Thanks for coming out with me.” “Thanks for actually showing up,” you reply before you can stop yourself.

His grin widens. “Told you I would.” As you hand him the helmet so he can help you put it on again, a small undeniable truth settles into your chest. Maybe you are not as immune to Bucky Barnes as you thought you were.

That night he drops you off like nothing extraordinary has happened.

Until you reach the dorm steps, he stands there and makes sure you get inside safely the way he said he would. Just a small wave and a lazy smile.

“Sleep well, okay?” There’s nothing cinematic about it, but it feels like a movie anyway.

You were on your bed for a long time afterward, staring at the ceiling fan and replaying the whole evening in your head from beginning to end, trying to understand how something so normal could feel so important.

You tell yourself not to overthink it. You tell yourself it was only dinner. You tell yourself a lot of sensible things that did absolutely nothing to stop the tiny hopeful flutter still moving around inside your chest.

The first text came later that night.

Bucky: Hey. Did you make it in without tripping over anything?

You laugh out loud because it’s such a ridiculous thing to ask. It felt like he texted because he just had to text.

You: Yes, thank you very much. No accidents reported.

Bucky: Thank god. I was prepared to feel personally responsible.

That’s how it started. Small messages here and there that slowly turned into longer ones without either of you noticing.

Bucky: How was class today?

You: Boring. You?

Bucky: Don't even ask. Surgery rounds are trying to kill me.

He started to slip into your routine in little almost invisible ways. A text in the morning asking if you were awake. Another one in the evening asking if you ate. Sometimes just a random picture of something stupid he saw on campus with a line of commentary that made you smile harder than it should have.

One morning, when you mention that you had skipped breakfast, he shows up outside your lecture hall holding a small paper bag and a cup of coffee.

“You said you didn’t eat,” he hands it over before you could even react.

“I didn’t mean for you to… you know… bring me food.”

“Yeah but I just didn’t want you to starve yourself, so here we are.”

Inside the bag is a sandwich cut neatly in half and a chocolate bar tucked beside it. You do not know what to do except mumble a shy thank you while trying not to look too affected.

You’re not used to people paying attention to small things like that. You’re not used to someone remembering. But here he is, with food, like you’d actually starve if you don’t eat.

Days begin to feel a little brighter with him in them. He waits for you near the library sometimes, pretends it’s a coincidence. You pretend to believe him. He walks you back to your hostel after late study sessions even when it’s slightly out of his way.

“It’s dark, okay. Just let me be dramatic and protective.”

“That is the most ridiculous you’ve ever said.”

“I prefer heroic but sure, we can go with ridiculous.”

He always teases you easily, gently, never in a way that makes you feel small. It always feels like he was trying to pull you out of your shell inch by inch, like he enjoys watching you relax around him.

One afternoon though, he did something that made your entire week.

You had been whining to him about how second years never get to see anything interesting in the operating rooms, how you were always stuck observing minor procedures while the exciting cases went to seniors.

The next day he texted you out of nowhere.

Bucky: Wear clean scrubs and meet me near the main OT at two.

You spent the entire morning confused and curious and a little nervous, and when you show up at the time he asked, he’s already there waiting.

“I pulled some strings... c’mon.”

“Pulled strings for what?”

“For you to watch something actually cool for once.”

He gets you inside an operating room you have no business being in.

You stand against the cool tiled wall with your hands folded awkwardly in front of you, trying very hard to look like you belong.

Bucky leans slightly toward you, voice soft enough that only you can hear. “this is a suspected small bowel perforation.”

Throughout the surgery, he explains before you could even ask anything.

“First perforation ever?” Bucky glances at you with a small smile.

“First case ever.”

He doesn’t seem to miss the awe in your voice. “Not bad, huh?”

Not bad at all.

Afterward you could not stop thanking him.

“You really didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to.”

That sentence becomes a pattern between the two of you. Small thoughtful things wrapped in the same simple logic. I wanted to. I want to.

He learns your coffee order without asking. You learn that he hated pineapple on pizza with an unreasonable passion. You start looking for his face first whenever you enter a room.

Slowly, without any formal decision, you become part of each other’s days.

Evenings often find the two of you sitting on the library steps pretending to study while mostly talking about everything else instead. You told him about your family and how nervous you were on your first day of med school. He told you about his ridiculous group of friends and how he still sometimes felt like he was faking his way through life.

“Everyone is faking it a little.”

“Even you?”

“Have you seen me?”

“Nah,” he chuckles. “You actually know what you’re doing.”

The faith he seems to have in you feels strange but warm and a little dangerous.

Sometimes you catch yourself thinking about him at odd hours, wondering what he might be doing, wondering if he is thinking about you too. The thought would embarrass you immediately afterward, but it never stops coming back.

You try to stay sensible about it. Really.

But he is Bucky Barnes. Charming and confident and surrounded by people all the time.

You are just you, always a little out of place in big social circles. There is no logical reason for him to keep choosing your company, yet he keeps doing it anyway.

One evening he calls instead of texting.

The sound of his voice in your ear makes you realize you had missed it more than you expected.

“Hey… are you busy right now?”

“Not really. Just pretending to study.”

“Perfect. Come downstairs for a bit.”

“Right now?”

In your two years of college life, there wasn’t a day where you’ve not dreamed of a moment like this. But there’s never been a day like this so far.

“Yeah right now. I’m outside.”

You go down in your pajamas and messy hair and he still looks at you like you were worth showing up for.

“I was out with friends, saw this juice you like,” he hands you a juice pouch like it’s no big deal.

He just got you something just because you liked it. You don’t remember the last time someone did that for you.

This shouldn’t make you feel special. But it does anyway.

These little moments pile up quietly. Late night conversations about nothing important. Shared snacks in the canteen. Him saving you from your seniors — who are his juniors by the way — during clinical postings. You helping him organize his notes even though he pretends to not need help.

One day he asks you to help him study for an upcoming exam. Pediatrics. You end up sitting together in an empty classroom for hours, your notebook spread between you while you explain topics he claimed to be terrible at.

“You’re really good at teaching,” he tells you. It’s a simple compliment. But when has there ever been anything simple about him?

“I’m just repeating what the book says.”

“No you’re not. You make it make sense.”

He looks at you with such easy admiration that you have to glance away to hide how much it affect you.

There are days when you wonder how this even happened. How a simple record book favor had turned into shared lunches and inside jokes and a growing comfort that feel suspiciously like happiness.

Your friends start noticing too.

“So are you two like… a thing?” your roommate asks one night while you were smiling at your phone again.

“No. We’re just friends.”

“Friends who text constantly and see each other every day.”

“That is literally what friends do.”

She gives you a look that says she absolutely does not believe you.

The truth is you don’t know what you are to him. He never defined it. Never said anything that crossed an obvious line. He was just there, steady, present and kind in ways that kept sneaking past your defenses.

You find yourself getting used to it. To him.

That scares you a little.

Because somewhere along the way you stopped thinking of him as just a nice distraction and started thinking of him as part of your life. You started noticing how your mood shifted depending on whether you had seen him that day. You started caring a little too much about how you looked when you knew he would be around.

You are not supposed to get attached. You know that. But knowing something and feeling something are two very different battles.

You spend a lot of time pretending that the little things don’t matter. That you are normal about him. That the way his name lights up on your phone does not rearrange something fragile inside your chest every single time.

It’s been easy mostly. Easier than it should be. You tell yourself it is just convenience, just proximity, just two people whose schedules keep overlapping like stubborn lines on a calendar. You are busy, he is busy, and somewhere in the middle of all that busyness you keep finding each other.

But tonight feels different in a way you can’t explain without sounding ridiculous even to yourself.

Maybe it is because he texted you at three in the afternoon asking if you wanted to grab something after your class, and you typed back a yes before you could think about it too hard. Maybe it is because you are sitting beside him now on the couch in his apartment with the television in the background like a polite third person trying not to interrupt.

Whatever it is, this is different.

You have been here before. Not like this, but close. Close enough that you know he keeps his spare blanket folded over the arm of the couch, close enough that you know he taps his fingers against his knee when he is trying to decide what to say next.

He is doing that now.

Tap tap tap.

“You look tired,” he’s always observant in that annoyingly careful way he has.

“I am tired.”

“Long day?”

“Long week. Long month. Long life, honestly.”

He laughs at that, pulling a smile out of you too.

“You wanna head home?”

The question catches you off guard because it is gentle and easy and leaves room for you to say yes without pressure. And for some reason that makes you want to say no.

“Not really.”

“Okay.”

Just okay. He stretches one arm across the back of the couch behind you. You think it might touch your shoulder. But it doesn’t, at least not yet.

The silence makes you aware of the small things, like like the way his knee is angled toward yours, like the way your foot is almost brushing his on the rug.

You start talking to fill it because you always do.

About a patient who made you laugh today. About the vending machine that ate your last twenty. About how you might actually be developing a caffeine dependency that deserves medical attention.

He listens to you like he always does, mouth twitching at the corners when you get animated.

Somewhere in the middle of your story you realize he is watching you a little too closely. The realization makes the words wobble in your throat.

“What?” you ask finally, because you’re self conscious and him watching you isn’t helping at all.

“Nothing.”

“No, you are doing that thing.”

“What thing?”

“The thing where you look at me like you know something I don't.”

His mouth curves. “I do know something you don’t.”

“And what’s that?” At this point, you’re wondering if you have clown makeup on because that’s how intense his look is.

“I know that we’re alone because Sam is out with his girlfriend.”

“That is incredibly unhelpful right now. And for the record, I know it too.” You roll your eyes, but you are smiling.

The movie he put on earlier plays forgotten in front of you. Some action thing you stopped following twenty minutes ago. You can hear it more than you can see it, explosions and dramatic music bleeding into the background of the room.

He shifts beside you, turning a little more toward you on the couch. The movement is small but it changes everything. Suddenly his leg is closer. Suddenly his shoulder is closer. Suddenly everything is closer.

He lifts his arm in an invitation, like this is the most normal thing in the world. Absolutely no words and yet you understand.

It shouldn’t feel like such a big decision to lean over a few inches. It shouldn’t make your heart start thudding. But it does.

You tell yourself not to be weird about it. You tell yourself this is nothing.

When you shift closer, his arm settles around your shoulders without ceremony. “Much better.”

You huff out a laugh and let your head rest back against the couch, trying very hard not to think about the way his thumb is brushing idly against your upper arm through your sleeve.

Minutes pass like that. Or maybe it is seconds. Time feels like a traitor you cannot trust.

You can feel the rise and fall of his chest beside you. You can smell the faint clean scent of him. You can hear the movie and the city outside.

All of it feels louder than usual.

“You cold?” he asks after a while.

“A little.”

He reaches for the spare blanket without letting go of you, drapes it over your legs with unnecessary care, tucking it around your knees. The gesture is so domestic it makes your throat tighten for reasons you refuse to unpack.

“Better?”

“Better.” Your voice comes out softer than you mean it to.

His hand doesn’t leave your arm. If anything, it drifts lower, resting just above your elbow, fingers tracing lazy patterns that make it hard to breathe normally.

You should probably say something. Make a joke. Lighten the moment. But every sentence you think of feels like a landmine you’d be stepping on.

You just sit there and let it happen.

“You know,” he says eventually, “you are very easy to be around.”

“Am I?”

“Yeah.”

“Most people would disagree.”

“Most people are wrong.”

Your chest does that stupid flutter again. “You just… say that to everyone?”

He turns his head to look at you properly then, and the teasing drops out of his face.

“No.” Just one word.

You become aware, all at once, of how close your faces are. Of how if you turned your head a few inches your nose would brush his. Of how his mouth is right fucking there.

Your brain scrambles for something normal to say.

“It is getting late.”

“Yeah.” Neither of you move to do anything about it.

His eyes drop to your lips and then back up again so quickly you almost convince yourself you imagined it. Almost.

“I should probably go,” you say, even though your body makes no attempt to follow through.

“You could.”

“You are not making a very strong argument for it.”

“I am not trying to.”

Your pulse kicks up, so loud you doubt if he could hear it too, but then you remember it’s inside your body and he will be unaware of it unless his hand makes contact with that point of you.

“Bucky.”

“Yeah?”

“What are we doing?”

He takes a breath slowly, like he is choosing his words carefully.

“Right now? Sitting on my couch.”

“You know what I mean.”

A small smile tugs at his mouth. “I think we are figuring it out.”

It’s a fucking line. He’s probably bluffing. He probably says that to all his flings. That answer should annoy you. Somehow it doesn’t.

His hand slides a fraction lower, resting at your forearm now, thumb warm against your skin. You can feel the calluses on his fingers.

The distance between you feels thinner with every breath. You can see the faint flecks of color in his eyes, the tiny scar near his eyebrow, the way his lashes cast shadows against his cheeks.

He tilts his head a little, searching your face like he is waiting for permission he does not want to assume. “Tell me to stop.”

Your heart trips over itself. “Stop what?” your voice is barely a whisper.

“Whatever this is about to be.”

You should say it. You know you should. This is complicated and messy and you promised yourself you would be sensible.

But sensible feels very far away right now.

“I don’t… I don't want you to stop.”

The words come out like a breath, almost worrying you that you imagined saying them.

He hears you though. You can tell by the way his shoulders relax, by the way his hand finally moves from your arm to your jaw, cupping it gently like something precious.

Your body moves towards him before your brain can catch up.

It’s hard to think.

The first brush of his lips against yours is careful. Like he is still expecting you to change your mind. It is soft and warm and nothing like the dramatic movie kisses you have built up in your head.

It feels real.

You lean in without thinking, closing the tiny space between you, and he makes a sound that you feel more than hear.

The kiss deepens slowly, two people learning the shape of each other in real time. His fingers slide into your hair, and you find yourself gripping the front of his shirt like you need something to anchor you.

It is unplanned and honestly a little clumsy in the best way.

“Is this okay?” he asks against your mouth.

“Yes.”

“You sure?”

“Bucky, please stop asking before I lose my nerve.”

A quiet laugh escapes him. He is kissing you again, a little more confident this time, a little less restrained.

Your brain goes pleasantly fuzzy. Every worry you walked in with dissolves into the simple fact of him and you and the warmth building between you.

His hand slips to your waist, drawing you closer, and you let yourself melt into him because pretending you do not want to feels impossible now.

You are very aware that this is a line. A big one. A bold neon line you are stepping over with both feet.

But right now you cannot find it in yourself to care.

The world narrows to the feeling of his mouth on yours, to the way he says your name like it means something important, to the way your heart pounds with a mixture of excitement and fear and something dangerously close to hope.

The kiss lingers like a question neither of you wants to answer just yet, his mouth moving against yours in a rhythm that feels both new and inevitable, pulling you deeper into a haze where everything else fades out.

You can taste the faint bitterness of coffee on his tongue, which he drank before you got here, and it mixes with the sweetness of the gum you'd chewed nervously on the way over, creating this odd, intimate flavor that's just yours and his right now.

His hand stays tangled in your hair, your fingers clutch at his shirt tighter, feeling the fabric bunch under your palms, the heat of his chest seeping through, and suddenly it's not enough.

You need more. You need to feel skin instead of cotton, need to know if his heart is racing as much as yours is.

Without breaking the kiss, you tug at the hem, pulling it up inch by inch, your knuckles grazing the smooth plane of his stomach. He gets the hint immediately, leaning back just enough to help you yank it over his head in one fluid motion that leaves his hair a little messy, falling over his forehead in a way that makes him look less put-together than the confident senior everyone sees.

"You sure about this?" he murmurs against your lips, you can feel that he's holding back but needs to check anyway, his breath warm on your cheek as his eyes search yours in the dim light.

There's no pressure in it, just genuine care mixed with that quiet intensity he always carries, the kind that makes you feel seen without feeling exposed.

And god, you are sure… surer than you've been about anything in weeks, even though your mind is a whirlwind of half-formed questions tumbling over each other: what if this changes everything, what if it's too fast, what if you mess it up somehow.

But none of that stops the yes from spilling out, because the way he's looking at you right now, like you're the only thing in his world, drowns out the doubts.

A small smile tugs at his mouth before he kisses you again, deeper this time, his hands sliding under your shirt to trace the curve of your back, fingers splaying wide against your skin, sending sparks everywhere they touch.

The contact makes your breath hitch, you arch into him. He takes that as his cue, lifting the fabric slowly, giving you every chance to pull away if you want.

You don't. Lifting your arms instead, you let him peel it off, the cool air of the room hitting your bare shoulders and making you shiver, though it is definitely not from the cold.

It's from the way his gaze drops, taking you in with awe that feels almost unfair, like he's memorizing every inch.

Left in your bra and the simple jeans you'd thrown on earlier, you feel heat creep up your neck, but he doesn't give you time to overthink it.

His mouth finds the spot just below your ear, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your jaw that make your eyes flutter shut.

"God, you're beautiful," he whispers, and it's not said like a line. It's mumbled, almost to himself, like he couldn't help it, that makes your hands reach for him again, tracing the lines of his shoulders.

He's solid and warm, the kind of presence that fills the space without overwhelming it, and you wonder briefly how many times he's done this, how easy it seems for him, but the thought evaporates when his lips find yours once more, pulling you back into the moment.

Your fingers fumble with his belt, nerves making them clumsy, warranting his help, as he undoes it with a quiet chuckle that breaks the tension just enough to make you smile against his mouth.

"No rush," he says, his voice steady even as his hands work at the button of your jeans, popping it open with a gentleness that contrasts the heat building between you. "We got time."

Maybe. Yes.

Sam's out, there’s no one here except you two. But the muffled sounds of neighbors through the thin dorm walls remind you that this is real life, not some polished fantasy, making this somehow urgent.

As he slides your jeans down your hips, he helps you kick them off without any awkward tangles.

The cotton of your bra and panties feel suddenly too thin under his gaze. You would’ve have worn something sexier if you knew this would happen.

Sitting back on his heels to look at you properly, he pauses. His eyes have gone dark but soft, his hands resting lightly on your thighs.

"Still good?" His thumb rubs small circles on your skin, the simple touch sending a jolt straight through you, making it hard to think straight.

You want more, but you’re also scared of wanting more, excited and overwhelmed all at once. But your body knows, nodding before you can form words, "Yeah, don't stop.” Stopping now would feel like cutting off a breath you didn't know you needed.

With that, he scoops you up effortlessly, one arm under your knees and the other around your back, lifting you bridal style. You let out a surprised gasp that turns into a laugh, your arms looping around his neck as he carries you the short distance to his bedroom.

The door's half-open already, and he nudges it wider with his foot, the room spilling into view: unmade bed with sheets twisted from whatever sleep he got last night, a desk piled with notes and a near empty water bottle, posters on the wall from bands you vaguely recognize.

It's lived-in, personal.

He lowers you onto the mattress, the springs creaking softly under your weight.

He follows you down, bracing himself above you on one elbow, his free hand trailing up your side as he kisses you again, slower now, like he's savoring it.

The bed dips under him, the pillow sinking a bit as your head rests back. You can feel the warmth of his body hovering just over yours, close enough to tease but not quite pressing down.

His fingers dance along your ribs, light, exploratory, absolutely maddening.

You need more, you need him to touch you properly. There’s the ache building low in your belly making you shift restlessly beneath him.

Without thinking, you reach for his hand, guiding it up to your chest, pressing it against your bra.

Surprised, he pulls back, a slight smirk playing on his lips as he looks down at you. "That eager, huh?" he teases, his voice laced with amusement.

"Tell me what you want.”

It’s absolutely impossible to word it, word what you want, as his thumb circles your nipple over the fabric. It's so close to what you need but not quite, making you whine softly in frustration.

"Just... touch me," you finally manage, the words coming out breathier than you intended,

He's already moving, his fingers deftly reaching behind you to unhook your bra with a single flick that speaks volumes about how many times he's done this before.

How many girls has he brought here, made feel like this? A spike of insecurity flickers, but it vanishes the second his mouth descends, warmth closing over one nipple while his hand cups the other, thumb circling in a way that makes your back arch off the bed.

Pleasure shoots through you, pulling a moan from your throat that surprises even you. It’s loud in the quiet room, echoing off the walls.

You're not usually like this, not vocal, always holding back out of some ingrained habit of keeping things contained, but here it spills out unfiltered.

He seems to notice it because frankly, it’s hard to miss. "That's it, lemme hear you… don't hold back if it feels good." His encouragement is gentle, making the next moan come easier, louder, as his tongue flicks and sucks, alternating sides until you're squirming beneath him, hands threading through his hair to hold him there.

Bucky takes his time, drawing it out, lips and teeth grazing just enough to tease the line between pleasure and ache, his free hand sliding down to grip your hip, fingers digging in slightly as if to steady you, or maybe himself. You’re not sure.

The sane part of your brain slips away with every pass of his mouth.

With spit shine and swollen lips, he eventually pulls back, his eyes meeting yours with a heat that mirrors the fire building in you.

"You're so responsive.” He's marveling at it, at you, his hand trailing down from your breast to hook into the waistband of your panties, tugging gently.

"Lift up for me, baby," the word baby slips out casually and affectionate, like he's said it a hundred times, making you obey without hesitation.

The fabric is peeled down your legs, and tossed over onto the floor, forgotten.

Now fully exposed, the vulnerability hits you for a split second. You feel the cool air on bare skin, but more than that, you feel his gaze.

When you break eye contact, he shifts down the bed with a purposeful grace, settling between your thighs. His hands part them gently, thumbs stroking the sensitive inner skin.

Anticipation tightens your core, making it impossible not to squirm under his touch. "Relax," he whispers, pressing a kiss to the inside of one thigh, then the other, his breath hot against you, making you tremble. "I got you."

The gasp you let out is stifled by your bitten lips, as his own brushes over your core gently.

"No, let it out— wanna hear how good it feels." The encouragement works, pulling another moan from you as his tongue finally presses flat, licking a slow stripe that makes your hips buck involuntarily.

He holds them down with firm hands, keeping you in place as he works, alternating between long, languid strokes and focused circles around that spot that has your vision blurring.

The room narrows to just the wet sounds of his mouth, the way his hair tickles your thighs, and the occasional groan from him like he's enjoying it as much as you are.

The sheets are rumpled from your fists, now they reach for him again, fingers tangling in his hair as the pressure builds, coiling tighter with every flick and suck.

Moans spill freer and louder now, spurred by his murmured approvals like "that's perfect" and "just like that" between breaths.

He's thorough, attentive, reading every reaction and adjusting, drawing it out until you're teetering on the edge, body taut and trembling under his touch.

His tongue keeps that relentless rhythm, dipping and swirling in ways that make your toes curl against the sheets.

The pressure coils tighter and tighter in your belly, a hot insistent build that has you gasping his name in broken syllables, "B-Bucky, oh God.”

Your hips grind up toward his mouth without any real control, chasing that peak.

A sudden and overwhelming wave crashes over you, your whole body tensing and shuddering as pleasure ripples out in waves that leave you trembling. Your muscles quiver in the aftermath, breaths coming in short ragged bursts that echo in the quiet space.

He eases you through it with softer licks that draw out the aftershocks, making your legs twitch and your hands clutch at his hair a little harder before you finally go limp.

You sink back into the pillows with a sigh that feels like it's been pulled from deep in your chest. Pressing a kiss to your inner thigh, then your hip, your stomach, he works his way up until his mouth finds yours again, tasting faintly of you in a way that's intimate and a bit dizzying.

"Hey," he murmurs against your lips, and you can feel the smile in it even with your eyes half-closed.

The trembling hasn't stopped entirely, little shivers running through you like echoes of the orgasm. Bucky notices that right away, brow furrowing, like he can't help but worry a little.

"hold on, let me get you some water," you hear him say, watching him through heavy lids as he twists the cap off of the bottle, sitting up a bit to hand it to you, his other hand steadying your back. "Drink this.”

The water hits your throat, the coolness of it washing something in you. He stays close while you drink, and when you hand the bottle back, he sets it aside before stretching out beside you on the bed.

His lips find your jaw first, trail up to your temple, brushing over your hairline in a way that feels almost too tender for what just happened, his breath warm against your skin as he presses another kiss there, then into your hair, like he's content to just lie here and hold you while your body settles.

The closeness wraps around you, his arm draped over your waist, fingers tracing idle patterns on your back that send lazy sparks along your spine.

As the trembling fades, you glance up at him, catching the way his eyes are half-lidded, watching you with that satisfied curve to his mouth.

There’s a confusion in you now. He's still half-dressed, jeans hugging his hips, and the unfairness of it hits you all at once, making you prop yourself up on one elbow, your hand trailing down his chest tentatively, fingers brushing the trail of hair leading lower.

"Wait, what about you?" because this feels lopsided, like he's given everything and taken nothing, and the thought lingers.

He shakes his head as his hand catches yours, bringing it to his lips for a quick kiss on your knuckles. "We don't have to rush the rest… there's always tomorrow, or the day after, whenever you're ready.”

That doesn't sit right, the idea of stopping here, of letting him walk away from this without feeling the same unraveling you just did.

Before you can second-guess it, your mouth forms a pout, lips pressing together in that way you know looks a bit childish but can't help. "But... I need you," you say, the words slipping out bolder than expected, shocking yourself even more, "I need your cock."

Whoa, where did that come from? It's not like you, this blunt courage bubbling up uninvited, heat flushing your face immediately after.

His eyes darken, a slow smile spreading across his face like you've just said something he didn't expect but absolutely likes.

"Say that again?" He slides his hand up your arm to cup your cheek, thumb brushing your lower lip as if to coax the words out.

A mix of embarrassment and frustration blooms, and you playfully swat at his chest with the flat of your hand, before your fingers drift lower again, fumbling with his belt buckle.

Avoiding his gaze, you tug at it clumsily. "You heard me."

His larger hand covers yours to undo the buckle with a quiet click, zipper rasping down as he lifts his hips to shove them off along with his boxers in one go, kicking them to the floor where they land in a heap.

He's hard and obviously so, cock springing free and curving up against his stomach, thick and flushed at the tip, veins standing out in a way that makes your mouth go a little dry.

He reaches over to the nightstand drawer, rummaging for a second before pulling out a condom packet, tearing it open with his teeth in that casual, practiced move that speaks to experience without flaunting it.

But before he can roll it on, your hand reaches out, "Wait—I've never, um, put one on before. Can I try?"

A surprised laugh bubbles up from his chest as he hands it over, eyebrows raised in amusement. "You wanna practice on me right now? Like I'm your training dummy or something?"

Lips jutting out again, "Teach me, Bucky… please?" drawing out the please.

He relents with a grin, guiding your hand to him, showing you without turning it into a lecture, "Pinch the tip here, yeah, like that."

His voice hitches when your fingers wrap around him, rolling the latex down slowly, carefully, the warmth of him pulsing under your touch making your breath catch.

Once it's on, he positions himself between your legs again, the weight of him settling over you comfortably, close enough that you feel enveloped, his forearms bracketing your head as he leans down to kiss you.

“You ready?" he murmurs against your mouth. You whisper a yes that's more breath than sound, your hands sliding up his back to pull him closer.

Inch by inch, he pushes in, stretching you in a way that's full and a little overwhelming at first, making you gasp into his shoulder, nails digging into his skin as your body adjusts.

The sensation builds from pressure to pleasure as he bottoms out, holding still for a moment to let you breathe.

"Fuck, you feel good.” The words are muffled against your neck.

The first thrust is steady and unhurried, making you wrap your legs around his waist, heels pressing into the flesh of his ass to urge him deeper.

The headboard taps the wall with each rock of his hips, he finds that angle that makes stars burst behind your eyelids, drawing moans from you that he swallows with kisses.

His own breaths come faster, mirroring yours. "That's it… fuck. Tell me — tell me if it’s too much—"

But it's not. It's perfect, the friction coiling that tension again until you're clinging to him, whispering "harder, please" in his ear.

Immediately he obliges, pace quickening until the room fills with the sounds of skin on skin, your shared gasps.

It builds faster this time, him inside you amplifying everything. You cum with his name on your lips, body clenching around him in waves that pull a deep groan from his throat.

His thrusts stutter as he follows right after, burying his face in your hair while he rides it out, hips pressing flush against yours one last time before he stills.

Somewhere between sleep and waking, you register the sensation of lips moving over your skin, the brush of his mouth along your shoulder, down the curve of your neck. That’s how you know it’s morning.

You stay still and let yourself exist in it.

His lips are softer now than they were in the dark. Curious in a way that feels less like hunger and more like quiet appreciation.

You are aware of your body before you are fully aware of the room. Aware of bare skin against bare skin. Aware of the way the sheets have slipped somewhere near your hips. Aware that you are not wearing anything at all.

There is a quiet exhale against your chest that makes you stir, eyelids fluttering open to a blur of morning light and dark hair bent over you.

“Morning,” he murmurs, sleep still clinging to his voice.

Your brain takes a second to catch up to the situation. To the fact that you are in his bed. That you fell asleep with your legs tangled with his.

You are naked.

He is naked.

You are in his bed.

Oh, also, this is Bucky Barnes.

There is no distance left to pretend this is casual.

“Hey.” His lips trail lower, until they take one nipple into its warmth, until it pebbles.

You open your eyes.

The ceiling above you looks different in daylight. More real. The warmth that had felt so comforting seconds ago now feels dangerously close to exposing something fragile inside you.

This is not something you do.

Not like this.

Not with a senior. Not with someone who walks into rooms and owns them without even trying. Not with someone like Bucky Barnes, who has a reputation that precedes him and a smile that has probably undone half the city.

And definitely not without talking about it first.

He lifts his head slightly when he feels the shift in you, eyes heavy but focused, mouth curving in a lazy smile that looks devastating this close.

“What’s that face for? Did I do something wrong already? Because that would be impressive.”

“No… no, it’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

You do not have an answer that feels safe enough to say out loud. Instead, you trace a line across his shoulder with your fingers just to have something to do, to anchor yourself in something physical.

Last night was not reckless.

It was soft. It was slow. It felt like something building rather than something exploding. There were moments where he had looked at you like you were the only thing in the room, and the memory of it makes your throat ache in a way you do not know how to handle.

But that was night.

Night is easy. Morning is not.

“I’ve just never…” you start, then stop because the sentence feels childish before you even finish it.

“Never what?” he asks gently.

You let out a breath and force yourself to look at him properly. “Never done this with someone like you.”

“Someone like me?”

“Yeah. You know. Someone… above me. Senior. Someone who has a whole… history.” The last word slips out before you can soften it.

There is a pause. Long enough for you to realize what you have implied.

He studies you for a second, expression unreadable in a way that makes your stomach drop. “A history,” he repeats.

“I didn’t mean it like—”

“It’s fine.” His voice stays even, but something in it shifts just a fraction. “I know what people say.”

You want to take it back immediately. Not because it is untrue, but because it feels unfair in this moment. Because the man in front of you is not the whispered stories or rumors. He is human and still half wrapped around you like he belongs there.

“I just mean,” you try again, “I don’t usually wake up like this. I don’t usually… not talk about things first.”

He searches your face like he is trying to see the shape of what you are really asking. “Are you asking what this is?”

There it is. The question you have been circling since you opened your eyes.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “I don’t want to assume.”

His thumb traces a slow line along your hip. “I didn’t think last night felt like an assumption.”

“It didn’t.”

“Did it feel like a mistake?”

The word mistake is a mistake. Because last night felt like the opposite of a mistake. “No,” you say immediately. “No. It didn’t.”

It really didn’t. It felt intentional. It felt chosen. It felt like something that had been building and finally tipped over.

So why does your chest feel tight?

Why does your brain keep whispering that this is exactly how one-night stands begin? Intense, unexpected, and sweet in the morning until reality sets in.

Before you can say anything else, a sharp vibration cuts through the quiet.

His phone.

The sound is coming from somewhere on the floor, probably from his jeans. He groans softly and leans over to grab it, the movement pulling away the warmth that had been pressed against you.

You lie there watching the shift in him as his eyes scan the screen. “Shit, I have to take this,” he says. “Give me two seconds.”

The faint voice from the other side asks him numerous questions about where the hell he is and tells him he will lose his attendance if he isn’t there in ten minutes.

“Fuck — I’m late.” The words are simple. Practical. Normal. But they land like something heavier.

“Late?” you echo, absolutely dreading that you’re stalling him.

“Yeah. I was supposed to be in half an hour ago.” He runs a hand through his hair, already mentally moving into the day ahead. “I didn’t set an alarm.”

Last night definitely didn’t feel like a time where alarms existed.

But mornings come, and they wait for no one.

As he swings his legs off the bed, the sudden absence of him beside you feels enormous. You pull the sheet up instinctively, even though he has already seen every inch of you.

He is moving quickly now, scanning the room for clothes, checking his phone again. “I can drop you off on the way,” he says, distracted but not unkind. “I don’t want you getting a cab this early.”

“It’s fine, I can manage.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” He pulls on his jeans, glances back at you. “I’m not just leaving you.”

The reassurance should help. Instead, it tangles with the fear already building in your chest.

As you sit up, the sheet slips down to your waist. The room feels colder without the cocoon of the night around it. You watch him move around the room with practiced ease, like mornings here are routine.

It probably is routine for him.

You hope to God that only covers the ‘waking late’ part and not the ‘because of a one-night stand’ part.

You hate that your brain goes there, but it does. It does because there was no conversation.

It was just skin and warmth and whispered names in the dark.

“Hey,” he says, softer now, noticing the way you have gone quiet. “You okay?”

You nod because that is easier than explaining the way your stomach feels like it is sinking through the mattress.

“Yeah. Just waking up.”

He walks back over, bends slightly so you are eye level. There is something searching in his expression again, something that almost looks like he wants to say more.

“Last night…” he starts, then gives up as his phone buzzes again in his hand.

You take that as a cue to get ready and get the hell out of here.

You tell yourself that is normal. That adults have jobs and responsibilities. That this is not some dramatic movie where the world pauses because two people slept together.

But the fear creeps in anyway. What if it meant more to you than it did to him? What if the softness was just part of who he is?

What if you have stepped into something you cannot handle?

You slide out of bed, gathering your clothes from where they lie scattered. Each piece feels like evidence of something fragile and undefined.

He is already by the door by the time you finish dressing.

You search his face for something. A sign. A clue. A hint that he is about to say, stay. Or this is not nothing. Or we need to talk.

He does not.

He just checks the time again and sighs. “We should go.”

And just like that, you are left with more questions than answers.

It is ridiculous how much power one casual text can have over your entire nervous system.

The pharmacology class becomes ten times harder to sit in when you know it’s Bucky that’s texting you. You wait a full thirty seconds before checking because you refuse to look eager, even if no one can see you.

When you finally glance down, it is exactly what you expected.

Bucky: survived the morning. you alive over there?

That is it. No mention of last night. No shift in tone that would confirm or deny anything that happened between the sheets and the soft early light.

You stare at the screen, rereading the words as if they might rearrange themselves into something more revealing if you look hard enough.

Survived the morning could mean anything. It could mean he is thinking about you. It could mean he is not. It could mean the night was a pleasant distraction before reality resumed its normal rhythm.

Honestly, it was stupid of you to expect that he’d say something over text. At least he doesn’t ghost.

At least he texted.

You tell yourself that if it had meant nothing to him, he would not have bothered. He would have let the day swallow it. He would have gone back to being Bucky Barnes, charming and untouchable, moving from one thing to the next without looking back.

But he texted.

Your thumbs hover over the keyboard. Every possible reply feels wrong.

Too warm and you look clingy. Too cool and you risk sounding detached. Too flirty and you might seem like you are assuming something. Too flat and you might seem like you regret it.

Why is this so hard?

Finally, you decide on something light.

You: barely. Caffeine is the reason I’m alive.

You stare at it. Delete it. Type it again with a different emoji. Delete the emoji because that feels like too much. Send it before you can edit it a third time.

The three dots appear almost immediately.

Bucky: that’s concerning. eat something.

Your chest tightens at the simplicity of it. It’s the same tone he uses when he shows up with food because you mentioned skipping breakfast.

You want to read more into it than is there.

You force yourself not to.

You: yes dad.

You cringe as soon as you send it. Now why did you say that? Why are you like this?

His reply comes a few seconds later.

Bucky: don’t start.

You can almost hear the amused warning in his voice. Heat creeps up your neck even though NSAIDs are being discussed right now.

The conversation fades into small exchanges after that. Nothing deep. Nothing that addresses the thing sitting heavily between you like an unspoken question. He tells you medicine rounds ran long. You tell him a patient tried to bribe you with chocolate. He tells you to accept the chocolate next time. You tell him that is unethical. He tells you you are no fun.

It feels almost normal.

Almost.

But beneath every word is a current you cannot ignore.

By the time your class ends and the sky outside has turned that deep dusky blue that makes everything feel a little more fragile, you have replayed every message at least ten times in your head. You have analyzed the speed of his replies, the punctuation, the absence of certain words.

He did not call you baby.

He did not say he missed you.

He did not bring it up.

You tell yourself that maybe he is giving you space. That maybe he is trying not to rush you. That maybe this is what maturity looks like.

But another voice whispers that maybe it did not mean the same thing to him.

That maybe you were one of many mornings.

You hate that thought immediately. It feels unfair. He was soft. He was careful. He had asked you if you were sure. He had not treated you like something disposable.

And yet.

You have heard stories. You have seen the way girls look at him. The way they orbit him like he carries his own gravity.

What if you had stepped into something that was always going to feel bigger to you than it did to him?

By the time you reach the campus courtyard that evening, your chest feels tight with thoughts you cannot shut off.

You had not planned on seeing him, but you know he usually lingers here. A part of you hopes he will not be there so you do not have to figure out how to act. Another part of you hopes he is because not seeing him would feel worse.

He is there.

Of course.

He stands in the middle of a loose circle of friends, laughter carrying easily across the space. Sam is beside him, animated as always, gesturing wildly as he talks about something you cannot hear. A couple of others hover nearby, one of them leaning against Bucky’s shoulder in a way that looks effortless and familiar.

The sight of it makes something twist low in your stomach.

He looks the same as he always does. Relaxed. Confident. At home in his own skin. There is no visible shift that marks him as someone who woke up with you wrapped around him this morning.

Why would there be…

You slow your steps without meaning to. You consider turning around. Disappearing before he notices you. Pretending you are busy.

But then his eyes lift and land on you.

The change is subtle but unmistakable. His body angles slightly in your direction even before he excuses himself. He says something to Sam that makes Sam glance over at you with a knowing grin that immediately makes your face heat.

Bucky makes his way toward you. “Hey.”

You force yourself to meet his eyes without letting the storm inside you show. “Hey.”

“How was your day?”

The question is simple. Ordinary. You search his face for anything that hints at last night, but there is nothing but genuine curiosity.

“It was fine,” you reply, and then immediately hate how flat that sounds. You clear your throat and try again. “Busy. But fine. Yours?”

“Rounds were brutal,” he admits with a small shake of his head. “Chief decided I haven’t stood for 24 hours today.”

His comment makes you laugh despite yourself. “That seems illegal.”

“I’m considering filing a complaint.”

His gaze lingers on you for a second longer than necessary. There is a softness there that makes your pulse stumble, but it is fleeting. You cannot tell if you imagined it.

“You look tired.” He tilts his head slightly like he’s trying to figure something out. “Did you eat?”

The familiarity of the question makes your chest ache. “Yes,” you lie, because admitting you forgot feels too intimate somehow.

His eyes narrow just a fraction like he does not entirely believe you, but he lets it go.

There is a pause, not awkward but not entirely comfortable either. You are hyperaware of the group behind him, of the way laughter erupts suddenly, of the fact that this is his world and you are standing on the edge of it.

“I’ve got a game tonight,” he says after a moment, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s gonna run late.”

“Oh,” you say, and hope it does not sound like disappointment. “Good luck.”

“Thanks.” He studies your face again, like he is trying to read something you are not saying. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

The question is casual on the surface, but something about the way he says it makes your heart trip.

“Yeah… tomorrow.”

“Okay.” He smiles, that familiar crooked thing that used to make your stomach flip in a lighter way. Now it makes it drop.

He hesitates for half a second, like he might say more. Like he might bridge the gap you are too afraid to cross. Instead, he steps back slightly, already half turning toward his friends.

“Don’t stay up too late,” he adds, almost teasing.

You want to laugh. Instead, you nod.

“Go win your game.”

“Always do.”

He walks back to the group, slipping seamlessly into the rhythm of their conversation. Someone claps him on the back. Someone else throws an arm around his shoulders. He laughs at something Steve says, head tipping back slightly, unbothered.

You stand there like a statue.

Nothing about that interaction confirms your worst fears.

Nothing about it reassures them either.

He did not avoid you. He did not treat you like a stranger. He asked about your day. He said he would see you tomorrow.

And yet the space where a conversation should have been feels cavernous.

You tell yourself you are overthinking. That this is what normal looks like. That not every connection needs a dramatic declaration to validate it.

But as you turn away and start walking, the questions follow you anyway.

Did you move too fast?

Did you blur something that was supposed to stay light?

Are you already more attached than you meant to be?

The next time you see Bucky, he’s waiting for you outside your class. He is just there, eyes scanning the crowd until they land on you, and the way his face shifts when he spots you makes something hopeful spark before you can smother it.

For a split second, everything inside you softens.

He waited. He is physically here.

“Hey.”

You try to keep your expression neutral, like you did not spend half the lecture imagining this exact moment. “Hey. How long have you been standing here?”

“Long enough to hear the professor inside mispronounce drugs. I was tempted to go correct him.”

A quiet laugh escapes you before you can stop it. It feels good. Too good.

“That would’ve gone well.”

“I know. I’m very charming.”

You tilt your head slightly. “Debatable.”

“Ouch.”

You feel easy talking to him like this. Like nothing else is on your mind. But your heart does tighten occasionally, ruining everything.

“Walk with me?” he asks, nodding toward the parking lot.

You hesitate for a fraction of a second, not enough for him to notice, but long enough for you to feel the weight of the decision. You nod anyway.

When your shoulder brushes his, you are hyperaware of it. He does not comment. He just matches your pace.

“You okay?” he asks after a moment, glancing sideways at you. “You’ve been… somewhere else all day.”

“I’ve been in class.”

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

You force a small shrug. “I’m fine.”

He studies you like he does not entirely believe that, but he does not push further.

When you reach his place, he unlocks the door and steps aside to let you in first. That tiny gesture, that small courtesy, feels more intimate than it should.

The apartment looks the same but also not the same. The familiarity of it hits you harder today. You have been here before, but today it feels different because you woke up in his bed yesterday and left with no answers.

He closes the door behind you and tosses his keys onto the counter.

“Sam’s out,” he says casually, shrugging out of his jacket. “Date night again. I think he’s trying to set a record.”

You nod, even though your stomach flips at the information.

Sam is out. Which means you are alone.

The implication settles between you almost instantly.

“Oh,” you aim for neutral and land somewhere uncertain.

He steps closer without making it dramatic. He always does that, moves into your space like it is the most natural thing in the world. His hand finds your waist, fingers warm through the thin fabric of your shirt.

“I missed you.” The words send a rush of heat through you that you hate for how quickly it responds.

“It’s been one day.”

“Still.”

Before you can think about it, he leans.

The kiss is familiar already, like your mouths have memorized each other. His hand slides up your back, pulling you closer, and your body reacts on instinct, melting into him before your brain catches up.

You let yourself sink into it. Into the warmth and the steady pressure of him. Into the way his hand trails lower to your hip. Into the sound he makes when you kiss him back harder.

But then your brain wakes up again.

Sam is out. You are alone.

He waited for you after class.

Is this because he wanted you, or because he wanted this?

The grip on his shirt loosens slightly, but he picks up on it somehow.

“Hey,” he murmurs against your mouth, not pulling away entirely. “Where’d you just go?”

Nowhere safe.

You step back just enough to create space. “I’m just… tired.” You hate how weak of a lie it is.

You can clearly see him battling confusion. “Tired?”

“Yeah. I didn’t sleep much.”

That part is true. You did not sleep much because your brain just would not shut up.

His hands remain on your waist, not letting go. Almost not wanting to.

“We don’t have to do anything,” he says, searching your face. “I’m not dragging you in here for that.”

The defensiveness in you flares up immediately even though he has not accused you of anything.

“I didn’t say you were.”

“I know. I just—” he exhales slowly. “You feel different right now.”

Because you are spiraling.

Because you cannot tell if you are standing at the beginning of something real or in the middle of something casual that you are already too invested in.

Because you keep imagining him bringing other girls here with the same ease.

“I’m fine,” you repeat, which sounds less convincing each time.

He studies you in that steady way that makes it hard to hide. “Talk to me.”

The words are gentle. That almost makes it worse.

What are you supposed to say?

That you are scared you moved too fast. That you are scared he does not see this the way you do. That you are already picturing him getting bored in a week and drifting away like this was just another phase.

You cannot say any of that without sounding dramatic or fucking stupid.

The only sane option feels like distance.

You shift away from him just enough to create it, even though every part of you wants to stay where you are. “I think I’m coming down with something,” you say, reaching for the first excuse that sounds remotely believable. “I’ve felt weird all day.”

The concern on his face is immediate. It wipes away the warmth from a second ago and replaces it with something sharper, focused. “What kind of weird?”

You shrug like it’s nothing. “Just… off. Headache. Maybe.” The lie comes very easily.

He closes the small gap you tried to make, instinct overriding whatever confusion he’s feeling. His hand lifts toward your forehead before you can think of a reason to stop him. His palm settles there, clinical in a way that almost makes you flinch.

“You don’t feel warm,” he says.

Of course you don’t. You’d know if you were febrile. You both would.

“I don’t know.” You pull back a fraction. “I just—” The rest tangles in your throat. “I think I should go.”

He studies you like you’re a case that isn’t lining up with the symptoms. Brows pulling together, jaw tightening slightly as he runs through possibilities that don’t fit.

“You just got here.”

You can feel him trying to reconcile it. Sudden onset vague malaise. Absolutely no convincing clinical picture.

You know he knows.

“I didn’t want to say anything earlier,” you add quickly, filling the silence before he can dissect it. “Didn’t want to make it a thing.”

His gaze doesn’t soften. But there’s less confusion now. More searching.

“You were fine five minutes ago.”

You hate how true that sounds.

“I wasn’t… I just didn’t think about it.”

That part isn’t even a lie. You hadn’t been thinking. Not about consequences. Not about tomorrow. Not about anything but him.

“Don’t be like that,” he says. “If something’s wrong, tell me.”

Something is wrong. It is inside your own head and you do not know how to untangle it without making a mess.

“Nothing’s wrong,” you insist, even though your chest feels tight. “I just need to rest.”

There is a flicker of something in his eyes now. Hurt. Frustration. Maybe both.

“Did I do something?” You hate that you made him think that.

“No,” you answer quickly. “No, you didn’t.”

But you cannot elaborate because the truth is messy and unformed and terrifying.

Reaching for your bag, “I’m gonna go,” you say, keeping your tone as steady as you can manage.

He stands there for a second like he is debating whether to argue. Then he exhales and grabs his keys from the counter.

“I’ll drop you.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know. I want to.”

I want to.

The firmness in his voice makes it clear he is not letting you leave alone, and a small part of you is grateful for that even as the rest of you feels like you are sabotaging something you cannot define.

You walk toward the door with him a step behind, the tension between you thick and unspoken.

This is not how you imagined today going.

He had waited for you after class. He had kissed you like he meant it. He had said he missed you.

Yet you are the one walking away.

As he opens the door and gestures for you to step out first, the weight of it settles deeper in your chest.

You are building a wall in real time, brick by careful brick, and you are not even sure what you are protecting yourself from.

Behind you, he locks the door and follows, close enough that you can feel his presence but not touching.

The silence is heavier than any argument that could have happened.

Your phone buzzes halfway through the afternoon. You consider ignoring it just to prove to yourself that you can. That you are not waiting around for him, that your entire mood does not hinge on whatever words appear on your screen next.

You still look immediately.

Bucky: heyy

Bucky: i wanna see you. if you’re feeling up for it. will be near your block after your last class. maybe wait by the entrance? no pressure.

He did not say come over. He did not ask if you are free. He said he wants to see you.

Your brain — traitor that it is — immediately begins its spiral. Maybe he just feels bad about yesterday. Maybe he thinks you were actually sick. Maybe he is trying to smooth something over. Maybe he is bored.

Fuck.

Maybe he just wants you.

You force yourself to be normal.

You: yeah. i’ll be there.

He reacts with a simple thumbs up.

By the time your last class ends, your nerves feel stretched thin. You tell yourself this is stupid. You are not walking into a confession. You are not walking into a breakup. You are walking outside your own building to meet someone who asked to see you.

Still, your palms feel slightly damp.

The doors swing open and voices spill across the courtyard in overlapping bursts of laughter and conversation. You scan automatically for him, heart already climbing into your throat.

It takes less than five seconds to find him.

Not alone.

A small group surrounds him, the kind of cluster that forms around someone people gravitate toward without even meaning to.

Steve stands on his left, animated as always, gesturing with both hands while he talks. Sam leans back against the wall with that amused, observant look he wears when he is about to make a comment no one asked for.

And then there is a flash of red.

She is standing close to him. Close enough that her shoulder nearly brushes his chest.

Natasha.

You have seen her before, of course. It would be impossible not to. Red hair that catches light like it knows it is being watched, sharp eyes that miss nothing, posture that suggests she does not need to raise her voice to command attention.

Right now, her fingers are at his collar. Adjusting.

She smooths the fabric down, straightens it slightly, then taps his chest like she is approving her own work.

There is familiarity in it that feels intimate even from a distance.

Your stomach drops so fast it almost feels physical.

That is not a friendly distance. That is not casual. That is close enough to touch without thinking about it.

Your brain does not wait for logic. It does not ask questions. It fills in blanks you never agreed to.

She fixes his clothes because she has done it before.

She stands that close because she is allowed to.

You are just another girl who showed up for a week.

You take an unconscious step back, already calculating the fastest way to turn around without being obvious. You could say you forgot something. You could pretend you never saw his text, even though you’ve replied to it. You could avoid the humiliation of walking over there like you belong.

Before you can pivot fully, his head lifts and eyes find you immediately.

There is no hesitation in the recognition. The moment he sees you, his expression shifts in a way that feels unmistakable. Something bright flickers there. Relief, maybe. Something softer than the grin he wears with the rest of them.

“There you are.”

Your body freezes mid-retreat.

He steps away from the group without thinking twice, closing the space between you in a few long strides. You have no choice but to stay where you are unless you want to make it obvious you were about to flee.

“Thought you were gonna ditch me.”

“I was literally just walking out.”

“Sure.” There’s just that faint teasing curve of his mouth.

Over his shoulder, you can feel the group’s attention shift.

“Come here.” He reaches for your hand. There’s no time for you to overthink or even think for that matter.

The contact is warm and familiar and it sends a rush of conflicting emotions through you. You let him guide you toward them even though every insecure thought in your head is screaming that you do not belong in this circle.

He says your name easily. Naturally. Not as an afterthought.

Shit, he’s introducing you to them.

But it’s just your name. There’s no label that follows.

Of course there is nothing to add. What would he even say?

This is the girl I slept with.

This is the girl I’m seeing.

This is the girl I don’t know what to call yet.

You force a polite smile as he gestures around.

“You know Sam,” he continues. “That’s Steve. And this menace is Nat.”

Nat’s gaze shifts to you fully now. “Hi.”

“Hi,” you reply, hoping your voice does not betray the way your stomach is still tangled.

Sam offers you an easy grin. “So this is who he ditched us for the other night.”

Heat floods your face instantly.

Bucky shoots him a look. “Shut up.”

“What? I’m just saying.” Sam shrugs.

Steve, ever diplomatic, steps in smoothly. “Nice to finally meet you.”

Finally.

The word echoes in your head.

Finally suggests there has been discussion. Anticipation. Awareness.

You glance at Bucky instinctively, searching his expression for any hint that he is uncomfortable, embarrassed, anything.

He does not look embarrassed.

If anything, he looks almost… pleased.

His hand rests lightly at your lower back now. The gesture is subtle but grounding, and it only confuses you further.

If Nat meant something more, would he touch you like this in front of her?

If you meant something more, would he have said it out loud?

Conversation resumes around you, overlapping. You answer when spoken to. You nod. You laugh at the right moments. But your thoughts keep circling back to the image of Nat’s fingers at his collar, smoothing, straightening, touching.

He does not pull away from you once. If anything, he shifts closer as the minutes pass, angling his body slightly so you are not on the edge of the circle but tucked nearer to him.

Sometime later, he leans down slightly toward your ear. “You good?”

“Yeah.”

His eyes linger on your face for half a second, like he is trying to read what you are not saying.

“Walk with me?”

You nod before you can second guess it.

His hand slides more firmly around your waist this time as he guides you away from the group.

You can feel Nat’s gaze on your back as you leave, or maybe that is just your imagination refusing to calm down.

The motorcycle waits a few steps away, gleaming faintly in the lowering light. He stops beside it but does not let go of you immediately.

“What’s going on in that head?” His voice is softer now that you are alone.

“Nothing.” Nothing feels like the only safe answer.

He huffs out a quiet breath. “You’re terrible at lying.”

“I’m not lying.”

“Okay.” You can tell he’s still not convinced.

The closeness of him is distracting. His hand is still at your waist, resting just above your pelvis. You can feel the warmth of it through the fabric and it makes your thoughts even more tangled.

“Where are we going?” You want to change the subject.

“It’s a surprise.”

“I don’t like surprises.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is when they involve you.”

A flicker of amusement crosses his face. “Wow. I feel attacked.”

“Just tell me.”

He hesitates for dramatic effect, then leans in slightly, voice dropping. “Where else?”

Your breath catches before you can stop it.

“Bucky.”

“My place,” he finishes, like it is obvious.

Of course it is.

The words hit differently now, layered with everything your mind has been chewing on for the past twenty-four hours.

My place.

Is that all this is?

Your heart thuds against your ribs, too loud, too fast. You tell yourself you are being unfair. You tell yourself he invited you to meet his friends. He introduced you. He did not hide you. He did not flinch.

And yet the image of Nat’s fingers at his collar refuses to fade.

“Okay.” You hope he cannot hear the storm building behind the single word.

His hand squeezes your waist lightly before he finally lets go to grab his helmet, and the absence of his touch feels colder than it should.

Bucky’s place feels too quiet for the amount of noise in your head. He drops his keys into the bowl by the counter and turns toward you. There is no visible tension in him, no sign that he feels the way you’ve been feeling.

“You’ve been kinda weird lately… you mad?”

The softness in his voice makes it worse. It would be easier if he were careless.

He reaches for you when you don’t answer, hands sliding to your waist with an easy familiarity. Sitting back onto the couch, he pulls you with him, guiding you until you are straddling his lap, knees pressing into the cushions on either side of his thighs.

It happens naturally, like your bodies already know the choreography.

His mouth finds yours before you can think too hard about it. The kiss is warm. You can feel your breathing get uneven as his fingers resume their path on your body.

His lips trail from yours to your jaw, then lower, pressing unhurried kisses along your neck. Heat spreads beneath your skin where he lingers.

Your hands rest on his shoulders, and for a moment you almost let yourself fall into it.

Almost.

Because the image of Nat leaning in, adjusting his collar with that quiet confidence, flashes again. At the worst possible moment. Because you do not know what you are to him.

“Bucky…”

He hums against your skin. “Mhmm?”

“What is this?”

His mouth stills. “What is what?”

“This,” you repeat, gesturing helplessly between your bodies while still sitting in his lap. “Us coming here. Sam conveniently being out. You kissing me like nothing’s complicated.”

His confusion deepens, and he looks genuinely lost. “I’m kissing you because I want to.”

“That doesn’t answer anything.”

“It kind of does.”

A sharp exhale leaves you in frustration. “No, it doesn’t, Bucky.”

With his hands steady at your waist now, he shifts in his place. “Okay. Then tell me what you’re asking.”

“Am I just… part of something casual to you?” The words finally come, absolutely rushed. “Because that’s what it feels like sometimes.”

His expression changes in a way you cannot immediately name. You know it’s not anger. Probably something closer to disbelief.

“Casual?” he repeats carefully.

“I saw her,” you blurt it out. “Nat. Fixing your collar like she’s done it a hundred times. And Steve said finally, like I’m the last to know something. And you didn’t say anything when you introduced me, you just said my name. Like that’s all there is.”

“There is more.”

“Then what is it? Because from where I’m sitting it feels like I’m the only one trying to figure it out.”

The irony isn’t lost on you, and you don’t give him space or time to respond.

“I don’t do this… I don’t sleep with someone and then just pretend it’s fine without knowing what it means. I don’t wake up next to someone and spend the whole day wondering if I just made myself convenient.”

His hands tighten slightly at your hips at the mention of convenience.

“And before you say I’m overthinking… I know your thing. Everyone knows. You don’t exactly have a reputation for… consistency.”

“That’s a polite way to put it.” He exhales, trying to look as unbothered as possible.

“I’m serious,” you insist. “I don’t wanna be another girl you had fun with until something better came along. I don’t want to be someone in your rotation. I don’t want to feel stupid for catching feelings when you’re just—” you stop at that because the next words just wouldn’t come.

“Just what?”

“Just being you.”

He doesn’t respond. You hate that he doesn’t respond. That’s when you realise you’re still straddling him, still close enough to feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, still close enough to feel the unmistakable press of his length against you. Even in the middle of this.

How can someone be turned on in such a situation, you genuinely do not know.

“And don’t laugh,” you add, because his mouth twitches. “If you laugh I will actually leave.”

“I’m not laughing at you… I’m just trying to figure out how you managed to build an entire alternate reality without asking me a single question.”

“I’m asking now.”

“Yeah. After deciding all the answers.”

“Because you never said anything.”

Bucky studies your face, eyes searching in a way that makes your pulse pound. “You want me to say it?”

“Say what?”

“That I haven’t always been great at this.” He nods slowly, almost to himself. “Fine. I haven’t. I’ve dated around. I’ve kept things light. I liked that it was easy. There weren’t any expectations. People knew the deal.”

The honesty stings more than you expect.

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”

“But that’s not what this is.”

The firmness in his voice makes you want to hide yourself, but still you look at him. “Then what is it?”

He looks back at you like he’s choosing his words carefully. Or you think that’s what he’s doing. “Do you remember the first time we talked?”

“Of course I do.”

“I was an ass. I handed you my record book like it was nothing.”

“You were,” you mutter.

A faint smile touches his mouth. “Yeah. I was used to people just… going along with whatever I asked. And then you looked at me like I had personally offended your entire bloodline.”

Despite everything, a reluctant breath of laughter leaves you.

“I — I noticed you before that… I’d heard your answers in rounds. Seen your handwriting in the logbooks. You don’t try to stand out, but you do anyway. I kept waiting for a reason to talk to you that didn’t sound stupid.”

Your heartbeat stutters.

“The record book was the only excuse I had,” he admits. “And then you said yes even though you clearly didn’t want to, and I felt like a jerk the entire walk back to my room.”

That catches you off guard. “You did not.”

“I did.” His gaze does not waver. “Because I knew you weren’t like the others. You weren’t trying to impress me. You weren’t flirting. You were annoyed. And I still kept thinking about you… I’ve liked you since then. Not in a casual way. Definitely not in a ‘let’s see what happens’ way.”

“I kissed you because I wanted you. I slept with you because I thought we both wanted it. And it was never convenient. It was anything but convenient… because every time you look at me like you’re trying to decide whether I’m worth the trouble, it drives me insane.”

Heat rises to your face.

“Nat fixing my collar means nothing,” he adds as an afterthought. “She’s been doing that since first year. Also she’s dating some girl. And Steve said ‘finally’ because he’s tired of listening to me talk about you and not doing anything about it.”

“You talk about me?” The question feels fragile, but absolutely unnecessary and useless from what you’ve been hearing so far.

“Constantly,” he says without hesitation. “To the point where Sam told me to either ask you out properly or shut up… apparently it’s hard being my roommate.”

Your mind struggles to reconcile that with the version of him you built in self defense.

“I have been a guy who keeps things surface level,” he goes on, not flinching from it. “I liked not having to care too much. But with you it hasn’t been surface level. At all. I just… didn’t know how to shift gears without scaring you… so no,” he says, more quietly now. “You’re not part of a rotation. There isn’t one. Not anymore.”

The words make you feel absolutely stupid and make you smile at the same time.

“And if you think I brought you around my friends because you’re temporary… then you really don’t know me as well as I hoped you did.”

Now guilt seeps in because you just built this whole picture in your head that couldn’t be the farthest from reality.

You start to slide off his lap, embarrassment flooding in, but his hands hold you there gently.

“Don’t go,” he murmurs.

“I just— I made a fool of myself.”

The corner of his mouth tilts in a smile. “Yeah… a little.”

“Bucky!”

“I’m not making fun of you.” His grip on your waist tightens, reassuring you. “I like that you cared enough about this to spiral a little.”

Your eyes sting again, but for a different reason.

He shifts subtly beneath you, and the movement reminds you once more of the hard length pressing against you.

“Also,” he adds, voice dropping, “for someone who thinks this is casual, you’ve been sitting on my lap for ten minutes while I’m very obviously not neutral about you.”

Your mouth opens in a soft ‘O’ at the attention he just called to himself.

His grin spreads slowly now. “You get so worked up… and it’s distracting.”

“Distracting how?”

His thumbs trace idle patterns at your waist. “You’re so hot when you’re mad. I’ve been trying to focus on what you’re saying and all I can think about is how badly I want to kiss you again.”

The sincerity in his voice cuts through the last of your doubt.

“I like you,” there’s a finality in his voice. “I just didn’t know how to say it without sounding like every other guy who says it and doesn’t mean it. So I just… didn’t say it… But I’m saying it now. Clearly. I want no room for interpretation. I want this. With you. Not because it’s convenient. Because it’s you.”

The story you built in your head never included this version of him at all, but that’s okay, you get to have first hand experience.

my masterlist !

extras. that was wayyyy longer than i intended. If this flops, I’ll never set foot on tumblr again 😭 been waiting like a month to post this shit lol

permanent taglist. @devililithh @buckyfmd @sheriff-bodecker @honeysucklewatr @demiebarnes @kqtholins @amoremarveloustime @colettebarnes @barnes-babydoll @miraclediviner @of-sanguine-eyes @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @manly-man-whore @indigo123789 @wasa-bby @biggestfangirl @herejustforbuckybarnes @buckysbunnny @highhopes1008 @castielscaplan @ornateglass @grumpysunnybarnes @luvyoupxmimi @slutdier @yes-ilovetowrite @cautiouscas17 @astridphantom @delusionalwomsn @cinnamon-girl-writes @wherewinterblooms @stifflyspeedyquirk @sassandscribbles @marvelouslyme96 @stesha02 @floatingvalhallasea @goobers-mcgee @t1redphoenix @vickynguyennn @bluellamacheesecake-blog @serenityrjd @pitabread79 @galaxygoddess30 @biggestfangirl @chenoadouble-o7 @phoenix-in-writing @ceoofdisappointment @ladymiseryy @wherewinterblooms @avgdestitute @lunexiax + to get added to the taglist!

[singulart0ast]

Exposure

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader Summary: When you send some inspiring photos to your super soldier boyfriend while he’s away on a mission, you don’t expect such an enthusiastic response. Tags/Warnings: established relationship, male masturbation, phone sex in a public place, sending nudes Word Count: 840

My wife @buckysdecaflove said BET and who am I to deny her?

You’d sent them before you fell asleep last night.

It was late, but that didn’t mean a thing when you didn’t know what time zone your super soldier superhero boyfriend was currently in. You’d switched off all but the bedside lamp as you undressed for the evening. Catching sight of your body in the mirror, glowing in the soft amber light, coupled with the ache of missing him, lended you some confidence.

You posed for him. A cheeky hand placement here, a little drool dripping from your open mouth to your chest there, and texted the photos through with a simple kiss emoji.

The photos already forgotten about the next morning, you were delightfully surprised to see your boyfriend calling as you rushed down the station stairs to catch your train.

“Hey, baby,” you breathed as you slipped through the double door of the train, clutching your bag closer to your body and making your way into the carriage.

“There she is.”

His voice crackled, but the heartbeat delay of the international call did nothing to hide the roughness of his tone or the way his voice wound through you like wine, warming you and settling hot and deep within.

“Bucky, where are you?”

A pause. “Can’t say.”

There’s soft sounds in the background. Cloth rustling, the creaky ping of tired old bedsprings, and Bucky’s breath huffing in the receiver.

“Are you okay?” You ask, the seed of worry beginning to grow in your mind.

But Bucky has his own unique way of setting you at ease and sending your heart soaring in the same breath.

“Okay? I’m about to combust from those pics you sent, doll.”

Oh.

Oh.

“You liked that, did you?” You murmur, trying to keep your voice low.

His ragged groan in response had you biting your lip, your eyes darting to your feet to hide your pleasure at the sound.

“Got me hard as a nail thinkin’ about you all naked and pretty alone in our bed. You touch yourself thinkin’ o’ me, babe?”

You hadn’t, not last night, but what was a little lie to help his situation? “Yes,” you breathed, a fluttering hand rising to your chest as your heartbeat spiked.

He groaned again and you heard more popping of bedsprings, and suddenly you realised exactly what your super soldier was doing out there all alone.

“Bet you sounded so fuckin’ pretty whimpering and aching f’me,” he rasped, his voice breaking with stuttered breaths. “Wanna bite that gorgeous skin of yours, doll. Wanna feel you under me and fu—fuck those tits while you drool all over my cock.”

Biting back the whimper that threatened to spill out of you, you pressed your hand firm against your mouth, eyes darting around at the passengers crowded close.

“Bucky,” you murmured in warning, “I’m on the train to work right now.”

“Funny, ‘cause I wanna fucking rail you right now.”

Squeezing your eyes shut and your thighs together, you breathed heavily out your nose as you listened to the unmistakeable sound of skin on skin and Bucky’s ragged breath as he jerked off at the thought of you.

“Wanna… wanna fuck that sweet pussy of yours,” he grunted, and you imagined the way his hand was fisting the head of his cock, how he’d spit into his palm and fuck up into his hand pretending it was you riding him. “Wanna get so deep you feel me f’days. Get you so wet and cockdrunk you just take it all and beg for more.”

The tangy taste of metal flooded your mouth as you bit your lip so hard to not utter a sound.

Your stop was coming soon.

It sounded like Bucky was too.

“When you’re home,” you promise him, your voice thready and soft, and just the sound alone makes him groan louder, move faster. You try to rub your thighs together to soothe the ache he’s built within you.

“‘M gonna … gonna cum, doll. Need to. Need you.”

His voice stuttered, his words barely a low moan of sound, and you nodded even though he couldn’t see. “Do it,” you told him on a whisper. “Do it now.”

The ding! of the arriving station couldn’t cover up his groan as he came, the sound setting your skin on fire and making you swallow hard as you unsteadily stepped off the train.

“Baby, I miss you,” you told him, voice more confident now you were moving.

“Home tomorrow,” he grunted. “Miss you too.”

You had to leave. You said your heartfelt goodbye and dashed away a small tear as you hung up on him, walking the few blocks to your workplace.

Until a notification sound had you looking at your phone again.

A message from Bucky.

You opened your phone to the glorious sight of your boyfriend splayed out on a rickety old mattress on the floor, his shirt hiked up and cock hard, with the telltale streaks of hot cum splattered across his stomach.

And the text.

Thinking of you x

tags ! @tw1sters @sassandscribbles @nocturnebarnes @buckysdecaflove @epiphanyrogers @quantumbarnes @kileyking !

[heldbybarnes]

heat under winter lights

pairing: tattoo artist!bucky x reader | 9.4k words

warnings:  explicit sexual content (18+), tattoo pain kink, oral sex (f receiving), edging, overstimulation, praise kink, dom!Bucky, munch!Bucky, intimacy kink, power dynamics built on trust, boyfriend!Bucky losing his mind over reader’s innocence, holiday filth, marking kink

summary: bucky has tattooed plenty of people—just never you. but when you come in for your first ink, nervous and trusting and a little sheltered, he knows exactly what design belongs on the most private part of your body: mistletoe. a secret christmas invitation only he gets to claim. and when the pain hits, bucky has a very hands-on method of “distraction” that turns your tattoo session into an hour of filth, praise, edging, and the kind of intimacy only two people wildly in love can survive.

authors note: happy new year, sluts! this is for all the girlies who believe munch!bucky deserves more love. this fic is filthy, unhinged, and everything i stand for! and yes, the logistics of this are mostly questionable. get over it. this was supposed to be posted like 5 days ago but....we know how that went.

----------

Bucky’s hunched over the sketchbook when you walk into the shop, the bell above the door chiming a little too cheerfully for the low thrum of rock coming from the speakers.

It smells like disinfectant and winter outside, the sharp bite of December following you in as you tug your scarf off, fingers clumsy with nerves. You’ve been here a hundred times—perched in that beat-up leather chair in the corner, scrolling your phone or doing homework while Bucky worked on other clients—but today feels different.

Today, you’re here for you.

He looks up as the bell rings, eyes flicking up through his lashes, and that slow, lazy smile spreads across his face when he sees you.

“Hey, sugar,” he murmurs, pushing off the counter. His voice is a warm scrape, sliding right under your skin. “You’re early.”

“I got too nervous sitting at home,” you admit, cheeks already heating. “Figured I’d rather be nervous here.”

His laugh is quiet, fond. He meets you in the middle of the room, his hands sliding around your waist like he can’t help it, like they’re magnetized.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, stealing a soft kiss, then another, until your shoulders drop a little and the tight knot in your chest loosens. “Been thinkin’ about you all day.”

“You saw me this morning,” you mumble against his mouth, fingers curling in the front of his worn black tee. There’s a smudge of ink on the collar. There’s always ink on him somewhere.

“Yeah, and?” He nudges your nose with his. “Doesn’t exactly cure me of you.”

Your heart does that fluttery, stupid thing it always does when he says stuff like that. It’s still wild to you sometimes, that this man—tattoo artist, all black ink and metal and big hands—comes home and spoons you in bed and kisses your forehead like you’re the precious one.

“Is everyone gone?” you ask, glancing around. The front is empty, the neon sign in the window buzzing softly. The snow outside makes everything quiet.

“Closed up a little early.” His thumb rubs slow circles at the small of your back. “Told Steve I had a special client tonight.”

You bite your lip. “Special, huh?”

He leans down so his lips brush the shell of your ear. “My favorite girl, first tattoo? Yeah, that’s special.”

Heat rushes through you, an embarrassed thrill fizzing in your stomach. You’ve always been the sheltered one, the “good girl,” the one who didn’t drink in high school, who never snuck out, whose biggest rebellion was staying up late reading. Dating Bucky had been… a lot. In the best way.

He never pushes. With everything, especially the more intimate things, he’s always careful, always asking, always checking in. Which is exactly why you feel safe saying yes to something like this.

You clear your throat. “So, uh. Consultation… right?”

He grins, pulling back to look at you properly. “Right. C’mon, pretty girl. Let’s talk tattoos.”

He leads you back toward his station, the one you’ve watched him work at a hundred times—black leather chair, the adjustable stool for him, the little wheeled cart with his machines and inks and wipes. He’s wiped everything down already; fresh sheets of paper cover the armrest and the tray.

He sits on the stool and taps the padded chair. “Sit.”

You do, your heart starting to tap-dance in your chest.

“So,” he says, bracing his forearms on his thighs, blue eyes on your face. The overhead light catches on the metal of his dog tags, on the rings on his fingers. “We’ve talked about placement, yeah?”

Your cheeks burn. You can’t quite meet his eyes. “Y-yeah.”

He hums, like he wants you to say it out loud. That’s the thing with Bucky; he likes you to say things. Likes when you use your words.

You swallow. “I want it… um. Low.”

“How low?” He’s teasing, but his voice is soft.

“Like… ‘private’ low,” you say quickly, then groan and cover your face. “You know what I mean.”

He chuckles, reaching to gently tug your hands down. “I do know what you mean. I just like hearin’ you say it, sweetheart.” He tips his head. “You sure? It’s an intimate spot. Hurts a little more. And only me and you—or anyone you let see you naked—will ever know it’s there.”

You fidget with the hem of your sweater. “I trust you,” you say, and it comes out small but sure. You meet his eyes. “And I want my first one to be something that’s just for us.”

His expression goes molten, something fierce and tender all at once carving into his features. He lifts one ink-stained hand and cups your cheek, thumb brushing along your cheekbone.

“You’re killin’ me, doll,” he murmurs. “You know that?”

Butterflies explode in your stomach. You smile anyway. “Sorry?”

He shakes his head, smiling back. “Never be sorry about lettin’ me love you.” Then he leans back, more businesslike, though his eyes are still warm. “Okay. Design. I’ve got a couple ideas.”

He reaches to the counter and scoops up the sketchbook, flipping it open. You lean forward, and your breath catches when you see the page. Delicate little sprigs of mistletoe in different arrangements, some more detailed, some simplified.

“Mistletoe?” you ask, fingers brushing over one sketch.

He nods. “You said you wanted something seasonal. And you know me, I’m a sentimental sap.” He points to one drawing, slightly bigger than the others. A curved sprig of mistletoe, the leaves simple but elegant, three little clusters of berries, arranged in a gentle arc. “Thought about doing it like this, right above your clit. Like a little banner. So every time I kiss you there, it’s like I’m standin’ under it.”

You swallow hard. Your thighs press together instinctively.

“You—” Your voice squeaks. You try again. “You like it?”

He stares at you like you’ve said the dumbest thing he’s ever heard. “Sweetheart, I love it. The idea of my girl walkin’ around with a little secret Christmas invitation right where I like to spend my evenings?” His jaw clenches, his pupils blown just thinking about it. “It’s perfect.”

Your heart hammers at the words “my girl” and “my evenings” like you haven’t heard them a hundred times. But the idea of the tattoo hits you somewhere deep. Permanent. Intimate. A secret only he’ll know about.

You nod, fingers twisting together. “Okay. I… I want that one.”

He searches your face. “You’re sure?”

“Yeah.” You take a breath. “I’m sure, Buck.”

His grin is slow and pleased, pride and something darker glinting in his eyes. “That’s my brave girl.”

The praise makes your stomach flip. You look at the drawing again. “Will it… hurt a lot?”

He’s honest, like always. “It’s not, like, the worst spot I’ve ever done, but it’s sensitive. Lotta nerve endings.” His tone softens. “We go slow. I’ll talk you through it. You tell me if you need a break, or if you wanna stop, and we stop. Okay?”

You nod. His hand slides to your knee, squeezing gently.

“And,” he adds, voice dropping into something low and sinful, “I might have a few ways to… distract you from the sting.”

Your face feels like it’s on fire. Still, there’s a pull low in your belly at the promise in his tone. “Bucky…”

He smirks. “What? I’m serious. Pain management is a crucial part of my client care, baby.”

“Uh-huh,” you say, deadpan, but your pulse is racing.

He chuckles and stands, stretching to his full height, joints cracking. You watch the way his shirt pulls over his chest, the ink on his arms flexing—black and grey roses, a compass, a wolf, his own thighs thick in his black jeans. He moves around the station with easy competence, pulling on black nitrile gloves, laying out little ink caps, pouring in the dark green, a tiny bottle of white, prepping the stencil.

“Go ahead and take your pants off for me, sugar,” he says casually, like he’s asking you to take off your shoes. “Panties too. Leave your sweater on, I wanna keep you warm.”

Your breath stutters. You’ve been naked in front of him so many times, in so many positions, but somehow this feels different. He’s seen you in this room before, bent over his lap on that same chair, his hand warm on your ass. But there’s something about the clinical setup—gloves, machine, ink—that makes you suddenly shy.

He sees it, of course he does. His gaze softens.

“Hey,” he says gently. “You good?”

“Yeah,” you say quickly. Then, more honestly, “Just… nervous.”

He nods, steps closer, his gloved fingers curling under your chin. “We stop if you want. You know that, right? I don’t care if the stencil’s on, if I’ve done one line, if we’re halfway through. You say stop, we stop.”

You breathe out, some of the anxiety loosening. “I know.”

“Say it for me,” he coaxes. “Say you can stop anytime.”

“I can stop anytime,” you repeat softly.

“That’s right.” He kisses your forehead, the gesture so tender it makes your eyes burn. “Now, lemme see that perfect pussy I’m about to make even prettier.”

You snort, embarrassment and arousal tangling together, then push off the chair. Your hands shake a little as you unbutton your jeans and shimmy them down, stepping out. Your underwear follows, and then you’re climbing carefully back onto the chair, the leather cool under the backs of your thighs.

Bucky’s eyes darken as he takes you in. He doesn’t leer. He just looks—hungry and reverent all at once.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath. “How is it you get prettier every time I see you?”

You roll your eyes, but your heart is cartwheeling. “You see me every day.”

“Exactly.” His gaze dips, slow, along the line of your body, taking in the sweater bunched around your hips, the bare expanse of your tummy, the trimmed hair between your legs, the way your thighs press together. “Open up for me, doll.”

Heat floods you. You bite your lip and let your knees fall apart, baring yourself to him. The air feels cool and a little embarrassing on your slick skin, but his low, rough inhale makes something in you melt.

“There we go,” he croons, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “Good girl. That’s perfect.”

The praise makes your stomach swoop. Your nipples tighten under your sweater.

He adjusts the overhead light, then wheels his stool between your knees, so close you can feel the heat of his body. He’s all focus now, the same concentration you’ve watched him turn on a client’s arm or back. Only this time, it’s you.

He cleans the area gently, explaining each step like he always does for first-timers: the cool antiseptic wipe, the little bit of razor along your pubic mound to make sure the stencil will stick. You flush as the razor glides just above your clit, but his touch is clinical, practiced. Respectful.

“You okay, sweetheart?” he murmurs, tossing the razor away and cleaning the skin again.

“Yes,” you say, voice a little breathy. “Just… feels weird.”

“First time is always the weirdest.” He smiles, then reaches for the stencil. The thin paper is printed with the mistletoe design, shrunk to fit. “Gonna place this now. Need you to stay still for me, yeah?”

You grip the sides of the chair, nodding.

He leans in, the paper in his gloved fingers. You feel the press of it above your clit, the firm, careful pressure as he smooths it down, then pulls away. He dabs with a paper towel, then peels the backing off.

“Okay…” He sits back, eyes on his work, then hums, satisfied. “Take a look, sugar.”

He passes you a handheld mirror. Your hands tremble as you angle it between your legs.

The stencil sits perfectly above your clit, curved delicately along the soft mound. The little leaves and berries are crisp, the arc subtle but unmistakable. Your face goes hot at the sight of it; it’s obscene and beautiful and intimate all at once.

“So?” Bucky asks, watching you carefully. “You like it?”

“It’s…” You swallow. “It’s beautiful, Buck.”

His shoulders relax, like he’d been holding tension there. “Yeah?” His grin is quick and boyish. “That’s my girl.”

Your heart trips at the possessive little praise. “Yeah.”

“Okay.” He claps his gloved hands softly together. “Now the fun part.”

You laugh nervously. “Fun?”

He winks. “Depends on your definition, I guess.”

He sets up his machine, doing his usual spiel even though you already know it by heart from sitting in on his sessions: new needle, fresh ink, single-use caps. He pours the dark green and a little white for highlights, then adds a tiny cap of black for linework.

“Last check-in,” he says, eyes on yours. “Still want this, pretty? Still okay with the design, the placement, everything?”

You take a breath and feel the weight of the moment, the permanence of it… but also his steady presence, the way he’s never once made you feel silly or rushed.

“I still want it,” you say. “I want you to do it.”

His gaze softens. “Okay.”

He dips the needle in the ink, presses his foot to the pedal, and the machine buzzes to life—familiar, but completely different when you know it’s for you. Your stomach flutters.

“First line’s always the worst,” he says, raising his voice slightly over the buzz. “It’ll just feel like a scratch, okay? I’ll do a tiny bit, then pull back so you can tell me how it feels.”

You nod, bracing your hands on your thighs.

“Deep breath for me,” he coaxes. “In… and out…”

You breathe with him, in and out, and then his gloved hand is on your lower belly, gently stretching the skin above your clit. The touch is intimate and oddly comforting. His other hand brings the buzzing needle close.

“Here we go,” he murmurs. “You’re okay, baby. I’ve got you.”

The needle touches down.

It’s sharp, a concentrated sting that bursts outward in a hot prickle. You suck in a breath, every muscle tensing. It feels like a cat scratch dragged deliberately across your most sensitive skin.

“Okay,” he murmurs, doing a tiny line, then lifting the needle. The buzzing stops. “That’s it. How’s that feel?”

You blink, heart racing. “It… hurts. But not like… unbearable.”

He nods. “That’s what I figured. You’re doin’ so good, pretty. Proud of you already.” His thumb rubs a slow circle on your tummy. “We’ll do tiny sections, yeah? I’ll go, then I’ll give you a second to breathe, maybe distract you a little.” His mouth quirks. “Sound good?”

Your skin prickles with anticipation at the way he says distract. “O-okay.”

He smiles, presses the pedal again, and the buzzing fills the air. He leans in, focused, and starts another line. The sting is sharp but brief; he knows what he’s doing, his hand steady, his strokes sure. Still, your fingers curl against the leather, your body wanting to flinch.

“Breathe, doll,” he reminds you softly. “In… and out… There we go. That’s my good girl.”

The words wash over you, soothing the instinct to jerk away. You focus on his voice, on the warmth of his hand on your skin, and let the pain be something you move through instead of fight.

He does a few more small lines, then stops, wiping gently with a damp cloth. The wipe stings, but less than you expected.

“That’s the outline started,” he says, sitting back. “You okay?”

You nod, a little breathless. “Yeah. It’s just… a lot.”

“Sensitive spot,” he says. “You’re doin’ amazing.” Then his eyes flick down, and you watch his pupils dilate a little. “You wanna try one of my distractions?”

Your pulse jumps. “What kind of distraction?”

He smirks, sliding his stool even closer between your knees. “The kind only I get to give you.”

His gloved hands slide to your thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh, and he leans in. The chair, the light, the machine—all of it falls away as his breath ghosts over your inner thigh, closer and closer to where you’re already throbbing from more than just the needle.

“Bucky,” you whisper, your voice half warning, half plea.

He glances up at you from under his lashes, expression all sinful affection. “What, baby? You don’t want me to kiss it better?”

Your face burns. “You can’t… we’re in the shop.”

“We’re closed,” he reminds you, like he’s commenting on the weather. “Doors are locked. Security cameras in here are already pointed up and off. I triple-checked.” He presses a tiny kiss to the inside of your thigh. “You trusted me with your first tattoo, sugar. You can trust me with this too.”

Your breath stutters, that vulnerability opening up in your chest again. He’s right. If there’s anyone you trust with… well, everything, it’s him.

“Okay,” you whisper.

His smile turns soft, almost relieved, like that was the answer he hoped for but never assumed. “Good girl,” he murmurs. “Lemme take care of you, yeah?”

He moves carefully, mindful of the fresh lines above your clit. He doesn’t go near the stencil; he keeps his mouth lower at first, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses to the crease of your thigh, the soft flesh further down, letting you adjust to the intimacy in this new setting.

You’ve had his face between your legs more times than you can count. At home on the couch, half-off the bed, in the shower. Bucky Barnes is, by his own proud admission, a munch. He loves tasting you, loves coaxing sounds out of you with his tongue.

But something about him doing it here, in his shop, with your legs spread on the tattoo chair and gloves on his hands, makes everything feel brighter, sharper.

“You’re so wet, baby,” he groans softly, breath warm against your slick folds. “Fuck, you get off on pain a little, don’t you?”

You squeak, scandalized. “I do not—”

“Uh-huh,” he hums, sounding smug. One finger glides along your slit, carefully avoiding the fresh ink. Even through the glove, the touch makes you jolt. “All clenched up and drippin’ from a few little lines? You’re my brave girl and my needy girl, hm?”

Your embarrassment sparks into arousal. “Bucky…”

He lifts his head enough to look you in the eye. “Color?”

“Green,” you say immediately, the word drilling through the haze. It’s your little system; green for good, yellow for “slow down,” red for stop.

He nods once, satisfied. “Good girl.”

Then he finally leans in and licks one long, slow stripe from your entrance to just below the tattoo, careful not to disturb the stencil. Your head drops back with a breathy moan.

“Oh—oh my God—”

“There we go,” he croons, tongue flicking teasingly around your clit without directly touching it. “That’s my sweet girl. Y’like that, huh?”

“Y-yes,” you stammer, hands scrambling for purchase. You end up tangled in the hem of your sweater, fingers clutching it tight.

He chuckles, low and pleased, and settles in like a man with all the time in the world. His tongue is familiar, sure, tracing patterns against you that have you squirming in seconds. He alternates between long, slow licks that drag heat through your whole body and shorter, focused flicks that make your thighs quiver.

“You taste like Christmas came early,” he groans against you, voice reverent. “Sweetest thing I’ve ever had.”

You whine, hips jerking.

“Easy, baby,” he murmurs, one hand pinning your hips gently. “Gotta keep you steady, remember? Don’t want you messin’ up my artwork.”

The reminder that this is just a break in the tattoo process has your mind spinning. He’s eating you out as a pain distraction. Only Bucky.

He circles your clit slowly with the tip of his tongue, finally giving it the attention you crave. The sensation spears through you, overriding the dull ache of the fresh tattooed lines. Your breath comes in short, sharp gasps.

“Buck—oh—”

He hums, the vibration right where you’re most sensitive. “God, I love when you get loud for me,” he says between licks. “Little quiet thing everywhere else, and then I get you like this and you can’t shut up, huh?”

You moan, mortified and turned on in equal measure.

He pulls back just enough to speak clearly, eyes never leaving your face. “You like that? Like bein’ my pretty little mess in my chair?”

Your answer is a choked sound that might be his name.

He grins, wicked and fond. “Yeah, you do.”

He seals his lips around your clit, sucking gently, and your vision whites out at the edges. His tongue flicks against the swollen bundle of nerves, relentless but perfectly controlled. Every twist of his mouth is aimed at unraveling you.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, pulling back just enough to tease, then immediately going back in. “There we go. You’re doin’ so good. My good girl. My brave girl. Got you, sweetheart.”

The praise piles on top of the sensation, your nerves frayed from the earlier pain. It doesn’t take long before the familiar coil starts tightening low in your belly, heat building, your thighs twitching.

“Buck,” you gasp. “I—I’m close—”

He immediately eases off, softening his suction, switching to gentle, broad licks that cool rather than ignite.

You whine, high and desperate. “Bucky…”

He chuckles, breath hot. “Told you. Pain management. Edgin’ you a little will make your body flood with all those nice endorphins.” He presses a kiss to your inner thigh. “Plus, I just like seein’ how needy I can get you.”

“You’re evil,” you complain weakly, chest heaving.

He grins, not even bothering to deny it. “Green?”

You pout. “Green.”

“Atta girl.” He gives your clit one last soft lick, just enough to keep you simmering, then pulls back completely, wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist. He looks wrecked already, hair mussed, lips shiny, pupils blown. You clench around nothing at the sight.

“Okay.” He reaches for another wipe, disinfecting his gloves, mind clicking back to business without losing the heat in his eyes. “Let’s get a few more lines in while you’re floatin’ on all those happy chemicals, yeah?”

You blink at him. “You’re really gonna go back to tattooing right now?”

He smirks. “Baby, I could eat you out for hours. But we gotta finish the outline before I get too distracted to hold a needle steady.” He winks. “Don’t worry. I’m plannin’ on spendin’ a lot more time between your thighs after we’re done.”

The promise sends a fresh wave of heat through you. “Okay,” you breathe.

He settles back on his stool, presses the pedal, and the machine buzzes again. He studies his work, then leans in, hand spreading your lower belly like before. The needle touches your skin.

It hurts—but less. Or maybe your brain is too fuzzy from almost coming on his tongue to register it as sharply. The pain and the leftover pleasure tangle together into something hot and overwhelming.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “You’re doin’ so well. Little more here…”

He works in small bursts, pausing often, talking you through every line. Whenever your breath gets too shallow or your thighs start to tremble for the wrong reason, he stops, rubs your tummy, kisses the inside of your knee.

“There we go,” he says every time. “That’s it, baby. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

At one point, the sting flares a little too sharp and your hand shoots out, grabbing his wrist. He freezes instantly, the machine buzzing in his hand but not touching your skin.

“Stop?” he asks, voice low, eyes serious.

“J-just… give me a second,” you manage.

He lifts his foot, silencing the machine, and his free hand comes up to cover yours on his wrist.

“Breathe,” he says softly. “In… out… you’re okay, sweetheart. You’re safe.”

You focus on his voice, his steady presence, the warmth of his skin under the glove. The panic ebbs.

He strokes his thumb over your knuckles. “Color?”

You swallow. “Still green. Just… spike.”

He nods. “Thank you for tellin’ me. I’m almost done with the outline, okay? We can take a longer break after this part if you want.”

You nod, letting go of his wrist. “Okay. I trust you.”

His eyes flash at that. “Yeah?” His tongue darts out to wet his lips. “Say it again.”

“I trust you, Bucky.”

He exhales slowly, like the words hit him somewhere deep. “You have no idea what that does to me,” he mutters, almost to himself. Then he smiles at you, gentle again. “I’ll take care of you. Promise.”

He finishes the outline in a few more careful passes, each pause filled with praise and encouragement. By the time he sets the machine down, your whole lower body feels buzzy and overstimulated, but you’re buzzing with something like pride too.

“Outline’s done,” he announces, wiping gently. “You wanna see?”

You nod, and he passes you the mirror again. Your breath catches.

“It’s…” You trail off, at a loss.

“Say it,” he coaxes.

“It’s perfect,” you whisper. “You’re… you’re amazing, Bucky.”

His smile is a little crooked, a little shy despite the cockiness you know he’s capable of. “Yeah?” he says softly.

“Yeah.” You look at him. “Thank you.”

He clears his throat, looks away, like he’s a little overwhelmed. Then he rallies, smirk sliding back into place. “We’re not done yet, sugar. Gotta shade the leaves, add a little white to the berries. Make your mistletoe pop.”

You laugh weakly. “I don’t know if I can handle more needle right now.”

His expression goes considering. “We can break it up,” he says. “Do the color in stages. But if you wanna get it all done tonight, I can help you through it.” His gaze dips to your slick folds again, then back up. “You let me make you come, your body’ll relax. Makes pain easier to handle. Still your call.”

Your cheeks flame. “You’re… seriously suggesting I orgasm as, like, a medical intervention?”

He grins, unrepentant. “Baby, I’m always down for science.”

You huff out a laugh, but he’s not wrong, and your body is still hovering on the edge from earlier. The idea of him dragging you over the brink and then taking care of you through the rest of the tattoo makes something warm unfurl in your chest.

“Okay,” you say quietly. “I want to finish it tonight. And I… want you.”

His eyes darken, heat flaring. “Yeah?” He slides his hands up your thighs again. “You want my mouth?”

“Please,” you whisper, surprising yourself with how needy it sounds.

His groan is filthy. “God, I love you.”

The words land heavy and sweet, even though you’ve heard them a hundred times. Somehow they feel different here, with his gloves on and your legs spread and this permanent thing he’s giving you.

“I love you too,” you say back, breathless and sure.

His smile turns soft and bright. “Yeah?” His voice is rough around the edges. “Say it again.”

“I love you, Bucky.” Your throat tightens, emotion bubbling up alongside the arousal. “Thank you for… for doing this for me. For making it feel safe.”

His jaw clenches like he’s holding something back. “Always,” he rasps. “Always gonna make it safe for you, pretty girl.”

Then he leans in and, this time, there’s no teasing.

He licks into you like a man starving, mouth open and greedy. His tongue slides through your folds, savoring, mapping, pressing, his stubble scraping just enough to remind you he’s real. You gasp, your hands flying to his hair, fingers tangling in the dark strands.

He groans, the sound vibrating against you. “That’s it,” he murmurs, voice muffled. “Hold me there. Use me, baby. Take what you need.”

You whimper, hips stuttering. “Bucky—”

He sucks your clit into his mouth and you choke on your own breath.

He works you with single-minded focus, all of that artist’s attention turned toward the way your body responds. He learns and re-learns you every time he’s down here, cataloguing the way your breath hitches when he swirls his tongue just so, the way your thighs jump when he adds a little more pressure.

“There we go,” he coos when you let out a broken moan. “There she is. You like that, huh?”

“Yes,” you sob.

“Yeah, you do.” He flicks his tongue against your clit, relentless. “Look at you. My pretty girl takin’ it so good. All spread out for me in my chair.” He groans. “You’re so fuckin’ perfect.”

The filth and the praise wrap around each other, spiraling you higher. You tug on his hair helplessly, your hips rolling against his mouth. He just tightens his grip on your thighs, holding you steady while he devours you.

He pulls back just enough to talk, lips still brushing your clit with every word. “Gonna make you come so hard, you’re not gonna remember your own name, doll.”

“J-just—yours,” you whimper.

His breath stutters. “Fuck,” he growls, something rough and possessive threading through his tone. “That’s right. Only name you gotta remember.”

He sinks one thick finger into you, slow but sure, and the stretch makes your back arch. He pumps it carefully, mindful of keeping it away from the fresh ink, curling just right to brush that spot inside that makes your toes curl.

“Bucky, I—oh my God—”

“That’s it,” he pants. “Take it, baby. There we go. You’re doin’ so well. So fuckin’ tight around me. You gonna come on my tongue?”

“Y-yes,” you gasp, right on the edge.

His finger curls and his mouth closes around your clit again, sucking with just enough force to tip you over.

It hits like fireworks in a snowstorm, hot and bright and overwhelming. You cry out, the sound echoing off the shop walls, your thighs shaking around his head. Your hands clutch at his hair, your whole body bowing off the chair as wave after wave crashes through you.

He doesn’t let up, tongue working you through it, finger still moving gently inside you. His free hand strokes your hip, grounding you as you fall apart.

“That’s it, that’s it,” he murmurs, voice a soothing rumble under the roar in your ears. “There we go. That’s my girl. Look at you. So fuckin’ pretty when you come for me.”

You shudder, the pleasure melting into oversensitivity. “S-stop,” you gasp, breathless, tapping weakly at his shoulder.

He pulls back instantly, finger slipping free, his mouth moving to press soft kisses to your inner thigh, your hip, anywhere but the overstimulated bundle of nerves.

“Good?” he asks, chest heaving, lips swollen and shiny with you.

You can’t speak yet, so you just nod, tears pricking the corners of your eyes from the intensity.

His expression softens, the cocky edge easing into concern. “Hey,” he murmurs, sliding his hands up to your waist. “You okay, sweetheart?”

“Yeah,” you croak after a minute. “Just… wow.”

He laughs softly. “Yeah? Good wow?”

You manage a shaky laugh. “Very good wow.”

He leans up and kisses you, slow and deep, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. It’s filthy and intimate, and you sigh into it, letting the last of the tension drain from your body.

When he pulls back, his eyes are warm and fond again. “You still wanna finish?”

You blink. “The tattoo?”

“Yeah.” He brushes a strand of hair from your forehead. “We can stop here. Outline’s cute as hell on its own. I can always add color another day.”

You think about it. You’re relaxed and pliant now, your muscles loose instead of braced. The idea of leaving it half-done bothers you almost as much as the thought of more pain. But you also know you’ll be proud of yourself if you get through the whole thing.

“I… I wanna finish,” you say quietly. “If you think I can handle it.”

His smile is pure pride. “You can handle anything,” he says simply. “But we’re gonna go slow, okay? Soon as it’s too much, you say the word.”

“Okay,” you breathe.

He gives you a few more minutes to come down fully—getting you some water, letting you stretch your legs a bit, squeezing your hand every time your eyes meet. Then he’s back on his stool, machine in hand, focus sliding back into place.

“Last stretch, pretty,” he murmurs as the buzz starts up again. “We’re just doin’ soft shading in the leaves and a little highlight on the berries. You already survived the outline. This’ll be a breeze.”

You snort. “You say that now.”

He grins, then leans in, starting the shading. The sensation is different—less sharp, more of a concentrated scratching that fills in the spaces between the lines. It still hurts, especially when he gets closer to the center, but the edges of the pain are blurred by the endorphins and the leftover afterglow.

Every time you flinch, he murmurs to you.

“There we go…”

“Breathe for me, baby…”

“You’re doin’ so fuckin’ good…”

“You like that? My brave girl lettin’ me put my art on her most sensitive spot…”

It’s ridiculous how much the praise helps. You focus on the rhythm of his voice and the brush of his gloved fingers on your skin, and somehow the time stretches and collapses all at once.

At one point, he pauses to wipe away excess ink, and you feel the hot sting of tears at the corners of your eyes. He notices immediately, lifting his foot off the pedal, the machine going silent.

“Hey,” he says softly, leaning closer. “Talk to me. That pain, or just a lot?”

You sniff, embarrassed. “Just… a lot. I’m okay.”

His thumb traces your cheek, even though he’s still gloved, like he can’t not touch you. “You’re allowed to feel a lot, you know. This is your first tattoo and it’s not exactly on your ankle.” His smile is gentle. “You’re doin’ incredibly. I’m so proud of you.”

The sincerity in his voice makes your throat tighten. “How much more?”

“Like… ten minutes tops, I promise,” he says. “We’re doin’ a little white dot on each berry now. That hurts for a sec ‘cause it’s goin’ over what we already did, but then we’re done.”

You breathe in, then out. “Okay. I can do ten minutes.”

He nods once, like a general acknowledging a brave soldier. “That’s my girl.”

The last stretch is rough, the white highlights feeling like someone poking at an already irritated bruise. You grit your teeth a few times, hiss out breaths, your fingers digging into the chair. Every time, Bucky’s voice anchors you.

“You’re okay.”

“I’ve got you.”

“There we go…”

“You’re almost there, pretty. Just a little more for me…”

You hang onto his words like a lifeline, and then, at last, he lifts the needle and doesn’t put it back down.

“Okay,” he says, voice warm with quiet satisfaction. “You did it. We’re done, sugar.”

Your shoulders sag with relief. “R-really?”

“Really.” He kills the machine, sets it aside, and reaches for a fresh wipe, cleaning the area carefully. The sting is sharp, but you know it means you’re on the other side.

“Gimme one more minute,” he murmurs. “Then you can see.”

He pats the area dry, then applies a thin layer of ointment, his touch gentle. Finally, he peels off his gloves and tosses them away.

“Okay,” he says, reaching for the mirror. “Ready?”

Your stomach flips, but you nod. “Ready.”

He hands you the mirror and you angle it into place. This time, the breath you suck in is more of a gasp.

The mistletoe is fully formed now, dark green leaves shaded delicately so they look almost soft, tiny white highlights on the berries making them seem to glow. The curve of the sprig cradles your clit perfectly, like a little wreath framing your most sensitive spot.

Your skin is still red and a little swollen, but you can already tell it’s going to look incredible once it heals.

“Oh my God,” you whisper. “Bucky…”

He shifts his weight, suddenly a little nervous. “Good-oh my God, or bad-oh my God?”

You look up at him, eyes shining. “Good. It’s… it’s perfect.” Your voice wobbles. “I love it.”

His whole face relaxes, then lights up. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You swallow. “Thank you.”

He exhales, like he’s been holding his breath for the last hour. “You’re welcome, sugar.” He reaches out, thumb brushing just above your knee. “You were amazing. Seriously. I know that spot hurts. You handled it like a fuckin’ champ.”

You blush, warmth spreading through you that has nothing to do with the tattoo. “Only because you… helped. A lot.”

His smile turns wicked. “Well, I aim to please.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling too. “I can tell.”

He stands and stretches again, joints popping. You can’t help your eyes dropping to the front of his jeans. Sure enough, there’s a noticeable bulge, the denim strained.

Your cheeks heat. “You, uh… seem a little… uncomfortable.”

He snorts. “Baby, I’ve had my face between your thighs while you moaned my name in my shop for the last hour. I’m more than a little uncomfortable.”

You bite your lip, suddenly hyper-aware of how exposed you still are, your sweater bunched up, your pussy on display with the fresh ink. “We should… um. Put something over it, right? Bandage?”

“Yeah.” His voice goes a shade rougher. “We’ll bandage it up. Talk aftercare. Then I’m takin’ you home and absolutely ruin—” He cuts himself off with a cough. “Taking very good care of you.”

You snicker. “You were gonna say ruin me.”

He gives you a look. “You’re my girlfriend with a brand-new mistletoe tattoo above her clit. I’m only human.”

You flush, a shiver running through you at the word ruin.

He cleans and bandages the tattoo with practiced efficiency, explaining again what you’ll need to do over the next few days: keep it clean, gentle washes, no soaking, no scratching. No tight underwear for a bit. Definitely no sex on it until it’s healed.

You pout at that. “No sex?”

He chuckles, leaning in to kiss your forehead. “No friction directly on the tattoo,” he corrects. “We can still do plenty of things that don’t irritate it, sweetheart. I’m creative.”

You swallow. “I know.”

He helps you ease your underwear and jeans back on carefully, making sure the fabric doesn’t rub too much. The tenderness of the gesture claws at your chest in the best way.

Once you’re dressed, he helps you off the chair, steadying you when your legs wobble a little. You lean into him, the exhaustion and the high hitting you all at once.

“You okay?” he murmurs, arm snug around your waist.

“Yeah.” You smile up at him, a little loopy. “Just feel like I ran a marathon.”

He chuckles. “Told you, that spot’s no joke.” He brushes a kiss to your temple. “You did so good for me.”

The praise makes something warm and soft bloom in your chest. “You did good for me,” you counter. “Thank you for… all of it.”

He shrugs, but his ears are tinged pink. “You know I’d do anything for you, doll.”

“I know,” you say, and you do. Deep in your bones, you know it.

He finishes cleaning up the station quickly, then grabs your coat and scarf, bundling you up with gentle hands. The whole time, his gaze keeps dropping to your lower belly, something like awe in his eyes.

“What?” you ask, caught between self-conscious and curious.

He shakes his head, smiling softly. “Just… can’t believe you let me put my art there. That you trust me that much. It’s…” He trails off, clearing his throat. “It means a lot. That’s all.”

You step into his space, resting your hand over his chest where his heart thuds under ink and muscle. “Of course I trust you,” you say simply. “It’s my body. I wouldn’t let anyone else near it like that.”

His jaw flexes. “You’re gonna make me cry in my own shop,” he mutters.

You grin. “I’ve seen you cry watching Christmas movies.”

“Hey,” he protests weakly. “It’s not my fault those dogs reunite with their owners in the snow. That’s emotional terrorism.”

You giggle, some of the intensity lifting, and he smiles, relief in his eyes that you can still laugh after everything.

“C’mon, sugar,” he says, slinging an arm around your shoulders. “Let’s get you home. Get you fed, get you cozy.”

“And then?” you ask, voice small but hopeful.

His grin turns downright sinful. “And then I’m gonna get you naked, lay you out under our Christmas lights, and spend a very long time properly testin’ the new mistletoe.”

Heat floods you at the image. “You said no sex yet.”

“I said no friction on the tattoo.” He winks. “Lucky for you, I got a mouth and tongue perfectly capable of avoidin’ it and still wreckin’ you.”

Your knees almost buckle. “Your confidence is disgusting.”

He laughs, steering you toward the door. “Not confidence, sweetheart. Experience.”

The walk home is slow, the snow crunching under your boots, his gloved hand wrapped around yours. You lean into his side, the cold air biting your cheeks, the bandaged area above your clit throbbing dully.

By the time you reach your apartment, the chill has seeped into your bones, and the thought of being naked again seems ridiculous. But as soon as the door closes behind you, Bucky is in motion, flipping on the Christmas tree lights, tossing his keys in the bowl, and turning to you with that look in his eyes.

The one that says you’re the only thing he wants.

“Bathroom,” he orders gently. “Pee, wash your hands. Last thing we need is a UTI on top of a fresh tattoo.”

You gape at him. “Only you could make that sound vaguely hot.”

He shrugs, smirking. “Safety’s sexy.”

You roll your eyes but obey, your heart ridiculously full at the way he looks out for you even in the small things. When you come back out, he’s dimmed the lights, leaving only the glow of the tree and a couple of candles on the coffee table.

He’s shed his shirt, leaving him in low-slung jeans and his dog tags, the ink on his chest and arms stark in the soft light. Your mouth goes dry.

He holds out a hand to you. “C’mere, doll.”

You go, slipping your fingers into his. He pulls you into the living room, stopping by the couch. His hands slide under the hem of your sweater, pushing it up slowly.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low. “Not too sore? We can just cuddle if you’re not feelin’ up to more.”

You swallow, searching yourself. The tattoo throbs, but it’s not unbearable. The rest of your body is buzzing with anticipation.

“I’m okay,” you say. “I… I want more. Just… careful.”

His eyes soften. “We’ll be careful.” He leans down, kissing you slow and deep, his hands warm on your waist. “You say stop, we stop. Got it?”

“Got it,” you whisper against his lips.

He peels your sweater off, leaving you in your bra. The cool air pebbles your nipples and his gaze drops, heat flaring. He unhooks your bra with easy fingers, letting it fall away, and groans softly.

“Never gonna get over you,” he mutters, cupping your breasts with gentle hands. He thumbs your nipples, teasing them until you arch into his touch with a whimper.

“Buck…”

“There we go,” he murmurs. “You like that, huh?”

“Yes,” you breathe.

He kisses you again, then sinks to his knees in front of you, hands finding the waistband of your jeans.

“Lemme see her,” he says, voice reverent. “Wanna see my pretty mistletoe.”

You shiver, letting him undo your jeans. He eases them down carefully, mindful of the bandage, helping you step out. Your panties—soft cotton, nothing special—follow, and then you’re naked from the waist down under the soft blaze of the Christmas tree.

He sits back on his heels and just looks for a second.

“Christ,” he whispers. “You’re a fuckin’ masterpiece.”

Your face burns. “You did the tattoo, so…”

“Not the tattoo,” he says, eyes flicking up to yours. “Well, yeah, the tattoo too. But you, sweetheart. All of you.”

Your throat tightens. You look away, overwhelmed, and he seems to sense it, his hands coming up to rest lightly on your hips.

“Climb on the couch for me,” he says gently. “On your back. Pillows under your head. I’ll get a blanket for your legs so you don’t get cold.”

It feels oddly clinical and deeply intimate all at once, the way he positions you, making sure your lower back is supported, tucking a soft throw around your calves and feet. You feel cherished, not exposed.

He settles between your thighs again, this time without gloves, his hands warm on your skin.

“We’ll keep the bandage on,” he says, fingers skimming the edges of the medical tape. “I’ll stay clear of this area. That okay?”

You nod, heart racing. “Yeah.”

“Good.” He leans in, kissing the skin just below the bandaged tattoo. “Soon as it’s healed, I’m gonna worship this mark ‘til you can’t see straight. Gonna spend a whole day kissin’ every line I put on you.” His breath fans hot against you. “But for now…”

He trails lower, lips brushing that familiar path along your inner thigh. You’re already wet again, unbelievably, your body apparently having decided Bucky’s mouth is its favorite thing.

He nuzzles at your entrance, inhaling deeply. “Fuck,” he mutters. “You ever gonna stop bein’ the best thing I’ve ever tasted?”

You whine, hips twitching. “Please…”

“Please what?” he prompts, teasing even as he slides his tongue up through your folds.

“Please—eat me out,” you manage, mortified and turned on. “Bucky, please…”

He groans, like the plea hits him as hard as it hits you. “That’s my girl,” he says, and then he’s on you.

If before in the shop he was a mix of practical and indulgent, now he’s pure devotion. He devours you like he’s been starving for years, like this is his first and last meal.

His tongue plunges into you, fucking you slow and deep, then pulls out to circle your clit, drawing tight patterns that have your legs trembling. His hands hold your thighs open, thumbs stroking soothingly whenever you tense.

He alternates between torment and relief, pulling back to blow cool air on your slick heat, then diving in again, groaning like he’s the one getting fed.

“There we go,” he murmurs when you moan. “That’s it. You like that, huh, baby?”

“Yes,” you gasp. “God, yes…”

“You’re drippin’ all over my face, pretty girl,” he groans, voice wrecked. “You gonna make me come in my jeans just from listenin’ to you.”

You whimper, clenching around nothing. “You can take them off…”

He laughs breathlessly against your clit. “Trust me, I plan to. But right now I’m busy.”

He sucks your clit into his mouth and you keen, fingers grabbing for anything—pillows, the back of the couch, his hair. He doesn’t seem to mind; in fact, the rougher you tug, the more intense his tongue gets.

“Bucky, I—oh my God—”

“Yeah?” he pants between assaults. “You gonna come again for me? Gonna let me have it? Gimme another one, baby. I want it. Need it.”

You’re helpless under the onslaught, the pleasure building fast, aided by the lingering adrenaline and the warmth of the room and the way the Christmas lights paint him in red and gold and green.

You tumble over the edge with a broken cry, back arching, thighs clamping around his head. He groans and keeps going, milking every last tremor from you until you collapse back against the cushions, boneless and gasping.

“Color?” he asks after a moment, kissing your thigh.

“Green,” you say faintly. “Very, very green. Just… overwhelmed.”

He chuckles softly, climbing up over you, bracing himself on his forearms so he doesn’t press his weight onto your lower belly. His jeans are open now, you realize belatedly, his cock hard and thick against his stomach.

You swallow, eyes going wide. “Oh.”

He smirks, noticing where you’re looking. “Yeah,” he says dryly. “Been like that since you walked into the shop, if we’re bein’ honest.”

Your cheeks heat. “You didn’t—like—need to take care of yourself there, did you?”

He snorts. “Baby, I am not jacking off in my place of business. I do have some standards.”

You giggle, the sound a little dazed. “Even when your girlfriend is spread out and moaning in your chair?”

His eyes darken. “You sayin’ that to turn me on more? ‘Cause it’s workin’.”

You bite your lip, then reach down carefully between you, fingers wrapping around his length. He hisses, eyes fluttering.

“Easy,” he warns gently. “Don’t wanna jostle your tattoo.”

You nod, stroking him slowly, testing the weight and heat of him in your hand. You love him like this—vulnerable in a different way, all that cocky control stripped back to need.

“Want you inside me,” you whisper, emboldened by the way his breath stutters. “Can we… do it without…?”

He thinks for a second, always, always prioritizing your safety over his own desire. “If I keep my hips high and don’t grind into your pelvis,” he muses, half to himself, “we should be okay. You tell me if you feel any pull or pressure on the bandage and we stop. Deal?”

“Deal,” you say, already dizzy at the idea.

He kisses you, slow and deep and sweet. “Condom,” he murmurs against your lips.

You nod, letting go of him so he can reach for the little box in the drawer by the couch. He rolls a condom on with practiced ease, then shifts back between your thighs, one hand braced by your head, the other guiding himself to your entrance.

“You sure?” he asks one last time, voice rough. “We can just stop here. I’m more than happy just eatin’ you out all night.”

You flush, heart swelling at the offer. “I’m sure,” you say. “I want you.”

His eyes go soft and intense all at once. “Okay,” he murmurs. “Deep breath for me, pretty.”

You breathe in, and on the exhale, he pushes in.

The stretch is delicious, a sweet ache that has you gasping. He goes slow, inch by inch, watching your face the whole time, stopping whenever your breath catches. You feel every ridge, every vein, the heat of him filling you up.

“Fuck,” he groans when he’s finally seated fully, hips hovering above yours so there’s no pressure on your lower belly. “You’re so fuckin’ tight. Every time, baby. Every single time.”

You whimper, hands clutching at his shoulders. “You’re… big.”

He chuckles weakly. “You say the nicest things.”

He stays still for a moment, letting you adjust, kissing your jaw, your cheeks, your nose. “You good?” he murmurs.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Move.”

He pulls out almost all the way, then thrusts back in, careful and controlled. The angle is different, his hips held higher, but he still finds a way to drag along that spot inside that makes you see stars.

“Jesus,” he groans. “You feel like fuckin’ heaven.”

You cling to him, your breasts pressed to his chest, the scrape of his dog tags against your skin grounding you. Every thrust is a jolt of pleasure, building steadily on top of everything else you’ve felt tonight.

“You like that?” he pants. “There we go. That’s it. Take me, sweetheart. You’re doin’ so good.”

“You feel so good,” you babble, overwhelmed. “So big, Buck—”

His eyes squeeze shut, the words clearly wrecking him. “Yeah?” he rasps. “You love havin’ me inside you?”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Love it, love you—”

He chokes out a curse. “Fuck, baby, don’t—” He swallows hard. “I’m not gonna last if you keep sayin’ shit like that.”

You giggle breathlessly, then moan as he bumps that sweet spot again. “Bucky—”

He shifts his angle, testing, until your gasp pitches higher. “There?” he asks, even though he clearly knows.

“Y-yes—”

“Good.” He starts a slow, deep rhythm, hitting that spot every time. “There we go. Let me give it to you. Let me take care of you. You’ve been so fuckin’ brave for me tonight.”

His words wash over you, every praise another thread tugging you closer to the edge. The room is a blur of soft light and heat and the sound of skin on skin, the faint scent of pine from the tree mixing with the sweat dampening your skin.

You feel your climax build, this one slower, deeper, born of the intimacy and the trust and the sheer amount of sensation you’ve let yourself feel today.

“Gonna come,” you gasp. “Buck, I—”

“Fuck yeah, you are,” he groans. “Give it to me, pretty girl. Come on my cock. Lemme feel you.”

His hips stutter, thrusts growing a little rougher despite his best efforts. You’re both right on the edge. His face is inches from yours, eyes blown, jaw clenched, and you realize with a dizzy rush that he’s holding back, keeping himself from slamming into you like he clearly wants to for the sake of your tattoo.

The thought—him restraining himself for you—tips you over.

You shatter around him with a strangled cry, your whole body tightening, then releasing in waves. Your nails bite into his shoulders, your legs clamping around his waist. He groans, a broken, desperate sound, and thrusts once, twice more before he’s following you over, spilling into the condom with a hoarse moan.

He collapses forward, catching himself just in time so he doesn’t crash into you, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. You’re both panting, bodies slick with sweat, hearts racing.

For a long moment, you just lie there—his weight warm and reassuring above you, his cock softening inside you, your fingers tracing idle patterns on his back.

“You okay?” he mumbles eventually, his mouth against your neck.

You nod, too wrung out to speak, and he snorts softly.

“Use your words, doll,” he teases gently.

“Okay,” you whisper, voice hoarse. “More than okay.”

He smiles against your skin, pressing a kiss to the hollow of your throat. “Good.”

He eases out of you carefully, making sure not to jostle your lower belly, and disappears briefly to dispose of the condom and grab a warm washcloth. He cleans you up with almost comical gentleness, wiping away the mess between your thighs, checking the bandage.

“Looks good,” he says, satisfied. “No blood, no shifting. My girl’s tough as nails.”

You smile sleepily. “Your girl?”

He freezes, then looks up, suddenly unsure. “Yeah. Unless… you don’t like when I say that.”

Your heart squeezes. “I love when you say that,” you say softly. “I like being your girl.”

Relief washes over his features, followed by a soft, adoring look that makes your chest ache. “Good,” he murmurs. “Because I don’t plan on shuttin’ up about it any time soon.”

He tosses the cloth aside and helps you into one of his soft tees, then coaxes you to lie down on the couch. He tucks a blanket around you, then climbs in behind you, pulling you back against his chest, his arm banding around your waist carefully above the tattoo.

You snuggle into him, listening to the steady beat of his heart, the quiet crackle of a candle wick, the distant hum of the world outside.

After a while, you murmur into the quiet, “Bucky?”

“Yeah, sugar?”

“When the tattoo heals…”

“Mm?”

“Are you really going to kiss every line you put on me?”

He chuckles, low and warm, his lips pressing to the back of your head. “Oh, sweetheart,” he says, voice thick with promise. “I’m gonna do a whole lot more than kiss.”

A shiver runs through you, and you smile in the dim light, fingers brushing your lower belly where the fresh ink throbs—a little ache that feels like a secret.

Your secret. His art. Your trust.

Under the soft glow of the Christmas tree, with your tattooed mistletoe hidden safely beneath layers of cotton and blankets and his arm, you close your eyes and let yourself drift, knowing that every time the sting flares over the next few days, you’ll remember the way his voice sounded when he said, That’s my brave girl.

And the way his mouth felt when he showed you exactly what mistletoe means.

tags: @firingstars @iamthatonefangirl @its-in-the-woods @houseofhyde @superbassbuck @chateaubarnes @earthsmightiestbenders @barnesonly @54nboo @winterdecember18 @unificsation @wildflowersandvibranium @juniebjonesin @blowingbarnes @grumpysunnybarnes @missvelvetsstuff @daisynotquake @colettebarnes @lokirogersgirl @sapphire882 @buckyfmd @justadaydreamingfangirl @quantumbarnes @overwintering-soldier @buckyboudoir @domitaylorsversion @multiversefanfics @avgdestitute @meowrz1a @barnes-babydoll @globetrotter28 @mariamorales1998 @okaytrashpanda @icantfindanamenottakenn @happygooberpastel @pinksplace @cautiouscas17 @infinitewithenvy @herejustforbuckybarnes @yexbarnes @sassandscribbles @ozwriterchick @barnesknt @spdrveil @r1ssa + add yourself here

[smorgaswhored]

“Yeah, I got it”

Bucky Barnes says “Yeah, I got it” a lot and here are some of the times he says it:

ೀ At work

“Yeah, I got it,” Bucky mutters, eyes locked on the target through the scope.

He inhales deeply, holds it, then exhales as his finger curls around the trigger. The target, zigzagging through trees and brush, glances over his shoulder for someone in pursuit. He has no idea the threat is waiting for him at the top of an outcrop half a mile away.

Bucky doesn’t blink as he fires. A specially-designed, Widow-inspired projectile zips through the air, exploding into a half-crescent cuff of nanotech brilliance that locks around the target’s wrist. The target drops before he can hear the echo of the shot, seizing as 500k voltage renders his body incapacitated. Not dead, but not stirring either.

Bucky habitually clicks the safety on before popping out the magazine. There’s static from the comm. He can just barely hear Sam’s voice through the ringing in his ears.

“That the last of them?”

Clear blue eyes scan the forest sprawling before them. “Looks like it.”

“Send the location. Clean up crew will pick him up.”

Bucky pushes himself up from the ground, brushing dirt off his knees before swinging the rifle around his back. “Yeah, yeah — don’t get your red, white, and blues in a twist. Now, are you gonna come pick me up, or do I have to walk all the way back to the jet?”

“Been getting a little soft along the middle, Barnes, a little jog wouldn’t hurt ya—“

“You wanna talk about getting soft? What’s that girl’s name from Sal’s the other night? The one whose shoulder you cried on after she told you about her dead grandma?”

A year ago a comment like that would have dominoed into a week-long standoff. Now, Sam laughs freely, and Bucky can hear the wind whistling in the background as he turns to head in the direction of the jet.

“I warned all of y’all I don’t do rum for a reason,” Sam replies.

“So does that mean I should cancel the Tahiti team retreat?”

“For some reason I’m finding it hard to picture you on a beach. Probably because you’re physically incapable of relaxing.”

“I can relax,” Bucky says indignantly, eyes on the sky, “I’m very good at relaxing.”

“The fact you have to convince me that you can says differently.”

“Maybe I just can’t relax around you.” Bucky slows his steps, rolling his shoulders a few times before lifting his vibranium arm over his head. Sam chuckles in his ear.

“Then you’ve got bigger issues, because I’ve been told I have a very calming presence. Incoming.”

Sam dive-bombs out of the clouds, pulling up just in time to snag Bucky’s arm. The war heroes’ bickering doesn’t stop all the way to the jet.

ೀ Being helpful

“Yeah, I got it,” Bucky says, stepping carefully through the pond that used to be your kitchen floor. He picks a spot that he thinks is slightly less wet (it isn’t), then crouches down to open the cabinet under your sink. Sponges, a bottle of dish soap, and other odds and ends river-raft their way to the floor, escaping on the wave of dammed up water behind the cabinet doors. Bucky makes a surprised sound, jumping out of the way.

“Oh, God — I should’ve just called the plumber—“

“No, no,” he says quickly, “I can do it. Probably a loose washer.”

He nudges a ScrubDaddy out of the way with his foot and kneels. Inside the cabinet, water pours from the pipe attached to the wall. Bucky reaches in until his vibranium hand finds the valve next to it. Tongue peeking out between his teeth ever so slightly, he carefully twists and twists so that the water comes to a standstill.

But it doesn’t.

From your spot perched on the edge of the sink, you can see the look of pure confusion cross his face. He ducks his head low to peer back into the cabinet. The water continues at its same speed.

So, Bucky reaches back in and twists the valve the other way. Twisting and twisting until he meets resistance. He’s pretty sure righty-tighty-lefty-loosey is one of Newton’s laws by this point, but whatever works.

He pauses, waiting for something to happen. You’re watching him through the spaces between your fingers. “Uh…”

Miraculously, the water lessens to a trickle. Bucky tells you so with a pleased smirk on his lips, eyes bright as they lift to your position hanging over him. “Now just need to tighten the washer, turn the water back on, and you should be good to—“

CRACK!

Not even Bucky’s super serum senses could have prepared him for the spray hose nozzle exploding off the counter and hitting the light fixture above him. Glass rains down just as water gushes from the sink’s brand new open wound, instantly soaking the both of you.

“Bucky!” you shout, launching yourself over America’s lamest geyser.

“Fuck!” is all he can say back

ೀ In case of an emergency

“Yeah, I got it!” he calls out to you. “Just stay back!”

The flames are licking the ventilation shaft now, easily surpassing three feet in height. You don’t know what was the match that lit the fuse - literally - but one moment it was oil and garlic in the pan, and the next, it was flambéd away.

Within seconds, you felt like you showed up to a gun fight with just your fists. The fire grew to something beyond your control, an orange and red monster on top of your stove that couldn’t be slayed by a lid or a cloth. You had scrambled to the cupboards, knocking over bowls and spices and cat food in your search for flour, but of course you had used up the last of it making your anniversary cake the week before.

And of course this all happened just as Bucky walked through the door, shouldering a fourteen-hour shift at Capitol Hill and harboring a deep desire for peace and quiet.

“Baby!” Bucky had shouted. “What did you do?”

“What do you mean?” you whipped back at him, a sweaty strand of hair falling into your eyes. “I didn’t do this on purpose!”

Within a heartbeat, Bucky had dropped his keys and his coat and yanked you out of the kitchen. He threw you unceremoniously onto the couch.

“Where’s the flour?” he barked at you, rifling through the open cupboards like you had moments before.

“In the chocolate cake that you had to have—“

He made an impatient noise at you, waving you off like a bug by his head. You were about to tell him where to shove the cake when something popped in the pan, causing the flames to nearly double in size; black smoke was filling the kitchen like you had been attempting to cook marbles to well done.

“Uh— Bucky?“

Now he’s pushed up his sleeves, a kitchen towel in his right hand, assessing the best move to get the situation under control.

He doesn’t wait long before he executes on his plan. With a flick of his wrist, Bucky knocks the pan off the stove using the towel, clearly aiming for the sink just to his left. But whether it was the adrenaline, the long day, or the buzz of an almost-fight with you, he miscalculated. The pan goes flying past the sink and out the window. Glass smashed like a Tom and Jerry specialty.

You shriek. Bucky swears. You almost don’t hear the clatter of the pan against the fire escape. Then silence.

Bucky steps over to the window and looks down. Your hands are tightly pressed against your face as you wait for him to speak.

“Well,” he says, “fire’s out.”

You release the breath you didn’t know you were holding, hand shaking as you point severely at him. “You— you—“

“You’re welcome,” he adds, leveling you with an expression so textbook Bucky, it makes you want to scream. Instead, you walk around the couch to shove your finger in his face.

“Why didn’t you use your arm?” you hiss. “You could have picked up the pan!”

You’re satisfied to see that whatever fight he had prepared in him is blinked out of existence.

“Ah,” he replies very intelligently. “I…forgot. Right-handed, so…” You stare at him like he’s grown antlers. He huffs, getting defensive. “It was a long day, alright? And I come home to my girl almost burning down our place. Excuse me for acting quick — next time I’ll let you burn the curtains before stepping in.”

You scoff and move to turn your back on him, but he wraps the human arm around your waist before you can make it very far. With a grunt, he pulls you into his chest, metal hand resting on the back of your neck and soothing the flush you felt from the flames.

Instinctively, your hands slide up his back, gripping and pulling him closer to you. He sighs.

“Remind me to sue the landlord for faulty fucking fire alarms,” Bucky mutters darkly into your hair.

ೀ When he’s feeling stubborn

“Yeah, I got it,” Bucky mutters darkly. He pushes himself up off the couch with a wicked deliberateness, shooting you a glare as you struggle with the wine bottle opener.

You look up just in time to catch it, immediately giving it back to him with fervor. He wasn’t expecting that, and his surprise at being caught shows when he quickly turns away, eyes anywhere but you; he knows he will be paying for that at a later date and time.

As he makes his way down the hall, there’s another knock on the door, louder and longer than the first. Bucky rolls his eyes, aiming a petulant kick at the stray boot in his way that hits the wall with a much heavier thud than he planned for. It leaves an ugly black mark roughly the size of his foot. His shoulders are around his ears before he even hears your voice.

“What was that?”

“Nothing! It’s nothing, babe. Tripped on a shoe.” He uses his sleeve to scrub at his mistake. The paint blisters and peels beneath his efforts. “Shit,” he whispers, gritting his teeth.

The door shakes with the third knock.

“Bucky! Door!”

He freezes, stuck between the mark on the wall, the door, and your voice. His hands hover in front of him like they’re waiting for instructions.

“Buck, you gonna let us in or is there a waitlist?” Sam teases from the hallway. Bucky feels steam coming out of his ears.

“Yeah, I’m coming! Jesus!” he calls out.

“Be nice!” he hears you hiss. He runs his vibranium hand down his face before quietly dragging the runner table in front of the mark. It’s a lost cause thinking you won’t notice that it’s moved half a foot to the right, but bandages before stitches.

“This wasn’t my idea,” Bucky says as he opens the door for Sam and Joaquin.

“Nice to see you, too, brother,” Sam replies. With a clap on his shoulder, he moves past Bucky and into his home, calling out your name. Joaquin follows across the threshold, eyes bright and with the tiniest pep in his step.

“Hey, Barnes, we just got the all clear from R&D to try out that new magnetic repulsar in the field. I’m thinking if it’s what you were looking for, they’ll be able to size it down to something you can have with you at all times. For, y‘know—“ He gestures to the vibranium arm with a grin. “Just in case. Anyway. Here!”

Joaquin shoves a ridiculously large and colorful bouquet into Bucky’s chest. His eyes drop to it, then move back to Joaquin.

“Are these for me or for her?”

Joaquin’s face falls for a second. “Oh, I mean— yeah, her, but—“

“Then give them to her. And say ‘thank you for having me’ when you do. Don’t be rude,” Bucky orders, pushing Joaquin down the hallway. Hopefully the kid can soften his girl up a little before Bucky faces the music later.

And for a few moments, he thinks it might actually work. You take the flowers with big, round eyes, all appreciative words and warm smiles, making Joaquin blush and Bucky’s face relax just a little. The wine is poured for you and Sam, a soda’s opened for Joaquin, and Bucky’s nursing a beer; conversation flows around work, past missions, upcoming holiday plans and even a concert Joaquin’s trying to convince everyone to go to. Bucky’s silent during the battle between you and Sam over who has the superior taste in music, hiding a tiny smile behind his beer bottle as he settles in for the show.

Of all the ways he had wanted to spend his Friday night, hosting his best friend and his partner — who he sees almost more than you — was not on the top of his list. He imagined something a little more quiet, a little less crowded, and a lot less clothing.

But he’s shocked to find himself not absolutely hating this like he thought he would. He likes the way Sam gets up to refill your glass before he can, he likes the way Joaquin asks you for permission to show you something on his phone, he likes the smiles you flash him when you notice him staring.

You had done the lion’s share of work turning this apartment into a home for the two of you, through time and labor and by just being you. He loves this little world of yours more than any other place out there, and sometimes that makes him reluctant to open it up to others. After all, having something — and someone — to call his was only a very recent rediscovery.

But this…this is okay, he supposes. He could get used to doing this once, maybe twice a year.

You throw your head back and laugh as Sam explains his most listened to genre of the past year. “Have you ever even heard jazztronica? I’m gonna say no, because if you have, then you wouldn’t be giving me that reaction, you’d be agreeing with me—“

“Sam, how the hell did you find jazztronica?”

Before Sam can dig himself a deeper hole, Joaquin speaks up. “Whoa. Hey, what happened to your guys’ window?”

There’s a heartbeat of silence as Sam turns to check out the shoddy patchwork on the window above the sink.

“Did a bird fly through?” Sam jokes.

Bucky’s eyes slide shut, a sigh leaving his soul. He can feel you tense beside him. So much for softening you up.

“Why don’t you tell the story, Buck?”

ೀ Being responsible

“Yeah, I got it!” Bucky shouts, scooping up the missing leash in one hand and setting down the chair with the other. Your feet slide over the hardwood floors as you come around the corner.

“Okay, great,” you say, cheeks flushed. “Now for the hard part.”

You both turn to the window on the far side of the room, the one letting in the last few rays of the mid-December sun. On its ledge rests the purring, oversized cotton ball named Alpine.

“Don’t show any fear,” Bucky whispers. You make a soft noise in the back of your throat.

As if in slow motion, she turns her head to meet your gazes, assessing the two of you like she would her toy mouse. Then her pupils dilate. Bucky’s had Alpine long enough to know that she just declared war.

The smallest step forward triggers the cat to pounce, dropping to the floor and beneath the dining table and out of your sights.

“On your left!” he barks. “Block the way to the kitchen!” He scrambles to close any doors to rooms that could offer Alpine refuge. You drop to your knees in the kitchen’s archway, ready to catch the feline if she charges your way.

“The couch, Bucky!” you cry out. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches as a white streak dives for the gap between the couch and the floor. Instantly, the vibranium arm hefts the couch onto his shoulder, exposing the white cat curled up into a ball; Bucky swears her eyes look betrayed.

“Come on, princess,” he pleads, “don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

He tries to move slowly, his warm hand extended in a peace offering; Alpine doesn’t even twitch, just watches, and now Bucky’s fingers are close enough that he thinks his cat has actually listened to him this time.

But just as he brushes her light blue collar, she bolts.

“She’s headed your way!”

“I see her!”

In a moment of spectacular athleticism, you throw your hands out just in time to catch Alpine around the middle before she sneaks into the kitchen and waits the two of you out on top of the cupboards. She lets out an indignant meow before stilling; shifting her carefully, you cuddle her to your chest as Bucky moves to pick you up from the floor.

“I know,” you coo, slightly out of breath, “the vet’s no fun. But if you don’t get your shots, you get ringworm, and then Mommy and Daddy can’t pet you for a month.”

Bucky, mid-scratch on Alpine’s head, glances at you. “‘Mommy and Daddy’?”

You shoot him a look, wry smile on your face. “What else would she call us?”

“Uh, human one and human two?”

“How dare you. She’s more tactful than that. She just made us chase her around the apartment for the last hour because she knew where we’re taking take her.”

“You’re not wrong about that,” he murmurs.

“Too smart for her own good,” you declare, nuzzling your face into the corner of Alpine’s neck; your gaze finds Bucky over the tufts of white fur. “Now go get her crate, Daddy. We’ve got an appointment to get to.”

Eyes burning into yours, he reluctantly heads toward the hall. “Yes, Mommy.”

ೀ Following orders

“Yeah, I got it,” Bucky chuckles, holding out his hand for you to place the string of lights in it. You surrender it slowly, eyes narrowing as they take in his expression.

“Red lights only,” you repeat. He smiles sweetly. But something doesn’t feel right when you watch him head into the living room, the plug on the end of the lights dragging across the floor behind him.

A quiet ten minutes pass as you swap out your plain hand towels for Santa-themed ones in the bathroom, add a hand-stitched Christmas tree pillow to the preexisting mountain of pillows on your bed, and twist up a few fairy lights for good measure (and a touch of mood lighting, wink-wink) into the wrought-iron bed frame.

Your eyes sweep the bedroom, satisfied with your work. Outside in the living room, you hear Bucky moving around. The rattle of ornaments, the hiss of lights against tree limbs, all of it painting a nervous picture inside your head.

When your boyfriend told you he wanted to lead the charge on the living room, and more specifically, the Christmas tree, you had laughed. Loudly. In his face. You thought he was joking.

But as soon as you saw that crease between his eyebrows, you sobered up. “Really?” you asked. “You usually…stay out of the way when I’m putting up the Christmas stuff.”

“Can’t a guy help his girl out?” he countered defensively. You noticed the way he avoided your eyes.

“Just wondering why you’re interested all of the sudden.”

“Not all of the sudden…you just, uh— inspired me this year.”

You made him sit with that sentence for a moment as he opened up another box of what he previously called “holiday junk” (said lovingly).

“Uh-huh,” you replied. “Sure. I had a theme planned out for the tree, you know.”

“I’ll follow it.”

You eyed him down, your ears still not fully believing what they heard.

“Okay,” you finally relented. “You’ve got the tree this year.”

And that was thirty minutes ago. After handing him the keys to your most important Christmas tradition, you brought him the box marked ‘XMAS TREE,’ pulling out ropes of lights and containers of ornaments. Every year you went with something different, since it was hard to pick which Christmas style was the best, and this year was red-and-gold and everything old-school. Truthfully, you’d picked it this year because you thought it’d remind Bucky of the holidays when he was growing up; you had a detailed vision in your head of the living room draped in soft lights and timeless decorations. A mistletoe in the archway between the hall and the kitchen, a wooden Rudolph with a red lightbulb for a nose tucked under the tree, a Yule log burning (on the tv screen), and the scent of pine wafting from every candle.

And it’s not that you didn’t trust Bucky to handle something like decorating a tree, but you wanted to create this Christmas feeling for him. Not have him do half the work.

Biting your lip, you peek your head out the door. He had ordered you not to step foot in the living room until he gave you the ‘ok,’ but you had just emptied your last box and needed another.

“Bucky?” you call out to him.

“Yeah?”

“Can — can I come out now?”

“Wait! Not yet. Don’t come out.” You hear him before you see him, coming around the corner to usher you back into the bedroom. His hand comes up to brush the hair out of your face while cupping your cheek, and you instinctively lean in. The warm smile that pulls at his mouth makes you want to run a marathon at a sprint, or break down into sobs — either are proper reactions. “Almost done, just another five.”

And then he pulls the door closed in front of you. You blink before sitting down on the edge of the bed. Seconds tick by at half speed. You’re restlessly bouncing your knee when the handle turns and he’s standing in the doorway, wearing soft eyes and a “come hither” look on his face.

Damn him.

“Come on,” he says, “you can see it now.”

You take his offered hand and let him pull you into the living room. A part of you feels guilty for holding your breath, a knee-jerk reaction when preparing for the worst, but you truly aren’t sure what you’re about to walk into.

Upon entering the room, all you see at first are the blinding lights.

Hundreds of them, curled around not only the tree, but the entertainment center, the bookshelves, thumbtacked into the wood of the archways and doorframes. And all in a million different colors. He did not, in fact, follow the ‘red lights only’ rule.

Adorning the tree are none of your predetermined choices, but all of your old ornaments from growing up, gifted to you by your parents when you set off on your own for the first time. It’s like a photo album stretched out across the branches, raw and bare for you to see.

Something new catches your eye next. Thick, wool stockings dangling from the shelf above your tv, simple and elegant, with cursive lettering spelling out yours and Bucky’s names. The bulge at the bottom of yours tells you there’s something in it.

Bucky squeezes your hand hard enough for you to look his way. You can tell he’s anxious for your reaction. “I know it’s not what you wanted…”

Your eyebrows lift fractionally.

“And if you really hate it, I’ll take it down. But it’s all of your favorite things from the boxes. And I thought you could use a little more of your favorite things this year.”

Something lodges itself in your throat as you glance between the earnest expression on his face and the tiny details you hadn’t picked up before. The butchered hand-made coasters you and your best friend did a few years back; the tree topper that your teacher gave to every student in the third grade, complete with your school picture right in the middle of the star; the tree skirt with the maroon stain you couldn’t get out no matter how many times you washed it, but you still kept it because it used to be your grandmother’s.

“Bucky,” you say, turning to face him, painfully aware of how tight your voice sounds, “I love it. Thank you. Thank you.”

Your hands find his face and bring it down to yours; he kisses you sweetly, slowly, fingers trailing down your spine. You pull back, shaking your head.

“How did you do all of this in fifteen minutes?”

He looks sheepish, maybe even a little embarrassed. “Well, I kind of had a vision in my head of how I wanted it to look.”

You croak out a laugh that could also be a sob, depending on who’s listening. And it’s Bucky, so he hears both versions, carefully threading his warm hand through your hair, thumb tracing over your ear. A shiver runs down you, your body running hot and cold all at once; he pulls you into his chest without a word.

“Y’know,” you begin after a slightly teary-eyed moment or two, “I also had something planned for you. I also had a vision.” You lift your head to smirk at him. “But looks like I’ll save it for next year.”

He nudges your nose with his, grinning ear-to-ear. “Oh, yeah? Well, not to pat myself on the back, but I think it’s gonna be pretty hard to follow this.”

“So competitive,” you tease, using your tip-toes to meet his lips with yours. He hums his agreement into your mouth.

When you break apart again, he says, “Baby, when it comes to showing you how much I love you, you know I’m always going overboard.”

You laugh. “I don’t stand a chance, do I?”

“You can try,” he murmurs, burying his face into your neck. You stroke the back of his, reveling in the warmth, the softness, the smell of him. Your eyes land on the stockings again.

“What’s in there?” you ask, nudging him toward the shelf. He looks down at you, a gleam in his eyes, before reaching in and pulling out a small picture frame with a ribbon attached to the top. He gives it to you.

In your hands is a pocket-sized picture of you and Bucky. It’s one of your first ones together, captured unknowingly, but fully appreciated by the both of you once Sam showed you it. The two of you were standing at a table at Sam’s house, a heap of pictures scattered across the tabletop; Bucky had his right arm around your shoulders, hand dangling close to your face, and the left arm was pointed to a specific photograph, one with him and Steve. You were leaning into him, arms crossed and expression content as you listened to him explain the story behind it. You were about two months into dating at the time, right when Bucky was beginning to open up, trust you, share things he had never shared before.

“Merry Christmas, honey,” he murmurs into your hair, kissing you there. He holds out a hook.

You attach the hook to the ribbon before reaching around him to hang it up, front and center, on the tree. You both step back to admire it, his arm around your shoulders just like it is in the picture. Smiling to yourself, you look up at him, arms encircling his waist.

“Merry Christmas, Bucky,” you whisper, and place a soft kiss to his cheek.

ೀ For you

“Yeah, I got it,” he mutters, eyes dark and full of ideas that dry out your mouth and send it all south. “‘Don’t stop, don’t stop.’ Is that all you can say right now? Huh, baby?”

He bends down to lick a mean stripe up your center. You groan in frustration, pissed he’s not giving you enough, pissed he’s enjoying this way too much, pissed he’s got you exactly where he wants you.

Both of his hands tighten around your thighs, bringing him closer to the leaking heat between them.

“Come on, tell me what you want,” he teases, mouth hovering over where your body craves him the most. You wriggle your hips towards him, seeking an end to the torture he’s inflicting, but he keeps you pinned in place. One corner of his mouth lifts in a smirk.

“Bucky,” you snap, “just eat me out already. Please. God, please, just put your mouth on me right n—ah-ah-ah!”

His lips capture your clit and pull. You exhale a hiss as he rolls it with his tongue, up and down, side to side, fast then slow; there’s no rhyme or reason, no pattern, and it drives you insane. The pressure in your belly rises and falls like a plane in turbulence. Is he trying to give you an orgasm, or break your will to live?

Just as your legs begin to twitch from oversensitive nerves, his tongue flattens over your clit, soothing you before it slips through your folds. He repeats this again and again until your whimpers are whines, shrill and impatient.

Your hand drops from your hair to the mattress with a smack. “Christ, Bucky, you’re a tease.”

He has the audacity to laugh.

His beard scratches your thighs, your folds, a sharp contrast from his wicked tongue. Despite the chaos he’s subjecting you to, you’ve become downright soaked, the sounds of his mouth on your pussy filthy and detailed. Bucky presses open-mouthed kisses to your center, receiving a shiver in response every single time.

“Ungh— need you. Need you inside. Now. Please.”

You’re getting embarrassed with the amount of begging you’ve done tonight.

Bucky pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. You know you’ve said the magic words, but he’s also a man that follows through. “Inside, like this?”

He presses his thumb to your opening. It’s dry and rough and makes your walls flutter quickly at the thought of it going in. But that’s not what you mean.

“Bucky,” you breathe. He applies more pressure until it’s almost inside of you. A bead of sweat runs down your forehead.

And then it’s gone. You let out a dry sob at the loss of contact, head falling back on the pillows. Bucky’s quiet as he observes.

It’s been a while since you’ve had a night like this one: when he plays with you until you fall apart, using gentle touches that sometimes lead to nowhere, sometimes lead to too much, and loaded words that bring out the worst in you. He likes to watch your reaction to each of his ministrations, face stony in concentration as he commits all of them to memory.

His breath fans your center, your body jolting off the bed. “Inside,” he murmurs, “like this?”

His tongue enters you without warning; his nose drags up your slit as he pushes in deeper. A groan rips from your chest as he hums straight into your center. It’s good it’s so, so good but you need more—

“James, I swear to God.”

You reach down and grip his hair with purpose. He makes a noise caught somewhere between a yelp and a moan before it dissolves into a dark chuckle.

“Greedy girl,” he says, sounding like an insult and praise at the same time. “You’re lucky I’m feeling generous tonight.”

With one last push inside of you, his tongue rolls out to begin his grand finale. He frenches your pussy with devotion and recklessness, pulling your legs in around his head. He squeezes you, you squeeze him. Your spine stretches like a cat’s as you arch off the bed, hips canting down to increase the pressure building inside of you. He laps at the drips of arousal leaking from you, mixing it with his own spit and lathering the rest of your pussy in it. He mouths at your clit before drawing stars with his tongue at your opening. He’s everywhere all at once.

And the whole time, he watches you. Doesn’t glance down, doesn’t break eye contact. He just stares.

Does he have no shame?

You’ve been reduced to an hysterical state, nothing but moans and his name dropping from your mouth like a Bucky cult mantra.

“Oohhhh, Buck…”

“Bucky-yyyy—”

“Ja-ah-ames!”

In a brief show of mercy, Bucky drags his middle finger over your hip and along your thigh until it reaches your center, offering a half-hearted warning before he slips it in; it still rocks your world and tilts your center of balance and makes you release of choice string of curses, as if he hadn’t warned you at all.

Bucky exhales like he’s feeling everything you feel — and from the way he’s rolling his hips forward, maybe he is.

“Look at you,” he muses, throwing a chaste kiss on your clit. “Coming apart like this, like you haven’t ever been touched before. Like I haven’t made you take my cock every night this month.” He licks his lips, eyes flicking to your balled up fists, your messy hair, your heaving chest; he smirks. “Think my girl might have overestimated herself.”

Through the haze of arousal, you have enough of your wits about you to feel a ping of irritation. “Need more,” you moan, eyes defiantly finding his. “Still need you inside.”

“More? You sure you’re up for it, baby?”

Though breathless, you still find the energy to scowl at him. “Don’t…even…”

He answers by spitting directly onto your clit, letting it slide down your folds until he catches it with his tongue, right where your little button is. He pushes in, not a sliver of space between his face and your center. You’re mewling like a damn cat.

Good Lord. And all who are Holy above. Is this what Heaven is?

Pleasure is building into something solid and real and so close as he continues to feast on your spread. His finger curls and presses into the most sensitive parts of your walls, gentle, deliberate, and unrushed compared to his mouth. He wraps his lips around your clit once more, sucking as his tongue swirls it side-to-side, over and over and over again until your eyes are looking at your brain.

Your orgasm explodes like the sun rising over the horizon; hips lifting off the bed, heels digging into his back, a long and drawn out moan torn from your lungs. You’re tingling. You’re floating. You’re dragging air into your lungs desperately.

Bucky’s pulling you back to earth by mouthing at your pussy, licking up your folds, sliding his finger in and out slowly; he’s extending the feeling but grounding you with his touch, and for that, you’re grateful. You throw your arms over your face, shaking, panting, and embarrassed at the fact that you want another — need it — right away. How can someone make you feel so good — too good — yet still make you feel like it wasn’t enough?

Is this what addiction is? If so, you’re fully addicted to Bucky Barnes.

“Still want more?”

His voice breaks the post-orgasm stillness, and you feel the heat rush to your cheeks.

You pause before nodding, still hiding your face from him, but he needs to hear you.

“Words, baby. I’ve asked you nicely what you want. Don’t make me ask again. And look at me when I talk to you.”

Whimpering from his lips brushing your center while he speaks, you obey his command, pulling your arms sluggishly from your face. He’s watching you with so much sinful interest, eyes wide and bright and focused, you can’t help but go shy on him.

“I…need…more, Bucky…please…”

He smirks. “If I give her more, will my girl be good? Will she take what I give her?”

You erupt in goosebumps when he says your favorite words, nodding frantically, another dry sob exploding from your chest. Oh, God, yes — you’ll be his good girl. The goodest girl. His special good girl—

“She asked for it, so she should take it,” Bucky murmurs, placing featherlight kisses along your thighs. His finger still pumps slowly in and out, keeping you stretched and open. You’re watching his actions, struck dumb with want and anticipation and the retreating bliss, and his eyes snap up to yours. They’re no longer blue, you notice with a shiver, just blown pupils and desire.

“But if she can’t, I’ll still make her take it.”

You think you black out — just for a second.

Bucky’s all business as he watches you absorb his words, leaning in slightly to wet his lips against your slick pussy; he nuzzles in a little harder as you begin to stir, the pressure inside of you kickstarting again. And this time, it’s back with a vengeance.

“Oh, God,” you whisper.

Bucky’s slowly easing his finger out of you with a few strokes; he just barely grazes that little notch inside of you that makes you see stars when touched, triggering a beautiful wail from you, and only then does he stop.

Because there’s only one way Bucky can reach the notch to give it the attention it deserves.

He pulls back with one last lick from bottom to top, smacking his lips in appreciation; you’re seeing red over the fact that he looks so calm, so composed, like he just read the paper instead of handing you nirvana.

His eyes find yours again as he stands. In the dark room, half of him is wrapped in shadows, the other half bathed in moonlight, and all of him is burning with desire.

Bucky lifts his shirt over his head sans urgency, watching how you squirm onto your forearms to see better, to get closer, your teeth sinking into your lower lip. His face is unreadable as he undoes the clasp on his pants, at the same leisurely pace, and pushes them down with his briefs. Your exhale is short and sharp through your nose as he bares himself to you; your pussy throbbing, nipples aching, and heart expanding with a glorious amount of love for him. He notices, notices your eyes zeroing in on his cock like it’s the first time all over again, and he smiles — cheeky and knowing.

Your pulse is pounding in your ears when he climbs over you, looking outrageously cute for the situation, and you almost feel predatory for wanting him to manhandle you — or to manhandle him. You’ll take either.

He slides in between your legs with the precision of a fighter pilot, warm hand grabbing a healthy amount of your waist while the vibranium hand steadies himself by your head, careful not to tangle in your hair. His skin on your skin feels like protection and pleasure all at once.

“Bucky,” you whisper, feeling the hard tip of him nestle in the crook between your thigh and your center. It’s warm and wet, leaking with excitement. You want to kiss it, grind on it, feel it in your hands and on your tongue. You reach down to stroke it a few times, fingers brushing over your clit as you do. The hand on your waist tightens, and he groans when your hand circles him completely, but he’s still smiling.

“You want this?” he asks, lips trailing from the corner of your mouth and down your jaw. “Want my cock, sweetheart? Can’t keep your hands off it, huh?”

Your pride has left the room. You’re salivating on command as he dirty talks you in a low tone, his warm hand venturing from your waist and around your hip to clutch your thigh.

You squeeze him, enough to pull a grunt from deep within his chest, and snap at his ear with your teeth.

“Can’t live without it, Buck. Need it every day, all the time. Need you. Let me have it, please, Bucky. Please.”

His chest rumbles with satisfied laughter — he loves that you give as good as you get.

“A minute ago you forgot your own name,” he whispers, lips collecting the sweat on your throat. “And you still beg for my cock.”

“I’m a woman who knows what she wants,” you breathe as he bites into the skin between your neck and your shoulder.

“And what do you want?” Bucky asks, finally lifting your leg around his waist.

“I want you to fuck me.”

He pulls back to meet your eyes, grinning again. “Whatever my girl wants.”

Bucky’s cock finds your entrance with ease, sliding in with little resistance, thanks to his warm up performance. You delight in the soft stretch, the feeling of being filled by him. But once he’s halfway in, he slows to a crawl; you both let out hisses as your walls close in around him. It’s a normal occurrence, but it still brings the two of you to your knees — figuratively and sometimes literally — as you attempt to adjust.

“Come on, honey, take it all,” Bucky murmurs before covering your lips with his in a searing kiss. You moan as you roll your tongue against his, eyes fluttering from the taste, the warmth; he’s sweet and sour with your arousal, swollen with overuse. It sends tingles down your spine.

Your cunt yields another half inch to him, pulling a sharp gasp from you. He groans and grabs hold of your waist again, moving his hips around to carve out more room, which allows him another inch.

“Take it,” he says, sharper now, eyes on your face. “Be a good girl.”

“Yes, Bucky,” you breathe, meeting his gaze, “Feels so good.”

You roll your hips up, feeling full, feeling used, feeling like it’s no longer just your body, but his as well. This angle opens up his path and Bucky’s able to drive home, pushing to the hilt.

“Oh!” you gasp as he bottoms out, that notch inside of you finally, finally touched. His moan evolves into a chuckle while you blink the stars out of your eyes.

“My girl. There you go. Did so well.” He kisses you again, forehead pressed to yours. “Gonna be so good to you. Thank you.”

Your heart flutters when he expresses his gratitude, a new wave of warmth pooling down there. He sighs contentedly as he marvels in the feel of you wrapped around him. Tight and hot and made for him and him alone to fit into.

“How do you feel?” he asks gently, watching your face. You’re melted into the mattress by this point, feeling heavier than normal with Bucky inside of you; it’s like all the noise and thoughts in your head have slipped away for the moment. There’s only him, and the feel of every pulse and ridge of him inside your walls. Your smile is lazy as it curls your mouth.

“The best I’ve ever felt,” you say. Bucky chuckles again.

“Oh, yeah? Think I can make you feel even better.”

You hum, reaching up to share a long, slow kiss. “Only one way to find out.”

Bucky buries his face into your neck. He pulls out a fraction before slowly pushing back in. He always builds it up, never skipping a minute of making it easier for you. Each time he pulls back, he’s farther out than before, but it’s your whine from the lack of feeling him that lets him know you’re ready.

Because Bucky Barnes likes to fuck. Hard.

Once he hears that little sound you make, his mind goes blank. White-hot pleasure trickles down his spine and travels through every vein and nerve ending in his body, turning him into something less human, more animal, and double the loverboy. There’s not a noise or twitch of yours that doesn’t make his heart explode with adoration, especially when you’re underneath him like this, curled around his body and chasing his lips with yours, eyes expectant and trusting. If his love for you were a tangible thing with weight, it’d crush him to a fine powder — no, a mist. He’d cease to exist under the full force of it.

And when you’re lying wide open for him, ready to take whatever he has for you, that love only grows exponentially bigger.

Warm hand shaking, he uses it to cup your face, thumb gently sweeping across your cheek.

“I love you,” he says fiercely, quietly. He slides his mouth over yours in another heart-stopping kiss. You’re both breathless by the time he pulls back. “Tell me if it’s too much.”

Your eyes close. And Bucky begins to fuck you.

He pulls out until just the tip remains, holding it there for a moment, one painful, exciting moment, before plunging back in. The force of his hips pushes you up the bed. A moan falls from your mouth, shaky and lingering.

He repeats. His strokes are long and deep, emphasizing every inch of his cock; you know it so well that you could close your eyes and draw a portrait from just the feel of it alone. He’s back to holding your leg, but this time it’s to keep you open. The stretch is a minuscule nuisance, one you can easily ignore while rolling your hips up to meet his thrusts. You clench around him as his tip begins to routinely brush the notch deep inside you, a surge of arousal spilling down his cock and dripping onto the bed. He swears under his breath but his pace does not falter. The sound of your bodies meeting is messy, slippery. Music to your ears.

“Always so tight for me,” he breathes, mostly to himself, awe in his voice. Your core is deliciously warm from the friction of his cock against your walls, turning your thoughts soft and hazy.

Bucky picks up speed, spurred on by the noises leaving your mouth, which is slack jaw and drooling onto the pillow. He thinks you’ve never looked more beautiful than this moment right now.

Your hips take a beating from his movements. Every other thrust, he stops to grind his pelvis into yours, breathing deeply and muttering praise non-stop while he enjoys his cock touching the deepest parts of you.

“Look at you. Look at you take it. Good girl.”

He brushes his tongue against yours.

“You don’t have to do a thing. Let me,” he mutters, earning a whimper from you. He kisses your nose, your cheek, your jaw, leaving no part of you untouched by him. His warm hand slips from your thigh and lands between your bodies, where his thumb applies just enough pressure to your throbbing clit. The air leaves your lungs, your nails digging double-time into his back, marking him with red-hot stripes. Sparks are flying up your spine, making you twitch and convulse as your body chases the feeling down every inch of skin. The heat between you and your boyfriend, the way your bodies mold against each other like an original Rodin, steals every drop of your focus; there’s nothing else in this world but him. Your walls clench at the idea of staying in this moment with him for the rest of eternity.

Feeling you tighten around him, Bucky shudders and lets out a strangled moan, but finds it within himself to throw you a cocky look mid-thrust. You’d be annoyed with him if he wasn’t touching you exactly how you were dying to be touched.

“Is this what you wanted, baby?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

You barely let out a gasp, nodding against his shoulder, the delicious push, roll and grind of his hips against yours rendering you mute; he nibbles at your ear while his thrusts keep up the steady pace. Smack—smack—smack. Your head lolls to the side.

“Don’t go quiet on me now. Talk to me — is this what you wanted?”

You struggle to remember words. “F-feel so…so full. Can’t — think…”

Well, that’s one way to put how you’re feeling.

Bucky gobbles it up, groaning in earnest as he feels your body twitch around him. His fingers on your clit are growing sloppy as he fucks you faster, but the sounds you make tell him that you’re close.

It isn’t much longer before you’re curling yourself into him, the heat in your core tightening, coiling, burning. He feels it all, feels your walls cling to him tighter than before.

“Bucky,” you warn, voice high and trembling. He cuts you off with another bruising kiss, swallowing the rest of your whine. You twist in his hold, head jerking back, and he watches you welcome your orgasm with downright obsessive eyes.

“Fuck,“ he gasps as your mouth falls open. “Let me have it, baby. Give it to me.”

You comply, fulfilling your destiny by breaking apart on his cock. Your whole body shudders around him, vibrating with the pleasure that washes over and drowns you even more viciously than the last time.

He fucks you through it, talks you through it.

“That’s it, honey — so fucking beautiful. God, she—she’s holding on so tight. Doesn’t — wanna — let — go—“ He punctuates each word with a cruel thrust. Your legs shake around him. “She needed my cock — s-so bad—.”

You cry out softly as your orgasm leaves you wrecked and sensitive, the notch inside of you properly and lovingly abused.

Bucky’s breath is a shallow rattle as he rushes to finish with you. Where his thrusts lack in rhythm, they make up for in force; he pounds into you, eyes on yours, before colliding with your hips and stilling. Bucky lets out a low moan. His release is powerful, rolling down his body in one giant wave of pleasure, so strong it knocks him over. His metal arm folds as he collapses, barely keeping himself up by his forearm so that he doesn’t crush you. Your mind is spinning through an endless abyss of pleasure as you feel his come fill you up and slip out the sides of his cock.

Only half your brain is working as you move your hands up and down his back, soothing the scratches you left behind. His breath is warm and wet against your neck. He slowly presses a soft kiss to the hallow between your collarbones.

“You okay?” he whispers into your skin.

You nod. “Yeah, baby. More than okay.”

He lifts his head to meet your eyes. A gleam of possessiveness in them as he takes in the state of your hair, the sweat on your forehead, the red flush of your lips and cheeks. Very subtly, you feel his cock stir inside of you. He grinds his hips down gently, just to feel, and you offer him a whimper.

“You’re a dream,” he mumbles, kissing your cheek. “Don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

You sigh as he pulls out slowly, leaving you raw and aching and empty. He rolls off of you to catch his breath, and the two of you lie there for a moment, reveling in the peace of post-coital bliss.

“I love you,” you say.

“I love you more,” he answers, before pulling you to his chest, still hot and sticky from sweat. His lips brush the space between your eyebrows. “Thank you for being you. And for letting me be me.”

You press kisses to his skin, sliding a leg over his hips and enjoying the feel of his cum slipping down your thighs.

“Don’t want anyone else but you, Buck.”

It’s quiet for a moment as he strokes your back and presses a hundred little kisses to your brow. But the outside world slowly creeps in, and you’re shivering from being naked for a little too long.

Bucky notices and sits up, hands reluctantly leaving your skin as he slides off the bed and moves for the bathroom.

“Can you grab me a towel?” you call to him.

“Yeah, I got it,” he calls back.

my first published post! happy holidays everyone, I hope you’re all enjoying time off from work or school or enjoying being with friends and loved ones.

more to come! this is just the beginning ;)

(taglist tbd)

- Sam 🤍

dividers credit to @uzmacchiato !!!

[heldbybarnes]

Okay, so the mating press fic was *chefs kiss* but I’d love to see something for the aftercare. Bucky is by no means a small man (in more ways than one) compared to his sweetheart and we know that took a small toll. I can see this man making sure she’s hydrated and fed, a good warm bath to clean her up and massaging lotion into her skin to help with the soreness. He knows he did a number and he’s gonna make sure his woman is pampered because he knows he’ll be doing it again and she deserves nothing but the best after. Hell he’d fed her grapes on a vine if she’d let him 🤣

**this isn't directly correlated to the fic mentioned above bc honestly i was too lazy to find it. but i love this concept!!

---------

You don’t realize you’d drifted until the mattress dips beside you and a big, warm hand grazes your cheek.

“Hey, doll,” Bucky murmurs, voice sticky-soft with worry. “Stay with me a little longer, yeah?”

Your lashes flutter. Everything in your body feels heavy, pliant, thoroughly used. You could stay right here—boneless and breathing his air—forever.

But Bucky looks like a man hovering over his most precious possession, and you don’t want him worrying.

“M’awake,” you mumble, though it comes out embarrassingly small.

He smiles, thumb sweeping over the corner of your swollen lip, tender as a prayer. “You were a goddamn dream,” he says, because of course he has to praise you even while collecting the pieces of you he scattered all over the mattress. “But you’re dehydrated. And your legs are gonna yell at you later.”

“My legs are already yelling,” you breathe.

He chuckles, kisses your forehead—long enough that you feel the apology hidden inside it. “C’mon, sweet girl. Let me take care of you.”

You’re lifted before you can argue, tucked against the broad span of his chest. It’s stupid how small you feel in his arms, how easy he makes it look carrying you to the bathroom like he’s holding silk instead of your limp, wobbly, wholly satisfied self.

He sets you on the closed toilet lid for a moment, brushing hair from your face. “Don’t move. I got you.”

As if you could move.

He turns on the faucet, tests the water with his flesh hand, then his metal one, because he’s neurotic about temperature when it comes to you. Only when he’s convinced it’s perfect does he pour in the lavender bath soak, watching it cloud the water like steam-kissed lilac.

“Arms up, baby.”

You obey, and he takes his time peeling off what’s left of your lingerie, wincing a little at the faint strap marks on your thighs and hips. He kisses each one without being asked.

“God, I really did a number on you,” he murmurs, mostly to himself. Then louder, “Next time, we’re stretching first.”

You snort. “You want me to warm up for sex?”

“I want you to be able to walk tomorrow,” he counters, scooping you under the knees and lowering you into the tub. The warmth envelops you instantly, making you sigh like you’ve been submerged in heaven.

Bucky kneels beside the tub—this huge, lethal man kneeling for you like you’re something holy—and dips a cup into the water to pour down your chest.

“Too hot?”

“No,” you whisper. “Feels perfect.”

“Good girl.”

It’s almost unfair how that praise makes your heart thump. He notices, of course he does, because his grin softens even more.

He washes you slowly. Reverently. Broad fingers glide up your arms, across your shoulders, down your legs with gentle circles—different from his grip earlier, which was all power and possession. Now he’s pure devotion.

He lingers on your hips, thumbs brushing the faint bruising already forming. “If this is too sore, tell me.”

“It’s okay,” you say, cheeks heating. “Feels nice.”

His gaze flicks up, heavy with meaning. “You tell me everything. Especially when it comes to your body. I don't ever want to take you that hard without making sure you’re okay.”

“I liked it,” you say instantly. Too instantly.

His smirk is slow, proud, sinful. “Oh, I know you did. I’m the one who had to hold you still, remember?”

You splash him weakly. “Shut up.”

He kisses your knuckles. “Never.”

When he’s satisfied you’re clean and loose and boneless again, he helps you out and wraps you in the biggest, fluffiest towel you own because he secretly bought it for this exact scenario. He sits you on the counter and dries your hair with a patience that should be criminal.

Then—your favorite part—he opens the lotion.

Warm vanilla. Soft. Expensive because he insists your skin deserves the best.

“Lean back,” he murmurs, stepping between your knees.

He starts at your shoulders, kneading slow circles into the sore muscles, working down your back, your ribs, your hips, the tops of your thighs. He’s quiet while he works, studying every twitch, every sigh.

“You’re shaking,” he notes softly.

“Sensitive.”

He hums. “’Cause you took me so well.” His lips brush your knee. “Proud of you.”

You swear your bones melt.

When he’s done, he helps you into one of his shirts—your unofficial aftercare uniform—and carries you to bed again. But he doesn’t leave right away. He sits beside you with a bowl of fruit and a glass of water.

He holds a grape between his fingers.

“Open,” he says gently.

You stare at him. “You are not feeding me grapes like I’m Cleopatra.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he laughs, voice rough with affection. “I absolutely am.”

And he does. One grape at a time. One sip of water between. He watches your face with that soft, worshipful look he gets only after he’s completely wrecked you and is now stitching you back together with tenderness.

When you’re fed, hydrated, and tucked into his chest, he strokes your back with slow, lazy fingers.

“You doing okay?” he murmurs into your hair.

“Better than okay,” you breathe. “You don’t have to fuss this much, you know.”

“Yes, I do.” He kisses the top of your head. “You give me everything. The least I can do is make sure you feel like a damn queen afterwards.”

You smile against his skin. “You gonna do it again?”

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes—blue, warm, already darkening at the thought.

“Oh, doll,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your lip again. “I’m gonna do it again, and again, and again.” Then, softer, “But only when you feel perfect first.”

You curl closer, breathing him in.

Bucky hums in satisfaction, arms tightening around you.

And in the safety of that hold—huge, protective, endlessly gentle—you drift off, knowing you are taken apart and put back together by the same hands. Every time.

[imtaashu]

ꜱᴀʏ ɪᴛ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ.

✦ Pairing: Husband!Bucky Barnes x Wife!Reader ✦ Genre: Domestic Fluff + Light Spice ✦ Summary: Married life with Bucky Barnes is all soft mornings, grocery trips, and team banter… until he becomes completely addicted to one thing: hearing you call him Mr. Barnes.

✦✦✦✦✦✦

The first time it happened, it was almost an accident. You were in the kitchen, standing on tiptoe to reach the top shelf for a jar, muttering about Bucky’s ridiculous height advantage. He was behind you, sipping coffee with his hair a little mussed from sleep, t-shirt clinging to his chest.

“Mr. Barnes, would you kindly stop putting things where I can’t reach them?” you grumbled, dramatic.

The coffee mug paused at his lips. He smirked slow, dangerous. “Say that again.”

You blinked. “What?”

“That. Mr. Barnes.”

Rolling your eyes, you snatched the jar when he reached up with ease. “You’re ridiculous.”

But the next morning, you tried it again, just to see. “Mr. Barnes, can you pass the sugar?”

The way his jaw tightened, the faintest blush coloring his cheeks? Oh, you knew you were onto something. And Bucky Barnes former assassin, Avenger, world-class brooder had just discovered a new addiction.

Days bled into weeks, and suddenly, everything was an excuse “Mr. Barnes, can you open this pickle jar?” “Mr. Barnes, will you please stop stealing my side of the blanket?” every time, he’d grin like a cat with cream, eyes darkening just enough to make you flush. It became your little game. A private joke no one else knew. Or so you thought.

Married life with Bucky meant mornings like this tangled legs under blankets, sunlight creeping through curtains, his face buried in your neck as he groaned about “five more minutes.” One particular Saturday, you tried to wiggle out of bed for coffee. He only groaned louder and tightened his arm around your waist.

“Don’t move.”

“Bucky, I need caffeine.”

“Don’t care.”

“Mr. Barnes,” you teased, brushing your lips over his forehead, “if you don’t let me up, I’ll never make pancakes.”

He froze. Then lifted his head, hair sticking up adorably. “You’re cruel.”

You laughed. “Pancakes, or snuggles?”

“Both,” he muttered, dragging you back down. “Always both.”

You ended up making pancakes an hour later with him hugging you from behind the whole time, chin resting on your shoulder. He stole more kisses than chocolate chips.

Of course, secrets never stayed secrets in the Tower. You were in the kitchen again, making tea, when Sam strolled in. “Morning, Mrs. Barnes.”

“Morning.”

Bucky followed, scowling at Sam for no reason.

“Mr. Barnes, could you hand me a spoon?” you asked without thinking.

The spoon clattered to the counter. Sam’s eyebrows shot up.

“Oh. Oh.”

You froze. Bucky’s jaw ticked.

Sam grinned wickedly. “So that’s what we’re doing now, huh?”

“Shut it, Wilson.”

But it was too late. By dinner, Natasha was smirking, Clint was making kissy noises, and Tony had already mocked up a fake “Mr. & Mrs. Barnes” coffee mug design. You buried your face in your hands. “I hate you all.”

Bucky only muttered, “Don’t care. She’s still saying it.”

And that night, when it was just the two of you, he whispered it against your throat, voice husky. “Say it again, doll…”

You never thought grocery shopping could be romantic, but with Bucky, even mundane things turned soft. He pushed the cart, one hand steady on the handle, the other linked with yours. Every aisle was an excuse to bicker playfully you sneaking extra snacks, him pretending to scold.

“Mr. Barnes, if you put one more box of Pop-Tarts in that cart—”

“Don’t care. You like them.”

“Mr. Barnes, we do not need six different types of cereal.”

He only smirked. “We do if they all remind me of you.”

You groaned, shoving him playfully, but your heart melted anyway. And at checkout, when the cashier smiled at the two of you, Bucky squeezed your hand, whispering low enough only you could hear “Love hearing you say it in public.”

It didn’t take long for the teasing to turn into something more. One night, curled against him after a movie, you murmured sleepily, “Goodnight, Mr. Barnes.”

He stiffened. Then rolled on top of you, bracing his weight carefully on his elbows.

“Doll,” he rasped, voice thick, “you have no idea what that does to me.”

You blinked up at him, breath catching. “Bucky—”

“Say it again.”

“Mr. Barnes.”

He groaned, kissing you like a starving man. What followed was less of a game and more of a promise every kiss, every touch laced with love, with need, with years of yearning wrapped up in one name.

The obsession didn’t fade. If anything, it grew. Morning coffee? “Mr. Barnes, pass the creamer.” Fixing the car? “Mr. Barnes, hand me that wrench.” Even during missions. “Cover me, Mr. Barnes!”

The team never let him live it down, but Bucky didn’t care. Every time you said it, it was another reminder that he wasn’t just some broken soldier. He was yours. Your husband. Your partner.

And one night, after a long mission, when you collapsed into bed and whispered, “I love you, Mr. Barnes,” he pulled you close, eyes shining.

“Say it forever,” he murmured.

You smiled against his lips. “Always, Mr. Barnes.”

✦✦✦✦✦✦

💌 tagged babies under the cut 💌

@nerdreader @starstruckfirecat @baguwagu @sunday-bug @murnsondock @7batsinatrenchcoat @overwintering-soldier @surebutwhy @embervelour @bananaminn @butterflies-on-my-ashes @okaytrashpanda @xamapolax @aceofheartsssss @the-real-kellymonster @mars-in-a-cup @doilooklikeagiveafrack @cjand10 @aesthetic0cherryblossom @rosemary-beach-babe @pattiemac1 @morphoportis @sugamilkey @dreammiiee @riah1606 @suri-de-city @ordelixx @galaxygoddess30 @magnificentreviewdreamer @flowstatefic @prk-hoon @multifandomrandomgirl @sashaiz01 @kodzuminx @sarapolare @sinistersnakey @greatenthusiasttidalwave @najdjjfjjdid @thelastbluecookie @squishyfruitloop @cammiwu @livia087 @ang0320 @boomyoulookingforthis @nvr-land @ruexj283 @sebastians-love @roshniiiiii9 @lilulicious @themareverine 🫶🏻

✨ wanna be spoiled with updates, theories, soft heartbreaks, & forehead-kiss fluff? ➝ just reply here or drop me an ask and I’ll tuck you safely

[lunexiax]

𝑓𝑎𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑓𝑖𝑔𝑢𝑟𝑒 (𝑏𝑢𝑐𝑘𝑦 𝑏𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑒𝑠)

pairing: bucky barnes x f!agent!reader

summary: You make Bucky regret ever suggesting that your arrangement is 'just sex' by flirting with other men. He makes you regret ever flirting with other men by giving you a bit of well-earned discipline.

warnings: 18+ mdni!!, smut with a sprinkling of plot, spanking, fingering, unprotected p in v, dumbification, creampie, condescending!bucky, bigdick!bucky, tummy bulge, general filth and debauchery, kinda dubcon but more like undernegotiated kink, no daddy kink but do not be fooled bc this whole thing reeks of daddy issues (see: title), jealousy, use of petnames (doll, sweetheart, baby etc.), implied age gap, bucky calls reader kid, no use of y/n, jealousy, cursing, mention of alcohol, slightest bit of angst if you squint hard, situationship to relationship pipeline

word count: 7k words

dividers by: @chateaubarnes (jewel toned dividers)

a/n: so. sat down in front of a blank google doc to write a 800-900 word drabble based on this ask. blacked out. snapped out of it and found myself with 7k words of pure filth and a pit of self-disgust in my stomach that i think will last my whole life. bon appetit.

please reblog / comment if u liked this. otherwise i die </3

Bucky knows this is all his fault. 

He’s fully aware he’s the one that started this whole thing. When he first said those words to you - ‘no emotions, no exclusivity, just sex’ - he watched about twenty emotions roll over you in the space of a few seconds. First was offence, as if he had just shot you the nastiest insult you could have imagined. Next was something uncomfortably close to hurt. But eventually, he watched a sort of smugness begin to sprout over you - like you knew you would make him regret it.

And fuck, does he ever.

He’s sitting with Steve and Sam in the corner of one of Tony’s stupid team-building drinks, watching all sorts of SHIELD employees approach you. For some reason, it seems like every fucking field agent, engineer and tech analyst decided that tonight is the night to chance their arm with you. 

He is furious at the fact that they think they have a shot, but there’s nothing he can do. He has no claim to stake. You dismiss most of them with a polite smile and a flippant comment, but every so often you lean just slightly too far forward, speak a little bit too softly, and it throws Bucky’s head for a spin. Hand grasping his whiskey tumbler just a bit too tight, he’s biding his time until he can discreetly pull you into his room or a supply closet or hell, even the bathroom, and prove why none of them are worth your time. It wouldn’t be the first time.

In his defence, the whole ‘no strings’ thing had mostly been for your benefit. He’s an old man with the emotional regulation abilities of a teenager. HYDRA had left him so thoroughly fucked up, he hadn’t been sure what parts of him were Bucky and what parts were the Winter Soldier. He hadn’t wanted to drag anyone into the mess of finding out and surgically removing the unwanted pieces. 

But as spring bled into summer and eventually streamed steadily into autumn, he began to realise that maybe those unwanted pieces don’t need to be removed - you seem to like them just fine, in any case. You do more to dampen the noise in his head than any court-mandated therapy session, uncharacteristically sincere when he wakes up with terror wracking his mind and body. You remind him of who he is and the fact that he will never again be the Bucky of the past - but who is ever their past selves? And who would want to be? He is the old Bucky and the new Bucky and both are okay and worth living as. And if he fucks you with a little more intensity on those days where he feels more Winter Solider than Bucky Barnes, bends you over and makes you take it hard and fast - well, who is complaining? Not you.

He had regretted asking for this arrangement almost instantly. You are gracious; never mentioning the dates you go on, but he knows and you know, and he can just feel how smug you are about it. He almost wishes he could return the favour; show up to your trysts smelling like perfume and running out early with a vague excuse. But he’s old and disgruntled and, if he’s being honest, the idea of being so close to anyone except you makes his skin crawl, as if you’re the one exception to his whole touch aversion thing. Maybe you are.

He has only seen you out with a date once. He was passing by the window of a cosy, candlelit Italian restaurant on his way to the laundromat and caught sight of you. Your blood-red dress was dipping just low enough to hint at your cleavage. Your lips were the same crimson as your dress and you brought the rim of your glass up to meet them, shooting the asshole in front of you a flirty smirk. Lust and nausea were flooding Bucky’s stomach in equal measure. When your eyes caught sight of him, he watched surprise flicker there momentarily, before you smiled wickedly and turned back to your date, leaning in closer to rub salt in the wound.

He thinks you might be doing the same thing now, doling out your punishment to him in the most unkind way he can fathom. The way you’re tilting your head up towards the agent in front of you, eyes wide and enthralled, as if he had just said the most fascinating thing you had ever heard. He knows you’re faking it.

Sure, the guy was fairly good-looking - if you’re into that All-American, Steve Rogers kind of thing. But he knows you’re not. You like your men with rough edges - you like them like Bucky. He can see as much when he fucks you, whispering to you all dirty and mean, and your eyes roll back into your skull as if you’ve found nirvana. The boy in front of you wouldn’t know how to treat you like that, how to get you there.

And he can hear, even from this distance, that the guy is a bore. He’s rambling on about statistics - expounding entry level concepts to you, as if you’re not two full grades above him. And you’re just sitting there, listening and nodding earnestly like he’s not the exact sort of person you would make fun of when you’re alone with Bucky.

You’re in your tactical gear - not long returned from a mission, but always eager for a chance to socialise and cause mischief. His jaw twitches when you shift in your seat and he gets a better view of your breasts. He sees your hips shift, a sliver of soft skin peeking out between your vest and the waistband of your pants, and he can almost picture that you’re seated above him, with the way the leather of your suit clings to you like a second skin. The asshole talking to you - Brandon? Brian? - is clearly enjoying the view too, judging by the way his breath stutters mid-sentence. Bucky wonders if you’re doing this on purpose just to torture him.

“Get a fuckin’ grip, dude,” Sam mutters, reaching over to remove the tumbler from Bucky’s grasp. “Gonna break the damn thing.”

He wonders how long they had been watching him when he catches sight of Steve, expression caught somewhere between amusement and concern. “You okay, pal?”

Bucky just grunts in what is intended to be an affirmative, forcing his eyes away from you but still listening in to your conversation. Steve and Sam are watching him like they aren’t quite sure what to say, eyes darting between himself and you. They have been in this predicament enough to know that something is happening between the two of you, but had never discussed the specifics. Bucky figures they must just know that he has an interest in you that is bordering on unhealthy. 

“Look,” Steve says in that pragmatically optimistic way of his. “I actually think it could be a good thing to… you know, get back out there. Why don’t you just talk to her?”

Bucky almost laughs at the suggestion that it’s shyness that is preventing him from talking to you right now. But the truth is so much worse, so he admits nothing. “Had enough whiskey,” he says instead. “Gonna get a beer.”

Steve and Sam sigh almost in tandem as Bucky hauls himself up and over to the bar. When he gets his beer, he doesn’t bother returning to his seat. Instead, he leans against the bar where he can observe you again without any intervention. It’s almost embarrassing how well you have him wrapped around your finger, but he can’t look away.

“Uh- not trying to freak you out or anything,” Brandon mutters conspiratorially, voice lowering. “But I think Barnes has been staring over here for a while. And he looks- well, he doesn’t look happy.”

You smile then, and it’s real - not the pitiful grins you had been granting him before. “Oh, really?” you ask, eyes flicking over and meeting Bucky’s for just a split-second. It strikes him like lightning, the way you look at him - eyebrows raised with mirth and devilment. He feels that he’s too old for the games you’re playing with him, while also wanting nothing more than to grab you by the hips and haul you out of the room caveman-style to have his wicked way with you.

“Don’t look, you’ll make it obvious,” your little pest urges you quickly and Bucky almost face-palms at his idiocy. He doesn’t really understand how this guy got certified as an agent without an awareness that super soldiers also had super hearing, but whatever. The training program is more Steve’s remit.

“Sorry,” you say with a smile that only Bucky knows is sarcastic. “Don’t think he saw me.”

“Are you guys…” he trails off, head turning around to glance at Bucky who meets his stare head-on. “Are you guys together or something? I wouldn’t really wanna piss him off…”

“Together? Oh god no,” you laugh and Bucky’s jaw twitches.

“Okay…” Brendan continues, taking another quick glance at Bucky, who knows his stare has only grown more stormy. “Well, does he maybe have a thing for you?”

“No way,” you protest, and he hates how much you seem to be enjoying this. “We’re not like that at all, Brennan. Bucky trained me. Pretty much taught me everything I know. He’s more like… a father figure, really.”

Bucky almost drops his beer. Something inside him stops, like all the clogs turning in his body have decided to break down. His brain is lagging as he tries to convince himself that he must have misheard you. Even his blood has paused its journey through his body. He can see Steve looking between the two of you from the corner of his eye, but he ignores his bewildered glances. He’ll do his best to explain this away later.

You can hardly contain your amusement. Bucky can tell that you’re fighting every instinct in your body to not look over at his reaction. 

“Oh ok!” Brandon seems happy enough with that explanation, but you have lost interest. You quickly manage to get rid of him with the promise of a date the next day and turn back to Natasha, voice brimming with real interest in a stark contrast to your last conversation. 

Bucky isn’t sure what to do with himself. He can see Steve deciding whether or not to approach him, so he gives you a look - one that you are very familiar with - and goes straight to his room, trying his best to ignore the bulge forming in his pants.

It takes you near enough to two hours to get to Bucky’s room. Exhaustion steamrolling through you in the aftermath of your mission and the team event, but not enough for you to turn down the silent offer made to you before he walked out. He is almost foaming at the mouth by the time you reach his door.

“You have some fuckin’ explaining to do,” he demands when he meets you at the door, dragging you in not-so-gently. You smirk up at him as you walk in, purposely casual and slow, as if you have all the time in the world.

“I don’t have to leave early just because you do. My world doesn’t revolve around you, you know.”

Bucky would usually tell you that it should, but he seems to bite it back today. He’s not talking about the fact it took you so long to get here, and you know that. “What the fuck was that, down there?”

“What? You’re the one who wanted no exclusivity, remember? Don’t tell me you’re jealous just because I’ve talked to a few boys.”

He is and you know it. You see the way he grits his teeth when someone else approaches you and a warm sort of satisfaction slithers up your spine every damn time. It’s the only thing that makes it worth letting them take you out on dates. The way he fucks you after, rough and demanding, like he’s proving that he’s better than whoever your date is (he is). Or the way he fucks you before you’re scheduled to run out, desperate and possessive, pushing into you hard and fast in a way that should be too much but isn’t because it’s him. Like he’s trying to convince you to stay.

And you never do. Because he made his stance perfectly clear and the last thing you are going to do is invest where he hasn’t. 

Even if the dates you go on make you bored and sick. Even if the one person you had tried to sleep with since starting your arrangement with Bucky gave you a full-body ick, a shiver running through you like your body was rejecting him. (“Did you just cum?” he had asked you, smug and satisfied. You told him you had.)

But that’s not the point. You’re playing with Bucky now, trying to make him say it. To admit he is jealous. That he doesn’t want to see you with anyone else.

“You said I was a fuckin’ father figure, doll.”

Your smile just widens, a laugh bubbling forth. You hadn’t been expecting that. “Oh, that really got you, huh? You have a daddy kink, Barnes?”

Bucky just glares back. He doesn’t. He has told you before that the whole daddy thing has never appealed to him. 

But you can see it now - you calling him a father figure, so flippantly and casually, did something to him. You can’t tell whether he wanted to bend you over then and there, prove to you and everyone else at the function that he is most definitely not a father figure to you. Or if he wanted to lean into it, maybe show you who is in charge. The irritation on his face is making you lean towards the latter.

“You’re a damn piece of work.” he grumbles, voice low and dangerous. “I’ve half a mind to take you over my knee and show you the discipline you obviously never got from your actual father figure.”

You freeze for just a beat. That’s new.

“You won’t,” you say, indignantly rolling your eyes even though you’re kind of faking your confidence.

“Wanna bet, kid?”

The air has changed slightly, an odd current running between the two of you. And you’re suddenly not so sure he’s bluffing. You feel slightly out of your depth. Like this whole thing had gotten away from you a bit. Like he was more serious about this than you were expecting. 

Still, you press him. Because that’s who you are and what you do.

“Yeah, actually, I think I do, old man.”

There’s a tense silence - long and drawn out - where you start to doubt yourself. Maybe you should have backed down, because the way he’s looking at you now, stormy and dark, is making you nervous in a way you’re not used to with him.

And then his nostrils flare and he’s moving towards you, faster than lightning, faster than you are prepared for. He lifts you with annoying ease before you can even register what’s happening, fingers digging into your waist as evidence of a cracked restraint. You’re kicking your legs, a strained shout escaping as he catches you off your guard. 

“Let me go!” you’re thrashing now, all spit-fire and outrage.

No,” he grunts, manhandling you with practiced ease. He settles you down over his lap. “You wanna act like a brat? I’ll show you what it means.”

You’re squirming when his hand comes up to yank the leather of your pants down to your thighs, almost tearing it in the process. You’re left in just a lace white thong, bearing your backside to him fully. You had worn it intentionally to see the tortured expression on his face that you enjoy so much. Now it just feels humiliating, bent over in front of him in his favourite panties - the picture of submission. 

“Stop messing around, Bucky. Don’t be a dick.”

There is a second where neither of you speak. His fingers dance gently on the skin of your ass and you can’t see him but you can hear his breath catching over the strained silence that stretches between you.

Before it shatters into a million pieces.

Because Bucky’s flesh hand comes down - abrupt and hard - against the skin of your ass. The stinging sensation travels outwards from the area of impact, sizzling your skin and your nerves, and you realise you are absolutely and utterly in over your head.  

“Okay!” you gasp. “Okay, Jesus Christ, Bucky, I’m sorry! I didn’t actually think you’d…” you trail off, face enveloping in a sudden and suffocating heat. “I’m sorry. You can let me go now.”

Another silence where you can feel him hesitating and then: “No.”

“No?” you splutter, words lost in your throat as if the position you’re in isn’t humiliating enough. “What do you mean no? I apologised.”

“I mean no. You asked for this doll, remember?”

He grabs your hair in a way that you suppose isn’t a million miles from gentle and twists your face to meet his. In what is an uncomfortable stretch for you, his eyes implore yours, silently assessing whether this is really okay.

Whatever he finds in your face steels his resolve because in the next second, he is pressing your face down further, ass arched higher and his palm is coming back down against your ass, knocking you forward. He clears his throat, mutters a curse under his breath that lets you know this is getting to him too.

“Asked for it when you flirted with that moron downstairs instead of coming to me.”

Another slap has dark stars flashing behind your eyes, the combination of pain and pleasure sparking through you to create something completely unchartered. Your skin is burning and it should be unpleasant - probably would be with anyone else. 

Maybe it’s just the angle, you reason. Maybe it’s reverberating to your clit and that’s what making you rock forward with an embarrassing moan.

“Asked for it when you called me a father figure, like I don’t fuck you silly.” He spits the term ‘father figure’ like it’s something dirty, and the smack he delivers after it makes your mouth fall ajar and your cunt pulsate.

“Asked for it when you wore this fuckin’ thing,” he says, hooking a finger around the thin lace strap of your thong and letting it slingshot back with a dull nip, before you feel the stronger sting of his hand on your ass again. “Asked for it when you bet I wouldn’t do this. You remember that, don’t you, doll?”

“I-I-“ you can’t get the words out because now Bucky is pressing his fingertips lightly down your spine, carding through the soft indents there before tracing down, lower and lower. He follows the line of your thong, over places that make you clench and shudder, until his finger is pressing lightly over your core through the soaked fabric of your underwear.

“You-you-?” he mocks, black and mean, as he applies pressure there and watches you wiggle back to his touch.

When you don’t answer, his hand leaves your pussy and comes down hard with three successive smacks as punishment. You can feel his jean-clad cock pressing into your thighs, feel it jump at the little yell you release. He curses, whispered and dirty.

“I don’t know, Bucky,” you whine. “It hurts.”

“Too much?” he asks condescendingly, rubbing a hand over the curve of your ass where you can feel red-hot heat blossoming. 

You shake your head, face warm with embarrassment and sheer desire and he brings his hand down again and you wonder if it’s possible for you to cum like this, with nothing but his hand against your ass in explosions of fire and something just shy of real pain. 

You really should not be having this reaction to being taken over Bucky’s knee and spanked - you’re an adult, for fuck sake - but you think maybe you would enjoy anything he chooses to do to you. Your shame is just making you want it more.

He continues until it really starts to hurt in the most delicious way, the flat of his palm hitting against your skin, rotating between featherlight and rough. Every so often, his fingers nudge their way to the tops of your thighs and your clit, playing there for just a matter of seconds before returning to the fat of your ass.

When he stops, you’re delirious and dumb and you wonder if you’ve just discovered something new about yourself, or if Bucky just has a way of gnarling all your desires, turning them darker and moulding them to his own preferences until the only thing you can categorically say you enjoy in bed is him.

Your ass is so raw that when Bucky finally lifts you off his lap and places you on the bed, you feel a pleasurable little burn linger, but most of your concentration is on your neglected core. You can’t stop moving your hips, too desperate for friction, as he carefully removes your shoes and peels your pants the rest of the way down your legs. He makes light work of your top too and in just a matter of moments you are completely bared to him at the bottom of the bed. He stands above you, still fully clothed, his jeans stained with your desperation.

“Did so good for me. Took it so well,” he murmurs, grabbing your jaw and forcing your eyes to his for one brutal moment. You feel imprisoned by his blue eyes before he grants you a soft kiss - an act of mercy before he completely destroys you. “I think you enjoyed it a bit too much though. Not much of a punishment.”

You shake your head but both of you know that you’re lying. Bucky just smiles knowingly, glancing down obviously to where your pussy is dripping onto the bedsheets. Your face floods with humiliation. 

When he kisses you this time, it’s a violent thing - tongue pushing against yours with a dominance usually reserved for those nights when you return to him after a date, your chin lightly grazed with beard burn from an unpleasant goodnight kiss. The feel of his lips on yours lets you know what kind of night you’re in for.

He’s leaning over you, thumb navigating its way to your clit like clockwork. You’re so ridiculously wet that it almost glides right off. He chuckles and mumbles something about how needy you are against your lips, but your body is buzzing and your ears aren’t working properly.

He circles your clit, using extra pressure as if it needs it. You’re humming and moaning, feeling like you might already be on the precipice after just a few seconds. When he slides just one finger into your heat, your mouth opens to release the most desperate sound you think you might have ever made right up against his lips. He smiles, nudges it in further.

“I don’t think I need to get you ready for me at all, do I, sweetheart? Pretty pussy is drooling already just from a bit of discipline.”

Something about the term ‘discipline’ - as if he’s an authority figure - makes the whole thing feel so horrifically dirty but you can hear the mortifying squelching between your thighs and you know he’s right. When he adds a second finger, you’re preparing for the humiliating reality that you’re about to cum just from Bucky’s punishment and less than a minute of fingering.

Except you don’t. Because Bucky curls his fingers into that spot that only he can hit, makes light explode behind your eyes, gets you so so close. You grind down on his fingers, body taught with the expectation of something mind-blowing. And then suddenly he’s gone as quickly as he was ever there and you’re pressing your hips down onto air, trying to find purchase where there is none.

“Bucky!” you gasp, voice coming out so embarrassingly breathless that you might be self-conscious if you thought about it too much. The sight of him humming around his fingers, still slick with the evidence of your arousal, is not helping. “I was just about to-”

“I know, I know,” Bucky murmurs, hand brushing through your hair, voice thick with false sympathy. He’s looking down at you as if you’re some child that fell off their bike - his condescension almost pisses you off, but mostly it turns you on. “You were so close, baby. Your voice goes all whiny when you’re almost there, did you know that? Always sound so needy. Makes me wanna fuck you harder.”

“Then why did you do that?” You’re vaguely aware of how petulant you sound but all conscious thought flew out the window the second you felt his palm on your ass.

Bucky doesn’t answer you. Instead, his hands reach down and begin to unbuckle his belt. Slowly. Meticulously. You’re transfixed, watching every movement. When you reach out a hand to help, he smacks it away, light but firm. He unbuckles and tugs his pants and underwear down far enough for his hard cock to spring out. Your thighs press together in a motion he doesn’t miss.

You feel small like this - completely bared and open to him. You are vulnerable and exposed and so helplessly turned on. But if you try to rush Bucky into touching you, he will only take ten times longer. So you lie as still as a rock, watch him undress slowly and fold away his clothing with precision, ignoring the very horny, very naked woman on his bed. But it is wildly clear that he is feeling some of what you are. His jaw is ticking and his nostrils flare at the smell of your arousal. 

By the time he leans over you and kisses you again, you are both on fire. He wastes no time, pressing his cock up against your dripping hole and slamming in with one stroke.

It’s humiliating, really. The whole night is turning out to be just one humongous humiliation ritual. 

Because after that first stroke, you’re completely gone. Your cunt clenches down in a way that makes him hiss, squeezing and convulsing, losing your mind. You’re not sure what you’re babbling while you try to milk him - possibly something along the lines of Yes, Bucky, please, right there. You just know that Bucky’s grip bruises your hips with a restraint that is fit to snap at any moment and your legs are spasming as you try to bear down on the cock he just fed you. He’s too surprised to even talk you through it the way he normally does. Instead, he just watches you, awe filtering through his bright eyes.

Your first thought when you come down is that Bucky is going to be absolutely insufferable about this. Your second thought is that you’re still ridiculously horny. 

“God, baby,” he grits out, a taunt and a prayer all at once - like he can’t quite decide whether he wants to tease you about this or worship at your feet. He chooses the former. “I didn’t know you were this fucking desperate. Coming as soon as you get my cock in you. Like you were trained for it.”

In a way, you were, you think. But then Bucky is pulling out of you and slamming back in. The sensation is overwhelming - he is too big. It’s too much for your sensitive hole. Your cunt is still pulsing with aftershocks, the sensitivity verging on too much. But you’re still squeezing around him, unwilling to give yourself any reprieve. Not when it feels this good.

“Feel how she’s sucking me in, doll? You can’t stop, even after coming. Your tight little cunt was made for this.”

His eyes are trained solely on your wet heat and the way it’s taking him, a sort of adoration painting his face that almost seems out of place in the filthiness of his actions. His hands have a firm grasp on your hips for leverage while he fucks into you, hard and slow. Your eyes are rolling to the back of your head and you feel too braindead to respond. All you can do is watch him.

“Look at you. Can’t even talk. Let me empty that smart little head of yours. There’s only enough space in there to think about my cock.”

When he fucks you like this, you think you might be in love him. Best not to think too much on it. Not that you can think too much on anything, with his dick sliding in and out of you, filling up and stretching every inch of you.

“Feels so good, Bucky,” you whine. “Need you.”

“You need me?” His voice is patronising. It should piss you off, but it has you gushing. “Baby, you have me. I’m all up in your guts, right here.”

He looks to your stomach and you follow his gaze, watching the head of his cock press into the skin there, before disappearing and poking through again with every thrust. “Fuck, look at that,” Bucky groans, watching his own movements. “So perfect at taking me.”

“Yeah,” you whisper, hand absently reaching down to press on your stomach, feeling his movements there. Your breath is stuttering and you think maybe you’re choking on the pleasure he’s giving you. “Wanna be good for you.”

When Bucky feels you press down on the head of his cock through his stomach, his hips stutter and a loud, animalistic groan spills out. “So good for me. Such a good girl, letting me mark up your ass like that. Think you’d do anything for me, wouldn’t you baby? Let me fuck you past your limit?”

You’re lost to the pleasure. You just nod and he gives your clit a quick nudge in appreciation.

“I know you would. Know how bad you wanna make me proud.”

Oh.

Oh.

Your pussy jumps, face flooding with heat and Bucky is looking down at you like he’s figuring you out. The term ‘father figure’ comes rushing back into your consciousness and it takes everything in you not to go running for the hills in a panic at how much you liked those words on his lips.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he grumbles, pulling his cock out of you and manoeuvring you so you are kneeling up on the bed with your hands on the headboard. “Can’t look at your face when I say those things to you, baby. Gonna make me cum too soon.”

He’s sliding into you from behind then, both arms pressed to your hips to navigate you up and down on his cock, while he presses his face to yours. Every now and again, he lands a kiss to your gland that makes your pulse drop. His pace is steady and harsh and your tits bounce with every brutal thrust of his hips, your combined arousal dripping down to his heavy balls.

You’re chanting his name along with other obscenities that you can barely even register. You feel completely shameless, willing to do anything he wants just so he will shower you with more of that praise you have become so addicted to. 

“You’re so easy,” Bucky taunts you again. “Bet if I touched your clit right now, you’d cum again.”

“Yeah,” you say, and you can’t help the way you sound as if you’re begging. “Please, Bucky.”

He tuts, and he grins against your cheek. “I don’t know. Do you deserve it? You talked to a lot of men today, sweetheart. Made them think they have a shot.”

There’s a stubborn part of you that, even in this cock-induced daze, wants to snap at him. To remind him that this was all his decision, not yours. Unfortunately, you’re thinking with all organs except your brain right now.

“M’yours,” you pant, fucking back onto him. You can feel the short, course public hairs graze your ass, which is still red raw. The pain only adds to the building feeling. “Don’t want them.”

“Yeah?”

“Fuck- yeah, please, Bucky.”

“That’s right, sweetheart,” he gasps, voice strained. “I’m gonna come inside you. Gonna fill you up so good that nobody could ever try to take you from me again.”

You can’t help the sharp moan that comes spilling from you. You can’t quite explain how much you want that; how much you want him to fuck his cum into you, as if it would somehow make you belong to him. His filthy words along with the grinding of his hips is almost too much for you to handle.

“Please, Bucky. Want it so bad.”

“Please, Bucky,” he mocks you with a cruel lilt that makes you squeeze around him. “That all you can say? You want my cum so bad you can’t even think?”

You just nod, a strange concoction of arousal and humiliation coursing through you.

“That’s okay, baby. Don’t have to talk. I’ll give it to you. You just have to take it like a- fuck- like a good girl.”

Finally, he moves his metal arm down. He presses his middle finger over your clit, featherlight, and it makes your legs shake and your cunt squeeze and you’re so close-

“Gonna flood you, baby. Have so much to give you. Gonna make you drip.”

And then you’re falling off the edge with a call of Bucky’s name, grinding back onto his stupidly big cock, nonsense falling from your lips. You’re almost embarrassed about the keening noises you’re making but the enormity of your orgasm is too extreme for it to matter. He follows you not a second later, and you feel him pulse inside you, shooting up ropes of sticky cum. He holds you tight as he groans, rocking his hips back and forth on yours with aggressive ardour that peters out into slow, languid thrusts as the feeling washes through you both.

Bucky was telling the truth. He’s still grinding shallowly into you while his spend is spilling out of you, dripping down his length, past his balls and onto the sheets. He fucks what he can back into you for a moment while you both come down, shaking and shuddering. 

He’s babbling, pressing kisses to your neck. “So good. Took that cock so good for me. You’re all mine, aren’t you, sweet girl? My good girl.”

He pulls out of you gently and you feel his spend flood out of your thoroughly used hole. He allows you to slump back, lifting you back until you’re lying on the bed with his face in your neck. You can’t bring yourself to care about the wet patches you’re lying in. Not yet.

Both of your chests are heaving as you come down. Bucky is pressing intimate little kisses to your neck, a gentle hand stroking your stomach, and your chest tightens. You’re so close to mistaking this for something that it’s not. How he can dole out his affection like this while still maintaining that you two have ‘no strings attached’ is beyond you. As you slowly recuperate, your breathlessness is replaced with a gooey warmth, owing itself entirely to the man pressing gentle kisses and whispering sweet praises to you as if you’re his. And you’re uncomfortable with how much you want to be.

But you don’t let it upset you. Instead, you take your red ass and your dignity and you decide it’s time to get the hell out of dodge.

“Jesus, Barnes,” you chuckle softly, beginning to haul yourself up even though you’re still feeling shaky and limp. “Whatever I did to piss you off so much today, remind me to do it again.”

“You’re leaving?” he asks, sitting up with you immediately.

“Yeah,” you say, searching through the crumpled sheets for your underwear which has blended into the white of the bed. “Got an early morning tomorrow.”

“Why? You just got back from a mission.”

You give him a sideways glance. “Going for breakfast,” you say simply, as if you’re not both aware that it’s a date you have planned.

“You being serious right now, doll? You’re really gonna go on a date knowing I was inside you just a few hours before? With my cum still dripping out of you.”

You ignore the way heat pools in your stomach. Maybe it’s for the best that you and Bucky are not together - being this turned on all the time would be exhausting.

“Well, that’s what showers are for, dumbass,” you say, standing up and shimmying into your underwear.

You’re turning around to find your pants but his voice stops you. “Don’t go.”

You give him a smug little smirk, but truthfully, your heart is racing. “Why not?”

“I don’t want you to,” he spits and his eyebrows are furrowed - an attractive little line forming there. He looks so sulky and petulant, it almost makes you laugh, something affectionate tugging at your heart. But that answer isn’t good enough.

“Don’t worry, I don’t have high hopes for this guy,” you sigh, yanking on your pants. “I will probably be back here again in a day or two.”

“I don’t want you to come back in a day or two,” he grits out, standing up to tug on his underwear. “I don’t want you to go.”

He’s standing over you now in a way that might be intimidating if you didn’t know Bucky any better. His arms are crossed, great swells of muscles tensing and bulging while he looks down at you with stormy eyes. You like him like this - broody and grumpy and disgruntled. But the confusion it’s causing right now is overriding all of that.

“I can’t stay, Bucky. I would have to cancel-”

“Then cancel.”

You’re not sure what to say - shifting from one foot to the other in an uncomfortable staring contest. You’re not usually like this, but you feel a bit nervous, squirming under his gaze. You push it down.

“No.”

Bucky grits his teeth. “Why are you bothering with these fuckin’ dates? You think they can fuck you like me? Make you cum as hard as you just did?”

“Oh shut the fuck up,” you snap, irritation fighting through all nervousness. “It’s not all about sex, asshole.”

He stands up straighter. “And you think any of them would be the perfect man for you, doll? You think they’d be better for you than me?”

That was cruel. Fury is coursing through you, burning hot. “I don’t know, Bucky, maybe they would be. At least they wouldn’t say they just want sex and then throw their toys out of the pram when I talk to anyone else.”

The storm clears from his eyes for just a second but you don’t care to stick around to see what peeks through after. You’re fumbling with your bra, trying to get it on as fast as humanly possible. Why is it so much harder with shaky fingers?

“I don’t just want sex,” he says, so earnest and uncharacteristically timid that it almost makes you want to wrap him in your arms. Almost.

“Yeah, I know, Bucky,” you scoff and watch as surprise flickers over his expression. “I’m not stupid and you’re not subtle. But you made your bed when you asked for this. I’m not gonna stick around and wait for you to stop being too emotionally stunted for a relationship.”

“I’m not- hey, stop.”

You’re leaning down to tie up the laces of your shoes when he grabs your arms to stop you in your tracks. You glare up at him.

“I’m tryna talk to you. Can you just listen to me for a second? Stop trying to run out on me, Jesus fuckin’ Christ.” He puffs out a breath and silence falls over the two of you for a moment. You know you won’t be the one to break it - you just watch Bucky grapple with his words.

“It was never just sex,” he begins softly. “I just didn’t wanna fuck you up while I was figuring things out. But then things were… so good between us.” He looks to you with a hint of insecurity, as if checking to see whether or not you agree. “It made me think maybe I had nothing to be scared of. I regret ever saying it was just sex. And I can’t fuckin’ stand watching you leave.”

He closes his mouth tight, like he’s trying to stop a flow of excuses and appeals from bursting forth. He might even be holding his breath, leg twitching and bouncing nervously. You still won’t say anything, waiting for him to admit what you’ve known all along.

“I want you to be mine, doll. If you’ll have me.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re fighting off a laugh. “I’ll think about it.”

Bucky’s eye twitches comically. “You’ll think about it?”

“Yeah. I’ll compare notes after my date with Brennan, decide which one of you to pick.”

He glares, but his ears are pink. “You think you’re funny.”

“What’s funny?” you say and this time you can’t stop the smile from creeping onto your face. “Gotta assess my options.”

He groans, rubbing a hand over his face but he’s smiling too - a crooked, reluctant one with blissful happiness creeping out of the cracks. His hands move to your hips and you let them. 

“Let me give you something else to add to your notes.”

how i felt after writing this:

tags: @dolcesaints @m0th3rcal @marina468

ask: @tough-tittay-4u (i hope this was ok! i changed a couple of things so i would find it easier to write but i hope it was somewhat how you pictured it!)