𝑪𝑬𝑵𝑻𝑼𝑹𝑰𝑬𝑺 𝑶𝑭 𝑹𝑼𝑻 A touch-starved alpha Bucky Barnes finally snaps when his freshly-moved-in omega neighbor’s heat spikes through the thin Brooklyn apartment walls. He hasn’t fucked a pussy since the 1940s, and her desperate, dripping scent drives him feral.
alpha!neighbour!bucky barnes x fem!omega!reader
word count : 5,2k
warnings 18+ : explicit sexual content, no use of y/n, penetrative sex, knotting, fingering, a/b/o dynamics, heats, ruts, scenting, breeding kink, claiming/bonding bites, sex while pregnant, dubious consent (omega begs repeatedly while alpha hesitates out of fear of harm), size difference, possessiveness and mild dominance, brief mentions of historical trauma (hydra, forced celibacy, painful solo ruts)
author’s note : this is my first time ever writing anything a/b/o so pls be kind to her world 💀 hope you enjoy!!
The air in the old Brooklyn apartment building had been humming with quiet tension for three weeks now. Thin walls, creaky floors and James Buchanan Barnes across the hall, the gentlest alpha you’d ever met, who somehow made your body ache with a need so fierce it embarrassed you.
From the very first day, he’d offered to help with your boxes, voice soft as he asked, “Mind if I carry the heavy ones doll?” His metal arm gleamed under the hallway light as he lifted them effortlessly but he was careful, always careful, setting each one down like it was fragile, smiling that small, shy smile when you thanked him.
His scent drifted over you in the stairwell: warm pine, clean steel, something comforting and strong that settled deep in your lungs.
Your reaction was immediate and mortifying. Heat flared low in your belly, slick rushing hot and sudden between your thighs until you had to press your legs together to hide the way your panties were already soaked through. You ducked your head, cheeks burning, praying he hadn’t noticed.
But Bucky had.
His breath caught for the briefest second, blue eyes softening as they met yours. He didn’t say a word about it just murmured, “Anytime you need help I’m right here,” voice tender enough to make your heart stutter. Then he stepped back, giving you space, hands loose at his sides like he was proving he’d never take more than you offered.
Since then, you’d turned into someone you barely recognized, shy on the outside, filthy-minded on the inside, desperate for any scrap of closeness he’d allow.
In the laundry room you started timing your visits to his, wearing soft little shorts that rode up when you bent over, pretending you didn’t know exactly what you were doing. You’d brush past him too close on purpose, letting your vanilla-honey scent bloom thick and sweet in the humid air. He’d go still every time, folding a towel with careful movements but you could see the way his throat worked when he breathed you in.
You weren’t bold, you blushed just thinking about it but the ache between your legs made you reckless. You’d linger by the dryer, bending slow, thighs slick and trembling because you knew he could smell how wet you were. Once, a helpless little moan slipped out when another pulse of slick soaked through your shorts, leaving a damp spot you couldn’t hide.
Bucky’s soft inhale was the only warning before his quiet voice reached you. “Sweetheart… you okay?” So gentle, so concerned, like he thought you might be hurting. His eyes were dark but his expression was all worried kindness, metal hand curled loosely at his side so he wouldn’t scare you. You wanted to drop to your knees and beg him to do something about the mess you’d made of yourself.
The elevator rides were torture you inflicted on both of you. You’d stand just close enough that your shoulder almost brushed his chest, breathing him in until you were dizzy. Your body didn’t care that you were shy, it reacted anyway, nipples tight against your shirt, fresh slick coating your thighs every time the car jerked. You’d bite your lip to keep quiet but sometimes a tiny, needy sound escaped anyway.
He never crowded you. Always stood with his hands behind his back or gripping the rail, giving you every inch of space. But once, after a particularly desperate whimper left your throat, he leaned in just enough to murmur against your hair, “I’ve got you. Whatever you need, I’m right here.” The words were so soft, so patient, they made you throb harder, made you want to turn around and rub yourself against him like a cat in heat.
Nights were when your restraint cracked completely. Through the thin wall you could hear him, quiet at first then the soft rustle of sheets, the low, helpless groan he tried to muffle in his pillow. The slow, slick sound of his hand moving over his cock, careful even when he was alone, like he was afraid of waking you. You’d press your ear to the wall, legs spread wide, fingers plunging deep into your dripping cunt because you couldn’t stop yourself.
You’d fuck yourself hard and fast, chasing the rhythm of his strokes, imagining his gentle hands instead, how careful he’d be, how he’d whisper sweet things while he split you open. Sometimes you heard him say your name, so soft and reverent it sounded like a prayer.
“God baby… wanna take care of you… wanna be good for you…” It sent you over every time, thighs shaking as you came messily around your fingers, biting the pillow to stay quiet while slick soaked the sheets beneath you.
You were the one burning up with filthy, desperate need.
He was the one holding back with endless patience and sweetness, waiting for you to ask.
And every night you came listening to him fall apart so gently on the other side of the wall, you wondered how much longer you could stand not begging him to finally give you what you both wanted.
Until tonight.
Your heat had crested into something unbearable, a vicious, clawing thing that left you stripped bare on the living-room floor, legs splayed wide, thighs glazed with hours of slick. Fingers weren’t enough anymore, three buried to the knuckles, thrusting frantically, chasing a relief that wouldn’t come.
The vibrator buzzed uselessly beside you; even the pillow you’d humped raw couldn’t soothe the hollow, aching throb deep in your cunt. You were sobbing openly now, broken pleas spilling into the empty apartment.
“Bucky… please… need you inside me… need your knot… need your pups…”
The words tore out of you without shame, loud enough to carry through the thin wall.
On the other side, Bucky broke.
He’d been fighting it for weeks, every gentle, devoted inch of himself locked down tight. Every time your scent thickened in the hallway, every time you bent over in the laundry room and he caught the shine of slick on your thighs, every muffled whimper he heard at night, he’d gone back to his apartment and stroked himself slow, almost reverent, whispering your name while he imagined sliding into you gentle and deep, imagined filling you so carefully you’d feel safe and cherished while he put his pups in you.
He was obsessed with it. Couldn’t think of anything else. The thought of your belly rounding soft with his child, of your body changing because of him, because he’d taken care of you so perfectly, it lived behind his eyes every second of every day. He wanted to be gentle. Wanted to be good. Wanted to earn the right to breed you by proving he’d never hurt you.
But tonight your scent flooded the hallway like a wave of pure, desperate heat and your broken cries punched straight through his chest.
Three soft, urgent knocks sounded at your door, too controlled to be anything but him.
“Doll?” His voice came through the wood, low and trembling, thick with worry and rut. “Sweetheart, I- I heard you cryin’. You okay? Can I… can I come in? Just to check on you, I swear I’ll be good-”
You scrambled up on shaky legs, slick pouring down your thighs in fresh rivulets, and flung the door open.
He looked wrecked in the most heartbreaking way: hair falling into dark, pleading eyes, chest heaving under a damp T-shirt, sweats tented obscenely with the thick line of his cock, a wet patch spreading at the tip. His scent rolled over you, warm pine, clean steel, and the heavy, drugging musk of an alpha deep in rut, but his hands were open at his sides, fingers flexing like he was terrified to reach for you.
“Oh baby,” he whispered, voice cracking as he took in the sight of you, naked, trembling, drenched. “You’re hurtin’ so bad… I’m sorry I waited so long. I didn’t wanna scare you…”
You lunged at him with a desperate whine, wrapping your arms around his neck, grinding your soaked cunt against the ridge of his cock through the fabric. “Bucky please- need you now. Need you to fuck me, need you to breed me, please-”
He caught you easily, lifting you against his chest like you weighed nothing, metal arm cradling your back, flesh hand cupping your ass with reverent care but the rut roaring through him finally snapped the last thread of patience.
He couldn’t wait another second, couldn’t make it the few extra steps to the couch.
With a low, trembling growl he sank to his knees right there in the entryway and lowered you gently to the floor, laying you down like you were still the most precious thing in the world, even as his hands shook with the need to claim you now.
“I’ve got you omega,” he murmured, voice shaking as he peeled off his shirt, revealing miles of scarred muscle. “Gonna take such good care of you, I promise. Wanna make you feel safe while I… while I give you everything.”
He settled between your thighs, eyes locked on yours and slid into you slow, so achingly slow, inch by thick inch, groaning soft and reverent as your slick walls fluttered around him.
“God, you’re perfect,” he breathed, forehead pressed to yours, hips rolling gentle and deep. “So warm… so tight… been dreamin’ about this pussy every night doll. Dreamin’ about putting my pups right here-” His flesh hand slid to your lower belly, pressing lightly, possessively. “Wanna fill you up so gentle you feel every drop… wanna watch you grow round with me…”
The sweetness of it, the devotion in his voice, only made you wilder. You clawed at his back, heels digging into his ass, trying to pull him deeper, faster.
“Harder,” you begged, voice raw. “Bucky please- need it rough, need you to ruin me, need you to breed me like you mean it-”
He froze, hips stuttering, eyes wide with sudden fear. “No baby- no, I can’t.” His voice cracked, raw and vulnerable.
“I… I haven’t been with anyone since the forties doll. Back then I was just a man- had a few sweet omegas, even knotted and bred a couple before the war took me. But after I fell, after Hydra… nothing. Not a single person in seventy years. They stole every chance, turned me into a weapon instead of a mate. I’ve never knotted anyone since, never bred anyone since and now my rut’s hittin’ harder than it ever has. You’re so small, so perfect, and I’m terrified I’ll lose control and hurt you. I couldn’t live with myself if I ever hurt you sweetheart.”
The confession spilled out of him like it had been locked behind his teeth for weeks, his blue eyes glassy with fear and longing. He rested his forehead against yours, trembling. “I want to give you pups more than I want to breathe, sweetheart. But I need to be gentle. Need to keep you safe.”
You sobbed, clenching hard around his cock, grinding up against him in filthy desperation. “You won’t hurt me. I trust you. I need it alpha- need you to lose control, need you to fuck me full of your pups, please-”
His breath hitched, a low, helpless sound tearing out of him. You felt his restraint crack, felt the tremor in his thighs as he fought it.
“Please,” you whispered again, nipping his jaw, licking the sweat from his throat. “Be rough with me. I’m begging you.”
Something shattered behind his eyes.
With a broken groan he pulled back and slammed home, hard, deep, perfect. Your back arched off the floor as he set a punishing rhythm, hips snapping, metal arm braced beside your head so he wouldn’t crush you, flesh hand gripping your thigh to spread you wider.
“That what you need, sweet girl?” he rasped, voice ragged with filth. “Need your alpha to fuck you raw after all these years? Need me to breed this pretty pussy till it’s dripping with me?”
“Yes- yes- harder!”
He gave it to you. Pounded into you like he was trying to crawl inside your skin, cock dragging over every sensitive spot, balls slapping wet against your ass. Every thrust shoved a filthy squelch from your soaked cunt, slick splashing onto his thighs.
“Gonna knot you so deep,” he panted, eyes fixed on where you were joined, watching himself disappear into you over and over. “First knot in almost a century baby, all for you. Gonna lock you to me and pump you so full of cum you’ll be carrying my pups by morning- fuck, I can’t wait to see you swollen doll, can’t wait to take care of you while you grow ‘em-”
You shattered around him with a scream, pussy clamping viciously, milking him as you came in messy, squirting waves.
He followed with a hoarse cry, hips grinding deep as his knot swelled huge and sudden, popping past your pussy and locking tight. The stretch burned white-hot, perfect, and then he was coming, endless thick ropes flooding your womb, spilling hot and heavy, overflowing around the knot in creamy rivulets that soaked you both.
He collapsed carefully, rolling so you were draped over his chest, still impaled, knot throbbing with every aftershock. His arms wrapped around you gentle again, metal fingers stroking your spine, flesh hand cradling the back of your head.
“Good girl,” he whispered, voice soft and wrecked, kissing your temple, your cheeks, the tears on your lashes. “Took me so perfect… my first knot in seventy years and you made it feel like heaven. Gonna keep you knotted all night, baby. Gonna breed you again as soon as it goes down. Wanna put so many pups in you… wanna love you through every single heat.”
You nuzzled into his neck, breathing him in, your body finally, blissfully full.
And somewhere in the haze, you felt his knot pulse once more, another gentle, possessive spurt deep inside as he murmured against your skin, reverent and obsessed:
“Mine now, sweetheart. After all this time waiting… gonna spend the rest of my life keeping this belly round.”
You wake slow, aching in every possible way, sweet, filthy, perfect.
The hardwood is cool against your cheek, but Bucky’s body is a furnace curled around you from behind, heavy and protective. His flesh arm is draped over your waist like an anchor, metal hand resting low on your belly, fingers splayed wide and gentle, as if he’s already cradling something precious that isn’t there yet. The air is thick with the two of you: warm pine, steel, vanilla-honey, and the unmistakable proof of last night, hours of knotting, breeding, claiming, coating your skin, the floor, everything.
His cock is still inside you, half-hard and nestled deep, plugging the slow trickle of his own spend so nothing escapes. Every tiny shift of his hips makes a soft, wet sound and sends a lazy throb through your overworked walls. You’re sore, swollen, utterly wrecked… and your heat purrs at the feel of him anyway, slick already gathering fresh and helpless.
He stirs with a low, sleepy hum, nose burying in your hair to breathe you in like you’re oxygen.
“Mornin’ pretty girl,” he murmurs, voice gravel-soft and shamelessly adoring. His metal thumb strokes slow circles over your lower belly, reverent. “Sleep okay with my cock keepin’ you full all night?”
You whimper, half-embarrassed, half-desperate and rock back against him on instinct. The motion drags his thickening length through your messy heat and he groans like it hurts, so good it hurts.
“God, doll,” he whispers against your bond mark, lips brushing the tender, crusted bite with heartbreaking gentleness. “You’re still drippin’ me. Kept every drop right where it belongs, didn’t you? Good omega… best omega.”
His flesh hand slides up to cup one heavy, aching breast, thumb brushing your nipple so tenderly you shiver. “These are gonna get so full for me,” he says, quiet and certain, like he’s picturing it already.
“Gonna swell up sweet and heavy, leak milk down your pretty belly while I keep you knotted and happy. Can’t wait to taste you, gonna suck you soft and slow every night, keep you feelin’ safe and spoiled while our pups grow.”
The words are pure filth but his tone is pure devotion, soft, shameless, utterly obsessed. He rocks into you lazy and deep, stirring last night’s loads with slow, churning thrusts that make obscene, wet sounds in the quiet morning.
“Feel that little swell already?” he asks, metal palm pressing gently, possessively over your abdomen.
“That’s me, baby. All that cum I gave you, sittin’ deep, takin’ root. Been dreamin’ about this since the day you moved in, puttin’ my pups in you, watchin’ you bloom. Never thought I’d get the chance again… not after everything. But you-”
His voice cracks just a little, raw with wonder. “You let me in. Let me love you like this.”
You clench around him involuntarily, fresh slick coating his cock and he moans your name like a prayer.
“Still so greedy for me,” he chuckles, warm and fond, hips rolling a little faster now.
“My sweet, perfect girl, heat all burned out yet still beggin’ for more. Don’t worry, doll. I’m gonna give you everything. Gonna knot you soft and slow this morning, pump you full again till you’re overflowin’. Then I’ll carry you to bed, clean you up gentle, feed you breakfast with you in my lap… and knot you again after.”
He nips your ear, voice dropping to that shameless, loving growl. “Gonna keep this belly round for years, sweetheart. One litter after another, till you’re sick of bein’ spoiled and pregnant and mine. But I don’t think you ever will be.”
You come with a broken little cry, fluttering weakly around him and he follows right after, knot swelling slow and careful, locking you together as he spills deep with soft, reverent groans. His arms tighten around you, metal hand still cradling your belly like it’s the most precious thing in the world.
“There we go,” he whispers, lips dragging slow and hot over the fresh bond mark, then your shoulder, your damp temple. His voice is a low, filthy-sweet rasp right against your ear.
“One more thick, hot load pumped straight into your perfect little womb for our pups, pretty baby. Fuck… feel how full you are? This gorgeous, greedy pussy still milkin’ every drop outta me, drippin’ my cum down your thighs like the beautiful mess you are. Best thing I’ve ever felt- this tight, silky heaven wrapped around my knot, takin’ everything I give you, lettin’ me love you deep and dirty and so fuckin’ proper.”
He stays buried deep, knot pulsing gently, and holds you like he’ll never let go.
You’re both still filthy, crusted, sticky, gloriously wrecked, sprawled together on the living-room floor where you passed out knotted and spent. The hardwood is cool beneath you, scattered blankets and discarded clothes forming a makeshift nest, the air thick with the heavy scent of rut, slick and alpha cum.
Every time you shift in his arms, trying to get comfortable against his chest, flakes of his dried spend drift off your inner thighs like snow and the sight makes him growl low and possessive against your neck, metal hand tightening gently over your lower belly while his flesh hand slides down to cup your swollen pussy, thumb tracing the sticky mess still leaking slow from you.
“Can’t have my seed wastin’ on the floor, pretty girl,” he rasps, voice rough with leftover rut and pure hunger. “Every drop belongs right back inside this perfect little cunt.”
The shower’s already steaming when he steps in. His cock swings heavy between his thighs, thick, flushed, half-hard again like it never learned the meaning of enough. He steps in behind you, metal arm locking gentle around your waist to keep you steady while hot water pours over you both, rinsing away the crusted mess but doing nothing to ease the raw, throbbing ache deep in your pussy.
“Spread those pretty legs for me doll,” he rasps against your neck, voice rough with leftover rut and pure adoration.
You obey instantly, always instantly for him, thighs falling open under the spray. His flesh hand slides down your belly, cups your swollen, puffy pussy like it’s the most precious thing he’s ever touched. Two fingers part your folds slow and reverent, letting the water flush out the thick, creamy ropes of his spend still plugged inside you. They drip slow and obscene, swirling down the drain in filthy strands, and he watches like a man possessed.
“Fuck, look at that,” he groans, voice shaking with awe. “Bred you so deep it’s still pourin’ out hours later. My good girl, kept me locked in all night, didn’t let a single drop escape till now.” His metal thumb spreads you wider, cool plates against your fever-hot skin, letting more cum leak free. “Don’t worry, baby. Gonna stuff you full again soon as we’re clean. Can’t stand seein’ this perfect pussy empty.”
He soaps his big hands until they’re foamy, then washes you slow, almost worshipful, palms gliding over your heavy tits, down the curve of your belly, between your trembling thighs. But the gentleness only lasts so long. Two thick, soapy fingers push inside you without warning, scissoring deep to clean every inch of your used walls, thumb circling your swollen clit until your knees buckle and you sob his name.
“Easy, sweetheart,” he whispers, metal arm banding tight across your chest to hold you up. “Just cleanin’ my mess outta you… so I can make a brand-new one. Gonna keep this greedy cunt drippin’ me forever.”
You come hard and sudden, pussy fluttering weakly around his fingers, squirting slick and water down his wrist in messy pulses. The sound you make is broken, desperate and it rips a filthy-sweet groan from his throat. His cock is rock-hard now, grinding slow against the curve of your ass like it’s begging.
He rinses you thoroughly, really thoroughly, then wraps you in the fluffiest towel he found, carries you back to the kitchen still dripping. Sets you on the counter, spreads your thighs wide just to look, eyes blown black with that same breeding obsession.
“Stay right there, pretty girl. Don’t move an inch.”
He disappears for a second, rummaging through the scattered clothes on the floor, then comes back with his shirt, the same one he’d worn last night, still carrying the warm scent of pine, steel and him.
He stands in front of you, eyes dark and hungry as he slides it over your head himself, guiding your arms through the sleeves with careful hands. The fabric falls soft and loose, brushing your thighs as he tugs it down until it barely skims the curve of your ass.
No panties, of course not. He smooths the hem with possessive palms, fingers lingering on your bare skin underneath, a low growl rumbling in his chest.
“Never again, pretty girl,” he murmurs, voice rough and reverent. “Don’t want anything between me and this perfect little pussy. Wanna be able to touch you, taste you, slide inside you whenever I need. And I’m gonna need you a lot.”
Then he makes breakfast, shirtless, sweats slung low, metal arm flexing every time he flips bacon or pours coffee. You sit on the stool, legs swinging, feeling the slow, steady seep of leftover cum still leaking out of you onto the wood beneath your bare pussy. Every shift makes you clench, makes more drip out and the knowledge that he can smell it, that he knows, has you squirming, thighs rubbing together, heat already simmering again.
He plates pancakes drowning in syrup, crispy bacon, fluffy eggs and sits right beside you, metal arm draped possessive over the back of your chair. You’re halfway through a bite when the question slips out soft and curious.
“So… you really hadn’t fucked anyone since the 40’s?” you ask, fork hovering. “Like… not once? What about your ruts? How did you survive them alone?”
He freezes, coffee mug halfway to his mouth. Then he sets it down slow, turns to you with raw, unguarded eyes.
“Dead serious, doll,” he says, voice low and rough with memory. “Not a single pussy since 1943. Hydra kept me frozen most of the time, when they woke me, I was nothin’ but a weapon. No relief, no omega, no softness. Just blood and missions and ice.”
His metal hand slides up your bare thigh under the counter, cool fingers tracing the fresh trail of slick already coating your skin.
“After I got free… ruts hit harder than anything I’ve ever felt. Worst pain I’ve ever known, worse than fallin’ off that train, worse than losin’ the arm. I’d lock myself away, chain my ankles if I had to. Jerked off till my cock bled, till I passed out in a puddle of my own spend. Bit through my own lip, dented concrete with this hand tryin’ not to break out and hurt someone.”
His flesh hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking your lower lip with heartbreaking tenderness.
“Then you moved in across the hall,” he rasps, eyes darkening with devotion. “First whiff of your heat and I nearly tore the building down to get to you. Spent weeks strokin’ myself raw every time you walked past, smellin’ like warm vanilla and needy, dripping cunt. Thought I’d lose my mind if I didn’t bury myself in you soon.”
He leans closer, metal fingers slipping between your legs again, finding you soaked and open and aching. Two slide in easy, slow, possessive pumps that make you gasp and drop your fork.
“Last night was the first time in seventy goddamn years I got to sink into a real omega pussy,” he growls against your mouth, voice thick with love and filth. “First knot. First breeding. First time comin’ inside somethin’ so warm and wet and beggin’ for my pups. You took every drop baby-milked me dry, let me flood this perfect little womb till it overflowed.”
His thumb finds your clit, circling slow and relentless while his fingers fuck you lazy and deep right there at the breakfast table.
“Now I got this sloppy, greedy cunt leakin’ for me again before the plates are even empty,” he whispers, reverent and shameless. “Gonna spend the rest of my life makin’ up for every lonely rut- gonna knot you every heat, every day, every time you look at me like that. Gonna keep you stuffed full, belly swollen, tits heavy and leakin’ milk down this pretty body while I pump another litter into you.”
You moan, loud, broken, desperate, clenching hard around his fingers, hips rocking shamelessly into his hand. Breakfast is forgotten. You’re already dripping down his wrist again, thighs trembling, heat flaring hot and hungry because it’s him because it’s Bucky looking at you like you’re his whole world and talking like he’s going to spend forever proving it.
He kisses you deep and dirty, tasting like coffee and bacon and pure alpha love.
“You gave me everything, omega,” he whispers against your swollen lips, voice rough with awe and possession. “Ended a hundred-year drought with the wettest, neediest, most perfect pussy I’ve ever dreamed of. And I’m gonna keep it soaked, bred, and happy for the rest of my life.”
It’s a few weeks later, New Year’s Eve. The little drugstore test is still on the bathroom counter, two pink lines glowing like a promise. You’re barely four weeks along but your body already knows. Your breasts are heavier, tender and swollen, nipples darker and so sensitive that even the brush of Bucky’s dog tags against them makes you shiver. A soft, constant warmth hums low in your belly, a permanent simmer of need that has you wet almost all the time now.
Bucky hasn’t let you more than ten feet away from him since you showed him the test. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, shirtless, sweats slung low, metal arm catching the low light. You stand between his thighs wearing nothing but his old dog tags and a pair of his boxers rolled at the waist. Your belly is still flat but the way he looks at it, like he can already see the curve, already feel his pups moving, makes heat pool between your legs.
“God, doll,” he whispers, voice thick with wonder and something deeper, softer. Both hands, warm flesh and cool metal, slide up your thighs, over your hips, until they settle gently over your lower abdomen. His thumbs trace slow, reverent circles right where everything is changing. “You’re really carryin’ my baby. My seed took… first night I ever knotted anyone in seventy years, and it took.”
He leans forward, presses his lips to your belly in a kiss so tender it makes your eyes burn. Inhales deep, nose brushing your skin. “Smell so sweet already,” he murmurs against you. “Like warm vanilla and milk and mine. Fuck, baby… you’re perfect.”
His flesh hand slips lower, under the waistband of the boxers, finding you soaked, slick coating your thighs in a constant, helpless trickle. He groans softly when his fingers glide through it, metal arm tightening gently around your waist to steady you as two thick fingers sink inside slow and careful.
“Still so wet for me,” he breathes, pumping gentle, curling just enough to make your breath hitch. “This pretty pussy’s already flutterin’ around my fingers… and you’re only a month along. Gonna take such good care of you, sweetheart.”
He eases his fingers free, brings them to his lips and licks them clean with a quiet, reverent hum, eyes never leaving yours. Then he stands, towering over you for a moment before guiding you gently down onto the bed, onto your back, pillows propped behind you so you’re comfortable.
“Gonna love you slow tonight,” he promises, voice low and rough with adoration. He peels the boxers off your legs, settles between your thighs with infinite care, like you’re made of glass and gold. His cock is heavy, flushed, leaking at the tip, but he doesn’t rush. Just drags the head through your slick folds once, twice, coating himself, before pressing in, slow, steady, watching your face the entire time.
You both sigh when he bottoms out. He stills, lets you adjust, forehead pressed to yours.
“Feel okay, pretty girl?” he whispers, brushing a kiss to your lips, your cheek, the corner of your eye. “Tell me if it’s too much. You’re carryin’ my pups now- I’ll be so gentle, I swear.”
You nod, threading fingers through his hair, pulling him closer. “Feels perfect, alpha.”
The word makes him shudder. He starts moving, long, deep, unhurried strokes that drag over every sensitive spot inside you, slow enough that every ridge and vein of his cock feels like a caress. His metal hand cradles the back of your head; his flesh hand slides up your side to cup one swollen breast, thumb stroking over the dark, aching nipple with heartbreaking tenderness.
“These are gettin’ so full already,” he murmurs, voice raw with awe. He lowers his head, lips brushing the curve of your breast, tongue flicking gentle over the peak. Then he closes his mouth around it, soft, warm suction that makes you arch and whimper. He suckles slow and careful, like he’s already coaxing milk that isn’t there yet, like he’s memorizing the weight and feel of you changing for him.
You moan his name, hips rocking up to meet his gentle thrusts, slick dripping down your thighs, soaking the sheets. He switches to the other breast, giving it the same reverent attention, sucking softly, tongue swirling, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp but never enough to hurt.
“Gonna do this every day,” he whispers against your skin, lips shiny, eyes dark and devoted. “Suck these pretty tits till they’re leakin’ for me. Then I’ll lick every drop off your belly before I kiss my way lower and taste how wet you get because of me.”
His rhythm stays slow, deep, loving, every thrust a promise, every pull of his mouth on your nipple a vow. Outside, fireworks start popping as midnight nears but inside it’s just the soft, wet sounds of him loving you, your quiet moans, his whispered praise.
“Come for me when the new year starts baby,” he breathes, thumb finding your clit to circle gentle and steady. “Come on your alpha’s cock while I’m suckin’ these gorgeous tits and buried deep in the pussy that’s growin’ my baby.”
The first big fireworks boom over Brooklyn just as you fall apart, pussy fluttering soft and sweet around him, a gentle, rolling orgasm that leaves you trembling and breathless. He groans your name like a prayer, hips grinding deep as his knot swells slow and careful, locking you together without a hint of pain. Warm pulses of cum spill into you, gentle and endless, his body curled protectively over yours.
He stays on his elbows so his weight never presses your belly, lips returning to your breasts, suckling softly through the aftershocks, kissing every inch of tender skin like he’s worshipping the changes already happening.
“Happy New Year pretty mama,” he whispers, voice thick with love, metal hand splayed gentle over your abdomen, flesh hand stroking your hair. “Best year of my life starts tonight, with you pregnant, tits heavy in my mouth, pussy soft and full of me. Gonna love you like this every single day. Gentle and slow and mine.”
You've been dancing around this thing with your dad's best friend for far too long — glances that last more than a heartbeat, flirty remarks that toe the line of propriety. It was only ever a matter of time before it snapped.
▸ PAIRING: Dad's Best Friend!Bucky Barnes x F!Reader
▸ WARNINGS: NSFW 18+, literally just a pwp, age gap (mentioned several times, she calls him old man), bucky calls reader sweetheart and kid, semi-public (?) fucking, slight degradation, choking, hand over mouth, bucky is mean during sex (and we like it) (this is becoming a common tag isnt it), bit of brat!reader
▸ WORD COUNT: 9.5K
▸ A/N: dont ask me what this is. it was supposed to be a quick pwp born from a single picture (see above) but i cant shut up so here we are. not my best im sorry :( dedicated to @blowingbarnes and @its-in-the-woods for always crashing out with me whenever seb stan is spotted out in the wild!
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Of all the things you could be doing with your Friday evening, being surrounded by people more than twice your age is the last place you expect to be. Your dad’s monthly dinner parties in this humble little mansion of yours are the talk of the neighborhood. He thinks of it as community building; you call it a bullshit way of schmoozing with other people as filthy rich as he is. He only laughs when you tell him this.
Wine and champagne are poured freely and generously, lacing the air with a certain buzz that makes it more alive than the fossils that fill this room. Hors d’oeuvres float around the room, bite-sized pieces of air that do nothing to quench your grumbling stomach. The room is filled with incessant chatter, all these overlapping voices that sound like a persistent fly buzzing around near your ear.
It’s even worse when you try to pay attention because then you hear “markets are down ten percent this quarter” or “the economy is going to the dogs with these new tariffs”. God forbid they start saying things like “I was just in Pebble Beach last week” followed by “just got myself a sweet new seven iron.”
If golf has no haters, then you’re dead.
Your dad is busy playing host, which means he has left you to your own devices after forcing you to tend to his guests. Told you to network because it would be good for your career. You’re a couple of years out of college, you don’t want to think about your long-term career. You have a cushy safety net after all. So you’ve planted yourself against a wall far from where all the action is, keeping yourself busy by nursing a cocktail that lands sugary on your tongue.
Lifting the glass back to your lips, you peruse the room for any interesting artefacts. All these antiquities — the people you mean — are hardly enough to hold your fascination.
All except one.
Your only consolation prize is the sight of your dad’s best friend — Bucky Barnes.
The way that man looks should be illegal. Full head of brunette hair swept back, grey dusting a few strands to give him that polished look. A single curl falling across his forehead above those strong brows that are far too expressive for the comfort of this dress.
They pucker when he frowns, a perpetually grumpy look that you’re used to seeing whenever he’s talking business with your father. They jump when he’s delighted, bright blue eyes shining like sapphires in this dim room draped in velvet and gold. Your eyes trace the slope of his nose down to the neatly trimmed beard that offers him that delicious touch of ruggedness to smooth out the stick up his ass.
Well, Bucky really is only uptight around this crowd. You can tell from the subtle twitch in the corner of his eye that he’s just about had it with Mrs. Morris, who is likely talking about her seven cats who feed on caviar and fresh fish every day.
He seriously will owe you one for this.
Pushing yourself off the wall, you casually make your way across the room towards him.
Your footsteps nearly falter when he notices you in his periphery, cocking a curious brow. That dark grey jacket is large but somehow seems to fit him oh so snugly, only minutely hiding those broad shoulders that you’ve only seen bare in the summertime. Bless the small mercies of your father constantly inviting Bucky to discuss work by the pool. The dark shirt he has underneath, the top buttons left open to reveal his wide chest, serves to emphasize the sharp blue of his eyes.
Eyes that are now darting towards you as you come to a halt right next to him.
Your hand lands on his bicep. An innocent gesture to the average bystander, but you feel him tense underneath your fingertips.
You’ve been doing this dance for far too long. You push, Bucky pulls away.
But he lingers. He’s always there.
“Dad’s looking for you,” you smile sweetly at him then at Mrs. Morris who brightens at the sight of a new listener. “Sorry, Mrs. Morris. I have to steal Bucky away for a bit.”
Her mood dampens only briefly before she is off to find her next victim.
Bucky releases a combination of a grunt and a sigh. “Never thought that would end,” he mutters under his breath before his gaze lifts up to meet yours. “Where’s your dad?”
“Dunno, probably somewhere cleaning out his liquor collection with one of his golfing buddies.”
“Thought you said—” He stops himself, the realization dawning on his expression fast. His lips twitch up. “Good girl,” he murmurs, seemingly absentmindedly.
Your legs press together under your dress, your fingers tightening almost imperceptibly around the stem of your glass.
But Bucky has never done anything without intention. He knows exactly what he’s doing saying that to you.
Your jaw clenches as you raise an eyebrow at him this time. “Yeah? You needed that, didn’t you?”
“A lot of things I need, sweetheart,” Bucky huffs a laugh, bringing his wine to his lips to take a deep gulp. His pink lips are stained with a light shade of plum. You almost want to kiss that color off his mouth.
“May I interest you in some air?”
A flicker of hesitation crosses his eyes. There’s that adult in him again. The need to be responsible for someone else’s child — all because you’re half his age. You get it; you like that he’s mature and considerate, a far cry from all the boys you’ve met. Even after all these years of knowing Bucky, he’s still the one top of mind when it comes to your ideal man.
But you’re you and you can’t resist pushing him just a little bit more.
“Oh, come on, Buck. I won’t bite,” you smirk.
Without waiting for a response, you begin drifting towards the balcony, your dress floating behind your heels. You move towards the further end of the room, a substantial distance from everyone else — not that it matters, the room is well on its way to becoming sufficiently and stupidly drunk off your father’s plentiful supply of alcohol.
You know Bucky will follow. He always does.
Whether he’s a glutton for punishment or whether he’s simply worried about you, you can’t tell. You just savor the fact that he always gives in to you.
On your way, you sneak past the bartender and swipe an opener from the counter and scoop up a fresh, unopened bottle of cabernet, tucking it under your elbow to hide it from any nosy guests. You don’t miss the amused smile Bucky sends your way as he trails close behind.
The evening air this time of year is crisp. There’s a gentle breeze that kisses your bare shoulders, combs through your hair, and cools down the warmth from the cocktail. Before you know it, a heavy weight drapes on your shoulders and you find the luxurious grey fabric covering you. Swallowing you. It’s almost arousing how much you drown in his clothes.
Even worse because now all you can see, smell, and feel is him. His clothes on you, like a possessive claim to the night. His cologne that sticks to the threads of this suit, one that tickles your nose with something delicious and sends your mind straight to the image of burying your face in the crook of his neck and breathing him in. The feel of his warmth that completely engulfs you, removing every single rational thought from your head as you look back at him.
“What a gentleman,” you tease, ignoring the shaky traces in your voice.
“May I?” He nods to the bottle.
“Please,” you murmur as you hand the bottle over to him, your delicate fingers wrapped around its neck. Bucky slides his hand over yours as he takes it from you.
Intentional once again.
You resist the sharp intake of your breath, quashing that spark of electricity as your fingers brush. A minor thing that sets off your insides. Bucky doesn’t look affected in the least, the very picture of calm and composed. He has always had a decent poker face and there’s nothing you want more than to see that carefully crafted expression fall apart — because of you.
The cork opens with a pop and you watch with great interest as Bucky lifts it closer to his face, giving it a whiff. It’s an act that shouldn’t look so deliberately sexy but something about this specific man doing this specific thing has your insides twisting with desire.
“My favorite,” he hums.
“I know,” you say, a little eager to please perhaps.
Of course, you know exactly what Bucky’s favorite wine is. He’s come over one too many times and that’s the bottle that your father always has stocked up. Bucky looks mildly surprised for a fraction of a second, but it quickly melts away into a polite smile.
He pours an appropriate amount into his glass and props up the bottle on the flat railing. He breathes it in again before taking a sip. “Delicious.”
You can’t help but take him in. Now that he’s even closer, it’s ridiculous that he can look even more handsome.
The sharp line of his jaw buried underneath all that scruff, you’re just itching to scrape your fingers across his chin.
The curve of his lips as he smiles gently at you. Polite. You want to wipe it off and have them parted, open to take you and your tongue in as he devours you.
The detached iciness of his eyes that you’re aching to thaw into puddles that you can dive straight into, eyes that can rake over you in a way that should be far from proper for a man your father’s age. Eyes that will darken as his pupils blow wide to take in every inch of you.
Your tongue digs against the inside of your cheek as you feel your heart strain against your ribcage once more.
“Let me have a taste,” you instead opt to say, a distraction from your current state of mind.
Bucky chuckles low as he eyes the wine then you. That stupid curl is falling across his forehead again and your fingers are literally twitching to brush it away from his face, to sink your fingers into his thick head of hair and draw him down to—
“What?” You snap a little too irritably.
“You hate wine,” he points out correctly.
Your traitorous heart beats loudly, thrilled that Bucky’s aware of such a small fact. “You don’t know that.”
“You crinkle your nose—” he laughs and points at you, “—just like that whenever you have a sip.”
“Oh, come on. I just want to try it. Since it’s your favorite and all.”
“Are you even old enough to drink?” He jests as he spins his wine glass slowly, letting the liquid aerate before bringing it back to his lips. You can see the tiny wet ring on the rim where his lips were, a lingering mark.
Your lips thin. “You know I am.”
“We can go back inside and I can get you one of those fruity cocktails you like instead, or an espresso martini. Though, it might be too late for you to be drinking coffee. Past your bedtime, isn’t it? Wines are for the grownups.”
He’s mocking you. You know it’s in good fun and you should be laughing or at the very least upset that he’s treating you like a child. However, your body seems to have neither of those responses; instead, you feel heat crawl up between your legs. This teasing, like you’re so much younger than him. Like he’s babying you. Patronizing. Degrading.
You really shouldn’t enjoy it as much as you do.
Your teeth sink into your bottom lip unconsciously, a useless effort to draw your attention away from the irritating heat between your legs. The act itself pulls Bucky’s gaze to your mouth. His smile slides off his face as he focuses on how your lips change color where your teeth are buried. He opens his mouth again, probably to apologize because he’s such a gentleman.
But you don’t need a gentleman. You certainly don’t want one.
Your hand shoots out and grabs the wine glass before he can say anything. His eyes widen as you do so, trained on you as you pinch it between your fingers. Then you position the glass in your hand in such a way that the wine stain his lips left on the edge is directly within your line of sight.
With your eyes on his, you lift it to your mouth and wrap your lips around that exact spot. Your lips over his.
You can see the exact moment his confidence quivers, like a flickering light inside of him. Darkness clouds his gaze as he watches you take that drink, watches you keep your eyes on him. He doesn’t move, you don’t think he even breathes. His eyes are glued to your lips and how they leave the same mark, smaller, in the exact same spot.
The wine is bitter and tangy on your tongue. You still hate the flavor but you don’t let it show.
“Rancid,” you confirm and pass the glass back to him.
He hesitates for a second before he takes it from you, fingers brushing again — only this time, his touch stays a heartbeat too long to be accidental.
“You’re playing a dangerous game, sweetheart.”
Your pussy pulses with need at those words. You swallow your whimper but your breath hitches too quickly for you to stop it. “I kind of like playing with fire,” you whisper, elbow leaning against the railing as you look up at him with coy eyes.
As you shift your weight to one side, your tits press together, visible from the low dip of the front of your dress. Bucky’s attention falls briefly to that space before flicking back up. Your lips tip up higher into a smirk.
“You’re going to get burned.”
“It’ll be worth it.”
Bucky’s throat bobs as he gulps. There is trepidation in his eyes that you’ve never seen before. You’ve flirted. You’ve teased. You’ve pushed. It’s always been innocent. Always in the light. But this tête-à-tête feels different — with the intoxicating mix of alcohol, the beautiful silent night, and the privacy that both afford you, the pull is too strong to resist.
You take a bold step closer towards him. He stiffens, back going ramrod straight — some semblance of effort to make it seem like he’s shifting away from you. As you move, the slit of your dress flutters open to reveal an incremental inch of your bare legs. Once again, you catch his eyes dipping to the exposed skin. The climb up is slower this time, like there’s a weight dragging his gaze down. A sign of his resolve crumbling.
Your own eyes slide down to his chest, that delicious sliver of skin. A silver chain hangs around his neck, a thin glimmering line brushing his tanned skin. You pause in front of him but your focus remains on his skin. The heat of his gaze on you sparks goosebumps across your skin.
But you don’t look up. Instead, you hone in on this damned chain. There’s an irresistible urge to catch it between your teeth, to tangle your fingers in it, crumple it in your hands — all so you can yank him towards you like a leash. You fight against that impulse.
Bucky needs a more… gentle approach. You’ve been playing this game for so long, you’ve gotten him used to certain things. All he needs now is quiet nudges in the right direction. In your direction.
You raise your hand and your finger traces the path of the metal. The chain is so thin that you can feel his body heat rolling off him in waves as you do so. You apply a teeny bit of pressure, enough that your finger flattens against the cool necklace — enough that your finger also presses down against his bare chest.
Bucky’s chest rises against your touch with his inhale.
As you look up, your eyes can’t help but follow the shape of him. His thick biceps are no longer hidden behind his oversized suit jacket. His shirt seems to stretch for dear life over his broad shoulders, barely concealing the efforts of his hours at the gym.
All the while, your finger is still on his body.
“What’re you doing?” Bucky murmurs in the silence. His voice is low enough to hide the slight tremor in his syllables, but not low enough to hide the implicit warning in his words.
“I like this,” you respond softly, blinking up at him.
The words are vague enough.
But Bucky’s always been smart. He knows exactly what you’re referring to.
His hand reaches up, thick fingers circling your wrist. For a second, you think he’s finally drawing the line again. You think he’s going to pull your hand away and tell you to go back inside and behave like the good girl your father thinks you are.
Except he doesn’t move. Nor does he remove your finger.
Bucky stays, his touch warm on your hand.
“Bucky—”
Before you can finish your thought — if there was even one at all, the doors to the balcony slam open and out stumbles a couple who are already attached at the lips. The two of you freeze. It looks to be Mr. Grant down the street and Mrs. Prince on the other side of the street. You don’t think Mr. Price would be too pleased if he ever learned of this tryst.
Wincing, you’re about to ask Bucky for a quiet getaway, but he’s two steps ahead of you, having gathered the wine bottle, the glass, and your hand to lead you back inside before the two can realize they’ve been caught red-handed.
The crowd hasn’t changed, only more people are brushing past on unsteady feet and with breaths that are seasoned with liquor. Your father is still somewhere in the distance, closer to the bar, waving his hands animatedly with a few of his friends. None the wiser to the fact that Bucky is pulling you across the room.
When you reach a quiet spot, Bucky turns to you and sighs.
You can already hear it.
“Kid, we can’t do this.”
“Think about your dad.”
“This is all just fun and games, right?”
It’s the same argument over and over again. Shouldn’t, wouldn’t, couldn’t. Age-old tale. Frankly, you’re getting sick of it.
And you always have to nod and agree and skulk back into your room with your tail between your legs, like a scolded child who couldn’t have her post-dinner treat. Your heart barely begins to sink when the realization slams into you like a truck.
Call it liquid courage, call it foolish optimism, but your blood is rushing south rather than to your brain. You could keep running from this, and so can he, but neither of you will be able to get the other out of their system unless you face it head-on.
“You should probably go back to your room. I don’t think your dad will notice,” Bucky offers graciously. Always polite. Always responsible.
“I don’t want to leave yet,” you whisper, quiet enough that only he can hear you.
You know he knows your unsaid words. I don’t want to leave you yet.
Bucky’s eyes darken for a second, a moment of weakness when he lets his desires shine through, but he quickly curbs that when he whips his face away from you. “I should go talk to your dad. I need his thoughts on… something.”
He can’t even think of an excuse right now. It’s fair because you can barely think about anything when he’s this close to you.
“A lot of things we should and shouldn’t do,” you grumble under your breath. “How about you help me with something else?”
You’ve never been the patient one so you don’t wait for an answer before you shed his jacket, handing it back to him. Bucky takes it wordlessly, appearing entranced when you slip your fingers through his and pull him away from the action. His long legs have no problem keeping up with you, yet he somehow manages to trip when he gets a glimpse of the way your dress drapes low across your back, a single rhinestoned chain holding it together. He probably didn’t get a good look — or have the time to appreciate it earlier — when he was too busy being a gentleman and putting his jacket on you.
“Where—“ he clears his throat, it’s the first time you’ve ever heard him stutter, “where are we going?”
“Just… replenishing the wine we stole.”
The wine that has now been abandoned somewhere. It’s no longer in his hands, they’re busy with yours.
You lead him down a quieter hallway, no one in sight, not even the staff. Your housekeepers are fast asleep this time of night, leaving the hired waiters to do the rest for your father’s event. You pull him towards your father’s wine cellar, a spacious enough room with a passcode.
You remember sneaking in here many times when you were a teenager, attempting to rob your father of his favorite vintages, but Bucky was the one who caught you. Who scolded you. Told you to behave.
It was a stupid teenage crush then. It was out of the question. Bucky would never be interested in you in that way.
But as you blossomed into an adult — all throughout your college years, through the tears of job hunting and graduating and losing friends, Bucky was there through it all. You’d run out of fingers if you counted the number of times he’s seen you at your worst, including stumbling home drunk after a night out with the girls, him making sure you don’t twist your ankle on your way to your room, or helping you work through your resume when your father’s too busy with his own work. Calm and confident in you as always.
When you first told him about the job offer you had gotten, the one you’d been vying for from the beginning, he had smiled so wide, you’re sure his cheeks were aching.
“Always knew you could do it. Proud of you, kid.”
And you don’t know when that stupid teenage crush exploded into the four-letter word you’re still too scared to say out loud, but the feeling beats a steady, loud rhythm between your ribs. For a moment, you think that maybe he would call you silly, tell you that you don’t even know what that word means, if you ever told him.
But it’s Bucky and Bucky has never — would never — diminish your feelings in such a way. As teasingly patronizing as he could be, he has always taken every syllable of your words seriously. He treated you like an adult. After all, you weren’t his daughter. You were his best friend’s.
You could still hear his breathing right behind you as you punch in the code with jittery fingers. The cellar door opens with a whirr and a click, the only noise mixed in with Bucky behind you. You’ve been holding your breath since you took his hand.
Pulling him in, you finally let his hand slip away from yours — and for a hopeful second, you think he tries reaching out again before he balls his hand into a tight fist.
You don’t have to look very far to find that particular box of wines. You bend down, tucking your hair behind your ear as you do so, to pick up a bottle, hand gripping it by the neck of the bottle.
But it’s too soon to end the moment. Too soon to let him go back to those vultures out there when you want to keep him all to yourself. So you pause and turn to him. “Anything else you want in here while my father’s not looking? I’m sure he won’t miss a bottle or two.”
The look on Bucky’s face is one now engraved in the back of your mind. The frustrated downturn of his lips, the hazy look swirling in his eyes, the stubborn clench of his jaw.
“What are you doing, sweetheart?” Bucky asks, a tightness to his throat that’s evident in the strain in his voice.
Your heart slams against your sternum again. Sweetheart. God, you love it when he calls you that. It lights up your entire nervous system, stealing the air from your lungs when he looks at you with those eyes of his. That specific look that absolutely drowns you.
Time feels suspended in here. A stalemate. Neither of you move in the fear of breaking the brittle balance between the two of you. In here, it’s only you and him. The party feels nonexistent. The room feels small, like the walls are closing in on you. Urging you to move closer to him.
However, your feet are rooted to the floor. You’re afraid that if you take even one step, your weakened knees would topple you to the ground.
“‘M not doing anything,” you mumble as your grip tightens around the bottle.
“You know what you’re doing,” Bucky swallows, “we can’t do this. You know we can’t.”
“Why not?” You challenge right back.
“Your dad’s my best friend. I couldn’t do that to his daughter.”
It’s your turn for your lips to curl into a sour frown. Bucky’s gaze withers slightly, as if he’s disappointed in himself for making you upset.
“I’m my own person, Buck. I can make my own decisions.”
“You’re just a kid—”
“No,” you interrupt him, a slice through the thick air, “you don’t get to say that to me. You of all people. You’re the only one who’s treated me like an adult. Even when my dad babies the shit out of me, you’re the only one with faith that I’m a grown woman now. So why can’t you trust my decision now?”
And something in him breaks. You see the ice chip away from his eyes as his shoulders slump. A surrender. A white flag.
“It’s not you I don’t trust. It’s me.” His voice is feeble. “I don’t— I shouldn’t be doing this.”
His vulnerability gives you strength. Bucky has always been untouchable, invincible in your eyes. Now, looking at how much he’s holding himself back, like it physically hurts him to be this far away from you, you take the courageous step forward. You move towards him, one foot in front of the other, heels clacking on the tiles until you’re right in front of him.
Your hand reaches up, scratching through his beard before settling on the thick column of his neck. Your fingers twist in the hairs behind his neck, a scrape of his lower scalp that has him groaning. The sound ricochets straight through your core.
“Then trust me,” you firmly say. “I want this, Buck. Just as much as you. Let me have this.”
“I — fuck — I shouldn’t, we shouldn’t—”
He tries to pull away from you but you tighten your grip on his hair and that extracts another delicious sound from the depths of his gut.
“A lot of things we shouldn’t be doing, so what’s one more thing? What are you scared of, Buck? Think you’re going to break me?”
Heat flashes in his eyes as you push him further. He bares his teeth in a hiss. “And what if I do?”
“Good, I want to be broken. I want you to fuck me so hard that I can’t walk tomorrow. I want you to fuck me so hard I still feel you in my guts for a week.”
“Jesus,” he gasps, “the fucking mouth on you.”
“Rather put my mouth on you,” you grin as your free hand travels down and cups him between his legs.
His eyes slide shut, squeezing so tight you can see the crow’s feet in the corners of his eyes deepen. “Fuck, I’m not going to last like this, kid.”
“Never asked you to. Only question is — would you rather cum down my throat or inside of me?”
The growl that leaves his lips is guttural as he lets his jacket pool on the floor. The bottle disappears from your hand and you don’t have a second to question where it went before Bucky dives forward and devours you. His mouth slants over yours, wet and hot as his hands reach up to cradle your face. The touch of both his hands is both hot and cold — flesh and metal — on your skin.
Your brain can’t process that contrast, not when Bucky is warm all over you.
You’ve been waiting for this for far too long. You’re drunk on the mere thought of Bucky kissing you and — now that it’s happening, your mind feels far away. Like you’re not even
You’ve been waiting for this for far too long. You’ve been drunk on the mere thought of Bucky kissing you before. Now that it’s happening, it doesn’t feel real. A déjà vu based on a dream you’ve had night after night.
But his presence invades every one of your senses. It grounds you back to this reality that convinces you that he’s really here. That he’s really kissing you.
He tastes like the wine first — dark and rich. A lingering flavor. It’s the kind of luxury that stains your tongue and ignites a trail of fire down your throat. It’s still there on his lips, acidity morphing into a treacly flavor. Less of the sharp tang from the glass, more of an aromatic pleasantness that stimulates every nerve inside of you.
Underneath all that, there’s the chocolate, the one you saw him sneaking past his lips in between sips of wine. Faintly sticky, a little more than indulgent. You can still savor the sugar on the bites that had melted on his tongue while he talked with the other guests. It’s softly sweet. Sweet in a way he’d probably deny.
It’s his cologne that overtakes you next. Something warm, not sharp. Not that aggressive, metallic men’s department smell, but closer to the scent of skin after sun like the summers by your pool. A trace of cedar, like the earth that has been warmed all afternoon and is just beginning to cool with the evening wind. Mixed in with a touch of smoke that reminds you that he’s not all that safe. That being with him carries this risk of getting burned.
And you’ll be damned if you don’t love it.
Bucky moans against your lips, tongue tracing the seam of them until you part and grant him access. He licks into your mouth, his tongue pressing against yours like he’s trying to savor every bit of you. “Fuck, you’re unbelievable,” he mutters, “can’t believe you’re real sometimes.”
“Dream come true for you, huh?” You tease but your giggle fades when Bucky drags his mouth along your jaw, leaving a wet trail of heated kisses on your skin, like he’s searing his mark onto every inch of you.
His head dips further as he gathers you into his arms, hands sliding across your bare back, drawing out a delicious shiver that snakes up your spine. He mouths at your neck hungrily, nipping and nibbling until you’re a gasping mess underneath him. When you feel like you’re about to fall, Bucky holds you even tighter against him. Your cleavage against his exposed chest.
Your fingers fumble with the buttons to reveal more of his skin. You’re greedy — greedier now that you’ve had a taste and all you want is more, more, more.
Your palms flatten on his stomach, not too chiseled, softened by age and wine.
“Winter has me lazier, sorry,” he says almost sheepishly, hiding his face in the crook of your neck.
You use your fingers to tip his chin up so you can look at him. Those earnest blue eyes whose intensity always leaves you with the urge to slide your fingers between your legs. “Do you have any idea how goddamn hot you are? How many times I’ve imagined climbing onto you, dragging myself across this stomach of yours?”
Another pained moan leaves his lips. “You spoil me.”
Your fingers splay across his jaw. “Always wondered, you know, what it feels like to put my hands on this,” you giggle as you scratch through his beard again.
He brightens. “Yeah? You like it?”
“Love it, old man.”
Bucky chuckles and the sound has excitement tingling to your toes. “I’ll show you an old man.”
He kisses you again, deeper, hungrier this time. He drinks in your rasp when his strong arms scoop you up, your legs wrapping around him as your arms wind around his neck. He props you up by your ass but the silk of your dress does nothing to dull his touch. It’s as if you have nothing between you.
No more barriers. Only you and him.
“You’re going to be my undoing,” he murmurs before he tilts your body back. Bucky holds you up with one arm, which is an act that already has your mind reeling to a different universe, and uses his other hand to part the opening of your dress, revealing your nipples peaking from the cold and the pleasure. “Beautiful.”
Heat floods your cheeks and your pussy, your core squeezing around air begging to be filled. He ducks his head once more to take in one pebbled nipple into his mouth, the heat of a thousand suns devouring you completely. Every inch of you is on fire. He licks and bites, appreciating every inch of your breast until you’re squirming and whining in his hands.
“Buck— please. God, feels so good.”
Your fingers bury in his hair, a futile attempt to draw him away to give you some air. A moment of reprieve from his ministrations. However, Bucky doesn’t allow that. He laps at your skin like he’s imprinting the taste of you onto his tongue, swirling around your nipple like he’s memorizing the exact curve of your tits. When you yank a little harder, he still doesn’t budge but his responding moan seems to say everything.
“Fucking feel like heaven. I always saw you in those skimpy little swimsuits. Do you have any idea what you do to me? I fucking jacked off like a prepubescent teen too many times in your guest shower thinking about what it would be like to fuck you in those pool chairs. Bend you over the barbecue counter outside and sink my cock into this tight little pussy.”
A needy whine rises from your throat as you plead for him again. “Bucky, please. Need you.”
“You already have me. You always had me.”
“Inside,” you gasp when he bites down particularly hard on your nipple.
“I want to taste this pussy of yours first, sweetheart. I’ve been thinking about it all night. I wanted to just hike up this skirt and put my face between your legs.”
Your eyes roll so far back you’re sure it’s permanently damaged. “Jesus, Buck, I can’t— not tonight. Please. Another time.”
“Can’t do that. Need to make sure you’re taken care of first.”
With an irritated glower, you finally pull his head all the way back from your chest. “Listen to me, Barnes. I’m about to fucking cum because of you kissing me alone. I want to cum around your fucking cock. It’s either that or I’m going to get on my knees and have you cum in my mouth, all the while I’m fingering myself stupid. You take your pick.”
Bucky looks bewildered, both from the lingering effects of tasting you and the whiplash from the brashness of your words. You’ve always been a brat with him, but never like this. Never this particular. Never this deliciously demanding.
His lips curve into a salacious smirk. “Alright. How do you want me?” As you try to think, Bucky’s hand slips between the two of you, to where your dress has been bunched up around your waist. His fingers trace over the molten heat between your legs, where the liquid has seeped through your nearly nonexistent panties.
His fingers are practically tracing your pussy lips over your thong.
“You might as well wear floss if you’re going to be wearing this,” he grouses, more so to himself. You bite back a laugh and the urge to call him a boomer.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Kinky fucker.”
Bucky’s eyes flash with something dangerous as he eyes you. “Careful, kid. You don’t want to know what I’m into. Might scare you to the hills.”
Fire blooms in the pits of your stomach again. That’s not a threat to you. That’s a promise.
That’s when you decide.
“I want you to fuck me from behind with your hand around my throat.”
Bucky closes his eyes again, nostrils flaring as he inhales deeply. A thin string of patience keeping his sanity intact. His voice is dipped in honey when he says his next words. “You’ll be the end of me.”
He lets you back onto your feet, quickly flipping you around and facing you towards the door. It’s arousing how easily he manhandles you, like a ragdoll he’s flinging around as he pleases.
“Hands on the door. Don’t move.”
The command has shivers rippling along your skin. You always knew deep in your gut that Bucky would be this way. Despite how soft and kind he is with you, you knew he would know exactly what you’d like when it comes to sex. And this — this is exactly what you like.
You flatten your palms against the door, a shudder of anticipation slithering through your system. You can’t see him but you can hear him, feel him, smell him. You hear the clink of his belt, the undoing of his zipper. You can feel his palm glide along your spine, sliding under your dress and circling around to grope your breast. You can smell the arousal leaking from his tip, his cologne sinking back into your senses as he leans down against you.
Then you hear another sound — a rip. You finally whip around to see him rolling on a condom.
“Really? How long have you been carrying that around?”
“Since I started getting hard around you,” he gruffly responds. An earnest answer.
“And when was that?”
He purses his lips, seemingly debating if he wants to be truthful here and decides that honesty is the best policy, especially when it comes to you. “Few years ago. Maybe your second to last year of college.”
Years. You could’ve had him for years. All this time you’ve wasted.
“Why then?”
Bucky’s lips twitch in partial amusement as he holds his cock. You try not to stare at it too much, the length of it terrifies you in a way that has your legs squeezing together in anticipation. “You really want to talk about this now?”
You pout and nudge your ass back against him, bumping his cock. He releases a groan. “Tell me. I want to know.”
He swats your ass lightly and smirks. “Saw you all grown up. You weren’t so shy anymore. You finally looked me in the eyes.”
“Oh.” Your lips form a circle in surprise. That was the year you started learning more about boys and how terrible most of them were. You had your fair share of experiences but you knew none of them would ever compare to Bucky.
Bucky who’s been your dream for as long as you can remember.
“Do I want to know why you had that sudden change?” There’s a weight to his words that has you stiffening, fear crawling up your chest.
You know what he means. Confidence usually equals experience. If you were more comfortable with Bucky, that would mean that you had to have some sort of experience that changed your level of ease around him.
So you press your lips together and shake your head. “I plead the fifth.”
“Good answer,” he grunts, “I don’t need to be hearing all the things you did on campus.” His arm snakes around you again, sliding up your front, his hand landing around your neck. His fingers squeeze in. A choked gasp escapes you. “I don’t need to know who else you’ve done. I’m going to make you forget about all of them. I’m going to mold this pretty pussy to the shape of my cock until you can’t fit anyone else but me.”
You whimper with his words and desperately push your behind into him again. Bucky’s left hand goes down to grope your ass, giving it a firm grasp before he pushes the material of your dress up around your waist. The metal of his fingers drag up cool like the kiss of a serpent along your thigh before they press into your clothed slit.
A hiss slips between your teeth as he does so. And then you hear the rip — or more of a snap as your thong tears. You give a little whine and Bucky ducks his head close to your ears. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll buy you plenty more. More for me to ruin.”
“Better be a promise,” you pant.
He laughs again, deep and low, warm breath ghosting the back of your shoulder. “I always keep my word, kid.”
Then he sinks into you and you swear you see stars behind your eyes. The stretch burns like the blaze of a supernova; he’s thick, thicker than you expected and your pussy clamps down around him like you’re resisting the intrusion. Like you’re insisting you can’t take him.
“Relax. It’ll feel better if you just let me in,” he coos sweetly in your ear. “I need your sweet little pussy to take in my cock. I’ll make it fit. I’ll make it feel good. You’re already so wet, so ready for me.”
“B-Buck, please,” you whisper, the barest hint of fear tinging your voice.
“I’ll go easy, I promise. It won’t hurt.”
His words do nothing to console your worries. However, he does keep his word and he rolls up slowly into you, his cock gliding at a painstaking pace inside you. Each time he enters you, he fills you all the way. You could feel his hips against your ass as he buries himself to the base. He doesn’t miss a groan every time he does so, muttering filthy praises in your ear.
“You feel so perfectly tight around me, kid. Such a perfect cunt.”
“God, look at you taking me in like a champ. I knew you’d fit me.”
“Your pussy looks so pretty dripping all over my cock.”
As you grow accustomed to his size, as your worried whimpers fade into pleasured moans, Bucky begins to move faster. He ruts his hips a little harder, a little deeper. His fingers tighten around your throat, just enough to have you slightly dizzy with need. It’s an inebriating combination of pain and pleasure. He teeters that fine line with skill, making sure that you’re still with him every step of the way.
“Need you to pick a safe word, sweetheart.”
He doesn’t always have the best timing. You’re too fucked out to think right now, his cock is the only thing that’s on your mind with how delicious the burn is every time he thrusts up into you. You babble something incoherent, a non-answer to his request.
Bucky releases his grip around your neck lightly, squeezing your hip. You whine at the loss. “We should’ve done it earlier. I’m sorry. That was—”
“Jesus, Buck, not the time.”
“Pick one.”
You whine again, twisting only to smack his chest. “I don’t know, martini!”
“Martini?” Bucky confirms with a cock of his brow. You know this fucker’s resisting laughing right now.
“Yes, a dirty fucking martini! Now fuck me.”
Bucky mumbles something about the mouth on you again before he does as he’s told. His fingers return their firm grasp around your neck, loosening and squeezing in time with his hips. Moans tumble freely from your lips, desperate cries for more. An affirmation that whatever Bucky is doing feels like a goddamn gift right now.
He seems to relish it, drinking in your little noises as he bruises your hip with his hand. You have no doubt that you’ll have a collar around your neck tomorrow from how he’s tightening his grip, partly for your pleasure and partly for his own self-control.
“Pussy this good was always meant to be fucked. I can’t believe I waited this long to take you. I always knew you were made for me, kid. All those looks you threw at me, all those times you wore those skimpy little outfits around me. God, you have no idea how much I wanted to throw you across my knee and spank the shit out of you, to fuck you stupid so you learn your lesson.”
“‘M s-sorry,” you manage to gasp out.
“No, you’re not,” Bucky laughs, disbelief coating his tone. “You’re going to keep doing it, aren’t you? You’re going to keep teasing me whenever I come over. Maybe spread your legs to show me this perfect little cunt when your dad’s in the room. I’m gonna see you soak through your panties, like this pussy’s trained to get wet at the sight of me.”
“Oh, f-fuck,” you choke out. The visual has you gripping his cock tight, your pussy pulsing with a need to enact that exact scene. “Just like that. I’ll do it. I’ll do whatever you want.”
“My gorgeous girl. My perfect slut.”
Bucky continues to hammer up into you, his cock molding your pussy to the perfect fleshlight for him. You feel spent and used but deliriously satisfied. You don’t want to think. All you want to do is give in completely to this man.
However, just as you feel yourself climbing faster and faster, chasing that orgasm you so eagerly need — one that you can practically taste on your tongue, voices outside have the two of you freezing. Bucky stops fucking into you and you feel your blood run cold.
It doesn’t sound like your dad. Or anyone you know. You can barely hear them through the door.
“Buck, we—”
You don’t get the chance to finish your sentence before Bucky is fucking back up into you. Harder, faster. “Fuck, you better keep it down, sweetheart. I don’t need anyone to see you like this. Pussy wrapped around my cock with my hand around you like a necklace. You don’t want any of your dad’s other friends to know that you spread your legs for me, do you?”
You shake your head. In that moment, you couldn't care less. Anyone could walk in and you would tell Bucky to keep going. His cock feels too good. He’s found the right angle to hit that delicious part inside of you, triggering waves of heat every time he slams into it.
And you can’t help the next groan that falls from your lips. Bucky’s hand immediately rises to your mouth, covering it to muffle your next moan.
“What did I just say? Are you too cockdrunk to listen right now?”
“N-no, s-sorry. I can’t h-help it,” you whine.
“You were always so mouthy. A fucking brat, I should’ve known you couldn’t keep your voice down when I’m fucking you so good.”
You mewl again, a needier sound this time as you arch your back, pushing your ass back against him. His name is stifled on your tongue but the noises still slip through his fingers.
“Fuck, sweetheart,” Bucky grunts and you can feel him twitch and throb inside you even as he moves. He’s enjoying this as much as you are. The thrill of getting caught, the fear that has the strength in your knees waning. Bucky props you up like a doll as he plunges deep inside you over and over again. “You always were such a little slut for me.”
He drags his hand away from your mouth, you gasping for air that chokes out into yet another needy sound from your lips. He burrows his hands in your hair, all your hard work in a mussed-up mess on your head now that Bucky’s yanking your head back. He dips his head and sinks his teeth into your shoulders again.
“Alright, if you want to be loud, then be loud. Let them all hear how good I give it to you. How good I fuck this tight little cunt, you whiny brat.”
The pleasure jolts in delicious sparks all throughout your body. His words are enough to set off another round of pleasure crashing through you and pulling you under.
“Don’t you want your daddy dearest to hear how good I fuck his little girl? Scream for me, sweetheart. I want him to hear you moan my name through these walls. I want him to know how hard your cunt is squeezing my fat cock. A man as old as him fucking his good girl.”
“Bucky, hnnng— p-please, fuck— I n-need to— I want to cum.”
“Do you? You think you deserve it?”
You whine and turn your eyes, leaking with tears. Your mascara is smudged, streaks down your face as you sob at him. “Please, Bucky. I’ve been good. I’ve been so good to you, haven’t I?”
“Hmm, what good have you done for me?”
“I’ve been a good pussy for you, haven’t I?” You whimper. Dignity be damned. With how good Bucky’s fucking you, you’ll gladly open your legs anytime for him. Anywhere. Don’t need a job anymore. All you want to be is a fuckdoll for him to use whenever he pleases.
Bucky grabs your chin and turns your face to kiss you again. He groans into your mouth as he licks what remains of your gloss off your lips. “That’s right, sweetheart. You’ve been such a good pussy for me. You should be with a boy your age but you just want an old man. You want a man who can give it to you good, who knows what to do with his cock to make you feel good. You want a man who can train you to be an obedient pussy for my cock.”
You prattle off agreements, sliding between delirium and lucidity. It’s a fine line you’re traveling but all you can feel is your cunt squeezing around him, gripping him tight to keep him inside you. Keep yourself plugged up and filled.
Bucky keeps kissing you in a way you’ve never been kissed before. Addicting. Delectably mind-numbing. He swallows every single whine that rises from your chest. He nips your lips until they’re swollen, drawing your bottom lip between his teeth.
That pleasure continues to rise and rise and you feel your stomach tighten. Heat coils tight deep inside your gut as your legs tense to support this crescendo. Bucky feels you fasten around him, compressing around his cock like you’re trying to get him to the same place you are.
“Feels so good, sweetheart. I’m going to cum, gonna paint this pretty pussy white.”
Another curse leaves your lips. You’d love that. Next time, you’re pulling that condom off his cock before he finishes. But for tonight, you let his words take you to your crest. Your pleasure peaks to a point you’re whining into your fist as your pussy pulsates around him. You can feel the moment his hips stutter, his pace faltering as he cums. His hands clamp down around you as he chokes out a gasp, rutting into you to drag out his orgasm.
You can practically feel the warmth inside the condom, like he’s filling you up. Another shudder wracks through you as the last bits of your orgasm — and his — pulse through the nerves in your body.
Slumping against the door, you release a deep, shaky breath. Your muscles feel like jelly and you’re fighting to stay upright. Bucky pulls out of you, a careful slide out that leaves you feeling empty.
Empty at the loss of his warmth. The chill from the cellar settles into your skin. While the ache in your pussy is appeased, you can’t help but feel that gaping hole in your chest.
The two of you have crossed a line that you can’t return from. The only question is what happens now?
Bucky holds you close as he winces, looking at the mess on his cock, the cum coating every inch of his length. He hisses as he slowly eases himself back into his pants. “I’ll clean myself up later,” he says, red coloring his cheeks as he says this.
You’re about to come up with another snarky response, something spicy to rile him up and distract you from this hollow feeling, but then your knees give out. Bucky’s arms dart out to catch you just in time, holding you up against him.
“Whoa, there.”
Your pussy is still pulsing. Christ. The effect of this man.
“Weak knees,” you sheepishly admit.
Bucky doesn’t say anything, just smiles slow and steady. Then he bends down and scoops you up bridal style in his arms, your own circling his neck. “Alright, princess. Let’s get you to bed.”
“I’m not a child,” you roll your eyes at him.
His eyes are soft as they search yours. “I know,” he murmurs.
Bucky peeks outside to make sure the coast is clear before he tucks you closer to his chest, taking you up the back stairwell to your room. “You really didn’t have to carry me all the way up,” you mumble into his neck, taking another long inhale of his scent.
He only sets you down when you manage enough energy to splay out on your mattress, your chest rising and falling with a deep sigh. Bucky sits on the edges, the back of his fingers stroking your cheek.
“You okay? I didn’t hurt you, did I?” His blue eyes brighten, a flare of panic sparking in his gaze.
You hum. “You just fucked the knees out of me, Barnes. No, you didn’t hurt me.”
He deflates with relief and smiles again as you nuzzle into his touch. “Good,” he murmurs. You can sense his hesitation, words sitting on the tip of his tongue that he doesn’t say out loud. You capture his hand in both of yours to press a kiss to his wrist where his veins sit. You can feel his heartbeat against your lips.
“Talk to me.”
“We have to talk to your dad about this.”
Your heart sinks, dread etching itself into your bones.
It must show on your face because then Bucky’s quickly adding, “You can still change your mind. I’ll walk out. No hard feelings.”
That does nothing to appease your concerns. In fact, it only worsens it. You’ve wanted him for so long, you’ve dreamt of this for so long. Now that you’ve had him, he just— “You could do that?” You blurt out, hating yourself for how frail you sound. “Just walk away that easily?”
Bucky swallows as he leans down, thumb across your cheek as he presses his forehead against yours. “It won’t be easy for me, kid. Trust me. I’ve thought about this for a while, wouldn’t have given in tonight if I didn’t. But if that’s what you want, if you want this to be a one-time thing, I’ll respect it. Your feelings matter more to me than anything else.”
Your hand reaches up around his neck again to draw his face down, to let your lips meet so you can whisper, “Then don’t be stupid. ‘Course I want you. I’ve wanted this for far longer than you, Buck. Promise I have you beat there.”
He hums and you giggle.
“But, maybe we keep this a secret from dad a little bit longer.”
With as much strength as you can muster, you have him tumbling onto the bed, his back landing against your sheets as you crawl on top of him. You nestle your hips right above his before laying your body down on top of him, your bare breasts against his chest. Your teeth nip at his ear as your lips cling to the back of it. Bucky groans, fingers tightening on your waist.
“Don’t tell me you won’t enjoy sneaking around behind his back, fucking me on every surface in this house — or outside for that matter.”
Bucky looks up at you, his eyes glimmering with the kind of adoration that poets write sonnets about. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
⟡˙˖ ıl. pairing. sugar daddy bucky x female reader
⤷ ⟡˙˖ ıl. synopsis. you have been feeling neglected and undesired for the past couple months due to your sugar daddy being called in for work multiple times a day—in solution, you offered a festive ultimatum: "be here, with me, or else i’ll have to remind myself that i have options."
⟡˙˖ ıl. content warning. 18+ MDNI smut (multiple sex scenes. unprotected p in v, teehee shower sex, hair pulling, creampie, fingering, oral - m & f receiving, breeding kink if u squint) porn with a dash of plot, age gap (early twenties reader and mid forties bucky), no use of y/n, lower-case intended. reader is def dickmatized but who wouldn’t be? & bucky is downbad + bucky has a metal arm but this is a modern au (i just have a kink for that metal arm, man. sorry not sorry xx) BDB (big dick bucky heehehhehe)
⟡˙˖ ıl. from lovie. coincidentally, @houseofhyde and i had the same idea for “buy me presents” and decided to write sugar-daddy!bucky. totally different plots, though, so don’t come for me. go check out her hyde-mas masterlist!
to quote what hyde told me, “maybe sugar daddy bucky will be our joshua basset, aka the man that connects us <3” livbrina stans, we rise! insert that low-resolution, zoomed-in photo of sabrina and olivia hugging at the 2025 grammys. (it was monumental.)
main masterlist ⊹ ࣪ ˖ winter masterlist
you met bucky barnes by accident. not the cinematic kind—no spilled drinks, no knowing glances across a room. just you, killing time in a hotel bar you didn’t belong in, wearing something too soft for somewhere that expensive, wondering if you could justify ordering a second drink on someone else’s card.
it started when your supposed date didn’t show up. or maybe he decided he didn’t want to—that part becomes irrelevant the longer you stare at the empty seat across from you.
the plan was simple. nothing fancy, nothing that required effort beyond showing up. that’s why you wore a hoodie, a jacket layered over it to keep the cold from settling into your bones. sweats, your everyday shoes. practical and comfortable.
the diner smelled like coffee and grease. a bell chimed when you slid into the booth, the vinyl was cool against the back of your legs. you set your phone on the table, face-up.
minutes passed. then more.
the waitress refilled your water without asking, her eyes flicking briefly to the empty seat across from you.
then your phone buzzed.
can’t go, sorry lol.
that was it. no explanation. no apology worth the word. just a lazy little lol, tossed in like it might soften the blow. like it might turn embarrassment into something laughable.
you order a drink you don’t really want, just to justify sitting there a little longer. when it comes, you tip the waitress generously because she smiles like she knows you’ve been stood up.
outside, the cold air of december bites through the fabric and straight into your chest. you walk without direction, hands shoved into your pockets, and breath fogging in front of you, until the warm glow of a nearby hotel pulls you in like gravity.
the bar is dim and polished, all low lighting and murmured conversations. you take a seat and immediately order something strong. men notice you quickly—they all offered to buy you a drink but you declined them all politely.
you’re not here to be picked up.
until one businessman manages to break through the blur.
he stops beside the empty stool and asks if the seat next to you is taken. his voice is low, the kind that doesn’t need to compete with the noise of the bar to be heard. it slides in easy (wink wink), almost hypnotic, and you feel yourself straighten up without meaning to.
you tell him no, though it technically is. reserved for your dignity, which you misplaced somewhere between the first sip and the halfway mark of your second drink.
“i’m james barnes,” he says, and instead of immediately sitting, he offers his hand.
you tilt your head, studying him. men who introduce themselves like that usually want something more than a quick night. as attractive as he is—and he is—you’re not here to be impulsive. not tonight.
still, you take his hand. “and i’m married.” you say, flashing him a smile that’s sweet on the surface and unmistakably sarcastic underneath.
he laughs softly, clearly picking up on the tone—and just as clearly taking your words at face value. “you look pretty young to be married, no?”
his eyes sweep the room in an exaggerated, almost theatrical search, scanning nearby tables and passing faces. “i don’t see your husband anywhere.”
“marriage problems, s’why i’m drinking tonight.” you reply easily, lifting your glass and taking a slow sip, letting the lie settle comfortably on your tongue.
“like what? he had an affair?” he signals the bartender for a drink with two fingers.
his gaze never leaves you—not in a way that feels invasive, but attentive. definitely not like the other men who looked at you and immediately started imagining where you’d fit into their night. his gaze lingered, thoughtful.
“look, mr. barnes,” you begin, turning fully toward him this time. “i was lying about being married. i just wanted you to leave me alone.”
he doesn’t interrupt. he watches you with quiet focus, as if weighing the confession rather than reacting to it. then his mouth curves and a low chuckle slips out.
“tell me to leave,” he says. “and i will.”
everything sensible inside you screams to nod, to murmur a polite thanks, retreat back into yourself and finish your drink alone.
but he hasn’t looked away. hasn’t shifted or filled the silence. he’s still there, patient, waiting like he’s got nowhere else he needs to be.
“fuck it,” you whisper, barely louder than your breath, the words tasting reckless as they leave your mouth.
you lean in closer, close enough that the warmth of him seeps into your space, he tilts his head just slightly to hear you over the murmur of the bar.
“stay.” you say softly.
the night moves forward in a way that feels unplanned, shaped by shared glances and the slow warmth of alcohol.
for a while, the two of you sit beside each other without speaking. it isn’t uncomfortable, just unfamiliar, like you’re both aware of the space you’re sharing and waiting to see who will cross it first.
the music hums low in the background, glasses leaving damp rings on the bar as minutes slip by.
eventually, the alcohol settles in enough to loosen your nerves. conversation finds its way back easily, as if it had only stepped aside for a moment.
“i don’t mean to be offensive,” you say, pausing when your words start to blur together. “but how old are you?” the question comes out softer than you intend.
he turns toward you with a quiet laugh, clearly amused. “how old d’ya think i am, sweetheart?” he asks, leaning closer so his voice doesn’t have to compete with the noise around you.
you look away, fixing your attention on the bar instead. even through the haze, you catch the intent behind his tone. he knows exactly what he’s doing, and he isn’t trying to hide it.
“no offense—again,” you add quickly, lifting your glass for a sip. “i’d guess… mid-thirties?”
his laughter comes, deeper this time, like the answer genuinely entertained him. “try older.” you glance back at him, brows lifting despite yourself. “older how?”
he takes a moment before answering, studying you with an expression that feels measured rather than guarded. “old enough to know what i want,” he says. after a brief pause, “and old enough not to pretend otherwise.”
something about the certainty in his words settles into your chest. there’s no embarrassment there, no need to explain or justify himself. just confidence shaped by time and experience.
you turn your glass slowly between your fingers. “and does that usually work?” you ask, attempting to sound casual.
his gaze shifts to you, steady and unmistakably focused. “depends,” he replies. “is it working on you?”
you don’t answer him right away. instead, you turn your head and look toward the bar, letting the moment pass without filling it.
the quiet settles between the two of you again until it fades into the background with every drink you both keep ordering.
after a while, you glance back at him, brow lifting as the thought returns. “it’s a reach if i go past mid thirties?” you ask, voice steadier now that you’ve decided to revisit the topic.
he hums in response and lifts his glass of bourbon, taking a measured sip before shrugging. “i’m flattered.” when he sets the glass down, his attention settles on you again. he looks at you longer than necessary, not in a way that makes you uncomfortable, but with a kind of focus that makes you aware of yourself.
you meet his gaze without looking away, letting it linger right back. the moment stretches until the band hits a louder note, the sudden swell of jazz pulling both of you out of it at once.
you clear your throat, using the interruption to shift things. “can you guess me?” you ask, raising your glass and taking another sip.
he looks at you with mild confusion. “your age?”
you nod, swallowing the sharp taste of your drink. you straighten your posture slightly, pushing your shoulders back as if it might give him a better view to identify how old your features are. you angle your face toward him, silently daring him to get it wrong.
he studies you for a few seconds, his gaze moving over you before dropping back to his glass. “early twenties,” he says, like the answer came easily.
your mouth curves into a wider smile immediately. “ding ding ding,” you reply, playfully, imitating a bell on a game show. “how did you guess that so fast?”
he tilts his head just a bit and clicks his tongue once before answering. “intuition, i guess.”
you watch him for a moment after that, the word settling in your mind. intuition. the way he says it makes it sound like he trusts it. like he’s used to reading people and being right about them. and sitting there beside him, feeling the warmth of alcohol and attention wrapped together, you get the strange sense that he already sees more of you than you meant to show tonight.
and instead of making you pull back, it makes you stay.
silence settles between you again. you busy yourself with your drink, tracing the rim of the glass with your thumb, letting the noise of the bar fill the space instead.
this time, he’s the one who breaks it.
“what are you doing here?” he asks, his voice laced with curiousness. his gaze moves over you, starting at your face and drifting down to your shoes.
it isn’t judgmental. there’s no disapproval in it. if anything, he looks puzzled, like he’s trying to understand how someone dressed like you ended up in a hotel bar filled with tailored suits and polished heels.
you catch on immediately to what he’s asking.
“ah,” you say first, buying yourself a second as you take a sip. the alcohol gives you just enough courage to talk about it.
“a friend set me up with this guy. told me to dress casual.” you let out a small breath, eyes dropping to the bar. “then he bailed when i finally reached the designated spot. didn’t even bother with an explanation.”
your cheeks feel warm, and you keep your gaze fixed anywhere but on him. it isn’t just the outfit that makes you self-conscious. it’s the fact that you got stood up. that you’re sitting here alone, dressed wrong for the room, pretending it doesn’t bother you.
still, you tell yourself it’s better than being overdressed.
“i’m sorry,” he says, and this time there’s no teasing nor flirtiness in his voice. just understanding.
“don’t be,” you reply quickly, shaking your head. “he was an ass over text anyway. i don’t even know why i agreed in the first place.” you huff out a small laugh and take another sip. “dating’s really hard these days.”
he nods, lifting his glass in quiet agreement before taking a slow drink. “tell me about it.”
the way he says it makes you think he means it. like he’s been through it too. and suddenly, sitting here with him, the night doesn’t feel like a loss anymore. it feels like it went exactly where it was supposed to.
as the night stretches on—and as drunk as you allow yourself to get—the flirting stops pretending to be subtle.
you lean closer without thinking, the space between you dissolving drink by drink. your palms slide up to the back of your neck, rubbing at the nape as if to ground yourself.
somewhere between shared laughter and the kind of silence that feels companionable rather than awkward, he settles both your tabs without saying a word.
you only notice when the bartender gives a polite nod in his direction and moves on, already wiping down the counter as if the decision had been expected.
it shouldn’t mean anything. it’s just a gesture. still, it makes your cheeks and chest warm.
you glance at your phone, more out of habit than necessity, and decide this is your cue.
you open your mouth to excuse yourself, already lining up the usual reasons. that it’s late. that you have somewhere to be early the next morning. that you really should go. all the polite exits you’ve perfected over time.
but before the words can leave you, his gaze lifts to yours and holds. he sees it immediately. the shift in your posture, the way you’re already halfway out the door in your head.
the corner of his mouth curves upward as he lets out a soft chuckle. “so soon?” he asks, clicking his tongue once, the sound easy and accepting. there’s no disappointment in it, no attempt to change your mind. just acknowledgment.
he stands from his seat and turns toward you, extending his hands again like he did earlier. polite. a goodbye made to look like a formality.
something about that does it.
you find yourself silently grateful for whatever impulse dragged you into this bar tonight, grateful you didn’t go straight home. before you have time to think better of it, your fingers curl around his tie. you tug him down just enough to meet you, and your lips collide with his.
he stills for a brief moment, caught off guard. surprise flickers across his face. he responds without hesitation, hands settling firmly at your hips, grounding and sure, pulling you closer as if it comes naturally to him.
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you don’t remember the night clearly after that. the details blur together, softened by intoxication and the way everything seemed to move too fast and not fast enough at the same time.
what you do remember comes in fragments.
bucky’s veiny, hard shaft stands upwards, tip leaning against your pussy. slowly, he pushes his whole length inside you. he takes a moment, letting your tight cunt adjust to his size before he starts to slide in and out.
“fuck… hmphh—“ you moan out, eyes closed shut as your nails dig and scratch on his shoulders, whimpering. his pace deliberately starts to fasten. his metal hand—which you had just noticed—squeezed your round tits, moulding them ruthlessly like he owns them.
the bed creaks under as bucky continuously thurst his throbbing cock in and out of you, whispering incoherent sweet nothings into your ear.
your moans were muffled by some fabric—the hotel’s comforter, maybe—as he brings his metal hand that was once placed on your left bosom down to your clit, rubbing the bud.
the feeling of overstimulation washes over you as you scream, hard, onto the pillow. “fuck—james…” you moan but before you could utter another word out, he presses both your lips together, swallowing your moans.
he pulls back, his thrusts sloppy but deliberate. “bucky…” his name leaves his mouth in a breathless whisper. he exhales hard at the sound, close enough that you feel it. you would’ve tilted your head in confusion if the sensation he’s giving you hadn’t already stolen your balance. “call me bucky.”
his palms slowly starts to wander around until it falls upon your thigh, he pins your legs on your shoulders as his thrust starts to fasten, reaching for both your highs.
within a minute, he pours his warm load inside, earning a loud moan from you. “f–fuck! bucky…” his thurst doesn’t stop, he continues to jerk his hip to fill you to the brim of his every drop.
a blink, and you’re standing beneath the spray of a shower, warmth sliding down your skin before disappearing against the tile. the water pours over your back, warm and steady—until you feel him step closer behind you, his presence unmistakable even before he touches you.
his cold metal hand contrasts with the warmth of the water tracing your body, making you shiver at the unexpected chill of his touch. you feel him pressing his body against your back, his lips slightly kissing your shoulder as his big, rough and calloused hands start to roam on your curves.
your breath catches when you feel his cock, already hard, press between your thighs, his lips press soft, gentle kisses on the curve of your shoulder.
his metal hand that was once placed on your hip to ground you slowly slides up, cupping your breast, his thumb circling your nipple, slow and torturous. you press back against him, moaning.
you feel his flesh hand grip on your hip before it leaves to guide his hardened cock between your folds. he slides it through your slick heat, letting the water and where your flush of desire gather.
he groans like he's been holding back for too long, and then he slams into you. you cry out, pulling away from his chest as your forehead hits the wet tiles, softly,
your arms are braced against the wall as he starts thrusting hard, relentlessly driving into you with the sound of water as skin and moans echoing all around.
“fuck, you feel so good like this,” he pants against your neck, one hand on your waist, the other sliding around to rub your clit in rough little circles. “s’fucking tight, sweetheart.” he groans.
you feel the pressure building fast as his cock hits deep and perfect, brushing over your spot over and over again. bucky then grabs a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back so your back arches just for him.
“look at you,” he growls, fucking you harder, deeper. “y’gonna come for me in this shower? make a mess all over my cock while the water washes it down the drain?”
you nod furiously, “shit—yes!” you screamed, nails scratching on the glass barrier, your breasts are pressed against the wall. a small, subtle smirk forms at his lips when he feels your walls clench around him.
your body intensifies as your climax shatters. your legs start to tremble, voice breaking as your orgasm crashes through you, waves of heat pulsing around his cock while he fucks you through it, chasing his own release.
“fuck baby, i’m g-gonna fill you up.” another more brutal thrust, he groans, spilling inside you, filling you to the brim as the water keeps pouring down your bodies.
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it didn’t start as an arrangement. not officially. it began quietly. dinners that stretched late into the night. one meal turned into another, then into weekends away where time seemed to loosen its grip on both of you.
weekends turned into small, careful gestures. envelopes slipped into your bag “for convenience,” always phrased like an afterthought, never framed as obligation. gifts followed, expensive but considered, chosen with enough attention that they felt personal rather than transactional.
he never said the word sugar. neither did you.
you liked how steady he was. how he never seemed in a hurry to define things, to rush toward labels or expectations. he moved with certainty, like he already knew where he stood and didn’t need to prove it. being with him felt grounding in a way you hadn’t realized you were missing.
he never asked you to be his girlfriend.
and strangely, that never bothered you.
the relationship stayed unlabeled, floating somewhere between companionship and something deeper. you didn’t need a title to understand what it was. the way he spoiled you without hesitation, the way he paid attention to the small details of your days, the way he made space for you in his life without making it feel like a negotiation. it all spoke louder than any label ever could.
you already knew what it was, even if no one said it out loud. and for a long time, that was more than enough.
one night, during one of your date nights—the seventh, if you were counting—he takes you somewhere romantic, a table tucked in a quiet corner for just the two of you.
amid shared laughter and stolen bites from each other’s plates, the evening takes on a softness you don’t quite know what to do with. candlelight reflects in his glass, in the careful way he watches you like he’s memorizing the moment.
at some point, he reaches across the table. not abruptly. not like he’s about to make a grand declaration. his hand comes to rest near yours, close enough that you feel the warmth of him.
his voice stays steady, calm, but there’s intention behind it. his eyes don’t wander. they stay on you.
he tells you he wants you to move in with him.
the words land heavier than you expect, tightening something in your chest. not with fear, but with the weight of being chosen so plainly. there’s no dramatic buildup, no pressure in his tone. it feels like an offer he’s already thought through, one he wouldn’t make unless he meant it.
the answer comes easily, instinctively, before doubt has a chance to creep in.
you say yes.
the relief that crosses his face is subtle, but you catch it. his thumb brushes against your fingers. and in that quiet exchange, it feels like something shifts.
by the next day, boxes are stacked neatly around his house, your favorite things already finding corners and shelves as if they’d always belonged there.
you stand outside, watching as the movers carry box after box into his sprawling home. the sound of wood scraping against the porch and the faint hum of conversation from the movers fills the space between you, but it feels distant, like background noise to everything else.
he’s behind you. arms wrapped around your waist, firm and warm, sliding down until his palms settle casually tucked in the back pockets of your jeans.
he turns just enough to greet the movers with a polite smile. you notice the neighbors peeking from behind curtains and over fences. judging, no doubt, silently questioning what a girl your age is doing moving in with a man like him.
and yes, bucky isn’t exactly young. far from it, actually. his crow’s feet become visible when he smiles, and the salt-and-pepper streaks in his beard have grown long enough to remind anyone who looks that he isn’t getting any younger.
but that’s exactly what you like about him. the way he carries himself—not frantic, not chaotic. bucky’s relaxed, more intentional than most men your age, who wake up at five in the afternoon just to hit the club, chase fleeting highs, or pretend they have their lives together.
bucky doesn’t need to prove anything, and somehow, that makes him irresistible. you rest your head briefly against his chest, inhale the faint scent of his cologne mixed with leather and old books, and feel a rare, quiet kind of contentment settle over you.
the first night you stay over properly, you wander through the cabin barefoot, touching things like you’re cataloging them. the place smells like cedar and coffee and something faintly metallic, like winter air trapped inside wood. it’s too big for one person, you think.
bucky watches you from the doorway, arms crossed. he doesn’t hover, he just lets you exist in the space, lets the place learn you.
you stop in front of a bookshelf that takes up an entire wall. hardcovers, spines worn, margins bent and annotated. nothing decorative, everything looked used.
“you’ve read all of these?” you ask, glancing back at him.
“most,” he says. then, after a beat, “some more than once.” he shifts his weight slightly, pushing off the table with his hip. his gaze never leaves yours as he walks over toward where you’re standing.
you hum, running a finger along the spines. “that explains a lot.” he arches a brow. “what’s that supposed to mean?”
“you don’t talk like a guy who lives on energy drinks and podcasts,” you reply lightly. he laughs under his breath, shaking his head.
“is that the bar now?” bucky takes a careful step closer. the space between you shrinks until you’re well within his reach, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off him, the quiet steadiness of his presence.
his arm slips around your waist, drawing you back against him until your breasts meets his chest. his hand settles at your side, thumb brushing lightly as if to anchor you.
“for men my age?” you glance up at him, chin tipping just enough to meet his eyes. he raises a brow in response, the corner of his mouth twitching as the unspoken question hangs between you—“are you calling me old?”
you laugh softly. fingers trail over his chest, following the solid line of him like you’re proving a point. “absolutely,”
your fingers drift lower, brushing against the edge of his pants, a teasing touch you can’t seem to stop. without a word, bucky leans in.
his lips meet yours. your body instinctively leans into his, the press of him against you warm and steady. his hands find your waist, holding you closer, and for a heartbeat, the rest of the world doesn’t exist.
he pulls back slightly, just enough that he can study your expression, and silence settles between you. it isn’t heavy or uncomfortable, but it hangs in the air, expectant.
his eyes roam over your face slowly, slipping from your eyes to your lips and back again.
“doll,” he murmurs, and before you can respond, his arms that circle around you, pulls you closer. it’s not possessive; it’s steady, grounding. the press of his chest against yours feels like an anchor, tethering you to the moment and to him.
your palms rise to rest lightly against his chest, tracing the fabric of his shirt as if for reassurance. you tilt your head upward toward him, letting out a soft hum in response.
“remind me,” he says, voice low, carrying a weight that pulls your attention fully to him.
you raise a brow, a small, confused smile tugging at your lips. “bucky… what are you talking about?” you ask, curiosity laced behind your tone.
he doesn’t answer immediately. instead, he studies you, his gaze patient, like he’s weighing how much to reveal, or maybe just savoring the anticipation.
“that night,” he starts, voice softer now. “when we both were drunk.”
something clicks in your mind. the memory surfaces, hazy at first, like smoke curling in the air, then sharpening. you know exactly what he’s talking about.
you shift slightly, still pressed against him, your head brushing his chest, and you let out a small, soft sigh. he tightens his hold just a fraction.
that night in the hotel bar feels both like yesterday and a lifetime ago. the drinks blurred the edges of everything. and the next morning, you woke up to the quiet weight of him beside you, the sheets tangled around both of you, bodies bare and pressed together.
as much as you cherished how that one night had shifted the course of your life, you sometimes regretted being drunk enough to forget. not the act itself—you had no complaints there—but the details, the little fragments of touch, of words, of laughter lost to the haze of alcohol.
since that night, no matter how many dates you had gone on, how many weekend trips or long months spent in each other’s company, that night remained the first and only time you had slept together. not that you minded. you liked that he had been careful—a gentleman in every sense, even when everything else had been reckless.
“i don’t know,” you admit softly, tracing lazy circles on his chest with your fingertips, “i don’t remember half of what happened.” the words come out slow, a little unsure.
“all i know is that i enjoyed myself with you.” you tilt your head, meeting his eyes briefly before letting them fall, offering reassurance.
he doesn’t look away. his gaze holds steady, fixed on you. “i want you sober,” he says, voice low, insistent but gentle. “i want to remember all of it.”
“we can make a new memory of that night, if that’s what you want,” you murmur, letting a suggestive, teasing smile curl at the corner of your lips. it’s subtle enough to catch his attention, enough to pull a similar response from him.
his own lips twitch in amusement, that small, knowing smile that always seems to promise something more than words ever could.
then he leans in, pressing his mouth to yours. the kiss starts soft and you respond in kind, meeting him halfway.
his hands, which had once rested at your waist, slide down, wrapping under your thighs, lifting you effortlessly off the ground. your arms instinctively loop around his neck, fingers tangling in the strands of his hair as your legs bend slightly, molding your weight against his body.
he doesn’t break the kiss. he deepens it slowly, lips moving against yours with patient intensity, letting the moment build.
he presses your back gently against the wall. your bare feet press against the cold marble floor. bucky’s warmth radiates from his body pressing against you.
his metal hand moves slowly, deliberately, rising to cup your face. the coolness of the metal contrasts with the heat of his touch, sending a shiver through you.
he pulls you in closer, closer than you could have imagined, until your foreheads almost touch and the world around you feels distant.
he pulls back just slightly, giving both of you a moment to catch your breath from the kiss. both your chests rise and fall rapidly, breaths heavy and uneven, as your eyes lock.
his gaze is intent, questioning almost, the kind of look that asks for your consent without words, his doe eyes asks if this is still what you want.
you don’t hesitate. you nod, letting him know that yes, this is what you want. yes, he has permission, even if it feels like he’s asking just to be certain.
he leans down again, slower this time, letting the moment linger. his lips brush yours briefly before moving lower, and you feel the warmth of him against your neck.
his teeth graze slightly, teasing, before settling into a more insistent press, lips and tongue tracing your skin in a way that makes your head tilt back instinctively.
the wall behind you holds you in place, your hands find their way to his shoulders, then his hair, as your body reacts to the steady motion of his touch.
reflexively, you let out a moan when bucky’s lips start to suck on your collarbone, leaving behind red marks that you know for sure will darken overtime.
his tongue traces over your bruised skin, almost comforting, before his knees start to bend down. finally, he kneels in front of you as he holds straight and steady eye contact.
your hands never leaves his hair, fingers tangling along while he stares at you with complete admiration. his hands move lower along with his body, until it stops to tug at the waistband of your pajama pants.
again, his eyes asks for consent to which you unspokenly respond to by the second time. you nod. and immediately, without hesitation, bucky pulls your pants down, exposing your lace panties and bare thighs to his greedy, lustful gaze.
he places his palm in your inner thigh, gesturing you to open wider for him to which you undoubtedly obliged. his hands slowly crawls upward to your pulsing heat.
he pushes your panties aside as his fingers work their magic on your clit. “fuck… you’re so wet.” he says, his fingers—two, to be exact—slowly slides inside of your hole.
he pulls his digits away as fast as he enters you. immediately, in response, you whine. “bucky…fuck—what? are you kidding me?”
he doesn’t give you time to even utter another sentence out, he pulls your panties down and takes your leg, one by one, placing it each on his shoulders.
all your weight shifted to his upper body and bucky—strong and steady as ever—hasn’t so much as flinched nor has complained.
he latches his lips on your clit and immediately, almost as if on instinct, you throw your head back, moaning, as your eyes roll backwards caused by the immense pleasure of his tongue.
his metal hand move from your thighs down to the waistband of his sweatpants, pulling it down as he frees his throbbing cock. his length sprung out, hitting his abs in the process, your take a glance down, and a gasp leaves your mouth.
sure, you’d been drunk that night—but you definitely didn’t expect, nor remember, him being that big. bucky’s lips twitch into a knowing smirk the moment he hears a sharp gasp leave your lips.
he pulls back, looking at you with the softest, almost puppy-like eyes he can manage—like whatever he’s doing is completely innocent, which only makes the irony of it all worse.
he takes his large cock in his hands, stroking it up and down gently as he maintains soft, steady eye contact with you. “that’s gonna stretch your pussy open, baby.”
he guides your right leg back down until your foot meets the carpet. your knees nearly give out when you realize they don’t quite work the way they did before. you would’ve fallen if not for bucky’s arms catching you just in time, steady and firm around you.
“careful now, honey,” he murmurs.
he lowers your left foot to the carpet as he slowly straightens, his flesh hand lingering, tracing the familiar lines of your curves. now you’re face to face with him—almost. you still have to tilt your chin up, just a little, to meet his gaze.
bucky teases his large tip to your entrance as you whine, rocking your hips, desperate and searching for any type of friction. “shit—bucky… bucky, please.” you beg, needy for the stretch.
“oh, honey. there’s no need to beg.” without giving you much space to respond, he thrusts his hip so quick that you didn’t even have the time to adjust to his size. your newly painted nails dig on his back as he continues to fuck himself into you.
“b-buck…” his pace fastens, his large cock slides in and out of you easily. he leans over, colliding both your lips together as he swallows your moans. “fuck…” he groans, biting your lower lip before dipping down to press a trail of wet kisses down your collarbone.
his metal hand grabs ahold of your bosom, squeezing onto them, thumbs flicking across your perky nipples as he makes use of his mouth. as you throw your head back, he takes it as an opportunity to make your body his own canvas.
“remind me—fuck—remind me how hard i came that night because of you.” he thrusts harder. his words were so explicit but you could still hear a gentle sweetness behind his tone. and as much as you want to answer him, you can’t help it—soft moaning sounds slip past your lips before you can even stop them.
“i’m gonna—” the words leave you unfinished, breathless, but he understands anyway.
“yes, baby. that’s right,” bucky murmurs softly, his voice steady and reassuring. “let it out f’me, hm?” his metal fingers glide over your skin, a gentle encouragement, like he’s guiding you all the way through it.
his flesh hand cups your face, caressing it as if to help you reach your climax. it wasn’t long before you a wave of pleasure washes over you when you reached your high.
bucky, though, hasn’t stopped fucking himself into you while he chases for his climax making your knees weaken, barely holding you upright as you cling to his muscular arms, relying on him to keep you steady.
he pulls out when he finally feels that he’s only a couple strokes left to finish. he holds onto you, grounding you to stay up while he jerks his cock, lining it up to your stomach as he spills his hot load to your skin.
“fuck, look at you.” he says with the most admiring expression. “y’gonna have to clean up,” he murmurs before pressing his lips onto yours for a quick peck.
“you’re not tired, are you?” he asks softly, searching your face when he notices how close you are to slipping away from reality and straight into dream land—eyes heavy, grip loose, barely anchored to the moment. you manage a small shake of your head in response.
“good,” he murmurs, a faint smile playing on his lips. “let’s take a shower… and recreate that night.”
for someone you’d half-jokingly expected to be slowed down by age, bucky’s stamina completely caught you off guard.
that night left you pleasantly sore and thoroughly spent, to the point where morning came with stiff movements and a slow, careful waddle from one end of the room to the other.
he trailed after you the entire time, apologizing under his breath, hands hovering like he wasn’t sure whether to help or admire—though the fond amusement in his eyes gave him away.
still, guilt won out. by the time you were fully awake, bucky was there with flowers in hand, your favorite breakfast laid out neatly, and that apologetic smile he only ever wore for you.
he leaned down to press a gentle kiss to your lips, like he was making a quiet promise to take better care of you—at least until next time.
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it’s been months since you moved in. long enough that his place no longer feels like a hotel you’re visiting, but not long enough to forget that it was his long before it was yours.
at first, it was fun. waking up in his bed, barefoot mornings in a kitchen with his shirts finding their way into your laundry without either of you acknowledging it.
you liked how easy it felt. how everything just appeared where you needed it. groceries stocked. gas tank full. your card already linked to his accounts.
you didn’t even notice when his attention started splitting. not at first.
it happens on a quiet afternoon. you’re stretched out on the couch, legs draped over his lap while he scrolls through his phone with one hand, the other resting loosely on your thigh. it’s absent, casual, like you’re something he’s used to touching without thinking.
then his phone buzzes. once. twice. and the third time earns an eye roll from you.
you feel it before you see it. the shift in him. the way his jaw tightens slightly and the way his thumb stills against your skin. “work,” he says, already halfway gone.
you hum in response, pretending not to care how his hand slips away as he stands. you tell yourself you’re not that person—the jealous one—you’ve never needed to compete for attention before.
still, when he comes back, phone tucked away like nothing happened, you don’t move your legs back into his lap right away.
and then work started calling more often. you tried to fill the gaps, the hours he was gone, with distractions that looked beautiful from its exterior. long shopping trips where the weight of bags did nothing to fill the emptiness inside.
dinners in softly lit restaurants where the wine tasted sweet, but conversation didn’t quite reach your heart. the quiet of the home, once comforting with him there, now felt hollow, even if every corner still smelled just faintly like him.
you kept busy, told yourself it was normal, told yourself he would return. and for a while, it worked.
until the days grew shorter, and the calendar flipped to late november, and you realized how long it had been since he’d been fully present—not just physically, but fully there, the way he always used to be.
and then december came faster than you expected. the season of giving, of warmth and cheer, of expectation wrapped up in shiny paper and ribbons.
everywhere you looked, lights blinked, bells jingled, and every corner of the city seemed to promise togetherness.
yet here you were, counting the hours, watching the calendar tick forward, feeling the absence more than ever.
it wasn’t that you wanted gifts, not really. it was the reminder that even as the world celebrated togetherness, you were waiting. and you had options.
now, that unlabeled relationship you had with bucky started to gnaw at your mood. it wasn’t that he didn’t care—it was that the absence, the uncertainty that begun to settle into your chest like a quiet weight.
you sighed, curling deeper into the throw blanket on the couch, letting it envelop you like a shield against the emptiness.
your fingers scrolled mindlessly over your phone, until the screen lit up with his contact photo. for a moment, your chest tightened, and then a small smile tugged at your lips despite yourself.
without hesitation, your thumbs slid over the screen, tapping accept before the third ring even finished.
his face appeared, slightly grainy through the video, framed by the dim light of the hotel room he was staying in for the meantime.
tired, yes—but still devastatingly handsome, the way he always seemed to be even at the end of a long, exhausting day.
“hi, pretty,” he said, his voice low and warm. his eyes, heavy with fatigue, held yours through the screen, and your gaze lingered.
the white shirt he wore clung slightly to his chest, the buttons straining just a touch, and his tie was loosened, lying casually around his neck. he was sitting on the floor as it seems, laptop propped up on a small table, and the sight of him made your stomach flutter in a way you hadn’t expected.
“hey,” you whispered back, wishing more than anything that you could reach through the screen and pull him into your arms. “busy day?”
“yeah,” he admitted, running a hand through the disheveled hair at the back of his neck. “sorry i didn’t call sooner.”
you forced a small smile, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “it’s fine. i get it… work’s been… work.”
he nodded, his gaze never leaving yours, but you could see it—etched into the lines of his face, the slight slump of his shoulders. the weight of stress pressed on him, and despite all your attempts to stay busy, to distract yourself with shopping trips and dinners and meaningless errands, a wave of longing swept over you.
you missed him. missed his laugh, the low rumble that always made you grin. missed the way his arm would find its way around your shoulders, holding you close without a word. missed how even the most ordinary days, when shared with him, felt somehow extraordinary.
“i was, uh… i was about to eat dinner,” you tell him, holding up the wooden spatula you’d been using to cook so it appeared in the frame.
his eyes widen slightly—not in surprise, but with that quiet interest he always had, the way he seemed curious about the smallest details of your life, as if he wanted to watch everything you did, even something as simple as eating, through the screen.
“what’re you having?” he asks, leaning a little closer to the camera, as if he could somehow peer past it. you shrug, letting your shoulders relax, and reply, “oh, just some veggies.”
he sighs, a low sound that carries more than just longing. “fuck, i missed your homecooked meals,” he mutters, the words soft but heavy, carrying a quiet weight of nostalgia and desire.
you stab a vegetable with your fork, lifting it slowly to your mouth and chew. the mundane motion somehow feels intimate now, shared across distance. “better come home soon,” you joke lightly, but even as the words leave your lips, there’s an undercurrent of truth neither of you needs to say out loud.
he watches you, eyes attentive, jaw slackening just slightly at the sight, and in the quiet that follows, you both feel the weight of the missing pieces in your days.
a small, playful thought nudged at the edge of your mind. maybe he just needed a little reminder. you leaned closer to the screen, tilting your head in that way you knew made him pause, smile threatening at the corner of your lips.
“bucky…” you began, teasing, letting the word linger just long enough to catch his attention. “it’s december… the season of giving gifts.”
he raised a brow. “yeah?” he asked, his voice lazy but amused, warm enough to make your chest tighten.
you leaned closer to the camera, letting the light catch the curve of your cheek, the small, sly smirk that formed unbidden.
“when are you gonna buy me presents?” you asked, words laced with playful mock seriousness, though neither of you needed to pretend. you didn’t need presents—not really. what you needed was him, just him.
“you have my card, doll,” he said, chin resting on his palm as he leaned toward the camera, the dim light casting shadows that made his tired eyes look sharper, intent. “you can spend as much as you’d like.”
you forced a casual shrug, pressing your lips together as if to hide the flicker of disappointment, shoving another vegetable into your mouth.
“right,” you muttered, chewing slowly, trying to seem indifferent.
you swallowed, glancing up at him, and for a moment, the world narrowed to the two of you, his smile faint but knowing, and the unspoken understanding that what you truly wanted wasn’t something wrapped in paper. it was him.
“when will you be coming home?” you ask, trying to keep your tone casual, though there’s a tightness in your chest you can’t hide.
“soon,” he replies, voice calm, measured.
“soon?” you echo, but this time the word is edged with frustration.
it’s not just the hours he’s spent away—it’s the accumulation of weeks, of vague timelines, of an unlabeled relationship that’s been hovering over you for a year.
maybe it’s because you miss him. maybe it’s because the ambiguity of it all gnaws at your nerves. maybe it’s because he has this way of keeping everything vague enough that your mind can’t stop wandering down paths it knows it shouldn’t.
as much as you trust bucky—and you do, more than anyone—you can’t help it. the doubts creep in, tiny at first, then growing.
what if he’s cheating? what if he’s… married? had kids? the thought is absurd, impossible even, yet your mind insists on entertaining it. the unspoken lack of labels only gives these fears fuel.
bucky’s face on the screen shifts slightly, his brow furrowing as he tilts his head, perceptive even through a call. “y’mad at me, doll?” he asks, voice gentle, unaware of just how sharp your irritation has grown.
you let out a short, bitter laugh, pressing your palms to your face for a moment before pulling them down. “i don’t know… just—just come home. soon.” you emphasize the word soon, dragging it out like a warning, a plea, and a demand all at once.
before he can respond, before you can hear the soft reassurance you know he’d offer, you hang up. the screen goes black, and the quiet hits you in full force.
and even though your chest aches and the frustration still lingers, you can’t deny the truth underneath it all: you just want him. not excuses, not explanations—just him.
────────────────────────
the fight from that night was resolved when you woke up the next morning to a knock at the door instead of an apology in person—a massive and excessive arrangement of flowers delivered straight to the house, petals still cold from the morning air. tucked between them was a simple card, written in his familiar handwriting.
i’ll make it up to you.
and he did.
calls came more often after that. gifts—expensive ones at that—started appearing where arguments used to sit. it was his way of smoothing things over, of fixing without ever quite naming what had gone wrong.
by the time he finally returned from the business trip, jet-lagged and smelling like his usual expensive cologne, that’s when the thought crossed your mind.
an ultimatum—petty? maybe. selfish? definitely.
but who could blame you, when you were expected to share him with work like it was another person in the relationship?
at this point, you would even consider this “relationship” a three-way.
he drops his bag by the door as he loosens his tie, walking in, his eyes are already scanning the room until they land on you. you’re seated comfortably, legs crossed, drink in hand—a red wine, to be exact—watching him like you have all the time in the world.
“miss me?” he asks, voice warm and teasing.
you hum noncommittally, taking a slow sip. “maybe.”
he smirks, taking a deliberate step closer, his hand stretching toward you but you shift just enough, and his fingers meet nothing but air—not rejection, just a subtle claim of control.
his smirk falters for the briefest second as he pauses, studying you, noticing the small defiance in your movement.
“what’s that look for, doll?”
you tilt your head, eyes flicking to the still-packed bag, then back to him. “nothing,” you say, believably sweet but there’s a pause that betrays you. “just thinking.”
he knows better than to push. instead, he shrugs off his jacket, rolls his sleeves up, lets them fall just right, and sinks into the space like he owns it. like he owns you. the faint scent of him fills the room, close enough that your skin prickles.
maybe that’s exactly what sparks it—his calm confidence, the way he moves without asking, the way he expects you to notice and not resist.
you hadn’t meant to become that person. the one who watches the clock. the one who feels irritation bloom when his phone lights up. but somehow, somewhere between silk sheets and shared closets, you did.
tonight is no different.
he’s halfway through loosening his cufflinks when the phone buzzes. without even glancing at the screen, he lets out a low sigh and shakes his head.
“they need me,” he mutters, already reaching for his coat, the motion practiced, habitual.
you don’t respond immediately. instead, you take your time swirling the last bit of your drink in the glass—like an overdramatic villain in some silly movie—letting the amber liquid catch the light. your eyes follow him with a slow, deliberate intensity, noting the slight crease between his brows, the way his shirt clings to his chest beneath the tailored jacket.
“of course they do,” you say lightly, voice calm, casual as you let the words hang just long enough to catch him off guard.
he pauses, hand frozen on the coat, glancing back at you. “i’ll be quick,” he says, tone soft and apologetic, like he assumes he’s already forgiven before you’ve even spoken.
a smile tugs at your lips, but it isn’t warm, and it certainly isn’t sweet. it’s edged with mischief and a pinch of irritation you don’t bother hiding. “you always are,” you reply, watching the faint flicker of recognition—or is it guilt?—cross his face.
he hesitates again, suspiciously watching your careful movements and your slightly condescending undertone.
the phone in his hand, the weight of it heavy against his palm as you let the silence stretch, letting him feel it, letting him wonder how long you’ll let him get away with it this time.
the unspoken ultimatum hangs thick in the air. he can feel it, just as clearly as you do, and there’s a flicker in his eyes—curiosity, maybe caution—but mostly, he knows exactly what’s coming, and for once, he’s powerless to stop it.
he stops in his tracks. his brows knit together as he turns to face you fully. “what’s that supposed to mean?” he asks, the edge in his voice betraying that he’s already feeling a mix of anticipation and apprehension.
it’s not that you want him to put you before his work, but his constant comings and goings have started to feel like more absence than presence. the stretches of time he’s gone outnumber the moments he actually stays, and you can’t help but notice, counting the hours and the empty space he leaves behind.
you set your glass down with slow precision, the faint clink punctuating the tension. standing, you move with unhurried confidence, heels clicking softly against the floor in measured rhythm.
each step closes the distance between you until the space separating you is negligible.
“it means,” you murmur, letting your fingers slide over the fabric of his chest, smoothing the jacket he’s about to leave in, straightening the lines as if correcting more than just fabric, “that you’re very good at disappearing.”
his jaw tightens, a flicker of irritation crossing his otherwise calm features. “doll—” he begins, but you stop him effortlessly with a single, soft tap to his tie, a corrective motion that feels casual yet commanding.
“no,” you say, “let me finish.”
and he does. because he knows better than to interrupt when the tension in your tone carries authority, when your presence alone demands attention.
he lets you, eyes darkening with curiosity and something far more instinctive, as if he already senses that this moment has shifted. that whatever control he thought he had is slipping right through his fingers.
you step closer. not enough to touch him—just enough that he can smell your perfume, feel the warmth of your body in his space. it’s intentional. you want him aware. you want him focused.
“i moved into your house,” you continue, voice calm in a way that makes the words sharper. “i wear your clothes. i sleep in your bed. i get spoiled, taken out, bought things without asking.”
your fingers trail down the front of his jacket, slow, almost idle, tracing the line of his torso like you’re inventorying what’s yours.
“but lately?” you pause, looking up at him through your lashes. “i feel like a very well-kept inconvenience.”
that lands exactly where you want it to.
his shoulders drop just a fraction, the smallest crack in his composure.
his jaw tightens. “that’s not fair,” he says, but there’s no real conviction behind it.
you tilt your head, studying him. “isn’t it?”
silence stretches between you. then his phone buzzes again, intrusive. you glance down at it pointedly, then back up at him, unimpressed.
“here’s the thing,” you say, tone bordering on bored, like this conversation is almost beneath you. “i’m not asking for labels. i’m not asking for you to buy me presents. i’m asking for presence.”
he exhales through his nose, eyes never leaving yours. “and if i can’t?” he asks, testing you.
you smile then, condescendingly, letting the sharp curve of your lips linger just long enough to make him uneasy.
“then i’ll remind myself that i have options.” there it was—the ultimatum.
and that does it.
his hand rises slowly, hovering at your waist, just shy of touching, as if testing the air between you.
the heat radiating off him, the subtle brush of his presence—it’s all deliberate. “you threatening me?” he asks, his voice low but threaded with a tension you can hear, feel, even through his calm tone.
“no,” you answer softly, letting the words stretch. “i’m informing you.”
another pause stretches between you, longer this time, thick with unspoken challenges and anticipation.
your eyes lock on his, watching the subtle shift in his expression—bucky’s tightening at his jaw, the almost imperceptible hitch of his breath, the way his chest rises just a little faster.
every fraction of a movement is magnified, a silent admission that he knows exactly what you mean and exactly what’s at stake.
his phone buzzes again, a faint vibration on the table, and you let your eyes flick to it.
a small smirk tugs at your lips. you let the moment linger, the power dynamics twisting between the two of you like a slow dance. the world outside ceases to exist: the phone, the work, the obligations—it’s all secondary to this precise, taut moment.
finally, with a careful exhale, he reaches for the table. his hand moves over the surface, brushing the phone before he sets it face down.
the click echoes softly, disproportionately loud in the quiet room. and just like that, he’s fully present, if only by intention, leaving the distractions behind the buzzing world outside, his attention’s left only to you and the unspoken challenge between you.
he’s yours now, entirely aware of it—and entirely helpless against the pull you’ve set in motion.
“i’m sorry,” he says at last. no dramatics. no excuses. just the truth, laid bare between you. “i got comfortable.”
you hum softly, the sound slow and pleased, like you’d been waiting for him to say exactly that. “you did.”
bucky steps closer, closing the space you’d left between you. this time, there’s no hesitation. his hand settles at your waist, firm, as if he’s grounding you.
his thumb pressing in just enough to remind you how easily he can hold you there. “won’t happen again,” he adds.
you tilt your head up to look at him through your lashes, letting the silence stretch. “and tonight?” you ask lightly, as if you’re only half-interested in the answer.
he doesn’t miss a beat. he leans in, close enough that his breath brushes your lips, his voice dropping into something private, intimate. “work can wait.”
“good.” you murmur.
his grip tightens just slightly at your waist. his other hand—the metal one—comes up, fingers brushing your jaw, tilting your face just enough to keep your attention where he wants it.
whatever came next was no longer about work, or waiting, or options. it was about him making it up to you.
and whatever apology he owes you next, he clearly plans on delivering it without words.
but first, a thought crosses his mind. he pauses, letting his gaze linger on you, taking in the subtle rise of your brow, the soft curve of your lips, the way your hair falls around your shoulders.
for a moment, he just watches, quietly. “tell you what,” he says finally. “i’ll take you somewhere tonight.”
you raise an eyebrow, the faintest smile tugging at your lips. “oh?” you murmur, letting your curiosity show, letting him feel that little flicker of anticipation he’s always so good at stirring in you.
“it’s still early in the night,” he adds, lifting his flesh arm to check his wristwatch. “6 pm,” he murmurs, almost to himself, before pulling you closer into his hug.
the heat of his chest pressing against you as his hands settle at the small of your back, firm and warm, and you can feel the weight of him there.
“m’sure there are still stores open,” he teases, his voice low and playful, carrying just the right hint of a challenge. “come on—let’s go spend all that hard-earned money.”
you hum softly in response, nodding, feeling a rush of something that’s equal parts satisfaction and longing.
you don’t actually need to spend anything, not really—you both know that—but indulging in a little retail therapy feels like claiming a piece of him that’s been absent too long.
it feels like reclaiming some control, too, letting the space of the house, the long stretches of empty hours, finally bend in your favor.
“maybe some christmas lights?” you suggest, letting your hand brush over the fabric of his jacket as he draws you even closer.
“whatever you want, sweetheart,” he murmurs, pressing a soft, fleeting kiss to the crown of your head, enough to remind you of the warmth and power he carries, even in casual gestures.
you let your own words continue, ignoring the sweetness for now. “this place could use a little lights. i haven’t gotten around to decorating it yet.”
he pulls back just enough to study your face, a mock frown forming that’s more amused than anything. “then what have you been doing all day while i’m gone?”
you tilt your head, pretending to think, letting your smirk widen. “other than being an online tutor… sulking,” your fingers trace the edge of his tie, a small gesture that makes his chest tighten slightly under your touch.
he lets out a low, rumbling laugh, a sound that vibrates against your side as he holds you a fraction closer.
────────────────────────
you both end up spending far more than you’d intended, but it isn’t mindless or careless. each purchase is deliberate—presents for your nieces and nephews, small decorative touches to make the house festive.
what you don’t notice, though, is the quiet mischief bucky slips in. when you linger over a glittering ornament, indecisive between two styles, he murmurs something about excusing himself and vanishes to the “bathroom.”
what you assume is a mundane errand is anything but. somewhere nearby, bucky barnes moves with the precision you’ve come to expect, selecting a small, sleek box. black silk peeks from the corner as he smiles to himself.
it’s intimate and entirely him: a black lingerie set, chosen not at random but with an intent that leaves no room for misunderstanding.
you’re standing in the kitchen, your newly bought items carefully lined up on the counter, slowly unpacking them, ready to be used—excluding the gifts meant for friends and family, of course.
you had immediately changed into something comfortable the moment you got home, shedding the layers of the day, and so had bucky. somewhere in the bedroom, he was swapping his suit and tie for the casual clothes you rarely see him in.
then you hear heavy footsteps approaching. your attention shifts instinctively, and when you glance up, you catch sight of him. gray sweatpants hug his hips, nothing on top. the sharp lines of his chiseled abs, the curve of his broad shoulders, and the defined sculpt of his biceps immediately draw your gaze, leaving you momentarily breathless.
a slow, knowing smirk tugs at the corner of his lips.
reflexively, you glance away, pretending not to notice him, though your pulse betrays your awareness. he steps closer, two feet away, his presence pressing against yours in a way that’s impossible to ignore.
as you carefully pull the decorations from their plastic packaging, untangling the strings of lights and fluffing small ornaments, bucky suddenly places a small, neatly wrapped gift in front of you.
you glance at the gift, then at him, then back again, curiosity prickling at your skin. “what’s this?” you ask, lifting the box from the kitchen counter.
your hands are still dusted with the glitter from the ornaments. you’ve been unpacking the christmas lights, both of you promising that tonight would be about decorating, about being together—and now this unexpected addition catches you off guard.
his eyes glint with amusement—something tells you he’s thought about this longer than you realize. he leans closer, voice low and teasing. “go on, princess. open it.”
you tilt your head, raising an eyebrow, letting your gaze linger on him for a moment before returning to the box. “when did you find the time to buy this?” you ask, voice light but tinged with disbelief.
your fingers brush over the wrapping paper, running along the edges slowly as though savoring the mystery.
his grin widens, that rare, almost boyish look he gets when he’s pleased with himself and knows exactly how much attention he’s caught.
“when i went to the ‘bathroom,’” he replies, as if the explanation is perfectly reasonable, though the slight twitch at the corner of his lips betrays the mischief behind it.
you laugh playfully scoffing, shaking your head. “you’re so full of excuses.”
finally, shifting your gaze back to the box, you tear at the wrapping paper with impatience, letting the crinkle of the paper fill the space between you.
as it falls away, your fingers brush against the smooth black silk inside, and your breath catches ever so slightly.
he watches you like a kid giving their crush a secret santa gift. you notice the way he shifts, he way his jaw flexes as he observes your reaction.
when you finally see what the box contains, your fingers brushing over the silky fabric. you lift the lingerie out of the box, letting it fall back into the packaging and then catching his eyes again. there’s a quiet tension now, a mix of anticipation and playful control.
you glance back up at him, a teasing lilt in your voice. “a lingerie?”
he nods as he takes a step closer, he reaches for your wrist, his touch gentle but firm, tugging you just enough to close the space between you. “is this you… apologizing?” you ask.
he raises an eyebrow, letting the question hang as you step closer. without another word, he takes the lead, guiding you toward your shared bedroom.
“change for me, will ya, honey?” he murmurs as he settles onto the soft bed, his legs manspreading comfortably, eyes locked on you as you stand holding the lingerie in your hands.
there’s a playful gleam in his gaze, a silent command wrapped in warmth, letting you know exactly how he wants this moment to unfold.
“i hope you don’t think this isn’t your christmas present for me,” you state, teasing laced in your tone.
from the bed, you hear him murmur, “no?”—but you choose to ignore it, letting the small, pointed question hang in the air.
with a slow sway of your hips, you walk toward the walk-in closet, knowing exactly how much of his attention you have. the silky fabric of the lingerie in your hands feels heavy with promise, and the anticipation coils in your stomach.
the soft click of the closet door behind you marks the space you take for yourself, even as the tension between you two hangs thick in the air.
the moment you step out, his eyes widen, darkening with a mix of adoration and lust. he rises from the bed, closing the distance between you, drawn to you like gravity.
“don’t ‘ya look more pretty than the mannequin they use to display this,” he murmurs as his gaze roams you in appreciative, slow sweeps.
you can’t help but chuckle softly at his compliment, but before another word can leave your lips, he dips down, pressing his mouth to yours.
the kiss is firm leaving no room for hesitation. his hands find your hips instantly, pulling you closer, and you feel the heat of his body pressed against yours, every inch of him focused entirely on you.
his metal hand cups your cheek as it slowly moves its way to your chin, urging you to slightly open your mouth. and when you did, bucky wastes no time inserting his tongue inside your mouth.
your teeth grazes his tongue to which he grunts from. he swirls it as both your tongues collide, mixing both your salivas together.
his metal hand grips your waist firmly, guiding you as he steps backward without once breaking the connection of your lips. your eyes remain closed, hearts and breaths mingling, each step relying entirely on instinct.
you move slowly, carefully, blindly following him as he leads you toward the bed.
the playful tension from earlier melts seamlessly into something deeper, charged, a slow escalation that leaves no doubt who’s leading this moment—and who’s utterly captivated.
he stumbles slightly but eventually manages to guide you both safely onto the bed—careful, never once breaking the connection between both of your lips.
only when you’re both settled does he finally pull back, just enough to catch his breath. his gaze drifts from your eyes to your swollen lips, then back up again, filled with desire.
he murmurs a small, almost incoherent compliment, the words muffled but heavy with intent, before diving back in.
this time, his kisses trace a slow path—first along your jaw, lingering at the curve, then down the column of your neck, finally brushing against the sensitive skin of your collarbone.
the weight of his body against yours, the heat radiating from him, and the way his hands roam carefully over your waist and hips—all of it builds a tension that coils tighter with every second.
your grip tightens on his shoulder as he sucks on your skin, creating a promised purple mark. his tongue grazes over your skin, soothing the area his mouth bruised.
a soft moan escapes your chest, when you feel his trail of hickeys slowly, deliberately, travels downwards to where your breasts lies.
he pulls back only to whisper a compliment. “damn, princess… ‘ya look fuckin’ gorgeous in this lingerie,” his voice slurs, the words vibrating against your skin, leaving a shiver in their wake.
before you can even respond with a moan, he’s back on your skin—his lips trailing down the curve of your breast, nipping lightly, teasing, then pressing against the sensitive skin of your nipples.
his hands roam with purpose, sliding along your waist, cupping your hips, pulling you impossibly close.
suddenly, you press your palms against his chest in a silent motion for him to stop. he hesitates, eyes questioning, searching your gaze for a hint of what you want.
without a word, you shift abruptly, rising onto your knees. the bed creaks beneath you, a soft reminder of your movement. his eyes follow you as he adjusts instinctively, now leaning back against the headboard, letting you take the lead.
he watches you, every subtle motion, every sway, the heat in his eyes unhidden. you gather your hair with your hands, twisting it into a messy ponytail and holding it up for him.
bucky, ever the gentleman, doesn’t hesitate. his fingers move quickly, sliding through your strands as he fashions a makeshift hair tie.
he leans in close, eyes flicking to your neck and the curve of your shoulders, he murmurs, “looks good… but i think i like it even better when i do it myself.”
you lean down, moving with grace, and bucky watches you with undeniable admiration. he exhales softly, not from frustration, but from the quiet awe of having someone as stunning as you in front of him, completely in his presence, licking his toned abs.
“you’re so busy these past few months…” you start out, pressing soft, gentle kisses on his rock-hard abs as you slowly sink downward, every movement unhurried. bucky’s gaze never leaves you. his metal fingers cradle your hair, cool against the skin of your skull, guiding you just enough to keep you close—letting him take in every second, every expression, like it’s something he wants to memorize.
you continue. “i want a gift on behalf of you being busy,” bucky nods without hesitation, already ready to spend however much your heart desires but you shake your head.
your fingers slowly make their way to the waistband of his pants. bucky only then realizes what you’re implying, a teasing smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “ah?” he hums, drawn-out and knowing.
“yeah,” he adds, voice steadier now, more sure of itself. confident. “i’ve got a big gift for you, honey.”
his flesh hand cups your cheeks, gently tilting your jaw upwards to face him. “you think you deserve a big gift, baby?” he asks, tone almost condensing. still, you nod anyway.
your hands slip down through the waistband, and with his help, it’s immediately discarded, thrown to god knows where. his throbbing length springs out, already leaking with pre-cum. he does a small gesture before speaking up, “go ahead, honey.”
you lean closer, your lips wrap around his tip. you hollow your mouth as you slowly take him, inch by inch. your tongue darts out, licking and tracing the veins of his throbbing cock and you watch him throw his head back to the headboard from the pleasure.
unfortunately, your gag reflex works to humble you, you pull away, coughing as your lungs steal as much air as it could.
“t—too big,” you whine, the sound only seeming to feed his already massive ego. bucky’s mouth curves into a slow smirk, his gaze dropping to you with deliberate, almost condescending ease.
“aww, c’mon, baby,” he says, tone coaxing and smug all at once. “you can do it.”
his metal fingers slide into your hair, adjusting before curling more firmly than before. he doesn’t force you—never that. instead, he guides you gently, matching your the pace your comfortable with, lets you set it, because that’s the kind of man bucky is.
you take his cock again, gagging as he thrust his hips when he finally notices you adjust to the pace. his metal arm holds a different angle, pushing your head up and down.
“you’re so fuckin’ pretty.” bucky couldn’t help but to compliment as he watches you bop your head up and down with the help of his prosthetic arm.
“fuckin’ perfect.” he says, thrusting into your throat, causing you to suck in, hollowing the hole of your mouth, squeezing his length making him groan in response.
his body shivers when a wave of pleasure washes over him, demanding a release. as much as he wants to spill his release inside your mouth, watch as you have trouble swallowing before flashing him your tongue for proof that you did, he wants to savor this moment with you.
he pulls your hair, mouth leaving his tip with a loud “pop” noise. his gaze watches as you lick your lips, seductively.
“biggest christmas present ‘ya ever gotten?” he asks, teasing. to which all you can do is nod in response, your throat too overwhelmed and used to manage even the faintest sound.
“ride your present, honey.” and you obeyed. deliberately slow, you started crawling over to him, legs already spread, pressed against each side of his thighs, you straddle him.
he takes his cock to his flesh hand, stroking on it for a couple of times before he finally aligns himself to your entrance, pushing the thin fabric of the lingerie aside.
you slowly sink down, your head dipping, pressing on his chest as your warm walls slowly adjust to the stretch of his huge cock.
“fu… fuck, bucky… c-cant.” you moan, his large size almost stifling you. bucky’s hips grinds in a desperate attempt to search for friction as your tight walls swallow his cock deliberately slow.
“you can take it, baby.” he says, flesh hand placed on your hip as if to ground you. “shit,” he lets out, whispering more to himself when he feels you squeeze around him.
you mewled his name out when you finally take his cock whole. you stay there for a moment, catching your breath, chest rising and falling as bucky gently brushes a couple of strands of hair from your face, soothing and unhurried.
when you finally adjust to his size, you slowly bounce on his length. a loud moan escapes your chest just as a loud groan escapes his when the tip of his cock hits your g-spot repeatedly. his hips ruts into you, feeling your walls wrap around his cock almost so perfectly.
his hand—the metal one—makes itself useful as he places them on your bosom, squeezing your breasts while his flesh hand roams to trace every curve of your body.
“and i fuckin’,” he thrusts harder, cock almost slipping itself out of you if not for his gigantic size that makes a home of your sweet cunt.
“chose work,” he continues, “over you—this… fuuuuuck.”
his flesh hand that roamed around found its way to your back as his fingers casually, deliberately unties the strings of the lingerie, letting the thin strands of the undergarment detach from your body, giving his left hand more access to your tits.
your nails dig onto his biceps, leaving a red patch of scratches onto his skin as he completely rails you.
your mouth hangs open, ready to let out a couple of words for him puzzle together but as if he could read you already, he brushes a strand of your hair behind your ear, “fuck, yeah, cum for me.”
your walls clench around his shaft and after a couple more thrust, you finally reach your climax, releasing all over him.
it takes bucky a few more strokes before he also reaches his peak, making him spill his orgasm inside of you, filling you up to the brim. you dramatically collapse against his chest, and his arms come around you instantly, like muscle memory kicking in.
“fuck… i’m tired,” you whine, pushing yourself up with your knee—moaning when his cock slips out of you—before finally settling down beside him on the bed, exhaustion sinking in as you relax against the mattress.
he takes a glance at you, smiling proudly, then pushes his fingers inside your cunt, smearing every last bit of his cum inside you, while you let out the loudest moan due to the sensitivity from the post-orgasm.
⟡˙˖ ıl. from lovie. merry christmas, happy hanukkah, or whatever you celebrate! i hope this season brings you warmth, comfort, and moments of joy. wishing you all rest, peace, and lots of love this holiday season. <33333
warnings: 18+ NSFW, small town au, banter, neighborly enemies to lovers, pervert!bucky (stealing nude photographs), photographer!reader, fluff, sexual tension, public sex, dirty talk, degrading, breeding kink, overstimulation, oral (f receiving), size diff and kink
word count: 11.9k
main masterlist || bwa stardew masterlist -'.🌾.'-
a/n: thank you to my precious and dear friend @pinksplace for hosting this incredibly fun event based on only one of the best games to exist. stardew valley. this is based on the character haley that you can romance in the game, so reader kinda has that mean, spoiled princess trope. I only ripped my hair out a million times writing this, so I hope you enjoy!
synopsis:
Living in Pelican Town wasn't all that bad compared to the city life you were used to. With the big farmhouse next door unoccupied, everything was quiet, peaceful, and scenic.
Then, Bucky Barnes moves in. Suddenly, you're waking up to the smell of manure, the squawking of chickens, and a farmer who's far too annoying—and far too hot—for his own good or your own comfort.
Living in a small town, far from the city bustle you once called home, was a change that required a slow and steady adjustment for most people.
You were accustomed to walking across massive city blocks with a shopping center on every corner. You were used to breezy dresses and high heels, always meticulously grooming yourself nicely before ever stepping out of your apartment.
Now, the clean, organized world you knew has been replaced by dirt, soil, and animals.
Heels have given way to cowboy boots. The apartment with the skyline view has been traded for a modest cottage, its windows looking out over the silent and empty farmhouse next door.
Surprisingly, the change in scenery didn’t take long to adjust to. Since moving here, you’ve carved out a life in a quiet corner of town, tucked away from the rest of the townsfolk. With the vast, unoccupied land stretching out beside you, you often find yourself lounging in the grass to sunbathe or wandering out with your camera to capture the blooming apricot trees in the spring.
It is comfortable, quiet, and— much to your surprise—doesn’t feel like a downgrade from city life at all.
Until one day, you woke with a start to the sound of chickens squawking uncontrollably right outside your door.
Are Marnie’s chickens running loose again?
With a tired groan, you pushed yourself out of bed—your hair poking out in every direction and your eyes heavy with deep, dark circles. You shoved the curtains aside, letting a bright, burning ray of sunshine through the glass to hit you square in the face.
Wincing, you blinked several times to adjust, but it didn’t take long for your eyelids to fly wide open at what you saw just beyond your window.
The once empty farmhouse next door was now cluttered with boxes and crates. Animals that belonged on Marnie’s ranch were roaming freely over the fresh grass where you used to lay out a towel to sunbathe.
Now, it was likely being littered with pig shit.
And in the center of the chaos stood a man you didn’t recognize.
Sweat dampened his dark hair, sending loose strands draping over his face. He had his back to you—his white tank top and jeans stained dark from dirt and a hard day’s work.
You couldn’t wrap your head around it.
Was someone actually moving in?
Or had Marnie run out of space and decided to rent this spot out, ruining the peace and quiet you relished in this corner of town?
To make matters worse, he revved the engine of a lawnmower and got to work, polluting the air with noise.
Grabbing your slippers and hastily throwing on a cardigan to cover your nightgown, you stomped out of your cottage and marched over to the farmhouse fence.
“Hello!” you called out, pulling the cardigan tight across your chest. “What’s going on here—?”
The lawn mower’s engine roared even louder, drowning out your voice completely. The man continued to guide the machine in a slow, methodical line, his back still turned to you. The smell of freshly cut grass and gasoline filled the air, mingling with the… less pleasant scent of the roaming livestock.
“Excuse me!”
Nothing.
You stepped closer to the fence, cupping your hands around your mouth. “Hey! I’m talking to you!”
He reached the end of a row and made a sharp turn, but he didn’t look up. His eyes stayed on the ground. From your spot by the fence, you watched the sun dance across his muscles as he maneuvered the heavy machine, sweat glistening on his forearms.
You waited until he drifted closer to the fence line before shouting again.
“Hey! Farmer boy!”
The mower sputtered and stalled, and finally, your voice pierced through the noise.
He glanced up, pushing sweaty strands of hair out of his face. You stood just a few feet away, arms crossed tightly over your cardigan—the hem of your nightslip riding up ridiculously high on your thigh, your hair a mess of bed tangles and your face twisted grumpily.
The breath left Bucky’s lungs—and it wasn’t because of the blistering sun burning his skin, or the morning’s hard labor.
It was because he had a beautiful woman standing right in front of him — a woman who was a total sight for sore eyes.
Bucky let go of the mower, wiping his grimy hands on his stained jeans as he sauntered toward you. Meeting you at the fence, he flashed a charming smile, the corners of his blue eyes crinkling as he reached out a hand.
“Hi there, beautiful,” he greeted smoothly. “I’m Bucky.”
You didn’t move. Your eyes followed his face, to the dirt caked between his fingers and underneath his nails, and then back at his face.
“Beautiful?” you repeated, scrunching your face in what appears to be disgust.
Bucky’s brows furrowed just slightly, but he didn’t let the rejection deter him. He slowly lowered his hand.
Since he arrived early in the morning—well before the sun even rose—everyone in Pelican Town had been so kind and welcoming. Several of the folks had come by to help haul his luggage and boxes, even helping him get the chicken coop set up and the livestock moved in.
When Bucky inherited his parents’ old farm after they passed, he’d had his reservations about returning. But after those initial interactions with the townspeople, he started to think that maybe life out here wouldn’t be so bad after all.
His parents, Winnie and George, had always told him that the town they grew up in was filled with the most kindhearted people you would ever meet—a place where neighbors looked out for one another and never hesitated to lend a hand.
But now, here you were, and you wouldn’t even meet him halfway for a simple handshake.
“Sorry, ma’am,” Bucky huffed with that southern drawl he inherited from his parents. “Just callin’ it how I see it. Just as you called me ‘farmer boy.’”
You returned his petty jab with a roll of your eyes.
“What is going on here?” you motioned to the mess surrounding him. “Is there some big renovation being done? Are you turning the farmhouse into a ranch or something? This is private land, you know.”
Bucky couldn’t help but smile at the way your voice rose in anger just from his mere presence alone.
He rested both palms on his hips. “Why do you care?” He nodded his head toward you, prompting an answer.
You hiked a thumb over your shoulder. “Because I live right there, and all the noise you’re producing is going to be a problem.”
He glanced over your shoulder, letting out a soft hum. “Oh, so you’re my neighbor? How cute.” He looked back at you, a playful gleam dancing in his blue eyes. “You’re also the woman who’s been crossing the fence—snappin’ pictures of my trees and layin’ in my grass to sunbathe on my private land. Ain’t that right?”
Your shoulders tensed.
You didn’t know a thing about this man—yet he knew exactly what you had been up to before he took over the farm. You shifted on your feet awkwardly and defensively.
“H-how do you know that—?”
“It’s a small town, darlin’. And Marnie was tellin’ me all about it while she was helpin’ me with the chickens.” Bucky crossed his arms, his grin widening once he realized he’d won this little back and forth with you. “Wasn’t too happy when I first heard about it—but after findin’ out it was a pretty girl trespassin’, well, I don’t mind it one bit.”
Bucky watched as you purposefully avoided eye contact, your face scrunching in either embarrassment or pride—he couldn’t quite tell which.
“The people who owned this farmhouse left several years ago, even before I moved here. Their names were Winnie and George—”
“My parents,” Bucky interrupted, pointing a thumb at his chest. “I’m their son.”
Your eyes widened.
Living in a small town, you heard plenty of stories about the people who lived here now and those who had long ago. It hadn’t taken long for you to learn about Winnie and George—the married couple who once called Pelican Town home. They had a massive arrangement of animals and livestock, always hosting parties and events on their land.
When Winnie got pregnant, they had moved across the country to give their son a “better life.”
But apparently, that country charm couldn't keep them away forever, because their son was back. And based on the looks of it, he was here to stay for good.
You blinked, the name finally clicking. “Y-you’re James?”
“Sounds pretty comin’ off your lips.”
Agitation boiled in your blood as you stared back at his handsomely smug face. You couldn’t believe this was who you had to deal with now.
“Wow,” you drawled sarcastically, glaring him down. “Are you always this charming?”
“For you? I can be.” Bucky motioned to the rest of the farm with a sweeping gesture. “And you better get used to it—because I’m goin’ to be livin’ here from now on, right next to that cute little cottage of yours.”
Your jaw hung once his words registered in your mind.
Living here? That meant you had to deal with all the animals, the loud lawn mower, and that awful stench.
That also meant no more sunbathing in the wide, open grass. No more pictures of the trees and flowers that grew in Winnie and George’s yard—the ones you were planning on making a scrapbook of.
“Any way you can keep the noise down to a minimum?” you huffed, trying to smooth over your agitation.
Bucky saw right through you, and his grin only grew wider because of it. “What? A little noise is already ruinin’ your beauty sleep?”
And most importantly, it meant dealing with a dirty, farm boy neighbor who didn’t seem to care at all about being neighborly, or your own well being.
You were about to snap something snarky back, but he was already revving the mower's engine, not even looking your way anymore.
“Look, princess,” he shouted over the noise. “If you want to keep takin’ your silly pictures for your social media or sunbathin’ on my lawn, by all means.”
Social media?
What kind of woman did this man think you were?
He finally looked up at you again, flashing another one of those charming smiles.
“Just be careful not to step in pig shit.”
Since then, you and Bucky had been stuck in a constant back and forth.
Every morning, you woke to the sound of chickens squawking at the top of their lungs, followed immediately by the pungent scent of pig shit drifting through your window.
You complained to Bucky several times, but he always just wiped the sweat from his forehead and shrugged. “Guess I’ve gotten used to the smell. Doesn’t bother me none. Just light some incense and call it a day, would ya?”
On weekends, you would hang your damp laundry to dry in the sun, only for Bucky to decide that was the perfect time to leaf blow his gravel path. He would send a cloud of dust, dried hay, and dirt straight into your damp, clean dresses.
When you stomped out of the house in a rage, Bucky would just grin, nodding toward your laundry line and the pink lace that were strung up on it.
“Cute panties.”
Then out of sheer embarrassment, you would retreat back into your cottage without uttering a single word in defeat.
The breaking point came one evening when you were walking home from an errand run in town. One of Bucky’s goddamn cows had drifted astray and was currently munching on the sunflowers poking through your fences. You could put up with a lot of things, sure, but your precious flowers were where you drew the line.
You dropped your grocery bags on the porch and marched to the fence, your blood pressure spiking with every petal that vanished into that cow’s mouth.
“Hey, stop that! Shoo!” You flapped your arms wildly, trying to look as intimidating as possible. “Go on! Get back to your own side!”
The cow didn’t react. She simply blinked her long lashes at you, a half eaten sunflower stem hanging out of her mouth like a cigar. When you stepped closer to give her a firm nudge, she didn’t retreat. The cow let out a hum of what sounds like appreciation, leaning her massive head into your shoulder and nearly knocking you backward.
She wasn’t scared of you at all.
She was smitten.
“No! No cuddles! You’re a trespasser!” you hissed, trying to shove the heavy beast back toward the fence.
The cow responded by letting out a long, wet lick that started at your wrist and ended at your elbow. You shivered at the contact—you had just showered!
A low, gravelly chuckle erupted from the farmhouse porch, a sound you hadn’t heard over your own frantic shooing.
Bucky was leaning against the railing with a half peeled orange in his hand, a smug little smile tugging at his lips. He was enjoying this.
“Well, look at that,” he called out, his grin reaching his eyes. “Seems like my Bessie’s got a taste of my neighbor. I’m jealous.”
“Bucky, get your cow!” you shouted, trying to wipe the cow slobber off your arm. “She’s eating my sunflowers! These were for the festival!”
Rather than rushing to your rescue, Bucky took a bite of the citrus, juices spilling over his lips. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as his dirty boots stomped down the wooden steps, until he finally met you at the fence.
“Bessie ain’t doin’ any harm. She’s a good girl, ain’t she?” He smiled mid chew, his hand coming up to pet Bessie’s head as he started talking to the cow instead of you. “You got a good lick outta’ her, right? Is she as sweet as she looks?”
Your eyes went wide at the blatant comment. You scoffed, trying to ignore the sudden, drastic spike in your heartbeat.
“You need to take better care of your damn animals, Bucky.”
Bucky exagerrated a frown, tilting his head as he played stupid. “I take plenty of care over my sweet Bessie.”
You crossed your arms, glaring him down. “I mean keeping your animals on your property and leaving mine alone.”
“But Bessie didn’t even cross your fence.”
“She’s eating my sunflowers!” you reminded him, motioning dramatically toward your mangled plants.
Bucky snickered at your little outburst. He didn’t know what it was, but seeing you riled up over something as small as sunflowers was far too entertaining. Maybe it was the constant scent of soil and manure messing with his head, but his short yet frequent interactions with you had been more interesting than anything else in town since he had moved in.
“Alright, Bessie,” Bucky cooed to the cow.
He kept one hand on her head, gently urging her away from your garden. He gestured toward the mangled stems. “What’s this festival you’re savin’ these flowers for, anyway?”
“The Flower Dance,” you said, your brows furrowed as if he already should have known the answer.
“Explain it to me, princess.”
You ignored the pet name. “Every year in the spring, the town hosts a dance in the center of the square. The whole place is decorated with colorful banners and flowers, and Gus sets up a buffet spread of homemade food.”
Bucky rubbed his chin, looking amused. “And there’s dancin’, I presume?”
“Lots of it,” you continued. “People partner up for a waltz. The girls show up in nice dresses and flower crowns.”
“And what about the men?”
Your eyes raked over Bucky—taking in the dirt caked on his boots and the fresh scuffs on his jeans. “Still average looking, at best.”
It seemed no matter how many insults you hurled at him, he remained entirely unfazed. His smile only grew wider as he stepped closer, leaning over the fence until you were nearly nose to nose.
“So,” he drawled, voice growing deeper. “Do you have a partner?”
You blinked, thrown off guard by the question. “Excuse me?”
Bucky’s posture shifted slightly. He looked down, dragging a calloused finger along the top rail of your fence, tracing the grain of the wood as he searched for the right words. From where you stood, you could tell he was trying to maintain that ‘cool guy’ exterior, but his faint, boyish smile gave him away.
He shrugged casually, though he still didn’t meet your eyes.
“Well... I was just wonderin’...” he started. “Since I’m new in town and all, maybe you could show me the ropes of this ‘flower dance’ thing. Seems like a lot for a guy to take in on his own.”
You cocked an eyebrow at him suspiciously.
“Sounds like you already got it all figured out,” he said, finally looking up. That smug smile returned to the corners of his mouth. “And a guy like me... well, it’d be a dream to take a woman like you.”
You let out a short, scoffing laugh.
He had been taunting and poking fun at you since the day he moved in—and now he was inviting you to be his partner for the Flower Dance?
Was he pulling your leg?
Instead of entertaining him, you just rolled your eyes and turned back toward your house.
“Very funny.”
As you gathered the groceries from your steps, you added without looking over your shoulder, “Control your animals, Barnes.”
It was like Bucky was trying to get back at you for rejecting his invitation to the Flower Dance—because from that day onward, he had been nothing but an aggravating pest lingering just outside your cottage.
Instead of being a slighty annoying and impractical neighbor, Bucky took your rejection with a tip of his hat and a doubled effort to be the most inconvenient man alive.
He started a ‘fence repair’ project that involved loud hammering at six in the morning—shirtless. When you stomped out of your house in a rage, he only grinned.
“Sorry, sweets. But the world doesn’t stop movin’ just ‘cause a pretty girl wants to get some sleep.”
You retaliated by accidentally spraying your hose at his freshly painted fence before it had a chance to dry, followed by a fake giggle and a chirpy “oops!”
This relentless back and forth went on and on, until you found yourself pinned beneath your grandmother’s heirloom vanity on an unfortunate Friday afternoon—the day right before the Flower Dance festival.
This vanity was the one piece of furniture that had survived the move to Pelican Town, and the one thing you were trying to preserve.
While you were trying to shimmy it away from a leaky pipe in the wall, the antique wood groaned. With a suspicious sounding crack that made your heart drop, the back leg snapped, and the entire heavy structure tilted, the vanity’s ornate mirror swinging dangerously toward the floor.
You caught it just in time, wincing as your shoulder braced roughly against the heavy wood, but you were pinned.
If you moved, the mirror would shatter and the delicate wood would splinter beyond repair.
In that moment, you didn’t know what was worse—being pinned beneath a very heavy, very important vanity, or the fact that your window was propped open and the only man in sight who could help you was none other than Bucky fucking Barnes.
“Bucky!” you shouted toward the window.
He heard you—you knew it—because as he closed the mailbox, he gave a subtle glance over his shoulder before pretending he hadn’t heard a thing. He went right back to sorting through his mail.
“Bills, bills, bills,” Bucky clicked his tongue, loud enough for you to hear. He shook his head. “More bills.”
“Bucky, get over here!” you shouted louder, trying to shift your feet, but the movement only made the vanity creak ominously. “I need your help!”
Bucky finally turned around, that stupid, smug smile tugging at his lips at the sight of your struggle.
“You sure about that?” he taunted, crossing his arms over his chest. “I don’t know—you look pretty strong to me. I didn’t expect that kind of muscle out of a girl like you.”
“I’m being serious, Bucky—!” you gasped, the wood sliding through your sweaty palms. You tried adjusting your feet again, but your sandals gave little to no traction against the wooden floor. “It’s going to—it’s slipping!”
As you scrambled to fix your grip, the vanity slipped straight through your fingers. You shrieked, jumping to the side just in time to avoid having your feet crushed as the heavy furniture crashed to the ground.
The impact made the entire house shake. Shards of glass exploded, skidding across the floor like ice as pieces of the wood on the vanity splintered off.
Bucky, who had been taunting you just seconds ago, was already moving toward your door before you could even notice.
“Shit, shit,” he cursed under his breath. He shoved the front door open, barging through and tossing his mail aside.
“Fuck—are you okay?” Bucky rushed to your side, crouching beside you. His warm hands found your shoulders as he gently pried you away from the broken glass.
The worried tone in his voice went in one of your ears and out the other. All you could do was stare at the wreckage before you, the glass scattered everywhere a clear testament to how shattered you felt inside.
“That… that was my grandmother’s,” you said with a shaky breath. “It’s the last thing I have of hers.”
Bucky stood beside you, sensing the tension in your shoulders as his teeth caught his bottom lip. You could feel the guilt coming off him for not helping you sooner.
Slowly, you lifted your head to look at him, your eyes wide in disbelief. Bucky looked like he was bracing himself for a round of yelling—a smart move on his part.
“I asked you for help,” you started, voice trembling as the rage began to boil in your blood. “I asked you for help, Bucky! And all you did was stand there and watch me struggle!”
You stepped closer, the soles of your sandals crunching against the glass as you shoved a finger into his chest. “You’re an asshole, Bucky. You’ve been a pest and a jerk since the second you moved in, and now the one thing that’s actually important to me is broken because you wanted to play some stupid game!”
Bucky could only stare at you completely wide eyed, as the angry shakiness in your voice softened into something more broken and small.
Your face—once scrunched in a pissed off snarl—gave way to a slight wobble in your bottom lip that Bucky caught immediately.
Maybe he should’ve retorted. He should’ve told you it wasn’t entirely his fault. But the way the tears started to prick at the corners of your eyes, threatening to spill over any second, made his heart ache in ways he didn’t want to admit.
Before you could shove him a second time, his large, calloused hands came up, gently catching your wrist.
“Hey,” he said, his voice surprisingly calm. “Stop. Don’t move. You’re gonna cut your feet,” he warned, looking down at your sandals.
“What—?”
“Here.” Bucky’s hands nudged your shoulders, guiding you to the edge of your bed slowly and carefully. “Just stay here, okay?” he murmured, crouching in front of you until he was at eye level. His eyes bored into yours, a small attempt to soothe your panic. “Don’t move an inch until I get the glass up. I’m goin’ to get my kit. I have the tools to fix this.”
“You can’t fix this, Bucky,” you choked out, wiping a tear away with the back of your hand. “The wood snapped. The mirror is in a million pieces.”
Bucky reached out, his thumb catching the tear that you missed to wipe.
“I can,” he said, and for once, there wasn’t a trace of smugness in his tone. “I’ve got some aged mahogany in the barn that’ll match this grain near perfect. And I know a guy in town who can cut a new glass plate by morning.”
He stood up, looking down at the broken glass and then back at you. “I’m sorry, princess. I really am. I’ll make it right. Just stay put.”
For the first time, princess didn’t sound like a condescending, backhanded compliment.
So, you obeyed.
You sat on the edge of your mattress, sandals discarded on the floor and bare feet tucked safely away from the danger zone as you watched Bucky go to work. He was meticulous, sweeping your broom across the wood to make sure not a single drop of glass was left behind on the floorboards.
Once the floor was clear, he kept his focus on the broken leg and the empty, ragged frame where the mirror used to be.
“This vanity must be important to you, huh?”
You kept your eyes down, picking at the fabric of your quilt. “I’m not really in the mood for your taunts, Barnes.”
“Hey,” he huffed, glancing up at you. “I’m not tryin’ to play at you, darlin’. I promise.” He frowned, his tone softening as he took in the saddened expression on your face.
“I know what it’s like, tryin’ to preserve an heirloom. My parents—” he swallowed hard, keeping a brave face just for you, “a lot of the stuff they gave me didn’t make the move back to Pelican Town. Which is ironic, ‘cause this was their home from the very beginning, you know? It could’ve been just fine if they kept their stuff here.”
You blinked, sniffling as you looked at him. Aside from that slight glimpse of vulnerability when he’d asked you to the festival, this was the most he had ever shared about himself.
“I’m so sorry,” you said sympathetically, not really knowing what else to offer him in a moment like this.
Bucky offered a small, weary smile.
“Don’t be,” he groaned slightly as he knelt back down, opening the drawers of the vanity to carefully remove your belongings so he could get started on the repairs. “What’s all this?”
He started pulling out various bottles and products—makeup brushes and perfumes that looked far too expensive and meticulous for a girl to be bothered with in a town like this.
“Well, look at that,” Bucky let out a low whistle, turning a tube of designer lipstick over in his calloused palm. “What is this? Chanel? Dior?” He glanced up at you, that same spark returning to his eyes, though it was softer now—less of a bite and more of a tease. “Always wondered how a farm girl kept lookin’ like she just stepped off a runway in Zuzu City.”
“What’s wrong with a girl wanting to look her best?” you scoffed, feeling a little embarrassed.
Bucky grinned at the sound of you finally getting your spark back.
He reached back into the vanity, pulling out a small scrapbook. As he moved it, a handful of photographs slipped from between the pages and fluttered onto the floor.
Your eyes flew wide as the photographs hit the floor—some of them landing face up, while others landed face down.
You scrambled off the bed, trying to snatch the photos, but Bucky was already sweeping them up. He stood, holding them high and well out of your reach.
“Wait—don’t!”
“Oh?” Bucky’s brow arched, as he playfully tilted his head at you. “What do we have here?”
“Bucky, stop playing around! Give them to me—!”
Bucky’s arm stayed locked high above his head, a deep chuckle vibrating in his chest as he flipped through the pages. The first few were random blurbs—bits of a poetry phase you had gone through that had lasted all of a week.
“Roses are red, violets are blue—? You write poetry?” he questioned, making your face burn with embarrassment.
“It was a phase! Just shut up and hand it over—”
He ignored you, continuing to flip through the book until his expression suddenly softened. His thumb brushed over the edge of a Polaroid taped to one of the pages with pink, polka-dotted washi tape.
“This is…” he breathed, his voice trailing off as he took in the photo of the apricot tree on his own lawn. He stared at the way the sun peaked through the branches, highlighting the orangey-pink fruit. “The tree on my lawn—my mom’s apricot tree. She grew that from a sapling.”
He continued flipping through the pages, his blue eyes trailing over each one carefully. He took in the way you arranged the different prints—candid shots of the townsfolk, the horses at Marnie’s farm, colorful cocktails from Gus’s saloon, and flowers. Lots of them. Flowers he recognized from both your lawn and his.
“You know… when the people in town mentioned you were a photographer, I just assumed you were an influencer,” he admitted. He gave you a lopsided grin, his gaze dropping back to the book. “Some… social media vermin.”
You scoffed, crossing your arms and raising a brow. “A vermin?”
Bucky grinned. “Yeah—I mean, you’re a good lookin’ woman, with all your fancy designer clothes and stuff—” he waved his free hand while the other held the book aloft. “I figured you’d be into all the selfies and modelin’ crap.”
“Well,” you huffed, trying to mask your bashfulness. “Sorry to disappoint you.”
“Disappointment is the farthest thing from what I’m feelin’, little doll,” he mused. He took in the photographs and the various little doodles of flowers in the corners of the pages, tucked neatly around the polaroids. “These are beautiful.”
You boasted about plenty of things—the clothes you wore, the bags you carried, the way you styled your hair. But photography and scrapbooking were more personal. It was the hobby that had helped you during the transition from the city to the farm. Some might deem it corny, but away from the expectations of social media—where strangers were updated through sugar-coated photos on a digital screen—you had turned photography into something private. Something more you.
“I…” you started, struggling to handle the look of adoration on Bucky’s face. “Thank you, Bucky. That’s very sweet of you.”
After taking in every page, he closed the scrapbook and handed it back. His attention shifted to the glossy prints dangling from his fingers, and he began sorting through them with a boyish grin.
“And these are the photos you’re goin’ to add to the book later, I take it—?”
Bucky stopped short the second his eyes landed on the next shot. Most were the same snaps of trees and the town, but there was one that made his breath hitch and his pants suddenly tight.
“It’s a little project I’m working on,” you explained, completely clueless and still a bit bashful. “A page dedicated to the different seasons. The trees are always changing, and the town looks completely different from spring to winter.”
Bucky stayed quiet, his shoulders tensing as his eyes remained glued to the photograph. He cleared his throat, his adam’s apple bobbing.
“I… see,” he said, his voice suddenly low and raspy.
Your brows furrowed. You couldn’t understand why he was so focused on that photo specifically. Curiosity getting the best of you, you tilted your head to peek at what he was looking at—and your heart dropped into your stomach.
Staring back at you was a selfie you had taken on your instant camera. You were sprawled across your bed, hair fanned out across the pillows. Your chest was exposed bare, one arm draped over your breasts, though if someone looked close enough, they could see the shaded curve of an areola peeking just past your forearm. Your body was angled to accentuate your curves, revealing the soft skin of your thighs and hips in nothing but a pair of lace panties.
Face burning a million degrees, you snatched the photo out of Bucky’s hands.
“Don’t look at that!” you shrieked, spinning away from him.
All Bucky could do was stand there—frozen, bewildered, and hard as fuck.
He could hear your frantic heartbeat from where he stood. And with your back turned, it was painfully obvious you didn’t want to talk about it.
“Right. Sorry,” he cleared his throat again, though he didn’t sound sorry at all. He turned toward the door. “I’m gonna—uh, grab my tools and start workin’ on this vanity, okay? I’ll be back!”
Before you could say a word, his boots were already rushing out the door.
He eventually returned with his tools and set to work on the vanity. While he worked, you tried to keep yourself busy, maintaining a respectful distance at all times.
From your open bedroom door, where he was crouched on the floor, Bucky still had a clear view of you in the kitchen making lemonade. You told him it was your way of saying “thank you,” but he knew the truth.
You were just trying to put as much space between you as possible after that photo.
But right now, the last thing he wanted was for you to be far away.
That image of you was scorched into the back of his mind, taking up permanent residence. Laid completely bare, hair fanned out, wearing nothing but those lace panties and an expression that screamed, “fuck me, Bucky!” — it was enough to drive him crazy.
As he watched you move around the kitchen in the little sundress that had made his mouth water the first day he laid eyes on you, a million thoughts raced through his mind just as fast as the blood was rushing to his dick.
Why had you taken a picture like that?
Who was it for?
Was there someone you were dating—someone you were sending those prints to?
Suddenly, a bitter spike of jealousy flared in his gut. The idea of you taking photos like that just to mail them off to some soft handed city boy prick made him want to burn the whole town down. His movements grew jerky and annoyed as he worked. The wood felt awkward in his grip, and his tools kept slipping.
“Shit,” he cursed, grabbing your attention.
You glanced over your shoulder, a glass of freshly squeezed lemonade in your hand. “Everything okay? Need any help?”
“Just peachy,” Bucky mumbled.
As he heard your footsteps drawing closer, he tried to adjust himself, willing away the erection that was vulgarly pressing through his pants.
“Why don’t you take a break and have some lemonade, then?” You held the glass out to him, a small smile tugging at your glossy lips—a view that didn’t help Bucky’s situation in the slightest. “Before the ice melts.”
Bucky’s gaze traveled from your lips down to your hands. They were pretty—small and soft as they curled around the tall glass. Even your fingertips were perfectly manicured.
You were being far too kind, offering him a drink while he crouched there on your floor, his mind dark and filthy as he imagined how those fingers would look slicked with his cum instead of condensation.
“Sure,” Bucky grunted, straining as he stood up. “A lemonade sounds good.”
The two of you stepped out onto the front porch for some fresh air, taking in the way the sun poked through the branches. Next door, the chickens were squawking and the birds chirping, but the domestic sounds did nothing to help the awkward silence between you.
You kept your gaze straight ahead on the grass and flowers, but you could feel Bucky’s stare lingering on the side of your face.
“So…” he started, and you mentally braced yourself for whatever was coming next. “That photo—”
“Oh, God,” you sighed, squeezing your eyes shut out of embarrassment. “Don’t start.”
Bucky raised his glass, letting out a huff of a laugh—though it didn’t sound humorous at all. It was just filler noise to cover his nerves.
“Well—it’s, uh... it’s a good picture,” he mumbled, staring at the ice cubes melting in his glass. “You look good in it.”
You felt like you wanted to shrivel up and let the wind carry you away. You avoided his gaze, turning your head to hide your burning cheeks. “You’re such an idiot.”
“All I’m sayin’ is,” he continued, mumbling even quieter as that jealousy bled through his voice,“whoever is gettin’ those kind of photos from you is a lucky man.”
You blinked, finally glancing at him.
“Lucky man?” You noticed the way his cheeks were flushed pink. “There is no man.”
Bucky froze with the glass halfway to his lips, his blue eyes snapping to yours. “No man?” he repeated, like he needed the reassurance.
“No,” you shrugged casually, giving him a small smile. “I just take those photos for myself. I spent years worried about how other people perceived me. When I moved here, I wanted to see myself for me. It makes me feel confident. Seeing myself like that is kind of empowering, you know? It’s for my eyes only.”
You let out a shaky breath, the embarrassment still very much there—but no longer because you were seen half naked. Now, it was because of how corny your explanation sounded out loud.
You glanced at Bucky out of the corner of your eye, trying to gauge his reaction, but he looked so deep in thought that you couldn’t make out a single one.
“For your eyes only, huh?” Bucky hummed.
When you gave him that little nod, Bucky knew he was doomed.
The jealousy that had been sitting like a pit in his stomach was drowned out in a damned instant the minute you said ‘no man.’ That meant he was the only one who saw that photo of you—that sweet, vulnerable side where you laid bare, warm and inviting. Bucky loved the fact that there was no man, and no one else after you.
To him, that just meant you were already his.
“Go to the Flower Dance with me,” he asked suddenly.
You huffed a lighthearted laugh. “This again?”
Bucky turned to face you fully now, eyes boring into yours so intently it was like he was giving you a silent warning not to even bother looking away.
“Let me take you to the Flower Dance. Let me be your partner. Let me dance with you.”
“Bucky, you can’t be serious—”
“I was serious the first time I asked you, and I’m even more so now,” he said, his brows furrowing as his voice deepened. “Dance with me.”
You bit your lip, hesitating.
When he noticed your silence, he stepped closer, standing over you until he was looking down at you completely.
“Consider it a thank you for fixin’ up your vanity.”
“Thank you? You made me struggle and didn’t help me the first time!” you countered, but Bucky didn’t budge. He didn’t fight back or laugh.
He was dead serious.
He wanted you to go to the Flower Dance with him as your date—and you had a very strong feeling he wasn’t going to take ‘no’ for an answer.
“Fine,” you reluctantly agreed, despite a smile tugging at your lips. “But just remember—it’s a thank you for fixing my vanity.”
Bucky grinned, finding himself very, very happy with your response.
To you, agreeing to the Flower Dance was just a fair trade—a thank you for his labor and a way to settle the score over your grandmother’s vanity.
But as Bucky watched you walk back into the house, his hand drifted to his pocket, letting his fingers brush gently against the glossy edge of the photograph—your photograph— tucked deep inside.
Having that naked, intimate piece of you hidden away against his thigh—a secret kept just for him—was a reward far better than anything else you could have given him.
He knew he was being greedy by stealing the photo and taking you to the Flower Dance, but he didn’t care. The photo was enough to drive him crazy tonight, but dancing with you tomorrow was the cherry on top.
It was Saturday morning—the day of the Flower Dance—and Bucky had been restless since dawn, and even more so the night before.
He lost track of how many times he had jerked off since he stole that photo. One time was right after he finished fixing your vanity. He had retreated to his farmhouse, slammed the door shut, and before he even kicked off his boots, he had his pants unzipped and cock in hand.
Another time was in the shower, then again right before he fell asleep, and… once or twice more as the clock ticked closer to the start of the festival.
It was shameless, almost pathetic, but when you were dealing with animals and manual labor all day, you had to relieve the stress somehow. And nothing relieved it quite like the memory of you sprawled across those pillows with those sweet tits pressed together.
As you made your way to the town square, you found yourself walking with a pep in your step. Your heels clicked against the pavement, and your sundress swayed at your hips with every stride.
You had taken lots of care to look better than usual today. You had woken up early just to have enough time for your hair and makeup, trying on three different dresses just to see which one made you look the best. You even found yourself wondering what Bucky was wearing—hoping, subconsciously, that your dress might actually match his outfit.
Fuck.
You were actually looking forward to see him and dance with him.
Your heart was beating far too fast for your chest. You could already imagine it—Bucky, finally rid of his grimy farm clothes and wearing a proper outfit, or his heavy boots stepping all over your sandals because he didn’t have a clue how to dance.
You found yourself grinning to yourself up until you made it to the bustle of the community square. Gus had his food spread out on a table beneath a canopy, potted flowers that were grown by the townsfolk were scattered about, and colorful banners were decorated across the lightpoles.
“What’s got you smilin’ to yourself for?” a familiar, deep gravelly voice interrupted you, stopping you in your tracks.
It was Bucky, wearing a nicely ironed button up tucked into his khaki pants that were held up by a nice, brown leather belt. Your smile faltered slightly—not because he looked terrible, but because he looked good.
Too fucking good.
He tilted his head, hands tucked deep into his pockets. “Hey, where did that smile go?”
“I… nothing,” you cleared your throat, hands primly behind your back as you took him in. “You look… good.”
You suddenly felt small as you watched Bucky’s eyes trace over you—taking in the way you did your hair and your makeup, down to the short hem of your dress. You watched as he caught his bottom lip between his teeth.
“That might’ve been the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” he joked before nodding to you. “You look beautiful.” He glanced around before taking a step closer, leaning down so only you could hear. “Kind of makes me a bit jealous knowin’ other people can see how pretty you are.”
Your face warmed, and Bucky expected you to back away from his boldness—but you stepped closer, batting your lashes at him in a way that drove him fucking crazy.
“Yeah, but they’re not the ones dancing with me, are they?”
With all the pent up frustration building inside him, that little taunt of yours felt like an open invitation to grab you and do whatever he wanted.
But instead, his tongue ran over his teeth as he grinned, amused by your comment. He extended a hand toward you.
“The dance is ’bouta start soon. Come on.”
Despite this being his first time ever experiencing a Flower Dance, he took initiative as if he had been doing this longer than you had. The live band propped up on the stage began to play, the acoustic guitars picking the same catchy tune you knew by heart from all the years you had attended before.
Women and men gathered hand in hand to get into position. Bucky led you to the very center of the crowd, standing tall in front of you. He guided your hand to his shoulder before resting his own large palm firmly against your hip.
You couldn’t help but chuckle at his sudden burst of confidence. “Wow, Bucky Barnes. Don’t tell me you actually know how to dance?”
“Course I do,” he huffed. “Just ‘cause I’m covered in dirt all day doesn’t mean I don’t know how to take a lady for a dance. Don’t sound so surprised.”
He pulled you in closer, and you looked up at him, your eyes wide and soft with a sheepish smile to match.
“You wouldn’t let me fall, right?” you teased, your voice barely sounding over the guitars.
“Never,” he promised, his grip on your waist tightening to prove it to you. “Not a single speck of dirt on that pretty little head of yours. I’ve got you.”
The music started, and as you two danced, you noticed how Bucky was pulling you closer and closer with each step.
His hand stayed tight at your waist before moving to your lower back, then back to your hips with a small, firm squeeze. The hand that held yours gripped tighter, reeling you in even more with every move.
As he spun you back into his chest, you felt the hitch in his breathing. You leaned back slightly, looking up at him.
“You okay, Bucky?” you teased with a smile. “You’re looking a little... stiff.”
God, those eyes and those glossy fucking lips.
Bucky let out a visible shudder before forcing a nod. “Dancin’ with a very pretty girl in my arms—it’s natural for me to be a little nervous, isn’t it?”
He spun you again, your short sundress flaring out like a ballerina—and he caught a quick glimpse of your bare thigh. Just barely. He wanted more.
He drew you in until your forehead was resting against his collarbone. He leaned his head down, his nose grazing the skin of your temple as he took a deep, shaky inhale of your scent—shampoo, vanilla, and the warmth of your skin from the sunlight. You smelled so good, and each inhale was doing serious damage to his self-control.
From his height, his gaze fell directly into the neckline of your dress. He had a direct, unobstructed view of the swell of your breasts, the fabric of your sundress moving against your curves with every breath you took.
It was the photograph come to life, only now he could actually touch you… just not in the complete ways he wanted to.
His hand on your back slid lower, his palms suddenly clammy as he pressed your hips tight against his. You gasped softly, your step faltering for a split second as you felt him.
A thick, heavy, warm bulge was straining against his khakis, pressing right into the notch of your thighs.
Bucky’s jaw was clenched so tight it looked painful, his eyes were somewhere over your shoulder as he tried to maintain a shred of dignity. He thought he was being subtle—that you were too caught up in the festival to notice how inappropriately turned on he was.
He was wrong.
Deciding to play a much dirtier game, you took matters into your own hands. He spun you around again, but instead of facing him, you tucked yourself right back into the curve of his body.
Your back hit his chest, and your ass ground firmly against his cock.
Bucky let out a shuddering groan that tickled against the back of your neck as he felt the curve of your ass press harder into his bulge.
Before he could even think about pulling away to save face, you reached over and grabbed his hands. Your fingers slid over his knuckles, guiding his large, calloused palms down until they were over your hips. You kept your hands over his, forcing him to feel the way your curves fit perfectly against his body.
“Shit,” he cursed, and you grinned.
Everyone else was too preoccupied with their own dancing to even notice Bucky’s predicament, so you continued swaying your hips against him to the music.
Every rub of your ass against his cock was like adding oil to the flames. Bucky’s nose nuzzled the side of your head, and you could hear his breathing get more labored the more you ground against him.
“Still nervous you’re dancing with a pretty girl?” you taunted. You felt him twitch against you in response.
He groaned, his lips so close to your ear that you could feel his hot breath. “You know exactly what you’re doin’.”
“And what exactly am I doing, Bucky?”
“You’re bein’ a goddamn tease.”
Your smile grew wider. “But you’re not exactly pushing me away, are you?”
His grip on your hips tightened enough to bunch the fabric of your dress around your waist. He hiked the skirt up higher, his hot palms gliding just beneath the hem to tickle your outer thighs — then higher, towards the sensitive skin of your inner leg.
You gasped softly when you felt his thumb graze against your clothed cunt.
“Keep tauntin’ me,” he growled against your ear, “and I’m goin’ to flip up this tiny skirt and fuck you right here in the middle of the square—where everyone can see.”
Your eyes traced over the crowd. Everyone was all smiles, too caught up in the joy of the festival to even notice the two perverts feeling each other up in the middle of it all.
“Then do it,” you challenged.
“You goddamn slut.” Bucky huffed a laugh against the back of your neck— no humor in it at all. “No. I’m too jealous for that. I wouldn’t want anyone else seein’ my girl like that.”
Your breath hitched. His girl?
“That’s funny.” You looked up over your shoulder at him, your eyes wide as you faked your innocence. “I don’t remember ever being your girl.”
Bucky’s cock twitched hard against your ass, and you knew right then that you won.
“Not my girl?” Bucky scoffed, spinning you around so you were forced to look him in the eye.
“You’ve been my girl from the minute I stepped foot back in Pelican Town. From the moment I laid eyes on you—I’d already decided you were mine. And you agreeing to dance with me today just confirmed it all.”
He ground his hips against yours, letting you feel his heavy bulge press against your inner thigh.
“If you don’t believe you’re my girl, then I’m just gonna have to prove it to you.”
You weren’t able to get a single word in as Bucky’s hand wrapped tight around yours.
He led you away from the crowd, pushing through with polite and gentle ‘excuse me’s that went completely against how roughly he was holding you.
He took you towards the shadows at the side of the saloon.
It was a narrow, unassuming alley, hidden from the main square by overgrown shrubbery and stacked wooden crates.
“Bucky,” you looked around breathlessly and no one was near, “what are you doing?”
He didn’t answer.
He shoved you back against the cool brick wall. He didn’t wait, and he didn’t waste his time asking, either.
His hands were already at the hem of your sundress, bunching the fabric in his fists and hiking it up until the cool spring air hit your hips.
Your eyes went wide, your heart fighting against your chest as you watched him fall to his knees.
You knew you should’ve stopped him.
You should’ve told him this was inappropriate—that anyone could walk in on you two right now.
But as he knelt there, his eyes boring hungrily into your thighs and his tongue darting out to lick his lips the second his fingertips found the waistband of your panties, you couldn’t find the breath to argue.
How could you possibly deny a predator his well-earned prey?
Bucky tugged your panties down your thighs and past your legs, tossing them aside. His hand rubbed up and down your thigh before hiking your leg over his shoulder, his hot touch making you shudder and grow even wetter as he stared at you intimately.
“God, look at you,” he groaned, palming himself. “What a fucking sight. All the men you danced with before I moved back into town didn’t get to see this side of you, did they?”
You only stared at him. When you didn’t answer, he gripped your ankle, making you wince.
“Answer me.”
“No,” you shook your head, swallowing hard. “Only you.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” he hummed, pleased. He leaned in, trailing soft, wet kisses along your inner thigh. “Dancin’ like a saint in front of the mayor, in front of all the townsfolk, just to be drippin’ wet for me like a goddamn whore.”
He leaned in, his hot breath ghosting over your sensitive folds, making you hitch a breath.
He looked up at you from between your legs, and you swore you could’ve melted right there at the sight of him. His eyes were completely blown out, staring at you in ways that should’ve made you afraid.
“I'm gonna taste every fuckin’ drop you made for me while you were rubbin’ that pretty ass against my cock. I’m gonna eat you until you’re beggin’ me to stop, and even then, I ain’t stoppin’.”
“Bucky… —ah!” your hand flew over your mouth once Bucky buried his face between your legs.
With your short dress bunched messily around your waist, Bucky’s tongue—hot and wet—swiped upward against your cunt, making you moan against your palm. He kept flicking his tongue up and down against the sensitive skin, and your fingers tangled into his hair, giving it a firm tug that made him groan against you.
“S-someone might... walk in on us—” a whimper broke from your lips as Bucky tilted his head, his tongue moving against your weeping cunt.
His hands slid up past your thighs to grab your ass, kneading and squeezing as he ate you out behind the saloon.
The mention of someone catching you only made his cock harder in his pants. He moaned against your slit, his tongue lapping at your juices as he licked and suckled on your sensitive pussy. The tip of his tongue found your clit again, flicking at it and leaving vulgar suckling noises in the quiet alley.
His finger poked at your wet and vulnerable entrance, sliding in easily as he fucked your clit with his tongue.
“Oh my god, Bucky—!” you cried out.
You were shaking, your back scraping against the brick as Bucky ate you out shamelessly.
As his tongue danced on your most sensitive spots and his finger fucked you in rhythm with his mouth, your hips began to buck uncontrollably against his face, and Bucky let out a muffled growl.
“S-slow down—fuck, I’m gonna cum—” you whimpered behind your hand.
He hummed in satisfaction, the vibration making your pussy tingle as his fingers dug into the soft flesh of your ass to hold you steady while he licked every last drop of you. Your back arched off the wall and you tried to squirm away to save face, but Bucky wouldn’t let you.
One hand stayed tight on your thigh and the other squeezed your ass, all while his face was tucked deep against your pussy, soaking in everything you had to give him.
“Fu—fuck, Bucky…” you whimpered as he slowly released your leg from his shoulder.
He leaned back on his heels, looking up at you, and the sight made your breath hitch. Bucky gave you a devilish little grin, his chin and lips gleaming with the wet sheen of your juices.
Between his legs, his bulge was straining against his khakis—a damp spot darkening his lap where his pre-cum had soaked right through.
You looked around frantically—coast still clear—before tugging your skirt down and adjusting the straps on your shoulders. “We… we should go. The rest of the town’ll be looking for us—”
Bucky pushed himself up from the ground, his large body blocking your path as his hands went to his waist. He began to tug at the fastenings of his belt.
“Where do you think you’re goin’?” he rasped in a low growl. “I’m not even close to done with you.”
You swallowed hard, staring up at him as you caught your breath from your release. “Bucky, we can’t. Someone will catch us—”
“No,” Bucky hissed, unzipping his pants and tugging them down. “Not until I get to cum—you’re not goin’ anywhere.”
He stepped closer, nudging his leg between your thighs as his hands found the hem of your skirt again. His hand trailed up, dragging the fabric up around your waist as he pinned you back against the wall.
Bucky’s hand wrapped around his shaft, and as your eyes trailed down—you let out a soft gasp.
He was big, thick, and pulsing in his hand. His tip caressed your clit, and he began jerking himself off against your warmth. He let out jagged breaths, his hand trailing down your thigh before hiking it up and over his hip.
“Ah—Bucky!” you cried out, holding onto his shoulders for support.
“Stay right here,” he commanded, his hands gripping your ass to hoist you higher against the wall. “Wrap those legs tighter.”
His cock dragged across your slit, his tip catching your entrance and making you gasp. He nudged his tip against your opening, testing the tension, and let out a shaky, ragged breath.
“So tight...” he rasped, the words sounding almost painful. “But you’re so wet for me, sweetheart. I could just slip right in.”
“Bucky, wait—you’re too big,” you whispered, your hands bracing against his shoulders.
You could already feel him stretching you, even just at the entrance. “I don’t think it’s gonna fit—and we can’t do this in public, someone is going to—”
Before you could finish, Bucky’s palm clamped firmly over your mouth to silence you. His eyes were dark, focused entirely on where your pussy hugged his tip.
“Shut up,” he hissed, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I can’t wait. The sooner I fuck you, the sooner we can get outta here.”
With a slow tilt of his hips, he began sinking himself inside you.
You let out a muffled, pitchy moan against his palm, your eyes rolling back as the sensation of him filling you made you see stars.
He was stretching you apart, claiming every inch of your body as he pushed deeper and deeper, until his hips finally pressed against yours.
He stayed there for a moment, buried to the hilt, his forehead dropping to rest against the crook of your neck as he let out a groan. “Fuuck, shit—”
He was so deep, his cock stretching your walls as his body pinned you so firmly to the brick that you couldn’t move even if you wanted to.
“There,” he growled against your skin, his hand still tight over your mouth as he watched the pleasure wash over your face. “Fits perfectly.”
Despite his words, his face was twisted and his jaw was clenched from how tightly your body was squeezing him.
As he started rocking his hips, his cock sliding in and out of your wet cunt, it took everything in him not to fuck you hard against the wall right then and there.
He knew you were still trying to adjust to his size, watching the way your face twisted as you tried to be a good girl for him.
He couldn’t believe it—the girl of his dreams, the girl from the very photograph he’d jerked off to from the night before until now—you were actually right here, taking his big cock inside your tight little pussy.
“A-are you okay?” he managed to muster, his voice rough as he stared at you with lustful, hazy eyes.
You whimpered before giving him a small, frantic nod.
He took that as his invitation to fuck you harder.
“God, you’re so fuckin’ tight—can barely move.”
He started to move faster, his cock sinking deep into your pussy and pulling out before slamming back in. His grip on your thigh was tight as he held you up.
“So goddamn wet too, sweetheart.”
“B-bucky… ahh—we can’t.”
“Can’t?”
He kept folding your leg over, trying to adjust you so he could sink even deeper, but the tension in your body wouldn’t let him. The angle was awkward. The wall was too cold, and he couldn’t get deep enough to satisfy the ache in his balls.
He wanted more.
He wanted to break you.
With a frustrated snarl, he pulled out of you roughly—the sudden loss of him making you cry out.
Before you could even catch your breath, Bucky grabbed your hips and spun you around, slamming your chest and face back against the cool brick.
“Hands on the wall,” he commanded cruely.
He bunched your sundress up around your waist, baring your ass to the cool air of the alley. He stepped back into you, his cock heavy and sprung, and grabbed your hair, tugging your head back so he could whisper against your skin.
“Since you’re so worried about someone walkin’ in,” he hissed, his hands gripping your hips so hard his fingers left marks, “I’m gonna make sure they get a real good view if they do.”
He lined himself up with your entrance again—his hot tip making you gasp.
Your cunt was still gaping from his fucking earlier, allowing him to slide in easily without much resistance this time.
As he sheathed himself inside you in one thrust, you let out a muffled cry, your fingers scraping against the wall to hold yourself up while he began to fuck you hard from behind.
“Fuck—love it when you’re screamin’ for me,” he groaned in pleasure.
Every wet slap of his balls against your ass echoed in the narrow alley.
He reached around, one hand squeezing your breast through your dress while the other stayed buried in your hair, keeping you pinned in place.
His eyes took in the way your ass bounced against his cock, the soft flesh jiggling with every move. He lifted the hem of your skirt higher to get a better view of your smooth skin rocking against his hips.
“You know, maybe you should just come live with me,” he rasped, his breath hot against your ear as he slammed into you again.
The thought seemed to fuel him, his thrusts getting deeper and harder. “It’d be so damn cute seein’ you walk around the house all barefoot and bred.”
What was he saying?
His filthy words felt more intense than the rough movements of his cock. He groaned, his teeth grazing your shoulder.
“That old farmhouse is big and lonely, sweetheart. Way too quiet,” he whispered. “It was my parents’ dream for me to start a family there. To have a house full of kids runnin’ around the farm, tendin’ to the animals.”
He pulled back nearly all the way out before thrusting back all the way in, making your knees buckle.
“I think you’d look real good carryin’ the Barnes name. Real good with a belly full of my babies while I work the fields. What do you think? Think you could handle being a farm wife?”
“B-Bucky,” you huffed a nervous laugh as his cock filled you completely. “What are you saying? Don’t be—hmpf—ridiculous...”
“Oh, come on, don’t be shy now,” he teased. “You can sunbathe on my lawn and take all the pretty pictures of the trees and animals for your scrapbook.”
His tongue darted out to lick the shell of your ear, his heavy balls continuing to slap against you as his cock hit your sweet spot over and over.
“And I’ll buy you all the lingerie so you can pose all cute in front of your little camera again,” he delivered a hard thrust that made you whimper and cry. “Take those sexy photographs that I can keep—maybe you can make a scrapbook out of those, too. Just for me.”
Your face burned with humiliation.
Here you were, being treated like a total slut by Bucky Barnes out in the open, and yet the thing that made you too flustered to even form a sentence was him bringing up your photograph.
“G-god...” you stammered. “Don’t bring that up!” you hissed, overcome with embarrassment.
Bucky just chuckled. “I have that picture, you know?”
Your pussy fluttered and clenched around his cock at his words—the tightness making him groan. You snapped your head around, face flustered.
“W-what!” you choked out. “You stole it?”
He could feel how much the idea turned you on, your body betraying your embarrassment by becoming even wetter and tighter as you realized he’d liked that photo enough to steal it for himself.
“Don’t exaggerate, doll,” he rasped, his hand tightening in your hair to pull your head back so he could see the shame written on your face. “I’ve spent all night staring at it. Staring at the way you were lookin’ at the camera, imaginin’ you were looking at me instead.”
His hips pushed against yours, forcing you to take another deep inch of his cock.
“I can’t even tell you how many times I’ve sat on the edge of my bed, jerkin’ myself off until I was shaking, just thinkin’ about what it would feel like to have the real thing under me.”
He groaned, his pace becoming more uneven and frantic as the dirty confessions spilled from his lips.
“Every time I closed my eyes, I was picturin’ you—my own fucking neighbor—just like this. Bent over, taking every inch of me while you cried my name.”
The way you were whimpering and fluttering around his cock meant that you were enjoying every sinful confession he was blurting out.
You had already came, your body sensitive and weak, but Bucky was fucking you right through it.
“B-Buck… I can’t—I’m sensitive—” you whined, knees wobbly.
He tossed his head back, feeling his balls drawing tight as your pussy milked him.
“Fuuuck,” he groaned, kneading your hips. “I want to cum inside. Wanna make my ma and pa proud—”
Bucky leaned down until his breath was tickling your ear again. “Please? Will you let me cum inside, sweetheart?” He pressed a soft kiss to your cheek. “I promise you—I’ll give you the good life, I’ll give it to you reaally good.”
You felt your breath get stuck in your throat.
He was asking for permission?
Your body tightened beneath him.
You were so close from cumming beneath him a second time, and the way his hips stuttered against yours was a sign that he was just mere seconds away from filling you up.
“Been dreamin’ of fillin’ you up with my seed since I saw that dirty little picture of you. Please, sweetheart. Just give me what I want.”
Footsteps crunching the grass sounded near you—too close—and the thrill of getting caught despite yourself made you finally let go.
“Bucky, fuck—I’m cumming—!” you cried out, but Bucky’s hand clamped over your mouth, stifling your moans as you rocked your hips back against his cock.
You rode the orgasm out while Bucky’s face twisted in a pleasure so intense—it was damn near painful.
“Fuck. Fuck. Please, baby, I can’t—” he gasped, stilling his hips to keep from breeding you. “Please—let me cum inside—”
You couldn’t believe that for all the filthy words he was spouting earlier, how in control and dominant he was, he was still asking for permission.
“Please, fuck—can’t hold it in. You feel too good—”
“Just cum inside, Bucky!”
He didn’t need to be told twice.
Bucky cried out a broken moan against the side of your neck, his hips twitching as he buried himself so deep it made your eyes roll back.
The first hot jet of his seed hit your womb, filling you so deep it made your toes curl in your heels. He gripped you tight, his whole body turning stiff as he pumped himself empty inside you.
He groaned, a long, broken sound that tickled your spine as he fought for his breath.
“God… like that—just like that… every last drop ‘til I’m empty, sweetheart.”
The footsteps outside the alley grew louder, then faded as the stranger passed by, oblivious to the vulgar scene unfolding just a few feet away.
Bucky stayed exactly where he was for a moment, his chest rising and falling against your back as he breathed your scent in. He was still twitching inside you, his cock heavy and pulsing as it leaked into your womb.
“There we go” he soothed, pushing the sweaty strands of hair away from your temples to look at you. “Lookin’ every bit of my girl.”
He kissed the temple of your forehead before slowly pulling out, the sudden loss of his warmth leaving you feeling cold and empty.
“Keep your legs together,” he murmured possessively, bringing the hem of your skirt back down to cover your slick thighs. “Not a single drop goes to waste. Keep it there ‘til it takes.”
He reached out gently, smoothing your hair and straightening the strap of your sundress until you looked at least somewhat presentable again.
He brushed the dust from the brick off your shoulders, his eyes softening at the sight of your debaunched face. The makeup you spent so much time working on this morning was now a smeared mess of his doing.
And somehow, to him, you looked even prettier.
“There,” he said, wiping the stray lipstick on your chin. “Let’s get back and enjoy the rest of the festival.”
He turned to fix himself, tucking himself back in as he adjusted his jeans and buckled his belt.
You watched him, still a little dazed and shaky legged, until he bent down to pick up your lace panties from the dirty floor of the alley. You reached out, expecting him to hand them back to you, but he didn’t.
“Lace?” he huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “You were askin’ for it.”
He folded them neatly and tucked them into his back pocket. He caught your confused look and flashed a boyish, almost innocent looking grin that looked far different from how he looked at you earlier.
“Bucky?”
“Right next to that precious photo I ‘stole,’” he intertwined your fingers with his, pressing a soft kiss to your lips as he led you out of the alleyway.
“For my growing collection.”
if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them! again, please be sure to check out the stardew valley inspired masterlist if you haven't already!
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✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦
✦summary: you and Bucky have been at odds since you first met. he can't stand you. you pretend you can't stand him. and if Bucky ever knew how you really felt, you think you might die. not when there's no chance he'd ever feel the same way. right?✦
✦warnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, modern!au, drinking, no use of y/n, mutual pining, no description of reader (pictures for aesthetic only), fluff, angst, drunken and sober love confessions, little plot to get to all that porn, feral level smut, (dirty talk, mean bucky but you're into it, teasing, possiveness, pussy spanking, praise kink, manhandling, sex toys, overstimulation, squriting, bucky's packing, p in v sex, creampie, breeding kink), soft!bucky outside of smut✦
✦wc: 13.5k✦
✦Author's Note: i think i got possessed with this one. was barking to myself writing. Enjoy!✦
He’s the kind of beautiful that makes you want to strangle him.
Bucky walks around your apartment like he owns it, laughing all loud and musical, smiling like he fell out of a movie, running a hand through his hair and forcing you to see his sculpted torso and tanned skin. He barely fits in his shirt as it is, there’s no need for him to show off about it.
You’ve pressed yourself right to the corner of you couch, watching him silently. Watching all of them, but mostly Bucky. And his shining eyes and full lips and thick arms. Those things should be classified as weapons, or at least hazards. It’s too easy to imagine him wrapping them around you, pining you to the couch, handling you like a doll but still so gently-
“You’re staring at me again.” He drawls, and you start.
You give him an unimpressed glare, hoping your flush stays hidden in the low light of the room. “Shut up.”
“So nice to me, sweetheart.” He mocks, leaning a little further down. “Bet you dream about me, don’t you. Up all night with that rabbit Nat got you-“
You shove your foot up, slamming it square on his chest. He’d been getting too close. You’d been able to smell his cologne, and it made your head spin like opium. Bucky laughs again, walking away like you’re not even worth the argument. Your heart stings, but you ignore it. It’s an old bruise. You’re usually good at not pressing it, at pretending it doesn’t exist.
But Bucky exists only to torture you. So it never fully heals.
He’d been teasing about the rabbit thing. It had been a gag gift for secret Santa, and after Nat had even gotten you a very nice pair of shoes when you were in private. But Bucky’s clung onto it, like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever thought of. You, with a vibrator. You possibly being able to get off, when you’re the uptight little prude. The one who never brings back hookups, never dates, just sits in corners like an ivy, clinging to the shadows and watching everything else live around her.
You’ve never been fun. Never been someone Bucky would’ve chosen to know. He didn’t choose to know you. You knew a girl who worked with another girl, and that girl had a boyfriend who knew a girl who needed a roommate. You needed a roommate. You had good credit—because you’re boring—and the girl interviewing you had taken a liking to you.
Natasha rode a motorcycle. She worked in a job she was allowed to tell you about—something in black ops, that explained all the wigs in her closet—and spoke five languages. She baked calm down, and went to shooting ranges to calm down, and insisted on getting you a gun license so she’d feel more comfortable with all the hidden guns in the house.
“Hidden guns?” You’d asked, feeling your face blanch. She’d just smiled.
“You’ll never find them all. Let’s go, it’ll be easy.”
It had not been easy. But you understood how—to someone like Nat—it might be. She’d never lost patience with you, but she’d still made it look easy. When you’d gotten home and mumbled that you needed to go shower for an hour, she’d just patted your head like you were a bunny and smiled.
She might’ve been your first real friend in a while. Because it’s not that you’re not… personable. You’re just a little mean tongued. And nervous. And boring, and blunt, and you don’t like leaving the house unless someone grabs the scruff of your neck and drags you. You go to work, and you go home, and that’s mostly it. Your closest friends before Natasha had been co-workers. And you’d been really, truly happy with that.
But interesting people have interesting friends.
Natasha had a lot of friends. And they moved in and out of your apartment like they lived there.
Tony was a tech titan who you used to watch on the news, and now he left crumbs all over your couch. Wanda was a refugee and artist, and Clint worked in that same black ops thing Nat did. Steve had worked in it, but left to start his own non-profit with Sam. They all went far back, to elementary schools and playgrounds and clubs. They had history, but they were kind to you. Treated you like your little bachelor’s degree and normal person job fit in with their grand showmanship and large personalities that had been sucked right off the movie screen.
Most of them treated you like that.
Bucky didn’t.
Before you’d been introduced to him, Nat had described his as basically Steve’s brother, and it had been a striking endorsement. Steve had been kind to you. He brought you to a movie you’d really wanted to see, and never made fun of your stuffed animal collection. No brother of his could be all that bad, certainly not one even Nat described as charming and kind and not bad on the eyes.
Only one of those things was true.
Bucky Barnes is not bad on the eyes. You’d classify as maybe a medicine for the eyes, a miracle for the eyes, a blessing on a weary and tired viewer. He works in security or something, and it shows in his body. Sometimes he lets his hair grow out, and it’s frames his strong jaw and nose perfectly, all while making you want to run your fingers through each lock. You’re sure it would be like petting a very well-kept dog. He cares for it better than you care for yourself.
He’s got those eyes that knocked all the thoughts out of you, the moment you saw him. They’d sparkled and shone with his polite, white smile, and you’d just been swaying there like a lost scarecrow in a tornado. Your brain had been reduced to a fuzzy TV static and loud blaring noise, like you’d lost your own connection. Bucky had flexed his hand, a silent reminder you were supposed to shake it, and you hadn’t been able to get enough control over your body to even smile back.
His hand had been big. Calloused, with thick fingers and a lot of tiny scars. You’d shivered just at the idea of his touch. It might’ve been warm.
Might’ve been.
If Bucky had ever bothered to touch you at all.
By the time you’d dragged control back into your body, Bucky had given up and moved on. His ears had been a little red, in the moments after. You’d opened your mouth to apologize, make any excuse that would get him to offer a hand again.
He’d turned and walked away. Hadn’t looked at you for the rest of the night.
And when he looks at you now, it’s with something sharp behind his gaze. He never looks at anyone else like that. Never teases or mocks them, either. Acting like their mere presence in the room is a plague on his refined, perfect existence. He certainly never suggests they won’t be able to make it up five flights of stairs or asks if they’re sure they want to go out for the night.
You hate stairs. And you don’t want to go out for the night.
There’s only one thing more powerful than your picky little aversions, though.
The petty, blistering feeling at the top of your chest, that refuses to let Bucky win.
“You’re really coming with us?” Bucky calls your name from the kitchen, and you lift your chin, trying to look down your nose at the massive man.
“I was invited.”
“You’re always invited, you never actually get off the damn couch-“
“Barnes.” Nat walks past him, whacking his arm. “Don’t question miracles.”
You roll your eyes. “It’s not a miracle-“
“Yes it is.” She grabs your arm, hauling you off the couch like you weigh nothing. “I’ve been asking you to do this for years, I’m not letting Bucky frighten you off with his Buckying.”
That makes you giggle, and Bucky frowns. You catch him shooting Steve a look you can’t really read, and Steve just shrugs in return.
“I’m not trying to ruin it.” Bucky says, lofty and bored. “I’m just sayin’ she never comes out with us, and it might be a lot for the little doe to be shoved into the jungle or whatever-“
“You’re a poet.” Natasha says, giving him a flat glare. “Go wait in the car.”
Bucky scowls. “The car-“
“If you act like a dog, you wait in the car.”
“I am not acting like a dog-“
Sam raises his hand. “I caught him humping the furniture this mornin’ when he heard about it-“
“Sam.” Bucky hisses. “Shut the hell up before I knock your teeth out-“
“Steven.” Nat gives him a firm nod, and he sighs.
“Yeah, I got it.”
Bucky and Sam aren’t small men, but Steve grabs them by the collar and drags them out of the room without breaking a sweat. Leaving you and Nat in a suddenly very quiet apartment, a lingering smell of spice and pine still clouding the air.
Another reason you hate Bucky coming over. He’s mean to you, and he’s nice to everyone else, and he questions you then leaves the whole room stained in his presence.
“Ignore Barnes.” Natasha says it like an order, and it probably is.
You smile at her. “I always do.”
You think it comes off airy and convincing. Nat looks at you like she’s trying not to either scoff, or laugh. Before you can insist on anything, she’s grabbing your hand and dragging you into the bathroom. You did promise you’d let her get you ready. When you’d told her you could do makeup and prep yourself, she’d snorted and said maybe, but I’ll do it better.
One of the first lessons you learned was not to argue with Natasha when she’s sure of something. You let her sit you on the counter and sort through your makeup bag, finding everything she deems worthy of being on your face tonight. Your outfit hangs on the door, and you did choose that, but after Nat vetoed three others.
It’s nothing special. A short dress and heels that will blend right in a club. It hadn’t been that different from your other suggestions. But it had gotten a curt nod of approval and smirk from Nat, so it had something. You’re smarter than to question what.
“You should talk to Bucky tonight.” Nat says suddenly, and you blink at her in surprise.
“I- What?”
“Make him apologize. For being an ass to you.”
“That’s- It’s fine-“
“No, it’s not.” Nat gives you a firm look, and you sigh.
“I know, but- I don’t really care, okay? That’s just- It’s Bucky, right?”
You give her a weak smile, and this one doesn’t even convince you.
It is just Bucky. He’s charming and sweet and handsome, and he hates just you. So you hate him in return, just for being so perfect and deciding you’re the only person in the world not worthy of his attention. It would be easier if he really was a bad man. If you didn’t know he volunteered with kids and Steve’s foundation, if he didn’t advocate for his fellow veterans, if he hadn’t made his ma’s chicken soup when you and Nat had both caught something last winter, and taken the time to drop it off in person.
For Nat.
Because you’re just… Not worth it for him. Not worth his time, not worth his smiling, barely worth anything more than glowering stares and taunting words. And you’re not weak. You fight back every day, and keep all of your desires and affection buried deep in the pit of your stomach and swollen like an infection around your heart.
He never has to know that you think about him all the time. That you feel yourself bloom whenever your eyes meet, then wither when his gaze snaps away. Whenever he presses his body over yours just to tease you, the heat of his body makes your breath hitch. You spend long days daydreaming about how good a boyfriend he’d be, if he didn’t hate you. Attentive and caring and giving.
Every night you think about how giving he’d be. Flowers and coffee like he brings Wanda for galleries, or for Nat or Clint when they’ve been working late night shifts. He likes watching TV, you know, because he spends a lot of time sitting next to you on the couch and loudly making comments until you threaten to force-feed him bleach. But if that wasn’t the blunt and unforgiving knife of reality, you could just lay in his arms forever.
He could pick you up and carry you to bed. The same bed that you put that accursed vibrated between your legs, close your eyes, and dream of him railing you into the mattress. Fucking you until you can’t stand, until you can’t speak or thing, until your eyes are rolling back and your mouth can’t even figure out how to close, so he kisses you possessively or gives you some of those thick fingers to suck on-
“You should still talk to him.” Natasha’s words are blunt. If she’s noticed how you’ve been working yourself up, she doesn’t say a single word. “Before he does something stupid.”
You snort. “Bucky always does something dumb-“
“No. He does a lot of dumb things. Close your eyes.” Nat picks up an eyeliner, and you obey. “But there’s a difference between dumb and stupid. Stupid is harder to take back.”
You grunt, and you don’t think anything stupid Bucky does is going to have anything to do with you. But something scratches at your brain, and it’s green and bitter. Your fingers fidget in your lap, and you shouldn’t ask, but-
“Is he bringing someone?” You blurt, and just the idea makes you sick. Bucky with some model-type, holding her hips while she grinds onto him, all the honey he’d pour into her ears and down her throat while you just hugged yourself in the corner of the room. Her sitting on his lap in your apartment, you trying to hide the ugliness of jealousy but never being able to spare her more than a crude sneer. It’s the only reason Nat would possibly want you to talk to him. You and Bucky’s childish game of pulling each other’s hair and biting without teeth and seeing who breaks first, it ruins his picture of the perfect suitor. If you keep it up, you’ll ruin this for him, and he deserves to be happy but the thought of him being happy while you just sink into yourself like quicksand makes you want to die-
“Jesus, no.” Nat laughs. “That’s- Never mind.” She shakes her head, still chuckling about some secret you apparently don’t get to be a part of.
“What?” You try to push. “I’ve heard about his- You know. Promiscuity.”
Nat snorts. “From who?”
“Sam.”
“Sam’s an idiot.” She dismisses plainly, and you frown.
“Tony’s mentioned it too-“
“They’re both idiots.”
“Bucky’s told me, he said he leaves all his girls satisfied-“
“Bucky is the biggest idiot of all of them. Open.”
You listen again, and find Nat smiling at you with a strangely soft affection. Like you’re some wet kitten she rescued off the street.
“Put on your dress.” She says, wiping the corners of your slightly pouting lips. “Talk to Barnes.”
At the very least, you manage to follow one of those orders.
The dress is a little shorter than you thought it would be. It rides up your thighs, forcing you to pull it down with every step. In the car you cross your legs and stare at the floor, grounding yourself in the bass of Nat’s loud music as your heartbeat starts to pick up. You’re going out. You’re going out. Spiting Bucky was not a good enough reason to do this, it’s going to be loud and you can dance but not in front of strangers, and you’re going to be even more boring than usual and you feel like a fraud.
“Nice dress.”
Bucky’s voice is a low behind you, his breath fanning on your neck. You almost scream.
“Christ, calm down.” He’s grinning when you whip around, leaning forward in his seat to whisper. Sam and Steve are next to him, one very pointedly staring out the window, the other looking at something on his phone and humming like he’s already trying to drown out you and Bucky’s fighting.
“You scared me-“
“You saw me get in the car, sweetheart. Not my fault you’re jumpy-“
“I am not jumpy-“
“You are. Like a bunny.” His grin widens, and you scowl.
The shifting streetlamps make him look like an angel. Golden halo rays behind his head, long shadows that make him look even more rugged than usual. His lips look fuller, softer, eyes glimmering like a floodlight through the dark, and-
“Shut up.” You snap, turning back around. You can’t keep looking at him. It’s dangerous.
“I was just saying your dress was nice.” Bucky’s breath tickles your neck. You wrap your arms tight around your stomach.
“You also called me a rabbit.”
“Called you a bunny-“
“That’s the same thing.”
“No, it’s-“ He sighs, shaking his head. “You’re impossible, you know that?”
You flip him off over your shoulder, glaring firmly out the windshield. You can feel him retreat, but the closeness had lit up your nerves, and now they’re buzzing with hope that he’ll return.
Stupid fucking body. Stupid fucking Bucky.
You refuse to look at him when you arrive. You stumble a little bit in your heels—Natsha insisted on six inch, which is far too tall for anyone—and Bucky catches your arm, holding you upright. You brush his hand off like a fly and march on, refusing to give him the satisfaction of some other comment about how you’re like a baby deer.
When you get inside, you can smell it. The stench of sweat and alcohol and something fruity they probably use to cover the first smells. You cling to Natasha, letting her guide you through the crowd to the bar. She orders you two shots because you need them, and you don’t argue. Between Bucky and the club, you do.
You down them both without flinching, and Sam whistles from behind you.
“Damn, you took those like a champ.”
You shrug, and Sam elbows Bucky.
“You see that, Buck-“
“Yeah. I saw it.”
Bucky’s voice is lower than usual. Almost sullen. You’d examine him, try to figure out what’s wrong with him, but you’re not supposed to be letting yourself care. He’s not your problem tonight. You’re here to indulge in fun.
You’re already not very good at that as is. Bucky’s consuming presence isn’t going to help.
Another drink might.
You’re three shots in when Nat brings you out to the dance floor. The liquor is pulling you lose, the frayed knot that’s always in your chest going slack enough to allow you to dance. You’re smiling and laughing like a normal person, almost completely able to forget to check where Bucky is in the room.
Near the edge of the crowd, drinking and talking to Steve.
A fourth shot might be needed.
You’re smiling like a fool now. The room is tilted a little, all the colors neon, but they blind out your usual worried and the tilt helps your worries slide off your body. You’re able to forget about Bucky until you notice a girl talking to him, and you take a fifth shot. A sixth, when he vanishes for nine and a half minutes, and your brain starts to map everything he might be doing to that girl.
Seven, when the first stranger asks you to dance and you’re not drunk enough to forget about Bucky and say yes.
Eight, when he tries to kiss you and you shove him away, because his lips aren’t pink enough and he’s not broad enough for you to every pretend.
Nat tries to cut you off there. You slip past her, and take a ninth. The room is just a blur now. You can’t fully remember who Nat is, and why you’re trying to avoid her. There’s a man with his hands on your hips, and he’s got dark hair that looks too greasy for you to touch. Another man calls you sweetheart, but he says it a little wrong and it makes you want to cry. None of them have the right eyes, and the ones that are closer don’t have the right smile.
You feel like you’re going to cry, by the time you’ve rejected the eleventh man. Or only fourth. Numbers don’t feel real right now. Most everything doesn’t feel real.
Everything except Bucky.
Because your own name is just a sound in your head that sounds foreign, but Bucky says it and you know to turn around.
It’s less because it’s your name. More because Bucky called you.
You smile, swaying on your feet, and you’re not even sure where you are anymore. It’s somewhere with a lot of people. Loud music. It’s dark, but bright at the same time, and Bucky looks like a walking dream as he moves towards you. Your vision swims, but he’s made of clear lines and a stern expression.
He’s mad at you. Your face falls, lip wobbling, and you take a step back. You don’t want him to be mad at you. Your heart is already beating in your ears, Bucky’s anger or distain might make it burst.
“Where the hell did you go?” He snaps, and you bow your head.
“I- I dunno-“ You hiccup, hugging yourself tight.
“Nat’s been looking for you, Steve barely stopped her from trying to make the building go into lockdown, and I-“ He cuts himself off, running a hand over his face, and you blink the tears away.
You’re looking up at him under your lashes, and he’s still angry. Some distant voice in your head tells you it’s your fault entirely. That he must’ve been about to go home with someone when they lost you, and now he’s pissed he had to pause his night to find you. You sniff, wiping your nose with your arm.
Bucky’s frown deepens. He takes a step forward, and you try to step back but balance feels like an Olympic feat right now.
His arm loops around your waist, pulling you right against his chest. You stare up at him, tears streaming down your cheeks from feelings you can’t even name anymore. They’re hollow and big and full and made of a million little cuts. They burn in your heart and through your blood, but also freeze in your throat and muscles. You can’t move. You don’t want to move.
Bucky’s big hand is splayed on your back, and you don’t want to go anywhere you can’t feel him.
That voice from before reminds you that’s not allowed, so you wiggle a little.
Bucky holds you tighter, and you surrender in a split second. His frown deepens, and you think you’re still crying. Your cheeks are certainly burning, and your throat feels oddly tight.
Gentle fingers brush under your eyes, and you hum softly. Bucky’s nostrils flare, those fingers brushing hair from your face before cupping the back of your head, forcing your gaze onto his.
“Jesus, woman.” He mutters, those beautiful eyes scanning over your slack face. “How much did you have to drink.”
“I dunno.” You breathe. His brow furrows.
“Best guess.”
You shrug, shaking your head, and Bucky sighs. You want to shrink and hide from him, from his obvious annoyance and disappointment. It’s nothing new, but it’s raw like this. You can’t figure out anything, let alone how to pretend like his hatred doesn’t bother you. You try to turn and hide your face, but Bucky just pulls it right back.
“Over five?” He prompts, and his voice is so soft. Like he’s trying to coax the answer out of you.
“I- I don’t know.” You whine slightly, and he sighs.
“Yeah. Alright.” Bucky’s throat bobs, and he looks up. Glances around you, his hands never leaving your body.
You stare up at him in the dark. You’re not supposed to be looking at him, but it’s impossible. He’s magnetic, and beautiful, and you’ve never been this close to him without one of you trying to claw at the other.
But your fingers cling to the fabric of his shirt, and it’s not to draw blood. You just don’t think that if he walks away you’re going to be able to stand up.
Bucky looks back down at you, and his tongue flicks over his lips. His thumb drags slowly over your cheekbone, leaving a little trail of fire in its wake. Your breathing gets shallow, your eyes fluttering. Everything feels like a lot. Like you’re so high in the atmosphere the air is starting to get thin. Bucky’s brow furrows, and he works his jaw like he does when he’s thinking.
You’ve always wanted to reach up and touch the lines that form on his face, when he worries. They’re deep, and still handsome, but they only ever mark that he’s stressed. He shouldn’t be. It’s only you, and you’re nothing to him.
He lets out a heavy breath through his nose, his hand dragging down to cup the back of your neck. You tip your head back, waiting for him to do something. Kiss you. Bite you. Slam you back against the wall and relieve the ache, building up between your thighs. Maybe just smell you and let his lips brush over a sensitive spot on your neck, teasing you like always until you’re crying and begging for him.
Instead, Bucky just sighs. He pulls you forward, twisting you until you’re in front of him. His arms cage you to his chest, and he’s almost herding you down the hall.
“Where’re we going?” You tip your head back, and find him glowering at everyone around you.
They’re all moving so fast, stumbling in your path then scrambling away under Bucky’s glower. His eyes flick down to yours for a second, and maybe it’s the delusions of grandeur and liquor, but you could swear they soften slightly.
“We’re gettin’ you home.” He mutters, shouldering the door open. “You need to sleep this off.”
You wrinkle your nose as the chill of night air hits you. “But it’s cold-“
“Car will be warm.”
“But we don’t have a car-“
“We’re taking Nat’s.”
You scoff. “Nat would never give you her car-“
“Well, she did.” He grunts, voice dropping under his breath. “You’d never give me your car.”
“I don’t have a car.” You snap, and Bucky chuckles dryly.
“Yeah, I know.” He opens the door, giving you an amused look. “Up and in, baby.”
Your whole world stops for a second. You feel like you’re floating, a ditzy smile crossing your face, and you start to giggle because he called you baby. Bucky called you baby, like you matter to him, and he’s touching you.
Bucky sighs when you don’t move, and bends down. He scoops you up and drops you in the car like you weigh nothing. You’re still giggling when he closes the door and walks around the hood, sliding into the driver’s seat. For a second you stop, looking out the club with a frown. The world is still hazy, but you can see the neon sign, and it feels like you’re forgetting things that are very important-
“They’re all goin’ back to our place.” Bucky grunts, and you look over to find him staring at you with one of those stone-faced, unreadable expressions that he only uses around you. “It’s closer, cab will be cheaper.”
You frown. “Why aren’t they riding with us?”
“’Cause we’re going back to yours.”
“Why?”
“’Cause.” Is all Bucky offers. He starts the car before you can ask another question, and puts his arm around your seat to back out of the spot.
Nat has a back cam. He just always does it like this, and you’ve always chalked it up to his big, responsible man thing. Usually when the arm is around you, you glare out the window and pretend you can’t feel how close he is. How his fingers brush your upper arm, or how his smell gets stronger.
Tonight you can’t really remember why you do that. And Bucky does really smell good.
You turn your cheek, pressing it into his bicep. Bucky freezes, the car jerking to a stop, and you can feel his attention. It sparks a tiny fire in your core, and seeps down between your thighs. Your lips graze his skin, and he coughs.
His fingers dip down, brushing near your collarbone. You hum happily, and the car starts moving again.
When you’re out of the parking lot, Bucky doesn’t remove his arm like usual. You’re grateful. If he did, you might have chased it right into his lap.
“You have fun?” Bucky breaks the silence, voice gruff.
You nod, turning to watch him drive. He always does it in a way that’s almost unfairly attractive. He holds the wheel lazily, like he knows it’s under his control. You want him to hold you like that.
Bucky clears his throat. “You, uh- You did good.”
“Good?” You murmur, not fully understanding the praise.
You know it makes you throb, and press your thighs together. Bucky’s eyes flick to the motion, and his throat bobs.
“Yeah.” His grip on the wheel is white knuckled. “Good.”
Silence settles again, and you let yourself stare at him. He’s beautiful. So beautiful it makes you unsure that he’s real. You’d like to trace the line of his jaw, hear his smooth, deep voice again. Hear it say your name, because it’s the only thing that reminds you that you’re real. You can’t remember why you ever deprived yourself of this. Of him, and all his quiet glory. He’s a loud man, but never boastful.
He’s only really boastful to you. When he fixes the shower for Nat or someone brings up his army service, he waves them off and laughs, and you’ve always loved that about him. You love most things about him, even when he’s being insufferable. You sort of love that he’s insufferable, too. You’re not that easy either. And if you wrapped around him, you’re hoping he’d be too chivalrous to cut you off. He could mock you all he wants, you’d just hide your face in his neck and breathe him in. Grounding. Handsome. Impossible to resist.
Your fingers are itching, to touch that sad little furrow. There’s nothing for him to worry about. The world revolves around him.
“Saw you got some numbers.” He grunts suddenly, and you pause.
“Numbers?”
“Phone numbers.”
“Oh.” You reach for you bag, checking that the hard line of your phone is still there. It is. You don’t know what he’s talking about.
“You gonna call any of them?”
“Any of who?”
Bucky gives you an exasperated look, then double takes slightly. His worry lines deepen. It makes you pout, grabbing at your own hands to stop them from reaching for him.
“The guys.” He says slowly, frowning at the road. “That you were talkin’ to.”
Oh. Phone numbers. “No.”
His brows raise. “No?”
You shake your head, and Bucky prompts you with an oddly tight voice.
“Why?”
They’re not you. Even your drunk brain seems to know it’s bad idea to say that. “I didn’t want them.”
“Hm.” Bucky taps his hand on the wheel, shooting you a strange look. “Why?”
You can’t tell him that, but you also can’t think of a good excuse this time. You make a lame, half-hearted sigh, and turn your face back into his arm.
He doesn’t push it. He doesn’t talk for the rest of the drive. His thumb drags little circles on your upper arm, lulling you into a half-sleep only interrupted by the bump of the road. You’re not sure how much longer you’re in the car, and when it stops you can’t really remember what you’re supposed to do now.
Bucky helps. He slides away from you, squeezing your thigh in a silent reassurance before he steps out of the car. Your hand traces over where he’d touched you. Bare skin on skin, hands still light and gentle. He seems to have burned his handprint into you, and it spreads until you’re tingly and weak-kneed.
The door on your side opens, and his voice is low in your ears.
“C’mon, pretty girl.” A strong arm loops around your stomach, pulling you back. “Let’s get you in bed.”
You hum, and let Bucky guide you. You trust him completely, with all your heart and not a single question.
He handles you carefully. Guides you inside, holds you steady in the elevator, takes your keys from your shaking fingers and opens the door. You’re sent to take a shower, but start to trip over nothing the moment Bucky lets go of you, so he sighs and draws you a bath.
“How am I gonna stand?” You mumble, sitting on the toilet while he runs the water. “Or rinse.”
Bucky grunts. “I’ll help.”
You hum in approval, and start to pull off your dress. Bucky makes a strangled sound, eyes flying up to the ceiling, and you’ve never seen his face so red.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Getting ready for a bath?” You frown at him, and he groans.
“You- Fuck.” He takes a heavy breath through his nose, closing his eyes. “Just- Keep your underwear on, alright?”
You nod, trying to ignore the heavy sting that he doesn’t want to see you naked. Bucky won’t even fully look at you as he helps you into the tub. He leaves the room while you sit helplessly in the water, barely moving until he returns. You wrap your arms over your chest, suddenly consciously that maybe you’re not pretty enough for him to look at you. You pull your knees to your chest and sniffle, just waiting for him. You don’t even know why he left in the first place. You wanted him here.
Bucky sighs, when he opens the door to find you crying.
“Christ, I leave you alone for five seconds- Hey, woah-“ He kneels on the bathmat, hand flexing before he reaches out and wipes away your tears. “It’s alright, you’re alright. Don’t cry, sweetheart, you’re okay-“
You bite down a sob and turn your face, pressing it right into his shoulder. Again, Bucky stiffens. His arms hover for a second, breathing shallow, and you think he’s going to shove you away.
But he doesn’t. After that single, million year heartbeat of a moment, he grabs you. Holds you tight into his body, cradling your head and rocking you back and forth. The water flows under you, pushing up on the lip of the tub. A little bit flows over, splashing his pants.
He doesn’t seem to mind.
“C’mon, baby.” He murmurs, slowly starting to rise. “Let’s get you to bed.”
You nod, wrapping your arms tight around his neck. When he gets you on your feet, he stops for a second. His lips brush near your ear, and an electric rush dart through you. Then, fast but certain, he kisses the side of your head.
It’s so quick you’d think you imagined it, if you couldn’t feel the burn of his lips long after he pulls away. You reach up to brush it, when Bucky deposits you on your bed. You watch him move around the room like he belongs there.
He does.
He’d belong with you, if he wasn’t such a massive butt about your existence.
“It’s your fault, you know.”
Bucky glances up from your dresser, fisting a shirt in his hands. “What?”
“You.” You say, because it’s that simple.
He’s the reason you’re drunk. That you didn’t score tonight, that you’d been crying, that you have to be coddled like a baby.
Not that you mind that last one. It’s wonderful, having him touch and speak to you like he cares.
It’s still all his fault.
“What’s me?” He says, and you roll your eyes at the ceiling.
“All of it.”
Bucky says your name, and you wave him off with a dramatic sigh. You can hear him pad slowly across the room, and when he pulls you up gently you flop over his body. A useless ragdoll he’s trying to get a shirt onto.
But the harder you make it, the longer he’ll stay. The longer he’ll be nice, and touch you, and-
“I love you.”
Bucky stills. Your words hang in the air, but you don’t understand why. You’ve said far worse things to him, and he must have known. You know. You’re pretty sure Nat does too, with all the looks she’s always giving you after Bucky teases you and you flush, or you bicker and he marches away with a scowl.
It’s not some grand confession. You love him like the seasons turn and the sun always rises. It’s a deep, mechanical part of you that can’t be rewired, and you know because you’ve tried. But Bucky’s leans back and stares at you like the sky is falling.
“What?”
His voice is a croak, and you frown at him.
“I love you.” You say it slower this time. Maybe you’d slurred the words, and he hadn’t understood. “It’s your fault, because I love you and you’re just… There.”
He blinks at you slowly, obviously still not understanding. You roll your eyes, and flop back down.
Bucky coughs, grabbing your knee as if to steady himself. He’s sitting down, and it’s not like he’s in love. The world is perfectly under his feet. You’re the one suffering.
“I’m here?”
“All the time.” You whine, and his grip on your knee tightens.
“But you love me.”
“Mhm.”
“So why’s it problem that I’m here-“
“Because you never do anything.”
You can hear the frown in his voice. “I do things. I do lots of things-“
“You never touch me.” You prop yourself on your elbows, glaring down at him. “You just- You’re there, and you don’t like me and it- It makes me-“
“Makes you what.” Bucky’s voice is deep, his eyes dark on yours, and you stick your tongue out at him.
“You don’t get to know.”
“I don’t get to know?” He snorts. “No, you can’t just- You can’t say that kinda stuff then-“
“I wish you’d touch me.” You tell the ceiling.
Bucky grunts. “Yeah, I’ve heard. But-“
“Think I could cum just from listening to you talk.” You hum, your voice sounding like a faraway dream.
Your eyes are getting heavy, and Bucky’s gone completely silent. The words start to float out of you, like steam escaping through windows, into the warm, open sky.
“I’d like to touch you, too. Put you in my mouth, or just- ride you.” You sigh. “I want everything. I’d do- Do anything you told me too if you asked. Anything.” You look back up at him, your lip wobbling again. “But you never ask me. Why don’t you ever ask me?”
Bucky’s gaping at you, and he shakes his head, his voice a low croak. “I, uh- You’ve never-“
He swallows, glancing down, and you follow his gaze.
He’s straining through his jeans, shifting uncomfortably. You giggle, flopping back down. Your eyes start to droop, the room fading in and out. Bucky rises over you with a sigh, pulling the blankets up.
“’S nice.” You murmur. “You. Bein’ here.”
You yawn, and Bucky’s laughs. Under his breath, like an inside joke he won’t bring you into.
“Yeah. I know.” His hand grazes over your cheek, and you hum sleepily, eyes closing.
His lips press to your forehead, and it’s like a spell. The world, slowly and easily, starts to slip away.
“Sleep well, baby.” He mutters, and under that command, you do.
He’s not there when you wake up, and you have to be okay with that.
You don’t know how you’re ever going to face him again anyway. There’s a fog hanging over your brain, but it’s not thick enough that you can’t remember last night.
Bucky saw you naked. He was in your room, and put you to bed, and you-
You told him you loved him.
That you wanted him. That you could cum just from him talking to you.
You have to move. You have to change your name and move as far away as possible. Maybe Siberia, or Russia, or Romania, or somewhere he’ll never find you again. Because you told him you loved him, and now he’s gone.
He left a water on your bedside table. Mocking you with the fact that last night was real.
You force yourself to sit up, rubbing your temples, and take the glass. If you’re never going to see Bucky again, and you don’t plan to, there’s no need to spite him with ignoring it.
When you stand up, it takes a few deep breaths to start moving. Nat isn’t home yet, and she probably won’t be for a while. That gives you plenty of time to wallow before you vanish forever. You can spend the morning moping and cursing yourself, then worry about consequences.
You make cereal and put on coffee. Stare at the little bits floating through the milk, and try not to think about Bucky. If he’s thinking about you.
If he is, you don’t want to imagine what. That you’re a whore for throwing yourself at him, a fool for think he’d be open to such a confession—from you of all people—or maybe just the same as he always did. Maybe he’d known the whole time, and he just thinks you were gutsy to say it aloud when he so clearly wants nothing to do with you.
Nothing at all, but taking care of you while you’re drunk. Giving you a bath and putting you to bed, handling you like something precious and kissing the side of your head.
That could have been just more mocking. The same game he’s always played, accusing you of wanting him then laughing. Like he’d already known.
But playing that game while you’re out of it isn’t Bucky’s style. He likes you biting back, sometimes he dangles comments over your head and grins when you snap at them. So there’d be no reason for him to play when you weren’t even able to a join him. But then there’s no reason for him to act like that at all.
It’s too early to be thinking this much. You put all your hopeful bets on Bucky having somehow forgotten everything, so you don’t have to move.
The door opens down the hallway, and you glance up. It’s early for Nat to be back.
But it’s not Nat that calls your name through the house.
“Where’d you- Hi.”
Bucky walks into the kitchen, and you stare at each other. He’s wearing his clothing from last night, his hair mussed, two paper coffee cups in his hands. You swallow, and he coughs, glancing around the kitchen.
“I got you coffee.” He mutters a little bitterly, and you follow his gaze to the rumbling coffee machine.
“Oh.”
“You don’t have to- It’s here.” He puts it on the counter, and you nod, focusing back on your cereal.
You’re both silent for another long moment. There air is thick, like a swamp at the height of summer. You’re not sure how you remember to speak.
“How’d you know I was up?”
“Your door was open.” He mutters. “Made sure it was closed before I went out.”
“Did you-“
“On the couch. Just, uh-“ He rubs the back of his neck, eyes locked onto yours. “I wanted to make sure you weren’t alone, and- I think we, uh- You said some things. That we should talk about.”
You rip your gaze away as you flush, but if you’d had any hope of pretending you’d been too drunk to retain the night and just hoping he’d leave you be, that ruins it.
Bucky’s eyes narrow. He walks forward, until he’s right at your side. You can feel his presence buzzing through you, and swallow.
“You remember.” His voice is low, and he leans further down before you can protest. “Don’t lie to me. We’ve both been lyin’ way too much.”
You don’t dignify him with an answer. With even a glance.
Bucky leans closer.
“You said you wanted to touch me.” He’s almost growling in your ear. “You said you wanted me in your mouth, that you wanted me to ride you, that you’d do anything I told you-“
“James.” You hiss, twisting to glower at him.
Mistake.
He looks hungry. His eyes are blown out, only inches from yours, his tongue darts over his lips when you look down at them. He’s watching you like a dog that’s finally been told it can have its bone. Your grip on the counter tightens. It’s hard to stay upright.
“Full name.” He hums, the corners of his lips tugging up. “I’m in trouble.”
“You’re being a dick-“
“Yeah, but you like it.”
“I- You-“
“You love it.”
You freeze at that word. The air feels thin now. Your face is burning, and Bucky’s as collected as ever. Like this is all still just a game to him.
“Fuck you.” You spit. It takes everything you have.
Bucky doesn’t even flinches. “Yeah, you want to.”
Your mouth falls open, and he leans in closer.
“You meant it, right? Everything you said?”
Denying seems pointless. You try to anyway, but your lips barely prepare for the word no before Bucky’s giving you a stern look—don’t lie to me—and your voice dies.
He says your name, and it’s the same voice he used last night. Lighter, gentler, man trying to tend instead of force. You weren’t any match for it last night, but that doesn’t seem to be the drink’s fault. You give in just as easily right now.
“Yes.” You breathe.
Bucky’s eyes flash. “All of it?”
“Bucky…”
“Do you want me.” His voice is demanding now, and you try to look away.
He catches your chin, pulling you back. Forcing your gaze onto his, onto those beautiful, enchanting eyes.
You nod, and he hums in approval. The sound settles, molten and warm in your tummy.
“Do you love me?”
His words sound so sincere and taunting at the same time. You can’t look away, so you glare, and he chuckles.
“Come on, baby.” He brushes his lips over yours, his voice becoming something low. Something dangerous.
You don’t even bother to move away this time. You’re breathing in your chest, your stomach filled with too much desire to do much else. The brush of his lips let you taste coffee and mint, and his grip on your chin is commanding. You’re only putty in his hands. A lost cause that doesn’t really want to be found.
“Don’t make me fuck it out of you.”
Bucky’s eyes gleam, and he’s playing again. He knows he has you, that you want to be had.
His hand drags slowly, gently, on your waist. His fingers dip under your shirt, the soft touch making you gasp. You lean forward, and Bucky leans back. He tilts his head slightly, something stern still in his gaze. You blink hopelessly, trying to figure out what, and he squeezes your hips. It’s grounding and electric, and he presses back forward as you go still below him.
“Do you want me to fuck it out of you.” He growls, and your mouth falls open with a whimper.
Permission. He was holding himself on a leash for your permission.
Doubt drains from your head, far down south where a warm, summer storm is brewing between your thighs.
You spread your legs slowly, and grab his hand on your hips. Push it slightly down, until his attention follows.
Bucky’s jaw clenches, and his hand on your chin drops. You watch as he moves so tantalizingly slow, brushing the band of your panties before dragging down the seam at the apex of your thighs. He rubs you over the fabric, and your hips buck into the touch.
“Fuck.” Bucky hooks two of his fingers, tearing your underwear in one rip. “You’re so wet. Soaked through the panties, soaking my fucking fingers.”
You moan, pressing your face into his shoulder. Bucky dips his fingers into your heat, smearing the arousal all over your pussy, and you shake.
“Bucky-“
“You got this,” he spanks your pussy, then drags the mess down your inner thighs. “’Cause I’m here? Or just from thinking about me?”
“B- Both.” You mumble, trying to keep still as the broad pads of his fingers find your clit, rubbing in slow, tantalizing circles.
He hums. “You think about me a lot?”
Pressing hard on the sensitive button. Your knees give out, and you’re only caught by his arm around you’re lower back.
“Careful, baby-“
“All the time.” You whimper the confession, looking up at him with big, teary eyes. “Think about you all the time, Bucky, you’re- You’re so- Oh my god-“
Bucky yanks his hand from your pussy, grabbing your jaw and angling it back for a kiss.
It’s slower than you thought it would be, with how he crashed over you. You’d been expecting rough and harsh, all spit and ownership. Instead there’s a certainly behind it—a rough passion that’s demanding and hot—but it’s slow. Bucky doesn’t use his tongue until you open your mouth, and he hums in satisfaction when you grab at his hair, tugging slightly.
He grabs your ass, hauling you up on the kitchen counter. His hands wander your body lazily, tracing the softness of your hips and curve of your spine. He chuckles when you arch into the touch, deepening the kiss. Stars swim behind your eyes, and you realize you’re still grinding up into his torso.
“Bucky.” You plead, and he presses another tiny kiss to your lips, taking his sweet damn time.
“Off.” He tugs at the hem of your shirt, and you lift your arms to help him.
He leans back when you’re uncovered, and this time he isn’t trying to cover anything else. He palms one of your breasts, licking his lips before he takes the nipple between his fingers and rolls it. You squeak and his eyes dart up, almost studying how you shiver and blink at him.
“So reactive.” He switches to the other breast, and your fingers dig into the nape of his neck. “Almost came before I even really touched you, sweetheart. If you can’t hold it, you’re gonna be a fuckin’ wreck before I’m even done with you.”
You shake your head, face heating further. “It- It’s been a long time-“
“Yeah, but that’s not it.” He drags his hand down, over your abdomen. Back between your thighs. “You got that little toy keepin’ you satisfied-“
“Not satisfied.” You breathe, head lolling to the side as Bucky resumes his tight circles on your clit. “Not you, Bucky, fuck-“
He groans, dragging you back into a deep kiss. You give him everything you have in return, nipping at his lips and yanking his hair. Bucky groans and picks you fully off the counter, walking you both to your room and kicking the door shut.
“You drive me fuckin’ crazy.” He grunts between kisses, his own steps getting a little uneven. “The stuff I wanna do to you, no way we’re covering it in one night. Years to make up for, gotta ration it.”
“Years?” You pull back, and Bucky grins.
“Oh yeah. You’re not the only one who’s not satisfied, babydoll.”
“But-“
“Ah.” He kisses you, lowering you onto the bed. “Nope. Not now.”
You frown up at him. “Bucky, you said we needed to talk-“
“And now I’m sayin’ not now. And if my memory’s right,” he grins down at you. “You’re the one who said she’d do whatever I want.”
You flush, crossing your arms over your chest, and Bucky laughs. He pulls his shirt off, and you almost fall backwards on the sheets like it’s an atomic blow.
There have been glimpses. Moments. You’ve been to the pool with him before, and he’d been shirtless there too.
But he hadn’t been standing over you, massive and radiating power. You hadn’t been close enough to trace your fingers over the scars littering his muscle, remnants from his time in the army. You reach up in a trace, tracing one closer to his pant line, and he flexes under your touch. A low sound rumbles through him, and he catches your wrist with a warning look.
You giggle. “You’re not the only one who’s sensitive.”
Bucky’s eyes flash, his voice dropping impossibly low. “I’m gonna fuck you until you can’t speak.”
Your shift in the sheets, more desire building in your already aching pussy. Bucky’s attention darts to the movement, and his throat bobs. Every muscle in his body strains, and you give him a sweet smile.
“Prove it.”
Bucky makes that deep, growling sound again and grabs your face between his hands. He presses over you, shoving his tongue down your throat, and this is the kiss you’d been expecting from before. Rough and starved, almost marking you as much as kissing you. He bullies you down into the mattress with his weight, and you spread your legs wide to accommodate him.
“You’re so soft.” He mutters, kneading your thighs as his mouth starts to trail hot kisses down your neck. “Thought about touchin’ you like this forever, about how beautiful you’d be under me. And let me tell you, baby,” he nips under your jaw. “Better than I managed to dream.”
You grind up below him, trying to chase a little more friction. You keep meeting the rough fabric of his jeans, and the drag is beautiful, but it’s still not enough.
“Needy girl.” Bucky drags your legs apart, pressing his hips firmly over your core. The sudden pressure does the trick, and you moan, tipping your head back in brief relief. “Yeah, you like that. Feels so good and I’m not even doin’ anything.”
“Bucky, don’t- Don’t tease-“
“But it’s so fun.” He coos, kissing the corner of your mouth. “You get all nervous, makes me want to stuff you up with cock and see how you squirm-“
You make a loud, wanting sound, trying to fuck your hips up into the air. But Bucky’s heavy. You can only claw at his shoulders, and it just makes him tease more.
His rolls his hips, dragging the bulge in his jeans over your burning core. Your mouth falls open, and he kisses you, sneaking and arm tight around your back.
The forced arch of your back makes your legs open widen, giving him further access. He starts to rut against your bare pussy, and it’s perfect torture. Your arms are tight enough around him to choke, but it doesn’t slow him down. Bucky dry fucks you, your pussy throbbing desperately for release, arousal trickling down your ass and every thrust filling you with a burning pleasure.
You hadn’t been lying. It’s been a long time. But that’s not the only reason why you’re already so close to the edge again. Bucky’s body is everywhere around you, his thick arms holding you tight, his lips wandering over your neck and cheeks, leaving sloppy, open-mouthed kisses. The friction is everything, he’s everything, and you don’t have enough restraint to fight it.
The orgasm is sudden and harsh, shaking your whole body. You claw at his back, twitching and whining in his ear. You didn’t know you could cum that hard, hard enough to make eyes close from the overwhelming sensation, and it’s just from dry humping.
Bucky groans in your ear and pulls back suddenly. His eyes are lidded, expression lustful, and his palm flexes near his bulge like he’s forcing himself not to rub it. Your breathing is uneven, your pussy still aching, and you reach down to try and rub your clit until he collects himself.
He catches your wrist and pins it to the mattress, shaking his head. “You just fuckin’ came, baby.”
“I- I know- I just-“ You try to turn, and Bucky slaps your cheek lightly. Forces your attention back to him.
“You’re a big girl. Use words.”
You want to glare at him, but something about the slightly mocking order makes your pussy throb. Bucky raises his brows, and you barely manage not to drool.
“Want more.” You mumble, and he grins.
“And?”
“And?”
“You what?”
You stare for a second, then roll your eyes. “Oh, fuck off.”
Bucky smirks, squeezing his hold on your wrist. “’S alright. We’ll get there.”
You stick out your tongue, and he hums.
“That’s not very nice, baby. Think we need to work on your manners.”
“My manners are fine-“
“You’re a brat.” He teases, and you flush.
“I am not-“
“Yeah, you are. You’re a wet, needy little fuckin’ brat.” Bucky starts to move your hand between your legs, and you pretend to try and pull away.
He sees the challenge, and yanks it down. Presses it against your core, making you shake. Your eyes flutter, and Bucky laughs.
“Look at you.
“You really still got that vibrator?”
You nod, and he pulls your hand up. kisses your knuckles, eyes sparkling.
“Grab it.”
You scramble up the moment he lets go of you, yanking open your bedside drawer and pulling out the pink rabbit. Bucky grabs your hips before you can roll back over, pulling you backward with your ass in the air. You twist to look at him and find his attention entirely fixed on your core. On the mess between your legs.
He’s almost in a trance, as he drags two fingers through your pussy lips. You flutter, overly sensitive from before, and Bucky shoves his fingers right into your pussy.
You go limp, at the sudden stretch. Bucky’s fingers are everything you’d imagined they’d be, and more. Rough in all the right place, deft and thick, crooking right at the edges as he finds your g-spot faster than even you can sometimes. He hums like he’s figured out something interesting and kisses the curve of your ass. He starts to rub the tips of his fingers, massaging that happy, spongey place inside you, and you moan into the sheets.
“Bu- Bucky-“
“You’re tight.” He mutters, kissing between your ass and pussy, the tiny patch of skin that sends a shiver up your spine. “And wet. Gonna feel real good around my cock, babydoll. Got a perfect pussy for me to fill up.”
You make another desperate sound, and Bucky presses further in.
“Oh, that sounds good to you, doesn’t it. Getting stuffed full of my cum, being my pretty cockslut. I’d make you walk around with it after, wear a skirt so I can fuck you again whenever you run out. Fuck you until it’s stained on your legs, until everyone can fuckin’ smell it. ‘Till they know you’re mine.”
Your pussy clenches at the possessive promise, and Bucky groans.
“You wanna be mine, don’t you sweet girl.”
“Ye- Yes-“
Bucky yanks his fingers out of you unexpectedly, and you almost scream in frustration. You try to twist around again to chew him out, but he grabs the back of your neck and shoves you into the sheets. You go limp, trembling as tears prick at your eyes. Bucky arms snakes around your stomach, his thumb resting under your clit. Never touch it, or where your pussy is fluttering, desperate to be filled.
“Say it.” He grunts, and you shake your head. You’re not that easy.
Bucky doesn’t seem in any rush to give up though. He spanks your pussy, and you cry out in a mix of pain and delight.
“Say it.” He orders, and your hands fist in the sheets as he spanks your pussy again. You grind against him, chasing more, and he pinches your clit hard.
You almost fly out of your skin, a lewd, garbled plea escaping your lips as another orgasms rushes through you. This one is shorter, but no less consuming. You clench around nothing, mouth hanging stupidly open, and Bucky sucks near your throat, his teeth brushing and making the pleasure all the more intense.
“Fuckin’ brat.” He mutters, awe almost coating his voice. “I’m a damn saint, making you cum again when you’re so greedy. When you got this hungry little pussy, begging to be stuffed with cock, and I’m letting you go first.”
“Please,” you try to flip over, but Bucky’s hold on you is too strong. “Bucky, please- Please just fuck me.”
“Oh, I will.” He kisses under your ear, voice silken and taunting. “But not now, babydoll. Then we would’ve brought this out for nothing.”
“What’s-“
A buzzing sound fills the air, and your eyes widen.
“Bucky, wait-“
“You know, you get more sensitive after you cum.” Bucky drawls, dragging the thick tip of the rabbit up and down your pussy. You try to focus on your breathing, squeezing your eyes shut as your body starts to get swept away in a wildfire.
“God, fuck-“
“Quiet.” He grunts. “I’m trying to talk, sweetheart. Be good.”
You nod, biting on your lower lip, desperate to listen well. To be good.”
“Like I was saying.” Bucky drawls, shoving the vibrating dildo up against your clit, then yanking it away. “You get more sensitive. And I was thinking all night about your little confession. That you can cum just from listening to me talk.” Bucky hums, dragging the head down to rest right over your entrance. “I like a challenge, but I’m got enough on my hands with you today. And since I’m so nice.” He pushes the thick length a little inside you, and your pussy clenches around it. “I’m gonna give you some extra hands. Extra sensitive,” he gives your clit a series of tiny hits, shoving the rabbit in deeper. “Some fake fuckin’ cock to get you ready for the real thing, and me.”
Bucky drags you back into his lap, right as he shoves the dildo home. You almost scream as the smaller bit presses over your clit, the thicker part driven right against where Bucky already knew your g-spot was.
“Bucky- Holy shit-“
He pulls your face to the side, silencing you with a deep kiss as you shake. You’ve already cum twice. That’s more than usual, and you’re not sure if you’ve got another.
You don’t get to tell him that, though. You don’t think he’d care to hear it right now, and fuck, do you want to see him try.
“I said quiet.” He growls when he pulls away, and before you know what’s happening he’s shoving the same fingers that had been in your pussy into your mouth.
You melt immediately, sucking on them as your eyes flutter. Bucky groans in your ear, moving his free hand to hold the rabbit inside your gushing, oversensitive pussy.
“Good girl.” He drawls in your ear. “Didn’t even have to ask, you just knew didn’t you. Fuck, you suck my cock half this good I’m not gonna be able to last ten minutes.”
You moan, and Bucky kisses the corner of your jaw before continuing.
“I know you’d like that. What was it you said? That you wanted to touch me? When this is done we can get you on your knees. If you behave.” He nips at your sweaty skin. “I’ll let you suck my dick. I’ll even fuck your face if you ask real nice. I hope you’re nice, baby, cause I can imagine it. You crying, lips around me, fucking your fingers while you choke on my cock. My pretty baby, my sweet fuckin’ doll loving me so much.”
You slump back against him fully, hips rolling uselessly, and it’s more subtle this time. The heat building at the bottom of your tummy, winding tight and made of a strange pressure.
“You’re gonna say it.” He coos in your ear, and your pussy starts to fight against the rabbit. Like it knows you can barely take it.
But you can’t lend it much energy. You like this position well enough.
“After you cum for me again, I’ll fuck you. Fuck you properly like the brat that you are.” Bucky groans, pressing his nose into your hair. “Walking around, making me feel like I’m the asshole for wanting you, for loving you when you’re snapping off at me,you’re a mouthy fuckin’ thing, aren’t you babydoll. Lotta bark but,” he pushes his fingers further into your mouth. “Not even a little bit of bite.”
Your eyes roll back, head pressing into his shoulder, and you give him a silent look of pleading that’s only met with a mocking grin.
“So pretty like this, sweetheart. Stupid and quiet, I ain’t even fucked you yet. Won’t clean you up after you’re done, just let you walk around with it dripping. Maybe I’ll fuck you until it sticks. Until you’re mine.”
Your back arches, and you’re so close. You can feel Bucky’s dick twitch against your ass, and somewhere in the distance your thoughts manage to collect enough to tell you that he removed his bottoms at some point.
“Fuck, ‘course you’re into that. Shouldn’t have expected more from you, with how much you love this. You’re close, baby.” His lips tease the shell of your ear. “So close.”
You whimper, grinding down onto him as the dildo vibrates, and Bucky groans. He pins you down to his lap with a hiss, fingers flexing on your stomach.
“Shit- You can’t just-“
He presses his mouth where your neck meets your shoulder, kissing and sucking as his dick throbs against you, and his dirty talk becomes mumbled and deep.
“My pretty fuckin’ girl, can’t even wait for it, cum for me, babydoll, come on, fuckin’ show me how much your greedy pussy wants my dick-“
The pressure breaks like a flood. Your pussy gushes so hard it pushes out the rabbit, and your head flies back as you grind into the air. Bucky moans, fully moans, and starts to rub your clit back and forth with the palm of his hand. You grab his wrist, spasming and trying to chase it and escape all at once. You whine as it becomes all too much, batting at Bucky’s hand.
He stops, collecting your release on his fingers.
When he presses them against your lips, you open. Hum as he feeds your own juices to you. All you can do is lap at his fingers and look at him under fluttering lashes, and he smiles.
“Good girl.” He coos, and your body seizes up again. You moan around his fingers, and Bucky laughs.
He pulls them out, turning your head for a gentle, deep kiss. You’re boneless and cockdrunk, only able to let him give and give whatever he’s willing. You can’t even try to drag him close.
Bucky rolls you over, making sure your back is pressed into the mattress as he kisses you lazily. He rises up after a few moments, his gaze raking down your body, and you flush. If you had more strength, you’d cover yourself. You’ve never been good at being looked at.
But there’s nothing expect awe and affection in Bucky’s eyes. He traces a hand over your every curve and softer spot, rising slowly on his knees to part your legs.
“You’re a miracle, baby.” He murmurs, pumping his cock in his hands and for once, you feel like one. “Look at what you do to me.”
You do, and you might be about to burst into flames.
Bucky’s thick. Long, but not enough to worry you, and thick. He’s going to drag, be able to get balls deep and make you feel him everywhere.
You’re drooling, and he sees it. He smirks knowingly, and you wrinkle your nose.
“Come on.” He teases. “Say it, and it’s all yours.”
You shake your head, and Bucky hums. Crawls back over your body, notching his cock right at your entrance. His hovers his lips over yours, not quite fully kissing.
“Say it.”
When you find your voice, it’s raspy and broken.
“No.”
“But you know you want to.” He presses the first inch inside, and if you’d had any worries about not being able to take more, they’re knocked away with how good he feels.
You were right. He’s an even bigger stretch than his two fingers, and it perfect. There’s a slight ache, but it’s overwhelmed by the closeness. By how well he fits, how much you need more of this brimming, explosive pleasure already threating to take you over.
“Just say it, pretty girl. Say it for me.”
You shake your head, and Bucky pushes further in, and your hands fly into his hair like they were pulled there.
He groans, rutting into you, and bottoms out. You didn’t know you could feel this good. Be this full. Bucky moans in your ear, and you breath slowly, trying to adjust.
“You feel so good.” He smashes his lips over yours, the kiss demanding and long. “Knew you’d feel this good, always knew you’d feel this good, Christ-“
You roll your hips up, and it makes Bucky jerk. He slams into you, knocking the air from your lungs, and your toes curl in delight.
He barks your name, grabbing your jaw, and you beam at him.
“More.” You breathe, and Bucky’s eyes widen in slight surprise.
He recovers fast.
“Yeah?” He pulls out slowly, then slams back in, his tip kissing your cervix. “You like that? Like being fucked like a toy?”
You moan happily, and Bucky laughs.
“Thought you might surprise me, babydoll, but no.” He taps your cheek, and you open without a thought. “You’re just the pretty cockslut I thought you were.”
He drags all the way out again, but this time pushes in slower. You whine, but he doesn’t even acknowledge you, setting a slow pace that feels good, but is far too much. The roughness made you numb with a good, fuzzy sensation, but this makes you feel it. Bucky’s cock dragging against your gummy walls, the press of him over your g-spot and heat of him, right over your clit.
You can barely take it. You’re already so fucked out from the other orgasms, you’re barely able to hold onto Bucky properly. You think you might be about to black out from pleasure, but no part of you wants him to stop altogether, and how you’re trapped somewhere between paradise and hell.
“Look at you.” He grabs one of your breasts, palming it as he thrusts smooth and deep. “Nobody else does this to you, do they. Makes you feel so good, gets you so stupid on their cock.”
You shake your head, and Bucky taps your mouth again.
“Words.”
“Bucky…”
“Want to hear you, sweet girl.” He kisses your cheek, words pure filth in your ears. “Here you scream for me while I fuck you, hear how much you love it.”
“Can’t-“
“Yes, you can.” He slams a little firmer, giving you a pointed look. “Good girls listen. And when they listen,” he repeats the motion, holding your gaze. “They get filled up.”
You whimper, but nod. Bucky smiles in satisfaction, returning to his torturous speed from before.
“Anyone else do this to you?” He grunts, and you shake your head.
“No- No. Never, Bucky, only you-“
He groans, picking up his pace. “That’s fuckin’ right. No one fucks you like this, I’m gonna ruin you. If you wanna cum you’ll have to find me, I’m the only one who plays this perfect fuckin’ pussy- Shit-“ He groans, jaw clenching as he hits a little deeper than before. “Nobody takes care of you like me-“
“No one.” You echo, and you’re rewarded with another rough slam. “No one, Bucky, only- Only wanted you, needed you- Fuck-“ You cry out, pressing your cheek into his jaw. “You and your thick cock, needed you so bad-“
“I know. I know, babydoll, but I’m here now.” He kisses you quickly, speeding up again.
It’s enough to make you start to feel it again. Not slowly building, but being dragged out. The tip of Bucky’s cock drags through you, and that hot feeling in your core starts to fill up again.
“Wanted to do this for so long.” He groans in your ear, and a loud moan escapes your lips. “You really got no idea, I thought I was gonna lose it every time I saw you, thought you’d never let me- God-“
You clench around him, and Bucky angles your hips up, allowing him to hit deeper. You moan, and he kisses the back of your neck, sucking a dark mark.
“My girl.” He mutters possessive, and you babble an agreement. “My smart, mean fucking baby, drunk on my cock. Prettiest girl in the world, mine-“
You moan, and Bucky cuts himself off with a groan. He kisses you again, then rises over you. Bracing his arms on either side of your head as he looks to where he’s fucking into you. Your gaze follows, and the warmth in your gut flares at the sight.
It’s the most vulgar, pornographic thing you’ve ever seen. Bucky’s thick cock, sliding in and out of you with ease. Precum and your own need for him shining on the thickness of him, his chest flexing with restraint as he forces himself to keep the same pace. You watch his cock vanish into your body, and feel him deep inside you, and God-
You look up, checking if Bucky’s as strangely moved by that as you are, and find him staring at you. The moment your eyes meet, he grabs your jaw, pressing you back down into the pillows with a rough kiss. You’re unable to do anything but take it all. Bucky’s tongue pressing down your throat, his lips moving expertly over yours, his cock fucking every word but his name out of your head.
“Look at me.” He rasps when he pulls away, and you nod.
His eyes are almost wholly black, and shining. Tears prick at yours, but Bucky leans down, kissing them away before going faster again.
His balls start to slap on your ass, his cock pumping in and out of you until it’s all you can think about. Bucky deep inside you, lighting you up, how you can feel a rush up your spine with his every thrust. A lewd, wet sound is filling the room as he pounds into you. Your pussy burns and spasms every time, but it’s too good to fight.
Bucky’s too good to fight. You don’t know why you tried for so long.
“Bucky-“ You breathe, and he grunts.
“You’re close, sweetheart.” He mutters, and you don’t know how he knows, but he’s right.
You’re about to snap again. To lose it from how he’s fucking you like you’re a doll and the love of his life, all at once. You grab his wrist, squeezing tight.
“Pretty girl,” he teases. “Gonna soak this cock like a good girl, aren’t you. Give it to me, baby, show me how much you love it-“
“Love you.” You breathe out, and Bucky freezes.
Balls deep, he stills. His cock throbs in protest, but he doesn’t seem to care.
You blink at him, praying you didn’t ruin it. Bucky swallows, and rasps out your name.
“What?”
“I- I love you- Oh.”
He jerks into you when you say it, and you almost fly out of your skin.
“Fuck, Bucky- I- I love you-“
It happens again, but you don’t think he’s doing it to mess with you. He can barely seem to control himself, his attention almost feral as his cock jumps inside you.
“I- I love you- Oh my god-“
Bucky dives over you, kissing you like he’s trying to steal the words from your mouth. Like he can taste them.
“Damn right you do.” He grunts, cock dragging inside you as he starts to fuck you, shallow and brutal. “Love you, love you so much, you’re-“
He kisses you, and somewhere through the floating, hazy dreamworld his cock is fucking you into, you think he’s run out of words.
Bucky’s fucking you like an animal, because there’s nothing left for either of you to say. He pulls your hips back up to that angle from before, returning to that pace from before that pulled the confession out of you. You’re in incoherent, babbling mess, tugging at the sheets and watching Bucky above you like he’s God.
“Good girl.” Is all he’s grunting out, but it’s deep and every word of a noise than anything else. “Mine, my good fucking girl, gonna fill you up, you’re-“ He moans, doubling over your body as his thrusts become short and harsh. “You’re perfect-“
From nowhere, you find the strength to reach up and grab Bucky’s face. You pull it down, kissing him with every word you’re too ruined to say, and he moans.
Bucky slams home, muttering your name against your lips like a prayer. You can feel him everywhere. Hot and sticky, pumping deep into your own heat, coating your walls, dripping out and running down your ass. When Bucky starts to move again, slow and lazy, he presses it deeper, spreads it everywhere.
It’s hot on your clit, and Bucky’s still jerking and spraying inside of you. You’ve never been this full, it’s addicting. Your brain is empty, body alight with the feeling, Bucky’s cum so thick and demanding that you could swear you feel it washing through your whole body.
He reaches between your legs to rub your clit.
You get there all on your own.
Your vision goes white, as you cum. You’re so out of it you feel it the same way you feel a cool breeze. Light and relieving, washing over the heat inside you and pulling a happy sigh from your lips.
Bucky kisses you, and this time it’s only sweet. All his mean words and taunts so easily dissolve as you reach up, running your fingers through his hair. He smiles against your lips, and you smile back.
“Told you I’d do it.” He mutters, and you shove his chest with a weak laugh.
“Shut up.”
He grins, moving up to kiss your brow, then the side of your face. He’s still buried inside you. Neither of you are in a rush to move any time soon.
“You mean it, though.” He pauses, moving back over your body.
There are those worry lines again. You reach up with a tiny smile, and soothe your fingers over them. Bucky hums, leaning into your touch, and you smile.
“Yeah.” You whisper, and his shoulders sag.
“Thank god.” He presses his face between your breasts. “That would’ve been bad.”
You laugh, running your fingers through his hair, and he wraps his arms around your body. He’s slid out a little, but you’re still connected to him, and you never want to move again.
“How long?” He mutters against you, tilting his head to meet your gaze. “Cause mine was when I saw you.”
You flush stupidly—he’s inside you—and mumble, “Me too.”
Bucky frowns. “But you were always- “
“And were you any better?”
He snorts, leaning up to peck your cheek. “Fair shot.”
“I know.” You snip, then, “You- You meant yours, right? I mean- What you said while…”
You trail off, because you didn’t imagine it. I love you and mine, too sincere to just be dirty talk.
Bucky rises back over you, gently guiding your gaze back to his. He smiles when your eyes meet, and kisses the tip of your nose.
“With everything I fuckin’ got.” He mutters, and you smile.
“Good.”
“I know. I mean, I did really well for myself- I’m complimenting you, woman!”
You’d shoved him, and Bucky grabs your wrists, wrestling them down into the mattress. He looks at you with a rough, fond exasperation.
“You’re a gremlin.”
“You like it.” You beam up at him, and he lower back down, kissing you lightly.
“Tough curse.” He mutters. “But I’m enjoying it.”
You roll your eyes at him, and he grins. Beautiful and all yours.
“Can we stay here for a while?” You ask, just because you want to have this, and sit in it. “Please.”
Bucky nods, and you feel your heart shine like it’s been given new batteries. Beating out of your chest and comfortably all at once, as Bucky rolls you both onto your sides, wrapping tight around you.
“We can do whatever you want.” He mutters, rubbing your hips and kissing the marks on your neck.
You relax, because you believe him. About all of it.
And now, you have him with you for all the time in the world.
✦End note: big fan of that horny old man in every universe.✦
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tear you down, wear you out.
⤷ bucky barnes x fem!reader ⌇ 14.3k
✶ ― SYNOPSIS. to everyone else on the team, you're a ball of sunshine, a quick-thinking spy, a genius pair of eyes keeping track of anything suspicious during missions. to bucky, however, you are the bane of his existence, the knife in his back, the ire in his blood. he'll stop at nothing to get you kicked off the team, even if it means risking his own life. unfortunately, he never planned for this: you pinned beneath him on the training mat, wide-eyed and fully aware how hard he is against your thigh. based on this request.
warnings.ᐟ mdni! no use of y/n, new avengers era, spy!reader, enemies to lovers, smut (switch/dom-leaning!bucky, unprotected piv, oral - m & f receving, 69ing, fingering, face riding, ab riding, knifeplay - m receiving, manhandling, biting, dirty talk, dick+pussy pronouns, spit, one spank, like a second of thigh fucking + choking, voyeursim/mirror kink? idfk basically they are fucking and watching, bucky puts the reader in a headlock :), backshots ayo! honestly they're kind of fighting and fucking at the same time? idk just read it pls, i'm baring my horny soul to you here!), bucky's pov & he's so annoying (i love him), one-sided enemies to lovers bc bucky's a loser and you're literally just vibing, spy!reader, lowkey himbo!bucky, bickering, jealousy, unwanted sexual advances ( not from bucky ), angst, fluff, gun violence, description of injuries + blood, a bad guy that i made up in my head therefore he sucks and has a very lame name :) for the purpose of plot: bucky is the 'leader' of the new avengers.
ᯓ★ hyde𝄒s input. pray for me y'all, i'm going through something unimaginable 😔 (attempting to write a new fic after peaking w/ manchild)
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Gun to his head and a demand to say one good thing about you? Bucky is taking the bullet.
In every sense of the word, you’re a good person. You’re a reliable partner, a shadow that lurks among crowds and keeps an eye out for your teammates. You’re patient, always the last to raise your voice when tensions are high and the others are divulging into a cacophony of outrage. You help Bob with the dishes, you give John tips on how to get blood out of his suit, you invest your time into researching methods to ease Ava’s chronic pain, you take care of Yelena’s guinea pig when she’s away on missions, and you encourage Alexei on all of his awful PR stunt misadventures.
It’s no wonder that the rest of the team adores you, yet, for reasons he can’t explain, Bucky can barely tolerate your presence for more than a minute without breaking out in hives and debating putting his own skull through a wall. The worst thing about hating you is knowing it’s irrational.
“Someone’s approaching your nine, James,” maybe, he ponders as your voice speaks through his earpiece, it’s your peculiar insistence on using his first name. “Roland Andrews, big shot lawyer and son of tech billionaire, William Andrews. His father has been accused of tax fraud more times than you clean your knives yet he always seems to get away with it, scot-free.”
Sure enough, the stout figure of a prematurely balding man is creeping along the left of Bucky’s peripheral. The champagne in his hand isn’t sweet enough to mask the bitter taste of admitting you’re correct.
“Thanks for the encyclopedia dump, what’s it to me?” Or maybe it’s the fact you make him irresponsible, nerves too frazzled to remember to be discreet when he speaks over the comms — the couple to his right are staring at him confused, surely wondering why he’s talking to himself.
“His father has been linked to the likes of Kingpin and, more relevantly, Hydra. So if we’re hoping to investigate the rumours of their resurgence…” As if your voice in his ear isn’t enough, fate chooses the perfect moment to have him spot you over the rim of his champagne flute, standing across the museum hall, sparkling beneath the chandelier. Your eyes are somewhere else; unlike how the small crowd surrounding you has busied themselves with focusing on their own reflections in the glass, you seem to take genuine interest in the exhibit behind the pane. “Sorry, I assumed you read the mission brief.”
No, he hadn’t. In fact, the time that should have been dedicated to reading the brief had been wasted on watching you. Specifically, the way your knee bounced across from him on the Quinjet. Had the plane not landed when it did, Bucky would have leaped over and put a stop to your distracting movement.
“I was busy,” this time he makes sure it’s but a whisper, loud enough for only the mic to pick up. “What do we know about his father’s links to Hydra?”
“Not much, unfortunately. Rumours, at best. An entire history of funding them, at worst,” the man grows closer while your voice grows more distant over the earpiece, an interference of two strangers conversing near-by. “He’s closing in on you. Leave the line open.”
Bucky wants to disobey.
He wants to turn off his mic and drop it into the remaining bubbling liquid in his glass. He wants to rip out the earpiece and crush it beneath the heel of his italian leather shoes. He wants to make a big scene, point down the length of the display hall and announce your presence to each and every overly-wealthy, underly-empathetic tech-head and government body within the vicinity.
It matters little that he would be blowing your cover, unveiling your role as a quiet partner of the Avengers, and subsequently putting the oligarchs in the room on edge. It would all be worth it, even the part where he’d be risking his own place within the team, if it meant you would get the boot and no longer be here, hovering in his peripheral like a persistent, buzzing little bee.
Unfortunately, a baritone voice stops him from giving into his wildest fantasy.
“Good evening, Congressman Barnes,” Roland Andrews is every bit the image of a hot-shot lawyer, right down to the Rolex living obnoxiously on his wrist and the bottle of cologne he appears to have doused himself in. “Though I suppose it’s just Barnes now. Avenger Barnes? It’s hard to keep up with all those… heroic names.”
“I know he’s insufferable, James, but unclench your hand. You’re a second away from snapping the innocent neck of that champagne flute.”
His fingers almost tighten as you whisper through his earpiece.
“Do they call you Lawyer Andrews-”
“You’re being hostile!” Bucky can feel your eyes on him, unnerving him.
He bites back a scoff, coughs up a plastic smile, “Just call me Mr Barnes.”
“So, you've heard of me,” of course that is all a man like Roland would pick up on, salivating at his mouth for that little morsel of validation to feed his ego’s belief in his right to be in a room like this, surrounded by the other ‘big-deals’ who managed to wrangle themselves an invite to the exclusive event.
“It’s hard to tell from all the way over here but I swear you knowing his name has got him so excited, he’s popped a boner,” you’re in his ear again, just as Bucky takes a sip of his drink.
The sharp inhale he pulls almost causes him to choke and, for a moment, he can’t help but shoot a quick glare your way.
A glare you don’t even notice, too invested at blinding a stranger with your aggravating smile.
“Yeah, well, don’t go feeling too flattered,” a twisted feeling of satisfaction nestles itself in his gut as he watches the man’s face fall to a frown. “I know your father.”
If decades of being a puppet through which others’ enacted evil and bloodspill had taught James Buchanan Barnes anything, it was to notice everything. The way his shoulders straighten a little at the mention of his father. The way his weight shifts from his right foot onto both. The way the pupils of his alcohol-stained eyes stretch an inch, growing with his interest.
For a lawyer, he’s got an awful poker face.
“Is that so?” While the man’s mouth is stoic, his voice is laced in intrigue.
“Well done, you’ve got him hooked. Now, reel him in.”
Bucky is really wishing he’d shut off the line.
“We once worked together,” there’s always a bitter aftertaste that comes with a lie, that’s what Bucky has come to learn, like his mouth is physically rejecting his own dishonesty. “You could even say, we’re old friends.”
“My father and you,” he’s familiar with that tone behind the lawyer’s words. Not disbelief but disgust, the kind one stares down at a wretched bug with. “Worked together? He never told me he’d taken any interest in your campaign for congress.”
“You know what you have to do,” you’re watching again. He knows it because the hairs on the back of his neck rise and his chest feels tight, like it’s boxing his lungs in.
“Like I said, old friends,” Bucky had thought the scheming and the calculated words would all come to an end alongside his term in congress. It’s missions like this that remind him it never ends, not when he’s stuck inside a sandbox full of snakes, waiting for him to turn his back on them for a chance to take a bite. “Our organization met some obstacles a few years back. But, what’s that old saying? Cut off one head, two more shall take its place.”
There Mr Andrews goes again, spilling all his secrets onto his visage. There’s a subtle stilling of his breath, a twitch in his left brow, a parting of his lips.
Recognition stares Bucky in the eye. And, for the first time since he regained his mind, it seems Hydra is staring at him too.
The torture, the mind control, the words that turned him into an unfeeling monster…
“Say it,” you’re there to cut off his next thought, his next memory.
As easy as slipping on a tailored suit, those old words roll off Bucky’s tongue, “Hail Hydra.”
Like a wave, ice cold and chilling to the bone, nausea washes over him. He blinks and, behind his eyelids, a montage of violence that wears his face yet lacks his soul. Pain shoots up his left arm, nonsensical and impossible in every way, yet it's there all the same, stabbing at his metal arm and lingering along the missing nerves.
What a punch in the guts it is — after so many years of working on himself, bettering himself, remembering himself — to be cruelly reminded of his inability to ever fully escape his past. No pardon and no psychologist could ever suck the evil fully out of James Buchanan Barnes, so long as he was living beyond his lifetime and walking amongst the collateral victims of his violence.
Instinct commands him to reach for two things.
First, a glance over at you. Closer than before, hovering among a crowd of eager-eyed suits. Just like the rest of his team, you have them effortlessly wrapped around your finger, clinging onto every ounce of attention you fill their cups with.
A sneer on his lips, the soldier looks away.
And, secondly, he tilts his glass up and reaches for a final sip.
“Good boy, James,” this time, he does choke.
Champagne burns the back of his throat and his neck nearly snaps at the speed his head turns to you, still playing your cards of flattery to your crowd of loyal watchers and completely unaware of the paleness taking over Bucky’s face, the anger clenching its fist around his heart, and the heat melting his loins.
Why would you say such a thing? How could you say such a thing, and have the gall to not even be looking at him? It isn’t fair, in any universe, for you to be so unaffected while you nearly kill him with three words. You must not be human, must not be real, must not be trusted.
There, that’s what it is.
Bucky doesn’t trust you, that must be why he wants you gone.
“Beautiful woman,” Rolland Andrews commands Bucky’s attention back to him, and that’s when the soldier realises his mistake.
He’s been staring at you, openly and undoubtedly, making the subject of your investigation not only aware of your existence but of Bucky’s interest in your whereabouts.
His right palm is growing sweaty.
“You think?” Bucky makes a point of taking two steps to the right, blocking the view of you over his shoulder and forcing a load of eye contact onto the lawyer. If he plays his cards right, he can pivot the conversation away from you and back over to the point of the mission. “I hadn’t noticed. She’s just-”
“His assistant,” there’s your voice again, but it isn’t in his ear. It’s by his side and accompanied by you coming fully into view between the two men. Bucky watches your hand shake the outstretched paw of Mr Andrews before you turn your attention onto him, a mellow smile pairing well with the red of your lipstick. “Sorry to interrupt, Mr Barnes, but there’s been an incident downtown that requires your assistance.”
He doesn’t mean for his eyes to narrow, but that’s just the kind of reaction you inspire in him: confusion and disgruntlement.
“What a shame,” there’s nothing confusing about the way the lawyer’s leopard-like eyes are glued to the neckline of your dress. Perhaps the soldier’s jacket would be of better use over your shoulders. “You’re stealing him away just when our conversation was getting interesting.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, sir!” You slip right past Bucky’s attempt to grab your forearm, and lay a hand on the man’s shoulder, a faux apology in your gaze. “But this really is a pressing matter. Here,” you’re back to keeping your hands to yourself, too busy rifling through your clutch to entertain whatever perverse thoughts are growing in Andrew’s mind. “Take Mr Barnes’ card, perhaps we can arrange for you both to continue this conversation somewhere a little more private.”
As easy as a dog herds sheep, you escort a bewildered Bucky Barnes away from the target.
You lead the charge, weaving through the clusters of people so effortlessly that he struggles to keep up, his path occasionally thwarted by an unmoving mass and forcing him to watch as you continue your pursuit of the up-ahead, leaving nothing but the shape of your dress to follow. It’s only once the chill of the night bites at exposed skin that he manages to catch a hold of you, halfway down the entrance staircase.
“What was that?” He seethes into your ear from one step behind, hand wound around your arm.
“Smile, James,” you glance back at him, “unless you want to end up on the front page of the news with accusations of mistreating your poor assistant.”
Waiting beneath the staircase sits a promenade of black cars and personal drivers, queuing up to collect their decorated debt otherwise known as their employers. Alongside the white light of burning headlights, there’s the incessant flash of cameras going off, a wall of photographers and journalists hungry to catch a glimpse and steal a moment from those attempting to flea the event’s festivities.
“You’re not taking another step until you answer my question,” he mutters all the same, grip reinforcing itself on your arm.
Despite that, Bucky doesn’t stop you from journeying down another two stairs.
“Your question wasn’t very clear,” at this point he’s certain you must be doing it on purpose, picking and choosing the words you need to drive the soldier up the wall.
“I had him right where we wanted him, and you-”
“I what?” Again, you’re looking back at him, and again, you’re smiling perfectly for the cameras, manoeuvring him to loosen his grip on your arm and switch to locking elbows instead, just in time for the press to take notice of his presence and begin turning their lenses. “Come on, use that caveman brain of yours.”
“Do you get a kick out of ruining my missions?” He registers a shout of his name, and then another, and then another.
Like a pack of starved vultures, the press scramble to gather at the bottom of the stairs, microphones and cameras grasped in their talons as they screech out questions he has no intention of answering.
“We’ve been over this before, James,” if you’ve noticed the fact he is descending slower in light of the chaos that awaits, you say nothing. You simply match his pace. “I get a kick out of helping.”
Bucky remembers the last time you said those very words, both of you lost in the outskirts of France and struggling to find any signal. When he was sure that would get you reprimanded for inefficiency, you pulled through and managed to salvage the mission.
Before that, there was a late night in Tokyo, where you and Walker boarded the jet with blood drying into the cracks of your fingernails. Despite the bloodshed, the mission was a success, and Bucky’s chastising words aimed at you fell upon deaf ears.
In truth, he still the first time you said those words, two days into the job and faced with his interrogative eyes in the dark of the kitchen whilst you were trying to sneak away with a midnight snack.
“Funny, cause you never seem to help.”
“Roland Andrews may be an obnoxious asshole but he’s not an idiot,” as you lift your foot to tackle another step, the heel of your shoe catches on the hem of your dress. His elbow locks and his vibranium hand is steadying you before he can even ponder what a satisfactory sight it would be to watch you roll down the stairs and strike out the press in some twisted game of bowling. Much to his own disgruntlement, his subconscious doesn’t know how to let harm come your way. “He wasn’t about to confess in the middle of the Smithsonian that your old torturers are planning a resurgence. Thanks to me, he has your card. Which means he has your number, which means he’ll call.”
His pride won’t give in and allow him to tell you it’s a good plan, so he narrows his eyes and questions it instead, “Why are you so sure?”
The press are so close now, a mere three steps below, yet he hears you perfectly clear among all their harmonious yelling.
“Like you said, you had him right where we wanted him,” his eyes follow your own as they glance backwards. At the top of the stairs, Rolland Andrews stands watching you both leave. “Trust me, he’ll call.”
Five weeks pass before the call arrives.
On a Thursday morning, six forty three am, with dawn smearing the horizon in shades of tangerine, Bucky wakes from a dream he can’t quite remember. There is light, there is laughter, and there is someone laying by his side, keeping count of his heartbeat while he traces constellations over a naked thigh. Then, the phone rings and he’s thrust back into his body, sweating beneath sheets and consumed by the empty space to his right.
On the other end of the line is not the most-anticipated Roland Andrews. It’s his assistant, with a voice as chirpy as a bird singing its morning song, relaying a short list of demands veiled as an invitation — one of which leads him to now, four hours later, pacing the living room while you wax poetic about your genius, world-saving, revolutionary plan.
The very same plan that’s going to send Bucky to his belated grave.
“Absolutely not,” he says for what feels like the millionth time, metal fingers tangling themselves in the web of his hair. The sting against his scalp is the only thing that seems to ground him, aiding him in holding back even a modicum of the frustration your persistence is simmering within him. “Over my dead body.”
“It makes perfect sense, James,” in opposition to his own rabid demeanor, you’re cool as ice, spread out atop the couch and sipping away at your morning coffee. Movement is occasional, optional — in the desperate times when he’s intercepting the path between your eyes and the television, where reruns of some awful reality show hold your attention captive. “Come on, you know my plans always work.”
They do, and he hates it. Despises it. Wishes you would hurry up and screw up enough to stop being put in harm’s way. But no, you just have to be perfect at everything.
“How many more times do I have to say it? No,” like a broken record or an ever-looping echo, he’s repeating words, over and over, all in the futile hope you’ll sniff out the suspicious nature of Andrews’ demand and agree to Bucky’s terms instead.
“You’re being stubborn,” you lean to the left, trying to catch a glimpse at the screen past his stoic stance.
Perhaps a little overzealous, Bucky had hoped your proposal of continuing the conversation somewhere private would be just that: private. It seems the lawyer and his different definition of privacy had other plans in the form of a summoning to attend an exclusive gala at his family’s estate. The point of contention, however, is the request tacked on at the end of the invite: Mr Andrews requests your assistant come too, as his personal date for the evening.
“And you’re being reckless!”
“Newsflash, that’s kind of my job.”
The first thing Bucky learnt about you was your history — better said, your lack of history.
A life lived in silence. Quaint and quiet are pretty synonyms for invisible. Your existence is nothing but a blank, untraceable slate, up until you at last appear on the proverbial map of agents and demons, as merely a drop in the ocean formerly known as S.H.I.E.L.D.
Sometimes, Bucky thinks he remembers seeing you. Just once, with the Winter Soldier shielded by shadows in Pierce’s office. You stood on the other side of bulletproof glass, a mournful Steve to the right of you and the despicable mass of Alexander Pierce in front of you, face painted in faux sympathy and a hand squeezing down on your shoulder. But the waters of his memory are murky and leave him needing to come up for air before he can ever make a real shape out of anything.
After the downfall of Hydra, you returned to being a ghost. Unheard from and inactive, until the war between heroes, a silent partner in Sharon Carter’s ploy to steal back Steve’s shield and Sam’s wings. While Bucky was turned back to ice, you were running around Europe, protecting the whereabouts of the men who fought for his freedom. Then came the dark days, after half the world turned to dust. Somewhere along the record books, you became a mercenary.
An agent turned killer for hire, and one of the top earners under Valentina’s payroll. When the time came for her to do away with all the loose-ends of her crimes, you were lucky enough — or just busy enough — to ignore her deadly invitation into the furnace that housed Bob. Seven weeks after he was declared an Avenger, Miss De Fontaine turned up at the tower’s door with you. Sweet smile, sharp senses, one job: look out for the team.
From agent, to mercenary, to glorified babysitter.
“Your job is to gather intel, to be an informant, to keep a close eye,” the pacing has seized and Bucky has now taken to facing you, right knee popped out and hands on his hips, the very image of a parental figure mid-lecture. “It’s not your job to answer to some daddy’s boy on a power trip.”
“This might be our only chance to get a lead on the Hydra rumours,” whether it’s prompted by the change in his stance or by your own disinterest, you reach for the control and turn the television off. “You owe it to yourself to let me help.”
The only noise that remains is you two bickering, while the rest of the tower’s inhabitants are sleeping away their morning how you had hoped to — before a certain soldier pulled you out of your slumber—: undisturbed and uninterrupted.
“I’m going alone,” before he can even fully commit to his sentence, you’re standing up and rounding the coffee table.
“Please, just take a minute, breathe, and think about this rationally,” your approach is one that calls for peace, the demeanour of someone trying to calm a street cat: hands stretched out in front of you and a plea in your eyes that screams ‘please don’t run away’. “Andrews isn’t just inviting you to one of his posh parties, James. He’s testing you, trying to see how easily you’ll grant his request. He wants to see how much he can trust you. I’m tougher than I look, okay? Let me be the collateral to you getting the answers we need.”
One of the worst things about you is your ability to make a good point, even out of a damn circle. Your argument is just the correct mixture of rational, impactful, and personal to almost have him giving in and accepting your offer to help.
But, why should you have to be tougher than you look? Last time Bucky checked, your skill is stealth and brains, not muscle — he is all the muscle you, or, better said, any mission could ever need.
Though frozen in thought, the soldier can see those open arms growing closer, and closer, and closer. You’re two inches away from resting your hand on his hunk of vibranium when Bucky finally reacts, flinching out of a touch he doesn’t quite get to feel and turning away from you.
“I’m not pimping you out,” he shakes his head, voice stern and brow furrowed. “Not to Andrews. Not to anyone. You’re an agent, not an escort.”
“Honey traps have existed since way before your day and age-”
“I’m the leader of this team, my word is final,” for his own self-preservation, he’ll pretend he doesn’t notice the smile sliping down your face. “You’re not coming.”
Bucky’s beginning to doubt this team knows the definition of the word ‘leader’.
Otherwise, he wouldn’t be dressed to the nines and looking like a ten, people-watching out the tinted window of a car in an effort to distract himself from your reflection in the glass and the cloud of titillating spice your perfume floats his way.
Of course you end up coming with him to Mr Andrews’ event, and so Bucky Barnes has to result to gaslighting himself into believing this is what he really wanted all along: him in another suit, you in another dress, and nothing between you but the thinning space of a middle seat. The illusion shatters each time he recalls that the silk resting atop your skin has been hand picked by the lawyer himself, delivered to Bucky’s office with a note that conveniently never found its way to you — For that pretty assistant of yours, Barnes. Tell her to wear nothing beneath.
The subtle strain of your hardened nipples has him uncomfortably aware that you’ve complied with Roland’s request, despite being none the wiser to its existence.
“Don’t drink anything you’re not there to witness being poured,” his throat is raw from the lack of use, the forty minute drive in silence nearly coming to an end as the grand gates to an estate come into view. “I don’t trust Rolland Andrews, there’s something… off.”
“Yes, James, that’s why we’re here.”
“Did you just-” His head finally turns away from the window to look at your image in full dimension, something more than just a poor-man’s imitation of you in the window. “Did you just roll your eyes at me?”
“Roll my eyes at you? Never, my dear leader!” And you have the audacity to offer him a mint, hand mid-rifle through your purse. He accepts it, and prays the sharp flavour on his tongue will be enough to calm the jitterbug traversing through his veins. “I was trying to catch a glimpse at my brain, that’s all.”
“The only chance of seeing your brain is with a microscope,” the gates open slowly, dramatically, and do nothing to aid in the soldier’s uneasy feeling.
“Have you ever considered becoming a motivational speaker?” You chirp, and cross your right leg over the other. “With words as kind as that, I feel empowered to take on the world!”
Once more, you’re a liability to Bucky, a distraction in the shape of a shin peeking out. He’s not usually so bothered by a woman’s skin… But when it belongs to someone he loathes entirely, it’s hard not to seeth at the sight of it.
At the top of an obnoxiously long driveway sits the Andrews estate, a courtyard mansion stripped right out of the Renaissance and sticking out like a sore thumb atop nine acres of flat terrain. Cars are queued up, one after the other, slowly rounding a central water feature, disposing of their passengers, and driving back out of the expensive lot. Unlike the Smithsonian, not a single member of the press is circling the masses with screeching questions or invasive cameras, and, in a twist not even the soldier expects, he almost wishes there was someone, if only to document whatever evil may take place beyond those walls.
“Tell little miss Totally-Spies she looks pretty,” for a moment, Bucky mistakes the voice for his subconscious… But no, it’s just Yelena, no doubt laughing at him all the way over on the Quinjet.
“What? No she doesn’t,” something bitter comes over his tongue. “Tell her yourself.”
“How can I tell her when she is not wearing a wire, genius?” Bucky takes a mental note, adding Yel to the list of women who have rolled their eyes at him this evening — so far, it's two for two. “Oh, and do you copy? Walker says to check our connections before you two step into your high-school Hydra reunion.”
“Of course I fucking copy-” He should have retired to a farm when he had the chance.
The evening does not unfold in the disastrous way Bucky anticipates — it’s even worse.
Barely a foot in the door, the man of the hour conjures before you both as if from thin air. He greets you first, hands laying themselves over all the right places to rile Bucky’s nerves as the man pulls you in to press a sloppy kiss against your cheek. The smile you shoot at the soldier is one of pacifism, a non-verbose reminder to remain calm and focus on the object of your mission.
Since he cannot spare you from Andrews’ wandering touch, Bucky intercepts the wine glass he attempts to hand you, swallowing it down in one large gulp with the blind hope that his super soldier serum has any possible inbuilt date-rape repellent.
Rolland Andrews is possessive, infectious — an invasive species that is destroying the already endangered ecosystem of Bucky’s tolerance. As the night unfurls, he wears you like the watch on his wrist, a silent jewel perched on his arm and paraded throughout the room. Expected to smile and encouraged to stay quiet, you play your role to perfection. Bucky can’t help but watch you, study the way you shapeshift into someone he’s never met, a chameleon whose nature it is to blend in with her surroundings.
For hours, he’s forced to watch the light shade of your dress be eclipsed by the lawyer’s dark tux. Across the room or stood among the same circle of oligarchs, the sight of you burns his eyes all the same. To add salt into the agitated wound, he has yet to achieve a moment of real privacy with Andrews. And, so, the soldier decides you are not a distraction, but an obstruction.
If Bucky’s eyes stick to you like glue, it must be for two very simple, extremely logical, and completely impersonal reasons.
Firstly, despite the lack of respect he’s afforded by you all, he’s a good leader — a man made of responsibility, who has sworn to take care of his agents, no matter how often he flirts with the idea of you being kicked off the team. And, secondly, in hopes that you’ll notice the panicked widening of his eyes and help steer the lawyer into taking Bucky someplace private to resume their dealings from the Smithsonian’s gala.
It’s not until he finds himself in the mansion’s central courtyard, lost in a mass of swaying bodies and nursing his fourth whiskey on the rocks, that Bucky loses sight of you.
You’re gone, until you’re not. A glimmer of light in the corner of the soldier’s eye, beckoning him to look up. Row after row of empty balconies protrude from the mansion’s walls, staring down onto the festivities below. When he finally spots you, his stomach drops.
“Something’s wrong,” he reaches for the comms like it’s a crutch, something that will steady this uneasy feeling.
“Don’t be cryptic, Bucky,” Yelena’s voice rings through within a moment, somehow sounding equally alert as she is bored. “It does not suit you.”
Traveling over quicksand is easier than moving through this crowd — Bucky would know. He makes it seven steps, sight glued to you, before a solid figure forces him to look away.
After carving out a new path to get inside the home, his eyes find you right where they left you, “She’s on a top-floor balcony.”
“O…Kay? Are you worried she is going to fall in love with the view and betray us?”
“No!” His sudden outburst garners a few looks. Bucky pushes harder through the rows of bodies, neck tilting to watch how your dress dances in the wind. “No. It’s just… weird.”
To the left of you Bucky notices the blurry shape of Rolland Andrews. Were he as logical as you, perhaps he’d see this as the perfect opportunity to snatch a moment alone with the lawyer. Instead, all he sees is a threat at your side, causing a fresh wave of nausea to crash over him and his footsteps to fall a little faster.
“Why?”
“Because she’s afraid of heights,” the words are a reflex, pouring out of Bucky with no thought put behind them — the only thought he seems capable of is you.
“She is?” Walker jumps on the line. “When did she mention that?”
“She didn’t mention it,” an elbow digs into him as a woman stumbles over her heels and, suddenly, a martini glass smashes to pieces on the floor and the stench of vermouth stains his clothes. “I just noticed.”
“Oh, so you notice things now?”
“Don’t say it like that,” he quietly chastises Yelena as he side steps both the woman profusely apologising and the stranger approaching him with tissues in their hands.
There’s no time for interruptions or distractions, he needs to keep moving.
“Like what? This is just my voice.”
“Like there’s something you’re not saying.”
“Busted,” the Widow’s tone conjures outrage inside him, and stains his ears in hues of red. There’s a tight feeling in his chest, in his throat, uncomfortable and unwelcome as she continues to speak. “I’m just thinking how much someone needs to watch her to notice that.”
It only takes him a second to notice you are uncomfortable, cornered against the balcony’s ledge while the target of your mission hides his face in the crook of your neck, arms much stronger than your own caging you in.
Perhaps this is all the makings of Bucky’s own feelings, his own discomfort at the sight of an agent under his care being put in this position, somehow being irrationally projected up onto you. Too good at your job for your own good, never once has he known you to let your guard slip. Does your disdain of heights affect you so viscerally that it’s now cracking away at your hard-shell exterior?
A throat clears itself over the comms.
“Yeah, well, it’s not exactly hard to tell when you sit through a six hour flight with her bouncing her knee,” remembering to reply grows harder as he continues to search for a break in the crowd of foreign faces.
There’s an ache in Bucky’s neck, one that promises to be unforgiving when he wakes up tomorrow morning. Putting his pain on the backburner, he tilts his head back further.
“It must have been so hard for you,” something curls up inside his loins, ashamed, as Walker speaks, mockery bleeding through the speaker. “Wishing she was bouncing on your dick inste-”
“I’m going up. Get the jet as close as you can.”
The pieces fall into place in perfect harmony: a doorway back inside the mansion appears on his right, just as Rolland disappears off the balcony and leaves you all by yourself.
The ascent is one of desperation, a disgraced angel scrapping its way back up the stairway to Heaven. Bucky tackles the marble steps in pairs of twos and threes, using the length of his legs and the strength in his muscles as an advantage to cut down time. When he reaches the top floor, each breath is the result of a heaving chest and sweat is pooling at the base of his neck.
The third room on the left is where he finds you, back turned on the view of the courtyard and lip caught between your teeth.
“What are you doing out here?” He doesn’t mean to startle you, to have your shoulders jump in surprise at the sudden appearance of his voice, but it’s like he just can’t help himself, he cannot stand another moment of seeing you like this — hunched in on yourself, itching to be anywhere but where you stand.
“James,” amidst your fear, you’re still more level-headed than he’s ever been around you. While most see your disregard of your feelings and fright as another testament to your skills, he’s increasingly finding it to be a sign of recklessness. Would it kill you to put yourself first, for once? “Get lost! If Andrews comes back and finds-”
“Finds what?” Bucky challenges as he steps out onto the balcony. There’s your perfume to greet him, again, washing over him with the breeze of the night. “Me speaking to my assistant?”
A stare-off ensues, one that gives him far too much time to notice how the moon sits reflected amidst a pool of stars in your eyes, then you finally huff in defeat, “Dammit, you’re right.”
“For once.”
“Feels nice, doesn’t it?”
Something else feels nice when he catches a glimpse of your smile.
Not the sly, temptress curls of your lips you’ve been shooting at Rolland all night, but the loud smile — the one that puts your teeth on display, and pushes the swells of your cheeks up, and wrinkles the corners of your eyes. Bright and real, the kind that lights up the whole tower when it's an ungodly hour and you spot Bucky emerging into view as you dig into your usual midnight snacks.
A heavy gust of wind arrives to remind you of where you are, sweeping the smile right off your lips.
Anxious feet dance beneath the trail of your dress, the click of heel upon marble reaching his ears. As any good leader should, he takes a step closer and takes a hold of your wrist, too aware of the shake in your hands to fully envelope them with his own. He moves one step back towards the room and beckons you to follow.
“Come on, let’s get you away from the ledge-”
“Wait, just a second,” you’re turning to fully face him, invading his space.
For a moment, it feels like the world is caving in around you both, the walls of the universe nullifying the distance between you with a force greater than gravity. All he can see, all he can smell, all he can feel is you. His lungs are running out of oxygen. When was the last time he took a breath?
You’re in the air, and in his eyes, and pressing a single finger to his cheek.
“You’ve got something on your face, righttt… Here!” You inch back enough to display your pride and joy to him, a single eyelash perched on the tip of your finger. How is it that something so tiny, so inconsequential can capture your attention so easily, while Bucky — for all his power, and all his valor, and all his strength — can barely get you to look at him most days? “Make a wish.”
A myriad of words dangle off the tip of his tongue, thoughts that have echoed through his head from the moment you stepped foot into his life — not just as a ghost in Steve’s stories, but as someone tangible, and real, and blood-boiling. I wish you would… Leave the team, stop helping, notice when I clean your gun, realise it’s not Bob who keeps ordering all the food you like, acknowledge that I don’t like you, inch closer and kiss me.
He doesn’t get to make a single wish.
All he gets is the harrowing view of playful eyes staring at him, unaware of the glowing red dot dancing up the length of your face before coming to a halt at your temple.
With no time to alert you, Bucky pulls your frame against his and dives back into the room as a bullet cuts through the air. Both of you tumble to the ground in a tangle of limbs before the soldier hauls you behind the wall. With the comfort of you hovering at his back, tucked safely against him, he peeks his head out just in time to catch the sniper’s laser stretched out across the courtyard. A second shot is fired, and a window is blown to smithereens.
“We’ve got an active shooter situation,” he barks into his microphone, ducking out for another glimpse at the sniper’s location. “Third floor, west wing, can’t tell which room.”
“James,” he barely registers the soft call of his name.
“On it,” Yelena responds, a thread of ease to weave his fraying mind back together.
“James.”
“You two get to the roof, I’m bringing the jet around,” as John’s voice fills the line, so does the sound of the plane’s engine.
Selfish as he is, Bucky can’t just walk away from tonight, can’t let you being put in harm’s way, again, all be for nothing.
“Leaving compromises the mission, Walker. I need to speak with Andrews first-”
“Bucky!”
The soldier’s neck snaps to look at you, a rush of whiplash burning down the left side. The yell knocks something out of you, your back slowly descending down the length of the wall while your legs give out beneath you. Like a mirror, he mimics your movements, coming to a crouch beside you on the cold floor.
Bucky can no longer smell the spice of your perfume. Now there is only metal, something sticky that drags down his throat upon inhaling and fights its way out of him. Sickly sweet and traumatically familiar, his limbs freeze in its presence.
“You’re bleeding,” he speaks with wonder, disgust, disbelief as a river of red flows down the length of your left leg.
“Listen to me,” there’s an eerie calm in the way you’re speaking, one that does not pair well with the way your hands tremble through their attempts to drag your dress up. Four hands work faster than two, and so his own join you in your mission, flinching to grab at the meat of your thigh upon the wound coming into view. “I need you to make me a tourniquet.”
“Andrews set this up,” his eyes feel like they’re about to fall out their sockets, opened wide and refusing to blink as his brain short circuits out of control. Nothing seems to be making sense. He spotted the sniper, just in time, and got you away from the danger. So why is there a bullet lodged in your upper thigh and why are his hands stained with your blood? “That sniper was meant to kill-”
“Hey!” There’s a sharp sting against his scalp and his attention jumps right up to your face. “Snap out of it. You keep saying you’re the leader of our team, yeah?” He nods into the grip of your fingers, letting the tension of straining strands knock the sense back into him “So be a leader, cut off the bleeding, and get us both out of here. Alive.”
The skirt of your dress winds up ripped in half and tightened in a knot around your upper thigh. You shoulder the pain like a champion, quiet and unbothered if not for the grip he lets your nails dig into his arms with, and the permanent indent of your teeth clamping down onto your lip. Eased back onto your feet, the soldier tolerates a total of three winced steps before he’s scooping you up into his arms and against his chest, silencing your protests with a pointed look.
“There’s a door at the end of this hallway, around the corner,” your voice is methodical, running through words like they’re programmed to come out of you rather than something you’re conjuring with your own mind. “That should get us up to the roof.”
“How do you know that?” He’s moving as carefully as he can, painfully aware of your blood drying into his skin.
“Lesson one, James,” the return of his first name has never stung so much. “Always know the layout before you enter a building.”
A shot rings out from behind before he can respond.
Emerging from the stairway is one of Andrews’ bodyguards, weapon on display as he openly fires at you both. Bucky doesn’t even have to tell you to reach into the hidden compartment of his suit, your fingers already fishing out his gun and pointing it over his shoulder.
The guard fires again and Bucky ducks to the right, leaving the bullet to lodge itself in the wall. As he picks up his pace, you fire a few rounds back at your attacker.
“Instead of wasting our bullets, maybe try aiming next time,” Bucky snaps as you blow out a window.
“Sorry, aims a little shaky right now on account of the whole bleeding out thing,” you fire and miss, again. “They don’t exactly teach you this at spy school!”
“Spy school?” He parrots back, readjusting his grip on you.
The end of the hallway is close enough he can taste the sweetness of freedom and the chill of the night air.
“Less questioning my methods of distracting myself with humour,” a final shot rings out in Bucky’s ear before he hears the unmistakable sound of a body hitting the floor. “More getting us to safety.”
Yelena is already awaiting you both as you reach the rooftop, a spray of someone else’s blood across her cheek. The pair work in unison to move you onto Bucky’s back and, as the familiar shape of the jet comes into view, the soldier warns you to hold on tight before grabbing hold of the dangling rope ladder. Climbing his way up to safety, Yelena follows close behind.
“Get us out of here, Walker!” Bucky’s quietly thankful for the blonde’s outburst, too busy tending to you to take control of the situation.
Guiding your frame down to the floor, his hand finds your face, your skin cold to touch despite the sweat dripping down your forehead.
“Tell me again how your plans always work,” he says in an effort to keep you awake, the weight of your eyelids growing with each slow blink you take.
The war zone of your leg is too much to handle, yet something compels him to take a peak, turning his own stomach at the bloody wound. Were he more sane of mind, he’d question why it’s affecting him so gravely after a whole century of working in the field of guts and gore. Tightening the bloodied scraps of your dress is of far more immediate concern to the soldier.
“Don’t go throwing your ‘I told you so’ party yet,” your voice is weaker than he’s used to, none of that calm confidence that shakes up his bones. Uneasy fingers tear the necklace off your neck and drop it into his palm, flipping the feature gemstone over and presenting a nearly unnoticeable bug microphone. “Let’s just say Andrews gets mouthy when he gets touchy.”
Bucky replaces you with a new enemy — time.
Where it used to fly, now, clipped of its wings, it crawls. There’s a drag behind every second, a noticeable existence surrounds every minute. Hours turn to days, and days fade into weeks. Midday in the tower is chaos, no level-headed voice to break through the yelling egos, while his midnights are quiet, somber, absent of any loud smiles when he creeps into the kitchen for a glass of water.
You being kicked off the team was never supposed to go like this.
It was supposed to be harm-free, a necessary solution to the problem of your hazardous lifestyle. It wasn’t supposed to be due to a bullet slicing right through your thigh, forcing you into temporary sick leave.
Worst of all, Valentina refuses to give up your location — citing some bullshit excuse about protecting your rehabilitation from any distractions. The soldier would sooner believe it’s the team she means to save from distraction, prying their focus away from whatever awful, stomach-turning, mind-numbing state you’re in.
Five months have passed, winter has brought destitution, and the team has slowly winnowed down those involved in the Andrews’ conspiracy to reestablish Hydra. Thanks to your little bugging trick, Rolland’s hands now only touch the steel bars of a jail cell, his father’s enterprise of tax fraud has at last been brought down, and any real hope of seeing you fully removed from your role as spy has fled Bucky’s grasp.
What is in his grasp, however, is the handle to your bedroom.
One turn of the latch and he confirms what he already knows awaits him beyond the door: an empty room full of your absence. It’s a cruel ritual that takes place when the soldier finds himself alone in the tower — John is visiting his kid, Ava and Yelena are somewhere in Europe working on extraditing someone, Alexei and Bob are in the West Coast negotiating PR deals. And Bucky is completely alone. Or, at least, he should be.
Until he hears a crash followed by a slew of words a nun would never dare repeat.
Knife in hand, Bucky treads through the tower with practiced ease, a silence in his steps reminiscent of his days as an assassin. He sticks to shadows, avoids any sparse ray of sunshine bleeding in through the windows as he clears the place, room by room. On his way past the empty maintenance room, the intruder makes noise once more and alerts him to their location: the training room.
Carefully pushing the door open, the last thing he expects is a high-pitched scream.
“Oh my god, James!” Hand clutched to your chest, your back is hunched over in search of both a steady heartbeat and breath. “Why are you sneaking around like some crazed serial killer?”
“Me?” The heavy door slams behind him as he pushes further into the room, the mirrors that circle the room reflecting his slow approach towards you and the way he safely tucks his knife away. “You’re the one banging around the place like a burglar!”
“Oh please, who on Earth- No, actually, in the entire universe would want to steal your stinky vests and rusty weights?”
He knows that he should reply, that he shouldn’t settle for you speaking to him in such a way. But he can’t. Not when you step out fully from behind the leg press and put your skin on display, the tiniest pair of black running shorts clinging to the plush of your thighs.
The visible loss of muscle definition is to be expected, yet it still hits him in the chest like a sledgehammer, knocking the wind right out of his lungs. The lack of usual bruising should be a comfort, yet it pulls on one of his heartstrings until it snaps, another reminder of how you’ve been out of commission. And then there is the scar.
Resting atop the outside of your left thigh is a patch of fresh skin. It stands out in both its colour and texture — an almost waxy, freshly polished finish behind the way it reflects the angry white lights of the training room ceiling. The scar tissue is new, gnarly, and squeezing at his throat with its existence.
You weren’t supposed to get hurt.
“What are you doing here anyway?” He forces himself to speak, and rips his eyes away from your thighs in search of distraction.
“I was going to do some weight training but, as you can see,” your outstretched hands point at the cluster of fallen weight disks. “The whole thing decided to collapse on me.”
“You’re supposed to be on medical leave,” there’s a pinch in Bucky’s forehead as he pries you away from picking up the mess, the permanent frown you rouse in him at long last returned. “How are you still finding ways to be a nuisance?”
An evil torturer wrapped in lycra, you reach for something to the right of him as he’s knelt down to grab the final disk, putting your legs perfectly on display before him.
“It’s all for the love of the game, James.” At your airy giggle, he looks up and finds you smiling down at him, one hand slipping inside a familiar boxing glove before you’re landing a cushioned, mock-punch against his cheek. “We should spar.”
You’ve changed your shower gel. Bucky can smell it on your skin: once a wall of musk and earth, now layers of something fruity and floral. The deep inhale that follows is intended to stabilise him but only seems to unnerve him even more.
“Not happening,” he tries to grab at your wrist, but you twist it out of the way, leaving his hand to brush over your midriff. “Leave.”
“But I just got here,” you whine, and Bucky must be suffering from an injury of his own — a concussion, perhaps — because something carnal is melting into his loins at the sound, sight, smell of you. “Do you know how hard it was to get Valentina off my back? C’mon, train with me.”
“I’m not fighting you,” at last successfully grabbing a hold of you, he rips his boxing glove off your hand and tosses it over his shoulder to land elsewhere in the room. “You’re injured.”
There’s a downside to capturing you: you’re touching him now, too, prying his hand off your wrist and leading it southbound.
“Pft, that was a flesh wound! See?” You press him against your thigh, the ghost of a gunshot beneath his fingertips almost enough to distract him from the warmth of your flesh. Almost, because he feels it, just like he feels you: alive, present, tempting. “I’m fine, so fight me, Barnes.”
A lingering brush along your thigh follows the soldier’s ascent, snagging on the hem of your shorts as he rises off his knees and towers over you. His hand snaps back to his side like it’s just touched open flame, skin blistering under the heat of feeling you, rebuking your touch.
“No,” he brushes past you, shoulder bumping shoulder, and manages no more than five steps.
“Winner chooses the punishment,” you barter, delicate fingers grasping around Bucky’s forearm and holding him in place in the centre of the training room. It doesn’t matter where his eyes run to hide, he sees you in every mirrored crevice of the walls. “Any punishment.”
The fighting tug he puts up against you is powerless, a flicker of the strength coursing through the livewires of his veins, but it’s easier than letting himself believe he’s giving himself up to your will.
A pause of intense staring between you both persists until the soldier cracks like an egg, “As soon as you surrender, you’re going back on sick leave.”
“Surrender’s a big word for you, James,” you wink and he feels himself falter. “Better get used to the shape of it in your mouth.”
Bucky’s not at all disappointed when you drop his arm in exchange for stretching out your muscles. Not one bit. That deepening of his frown? It’s nothing more than a side effect of realising he truly has to fight you just to get you to obey.
Facing each other, hands raised to the level of your eyes, the faux battle commences. Where the soldier pulls his strength, resulting to grappling with your punches and blocking the swipes to take at his feet, you ram full speed ahead. A kick to his shin, a knee to his guts, a failed attempt at tangling your legs around his neck — it seems Yelena has been training you in the Widows’ specialty.
You get the better of Bucky, eventually, taking advantage of the pause in his strategy that comes at the flinch of returning your injured leg to the ground. His right foot goes first, kicked out from behind, and then your shoulder shoves into him and knocks him on his ass.
“Best of three,” and he’s back on his feet within seconds, cutting off your incoming declaration of victory.
The second round is tougher, longer, one that doesn’t feature Bucky being as delicate as before. Still playing nothing but defense, his hands simply grab a little rougher, hold a little tighter, restrict your movements a little harder than before. You lift your leg and attempt to swing it at his face but the soldier is faster, grabbing your ankle with a firm squeeze and flipping you over.
But you like to play dirty.
A hand balling at his shirt, fingers that tighten their grip and rip him down alongside you. The cotton tears in two, all the while his vibranium arm flies out just in time to break his fall and save you from shouldering the entirety of his weight collapsing atop you.
Two chests that move in perfect sync — for each of his inhales, you exhale, and vice versa. Your limbs are both a tangled web of legs and arms, and your faces are suffocatingly slow, the warmth of your breath melting at his skin until a bead of his sweat drips down and lands on your lips. Holding his gaze with your own, your tongue licks off his residue and reaffirms why Bucky Barnes will always hate you.
“You’re reckless,” he seethes in your face, teeth bared like a feral animal as he slowly presses more of his weight down onto you — not completely, just enough to make you struggle through your next breath and give you a burn of the fire you insist on playing with. “You know that? Conceited, too, always bragging about your little plans that only work when something goes wrong.”
A light flickers overhead and his shadow casts over you a little darker, a little more all consuming, smothering you beneath the figurative weight of his outline.
“And you’re selfish,” he continues with no protest from you, lips slightly parted as you gaze up at him from your brows, a salacious parody of the famed Kubrick stare. “You don’t give a shit about how you distract me from doing my job when you go off script and make me worry about you.”
His mouth is a loose cannon, firing off thoughts he’s kept hidden under lock and key for far too long. It’s electrifying, freeing, sending a buzz of pent up energy right down to his toes as he spreads your legs with his own and presses even more of himself against you, pinning you to the foam mat beneath.
Motionless and trapped, you blink up at him with the desperation of prey longing to be free.
“You thinking of saying anything,” he quirks a brow, biting back the satisfied smile twitching at his cheek. “Or are you just going to keep fawning at me like a little doe?”
The glaze over your eyes fades away into something far more sinful, far more daring, as a fit of giggles bubbles out from your chest.
“Can’t you feel it, James?” You shift beneath him. “You’re hard.”
Denial is freezing cold, turning him into an iceberg — the real danger lurks beneath the surface of his Calvin Klein’s and is currently poking against your inner thigh.
Fury resolved through friction, you roll your hips up into him and render him useless, mouth agape in a broken attempt at capturing a grounding breath.
That’s all it takes for Bucky’s entire world to tilt over its axis as he’s flipped onto his back. Instead of the ceiling, his eyes find you, sitting atop his torso and pinning him between your legs. He tries to tilt his head down, better his view of your shorts riding up, but he’s met with an immovable force pressed against his neck.
“Close your mouth, James,” your hips swivel, inching up his body, and the blade of his own knife tickles his skin. “You’ll catch a doe. Or, actually, the doe will catch you.”
Try as he might, he can’t seem to pick up his jaw as you struggle to get comfortable atop him, the search for a seat quickly dissolving into a search for traction, your knees digging into the mat on either side of him while you cant your pelvis back and forth.
You pry off the tattered remains of his shirt with one hand while reinforcing the other’s grip on Bucky’s knife, the sweet sting of an almost cut teasing at his neck.
“I thought we were fighting,” an expert at self-sabotage, the soldier can think of nothing better to say to ruin this moment.
“Who says we’re not?” You chirp, tilting your head to the side and gifting him the inquisitive look of a puppy. “I am holding a knife to your throat.”
The blade scrapes at his skin as he swallows down a ball of nerves, a sharpened edge that effortlessly slices along his three-day long stubble. His body, more treacherous to itself than the days of mind-control, responds to you grinding against him by tightening the strain beneath the layers of gym shorts and boxers.
“Then hurry up and put me out of my misery,” he grits out, unsure of how exactly he wants you to do so.
Would slicing his neck work? It would certainly be a finite solution, if you did it right, a permanent end to his days of playing the role of dog herding up the headless sheep of so-called New Avengers. Maybe his request is not quite as dramatic, an exaggerated plea to be put back on his feet to spar with you one last time before he sends you on your un-merry way back to quiet nights and days of rehabilitation.
“I suppose, if you’re bored, you could always just…” you pause for dramatic effect, rolling your hips as you roll your tongue. “Surrender.”
The fever brewing in his loins, in his chest, all over his body has him fearing the worst — that he wants you like this, mounted atop him, one hand to his throat and the other laid flat above his racing heart.
No sooner than that wave of fear crashes over him, the knife begins to journey down his skin. Delicate as glass, you drag its pointed edge over the curve of his collarbone, through the valley of his chest, over the bumps and ridges of his abdomen. When the blade reaches the blockade of your body, you let it dance over your skin too. The soldier holds his breath as he watches it slip over your scar.
“You’re so good at sharpening knives, James. I bet this could just-” hooking his knife beneath the waistband of your shorts, an effortless flick of your wrist is all it takes to bring the fabric to ruins. “Cut right through cloth.”
When Bucky woke up this morning, he went back to bed.
Not for long, barely clocking in an extra twenty minutes of sleep. Realistically, he had not truly been tired — it was about principle, about enjoying one morning to himself where no one was going to interrupt him with news of the kitchen burning down or a world-ending crisis.
Right now, as he flickers all over the shape of you — naked from the waist down, pussy slicked by your own arousal and hovering a few inches above his skin — the soldier’s not so sure he ever did wake up.
You must be a dream.
“Fucking Christ,” is the tamest of things that come to his mind as he watches you.
And, oh, does he watch.
Eyes turned to steal, a metal force that locks them in place, unmoving and unblinking as you bring the knife to your core. Flat on its side, the sharp edge and its pointed tip angled safely away from the puffy, delicate, desperate flesh of your cunt, you draw the weapon up over the glistening folds and against the hidden pearl of your clit.
“Say ah,” is your only command as you bring the knife up to his mouth, where instinct has betrayed him and presented his tongue to you.
The taste of you stains his blade, a mouthwatering tingle against his taste buds that hijacks his system and hardwires a new addiction into him. Never again will he sink his knife into an opponent and not think of this, of you. You’ve cursed him forever, a hindrance that will haunt him even when you don’t.
You’re back to grinding against him, skin pressed to skin. Over his abdomen is a trail of your wetness that, upon noticing it, has his arm gripping at your undulating hips and guiding them down harder against him. There’s something magnetic in the way you move, holding his focus to every half-gasped moan that ripples out of you, and every strain of your muscles, and every roll back of your eyes.
It’s all so appetising, he could eat you.
“If you’re going to rut against me like a bitch in heat, at least do it on my face.”
“That’s no way to speak to a woman wielding a weapon,” despite the warning, you give no protest to the way his hands are leading you up and over his body.
Your knees now knocking at each side of his neck, the soldier salivates as you sit against his chest, your sweet pussy teasing him, too close and not close enough.
“What are you waiting for?” Bucky gruffs out, all his confusing feelings drowning in the pools of your eyes.
“Nothing,” the gentle shift in your voice has him stilling, heart sucked up into a mini-tornado before it lurches back into his chest. When your hand cups his face, he wonders what he did to deserve it. “Just admiring the view.”
“You can admire it from here,” the soldier regains some of his sanity in manoeuvring you up to his mouth.
You sink down onto his face and Bucky goes to heaven. Quite literally dies and meets his god — goddess.
Flattening his tongue, the soldier licks a tentative stripe up your cunt, hands squeezing tight against your waist and halting your attempt to flee from his touch. Once you’re secured in his hold, he’s diving deeper, tongue claiming ownership of your body for as long as you’ll allow him.
Sweet and heady, he smells your arousal all around him as your hips rejoin the dance in honour of your pleasure, the tip of his nose bumping against your clit once, then twice, then a third prolonged time while he presses you fully down on his face.
“God, James,” a full-chested moan ripples out of you and his knife at last slips out your grasp, meeting the floor with a cushioned thud.
Bucky has always known you would be the death of him, he just never imagined he would die like this. Tongue buried in the tight walls of your cunt, nose nestling into the repeated ruts of your clit, the all-consuming, brain-melting, life-changing weight of you pushed down on his face. If he’s to suffocate between your thighs, he’ll go happily into whatever after-life awaits him.
The soldier shifts his legs, bending them at the knee and planting both feet on the ground, driving your lustful stare away from his and glancing over your shoulder instead.
“Are you pitching that tent just for me,” you turn further around, one hand sliding over the expanse of his abdomen and dipping its fingers beneath his waistband. “Or are you always this hard during fights?”
Much to his own reluctance, Bucky lifts you off his mouth.
“Bit of both,” a featherlike touch brushes over the tip of his aching cock and nearly drives him feral, a hiss caught between his teeth before he sinks them into the meat of your thigh. “Fighting’s an adrenaline rush.”
“Then what am I?” You barely manage, voice divulging into a gasp as he bites you again, harder, tattooing indents of his teeth into your supple skin.
“You,” he drags the word out, just like he drags a soothing lick of his tongue over his bite mark. “Are a pain in the ass.”
The soldier can feel you trying to tug down his shorts but the angle is awkward and, for every inch of skin you reveal, the waistband slips up another two inches. And while it rouses a frustrated sigh out of you, it’s fully driving him into the depths of desperation, the epicentre of his heartbeat shifting from a thump in his chest to a throb in his dick.
So he’s more than complicit when you do a one-eighty.
“Since I’m such a pain in the ass,” you arch your back, pawing your way down the expanse of him, and Bucky swears he witnesses your hole wink at him, sticky and wet and inviting him back in for another taste as it hovers above his face. “Enjoy the view of mine.”
Each side of you sinks down on him in sync, your cunt against his lips and your mouth around his cock. You become everything, all his, grinding your hips against his tongue while your own lathers itself in the salty taste of his skin, gliding up the length of his dick.
Bucky’s left hand grips at your thigh while the other imprints his fingertips into the globe of your ass cheek, grounding himself with a squeeze of your flesh amidst the hazy clouds of pleasure that threaten to swallow you both whole.
The soldier decides you must be a masterpiece, crafted by the hands of a visionary genius and lost to the hands of time, only to wind up here, tangled atop the training mat with him, feeding him with a honey of sin and moulding something new out of him with a hand steadying the base of his cock while you swallow down all you can take of him. Even then, it’s not enough for Bucky.
His own hips lift off the floor, feeding an inch of two more into your gaping mouth before he soon hits the back of your throat.
“Wish I could see it,” the rasp in his throat makes it hard to speak, while the feeling of you gagging on his dick makes it hard to think. “That pretty little mouth of yours finally being put to good use.”
His fingers seek you out, passing over the puckered hole of your ass before burrowing themselves — middle and ring — into your cunt. While your hand busies itself massaging your drool along his shaft and over his balls, he’s switching between beckoning you towards him with curling fingers, pressing against the gummy walls of your pussy, and scissoring you open while his tongue laps up the molten pleasure you spill over his knuckles.
“There you go, doll,” there’s a thrill to running his mouth, unabashed and unguarded, spewing out the first obscenity that pops in his head and watching how you viscerally react, a whining, moaning, desperate thing falling apart just for him, because of him. “Take him as deep as you need. Practically begging me to paint that mouth white, aren’t you?”
You bob your head over him, the vibrations of your moans shooting right down to his base and pulling his balls tight and desperate for release.
“Want you to cum down my throat, James,” you grind back against him as he mouths at your clit. “Wanna taste how you surrender.”
That word snaps Bucky’s mind back into place, awakens him like a sleeper agent.
In a matter of seconds, you go from straddling his face to being shoved onto all fours atop the training mat, manhandled like the perfect ragdoll he wants you to be. Malleable and manipulated into whatever position, angle, hole he wants from you.
Even a saint, when faced with the sight of your arching back, couldn’t hold themselves back from landing a skin-tingling slap against your ass — and the soldier is no saint. The spank is not enough to bruise, just enough to have you choking on a breath and keening back into the apologetic kiss he soothes the stinging flesh with.
“Please, oh god,” you moan when, for old times sakes, Bucky helps himself to another taste of you, tongue prodding at your hole from behind.
“Don’t reckon he’s willing to save you now,” he punctuates his snark by spitting on your hole — not because you need the extra lubrication, but because he craves to see you dripping in at least one of his fluids.
You melt away the minute his cock enters you — one fatal thrust of his hips that burrows him all the way to the hilt inside of your dripping pussy — your arms giving out beneath the weight of your body and winding up outstretched along the floor as your face meets the ground too.
One shallow thrust, a barely-there roll back of his hips, and he feels your walls squeezing to hold him inside.
“‘S this what you were needing, huh?” The hand gripping at your waist is gentle, soothing, his thumb rubbing over your skin, yet his tone is anything but — authoritative, chastising, in charge. “All those times I berated you over your misactions, who knew I should’ve just tried fucking some sense into you.”
“Bucky,” your voice is muffled against the foam mat.
“Oh so now you want to call me that,” he tries another thrust, eyes glued to the view of his length retreating from the grip of your pussy lips, covered in your juices. “Finally feel close enough to me now that I’ve got you stuffed full?”
“So full,” you’re babbling and drooling, a wet patch forming just below where you press your cheek against the floor and glance back at him.
“You wanted to fight me, so go on,” it nearly kills him to pry his hands off you. “Use those hips like a fucking weapon.”
The soldier can tell it takes a moment for you to process his words, eyes glazed over as you gape at him from the floor, but you catch on eventually. Clench your walls, take a deep breath, and at last begin moving.
You fuck yourself back against his cock in slow, stuttered movements, fingers flexing along the floor in search of a piece of reality to grip at while your nails press into the foam, permanently marking the training room with evidence of your reckoning. The view is enthralling and tongue-tying, driving him mad in search of appraising words that falter into nothing but pleased hums.
His hands resist the urge to touch you, to guide you back against him, too stubborn in his desire to see you work for it, work for him. A pathetic mess sprawled out on the floor, yearning for any friction you can get from holding his cock snug within your walls and rutting your hips back against his own.
Bucky can only deny temptation for so long.
“Shh, atta girl,” every drop of mockery in his tone is intentional, heartfelt, his pity for you only going far enough to rouse a faux pout on his lips as he starts to meet your cunt with thrusts of his own and watches you start to sing a broken melody of moans and whines. “I know he’s big but you’re taking him like a champ, she’s taking me like a champ.”
A hand skirts down the expanse of your spine, enhancing the arch of your back as his hips slowly start to dig out a rhythm, fucking you deeper, harder, better. By the time his fingers reach the back of your neck, he’s forcing your head down against the ground and relishing in the sound of his balls slapping against your soaked folds as he works his dick inside of you.
One glance ahead sends Bucky down a new avenue of desire, something more primal and carnal stirring in his guts.
“Look at us,” his words are drawn out by wonder as the hand at your neck rearranges your head until your chin is pressing into the mat and your eyes face forward, meeting his steely blues in the mirror. “This is how it’s supposed to be. The leader on top, and you grovelling on your knees.”
Your reflections are nothing but sin, capturing every movement that passes between you both. The perfect dance of how your body welcomes him in. The way the soldier’s mouth gapes open, firing off capricious words and man-whore moans. The way your eyes are borderline lost behind your eyelids.
That last one has Bucky outraged, resolute to change the attention you give to the mirror.
The hand at your neck curls around the front and hooks you in the grasp of his elbow, before Bucky’s yanking you up, your back to his chest while he holds you in a headlock.
“You’re too perfect like this to miss, sweetheart,” he croons in your ear, eyes pinned to both your reflections. “So look.”
“James,” his name sounds like a blessing, brought out in your time of need.
He echoes your own name back to you, pleased to find your eyes blown wide open and equally as enraptured as he is by the show you’re both putting on.
Your hands find his bicep and cradle the capture it’s taken over your throat. Bucky finds himself wishing he’d peeled your top off, the tight fit compression gear denying him the luxury of watching your breasts bounce alongside his ministrations. Before he can lament for too long, his free hand graces over the scar in your thigh and there’s something more pressing that upsets him.
“That bullet was meant for your head,” a gasped out confession, interrupted by your hips grinding down on him. “I nearly watched you die. You think that’s fair?”
He hates the way you shrug, like the prospect of being permanently gone means nothing to you, “You still would’ve- Ahh- Caught Andrews.”
“I didn’t give a shit about him,” his face turns towards yours, nose flattened against the side of your temple as his lips brush over your cheek, breathing you in. “It would’ve all been for nothing if I lost you.”
“James,” you whisper, his thrusts brought to a complete halt under the intensity of your eyes — your real eyes, not a reflection — finding his own when you turn to face him. “I’m right here.”
He blinks, slow, and when his eyelids reopen, you’re still there for him to behold. Infuriating, blood-curling, heart-shaking you and that loud smile.
You give him what he needs most, hand finding his jaw and your lips meeting his. The kiss is careful and composed, an explorative union of mouths, until it’s not. Until he’s desperate, hungering for more of you, his tongue brushing into your awaiting mouth and his lips moulding themselves against yours in hopes they fuse you both together, forever.
Bucky finds it impossible to turn away from you, so you do it for him, fingers gripping at his jaw and forcing his gaze forward again, bringing him back to where he needs to be. In this room, with you in his arms and him in your cunt, equal players in this game of pleasure.
One last kiss seared down into your shoulder and the soldier’s back to fucking you properly, winding his hips back just to admire the way you welcome his whole length, embrace his whole girth so pliantly. There’s an end in sight, one that promises momentary bliss, and all he wants is to take you there, to the very brink of ecstasy.
“D’you want to cum?” He slurs in your ear, the hand at your thigh snaking its way over to pinch at your clit. “Yeah? Then say you surrender.”
“You surrender,” and, oh, you must feel so smart, his beautiful vixen, a choir of giggles spilling out of you.
He tightens his hold around your throat, flexes the muscle in his arm, and watches how the silence is choked into you, no noise remaining but a broken moan.
“C’mon, baby,” Bucky needs it, just as much as you do, that greenlight to finally let himself explode. “Wanna feel her squeeze me real tight. Say it, for me.”
“I sur-” You’re cut off by your own pleasure, a half-shrieked scream that rips out of you while the soldier does the impossible and, tilting at a new angle, fucks deeper, tip bumping against what has to be your cervix.
“Uh-huh, that’s it,” the mirror spills all his secrets and feeds you the sight of his kisses being peppered up your neck, against your cheek, and sweat-soaked strands of hair that sit glued to his forehead. “Say it nice and clear for me.”
“I surrender,” you manage the full word, barely, and Bucky’s so proud of it, of you.
Of how you fall apart for him, hands grabbing at his arm in search of something grounding amidst the chaos of your shaky legs, and spasming walls, and weepy eyes. Of how you give yourself up to him, let him guide you through the blinding haze of your orgasm, cunt swallowing every subtle nudge his dick bullies into it. Of how pretty you gasp his names for him, a spillage of Jameses and Buckys all over the training room floor.
And of how, as his own orgasm crashes over him, you help him too, don’t even protest when his cock leaves you empty, slipping out only to search for friction between your two thighs. You squeeze them around him, marvel at the blush of his leaking tip as it rocks back and forth up to your clit.
When Bucky spills at last, it’s with his teeth clamped down on your shoulder and a hand clutching at your thigh as the thick, hot, white ropes of his cum paint your skin.
Exhaustion melts you both to the floor. A few moments in grasping at breaths pass before his hands are turning you around, in search of your face. When he finds it, there’s still a challenge in your eye.
“I lost,” you concede. “What’s my punishment, sergeant?”
The only response he can muster is to roll his hips.
Seasons ebb and flow into new ones.
Spring blooms and brings flowers into Bucky’s life, a handful a week delivered discreetly in the dark of a midnight rendezvous. With summer comes the heat — in both the temperature and the accusatory looks from the team each time his hand lingers on you during debriefs. In autumn, the leaves come crashing down alongside the truth, a pile of ‘I knew it!’s mixed in with the disgruntled paying of debts to Alexei for winning the ‘When Will They Tell Us?’ betting pool. And now, a whole year passed in the blink of four eyes, winter has returned.
More aggressive than ever, it seems, as Bucky stares out the window to a sea of desolate white.
Perhaps it's not so much about the season as it is about his location, the clue very much being in the name: Iceland.
“Come back to bed,” a soft drawl from behind him, the gentle rustle of limbs stretching over a mattress. “It’s cold, James.”
Of course you’re cold, naked atop the wrinkled sheets with his fingerprints burned into your skin and his cum leaking out your slit.
The soldier rolls his eyes in feigned annoyance, turning away from the fogged up window and crossing over the creaking floorboards to rejoin you, grabbing the blanket — discarded during earlier activities — off the ground.
“That snow’s showing no sign of stopping,” he shares the observation as he crawls up the bed to you, lips brushing over your skin as he goes. At the top of your thigh, he pauses, takes the effort to kiss the marred skin gently, a silent ritual where he gets to thank whatever power in the universe delivered the bullet there instead of your skull. “We’ll be trapped here at least another night.”
“Oh no, what a shame!” Grabby hands that hook under his arms to drag him the rest of the way up to you. “I guess we’ll just have to keep warm somehow.”
The soldier holds you how he knows you like it best: his left arm as your pillow, his right one resting at your neck, and his legs tangled in yours in an indecipherable mess. Silence lasts but a second or two before his thoughts get the better of him, memories of how wrong the first part of today had gone with the arrival of the blizzard.
“Am I allowed to say I told you so yet?” Even with your eyes closed, he knows you’re aware of the teasing smile on his face.
“Do you really think I don’t know how to check a weather app?”
“You’re seriously stalling us both here while there’s bad guys to be caught.”
“There’s always bad guys to be caught,” your fingers flex in the grasp of his own, a satisfied sigh sweeping through your chest as you find warmth at last. Not from any blanket resting heavy on you, but from him and the way he holds you. “There’s not always a snowed-in cabin, or time to enjoy having my half-naked hunk in bed with me.”
“You’re making me irresponsible,” still, Bucky’s resting further into the pillow beneath his head, eyes welcoming the dark.
“When it comes to me, you’ve always been irresponsible.”
He has, and he hates it. Loathes it with every fibre of his being.
The worst thing about loving you is how entirely it consumes him.
“...Six, seven, eight,” you whisper out into the dark of the cabin.
“Mhmm,” a hand finds your thigh, fingertips tracing manmade constellations into your skin. “What are you counting?”
“Your heartbeat.”
+ extra hyde.
· my headcanon of bucky being incapable of processing emotions manifests in two ways: 1) unspoken yet undying devotion (manchild!bucky) and 2) deducing that any positive feeling must actually be a negative one because that's all he's ever known & thus mistaking love for hatred (the loser bucky present in this fic)
· besties, somebody needs to throw me an intervention on how to properly list warnings on a fic, it's getting ridiculous.
· dear anon who requested this: i hope you enjoyed, i'm sorry if you didn't! i know your request wanted banter, however, i was kind of worried too much banter would just turn this into the exact same reader i wrote in manchild and i didn't want to do that ( probably did it anyway by accident, oopsy daisy!)🧍♂️
· anyway i'm about to hit post like its a detonate button and the only safety distance from the explosion is to log out of tumblr for 24 hours, see you on the other side <3
· lore accurate photo of bucky in this fic;;
Synopsis: Bucky never thought he’d get married. But, then he did. He never thought he’d have kids. Never knew he even wanted them. Until he saw you with one. Now, it’s all he can think about.
Warnings: Fluff, ft. the wilson’s, bucky’s a yearner, no use of y/n, SMUT, MDNI, kids loving bucky (and you), baby fever, ovulation kink?, kissing, cursing, all consensual, lots of terms of endearment, oral (f. rec), unprotected sex (do not), vocal & yapper buck, crying, overstimulation, porn with no plot, multiple rounds, creampies, cockwarming, breeding kink, rough sex, praise kink, spanking (once), marking, pussy worshipping, pregnancy, aftercare / WC: 5.6K
A/N: Ahh, thank you, anon, for indulging in baby-fever Bucky with me! I think I might be ovulating, tbh. But anyways! I love baby-fever ridden Bucky Barnes. Comments & Reblogs appreciated!
The late afternoon light bled gold through the windows of your shared apartment, catching in soft patterns across the wooden floorboards. You stood by the hallway mirror, twisting your earrings in with careful fingers, humming faintly under your breath. That sundress—the pale blue one with delicate little straps—fit you like a whisper.
Bucky leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching you run your fingers through your hair. His heart squeezed. A year into the marriage and he still couldn’t believe it some days. You looked so calm, so beautiful, so easy in your movements and skin. The way the afternoon sun painted you golden made him ache.
You caught his eyes in the mirror and smiled, a knowing little curve of your mouth. “You keep staring at me like that, we’re going to be late,” you said, adjusting the neckline of your dress.
He pushed off the doorway and came to stand behind you, metal hand resting lightly at your waist. “I’m not staring,” he murmured, lips brushing your shoulder. “I’m admiring.”
“You’re trying to get us out of going.”
“Can you blame me?” he asked, turning you around slowly until you were facing him. His eyes swept over you like a man starved. “You in this dress… Jesus. I didn’t know you were gonna wear this. You could’ve warned me.”
You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. “Bucky—”
“Just five minutes,” he said, leaning in, kissing your jaw. “Let me take this off you. I’ll be fast, promise.”
You giggled, brushing your nose against his. “You’re never fast.”
“That’s not true,” he mumbled into your neck, already pushing the hem of your skirt up.
You grabbed his face in your hands and kissed him once—slow, deep, enough to make his knees buckle. Then you pulled away. “You’re going to behave at Sam’s. There’s kids there. Food. Community.”
Bucky groaned, head tipping back. “You’re cruel.”
You raised an eyebrow. “I can be crueller.”
He blinked and stepped back, smiled and grabbed your purse. “No need. I’m moving. Practically in the car.”
You snorted, shaking your head at his antics. You followed after him, shutting and locking the door behind you.
He slipped his hand in yours.
The Wilson house was already alive when you pulled up. Music floated from the backyard, mingled with laughter and the high, excited squeals of children.
The scent of something grilled and delicious hung in the air. Bucky leaned over to open your door, hand immediately on your lower back as you both stepped out.
“Ready?” you asked.
“No,” he answered, eyes lingering on your legs. “But I’ll survive.”
You patted his chest in mock sympathy. “You can do it, Buck. I believe in you.”
Sarah greeted you both with warm hugs and lemonade. A shout from one of her kids pulled her away and you waved her off, told her to go check on them and you’d find her in a bit. Sam, already one beer in, sauntered over.
“Took you long enough,” Sam said, clapping Buck on the back. “Lemme guess. You were trying to talk her out of coming?”
You laughed as Sam hugged you, soft, like an older brother might.
“Something like that,” Bucky muttered, eyes scanning the crowd. You laid a hand on his arm and he relaxed slightly, eyes crinkling softly at you as Sam handed him a beer.
Cass and AJ were mid-sword fight in the yard and immediately hollered when they spotted Bucky.
“UNCLE BUCKY!”
“Oh no,” Bucky sighed as they charged. He gave you one last look, smirk tugging at his lips as AJ grabbed his hand and dragged him toward the grass. You and Sam laughed as Cass hugged you hello before darting after them.
You caught Bucky’s eye just as he slowly fell on his back, exaggeration bleeding out of him as he beamed at the kid’s laughter.
Pray for me, he mouthed.
I love you, you mouthed back, turning before you could see his eyes turn into hearts.
Pulled into a conversation, Sam walked away after squeezing your shoulder and you wandered off to find Sarah and help her in the kitchen.
It was good, easy. Everything always felt so light here, like the weight of the world drifted into the harbour and all that was left was softness and laughter.
Later, Sarah brought out one of her friends—a woman named Candace. She’d just moved into the neighborhood with her husband and their baby girl.
“Oh, you have to meet her,” Sarah told you, dragging you toward the couch. “She’s an angel. And I have a feeling she’ll love you.”
You’d always liked kids. Talked about them in soft, tentative tones late at night with Bucky—some day, not now.
But when Candace placed her daughter in your arms, something inside you settled. Something ancient and quiet. You shifted her gently, feeling the sweet weight of her body, and you were a goner. She had the chubbiest cheeks and the softest fuzz of dark curls on her head. You chatted and cooed, drawn to the little one like it was instinct.
Sarah and Candance looked at each, a look of knowing passing between them. A look only a mother could understand, could decipher. They slowly moved away, like they knew how important this was for you—how life changing it could be.
Bucky looked up from the grass where he’d been tackling Cass to the ground in a mock wrestling move. He caught your laugh first. That soft, fluttering giggle you always gave when something melted you. He turned from where Aj was trying to tie his metal arm behind his back like a superhero cape—and he froze.
You were holding a baby.
Your arms curled around her like you were made to carry her. You rocked her gently, one finger tracing her tiny cheek as you spoke to her in that quiet voice that did things to him. There was a smile on your face that Bucky hadn’t seen before. You were glowing, soft, peaceful, the kind of beauty that wasn’t just physical—but something else, something foreign and familiar all the same.
And Bucky—something shifted. He felt it deep in his chest. A low, unfamiliar ache. An instinct he’d never let himself entertain. Not in this life. Not with his past.
He felt like something in him snapped.
He didn’t want to want kids. He never thought he would. He never thought it was even possible for him to live a life that normal, that good. He already had you—had something so pure and good that he constantly pinched himself to make sure it was real.
But now he couldn’t unsee it. Couldn’t unfeel the way his chest pulled and clenched with a sudden need, a new type of longing. You were his wife, his beautiful, perfect wife, and now he wanted to make you a mother.
Sam walked by, caught him frozen mid-step, his nephews giggling on the grass.
“You alright there, Buck?” Sam came up beside him, grinning.
Bucky blinked. “Huh?”
Sam followed his gaze and nodded, grinning wider. “Ah, I see.”
“Shut up,” Bucky grumbled, mindful of the kids around him.
Sam raised a brow. “You got it bad.”
“Don’t—” Bucky started, but Sam just laughed, bumped his shoulder.
“Relax. I’ve seen that look before. You’re gonna be insufferable the rest of the night, aren’t you?”
Bucky didn’t answer—couldn’t. Because you were looking up at him now, smiling that sweet, private smile, and the baby was still curled against you like she belonged there—and Bucky felt his cock twitch in his jeans. A primal and unwarranted reaction, but a natural and unstoppable one, nonetheless.
Jesus Christ, it was going to be a long day.
Later, near sunset, the kids were winding down and the adults were camped on the porch. You sat on a rocking bench with the baby girl in your arms again, after Sam had gently given her to you when Sarah called him, now sleepy and burbling as you gently hummed a lullaby. Bucky came to sit beside you, his thigh brushing yours, his fingers itching to touch.
“Tired?” you asked, quietly.
Bucky hummed, shifting closer to you. “Yeah, a bit. Those boys sure know how to play.”
You laughed, fond. He pressed his shoulder into yours. “What about you?” he asked, just as quiet. “Had fun?”
You looked down at the baby in your arms and nodded, briefly overcome with feeling. “She’s so good,” you whispered. “Just look at her, Buck.”
He did—couldn’t look away. “You’re so good with her.”
Your eyes found his, something soft and fragile between you. She grabbed his metal finger, tiny fist curling tight, and Bucky swore his heart cracked right open.
You watched him carefully, watching as the tension in his body melted and how his breath hitched. His eyes were wide, filled with curiosity and hesitation. You felt your heart swell, the ache in your stomach grow,
You swallowed, trying to reel in the flutter between your legs, in your gut. “I never thought it’d hit me like this.”
Bucky didn’t look at you, eyes on the tiny, flesh hand wrapped around his metal one. “Like what?”
You looked down. “Wanting one. Our own.”
Bucky looked up and stared at you.
You didn’t see the way his throat bobbed, the tension in his jaw. But Sarah did, from across the porch. She elbowed Sam with a grin, and he barely stifled a laugh.
The car ride home was silent.
Thick with heat and want and emotions and need.
Bucky’s hand was on your thigh the entire time, thumb rubbing circles just below the hem of your dress. You shifted, breath catching. He pressed harder and you clenched your thighs together.
There were no kids, no Sam or other other adults to behave around. Just you and Bucky—alone, driving home. It was different today, the air in the car. Usually, Bucky would be mumbling about something; the food or the people or Sam or simply how he missed touching you, but there was none of that.
Just silence—heavy and warm, wrapping around you both like it knew, knew that the ache inside you both would only grow in the quiet comfort of each other.
Bucky could smell it—the shift in your hormones. Your body calling him. He didn’t know much about ovulation, but he knew you. Knew your scent, your taste, the pulse of want that beat through you when you were aroused. His senses weren’t that enhanced but he knew your body, completely in-tune with you.
You were ovulating. It explained how you jumped him last night in bed and it sort of explained the situation now—how you were turned towards him, clenching your thighs together with a far away look in your eyes. It leaked out of you—out of your pores and your cunt, probably pooling in your panties and soaking his seats.
Bucky was losing his mind. His thumb pressed into your skin and you sighed. His cock twitched and he almost groaned out. All he wanted was to sink into you but he had to drive, had to get home and take care of you properly.
The door barely shut behind you before Bucky had you pinned against it, breath hot and heavy against your cheek. His hands gripped your hips, rough and desperate, as if grounding himself—like if he didn’t hold on, he might float away.
You barely had time to gasp before he kissed you.
It was brutal in the way only love could be—all tongue, all teeth, all reverence. Bucky kissed like he was starving—like every second spent not inside you was one wasted. His metal hand slid up your spine, fingers fisting in the back of your sundress, dragging the fabric up your thighs as he pressed his body flush to yours.
“You don’t know,” he rasped against your lips. “You don't know what you did to me today, baby.”
You blinked up at him, lips plump and dazed. “What…what did I do?”
He groaned, forehead dropping to yours as he pressed his hips against yours. “You holding that baby,” he said, voice breaking. “You smiled and I saw it—saw you glowing, glowing like you were meant to be someone’s mama. Like you were meant to carry my baby.”
Your breath caught, eyes fluttering.
“I couldn’t think straight,” he admitted, lips brushing your jaw, your cheekbone, the shell of your ear. “Sam caught me starin’. Said I looked like a lovesick idiot but I didn’t care. All I could think was—fuck, she’d be the most beautiful mama.”
He nibbled the skin under your ear. “I want you full of me, sweetheart. Want you round and glowing and pregnant.”
Your knees buckled at his words, at the heat in his voice, at the trembling in his hands. You clutched at his shirt, dragging him closer, whimpering when his thigh slotted between yours.
“Bucky—”
“I know we haven't had a proper conversation," he murmured, kissing down your neck. “But I saw how badly you wanted it. And I want it too, want you. Tell me to stop and I will but I want this.”
You swallowed thickly, your heart pounding so hard it hurt. You looked into his eyes, blue and black, filled with love and affection.
“I want a baby, Bucky,” you whispered. “I want a baby with you—yours.”
He was right, you hadn’t had a proper conversation, just that you’d wait a bit, but it wasn’t like you weren’t ready. You knew you wanted a future with him after your first date and he knew long before he’d even asked you on that date.
Besides, you knew this wasn’t something you wanted to plan. You wanted it to happen for you and him naturally, and what’s more natural than immense lust and want.
Bucky froze—just for a second—and he snapped, letting go of the reins completely.
His mouth crushed yours again, more desperate than ever. Tilting his head, he deepened the kiss and slipped his tongue into your mouth. Tongues, teeth, and lips crashed together in perfect harmony.
Bucky lifted you into his arms with ease, your legs wrapping around his waist as he stumbled down the hall, barely making it to the bedroom before throwing you onto the bed. You laughed as your back hit the mattress, legs immediately parting.
“Keep the dress on,” he growled, crawling over you, yanking your panties down your thighs. “Fuck—this fucking dress.” He shoved the hem up to your waist, staring down at your glistening cunt like it was holy.
“You’re so wet,” he groaned. “God, baby, you’re dripping.”
“For you,” you breathed, pussy fluttering as the cold air brushed against it. “Always for you.”
He smiled, something wicked and promising. He surged forward, lips on your neck and you arched into him, giving him more access to your neck. He kissed down your body, shifting himself as he kissed down your clothed breasts, sucking and biting through the flimsy material.
You whimpered when his tongue poked and prodded your sensitive nipples, hot tongue against your skin. He unbuttoned your dress and kissed your exposed breasts, tongue swirling against your hardened nipples.
He kissed down your stomach, gentle as he continued to unbutton your dress. “So fucking pretty,” he mumbled, staring down at you with heated eyes.
“Buck” you practically whined, needing him, anything.
“I know,” he mumbled, and he did. He needed this as badly as you did, if not more. But he was a dutiful husband, and he’d take care of you, satisfy you. All you had to do was be patient.
Bucky laid on his stomach and looked up at you. Head propped up on a pillow, you stared down at him and smiled, nodding slightly to his non-verbal question.
Gently, Bucky lifted each of your legs and placed them over his shoulders, forcing you to open yourself for him completely. He leaned in and pressed his nose against your cunt, your hips jerking upwards at the feeling of him nosing your clit but he held them down.
“So wet, baby,” he breathed out, rubbing his nose further into you. “Naughty little wife,” he grinned as he brought his metal hand to your pussy and rubbed your arousal all over clit.
“Getting so wet while holding someone else’s baby girl.” You whimpered when he kissed your slit. “You want your own, don’t you? I’ll give you one.”
Before you could say anything, he planted a hot, wet, open-mouthed kiss on your clit and he moaned as his tongue slipped inside your pussy. Crying out, you arch your back in response as his nose nudged against your swollen folds. A low hum reverberates through him as he licks, sending delicious shivers down your spine.
Bucky moaned when you tugged on his hair, his name slipping quietly from your lips. He licks one long stripe up your slit and you nearly screamed as he pushed his nose further into you, his tongue fucking in and out of your sopping hole.
His hands were everywhere—gripping your thighs, spreading you wide, holding your still as he devoured you. Tongue thrusting inside, slurping and sucking, groaning like he was the one being touched.
“Fuck, Bucky—oh my god—”
He sucked your clit, flicked it with the tip of his tongue in tight little circles, your body shaking as heat coiled deep in your belly.
“Gonna make you come like this,” he growled against your cunt. “Gotta make you fall apart on my tongue before I fuck a baby into you.”
The pressure of your pleasure built and snapped inside you as he wrapped his lips around your cunt and pressed his thumb to your clit. You sobbed out his name, clenched your eyes shut as your nerves lit on fire and your vision went white.
Bucky moaned, drinking you down, licking through your orgasm like he needed it more than life. “That’s it,” he panted. “Cum all over my face.” The bottom half of his face, his beard, was shiny with your cum and slick as he continued to lick at you, his tongue working its way from your entrance all the way to your clit.
When you collapsed, boneless and gasping, he pulled away from your cunt and looked at you like you were made of starlight, something magnificent and out of this world.
You were breathing hard, fucked out. Bucky watched you carefully as he stripped—sweater, pants, briefs—all gone in a blur.
You opened your eyes to the sight of him staring at you, a predatory look in his eyes. His cock was leaking, flushed and hard and thick, precum leaking from his swollen tip. He knelt between your legs, stroked himself with one hand while the other cupped your jaw.
“Look at me, sweetheart,” he murmured, all gentle. “You sure about this?”
You nodded, eyes glassy. “Yeah, I want it.” You curled your finger around the chain of one of his dogtags, pulled him flush against you. Pressing your lips against his, you mumbled into his mouth. “Make me a mama, Buck.”
Bucky groaned against your mouth, tongue teasing your bottom lip as he pressed his cockhead to your entrance, swallowing your moan when your hips tilted up. You held your breath as he pushed inside, moaning out his name as your pussy sucked him in.
“Fuck, I’m gonna fill you up, sweetheart. Gonna cum so deep in you it’ll have no choice but to stick. You’ll be so full of me—my come, my baby.” He kissed your forehead. “My pretty girl.”
You moaned at the stretch, arching your back so your ass pressed flush against his hips. Bucky bit your shoulder, slowly rocked his hips against yours, sliding his dick in and out of you at the most delicious pace. He bottomed out slowly, burning himself to the hilt.
He stayed there, forehead to yours, panting.
“You’re so tight,” he choked. “So fucking perfect.”
You whimpered, nails digging into his back as he pressed into you, thick and pulsing inside you.
Pressing a kiss to your nose, he lifted his hips and started fucking you—deep, slow, intentional. Every thrust was heavy, hot, full of claim. His hand slid under your neck, cradling it. The other gripped your hip, grounding himself as he slammed into you, muttering against your mouth.
“Take it, baby, take all of me. Gonna fill you up so good. You’re gonna be such a good mama.”
You were crying now—overwhelmed, wrecked, unraveling from the intensity of it all.
“I love you,” you sobbed, babbling. “I love you so much, Buck.” It all felt like too much—his cock, the intentions of the way he pressed into you.
He kissed your tears away, hips stuttering as your nails raked down his back. “I love you too, baby. So fucking much. You’re my everything.”
Your cries echoed through the room as the pressure inside you snapped and you climaxed, your cum coating his cock. Your body convulsed uncontrollably, your walls tightening around him. Bucky’s own moaning mingled with yours as he bit down on your neck, cumming inside you.
With a strangled growl, Bucky shoved as deep as he could and spilled inside you—hot, thick ropes of cum flooding your cunt as he trembled over you, gasping your name like a prayer. He continued to thrust, filling you completely, his gaze transfixed on the sight of his cock disappearing into your white, creamy warmth.
Amidst your incoherent babbling, Bucky was lost in the depths of your pussy. His movements were relentless, driven by an urge he couldn’t deny. Tears streamed down your cheeks, a mixture of overstimulation and raw emotion overwhelming your senses.
As the final drops of his cum dripped into your core, Bucky gradually slowed his pace, pressing tender kisses to your neck and shoulders. He wrapped his arms around you, smiling against your skin when your limp legs wrapped loosely around him.
He kissed you, gentle and soft, cock softening a bit inside you as you both caught your breath. Slowly, gently, he pulled out and your pussy fluttered around nothing, clenching at the loss. His cum dripped out of your cunt, dripping down your thighs and Bucky watched, mesmerized.
He groaned as he spread your thighs wider, fingers dragging through the mess he left inside you, gliding over swollen folds, watching them glisten.
“Fuck, baby,” he rasped. “You’re leaking all over the bed. Think I’m losing my mind.”
You blinked, breath catching. “Mhm.” You were fucked out, mind hazy, but the emptiness between your legs was evident.
“I got you, sweetheart,” he murmured, thumb circling your clit. “Just lay back. I know what you need. Let me fuck it back in.”
And he does—pushes two fingers into you, slow and deep, and you gasp, hips twitching. You're sore but your cunt clenched around him like you needed more, wanted more—and you do.
“You feel that?” he panted. “That’s all mine. You’re fuckin’ full of me, baby.”
“Need more,” you whimper. “Please, Buck.”
“I know.” His mouth is against your belly now, kissing, worshipping. He whispered praises against your skin. “Feelin’ empty, aren’t you?”
He kissed your mound and then licked a slow, wet stripe from your hole to your clit. You jolted, breath stuttering. He hands pinned your thighs open as he pushed his tongue inside you, moaning into your cunt at the taste of his cum mixed with yours.
Shameless, he devoured you. His beard scratched at your sensitive thighs, tongue curling deep inside until you’re begging.
“Bucky, fuck—s’too much—”
“Take it, sweetheart,” he growled, voice slurred with lust. “You taste so fuckin’ good. Gimme that pussy, come on, I need it—”
You cry out when he slapped your thigh, rough and sweet at the same time. He pulled back, eyes fluttering open. “Sit on my fuckin’ face.”
“What?” you breathed out, dazed and on the verge of tears again.
“You heard me,” he grinned, licking his lips. “Ride my face, pretty girl. Wanna feel you grind all over me.”
You let him flip you over, straddled his face as his hands guided you down until your pussy was flush against his mouth. He moaned like he’s been depraved. His tongue lapped into you greedily, fucking into you as you rocked on him, thighs trembling.
Bucky knows he’s on a high right now, pussy drunk, completely lost in it—gripped your thighs tight, pulled you down like he wants nothing more than to drown in you.
Your thighs burned as you gripped the headboard for dear life. The pleasure is too great, it snapped too quickly and you screamed, cumming all over his face.
Bucky licked and sucked even as you tried to pull away. “Can’t,” you sobbed. “Bucky, I—”
Bucky whined and flipped you again, settling between your legs. He’s ripped the dress off you, threw it somewhere unimportant. His cock is hard again, thick and red and he pushed the leaking head of his cock to your entrance again, slapped it against your folds and grunted.
He pushed in—slow and so fucking deep, and you cry out at the stretch, at the burn, the fullness.
“That’s it,” his eyes are squeezed shut. “Such a good fuckin’ girl, taking my cock again.”
You moaned, legs wrapping around his waist. He thrusted, dragging every inch of his veiny cock against your plush walls. He leaned down, kissed you hard—tongue in your mouth.
“Bucky—!” It’s all you're left capable of saying, just his name, over and over again.
“Gotta fuck my cum into you, baby,” he reasoned with you, sweat glistening his chest. “You want that, don’t you? Want me to fill you again? Want me to fuck a baby into like I promised?”
“Yes—please, Bucky.” you were panting. “I need it—”
“Say it,” he growled, slamming into you, his fingers bruising your hips. “Tell me you want it.”
“I want it,” you sobbed, clawing at the sheets. “Want your baby—don’t stop, please don’t stop—”
He’s rabid—tongue dragging down your neck as his teeth grazed your skin, biting as he pounded into you. The lewd slap of skin against skin is filthy, mixed with your wet cries as his broken grains. He slapped your cunt with his metal hand—hard—and you screamed into his mouth.
“Fuck, good fuckin’ girl. Look at you—so fuckin’ needy. All this ‘cause you wanna be bred.”
He pulled your hips higher, flush against his pelvis. You’re full on sobbing now, begging for it. You pussy fluttered and clenched around him with every thrust and he hissed, pressed into you deeper.
His hand pressed into your skin and slid down your body until it reached your pussy. His thumb circled your clit, pressed into it as he drove his cock deep, hips slammed into yours again and again until—
Your vision goes white completely, stars dancing as you cummed. Your whole body trembled, legs giving out as your pussy milked his cock. Bucky gritted his teeth and slammed into you one more time and groaned—deep and broken—in his chest as he cummed inside you, cock throbbing.
“Fuck—fuck, baby, take it—take it all,” he moaned, buried himself deeper, grinding into you. “So good for me. So fuckin’ perfect.”
He pressed into you, panting, before he pulled out just a little. Your thighs are soaked, your cunt swollen and leaking all over his thighs and the sheets. “Shit,” Bucky whispered, dazed, drooling.
“Look what I did to you.”
You blinked up at him, smiling dumbly. He leaned down, kissed your trembling lips. Tender and slow, one hand brushed the hair off your sweaty face.
“Think we just made a baby,” he whispered with a grin, voice warm and low.
You laughed, breathless, fucked-out, completely wrecked.
You were barely conscious—just boneless warmth draped over him, your thighs trembling, lips swollen and bruised, and still, still he hadn’t pulled out.
Bucky stayed buried deep inside you, both arms wrapped tight around your back, your cheek pressed against his chest where his heart was still pounding like a war drum.
His cum was thick inside you, heat pooled low, locked in place by the gentle grind of his hips, cock twitching every time you shifted in your sleep. His hand stroked up your back, across your spine, then curled under your ass, squeezing softly.
He couldn’t bear to let go. Didn’t want to risk a single drop slipping out.
“Doin’ so good for me, baby,” he whispered, kissing your eyelids. “Gonna keep it all inside, yeah? Gotta keep you full.”
You mumbled something unintelligible against his skin, barely more than a sigh, and he felt you melt even more—his cock twitched again.
He wanted you pregnant—needed it in his bones. And it wasn’t just the thought of breeding you—of cumming inside you so deep it took—but the life of it. Of you and him expanding your family. He could see it as clear as day; you holding their baby at your hip, glowing with that softness only he got to see, wrapped up in something warm and soft.
“I’m gonna be good,” he whispered into your hair, voice cracking. “I’ll be so good for you. Gonna take care of both of you. You’ll never lift a damn finger, sweetheart. I swear.”
He stayed inside you for as long as your body would let him—until your breath evened out completely, and your hand went limp over his chest.
Only then, carefully, slowly, did he slip out of you, hissing as his cock left that warm, soaked haven. He cupped his hand over your cunt instantly, thumb brushing the slick mess between your thighs, murmuring, “That’s it, baby, hold it in for me.”
He kissed your temple, then your shoulder, then finally eased away from the bed—just long enough to wet a warm cloth and come back to clean you up, gentle as anything.
You didn’t even stir—too fucked out and too loved.
Bucky smiled as he tucked the blanket around your waist, crawled back into bed, and curled around your body like a shield. His cock was already hardening again where it pressed between your thighs, but he didn’t move—just held you.
“I love you,” he whispered, kissing the shell of your ear. “So much. You’re my heart.”
You made a soft, sleepy noise, and he smiled into your hair.
“You’ll see,” he promised, already picturing it—tiny baby fingers curling around yours, soft coos in the middle of the night. “I’ll be the best dad. The best husband. I’ll be good.”
And he meant it. More than he meant anything else.
You stared at the little plastic stick in your hand like it was a live wire. The bathroom was quiet except for the soft hum of the fan and the pounding of your heartbeat in your ears.
Three minutes.
You hadn’t told him you were late yet—not until this morning, when you’d woken up with your face buried in his neck and an unease in your stomach and whispered, “Buck? I think I might be pregnant.”
His eyes had shot open instantly. No sleepy blink, just a rush of warmth and wonder in this blue eyes—filled with excitement and caution.
You sat on the closed toilet lid, test in hand, and he crouched in front of you, both of his huge hands wrapped around your knees. You could feel him vibrating with nerves, with hope. You hadn’t even looked yet.
“Baby,” he said, quiet and so fond.
You looked up at him. “Mm?”
He smiled, gentle and promising. “Whatever the test says, it’ll be okay. If you’re not pregnant, I don’t want you to worry. It’ll be okay.”
You swallowed the lump in your throat and nodded, love and anxiety swimming down your throat. It would be okay, but you wanted this so bad.
“You ready?” he asked, softly.
You nodded once.
Then, you slowly turned the stick.
Pregnant.
The word stared up at you in tiny digital letters—so simple, so final.
You barely had a second to process it before Bucky exhaled a shaky breath and grabbed you, arms winding around your waist so fast and tight you dropped the test and laughed into his shoulder.
“Oh my god,” he whispered into your neck, kissing you, eyes wet. “You’re pregnant. Baby. Baby—we did it. You did it.”
You smiled so wide your cheeks hurt, threading your fingers through his hair as he pulled back just enough to look at you.
“You’re really happy?” you asked, voice thick.
Bucky let outa breathless, wet laugh—then dropped to his knees on the tiled floor, lifting your shirt with shaking fingers.
“Happy?” he whispered. “Sweetheart, I’ve never been this happy in my whole damn life.”
That wasn’t all that true, since the day he married you would always be the happiest day of his life, but this was such a close second.
He kissed your belly—soft and reverent. Once, then again. He pressed his forehead to your stomach like he was praying.
He looked up at you, eyes shiny. “Are you happy, baby?”
You blinked and then your lips wobbled and Bucky stood instantly, catching you just as you collapsed in his arms. He cooed in your ear softly, encouraging you to cry, to let it out.
“I’m so happy,” you mumbled through tears. You looked up at him, beautiful and glowing he was undone. “I’m gonna be a mama, Bucky.”
“You are,” he choked, nose brushing against yours. “You’re going to be such an amazing mama,” he said, voice wrecked with love and emotion. “Luckiest kid in the world.”
You stroked your fingers through his hair as tears slipped down your cheeks. His arms wound tighter around your waist, like he couldn’t get close enough. “We’re gonna be parents.”
You nodded, choking out a laugh. “Yeah, Buck. We are.” You kissed his cheek. “You’re gonna be such a good dad.”
He leaned down and kissed you—slow, deep, trembling with joy—and in that tiny bathroom, hearts pressed together, everything in the world felt right.
Title: We Couldn’t Stop
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader x Steve Rogers
Summary: During a sweep of a forgotten HYDRA lab, you, Steve, and Bucky trigger an old aerosol dispersal system. No one realizes what hit you until it’s too late. Now stuck in quarantine- burning, aching, and caged in with two dominant, unraveling super soldiers- you’re forced to ride out the drug’s effects together.
Word Count: 7k
Warnings: / Explicit Content /18+, Minors DNI, Sex Pollen / Drugged Lust, Threesome MFM, Dubious Consent (due to drug influence), Double Penetration, Oral (F & M receiving), Praise Kink, Rough Sex/Overstimulationm Fingering, anal ply, cum play, Competitive Doms
A/N: my entry for @avengers-assemble-bingo for April Kinky Bingo
Square: A3- Threesome
Card Number: KB003
The mission was supposed to be a simple sweep- an old HYDRA lab buried deep beneath the forest floor, long abandoned, just a routine retrieval run for leftover tech and encrypted files that could pose a threat if they fell into the wrong hands. You, Steve, and Bucky had done that sort of thing more times than you could count. Clear the rooms, grab the drives, secure any volatile tech, and call for extraction. In and out. Easy.
You should’ve known better the moment you stepped inside. The facility was too quiet, too intact. Dust settled thick on the floors, but the lights still flickered dimly overhead, and the security systems were half-alive, humming low like they were waiting.
You were the one who found the sealed door- reinforced, heavily protected, and drawing power. It was locked down tight, tucked at the end of a corridor where the flickering lights didn’t quite reach. You called the others over.
"You think it’s storage?" Bucky asked, frowning at the biometric pad.
"Locked and powered," you muttered. "Could be data. Or maybe just a lab they forgot to scrub."
"Let's not poke the bear," Steve said, but he stepped up beside you anyway, scanning the door. "Looks like it's sealed for a reason."
That should've been the moment you backed off. But your fingers were already dancing over the keypad, overriding the old security system. The panel blinked. Clicked.
"I’ve almost got- "
The door hissed. Not wide- barely a few inches.
A soft spray hit you all in the face.
It came fast. Silent. A puff of pressurized mist like compressed air, followed by the faintest scent- ozone, chemical sweetness, almost floral.
You stumbled back, coughing once.
"What the hell was that?" Bucky barked, wiping his face with his sleeve.
Steve grabbed your arm, pulling you away from the door. "You okay? Did you breathe it in?"
"Yeah, but- I don’t feel anything."
"We’re all covered in it," Bucky snapped, glaring at the faint sheen settling over Steve’s shoulders. "Fucking hell."
"Close it," Steve ordered.
Bucky slammed the door shut, sealing it again with a growl. "Old security measure. Shit."
"We’ll report it," Steve said, but his jaw was clenched.
The spray clung to your skin. Sweet. Heavy. And whatever it was, it was in all three of you now.
~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~
By the time the jet touched down back at the compound, you were already flushed and aching, your heart thudding too fast in your chest. Whatever had come out of that door- it clung to your skin, settled in your lungs, and made everything inside you feel off. You weren’t the only one affected. Bucky was pacing the perimeter of the quinjet like a caged animal. Steve hadn’t spoken for the last twenty minutes, but his white-knuckled grip on the back of a seat said everything.
You’d hoped the decontamination shower would be the end of it. But blood was still taken. Swabs run over your skin. Scans. More questions. Until finally, they left the three of you in the quarantine room- one sterile space, no outside contact, and cameras in every corner.
You wanted to apologize. This had been your mistake. But Bucky’s expression was pure storm as he continued to pace like a tiger in a zoo. Steve’s face was unreadable- steely, distant, controlled. So you kept your mouth shut and tried not to scratch at your skin like you desperately wanted.
Soft static crackled, and then Tony’s voice filled the room over the speaker. "It’s biochemical bonding serum," he said. "Looks like it's engineered to push subjects into a state of hyperarousal and submission, designed to override inhibition and drive instinctual behaviors."
Your stomach dropped. What kind of mess had you landed yourself in?
"How long?" Bucky snapped, voice sharp.
"We'll have to check back on the decay and metabolic rate, and we- "
"What Bruce means is- we don't know," Tony cut in. "For you guys, it might be a matter of hours. Little Miss Curiosity might be stuck with it in her system a little longer."
You flinched and shied away from the speaker, burying your face in your hands.
"We're working on it, don't stress. It shouldn't kill you," Tony added casually.
"Big fucking whoop," Bucky growled, pressing a fist into the wall. Steve shot him a look of disproval.
"Buck.." His tone warning.
"Just, try and stay calm, guys," Bruce said, trying to sound optimistic. "It'll be alright."
"Don’t make a mess," Tony said, his voice laced with sarcasm. "We’ll keep you posted."
And just like that, you were cut off again.
Biochemical- engineered arousal.
"Well, you heard him," Steve sighed, leaning back against the wall, scrubbing a hand over his face. "We just have to keep our heads. It can’t last forever."
That was easy for him to say. Both Steve and Bucky had super soldier serum in their veins- enhanced bodies that could regulate, adapt, maybe even resist. You… you were human. And you could already feel your body reacting in ways that made your skin itch and your blood feel like it was boiling.
You didn't say anything. Just shifted your weight, trying not to squirm. The heat beneath your skin pulsed steadily now, like it was alive.
"This is fucked," Bucky muttered, pacing again. "They just dumped us in here like we’re some kind of experiment."
"They’re doing what they can," Steve said, tone calm but tight. "We don’t know enough yet. Getting worked up won’t help."
You glanced between them, heart racing. The tension in the room was building again, only this time it wasn’t from anger- it was something heavier. Thicker. Clinging to the air like smoke.
And under it all, that hum beneath your skin only grew louder.
Hours had passed.
You'd started pacing a little while ago, unable to sit still. Movement helped. Not much- but it was something. You were going through the water they'd left in the room like you were dying of thirst. You were hot, sticky, your tank damp and clinging to your body, and you were doing everything you could to ignore the throbbing pulse between your legs.
You kept moving. Pacing. Trying to shake it off.
Steve watched from the far cot, jaw tight. His shirt was damp, his breath shallow, but he was sitting like he was trying to pretend everything was normal.
Bucky was pacing again, eyes locked on you more often than not, his jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might crack. “She smells different,” he muttered. “Fuck.”
His words made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. The rough, raw sound of his voice made your head twitch like it was a physical thing pulling at you.
"Gonna try and sleep," you muttered, not looking at either of them.
Maybe you'd be able to sleep through the worst of it. Maybe if you were lucky, your body would calm down. You slipped behind the thin curtain, stepping into the tiny corner of privacy around your cot. Laying down, the heat of your body only seemed to intensify. Your skin felt suffocated, and with a frustrated sigh, you peeled your tank top over your head, leaving you in just your bra, hoping the exposure would help you breathe easier.
It didn’t.
You curled onto your side, arms around your stomach, thighs pressed tight together. The ache between your legs was a constant, heavy throb now. Maybe… maybe you could just handle your own needs. Just enough to take the edge off. Anything to ease the ache.
Your hands trembled as you pulled the thin blanket around you and lay on the cot. There was a small curtain for privacy, but it did nothing to muffle the sounds when your fingers slipped beneath your waistband.
You tried to be quiet. Tried to hold your breath. But your body was on fire, and even the gentlest brush of your fingers sent you bucking.
A whimper escaped, broken and desperate.
And then you heard it- Steve’s voice. Low. Strained.
“Don’t- don’t do that.”
You froze. “I- I can’t- ”
Still, you didn’t stop. You rubbed faster, then slower, your fingers diving inside of you, pressing deeper, trying every angle- but nothing worked. Every shift of your hand sent sparks across your nerves, your breath hitching with each pulse of pressure, but the fire wouldn’t break. Your legs trembled, your toes curled, but it all stayed out of reach.
You changed angles, tried circling your clit with trembling fingers while your other hand held onto the edge of the cot like it could ground you. You rocked your hips up, whispered pleas into the dark, but it wasn’t enough. Not even close. You needed more- needed them- but all you had were your own shaking hands and the unbearable ache growing between your legs.
Your breath hitched again as frustration bloomed hot and frantic in your chest. You were soaking, your thighs slick, the air sticky with the scent of your arousal. Your skin was flushed and clammy, your body locked in this endless loop of need- and yet you still couldn’t fall over that edge. Not like this. Not alone.
"You gonna keep pretending you don’t want her?" Bucky asked, voice low and rough, growling on the other side of the curtain.
Steve didn’t move at first, but his voice followed, strained. "I can smell her arousal from here, Buck. You think I’m not affected?"
"She’s whimpering, Steve. Sounds like music to me."
"We’re not doing this. We can’t- "
"Fuck this. She needs someone."
"Don’t you fucking touch her," Steve snapped.
"Then you do something," Bucky fired back.
Silence followed. You pressed your fingers deeper, hips rocking, but it wasn’t working. You were going to explode- your body was wound so tight it hurt.
Your fingers weren’t enough. You begged, voice cracking, desperate and broken.
"Please... please someone- "
Someone pulled the curtain back.
Bucky’s eyes were dark. Blown wide. He didn’t speak.
It hurt. “I can’t…” you whimpered, barely able to speak. “It’s not working…”
Your hips shifted again instinctively, your fingers still caught between your thighs, but the tension was unbearable. You were so wet, so swollen with need, it was maddening- and yet release stayed just out of reach. Your body craved more than your own touch could give.
They both appeared, stepping past the curtain without a word. You could see it in their faces- this was affecting them just as much. Steve’s eyes were dark, jaw clenched. Bucky looked wrecked, barely human with how sharp and hungry his expression had become.
You writhed again on the cot, body shaking, and Steve moved first- his weight shifting over you as he pressed your shoulders down into the mattress with steady, unyielding hands.
"Stay still," he said, voice gravel-thick.
At the same time, Bucky grabbed your wrist and gently pulled your hand away from you.
You whined, hips arched up, as Bucky’s gaze dropped to your slick fingers. He looked transfixed. Obsessed. His mouth parted before he dragged his tongue along your digits, groaning low in his chest at the taste.
Then- without breaking eye contact- he brought your hand to Steve.
"Tell me again we shouldn’t do this," Bucky said, voice rough and knowing.
Steve hesitated, staring at your hand, your eyes, then your body.
"...Steve?" you pleaded, chest heaving. A bead of sweat slid down your ribs, slicking your skin as the heat inside you pulsed like a second heartbeat. "Help... please."
Steve’s jaw flexed. His eyes raked over your flushed, trembling body, lingering where your bra had ridden up from the way you were squirming, the curve of your thighs glistening in the low light.
Bucky didn’t speak. He just stood there beside him, wild-eyed and rigid, chest rising and falling with short, shallow breaths. The scent of you filled the air. Thick. Sweet. Desperate.
Steve exhaled through his nose, heavy and slow like he was trying to exhale restraint. It didn’t work.
"You’re going to regret begging so pretty, sweetheart," he murmured, finally moving closer, the promise behind his words like thunder rolling through your veins.
~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~
They were both on you.
You didn’t know who moved first- Steve’s hand slid up your thigh, firm and sure, while Bucky’s mouth was suddenly at your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below your ear. The tension shattered. Clothing came off in frantic tugs- your joggers peeled away, your bra unclasped and discarded. Steve’s tank was tossed aside. Bucky’s sweats hit the floor with a low rustle.
Heat and skin and breath surrounded you. Their bodies pressed in, solid and hot and overwhelming. Steve's chest pinned you down as he kissed you- hard and consuming- his tongue sliding against yours as he groaned into your mouth. His hands cupped your jaw, fingers splayed, tilting your head how he wanted it.
Bucky moved lower, lips trailing down your throat, teeth scraping along your collarbone. His hands gripped your hips, dragging you down the cot toward him with a roughness that made you moan. He kissed your stomach, your ribs, your inner thighs, worshipping each inch like it belonged to him.
You gasped, arching into the touch of both of them. Their mouths- wet and demanding. Their bodies- slick with sweat, grinding against you like they couldn't get close enough.
You'd all held out for so long. Now there was nothing but the letting go.
Every nerve ending in your body sparked like live wires with every touch- every graze of skin against skin sent jolts of unbearable sensation through you. It was impossible to stay still. Your limbs twitched, your hips rocked, your breath came in short, gasping pulls as your body tried to process too much, too fast.
“Don’t move,” Steve growled, voice rough but laced with something gentler beneath. “Too sensitive? No. You’re just not used to being handled right.”
Bucky pushed your legs open wider, guiding your knees apart until your calves hung off the edge of the cot, completely exposed, completely theirs.
“She’s soaking,” Bucky breathed. “Fucking hell- she’s dripping down her thighs.”
The cool air kissed your slick folds and made you shiver. Then his hand slid between your thighs again, and fingers plunged into you- two, maybe three. You didn’t even know whose they were anymore.
Steve’s mouth found your chest, teeth grazing over the top curve of your breast before his lips closed around your nipple. You sobbed, your body already arching upward from the overload.
The blonde growled against your skin, one hand gripping your jaw while the other tangled in your hair, yanking your head back just enough to bow your spine upward. You gasped, helpless, writhing between them, your body trembling from overstimulation.
“You’re taking it so well,” Steve murmured, voice low and rough. “Just like that. Good girl.”
“Look at her,” Bucky snarled. “That’s it, sweetheart- ride my hand. Come on. Take what you need.”
His fingers worked deep inside you, curling and thrusting, hitting that spot that made your legs twitch and your hips lift off the cot. His palm pressed against your clit with every motion, grinding you into the edge of bliss, holding you there with cruel precision. You could feel everything. Every ridge of his knuckles, every flex of his wrist. It was too much and not enough all at once.
You whimpered, your hands scrambling against the sheets, seeking something to hold onto as your body rocked with each relentless stroke. Steve bit gently at the underside of your jaw, his hand still twisted in your hair as he whispered praises that barely reached your ears over the rushing roar of need building inside you.
Steve’s mouth was on your chest again, sucking one nipple into the heat of his mouth while his hand massaged the other, groping you with a needy rhythm that only made it harder to breathe. His other hand had tangled itself in your hair again, gently tugging until your spine arched up off the cot, your body straining toward both of them.
Bucky’s metal thumb pressed into your clit, circling with just enough pressure to make your thighs jerk. Your breath hitched, head tipping back as you let out a broken moan.
"OH FUCK." you cried, fingers clawing at the side of the cot, knuckles white.
He didn’t stop. His fingers pumped into you, slick and steady, coaxing the sound out of your throat again and again. You felt like you were vibrating- nerve endings lit up with fire, each touch sparking through you like electricity.
“You hear that, punk?” Bucky’s voice dripped with ego. “That’s the sound of my fingers making her cry.”
Steve shifted beside you, sitting up to watch, his eyes locked on where Bucky's fingers slid in and out of you. One of his hands moved down, low and out of sight, and you could see the tension in his jaw as he fought to keep control.
Bucky glanced back at him, grinning as he curled his fingers just right and made you cry out again.
"Look at her, Stevie," Bucky growled, his voice rough and ragged with arousal. He didn’t even look up, just watched his fingers slide in and out of you like it was the most important thing in the world. "She’s writhing just from my fingers. What happens when I put my cock in?"
"You’ll wait," Steve snapped, voice sharp, strained with barely checked control. He was flushed, jaw tight, clearly fighting the same battle Bucky was already losing.
"God, look at her," Bucky muttered again, breath coming faster. "Fuck, I want her mouth. I want every part."
You couldn’t answer. Your vision blurred. Every nerve in your body felt like it had snapped tight, vibrating with unbearable pressure.
And then it broke.
You came- hard.
Your whole body convulsed as the orgasm tore through you. Your legs kicked against the cot, arms flailing blindly for purchase. Steve had to hold you down, one hand braced across your chest, the other still tangled in your hair as your back arched and a strangled sob tore from your throat.
It didn’t end quickly. The drug made it last- your climax dragging on and on, crashing over you in waves so powerful they left you gasping, wrecked.
You felt Bucky’s fingers slow inside you, easing off just enough to let you ride it out without breaking. But they didn’t stop touching you. They didn’t let you go.
And worst of all, the haze in your head didn’t clear like you hoped it would.
You were still shaking. Still needy.
Still burning.
You were a panting mess, your skin still hot and your chest tight when one of them scooped you up and lay you out on the cool floor. The shock of it made you gasp, the chill a sudden relief against your fevered skin. You blinked your eyes open, dazed, limbs slack and breath ragged.
"You’re such a mess for us, baby," Bucky murmured, crouched above you now. His voice was low, ruined with hunger. "That sweet little body of yours wasn’t made to handle all this, was it?"
Your eyes found him- Bucky, kneeling near your face now, his cock hard and leaking, so close it blurred your thoughts. He looked feral, undone, lips parted like he was barely restraining himself.
Your tongue slipped out to lick your lips without thinking. The taste of your own sweat clung to your skin, but all you could focus on was him. The way his chest rose and fell, the way his fist clenched at his thigh.
Your mind narrowed to a single point of clarity.
You wanted him in your mouth.
You leaned forward slowly, licking the bead of precum off his tip before taking him in fully- hungry, needy, your lips stretching around the thick, velvet length of him. Bucky’s breath stuttered, and he let out a ragged groan as your mouth sealed around him.
“Fuck, that’s it,” he gasped, one hand flying to your hair, not to guide but to anchor himself. “So fucking pretty like this- taking me so deep. Look at those lips- look at that mouth.”
You moaned around him, the vibrations making him hiss. He was hot, heavy, pulsing against your tongue, and you hollowed your cheeks to take him deeper, until your nose pressed against the base and he swore low under his breath.
“Messy little mouth,” Bucky panted. “So eager. You needed this, didn’t you? Needed something to suck while we ruin the rest of you.”
You were lost in it- the taste of him, the heat, the way he twitched when your tongue flicked just right. Spit gathered at the corners of your mouth as you worked him with sloppy desperation, gagging slightly as you bobbed your head in a steady rhythm.
Just then, you felt Steve’s hands at your hips, steady and sure. He shifted your lower body, pulling your legs open and up until you were spread out for him on the floor.
“You liked Buck's fingers? Let’s see how you do on my cock,” Steve growled against your ear, his voice dark and thick with restraint.
You gasped around Bucky’s cock, the moan caught in your throat turning into a garbled sound of pleasure as Steve aligned himself behind you. His fingers dug into your thighs, holding you wide as his tip pressed against your entrance- already slick, fluttering, aching.
He pushed in slow, filling you inch by inch, and every nerve inside you lit up in electric spasms. Your muscles fluttered around him, clenching and pulsing as he stretched you open, the thick drag of him stealing your breath.
The pressure, the fullness, the stretch- it was overwhelming. You sobbed around Bucky, the vibration of your moan making him groan above you, his hips twitching as he fought not to thrust.
Steve bottomed out with a hiss, his hands gripping tighter like he needed the anchor. Inside you, he throbbed, deep and perfect. You felt stretched to the edge of your limits, your inner walls fluttering in frantic spasms around him, struggling to adjust and clench all at once. Your body didn’t know what to do- pull him in deeper or push him out.
It was too much. It was everything. Your head was spinning.
They started to move- slow at first. Steve dragging back only to sink in again, deliberate, controlled, while Bucky’s cock bumped the back of your throat as he rocked forward with a groan. You gagged, whined, clung to them both with your mouth and body.
You were stuck in it now. The lust. The drug. The heat. There was no thought left, only sensation. Only how it felt to be stretched open in two directions, trembling and gasping.
They didn’t talk to you anymore. They talked about you.
“She’s so sensitive,” Bucky growled. “Poor thing doesn’t know what to do with herself.”
Steve grunted, his pace picking up. “Tight as hell. She’s pulsing like she doesn’t know whether she wants to come or cry.”
You tried to moan but it came out a broken, garbled sound around Bucky’s cock. Your tongue dragged along the underside of him as he pushed deeper, your throat fluttering as you swallowed around the stretch. Spit dripped from the corners of your mouth, tears tracking down your cheeks, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t.
Bucky’s hand tightened at the back of your head, not forcing, just holding you there, gazing down into your wet, dazed eyes. “That’s it, baby,” he groaned. “Fuck, look at you drooling all over me. You love it, don’t you?”
Your hips rocked back into Steve without meaning to as he thrust forward again, harder this time, grinding deep. Your nerves fired like sparks, the friction of his cock dragging against hypersensitive flesh sending bursts of pressure low in your belly. Your insides coiled, pleasure building with every thick, deliberate thrust, your body wound so tight it felt like you might snap apart.
“You’re doing so well for us,” Steve grunted, leaning down, his mouth hot at your ear. “Such a good girl, letting us use you like this.”
He hooked one of your legs over his shoulder, changing the angle, driving in deeper. The stretch made you cry out around Bucky’s cock, throat flexing as your moan turned to a sob.
"That's it," Steve growled, pace quickening. "Fuck, so fucking wet and warm... you gonna cum, sweetheart? Gotta feel you squeeze me while you swallow Bucky."
Your body arched, heat crashing through your spine as Steve hit that perfect spot again and again, each thrust sending a jolt through your core. Your throat tightened around Bucky's cock, the vibration of your desperate moans making him curse under his breath.
“Fuck- she’s so close,” Steve panted, driving harder. “You feel that? She’s fucking pulsing.”
You sobbed around Bucky, tears streaking your cheeks, the pressure in your belly a coil tightening with no escape.
“She’s gonna lose it,” Bucky panted, watching the way you writhed. “Look at how she’s trembling. She needs cock.”
And then it snapped.
Your climax hit like a bolt of lightning, seizing your body with white-hot tension as your inner walls clamped down around Steve’s cock. You wailed around Bucky’s length, the cry vibrating through him as he let out a guttural groan.
“Fuck, that mouth- ” Bucky growled, watching your teary eyes roll back. “I’m gonna- shit- ”
He spilled down your throat with a grunt, his cock twitching between your lips, his hand holding you steady as you swallowed every drop of him while he pulsed.
The clenching spasms of your climax milked Steve mercilessly, dragging his own orgasm from him with a ragged curse. He slammed in deep, staying buried as he came hard, filling you with warmth that only made the pleasure burn hotter.
“Take it,” he groaned, his breath broken against your shoulder. “Take it all. Good fucking girl.”
Bucky sat back on his heels, pulling himself from your mouth with a wet pop, still hard, his cock glistening with your spit. “"Fuck... you’re unreal..." he panted, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing..pupils blown as he looked down at you.
Steve finally pulled out with a groan, the loss of him sudden and jarring, making you whimper. His cum followed, warm and slick as it dripped from your stretched pussy, pooling between your thighs.
His gaze dropped between your legs, transfixed. His eyes went heavy-lidded as he watched it leak from you, dripping down to your slick, twitching rim. Slowly, his fingers moved to your core, smearing the mess down lower, spreading it deliberately to your other entrance.
You gasped, twitching from aftershocks, your body still sensitive everywhere. His fingertip teased your tight hole, rubbing softly, slicking it with a practiced ease. You whimpered, already overwhelmed, but the moan that spilled from you was pure need.
“Damn, Stevie- you didn’t fuck her right if she’s still aching like this,” Bucky drawled, voice hoarse and edged with a smirk, watching the way your hips shifted restlessly on the floor.
You whimpered, the heat still rolling inside you, every nerve ending alive and twitching. The aftershocks made your muscles flutter, your body too sensitive and still so hungry. Steve didn’t bite back. He was too focused- his fingers slick with his own cum as he spread it lower, smearing it over your pussy and then circling your tight, twitching rim.
And then one thick finger pressed inward.
You gasped, whole body jolting, a broken sound catching in your throat as your body tried to clamp down instinctively. But Steve worked slowly, steadily, easing the finger deeper, the stretch sharp and slow as he began to work you open.
You felt your core clench around nothing as Steve worked his finger deeper. “I need- please, I need more, I can’t- ” you gasped, voice trembling. Your head was a mess, fogged with lust and the aftershocks still sparking under your skin. Steve kept up the slow pump of his finger, pushing in deeper, working more of his cum into your ass to keep you slick and open.
“Hear that, Steve?” Bucky said, voice thick with amusement, already fisting his own cock in lazy, slow strokes. “She wants more.”
Steve’s gaze didn’t waver, his finger sinking deeper, curling. You whimpered again.
“Can’t say no, can we?” Bucky added, grinning.
“Oh, I think I know exactly what our girl needs...” Steve muttered, voice thick with heat and control, as his hand disappeared between your thighs.
Steve pulled his finger from your ass just as Bucky got down onto the floor, reaching out to haul you up into his lap. Steve’s arms hooking under yours, supporting your limp, boneless body as they moved you together like you weighed nothing.
“Let’s get you on Buck now...” Steve purred near your ear, voice thick and smooth, a slow heat curling down your spine.
Bucky’s cock was already there- thick, hard, and waiting. They guided you together, Steve steadying you from behind while Bucky angled his cock to your entrance.
As Steve lowered you, your legs wrapped weakly around Bucky’s hips, and you felt the first stretch as his tip slid inside. A guttural groan ripped from Bucky’s throat, his hands tightening on your thighs.
“Fuck, baby,” he gritted out, voice rough and reverent. “You always take me so damn good. Still so fucking tight- even after Steve blew you open? Shit.”
“That’s a girl,” Steve murmured, voice low with praise. “Nice and slow... Want you to feel every inch of him, don’t you?”
You just whimpered and nodded, the need to be filled consuming, overwhelming, as the pair of them helped you sink down onto Bucky’s cock, inch by perfect inch.
Your head fell back against Steve’s shoulder as you settled fully onto Bucky, who thrust up into you with steady pressure. The heat and stretch made your whole body tremble. You could barely breathe, still twitching from your earlier climax. Then Bucky's hands gripped your hips tight.
“Oh fuck,” he hissed, hips rolling upward as he began to move you, guiding you into a rhythm. “Look at you. Still aching. Like how I feel doll?”
The moan that spilled from your mouth didn’t even sound like you anymore- wrecked, raw, and desperate.
You were unraveling under Bucky’s rhythm- the way he filled you had your mind slipping, your thoughts scattering with every deep, slow thrust, how every thrust hit deep, high inside, brushing against that spot that made you shudder. Your head lolled back onto Steve’s shoulder, eyes fluttering, lips parted around desperate little gasps.
“She bites her lip when I go deep. You see that?” Bucky said with a rough chuckle, voice wrecked but smug. “She likes my rhythm.”
You didn’t even notice the way Steve bent you forward over Bucky, hands guiding your body like you were something precious and fragile and already ruined.
You didn’t have time to think too much before you felt Bucky’s hands grip your ass, pulling you open as Steve shifted behind you. It wasn’t until the thick, spongy head of his cock pressed against somewhere you’d never let anyone touch that your eyes snapped open in surprise.
The first inch pushed into your ass slowly, carefully, but it still stole your breath.
“It’s too much- I can’t- wait- ” you gasped, voice cracking with overwhelmed panic as your body instinctively tried to jerk away.
But Bucky rocked his hips upward, pushing deep into your pussy again, and the shockwave of pleasure was enough to paralyze your resistance.
“Shh... it’s okay,” Steve murmured, arms wrapping around you from behind as he continued to press in. His voice was thick and coaxing, his control iron-tight. “I’ve got you. You’re doing so good for us.”
You sobbed, your whole body fluttering around them as Steve sank in deeper, the thin wall between your holes trembling with every inch he took. The two of them groaned in unison, voices rough and reverent as they filled you together.
You were caught between them now. Two super soldiers, all three of you lost in lust and need. Your face twisted with sensation as they held you there- one thick cock filling your pussy, the other spreading your ass open inch by inch. Both sunk to the hilt. You were impossibly full. You were shaking. Overwhelmed. Unable to process the stretch, the heat, the drag of their bodies inside you. It was too much. And you needed more.
“You’re both so… big- I’m gonna- fuck- ” you sobbed. You couldn’t believe how sensitive you’d become- how just being filled, just being stretched, could reduce you to this. You weren’t even moving, yet your body was already bracing to come undone again. There was no going back. No holding on. Just surrender.
You came without moving, the sensation of fullness alone tipping you over. Your body seized in the middle, core clenching violently, squeezing down on both of them at once as pleasure ripped through you like a lightning bolt.
Your voice cracked into a scream. You were gone- shaking, convulsing, burning from the inside out as your orgasm dragged through you with devastating force.
Both of them groaned at the way your body squeezed them- tight and hot and trembling.
“Fuck,” Bucky grunted, rocking his hips once more. “Didn’t even have to move. Just had to be inside you.”
Steve chuckled darkly, voice low and wrecked in your ear. “She’s that sensitive. That fucking perfect.”
You couldn’t even answer. Your lips parted in a silent gasp as Steve’s hands slid up to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing across your stiff nipples as he started to move again. Slowly at first, easing back before pressing forward, dragging against that thin wall with every thick stroke.
Bucky's grip returned to your hips, steady and possessive, guiding you to rise and fall on his cock. Your body jolted with every motion, your moans soft and slurred.
“That’s it,” Steve cooed, hips snapping gently. “We’ll start slow…”
“I-I can’t- ” you whimpered, but your body was already moving, driven by instinct and need.
“I know you can take more,” he murmured. “Look how beautiful you are when you come apart. It'll feel better- just gotta keep going.”
And it did. It felt better than the denial. Better than the ache that came from holding back. The pleasure rolled through you like a drug, heavy and all-consuming.
Your hips started to move again, slowly grinding into Bucky as your walls fluttered around him. You didn’t know if it was need or instinct- maybe both- but you couldn’t stop. You were cock-drunk. Barely aware of anything except how good it felt to be filled this way.
“Breathe,” Steve whispered. “Just like that. Hold it- good girl.”
Then Steve pulled your hips back into him and pressed all the way in.
“You think you’re fucking her deep?” Steve growled at Bucky, voice low and wild. “Watch this.”
Bucky shoved his hand flat to your lower stomach and lifted his hips with a brutal thrust. You cried out, the stretch making your eyes roll back as he ground up into you. It was obscene how deep he reached, how thick he felt. You pawed at his chest, clinging to him with trembling fingers.
“..fuck fuck fuck...” you gasped, the breath knocked out of you before he eased his hips again, smug and steady.
“Told ya,” Bucky muttered with a grin.
But it didn’t stop there.
Bucky answered your gasps with harder thrusts. Steve listened for his name and answered with praise. His mouth latched to your neck, nipping and licking along your skin as he squeezed your breasts roughly, molding them in his palms.
“Did you hear that one? That was mine,” Steve muttered against your skin when you gasped his name.
Bucky answered with a sharp thrust that made your breath catch. “She moaned louder for me, sweetheart. Don’t get cocky.”
Each of them was locked into the game- testing reactions, adjusting pace, trying to claim the sounds that spilled from your lips. One made you cry out, the other drew a gasp. They used your body like a live wire for their competition, and you were helpless in the storm.
“She whimpers when I kiss her right here,” he growled, biting just beneath your ear.
Bucky’s hands gripped your hips tighter, fucking up into you hard enough to rock you against Steve’s chest. “She clenched around me when you said that,” he rasped. “Bet she’s trying to pick a favourite.”
You couldn’t keep up. Couldn’t think. You only managed to gasp whatever name escaped your lips first, and they both heard it- every time. And they responded with sharper thrusts, filthier praise.
“You’re so cock-drunk, you don’t even know who’s making you come anymore, do you?” Bucky said, voice rough.
“She’s beautiful like this,” Steve murmured, licking the sweat off your throat. “All wrecked. All ours.”
Then Bucky’s metal hand slid between your thighs again. His fingers brushed your clit, the coolness of steel a shocking chill of metal against your heat made you jolt, gasping as sparks danced up your spine.
“Oh- god - fuck- ” you sobbed, trembling uncontrollably as sparks shot up your spine.
“Breathe,” Steve ordered again. “Just like that. That’s our girl.”
They started to move faster now- driving into you in sync, pistoning in perfect rhythm. The slap of skin echoed, the slick sounds of your soaked cunt and the obscene wet pressure of being filled from both ends breaking whatever was left of your mind.
“You want to make her come, punk?” Bucky growled. “You gotta fuck her harder than that.”
“Shut up, jerk,” Steve snarled, thrusting harder. “We don’t need to break her. Just ruin her a little longer.”
“She’s shaking so bad. You keep her steady, Steve- I wanna see her face when she comes again.”
Your next orgasm ripped through you with a small wail, your features contorting as your body locked up tight. You clawed at them both- gripping Steve’s forearm, Bucky’s shoulder- as your walls fluttered around their cocks, milking them, begging for more without a word.
They didn’t stop. Didn’t give you time to come down. Steve groaned, his thrusts picking up as he rolled your nipples between his fingers. Bucky cursed, gripping your hips tighter, lifting and dropping you into him with growing urgency.
You felt them both losing control- felt their restraint slipping with every second you squeezed around them, heat and slickness pouring down your thighs.
“Fuck- fuck, she’s doing it again,” Bucky grunted.
Steve’s voice was a low growl in your ear. “She wants it. She’s not done. Not till we are.”
Then the pace shifted- harder, rougher, deeper. Their moans grew louder, matched only by the slap of skin on skin. Your head spun, your vision blurred.
And then they were coming again- Steve first, pulled tight to your back, his groan muffled in your shoulder. Then Bucky, buried deep beneath you, eyes locked on yours as he spilled inside you with a strangled moan.
You collapsed between them, limp and boneless, your body a trembling wreck held up only by their hands. You didn’t even try to move. There was no fight left in you- only the slow hum of satisfaction and overstimulation. Somewhere in the haze of your mind, a flicker of disbelief passed through you- how had you endured that? How had you survived the storm of them inside you? But there was no room for shame or second thoughts. Only surrender. And the quiet, overwhelming hum of being utterly, deliciously wrecked.
You were too dazed to understand what was happening at first, the haze still thick behind your eyes. The humming under your skin hadn’t stopped, but it had dulled- muted to a low thrum that echoed in your bones. They were careful, even if your overstimulated body didn’t register it that way.
You whined, squirming, as they slowly pulled out of you. The stretch reversed, the heat slipping away, leaving you empty and raw. It wasn’t pain, but your body protested the loss with soft whimpers.
Someone pressed a water bottle to your lips, coaxing you to sip. You obeyed without thought, the coolness trickling down your throat a small mercy.
Another set of hands gently wiped you down. A cold, damp cloth slid between your legs, easing away the slick mess with slow, tender strokes.
Then your head was lowered into someone’s lap. Fingers carded through your hair.
“You did so well,” Steve murmured. “Look at you- perfect.”
You blinked slowly. Steve’s voice again, closer now: “Easy, sweetheart. Just breathe. I’ve got you.”
Your limbs twitched weakly, still responding to phantom pleasure. A quiet laugh came from Bucky.
“Still twitching. Still fucking gorgeous.”
You felt him kissing up your leg, mouth trailing along your calf, your knee, your inner thigh.
Then your legs were being moved again- lifted, spread with a gentleness that contrasted starkly with the earlier frenzy. There was no rush now, no urgency- just the soft reverence of Bucky's hands as he cradled your thighs like something precious, something breakable, as though he hadn’t just wrecked you minutes ago. You blinked, barely aware, as Bucky settled himself between them, laying flat, his breath hot against your oversensitive core.
He pressed a kiss there, soft and reverent, and your whole body jolted in response.
“And I’m not done tasting her,” he muttered, voice thick with need.
“Buck- she needs to recover,” Steve warned again, but his voice had softened to something indulgent.
“I’ll be gentle…” Bucky promised, his mouth already lowering, tongue dragging slow and careful over your aching folds as your head lolled back into Steve lap, eyes fluttering closed, lost to the warmth and the wetness and the impossible pleasure building again
𝑩𝑬𝑺𝑻 𝑭𝑹𝑰𝑬𝑵𝑫𝑺 𝑫𝑶𝑵’𝑻 𝑲𝑵𝑶𝑻 You go back to the summer cabin with your lifelong best friend Bucky Barnes and the tension you’ve both ignored finally becomes impossible to deny. One charged night changes everything between you, no longer just best friends, but something irrevocably more.
alpha!bucky barnes x fem!omega!reader
word count : 17,9k
warnings 18+ : no use of y/n, childhood bestfriends to lovers, somnophilia, stealing intimate items for masturbation, bucky is a pervvv, dddne, guilt-ridden sexual acts, consuming bodily fluids without prior consent, unprotected sex, breeding, knotting, scenting, biting, pheromonal compulsion, heavy guilt and self-hatred while doing the wrong sexual acts, first heat/first rut happening (both late), a/b/o & possessive dynamics, fingering, virginity loss
author’s note : first of all I just wanna say the BIGGEST thank you for 2k followers like what??? that’s actually insane!!! please take this fic as a little gift from me to you <3 I’m beyond grateful for every single one of you. and second of all… since centuries of rut kinda blew up (which still feels unreal), I decided to cook up another a/b/o bucky fic 😩😩
Old Polaroids still live in the glove compartment of Bucky’s truck, faded edges, corners curling from years of being handled, the plastic sleeves cracked from too many openings and closings.
There’s one of you at eight, gap-toothed and grinning wide, perched on his skinny shoulders while he pretends to stagger under your “enormous” weight, both of you laughing so hard the photo is blurry.
Another from twelve: you braiding his too-long hair on the cabin porch steps, him scowling at the camera but letting you finish, the sun catching the brunette strands that always refused to stay tame.
A blurry one from sixteen: both of you asleep on the attic pull-out couch after a late-night movie marathon, your head tucked under his chin, his arm slung protectively around you like it was the most natural thing in the world. His mom took the picture quietly and slipped it into the stack later; neither of you ever mentioned it.
Everyone always said you were inseparable. Best friends. Practically siblings.
They never mentioned how his hand sometimes lingered a second too long when he helped you down from the dock, fingers brushing the back of your knee. They never mentioned how you’d catch yourself staring at the line of his jaw when he laughed, sharp, shadowed, the way it flexed when he was trying not to smile too big.
They never mentioned the quiet nights when the rest of the group had gone to bed and you’d stay up talking until the sky lightened, voices low, knees touching on the porch swing, the silence between sentences heavier than words.
Now you’re both twenty-two, back from sophomore year of college, still virgins, still waiting for that first presentation that everyone else got years ago.
Late bloomers, the doctors called it with clinical shrugs. Lucky, your mom called it with a wink, like it was a gift instead of a delay. You both just called it annoying. Friends had heats and ruts in high school, paired off, moved on. You and Bucky stayed the same, safe, platonic, untouched by the biology that rewrote everyone else’s lives. Sometimes you wondered if it was a mercy or a curse.
This summer the families are caravanning to the cabin like always, the annual week of lake swims, bonfires and board games. But Bucky texted you last week, casual as ever.
Bucky 9:56am
Hey. I’ll drive you up early. Beat the traffic, set up the attic real quick, snag the good couch spot before anyone else tries to steal it. Just you and me, no rush, no chaos. Sound good?
Everyone thought it was sweet. Typical Bucky, looking out for you.
You didn’t tell them how your stomach flipped when you read it.
The truck smells like motor oil, pine air freshener, and him, cedar, faint metal, something warm and smoky underneath that always made your head swim a little when you were close.
Windows down the whole way, old pop-punk blasting from speakers that crackle when the bass hits. You sing off-key on purpose just to make him laugh; he rolls his eyes but belts the chorus louder than you, voice rough from disuse but still carrying every note like muscle memory.
Halfway there the road narrows, trees thickening into proper forest, sunlight dappling the cracked windshield in shifting gold patterns. It’s sticky, end-of-June hot so the AC is useless and the windows stay wide open. You kick off your sneakers, prop bare feet on the dash. He pretends to hate it, mutters something about fingerprints but never actually tells you to move them. Never has.
The playlist loops to that one song from high school, the one you used to scream-sing in his bedroom until his mom banged on the wall and threatened to unplug the stereo. You grin, unbuckle and before he can finish saying “don’t-” you’re already leaning halfway out the passenger window.
Arms spread like wings, hair whipping wild in the wind, you arch your back into the rush like you’re flying. The loose cropped tank stretches tight across your chest, wind molding it to every curve. No bra, too hot and it’s just Bucky. The hem flips up with a sudden gust, flashing the smooth underside of your breast, the soft curve where skin meets ribcage, glowing in the sun.
“Jesus Christ!” Bucky’s voice cracks high, hand shooting out to fist the front of your denim shorts like you’re about to tumble onto the road. “You’re gonna fall out! Get back in here!”
You laugh, loud and free over the rush of air, swinging your head side to side. “Buck, it’s fine! Just drive! Feels amazing- come on, live a little!”
He can’t stop looking.
Knuckles white on the wheel, eyes flicking between the empty backroad and you: arched spine, wind-plastered tank, nipples pebbled from the breeze, that accidental strip of underboob. His throat works hard. Heat floods his face, then surges lower, cock twitching painfully against his zipper, sudden and insistent.
“Fuck- okay, okay, just- get in before I crash us both,” he stutters, voice pitching like he’s sixteen again. “You’re- Jesus, you’re killing me here.”
You duck back inside, cheeks flushed from wind and laughter, shirt falling back down but not before he steals one last glimpse. You flop against the seat, still grinning.
“What? It’s hot. You used to let me do that all the time when we were younger.”
“Yeah,” he mutters, shifting in his seat, trying to angle his hips away from view, “when you were eighteen and flat as a board.” He swallows hard. “Now you’re… you’re not.”
You blink at him, teasing edge softening. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Forget it.” He cranks the broken AC to full blast, praying the weak puff of cool air kills the throbbing erection before you notice.
You do notice, the fidgeting, the hand he keeps low on the wheel, the flush crawling up his neck to his ears.
“Buck?” Soft, teasing but gentle. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Fine. Just- road’s bumpy.” He clears his throat twice. “Don’t do that again unless you want me to drive us into a tree.”
You laugh again, crank the music louder, oblivious. Or pretending to be.
He spends the next twenty minutes white-knuckling the wheel, thighs clenched, reciting engine specs and batting averages under his breath to will the hardness away. It only half works.
Every glance sideways shows the faint outline of your nipples through the thin tank, the way your shorts ride high on your thighs, skin still flushed from the wind. And something else, your scent on the breeze, sweet and warm, just starting to bloom like honeysuckle after rain. His own scent sharpens without him noticing, cedar turning darker, smokier, edged with something desperate and metallic.
The cabin appears at the end of the dirt road, quiet and empty, families still hours away. Pine needles crunch under the tires as he parks.
You hop out first, stretch tall, arms overhead. The cropped tank rides up again, another flash of underboob, innocent and devastating in the late-afternoon light. Bucky stays in the driver’s seat an extra minute, head dropped to the wheel, breathing hard through his mouth, willing his body to calm down.
He tells himself it’s nothing. Just the heat. Just old habits. Just the cabin pulling old memories to the surface.
But deep in his gut, something ancient and hungry stirs for the first time, low, insistent, like a door creaking open after years of being locked.
That night the attic room feels smaller than ever. Shared pull-out couch, same as always, same faded quilt, same creak when you shift.
You toss and turn, low-grade fever creeping under your skin, making the sheets feel too heavy, too rough. Bucky lies rigid beside you, pretending to sleep, pretending he doesn’t feel the air thickening between you, pretending he doesn’t catch the faint, sweet shift in your scent every time you roll closer.
Pretending he doesn’t already know what’s coming.
Because he does.
He’s felt it building for years, in stolen glances, in the way his pulse jumped when you hugged him goodbye before college, in the hoodie he never gave back because it still smelled like you. He’s ignored it, buried it, told himself it was nothing.
But tonight, lying inches from you in the dark, the lie feels thinner than the quilt between you.
And something inside him is finally starting to crack.
The morning sun filters through the pine trees outside the cabin windows, casting long shadows across the worn wooden floors.
You wake up tangled in the sheets of the pull-out couch, the attic room still dim and stuffy from last night’s humidity.
Bucky’s side of the bed is already empty, neatly made, like he couldn’t sleep either. That low, nagging warmth in your belly lingers, a dull ache that’s been building since the truck ride yesterday.
You blame it on the travel, the excitement, maybe even the greasy diner food you grabbed on the way up. Definitely not anything else. Not the way Bucky’s scent seemed to cling to the pillows, sharper than usual, making your skin feel too tight.
Downstairs, the cabin is alive with the familiar chaos of family vacation mornings. The coffee maker gurgles on the countrr, filling the air with the rich, bitter aroma of coffee. Bacon sizzles in a pan, popping and spitting grease while Bucky’s mom flips slices with a spatula, humming an old tune under her breath.
Your dad is at the table, newspaper spread wide, grumbling about the stock market even on break. Bucky’s sister, Becca, bounces in from the porch, her ponytail swinging, already in her swimsuit with a towel draped over her shoulders.
“It’s already pushing ninety out there,” Becca announces, grabbing a strip of bacon straight from the pan and dodging her mom’s swat. “Lake time before lunch? Come on, we can’t waste this weather!”
Your mom laughs from the sink, rinsing berries. “I’m in. Just slather on the sunscreen, last year you all burned like lobsters.”
Everyone murmurs agreement, the energy shifting to that easy, vacation buzz. Bucky’s dad claps his hands together. “Alright troops, suits on, towels ready. Let’s make it happen.”
You feel a flush creep up your neck at the thought of changing. It’s silly, you’ve all done this a hundred times but something feels different this year. Maybe it’s college making you more self-conscious, or the way Bucky avoided eye contact last night when you both climbed into the shared bed, muttering “night” like it was a chore. You slip into the downstairs bathroom while the others scatter, locking the door with a soft click.
The swimsuit is nothing fancy: a simple navy two-piece from last summer’s clearance rack. High-waisted bottoms that hug your hips comfortably, a triangle top that ties at the neck and back, leaving just enough skin exposed to feel breezy but not exposed.
You’ve worn it to pool parties with college friends, no big deal. But here? With the families? With Bucky? Your reflection in the foggy mirror stares back, cheeks already pink. You tug the strings tighter, adjust the fabric and throw on a loose cover-up before stepping out.
The porch creaks under your flip-flops as you head down to the water, towel slung over your shoulder. The lake sparkles under the high sun, a mirror of blue sky and surrounding pines.
Bucky’s already there, knee-deep in the shallows, fiddling with the dock ladder like it’s the most important task in the world. He’s in plain black trunks, fitted, riding low on his hips, the kind that show off the V of muscle from years of campus gym sessions. His back is to you at first, shoulders broad and tense, the faint scars from old accidents (or that one time he fell off the roof as a kid) catching the light.
He turns when he hears your footsteps on the gravel path. His gaze flicks over you, quick, almost dismissive then snaps away to the water. Then back. Slower this time, lingering on the hem of your cover-up where it brushes your thighs.
“Uh… looks good,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, the other still gripping the ladder like a lifeline. His voice is rougher than usual, like he swallowed wrong. “I mean- the suit. It’s… new?”
You smile, trying to ignore the sudden flutter in your chest, the way his eyes keep darting back. “Not new. Just haven’t worn it here before. You know, college pool parties and stuff.”
He nods, Adam’s apple bobbing. Doesn’t meet your eyes fully. “Right. Cool. Yeah, makes sense.”
The awkwardness hangs for a second, thick as the humid air, before Becca cannonballs off the dock with a whoop, splashing everyone and breaking the tension. “Last one in’s a rotten egg!”
The group piles in with shouts and splashes, your parents wading slowly, Bucky’s dad doing an exaggerated belly flop that sends waves rippling. You and Bucky hang back at first, old habits dying hard. You slip off the cover-up, folding it neatly on a rock and wade in together. The water is shockingly cool against your heated skin, goosebumps prickling up your arms as it laps at your calves, then thighs, then waist.
It starts innocent enough, like every summer before. Bucky splashes you first, a light spray across your face. You retaliate with a full palm-skim, drenching his hair. He laughs, real and bright, grabbing your wrists to stop you. “Oh, it’s on now!”
You twist free, diving under to escape, and the playfight escalates: him dunking you under when you least expect it, you jumping on his back to pull him down.
At one point, you climb onto his shoulders for an improvised chicken fight against Becca and her boyfriend, your thighs clamped around his neck, his hands steadying your calves. He stumbles on purpose, sending you both toppling in a tangle of limbs and laughter. Underwater, bubbles swirl around you, his body brushing yours in the chaos, chest to your back, his arm looping around your waist to pull you up.
You surface gasping, sides hurting from laughing. “Truce?” you wheeze, treading water close to him, faces inches apart.
“Never,” he says but he’s grinning, that real, boyish smile you haven’t seen since high school, water dripping from his lashes. For a moment, it’s just you two, like kids again, the world narrowed to the lake and the sun on your skin.
But then you swim to the dock to climb out, needing a breather. Water streams off you in rivulets, the suit clinging like a second skin, dark fabric plastered transparent in places, nipples pebbled hard from the cold, every curve outlined unmistakably. You haul yourself up onto the warm wood, dripping puddles, and turn to call him over. “Come on, slowpoke! Race you to the cabin?”
Bucky’s still in the water. Staring.
Not subtle at all. Not even pretending anymore. His eyes trace a slow path: the line of your throat where water beads, down to your chest heaving from the swim, over the dip of your stomach, the way the wet bottoms hug your hips and thighs. His jaw flexes, lips parting slightly like he’s forgotten how to breathe. Color creeps up his neck and he dives under fast, disappearing beneath the murky surface as if trying to drown whatever thought just crossed his mind.
You sit on the edge of the dock, legs dangling in the water, pretending you didn’t notice the heat in his gaze. But your skin prickles with awareness, a flush that’s not just from the sun blooming across your chest. What’s his deal? you think, kicking your feet lazily. It’s just a swimsuit. Just me.
He surfaces a minute later, hair slicked back dark and wet, breathing harder than the swim warrants. He shakes his head like a dog, sending droplets flying. “Sorry,” he calls over, voice strained. “Thought I saw a fish or something. Big one.”
You roll your eyes, smirking to hide the butterflies. “Smooth, Barnes. Real smooth.”
The group starts drifting toward lunch, parents complaining about hunger, Becca towing her boyfriend by the hand. “Come on, you two! Food’s ready!”
You climb up from the dock, grab your towel from the rock and head up the shaded path to dry off. Behind a cluster of trees for a bit of privacy, you peel off the wet top and bottoms, modest enough with everyone else distracted. The air feels good on your bare skin for a second, cooling the persistent warmth in your core. You wrap the towel around yourself snugly and drape the suit over a flat rock in the sun to dry, bottoms folded neatly on top.
Bucky stays in the water longer than anyone, even after the others have toweled off and headed inside. When he finally emerges, he’s shivering despite the heat, arms crossed tight over his chest like he’s holding himself together. Water washes down his torso, catching in the faint trail of hair below his navel. He walks past the rock where your suit dries without looking at it or at least, that’s what it seems. But you catch the twitch of his hand, the way his fingers flex as if debating.
You don’t think much of it then. You head inside for lunch, sandwiches and cold lemonade around the big oak table, everyone talking over each other about plans for the afternoon hike or board games if it rains. Bucky joins late, hair still damp, in fresh shorts and a t-shirt that clings a little too much. He sits across from you, quiet, picking at his food. His knee bounces under the table. When your eyes meet, he looks away fast, muttering something about needing more mustard.
Later that afternoon, the cabin quiets down. Parents napping on the porch swing, gentle snores mingling with the hum of cicadas. Becca and her boyfriend head off for a hike, backpacks slung low. You’re on the hammock out back, book open on your lap but not really reading, your mind keeps replaying the lake, Bucky’s stare, the accidental brushes underwater. That warmth in your belly flares again, insistent now, making you shift uncomfortably.
That’s when you hear it: the soft click of the downstairs bathroom door locking.
Inside, Bucky leans back against the sink, the cool porcelain a shock against his overheated skin. His heart slams so hard it echoes in his ears, a frantic drumbeat of shame and want.
Your bikini bottoms are balled tight in his fist, he’d snatched them from the rock when no one was looking, during the chaos of unpacking the cooler for lunch. His palm had brushed the damp fabric, and it was like electricity, heart in his throat the whole time, convinced someone would turn and see.
He shouldn’t do this.
He knows he shouldn’t.
He’s done bad things before, stolen your hoodie from the laundry in college, buried his face in it that night until the scent faded. A hair tie from your backpack once, twisted around his wrist like a talisman. But this? This is new territory. Filthier. Wronger.
But the fabric is still damp from the lake, still warm somehow from your body and there’s that faint trace of something new weaving through it, sweet, slick, almost honeyed. Your scent. Not the full bloom of heat yet but the first tentative leak, the prelude that’s been teasing him since the truck ride, since last night in the attic when he lay awake listening to your soft breaths.
With shaking hands, he brings the bottoms to his face. Presses them to his nose. Inhales deep, slow, like he can pull you into his lungs.
“Fuck,” he whispers, voice cracking on the word. “Fuck, I’m sorry. So goddamn sorry.”
The smell crashes over him like a wave, your skin, fresh lake water, sunscreen and that warm, needy undertone that twists something deep in his gut. His cock throbs instantly, straining painfully against his shorts. He shoves them down just enough with his free hand, wraps his fist around himself, already leaking, already desperate.
He strokes fast, too fast, jerky and guilty, the damp fabric still pressed to his mouth like a gag. “I’m so fucked up,” he breathes against the cloth, words muffled and wrecked. “You’re right there… my best friend… and I’m doing this… smelling you like some creep. I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry…”
His hips jerk forward into his hand. He bites his lip hard to muffle the groan, tasting blood as he comes hard and sudden, spilling over his fist in hot, shameful pulses that leave him shaking. The bikini bottoms stay pressed to his face the whole time, soaking up the ragged sounds of his breathing, the quiet sob that slips out at the end.
When it’s over, he slumps against the wall, chest heaving, legs weak. Tears prick hot at the corners of his eyes, blurring the tile floor. What the hell is wrong with me? he thinks, staring at the fabric in his hand like it’s evidence. She’s outside reading, trusting me, and I’m… this.
He cleans himself up with wads of toilet paper, hands still trembling. Wipes the bottoms as best he can with a damp cloth from the sink, careful, almost reverent, then unlocks the door and slips quietly back into the house.
The laundry pile is right there in the narrow hallway off the kitchen, a big overflowing basket of beach towels, damp swimsuits, and everyone’s clothes from the day. No one’s around; the house is still quiet, just the low hum of the fridge and the distant sound of crickets outside. He glances over his shoulder once, heart hammering then tucks your bikini bottoms underneath a folded beach towel near the bottom of the pile. Careful. Stealthy. Like nothing ever happened.
But as he walks back outside, the clawing shame doesn’t fade. He can still taste the faint salt of lake water on his tongue. Still feel the phantom weight of your body against his in the water. Still hear his own broken apologies echoing in his head, meaningless now.
And somewhere under his skin, buried deep but stirring stronger, something darker is waking up, something primal that doesn’t care about sorry, about best friends, about right and wrong.
Something that just wants more. And it’s only the first full day at the cabin.
The cabin quiets after dinner in stages, the familiar rhythms of family winding down like a clock ticking toward silence. First the clatter of dishes being stacked in the sink, silverware clinking against plates, the occasional laugh as someone recounts a story from the lake that day.
Then the low murmur of parents saying goodnight on the porch, chairs scraping as they stand, voices fading into the night like echoes. Finally, the creak of floorboards as everyone drifts to their rooms, doors clicking shut one by one, leaving only the hum of crickets and the distant lap of the lake against the shore.
The wind from earlier has died down completely, leaving the air thick and still, heavy with the scent of pine sap and cooling earth. You climb the narrow attic stairs alone, each step feeling heavier than it should, the wood groaning under your weight like it’s protesting the climb.
Your skin feels wrong, too tight, too hot, like someone turned the thermostat up inside your body and forgot to tell you. Sweat beads at the small of your back, even though the night has cooled outside. The low ache from earlier has spread, subtle and unrelenting, low in your belly, between your thighs, a persistent throb that makes every brush of fabric against your skin unbearable, electric.
You tell yourself it’s just the heat of the day lingering, just exhaustion from swimming and laughing and pretending everything is normal. You’ve had off days before, cramps, fevers, the kind that come and go without explanation. This is nothing new. Nothing to worry about.
You change into an old tank top and soft sleep shorts, loose, familiar, the same ones you’ve worn in this room every summer since you could remember, faded from too many washes, the hem frayed from years of use.
The pull-out couch is already made up, sheets cool against your fevered skin when you slide in, but the relief is fleeting. You leave the small triangular window cracked, hoping the night air will help, a faint breeze whispering through the screen carrying the scent of water and woods. It doesn’t. If anything, it makes the ache sharper, like the coolness is mocking the fire building inside you.
You curl onto your side, knees drawn up, trying to breathe through it. Deep inhales, slow exhales. But each breath pulls in the faint trace of Bucky’s scent from the pillows, cedar and something metallic, lingering from last night. It makes your head swim, the throb between your legs pulse harder. You press your thighs together, bite your lip to stifle a whimper. Just sleep, you think. It’ll be gone in the morning.
Downstairs, Bucky lingers in the kitchen longer than necessary. He rinses the last coffee mug under the faucet, watching the water swirl down the drain like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. Then he wipes the counter twice, once with a sponge, once with a dish towel, scrubbing at invisible spots until his arms ache. Anything to delay going up those stairs. Anything to avoid the attic, the shared bed, you.
He can smell it already, your scent drifting down the stairs like smoke signals, sweet and syrupy, blooming stronger with every passing minute.
It’s not the full force of heat yet, but it’s close. Close enough that his mouth waters involuntarily, his pulse hammers in his ears, his cock twitches traitorously in his sweatpants, half-hard just from the tease of it.
His own body betrays him too, the rut stirring low in his gut, a restless energy that makes his skin itch, his muscles tense like coiled springs. He grips the edge of the sink until his knuckles ache, staring at his reflection in the dark window above it.
Stay down here, he tells himself, voice a harsh whisper in his mind. Sleep on the couch. Pretend you’re drunk. Pretend you ate something bad. Pretend anything. But his feet move anyway, slow, deliberate, like they’re not listening to him anymore. Up the stairs. Past the creaky third step he’s known since he was ten. To the attic door.
He pauses with his hand on the knob, ear pressed to the wood. Your breathing is uneven inside, shallow pants, soft whimpers you’re trying to muffle into the pillow. He can hear them. Smell them. Feel them in his bones, like a hook pulling him forward.
He opens the door.
The room is dim, lit only by the moonlight slicing through the triangular window, casting long shadows across the slanted ceiling. You’re curled on your side, knees drawn up tight, arms wrapped around yourself like you’re trying to hold the heat in or keep it from escaping completely. Your hair sticks to your damp forehead in dark strands. Your scent hits him full force now, rich, needy, unmistakable, wrapping around him like a vise.
You don’t look up right away, eyes squeezed shut against another wave of discomfort. “Buck?” Your voice is small, cracked, barely above a whisper.
“Yeah.” He closes the door behind him softly. Locks it without thinking, the click echoing too loud in the quiet. “Couldn’t sleep downstairs. Couch is lumpy.”
A weak laugh escapes you, more breath than sound. “Liar.”
He crosses the room in three steps, drops to sit on the edge of the mattress. The bed dips under his weight. You flinch at the sudden movement, then relax when you realize it’s him. Always him. His presence alone eases something in you, the ache dulls just a fraction, like his nearness is a balm.
“I can smell it,” he says quietly, no point in pretending anymore. “Your heat. It’s… starting.”
You swallow hard, finally opening your eyes to meet his. They’re dark in the low light, pupils blown wide. “I know. I thought- I thought maybe it was just a fever. But it’s not going away. It’s getting worse.”
He exhales through his nose, shaky and uneven. “Mine too.”
Your eyes snap wider, searching his face. “You’re-?”
“First rut.” He laughs once, bitter and self-conscious, running a hand through his hair. “Figures it would hit the same week. Same night. Same fucking attic. Like the universe has a sense of humor.”
Silence stretches between you, thick and electric, charged with everything unsaid over the years. The childhood friendship that never quite stayed innocent. The glances that lingered too long. The way you both always ended up here, in this room, pretending it was just tradition.
You shift slightly, wincing as the movement drags the sheet across your oversensitive skin, sending a fresh spark of need through you. “It hurts,” you whisper, voice trembling. “Not bad yet, just… constant. Like I’m burning from the inside out. Empty. I don’t know how to make it stop.”
He nods, throat working visibly. He knows exactly what you mean, his own body feels like a live wire, every nerve singing with want, every breath pulling more of your scent into his lungs until he’s dizzy with it, until his rut claws at him from the inside, demanding more.
“I… I can help,” he says, voice rough around the edges, like the words are being dragged out of him. “With the scent thing. If you want. It… calms it down. A little.”
You hesitate, brows furrowing. “Scent thing?”
He rubs the back of his neck, cheeks flushing darker even in the dim light. Awkwardness rolls off him in waves, stammering, avoiding your eyes.
“Yeah, uh… like, close contact. Nuzzling, or… licking the gland. Releases pheromones or something. Makes the heat less… frantic.” He pauses, swallowing hard. “I, um, overheard Mom talking to Becca last year. When her boyfriend was here during her heat. She said if things got too much, they could try scenting first. You know, to take the edge off without… without going all the way. Said it’s safer, especially for first times.”
The memory flashes through his mind unbidden: him paused outside Becca’s door last summer, frozen when he heard his mom’s voice inside, calm, matter-of-fact, explaining the basics like it was no big deal. “Just scenting, honey. It helps without complicating things.” Becca had groaned in embarrassment; her boyfriend had mumbled something awkward. Bucky had backed away fast, face burning but the idea stuck. Lingered. Especially when he thought about you.
You blink at him, processing. The suggestion hangs there, awkward and intimate, making the air feel even thicker. “Oh. I… didn’t know that was a thing.” Your voice is small, but curious. The ache pulses again, sharper, and you shift uncomfortably. “Does it really help?”
He nods, still not meeting your eyes fully. “From what I’ve heard. Yeah. But only if you’re comfortable. I can… I can go back downstairs if-”
“No.” The word slips out fast, desperate. “Stay. Please. I trust you.”
He exhales, relief and tension mixing in his expression. “Okay. Yeah. Okay.”
He moves behind you slowly, careful not to startle, like you’re something fragile he might break. Slides under the sheet, spoons you from behind, chest pressing to your back, arm sliding around your waist, careful not to press too hard, not to let you feel how affected he already is. His nose finds the crook of your neck immediately, right over your scent gland. He inhales deep, greedy, a low rumble starting in his chest before he can stop it, instinctive, alpha-deep.
You sigh, body going liquid against him almost instantly. “That… that feels better already.”
He nuzzles closer, lips brushing skin tentatively. “Tell me if it’s too much. Or if I should stop.”
It isn’t too much. It’s exactly what you need.
He licks, slow, tentative at first, just the flat of his tongue over your gland, testing. You whimper, arching back into him without thinking, the sound pulling a groan from his throat.
He does it again, longer this time, wetter, tasting salt and sweetness and you. His arm tightens around your waist, pulling you flush. His hips press forward instinctively, the hard line of his cock nestling against your ass through thin layers of fabric.
You don’t pull away. If anything, you press back, a soft moan escaping.
His scent floods the room in response, dark cedar, gunmetal, smoke, sharp and possessive, mingling with yours in a heady mix that makes the air feel drugged. It wraps around you like a blanket, heavy and warm, soothing the fire in your veins. Your eyelids grow heavy almost instantly, the frantic edge of your heat dulling under the weight of his presence. Safe. So safe. Protected.
But it’s not one-sided.
Even as your body melts, your own instincts stir, deep and shy, curious and innocent. You turn your head slowly, nose brushing the side of his jaw, then his neck.
His scent gland is right there, warm and pulsing. You nuzzle it tentatively, awkward and unsure, just mirroring what he’s doing. Your tongue darts out, small, hesitant licks against his skin, tasting cedar and metal and him. It’s clumsy, inexperienced, your cheeks burning with embarrassment even as you do it.
You pull back a fraction, eyes wide and nervous. “Is… is that okay? I just- I thought… maybe it works both ways? Like… fairness?”
He nods frantically, eyes glassy, voice wrecked. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s- more than okay. God. Keep going. Please.”
You do, awkward, innocent little licks along his gland, mirroring his rhythm. Your tongue is shy, tentative but every pass makes him tremble harder, hips jerking against you in tiny, helpless rocks. His scent deepens in response, smokier, more desperate and yours answers, sweetening, blooming brighter.
“Feels… weird,” you mumble against his skin, voice small and embarrassed. “Good weird. But I don’t- I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“Me neither,” he admits, voice cracking. “Never done this. Never even- never even kissed anyone. Just you. Always you.”
You both blush harder at the confession, two virgins fumbling through instinct, through need, through trust.
He keeps licking your gland, slow and careful. You keep licking his, awkward, innocent, both of you trembling, both of you making soft, embarrassed noises every time your tongues brush skin.
Your eyelids grow heavier. The frantic edge of your heat dulls under the weight of his presence, his scent, his careful touches. Safe. So safe. Protected.
“Buck…” you mumble, already slurring, the world softening at the edges.
“Mmm?” He presses open-mouthed kisses along your neck now, teeth grazing but not biting, each one sending little sparks through you. “You okay? Still good?”
“Feels… so good…” Your words trail off into a sigh. Breathing slows. Deepens.
He keeps going, slow, reverent drags of his tongue, soft purrs vibrating through his chest into your back, the sound rumbling like distant thunder. His hand splays wide over your stomach, thumb brushing just under the hem of your tank in soothing circles. Not groping. Just holding. Claiming in the gentlest way he knows how.
You sigh once more, soft, content, almost a purr of your own and slip under completely. Deep, scent-drunk sleep. The kind only an alpha’s presence can pull an omega into during a first heat.
Bucky freezes mid-lick, tongue still pressed to your skin.
He listens: your breathing even now, slow and peaceful. Completely out. Trusting. Vulnerable.
“Oh fuck,” he breathes, the words barely audible. Horror and hunger twist together in his gut, sharp as knives.
He should stop. Pull away. Go sleep on the floor downstairs. Lock himself in the bathroom. Anything to put distance between you.
Instead, his hips rock forward, small, helpless, instinctive. The friction through his sweatpants is torture. Perfect torture. His cock throbs, already leaking, the rut demanding more now that he’s this close, this immersed in your scent.
“Baby…” he whispers against your hair, voice wrecked. “Need more. Just a little more. Please…”
No answer. Of course not.
He whimpers, high, broken, needy, the sound pathetic even to his own ears. Presses his face harder into your neck, mouthing at your gland like he can drink the calm straight from your skin, like he can absorb the trust you gave him and somehow make this okay.
His hand slides lower, trembling, slips under the waistband of your shorts. Finds you soaked, swollen, clit throbbing even in sleep under his fingertips. He bites his own lip until it bleeds, copper tang grounding him for a second.
“Just gonna touch,” he tells your sleeping form, voice shaking with guilt and want. “Won’t wake you. Promise. I’m sorry- I’m so sorry…”
Fingers circle slow. Slick and careful, petting gently. Your hips twitch once, unconscious little rock and he groans low, wrecked, forehead dropping to your shoulder.
“So wet for me,” he mumbles, words slurred against your skin. “Even when you’re dreaming. Fuck- you want it too, don’t you? Say yes. Please just- say yes even if you’re asleep-”
He grinds against you harder now, shallow thrusts through fabric, cock leaking steadily, making a mess of his sweatpants. His fingers speed up, just a little, rubbing tight circles over your clit while he ruts like a desperate teenager, hips snapping with less control.
The guilt is screaming in his head, louder than before. She’s asleep. She trusts you. You’re disgusting. Stop. Stopstopstop- Flashbacks hit him, stealing your hoodie in college, jerking off with it pressed to his face that night; the swimsuit bottoms from today, still damp in his memory; the way he’s always been like this, wanting you in secret, hating himself for it. Best friend. She’s your best friend. What kind of monster are you?
But his body doesn’t listen. The rut doesn’t care about guilt or friendship or years of restraint.
He comes with a choked sob, muffled against your neck, hot pulses soaking the front of his sweatpants, hips jerking hard against you in frantic, uneven thrusts. He shakes through it, whole body trembling, fingers still moving on you until he feels the tiny flutter of your body coming too, soft, dreamy, barely-there orgasm that leaves you sighing and nestling closer even in sleep, like your subconscious knows it’s him and wants more.
He pants against your hair, hot tears stinging his eyes now. Heart hammering like it’s trying to escape his chest.
Slowly, carefully he withdraws his hand. Wipes it on his ruined pants with a grimace. Pulls the blanket higher over both of you, tucking it around your shoulders like that can make up for what he’s done.
You don’t stir. Peaceful. Claimed.
He presses the softest kiss to the back of your neck, right over where he’s been licking for what feels like hours, the skin glistening faintly in the moonlight.
“Love you,” he whispers, voice cracked and raw. “So fucking much. I’m sorry. I’ll make it right. Somehow.”
He curls tighter around you. Still hard. Still aching, the rut not satisfied with just this. But calmer now, at least for the moment.
You sleep on, safe, claimed by scent, marked in the only way he’ll allow himself tonight.
Bucky’s chest heaves in the aftermath, each breath a ragged pull that does nothing to steady him, his heart slamming against his ribs like it's trying to escape the prison of his body. His sweatpants are ruined, sticky, cooling uncomfortably against his thighs but the rut doesn't care about discomfort.
It’s not done. Not even close. His cock twitches weakly, already stirring again, the alpha instinct roaring back to life with a vengeance that makes his hands shake. He can feel the knot forming at the base, swollen and insistent, even though he hasn’t pushed inside you yet. The thought alone sends a fresh wave of shame crashing over him, hot, choking, familiar.
He lies there for what feels like an eternity, arm still draped over your waist, fingers splayed possessively across your stomach. The warmth of your skin seeps through the thin tank, grounding him and torturing him in equal measure.
Get up, he thinks desperately, go splash water on your face, sleep on the goddamn floor downstairs. Lock yourself in the bathroom until morning.
But your scent curls around him like smoke from a dying fire, sweet and cloying, seeping into his pores until his mouth waters again, until his vision blurs at the edges. The alpha in him stirs, primal and unyielding, whispering that this is right, that you’re his to claim, to take, to mark in every way possible. The man in him, the virgin who’s never even kissed anyone properly, the one who’s been your best friend since scraped knees and shared secrets, screams back: She's asleep. She's vulnerable. She's your best fucking friend. This isn't you.
Memories flood him unbidden, adding layers to the torment: the first time he realized his feelings weren't just friendly, that summer you turned eighteen and wore that sundress to the bonfire, the fabric fluttering in the breeze; the way he’d excused himself early, locked in the bathroom downstairs, hand around his cock imagining it was you.
Or college last year, when you sent a selfie in a new outfit and he’d saved it, stared at it in the dark until he came with guilt choking him. Small thefts building to this, hoodies, hair ties, now swimsuits. How did I get here? he wonders, tears already pricking at his eyes. When did I become this?
His hand, still trembling from the first release, slides back down, like his body is on autopilot. Between your thighs again, where you’re even wetter now, your body betraying you in sleep, slick pooling from the earlier touches, from his scent blanketing you like a possessive shroud.
The heat is building in you too, he can feel it, the way your inner walls flutter faintly at his proximity, instinct responding to alpha even in dreams. He scoops, fingers dipping shallow at first, collecting the warm, sticky essence that coats you. They come away glistening in the dim light, strands of your arousal stretching between them like liquid silk, sweet and golden like honey.
He stares at his own hand, breath hitching sharp in his throat. The sight is hypnotic, proof of your need, even unconscious, and it breaks something in him. This is real, he thinks. Not a fantasy. Not stolen fabric. You.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice breaking on the words as he lifts his fingers to his mouth, slow and clumsy, like he’s afraid to taste but can’t stop himself. The first taste is lightning, sweet, tangy, pure you, like warm honey on his tongue, exploding across his senses.
A broken whine rips from his throat, high and needy, echoing too loud in the quiet room, he clamps his free hand over his mouth to muffle it, eyes squeezing shut. But he doesn’t stop. He sucks them deeper, tongue swirling awkwardly, cheeks hollowing as he chases every trace, every drop. “F-Fuck- fuck, you taste like… like honey… so sweet… so good… how are you this perfect? Even asleep, you’re dripping for me… like… like you were made for this…”
His hips grind forward instinctively, clumsy and desperate, pressing the renewed hardness against your ass. The friction is messy, awkward, his sweatpants bunching, his movements jerky like he doesn’t know what he’s doing (because he doesn’t).
He pulls his fingers free with a wet pop, stares at them again, clean now, but the flavor lingers on his tongue, addictive and haunting. “I’m a monster,” he mutters, tears pricking hot at his eyes, blurring his vision. “Tasting you like this. Stealing it while you sleep. You have no idea- god, if you woke up now… saw me like this… you’d hate me…”
He dips again, deeper this time, fingers curling just inside, scooping more slick with a clumsy, fumbling motion that makes his own breath hitch. Your body clenches faintly around him, unconscious and soft, a tiny ripple that pulls a guttural, embarrassed groan from deep in his chest.
“S-See that? Even dreaming, you’re gripping me… pulling me in… like you know it’s me… like your body wants me to… to…” He shoves the fingers back into his mouth, sucking harder, sloppier now, the wet sounds obscene in the silence, echoing off the slanted walls. His free hand fists the sheet beside you, knuckles straining white, nails digging into the fabric like it can anchor him.
“Been perving on you for years… that red swimsuit summer- f-fuck, it rode up every time you moved… showed everything… jerked off in the shower thinking about peeling it off you… tasting you then… stole your bottoms today, you know that? Locked myself in the bathroom, buried my face in them like a dog in heat… came so hard I saw stars, whispering your name… and now- now I’m here, licking your slick off my fingers, rutting against you like I can’t control myself… because I can’t… I’m disgusting, baby… so sorry- love you-hate myself- can’t stop- been holding back forever, but the rut… it’s breaking me…”
Memories surface, adding depth to the spiral: the time in high school when you cried on his shoulder after a bad date, and he’d held you too tight, inhaling your scent until he was dizzy; the college care package you sent with a note that smelled like your perfume, and he’d kept it under his pillow for weeks. Small sins building to this avalanche. “You think I’m the good guy,” he chokes out around his fingers. “The best friend who protects you. But I’m not. I’m this. Always have been.”
His hips rut faster, grinding in earnest now, the earlier mess making everything slick and hot, friction building to a fever pitch that makes his vision tunnel.
Tears spill over, tracking down his cheeks as he licks his fingers clean one last time, savoring the taste like it’s his last meal, like tomorrow everything ends. “You’d hate me. Wake up and see the creep I’ve always been, the way I’ve watched you, wanted you. But f-fuck- fuck, I need you. Love you so much it’s killing me. That’s why, that’s why I’m like this. Need to be closer. Need to taste- need to have every part of you before you find out and leave.”
He comes again, sudden and shattering, hips slamming forward with a strangled, sobbing cry muffled into the crook of your neck, teeth grazing your skin but not biting.
Hot pulses flood his pants anew, body convulsing in waves, every muscle locking tight as the release rips through him like wildfire. He shakes like he’s breaking apart, sobs wracking his frame, tears soaking into your hair and the pillow beneath.
When the aftershocks finally go, leaving him hollowed out and trembling, he slumps heavy against you, panting harsh and broken. The guilt crashes in full force now, unfiltered by the rut’s haze, ugly, clawing, leaving him raw and exposed.
“Oh god,” he sobs quietly, face buried in your hair, inhaling the clean shampoo scent mixed with your heat like it’s a lifeline. “What did I do? What the fuck did I just do? I’m sorry- I’m so sorry- how do I fix this?”
Carefully, oh so carefully, like handling something sacred and fragile, he shifts just enough to reach for the corner of the blanket. Dips it between your thighs, wiping you clean with gentle, trembling strokes, his touch feather-light, reverent. He smooths your shorts back into place with utmost care, tucks the sheet around you snugly to keep you warm, brushes damp strands of hair from your forehead with feather-light touches, lingering on your cheek like he can wipe away his sins. His tears fall freely now, silent and hot, dripping onto your shoulder, soaking into the fabric of your tank.
“I’m gonna tell you,” he whispers into your hair, voice thick and wrecked, nose pressed to the spot he scented earlier, the skin still warm and marked by his earlier licks.
“Tomorrow. First thing in the morning. Confess everything- the hoodie from college that I never gave back, the swimsuit bottoms I stole today and ruined with my come, the way I’ve wanted you forever, watched you in secret, loved you in ways I shouldn’t. This night. All of it- the touching, the tasting, the grinding like a desperate animal. Beg you to forgive me. Or hate me. Kick me out of your life forever. Whatever you need, I’ll take it. I can’t keep this secret anymore. Can’t keep hurting you like this, pretending I’m just your friend when I’m… this. Love you too much- too much to lie. Please… please don’t hate me. But if you do, I deserve it.”
He holds you closer, body curled protectively around yours, as if he can shield you from himself, from the truth waiting in the dawn. The rut simmers low still, a distant hum waiting to reignite with the morning light, but for now, exhaustion pulls at him like an undertow. Sleep creeps in against his will, tears drying stiff on his cheeks, his promises echoing in his mind like fragile vows.
The attic is a furnace of heat and scent, the air so thick it feels like breathing through honey. Bucky had tried to sleep, really tried. He’d even drifted off for a little while, exhaustion finally pulling him under after the first round of guilt and need burned itself out. But now he’s awake again, jolted back by the insistent, aching throb between his legs, cock hard and heavy against your ass, leaking steadily through the ruined fabric of his sweatpants. His cock is pulsing with every heartbeat, refusing to let him rest.
His arm is still locked around your waist, fingers splayed across your stomach like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go, even in sleep. Every shallow breath you take drags more of your blooming heat into his lungs until he’s dizzy with it all over again. He shifts just slightly, trying to ease the pressure, but the movement only makes him groan low in his throat, hips rocking forward on instinct, pressing himself tighter against you.
He still feels like a monster.
But the rut doesn’t care about guilt. It only cares about claim.
His hand trembles as it slides down again, hooking the waistband of your sleep shorts with reverent care. He tugs them aside slowly, agonizingly slow so the fabric drags over your hips, cool air kissing newly bared skin. You don’t stir. Just sigh, soft and trusting, shifting closer like your body knows exactly who’s touching you even in sleep. The shorts catch briefly on the curve of your ass; he freezes, heart slamming, fumbles them lower until they’re bunched at your thighs.
He stares for a long moment, breath hitching at the sight of you: soft, bare, glistening in the moonlight from earlier touches and the steady leak of your heat. His mouth waters. His cock jerks against his stomach.
“I’m sorry,” he breathes, voice cracking as he lines himself up. The tip nudges your entrance, slick, hot, ready. He’s shaking so badly the head slips once, twice, smearing wetness along your folds. A broken whine tears from his throat, high, helpless, muffled against your shoulder. “I’m so sorry… I can’t stop… can’t-”
He presses forward, inch by torturous inch, slow and clumsy, fumbling like he’s never done this before (because he hasn’t). Your virgin pussy resists, tight, so impossibly tight, clenching instinctively against the intrusion, pushing back like it doesn’t know whether to let him in or keep him out. He gasps, hips stuttering, tears already welling up again.
“F-Fuck- baby, you’re so… so tight…” he whimpers, voice small and shaking, almost baby-like in its desperation. “I’m sorry… I’m trying to be gentle… I don’t wanna hurt you… you’re so warm… so fucking warm… feels like coming home… I’m disgusting… shouldn’t be doing this… shouldn’t be taking you while you sleep…”
He pauses, breathing hard against your neck, tears dripping onto your shoulder. His tip is barely inside, your walls fluttering and squeezing, resisting every tiny push. He sniffles, voice cracking even more.
“C’mon, sweet girl… it’s just me… you know me, baby… it’s Bucky… just Bucky… open up for me, honey… please… let me in… I’ll be so gentle… promise… you’re so tight… so perfect… like you were waiting for me…”
He rocks forward again, tiny, careful little movements, coaxing, pleading with your body like it’s a shy thing he’s trying to befriend. Your walls flutter, then slowly, sweetly, start to soften, parting just enough, letting him sink another inch. He whimpers, high and relieved.
“There you go… good girl… that’s it… just like that… you know me… you trust me… let Bucky in, baby… please…”
Another slow push, your pussy yields a little more, gripping him so tight he has to bite his lip to keep from crying out. Tears stream down his face now, mixing guilt and awe and overwhelming love.
“So good… so sweet… like honey… fuck, you’re letting me in… you’re so tight… so warm… feels like home… I’m sorry… I love you… love you so much…”
He bottoms out, hips flush against your ass, buried to the hilt and nearly blacks out from the sensation. You’re molten around him, slick dripping down his balls, every tiny shift of your body gripping him like velvet. He stays still for a long moment, panting against your neck, trying to breathe through the overwhelming fullness, the guilt clawing at his chest like talons.
Then he moves.
Slow. Clumsy. Deep, dragging strokes that pull whimpers from his own throat with every pass. He’s whining, high, pathetic little sounds he can’t swallow back as he fucks into you with careful, fumbling thrusts, like he’s worshiping something holy and terrified of breaking it.
“Can’t stop,” he whispers, voice wrecked and whiny. “Can’t- fuck- can’t stop. You feel too good. Too right. I’m sorry… I’m so fucking sorry… been wanting this for years… watching you, stealing pieces of you… hoodie, swimsuit, now this… I’m disgusting… pervy little creep… but you’re mine… feel like mine…”
He angles his hips, awkward at first, fumbling, grinding deeper, the head of his cock dragging against that spot inside you that makes your body flutter even in sleep. A soft, unconscious moan slips from your lips. He freezes, terror and lust warring in his chest then groans when you clench around him again, instinctive and needy.
“See that?” he mumbles, voice cracking. “Even dreaming you’re pulling me in… like you want it… want me… fuck, I’m gonna knot you… gonna lock inside… fill you up… mark you as mine… I’m disgusting… shouldn’t… but I need- need it so bad…”
The knot begins to swell at the base, thickening with every clumsy thrust, catching at your entrance on the out-stroke, stretching you wider. He’s whining louder now, high, desperate little sounds he can’t swallow back, hips stuttering as the pressure builds to something unbearable.
“Gonna knot you,” he gasps against your ear, tears falling faster, soaking your hair and shoulder. “Gonna lock inside… fill you up… make you mine… I’m disgusting… shouldn’t… but I can’t stop… love you… love you so much it hurts… need you to be mine…”
One last deep, clumsy thrust.
The knot catches.
Swells.
Locks.
Hot, pulsing fullness stretching you open as it seals inside, tying you together. A broken sob rips from him, half relief, half shame as the first thick spurt of come floods you, wave after wave, so much it leaks out around where you’re stretched tight around him. His whole body convulses, hips jerking in tiny, helpless pulses as he empties inside you, tears streaming freely down his face.
And that’s when your eyes flutter open.
A soft, dazed sound slips from your lips, half moan, half sigh as awareness returns in hazy pieces: the overwhelming fullness deep inside, the heat of his body wrapped around yours, the rhythmic pulsing of his knot, the wet mess between your thighs, his tears on your skin, the broken way he’s clinging to you.
Your gaze finds his in the moonlight, wide, sleepy, pupils blown with lingering heat-drunk haze, no shock, just soft, instinct-led trust.
“Bucky…?”
He freezes, entire body locking up, knot throbbing helplessly inside you, tears still streaming down his face, voice shattered when he finally speaks.
“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, barely audible, shaking so hard the knot tugs inside you. “I’m so fucking sorry- I couldn’t- I shouldn’t have- please don’t hate me- please- I’m disgusting- I know I’m disgusting-”
Your breath hitches, but it’s not fear, it’s need. The heat is still thinking for you, instincts purring in your veins, making everything feel right, warm, necessary.
You reach back slowly, fingers finding the nape of his neck, pulling him closer with sleepy, trusting gentleness.
“Shhh,” you whisper, voice thick with sleep and honey-sweet heat. “It’s okay… feels so good… so full… Buck…”
He whimpers, fresh tears soaking your skin as he clings tighter.
You clench around the knot deliberately, slow and sweet, drawing a wrecked, whiny sound from deep in his chest.
“More…” you mumble sleepily, voice soft and slurred, pure instinct speaking. “Bucky… please… more… feels so warm… so right… don’t stop…”
He buries his face in your neck, shaking harder, sobbing quietly against your skin.
“Love you,” he whispers, over and over, voice raw and broken. “Love you… love you… thank you… I’m sorry… I’m so sorry…”
You sigh and settle back against him, letting his knot hold you together, mumbling sleepily against his hair.
“More… Buck… please… feels so full… so good… keep going…”
He whimpers again, high, helpless, overwhelmed and rocks gently, tiny movements that make you both sigh in perfect harmony.
Finally crossing the line together, clumsy, guilty, innocent and so in love it hurts.
The knot keeps you locked together for what feels like an eternity, throbbing, pulsing, a steady heartbeat buried deep inside you that matches the frantic, unsteady rhythm of his against your back. The attic has grown still, the earlier frenzy burned down to embers. Outside, the lake laps softly at the shore, a distant, soothing metronome.
Inside, there’s only the quiet rasp of your breathing, the occasional creak of the old pull-out couch beneath your combined weight, and the faint rustle of sheets whenever one of you shifts. Moonlight has slid across the slanted ceiling, painting long silver stripes over the rumpled quilt and your tangled limbs, his arm banded low across your stomach, your legs entwined with his, bodies fitted together like pieces that have finally found their match.
Bucky’s face is still buried in the crook of your neck, nose pressed to the spot just over your scent gland, breathing you in like he’s afraid the scent will disappear if he stops. His tears dried long ago into faint salt tracks on your skin, but he hasn’t let go.
Not even an inch.
His breathing is ragged, uneven, aftershocks still rolling through him, guilt and awe warring in his chest like twin storms. He’s trembling harder now, not just from the bond or the knot, but from something deeper, something primal starting to uncoil inside him, raw and hungry, the alpha side he’s never let out before clawing its way up. It makes his fingers twitch against your skin, makes his hips give tiny, helpless rocks even though he’s trying so hard to stay still.
You’re both shaking a little: him from the raw vulnerability of what he’s done and the overwhelming relief that you haven’t pulled away; you from the lingering fullness, the slow, hazy return to reality after everything that just happened. You’re still so sweet, so pure, like warm honey in his arms, even after the mess, the tears, the guilt. Your scent is everywhere, soft, golden, comforting and it’s making that new, primal thing inside him growl quietly, wanting to claim, to keep, to never let go.
You clench around the knot once, instinctive, testing the connection and he whines, high and broken, hips jerking involuntarily, tugging the knot tighter inside you. His fingers dig into your hip, not hard, just desperate, like he’s afraid he’ll float away if he doesn’t hold on.
“F-Fuck- baby, don’t-” His voice cracks, raw and wrecked, still so awkward. “Don’t do that unless you want me to… to lose it again… I’m already- god, I’m barely holding on… I’ve never… never felt anything like this…”
You smile into the dark, small and sleepy, voice still thick with the afterglow, sweet like you always are. “Maybe I do.”
He exhales a shaky laugh against your throat, the sound half sob, half wonder, still so boyish, so unsure. “You’re gonna kill me. Swear to god, you’re gonna kill me and I’ll die happy… I’ve never… never even kissed anyone properly before tonight… and now… now I’m inside you… knotted… bonded… I don’t even know what I’m doing…”
Silence settles again, comfortable now, softer than anything that came before. His hand slides up your side in slow, reverent strokes, fingers tracing the curve of your ribs, the dip of your waist, like he’s mapping territory he’s only dreamed of touching. He’s clumsy about it, fingers trembling, hesitating every few inches like he’s scared he’ll do it wrong but so gentle, so careful.
When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, almost hesitant, the words dragged from somewhere deep and carefully guarded.
“Do you remember… the summer we were seventeen?” he murmurs, lips brushing your neck as he talks, voice cracking a little. “You had that stupid crush on Jake from the lake house next door. Came crying to me because he kissed some girl at the bonfire instead of you.”
You huff a soft laugh, the sound vibrating through both of you where you’re joined. “I remember. I was so dramatic. Thought the world was ending. Sat on the dock sobbing into my hoodie sleeves like it was the apocalypse.”
“You were sitting there, knees up, tears everywhere. I sat next to you for hours. Didn’t say much. Just… let you lean on me.” His thumb brushes slow circles over your hip bone, grounding himself in the feel of you. “That was the first time I realized I wanted to be the one kissing you. Not Jake. Me. I hated myself for thinking it. You were crying over some idiot and I was imagining pulling you into my lap, wiping your tears, fixing everything with my mouth. Thought I was the worst friend alive for even picturing it.”
Your breath catches. “You never told me.”
“Couldn’t.” He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing against your shoulder. “Every summer after that… every time you fell asleep on my shoulder during movie nights in the living room, every time you hugged me goodbye before you left for college… I’d go home and jerk off thinking about you. Your laugh. The way your hair smelled after swimming, chlorine and sunscreen and something sweet underneath. That red swimsuit you wore, the way it rode up every time you dove in. The way you looked at me sometimes, like maybe you felt it too, like maybe I wasn’t crazy. I’d come so hard I’d see stars, whispering your name into my pillow like a prayer, then hate myself for days. Thought I was ruining everything. Thought if you ever found out how much I wanted you, you’d never look at me the same.”
Tears prick your eyes now, hot and sudden. “Buck…”
“I was terrified,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper, cracking on the last word. “Terrified of ruining the friendship. You were the only person who ever really saw me, scraped knees, bad moods, nightmares after my dad yelled too loud, all of it and I couldn’t lose that. You were safe. You were home. So I buried it. Deep. Stole pieces of you instead, hoodies left on my floor after movie nights, hair ties from your bag, that swimsuit today. Kept them like secrets. Like proof you were mine even if you didn’t know it. Like proof I could have you in some small, fucked-up way without breaking everything.”
He presses a trembling kiss to your scent gland, soft, reverent, like he’s apologizing to it too. “I’m still terrified. Even now. Even with my knot inside you… with your slick on my tongue… with the bond humming between us. Scared you’ll wake up fully tomorrow and realize what a creep I’ve been. That you’ll see all the times I watched you too long, all the nights I came thinking about you while you slept in the next room, all the ways I’ve taken pieces of you without asking. Scared you’ll leave. And I wouldn’t even blame you.”
You turn your head just enough to brush your lips against his jaw, tasting salt from his dried tears. “I’m here,” you whisper, voice steady despite the emotion thickening your throat. “I’m not leaving. I’ve been scared too- scared of saying anything, scared of losing you if I did. But I’m here. I want this. I want you.”
He lets out a shaky breath, relief and longing mixing in his chest. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth and tracing your lips like he’s trying to remember them. He’s clumsy and hesitant, as if he’s afraid he might ruin the moment.
“Can I…?” His voice cracks, barely audible. “Can I bite you? Make it real? Make you mine forever? I need to feel the bond snap. Need to know it’s forever. If you’ll let me.”
Your heart stutters. The question hangs between you, heavy, sacred, irreversible. You feel the knot pulse inside you, feel his heartbeat against your back, feel the raw hope and fear in his voice.
You nod slowly, eyes locked on his in the moonlight, tears shimmering in your own.
“Yes.”
He inhales sharply, like the word punched the air out of him. His hand moves to the back of your neck, cradling you gently as he tilts your head to the side, fingers shaking, like he’s terrified of hurting you. His lips brush your scent gland, soft, reverent kisses first, then slow drags of his tongue, tasting the salt of your skin, the sweetness of your heat still clinging to you.
“I love you,” he whispers against the spot, voice trembling. “Always have. Always will. No matter what happens tomorrow. No matter what you decide. I love you.”
He hesitates, nose brushing your skin, breathing shaky. “Is… is it gonna hurt?” you ask softly, voice small and nervous, sweet like honey even in your uncertainty. “The bite…?”
He freezes, eyes wide, suddenly looking so young, so unsure. “I… I dunno, baby,” he admits, voice cracking. “I’ve never… never done this before. I don’t wanna hurt you. You’ll tell me if it does, okay? Promise you’ll tell me and I’ll stop. I swear.”
You nod, trusting, sweet. “Okay. I trust you.”
He exhales shakily, presses one more soft kiss to your gland, then bites.
Teeth sink in, sharp, claiming, but so careful it’s almost too light at first. He hesitates again, whimpering against your skin, then presses deeper, fumbling, a tiny sob escaping him as he finally sinks in properly. Pain flares bright and hot for a split second, then explodes into white-hot pleasure as the bond snaps fully into place, stronger this time, like a circuit completing, like a key turning all the way in a lock that’s always belonged to him. The world narrows to the point of contact, to the pulse of his knot inside you, to the way his come keeps filling you in slow, endless waves, to the electric hum of the bond blooming between you, threading through every nerve, every heartbeat.
You come again, soft, rolling, dreamy, clenching around his knot in fluttering pulses that milk him deeper, drawing another broken moan from his throat. Your vision whites out for a moment, pleasure crashing through you in gentle waves, every nerve singing with the new connection, the certainty of him. You feel him everywhere, his heartbeat, his fear, his love, his awe all of it pouring into you through the bond like warm sunlight.
He licks over the freshened mark, slow soothing laps, sealing it with his tongue, his scent, his everything. His hips rock in tiny, helpless movements, riding out the aftershocks with you, knot pulsing in time with your fluttering walls. He’s whimpering the whole time, soft, needy little sounds, still so cute, still so overwhelmed.
“Mine,” he whispers, voice wrecked and reverent, nose pressed to the bite, inhaling deeply like he can draw the bond itself into his lungs.
You reach back, fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer until his forehead rests against yours.
“Yours,” you breathe, voice soft and sure, sweet like honey even now.
He exhales and curls tighter around you, knot still locked, heart hammering against your back in perfect sync with yours.
The attic is quiet again.
But the silence feels different now.
It feels like home.
The knot finally begins to deflate as the first pale light of dawn creeps through the triangular attic window, turning the room soft gray and gold. It’s slow, agonizingly slow, each pulse weaker than the last until the thick swell eases enough for Bucky to shift without tugging painfully. You both feel it at the same moment: the sudden, slick release of pressure, the warm gush of his come and your slick leaking out around where he’s still half-buried inside you.
You make a soft, surprised sound, half gasp, half sleepy giggle as the fullness recedes. Bucky freezes, breath catching in his throat like he’s afraid to break the spell, but then his face cracks into a shy, lopsided grin.
“Easy,” he murmurs, voice gravel-rough from hours of whispering confessions and love, but now there’s a goofy lightness in it. “I’ve got you. Just… breathe, okay?”
He pulls out carefully, wincing when the last of the knot slips free with a wet, obscene sound that makes both of you flush bright red and immediately dissolve into muffled laughter. More come spills out immediately, hot and messy, soaking your thighs, the sheets, the space between you. The scent hits harder now, thick, unmistakable, a cloud of sex and bonding that fills the tiny attic room like smoke.
You both stare at the mess for a heartbeat, wide-eyed, frozen, then at each other.
“Shit,” you whisper, cheeks burning so hot you’re sure they’re glowing.
“Yeah,” he agrees, voice small and cracking with embarrassed giggles. “Shit. That’s… that’s a lot. Like… wow. Did we… did we do that?”
Bucky moves first, sitting up on his knees like he’s trying to look responsible, reaching for the edge of the quilt to wipe between your thighs with gentle, hesitant swipes. His hands shake a little, careful not to press too hard on tender skin, but he keeps missing spots because he’s laughing too hard under his breath.
“Sorry if it’s- uh- cold. Or sticky. Or… everything,” he mumbles, cheeks flaming, ears bright red. “I’m trying to be… gentlemanly? I think?”
You bite your lip to keep from laughing harder, the absurdity of it all bubbling up like champagne. “It’s fine. You’re being very… thorough. Like a little nurse.”
He glances up, caught, then ducks his head again, ears practically glowing. “Just- don’t want you uncomfortable. You’re probably sore. I was… enthusiastic. Oh god, I said that out loud.”
You snort softly, legs parting shyly, watching his face, focused, reverent, still streaked with dried tears from the night before, hair a total disaster from your fingers. “That’s one word for it. You were… very thorough there too.”
He finishes cleaning you as best he can, then wipes himself down, cock still half-hard and glistening, thighs sticky, before tossing the soiled corner of the blanket aside with a dramatic grimace that makes you both giggle again. The sheets are a wreck, stained, rumpled, reeking of you both but he pulls the top quilt over the worst of it, buys you both a few more minutes of denial.
You sit up slowly, wincing at the soreness between your legs, the dull throb in your neck where the bite pulses like a second heartbeat. The fresh mark is raised, red, already scabbing at the edges, his claim, permanent now. Bucky’s eyes flick to it, then away, but this time there’s no guilt flash, just a soft dopey smile and a blush that spreads to his chest.
You reach out, fingers brushing his cheek. “Hey. Look at me.”
He leans into your touch like a man starved, eyes closing for a second, then opening again with that same silly, lovesick grin. “I did that,” he says, voice small and proud and a little awed. “I… I marked you. And you let me.”
“Yeah,” you say softly, thumb tracing the line of his jaw. “And I wanted it.”
He giggles, high and nervous and so Bucky it makes your heart flip. “You did. You really did. I kept asking if you were sure and you just kept saying ‘yes, Bucky... please’ like… like I was gonna stop or something. I was so nervous I almost dropped you during it.”
You laugh, soft and happy, leaning forward to bump your forehead against his. “You didn’t drop me. You were perfect. Clumsy, but perfect.”
Downstairs, voices begin to drift up, parents stirring, coffee brewing, the clink of mugs, Becca’s laugh at something her boyfriend said. Normal morning sounds. Innocent sounds.
Your stomach does a happy little flip instead of dropping.
“They’re gonna smell it,” you whisper, but there’s no panic, just giddy excitement. “The whole house is gonna reek of- of us. Of sex. Of bonding. They’ll know. Oh god, they’ll know.”
Bucky’s grin turns mischievous, eyes sparkling. “Yeah. They will. And I’m weirdly okay with it? Like… I want them to know you’re mine now. Officially. No more hiding.”
He looks toward the stairs like they’re an adventure, then back at you, eyes dark, protective but so soft at the same time. “They don’t get to make this weird. Not today. Not when we’re this happy. You’re mine now. Officially. And I’m not letting anyone act like it’s something to tease about… unless it’s cute teasing. Then maybe.”
Before you can respond, he’s moving, scooping you up in one smooth (but slightly wobbly) motion, arms under your thighs and back, lifting you like you weigh nothing. You yelp softly, then dissolve into giggles, hands flying to his shoulders, legs wrapping around his waist on instinct.
“Buck- what-”
“Shh.” He presses a quick, silly kiss to the tip of your nose, making you giggle harder. “I’m carrying you down. No arguments. You’re sore. And… I don’t want anyone getting too close to you right now. Not when you smell like me. Like us. Also I just… really like carrying you. It’s fun.”
The possessiveness in his voice is new, low but undercut with such goofy tenderness it makes your heart flip. You wrap your arms around his neck, hiding your face against his shoulder as he carries you to the stairs, both of you giggling like idiots every time he almost trips on a step.
He’s careful, slow steps, avoiding the creaky third one out of habit but every movement jostles you just enough to remind you of the ache between your legs, the way he’s still leaking out of you a little, slick trailing down your inner thigh. You bury your face deeper, laughing against his neck.
“This is so embarrassing,” you whisper, but you’re grinning so wide it hurts.
“You’re cute when you’re embarrassed,” he mutters, lips brushing your temple, voice full of that same lovesick wonder. “And I’m allowed to be a little clingy now. Bonded privileges. Also I’ve wanted to do this forever and now I can and it’s awesome.”
You snort against his neck. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Yeah,” he says proudly. “But I’m your ridiculous.”
When you reach the bottom, the kitchen is already alive.
Your mom at the stove, flipping pancakes. Bucky’s dad pouring coffee. Becca and her boyfriend at the table, mid-conversation about some dumb TikTok. All of them freeze the second you appear in the doorway, Bucky carrying you bridal-style, both of you in rumpled sleep clothes, hair wrecked, skin flushed, the air around you heavy with sex and fresh bonding.
The room goes dead silent.
Becca’s mug stops halfway to her mouth. Your mom’s spatula hovers over the pan. Bucky’s dad’s eyebrows climb toward his hairline so high they nearly disappear into his hair.
No one says a word.
They don’t have to. The scent is unmistakable, heat, rut, come, bond, all tangled together in a cloud that fills the kitchen like smoke. Everyone knows exactly what happened upstairs. Everyone knows you’re mated now.
But no one speaks. No teasing. No “so… how was it?” No sly grins. No congratulations shouted across the room.
They just… look away. Polite. Quiet. Letting the moment belong to you two, not turning it into cabin gossip or family ribbing. Becca suddenly becomes very interested in her coffee. Your mom flips a pancake with exaggerated focus. Bucky’s dad clears his throat once, then busies himself with the sugar bowl.
It’s a kindness, unspoken but clear: we see it. We know. We’re not ruining this.
Bucky’s grip tightens on you, but he’s grinning like an idiot, cheeks pink, eyes sparkling. He carries you past the table toward the back porch door, glaring over your shoulder at anyone whose gaze lingers even a second too long, but the glare is half-hearted because he’s too blissed-out and giggly to really mean it.
He shoulders the screen door open, steps out onto the porch with you still in his arms. The morning air is cool, lake mist curling over the water, birds calling softly from the pines. Sunlight glints off the ripples, turning everything golden and gentle.
He sets you down gently on the old wooden bench, kneeling in front of you immediately, hands on your knees, eyes level with yours.
The possessive fire dims. What’s left is raw, vulnerable Bucky, the boy who sat with you on the dock when you cried, the man who spent years terrified of this exact moment, the one who still can’t quite believe you’re letting him stay but now he’s glowing, eyes shining, smile so big it’s almost painful.
“I need to say it properly,” he starts, voice low and rough, but cracking with giggles every few words. “Not in whispers in the dark. Not while I’m inside you. Right here. Right now. In the daylight, where you can see my face and tell if I’m lying… or if I’m just a giant dork who can’t stop smiling.”
You reach for him, fingers brushing his cheek, thumb catching a lingering tear track but you’re smiling too, wide and silly and so happy it hurts.
“You already-”
“No.” He catches your hand, presses it to his lips, kissing each knuckle with exaggerated care, making you laugh. “I need you to hear it. I’m sorry. For everything. For stealing pieces of you for years, hoodies, hair ties, your swimsuit yesterday. For jerking off to the thought of you when I should’ve just told you how I felt. For crossing lines last night, even if you said it was okay. For being too scared to say I loved you sooner. For every time I watched you too long, wanted you too much, and hated myself for it. I was a coward. A creep. I don’t deserve this- don’t deserve you- but I’m begging anyway. Forgive me. Please. Or don’t. But know I’ll spend the rest of my life making it right if you let me. I’ll be better. I’ll be honest. I’ll be yours. Completely. No more hiding.”
Tears shimmer in his eyes again, but he’s still grinning, shaky, real, ridiculous. He’s shaking just a little like this is the scariest thing he’s ever done, even after last night, but he’s also so happy he can barely sit still.
You slide your hands into his hair, pull him forward until your foreheads touch, noses brushing in that silly, intimate way you used to do as kids when you were making up after a fight.
“I’ve wanted you too,” you whisper, voice thick with happy tears. “For years. Same summers, same movie nights, same goodbyes. I was scared too- scared of losing my best friend if I said anything. Scared you didn’t feel it back. Scared I’d ruin everything by admitting I thought about you when I was alone. That I’d touch myself thinking about your hands, your laugh, the way you always looked at me like I was the only person in the room. I wanted you too. Always.”
You kiss him pouring everything into it: forgiveness, love, certainty, a little silliness when your noses bump awkwardly and you both huff a laugh against each other’s mouths.
He melts against you, hands sliding to your waist, holding you like you might vanish. When you pull back, he’s smiling, small, shaky, real, eyes shining with pure, giddy joy.
“Mine?” he asks this time, voice soft and hopeful, like a kid asking for the last cookie.
“Yours,” you answer, tapping his nose with your finger. “Dork.”
He laughs, quiet, relieved, and so full of love it makes your chest ache and stands, pulling you up with him. Wraps an arm around your waist, tucks you against his side like you belong there (because you do).
Together, you step back inside, past the kitchen where everyone still pointedly doesn’t look, doesn’t speak, just lets you have this. Your mom suddenly remembers she needs more butter. Becca’s boyfriend becomes fascinated by his phone. Bucky’s dad clears his throat twice and busies himself with the sugar bowl again.
No one ruins the moment.
It’s yours.
And now everyone knows it, quietly, gently, without a word.
Bucky presses a kiss to your temple as you pass the table, voice low enough for only you to hear.
“Think we can sneak back upstairs for round two after breakfast?”
You elbow him lightly, grinning. “Behave. Or I’ll make you do dishes.”
He groans dramatically. “Cruel. You’re cruel to your mate.”
You laugh and lean into him.
The morning continues.
Normal.
Except it’s not.
It’s better.
It’s yours.
And you’re both so blissed-out, so giggly, so stupidly in love that nothing else matters.
One year later, the cabin looks exactly the same, same weathered pine siding kissed by a decade of sun and rain, same creaky porch steps that groan under every footfall, same triangular attic window catching the late-afternoon sun like a golden wink.
But everything feels different. The air tastes sweeter, the lake glitters brighter, the summer heat wraps around you softer now that it no longer carries the sharp edge of unspoken want. The bond between you and Bucky hums quietly beneath your skin like a song you both know by heart, steady, warm, always there.
You’re officially mated. The silver scar of his bite on your neck has faded to a delicate crescent that he still kisses every morning like it’s brand new, like he’s reminding himself you chose this, chose him.
You wear his old hoodies more often than not, and he wears your hair tie on his wrist like a wedding band he never takes off, faded blue elastic stretched thin from constant wear, a tiny, silly token that makes your heart flip every time you see it.
He’s changed in the best ways. His hair is longer now, dark waves falling just to his chin, curling slightly at the ends when it dries after the lake, framing his face in that effortlessly sexy way that makes your fingers itch to run through it.
The stubble he started growing last winter has settled into a full, neat beard, thick, dark, and perfectly trimmed, rough against your skin in all the right ways. And his body… god. He’s beefier, broader, more solid, shoulders wider from consistent gym time, arms thicker, chest and back carved with muscle that presses against you like he was built to hold you forever. He’s not just your Bucky anymore. He’s a man. Your man. And you’re completely obsessed.
This year the families caravanned up together again, cars loaded with coolers, beach towels, and the usual chaos of overlapping voices.
No one bats an eye when you and Bucky disappear for long “walks” that last hours, or when he scoops you up piggyback across the yard just because he can, your laughter trailing behind you both like music.
They’ve had a full year to get used to it: your mom still gets misty-eyed every time she catches sight of the bite mark and murmurs something about “finally,” Becca teases you mercilessly about “locking him down before he could escape,” and Bucky’s dad just grunts approvingly, hands him another beer, and says “good man” like it’s the highest praise.
The first full day, everyone heads to the lake like always, same routine, same laughter, same sun-warmed dock. You’re in the same black two-piece from last year, high-waisted bottoms, simple triangle top, except this time Bucky’s eyes don’t dart away in guilt. They linger, dark and hungry and proud, tracing every curve like he’s allowed to look now. Allowed to touch. Allowed to claim.
You dive in first, cutting through the cool water like you own it, the shock of it making you laugh when you surface. Bucky follows, powerful strokes closing the distance fast, hair slicked back dark and dripping, beard glistening with lake water. When you reach the dock, he’s already there, waiting, grinning, water dripping from his lashes and the ends of his hair.
“Race you to the buoy?” you challenge, splashing him lightly, droplets catching the sun like diamonds.
He doesn’t answer with words. Just lunges.
You squeal as he catches you around the waist underwater, spinning you until your back presses against the dock pilings. The wood is rough against your spine, but his hands are gentle, sliding up your sides, pinning your wrists above your head with one palm while the other cups your cheek, thumb brushing your bottom lip. His beard scrapes lightly against your skin when he leans in close, rough, delicious friction that makes you shiver.
“Cheater,” you breathe, laughing against his mouth.
“Winner,” he corrects, voice low and rough, then kisses you, deep, slow, breathless. Water laps around you both, cool against heated skin, but the kiss is fire. His tongue slides against yours, lazy and possessive in the way he’s perfected over the last year, like he’s reminding you that this is real now. You arch into him, legs wrapping around his waist, feeling him harden against you through his trunks, his body pressing you firmly to the wood.
He breaks the kiss just enough to murmur against your lips, voice husky, “Missed this view last year. You in this suit. Me not allowed to touch. Had to dive under the water like an idiot to hide how hard I was.”
You nip his bottom lip, grinning. “You’re allowed now.”
His eyes darken, pupils blown wide. “Good thing we’re underwater.”
He kisses you again, harder this time until you’re both gasping, clinging to the dock, the rest of the family too far away to notice (or pretending not to, because they’ve learned). When you finally surface for air, foreheads pressed together, he’s smiling, goofy, boyish, the same smile he gave you when you were kids racing to the buoy, but now it’s edged with something darker, hungrier.
You reach up, fingers threading through his wet hair, tugging lightly. “This hair is getting ridiculous,” you tease, voice breathy. “You look like a sexy pirate. And this beard…” You drag your fingertips along his jaw, feeling the rough scrape, scratching lightly through the thick scruff. “God, I love it. It’s so scratchy. I’m gonna have beard burn everywhere and I’m not even mad.”
He groans low in his throat, hips rocking against you once, helpless, leaning into your touch like a puppy getting pets, eyes fluttering shut, beard pressing harder into your palm as you scratch. “Fuck- keep doing that,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “You’re killing me, honey.”
“I am,” you admit, grinning, scratching your nails gently through his beard again, watching him melt. “Makes you look like a man now. All beefy and grown-up. I’m obsessed. You’re so hot it’s unfair.”
His eyes flash and he leans in, beard rasping deliciously against your throat as he nips lightly. “Careful what you wish for. Keep scratching like that and we’re not making it back to the cabin.”
That night, the attic room feels different too.
No more pretending. No more guilt. Just you, him, and the quiet hum of the bond between you.
You’re already in bed when he climbs the stairs, same old pull-out couch, same faded quilt but this time you’re wearing nothing but his t-shirt, legs bare, hair loose over your shoulders. He stops in the doorway, just looking, eyes soft and awed like he still can’t believe this is real after a whole year.
You crook a finger, smiling. “Come here, baby.”
He obeys instantly, kicking the door shut, locking it, crawling over you with that slow, predatory grace he’s learned you love, longer hair falling forward, brushing your cheeks as he leans down. The kiss starts soft, then deepens as he settles between your thighs, already hard and ready against you.
“Missed this room,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice thick. “Missed you in it. Without the guilt. Without the fear.”
You slide your hands under his shirt, tracing scars and muscle, feeling the bond flare bright at every touch. “No fear tonight. No guilt. Just us.”
He groans softly when you tug the shirt off him, then helps you out of his. Skin on skin. Heat on heat. The bond sings as he flips you onto your stomach, his body caging you from behind. He presses hot, open-mouthed kisses down your spine, beard scraping deliciously against your skin, making you arch and giggle.
“On your knees, sweetheart,” he rasps, voice rougher now, that primal edge creeping in. “Wanna see you like this.”
You obey, heart racing, thighs trembling, pushing up onto your knees, ass in the air. He groans low, hands gripping your hips, thumbs spreading you open. “Fuck… look at you. So pretty for me.”
He slides in from behind, slow at first, letting you feel every thick inch, then deeper, harder, until he’s buried to the hilt. You moan into the pillow, fingers clutching the sheets. He starts thrusting, deep, steady, powerful, his bigger frame rocking you forward with each snap of his hips.
One hand slides up your back, fingers tangling in your hair, tugging your head back just enough to make you gasp. The other comes down, sharp, playful smack against your ass. You yelp, surprised, then moan, pushing back against him.
“Didn’t know you had it in you,” you breathe, voice shaky with pleasure.
He leans over you, beard scraping your shoulder, voice low and filthy in your ear. “Been holding back for years, baby. Now I don’t have to. You’re mine. Gonna fuck you like I’ve always wanted to.”
Another smack, lighter, teasing, then his hand soothes the sting, kneading the flesh. You’re dripping around him, clenching hard, and he growls, pace picking up, harder, deeper, hips snapping against your ass with filthy, wet sounds.
“God- yes- right there,” you whimper, pushing back to meet every thrust. “Harder, Bucky… please…”
He obeys, grunting, primal, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your hip so hard you’ll have marks tomorrow. His beard scrapes your neck as he leans down, biting lightly at your shoulder, not claiming, just possessive.
“Fuck- you take me so good,” he rasps. “So tight… so wet… all mine.”
You come first, shattering around him, crying out into the pillow, walls fluttering and milking him. He follows seconds later, deep, guttural groan, hips slamming forward one last time as he fills you, knot swelling, locking you together.
He collapses over you, careful not to crush you, both of you panting, sweaty, laughing breathlessly into the sheets.
After the knot eases, he rolls you both to the side, still buried inside, arms wrapped tight around you, nose buried in your hair.
He presses a kiss to the bite mark, gentle, reverent, then nuzzles lower, nosing at your collarbone, your chest, until his lips brush the edge of your breast.
You laugh softly, sleepy. “What are you doing?”
“Reclaiming every inch,” he murmurs, voice thick with contentment. “Gonna mark you everywhere eventually. Gonna make sure you never forget who you belong to.”
You roll your eyes, fond, fingers carding through his hair, then scratching lightly through his beard. He leans into it like a puppy, eyes fluttering shut, low rumble in his chest, beard pressing harder into your palm.
“God, I really love this beard,” you whisper, scratching again, watching him melt.
He groans, hips rocking lazily against you once. “Keep scratching like that and we’re not sleeping tonight.”
You grin, wicked. “Good. Because I want you again. And again. And again.”
He kisses you, then pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, eyes shining with that same lovesick wonder.
“I love you,” he says softly.
“I love you too Buck,” you answer, brushing a strand of hair from his face.
He laughs, quiet, relieved and so full of love it makes your chest ache and curls tighter around you.
The attic is quiet again.
But this time, it’s full of giggles, teasing, and the promise of forever.
The kitchen is its usual beautiful chaos the morning after, pancakes sizzling on the pan, butter melting into golden pools, coffee brewing with that rich, comforting smell that always means home.
Becca and her boyfriend are already in full debate mode over the last blueberry muffin, forks poised like swords, while sunlight pours through the big windows, turning everything warm and golden. The faint scent of lake water still clings to the air from yesterday, mixing with syrup and bacon in the best way.
You and Bucky wander in hand-in-hand, both freshly showered but still glowing like you’ve been dipped in honey and sunlight. His hair is still damp, pushed back messily from his face, a few soft waves curling against his neck. The beard is dark and scruffy, framing that strong jaw perfectly, and his shoulders look even broader in the soft morning light, the plain t-shirt clinging just enough to show how much beefier he’s gotten. He looks like a man who’s been well-loved and is very pleased about it. You’re in one of his oversized hoodies, sleeves flopped over your hands, legs bare under sleep shorts, hair still a little tangled from his fingers last night.
The second you step through the doorway, the room doesn’t exactly go silent, it just… pauses. Like everyone collectively holds their breath for half a second, then decides to be extra nice about it.
Your mom glances up from the stove first. Her eyes flick between you two, land on the fresh bite mark peeking above the hoodie collar, and her whole face melts into the softest, knowing smile. She doesn’t say anything, just turns back to the pancakes with a tiny, satisfied hum and starts humming an old tune under her breath.
Bucky’s dad lowers his newspaper slowly, takes one look at the pair of you, Bucky’s arm already around your waist, your head tucked against his shoulder and grunts. “Took you long enough.”
Becca snorts so hard she nearly inhales her muffin. She coughs, eyes watering, then points her fork at you both with zero remorse. “Okay, first of all, loud. Like, loud loud. We all heard you last night. Thin attic floorboards, guys. Thin. Attic. Floorboards. I was trying to watch a movie and it sounded like someone was moving furniture up there. Repeatedly.”
Her boyfriend chokes on his coffee, trying (and failing) to hide a grin behind his mug. He coughs into his elbow, shoulders shaking.
Your face flames instantly. Bucky’s ears go bright red, but he doesn’t let go of your hand in fact, he squeezes it tighter, thumb rubbing soothing little circles over your knuckles like he’s trying to calm you both down at once.
Becca keeps going, merciless but playful. “I mean, we were all sitting there like ‘should we turn the volume up?’ and then it was just… ‘oh Bucky- yes Bucky- oh my god Bucky-’” She does an exaggerated, breathy impression that makes everyone groan in unison.
“Becca!” you squeak, burying your face in Bucky’s shoulder, mortified but already starting to giggle.
He’s laughing now, quiet, embarrassed but so happy he can’t help it. His free arm slides around your waist, pulling you flush against his side like he’s shielding you (and maybe showing off a little). “We… uh… got carried away,” he mumbles, scratching the back of his neck with his free hand. His beard rasps against your temple when he leans down to whisper, “Sorry, honey. Guess we weren’t quiet. At all.”
You peek up at him, cheeks still burning, but you’re giggling too. “You were the loud one,” you whisper back, poking his chest. “All those growly noises. And the… the spanking. I didn’t know you had it in you.”
His eyes darken for half a second, before he catches himself and blushes harder. “You liked it,” he mutters, voice low enough that only you can hear. “Don’t lie.”
“I did,” you admit, scratching lightly through his beard again. He leans into it like a big puppy, eyes fluttering shut for a second, a soft, happy rumble vibrating through his chest.
Becca makes a gagging noise. “Gross. You’re both gross. And loud. And gross. But also… kinda cute? In a disgusting way.”
Your mom finally turns fully, spatula in hand, eyes twinkling with pure mischief. “So… when can we expect grandpups? I’m not getting any younger, you know. And after last night’s… enthusiastic performance… I’m thinking it won’t be long.”
Bucky chokes on air. You squeak and hide your face deeper in his hoodie.
“Mom!”
Bucky’s dad just chuckles, low and rumbling. “She’s right. Cabin’s been too quiet. Needs little feet running around again. Maybe a couple of ‘em, judging by all that racket.”
Becca leans forward, grinning wickedly, but her eyes are soft. “Yeah, Buck. You gonna put a pup or three in her this summer? Look at you, long hair, full beard, all beefed up. You’re basically built for it now. Dad material.”
She pauses, then her voice goes all dreamy and sincere. “I just want a little niece so bad. I’d braid her hair every morning. Tiny little French braids with ribbons. Teach her how to cannonball off the dock. Dress her up in all my old sundresses. Spoil her rotten. Please? I’d be the best aunt.”
Bucky’s ears are practically glowing. He clears his throat, arm tightening around you possessively, but there’s a tiny, shy smile tugging at his lips. “We’re… uh… we’re working on it,” he mumbles, then glances at your mom and Becca with a sheepish look. “Eventually. When we’re ready.”
Your mom laughs and turns back to the stove. “Take your time. But not too much time. I want to be able to chase them around the yard before my knees give out. And Becca’s right- she’d be the most ridiculous aunt. Already planning outfits.”
You bury your face in Bucky’s shoulder again, mortified but laughing so hard your stomach hurts. He presses a kiss to your temple, soft, lingering then whispers against your hair, voice full of that same goofy, lovesick wonder:
“We’ll get there, honey. When we’re ready.”
You nod against him, still giggling, fingers scratching lightly through his beard again. He leans into it like always, eyes half-closing, a happy little rumble vibrating through his chest.
“Yeah,” you whisper back. “When we’re ready.”
Becca fake-gags again. “You two are disgusting. And cute. Mostly disgusting. But also… hurry up with the baby. I need to practice my braiding skills.”
Bucky just grins, wide, shameless, proud and pulls you even closer, beard rasping softly against your cheek as he nuzzles in.
The kitchen fills with chatter again, normal, loud, loving, full of teasing and warmth and the promise of more family, more noise, more little feet someday.
The attic is quiet now, the kind of soft, golden hush that only comes after a long summer day. Moonlight slants through the triangular window, painting silver stripes across the rumpled quilt and your tangled legs.
You’re sprawled across Bucky’s chest, cheek pressed to warm skin, listening to the steady thump of his heart under your ear. His hair fans out across the pillow like dark silk, still a little damp from the shower and his beard rasps gently against your fingertips as you trace lazy patterns along his jaw.
He’s got one thick arm wrapped around your waist, the other hand resting possessively on your hip, thumb rubbing slow, absent circles through the thin fabric of his t-shirt you’re wearing.
You shift a little, propping your chin on his sternum so you can look up at him. He’s already watching you, eyes soft and half-lidded, that quiet, lovesick smile tugging at his mouth.
Your cheeks warm. You bite your lip, suddenly shy.
“Hey,” you murmur, voice barely above a whisper. “Um… what if… what if we started trying? Like… tonight?”
Bucky blinks. Once. Twice. His thumb freezes on your hip. His scent spikes, sharp, protective, hungry.
“Tonight?” he echoes, voice cracking just a little, low rumble vibrating through his chest. His eyes search yours, stunned. “You mean… pups? With me?”
You nod, cheeks burning hotter, but you don’t look away. “Yeah. I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately. About… us. A litter of little ones. Running around, maybe with your eyes…” You give a small, nervous laugh, fingers twisting in his hair. “I just… I want that with you. If you do.”
He stares at you for a long beat, something raw and stunned flickering across his face. Then his hand slides up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing your skin so gently it makes your chest ache.
“Baby,” he breathes, voice rough with emotion. “You have no idea how much I want that. How long I’ve wanted it.”
You smile, shy but bright, and lean down to kiss him, soft at first, sweet. But when you pull back, something shifts. His pupils are blown, breathing uneven, and you can feel him starting to harden under you.
The shyness recedes, replaced by a slow, mischievous heat.
You trace a finger down his chest, over the ridges of his abs. “You know… if it happens, my body’s gonna change. A lot.” Your voice drops lower, teasing now. “These are gonna get so full. Heavy. And… leaky.”
Bucky’s breath hitches. His grip on your hip tightens.
“Jesus,” he mutters, flush creeping up his neck.
You press on, voice turning huskier. “Imagine it… me sitting in your lap, shirt off, letting you taste. Letting you wrap that beard around my nipple while I ride you slow. Milk dripping down while you’re still inside me, still trying to put a baby in me.”
His jaw drops. Eyes go wide, dark, stunned. “Fuck baby- you can’t just-” He swallows hard, voice cracking again. “You start all sweet and shy and then hit me with that?”
You giggle, the sound low and a little wicked now, and grind down once, feeling how hard he’s gotten. “Can’t help it. Thinking about you breeding me… getting me all swollen and full… it makes me so wet.”
He groans, deep and wrecked, hands flying to your hips to hold you still like he’s trying not to lose it. “You’re gonna kill me. Sweet one second, filthy the next. How am I supposed to survive you?”
You slide down his body slowly, dragging your tongue along the deep lines of his abs, tasting warm skin and faint salt, following the trail lower. When you reach the waistband of his sweats, you nuzzle the thick bulge there, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses over the fabric. You feel him twitch, hear the sharp inhale above you.
“Baby-” His voice is hoarse, hips jerking up just a fraction.
You hum against him, hot breath soaking through, then pull away completely.
Without a word, you roll onto your side, back to him, curling up like you’re ready to sleep. The t-shirt rides up just enough to bare the curve of your hip and the tops of your thighs, quiet invitation, quiet torture.
Silence. Thick. Heavy.
You can practically feel his eyes burning into your back, hear the ragged edge to his breathing.
A beat. Then the mattress dips. His chest presses flush to your spine, arm sliding around your waist, pulling you tight against him. His cock, rock-hard, settles hot against your ass through the sweats.
“You think you can say all that,” he growls low against your ear, beard scraping your neck, “get me this desperate… then just roll over like you’re going to sleep?”
You bite your lip to hide the smile, staying still.
His palm spreads over your stomach, like he’s already picturing it round with his child. “Not happening, sweetheart. You started this fire.”
He rocks forward once, slow, letting you feel every inch. Then his hand slips lower, fingers dipping under the hem of the t-shirt, sliding between your thighs. You’re soaked, have been since the first shy words left your mouth and he groans when he finds you bare and slick.
“Fuck, you’re dripping,” he mutters, voice wrecked. Two thick fingers circle your clit once, twice, then sink inside you slow and deep. You arch back against him with a soft whimper.
“Bucky-”
He curls them just right, thumb pressing your clit in lazy circles while his other hand tugs your thigh up and back, opening you for him. “Gonna fill you up tonight,” he rasps against your ear. “Gonna fuck you slow and deep until it takes. Until you’re carrying my kid.”
The words hit like a spark. You clench around his fingers, moaning softly.
He pulls his hand free just long enough to shove his sweats down, freeing his cock, thick, hot, already leaking at the tip. He notches himself at your entrance, rubbing the head through your folds, coating himself in you.
“Tell me you want it,” he breathes, voice trembling with restraint. “Tell me you want me to breed you, baby.”
You reach back, threading your fingers through his hair, tugging him closer. “I want it,” you whisper, voice shaking with need. “Want you inside me. Want you to come deep and stay there until I’m full. Please, Bucky.”
That’s all it takes.
He pushes in slow, inch by thick inch until he’s seated to the hilt. You both groan at the stretch, the perfect fit. He stills for a second, forehead pressed to your shoulder, breathing hard like he’s trying to hold himself together.
Then he starts to move.
Slow at first, long, deliberate strokes that drag against every sensitive spot inside you. His arm bands around your waist, holding you flush while his other hand slips between your legs again, rubbing tight circles over your clit.
“Gonna keep you like this all night,” he murmurs, voice rough and reverent. “Gonna fuck you full. Gonna watch these get heavy for me. Gonna taste you when they start leaking.”
The filthy promise, combined with the deep grind of his hips, snaps something in you. You push back to meet every thrust, soft moans spilling out as the pleasure builds fast and bright.
He picks up the pace, hips snapping harder now, the wet sound of skin on skin filling the quiet attic. His beard rasps against your neck as he mouths at your scent gland, teeth grazing just enough to make you shiver.
“Come for me,” he growls low. “Come on my cock while I fill you up. Gonna give it to you- gonna breed you right now.”
The words tip you over. You clench hard around him, crying out his name as the orgasm crashes through you, waves of heat, pulsing, pulling him deeper. He follows seconds later with a broken groan, burying himself as far as he can and coming hard, hot pulses flooding you, hips stuttering like he can’t stop.
He stays buried deep, knot swelling inside you, one hand splayed protectively over your stomach. His lips brush your shoulder in lazy, sated kisses.
“Gonna stay like this a while,” he murmurs, voice soft now, wrecked and tender. “Gonna make sure it takes.”
You hum, content, threading your fingers with his over your belly. “Good,” you whisper. “Because I’m not letting you go. Ever.”
The attic is quiet again.
But now it’s full, full of ragged breaths slowing to calm, full of the warm, sticky promise between your thighs, full of maybe, someday little feet on the porch.
summary: chef james barnes doesn’t like when the waitress parades around the restaurant for tips, and he really doesn’t like it when she lets the men think they have a chance with her.
pairing: chef!bucky barnes x waitress!reader
insp by: i dont know…. i had a prophetic vision
word count: exactly 10k!!!!!!!! which is crazy
cw: +18 content, porn with a plot i guess, lots of banter, fingering, public-ish sex, p in v, oral (fem!receiving), boobs…, lots of health and safety violations, i dont know guys im scared
a/n: bwa collabbbbbbb!!!!! this is so awesome sauce cant believe i am in this 👁️ bouncy white ass 4 ever!!!!! if ur finding this outside of the masterlist, go check it out!!!!!!!!! also this is my first… proper smut so…. be kind to me world and lowkey close your eyes when they start bangin
+ 18 minors dni!!!!!!!! ᶦ ʷᶦˡˡ ᶠᶦⁿᵈ ʸᵒᵘ
bucky's a jealous person. he always has been.
he doesn't like to share, nor does he pretend otherwise. not his kitchen, not his recipes, not his workers, and certainly not you.
he doesnt like it when you're working the front of house, all bright smiles and flirty little laughs, coaxing tips and compliments from men who don't deserve your attention, and it doesn't help that you're walking around in that tiny little skirt and buttering up the customers, it also doesn't help that you're so good at it.
bucky knows it's a part of your job, knows that you do it to survive— but do you really need to be doing all of that? he's sure that if you lean any closer to the guy at table seven, he'll be able to see the lining of your panties, and at this point, he's not even sure if you're wearing any.
the kitchen behind him is organised chaos— pots and pans clattering against the stoves, utensils scratching against ceramic, and shoe soles padding around the linoleum floor.
but bucky doesn't hear any of it. his eyes are locked on you through the serving hatch, where you're leaning over a little too close to the asshole at table seven, your smile soft and sweet as you pour him another glass of whiskey and giggle at something he says.
bucky hates it. you might as well be sitting on his lap and hand feeding his steak to him. hell, you might as well pull down his fancy suit pants and just start fucking him in the middle of the restaurant with everyone watching.
"you're staring."
bucky's jaw clenches as he glances sideways. steve stands next to him at the grill, sliding a seared salmon onto a plate, eyebrow arched like he's just caught bucky with his hand in the cookie jar.
"i'm not." bucky snaps back a little too fast, eyes darting back down to the pan in his grasp. his knuckles are bone white from how tight he's gripping the handle.
steve smirks as he places the seared salmon onto the counter with practiced ease, "y'know, you could just tell her. it won't hurt. you're already staring at her like you've claimed her."
as well as being jealous, bucky's awfully proud. chateau barnes is a renowned high-end restaurant in new york. as the head chef of his own restaurant, he almost has to be. he prides himself on order, control, and precision in the kitchen— every knife sharpened, every pan and pot in its place, and every dish leaving the kitchen exactly as he had envisioned it.
and because of that, bucky would never admit that he loses all control of his mind the second you step out onto the floor. he'd rather die than admit it to steve, who seems to notice everything anyways.
"i don't know what you're talking about." bucky grumbles, basting the steak in butter, eyes fixed firmly on the pan as if it's the only thing that matters.
steve cocks a brow, "you know what i'm talking about."
bucky doesn't respond. he doesnt want to give steve the satisfaction of knowing he was right, and this steak was currently more important than whatever bullshit his sous chef was about to spew.
steve stops what he's doing just to taunt bucky, his voice low enough that only he can hear. "the fact that you wanna bend her over the counter and take her right there in front of—"
"finish that fucking sentence and you're on dish duty for the next month." bucky cuts him off, eyes snapping towards steve. the glare alone would have made an apprentice shit their pants, but it only makes steve grin wider.
"tough crowd." the blonde mumbles. he shrugs as if its the most normal thing in the world, then goes back to slicing into a perfectly roasted duck breast.
there's an annoyed quirk in bucky's eyebrow as he goes back to plating the dish. putting steak down, drizzling the sauce, adding garnish, every detail done with deliberate and precise movements— anything to keep his hands and mind busy. anything to keep steve from seeing how close he'd come to hitting an exposed nerve.
bucky doesnt look up. he knows that if he does, he'll see that rich asshole at table seven still trying his luck, and he'll see you entertaining him like he's paying you a million dollars to do so. both of you would piss him off, and right now, he needs his head in the pan. the butter's foaming and the steak is searing, and focus is the only thing that keeps him from calling a smoke break.
so he keeps his eyes down. baste, tilt, baste again. control. order. discipline. that's what he's good at.
but it's you out there, and that alone stirs up an itch under his skin that he can't ignore. its an almost unbearable urge that picks at him— the urge to just look up. because if its you, then he wants to see. he needs to.
and when he finally gives in— when his eyes drag up from the dish he's preparing to you— you're already prancing towards the kitchen, weaving through the tables with that little sway in your hips, balancing a half-eaten dish in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other.
it scratches the itch, but now he has to deal with you.
you slide the dish onto the window sill with a small clink, gingerly leaning into the cut-out just enough to make your presence known. you tilt your head when bucky glances up at you, a half-grin tugging at your lips like you're ready for whatever bite he's about to throw at you.
"table seven said his steak is over cooked, james." you say, nudging the dish towards him, "he also said the sauce is too peppery."
bucky keeps his focus on his work, but it's impossible to ignore your presence. he slides the freshly prepared steak onto the window sill with a quick flick of his wrist, but you're staring at him like you can see the control he's trying so hard to cling to. he reaches over to grab another ticket, but he can smell whatever sweet perfume you'd dusted yourself with drifting through the window. it's torture.
bucky's not sure whether he wants you to leave him alone or if he wants you to lean over the window a little more just so he can sneak a glance down your collar.
but he doesn't spare you a second glance. "it wasn't."
you suck your teeth in mock thought, eyes narrowing in on where the steak was ripped open by a knife, "well, he asked for medium-rare, and i'm pretty sure i wrote down medium-rare, so it must've been a performance issue on your end, boss."
"yeah?" his blue eyes snap towards you. his voice is controlled, but you can hear the tension coiling in his throat. "you should probably check that notepad again, doll. the ticket said medium-rare, so i gave him medium-rare."
"that's funny..." you drawl, "because he's still complaining."
bucky's jaw tightens. his grip around the knife tightens like a vice. "why don't you just stick your tits in his face a little more? maybe then he'll stop complaining about the fuckin' steak and start tippin' you like he means it."
his voice is low and rough, and laced with venom that he doesn't bother to hide. he's jealous, and he knows that. his voice cuts sharper than the knife in his hand, but it does nothing to hinder your attitude.
"y'know, he looks a little bit like you." you lean your head on the palm of your hand, your lips tugging into a grin that teeters on the edge of mockery. "a little more clean-shaven... has manners... smells good too. says he's the ceo of a record company or something fancy like that."
god, if you weren't so gorgeous— if you hadn't made every word sound like pure honey— bucky mightve told you to turn around and continue taking orders like the good little waitress you are. his thoughts die in his head the second a particular one hits him— you're being a brat.
"you shove your tits close enough to get a whiff of him?" he spits, eyes ever-so-slightly glancing down at the midriff you have exposed. "you enjoy being a tease?"
you follow his line of sight and roll your eyes, almost instinctively leaner lower, "so what if i do? theyre my tits.”
bucky looks back down to the scallops he's preparing, his lip turnt, "not anymore with the way you're parading them around."
he hears you suck in the tiniest gasp— just audible enough that it makes him huff out a breath of amusement.
you're not necessarily offended by him calling you a tease. you're more offended by the fact that he thinks you're 'parading them around' like some bimbo. you'd argue that you're just doing your job— keeping the customers happy, looking hot while doing it, and making some tips in the process.
you open your mouth to say something, to rip into him without saying something that seriously jeopardises your job— because he is your boss after all— but before you can say anything, steve stops you.
"could you guys stop flirting? its dinner rush."
his voice catches your attention. you shift your weight as you lean over the pass, your elbows resting against the cold metal as you grin at steve. he's cute— everybody knows it— and you've always liked how easy it was to talk to him.
"what, feeling left out, rogers?" you tease with a dramatic pout, reveling in the way steve's ears tint the lightest shade of pink.
"a little." he plays into your teasing, brows raised, "but the tickets are piling up and i'm not likin' how that guy at table five is looking at us."
"oh, those guys?" you turn on your heel, eyes flashing to a large table of around six guys. the man at the head of the table sits like he owns the restaurant, his gaze locked straight on you. "yeah, i'm pretty sure theyre apart of the mob."
steve blinks, "the mob?"
"the mob." you emphasise with a dramatic nod, "they're drinking us dry of our entire whiskey reserve."
"i'll order in another lot tonight. the next lot should hopefully last us a couple more months.” steve nods, already scribbling down a note on the corner of a ticket. he taps the pencil against the pass and shoves the ticket into his pocket like it's already been handled.
then steve's eyes flick up to you, who's standing there with a tired smile. he— very obviously— looks you up and down, slow enough that bucky catches every damn second of it, then he meets you with a grin that's just shy of smug.
"looking good, sugar."
the pet name runs off of steve's tongue like it belongs there, entirely too sweet for a restaurant running on blood, sweat, and tears.
the knife in bucky's hand stills, the blade pressing unnecessarily hard into the scallop underneath. his eyes flick up to look at whatever weird little flirting match you and steve have going on just inches away from him, and he's glaring like he's seconds away from snapping the cutting board in half.
if steve wasn't his best friend, he probably would've stabbed him— no, wait— he'd still stab him anyways.
bucky turns his attention to you to see your reaction. and sure enough, you're standing there, practically twirling a strand of hair around your finger, acting like you've just been complimented by the hottest guy in the world. your lips curl into a grin that you try (and fail) to stifle. but because steve's your friend, you roll your eyes like it's no big deal— like you're too used to his charm for it to get under your skin.
"thanks, stevie. you’re not so bad yourself." you grin, sing-songing as you pull away from the pass, "anyways, i've gotta go. fancy guy at table seven was just about to tell me about rising stars and pop music or... something like that."
and then you're turning away. you toss a small wink over your shoulder as you saunter away— but then you adjust your skirt, just subtly enough to be casual, but bucky can't help the sharp intake of his breath. the curve of your ass presses up against the thin fabric, the faint lining of your panties traced just beneath it, teasing him with more than he has any right to see.
bucky's jaw locks. heat crawls down his spine and coils deep within his gut, dragging low until it settles in his cock. he feels the shift in his pants, and the sudden tightness makes his breath hitch.
focus, bucky, focus. control and order. that's what you're good at.
he forces his gaze down, anything to get over it, but his body aches with the phantom burn of you. the imagine of your body swaying as you walk away is burnt into the skin behind his eyelids, and it's a sight he can't just run from with the repetitive motions of his knife. every slice and every stab only presses it deeper.
he blinks and you're still there. he sees the curve of your ass and the way you tug your skirt lower like it might cover something. the arch of your back as you stretch just slightly, and the press of your tits against the weak buttons of your blouse like they're begging to be let loose. and the worst part— the part that makes his cock twitch in his pants— is that bucky isn't even sure if you're doing this on purpose or if you're just that effortlessly fucking tempting.
"it did look like you just sent out leather, man." steve's voice cuts in like nails on a chalkboard, "you... distracted?"
buck's knife lifts from the board as he slides the scallops on to the plate, "sugar?" he grinds out, not looking up.
steve can already tell. he doesn't need bucky to say a single word. the way his jaw tenses, the way his grip flexes around the handle of the knife, the way he slides the scallops around like he couldn't care less, and the way his eyes subtly dart towards the floor where you're entertaining table seven again.
bucky barnes is jealous, and it's the most entertaining thing steve has seen all night. he wants to laugh, and he almost does, but he holds it in.
"what, you jealous?" steve teases with a shit-eating smirk.
"you can't flirt with the staff." bucky's words are deadpan, like he's been repeating the phrase over and over in his own mind— like he's repeating it again moee for himself than for steve.
"i understand." steve nods, but then he pauses just long enough to be smug about it. "we can't flirt with them, but we sure can eye-fuck them from across the restaurant—“
the cutting board suddenly screeches against the metal counter as bucky pushes it back. steve's still smirking as bucky rips at the knot around his waist, tearing his apron off and tossing it haphazardly over his shoulder with an annoyed huff.
"i'm goin' for a smoke." he grunts, not even sparing steve a glance before he pushes past the other kitchen staff.
the back door slams shut behind him, and steve feels it's only in his best interest as his best friend to follow. someone's gotta make sure bucky doesn't burn down the alleyway with his temper.
the back of the restaurant is quiet. the clanking of pots and pants and shouts of orders fade behind thick brick, leaving only an echo of the chaos inside. the moon is bright and high up in the sky, casting pale white light onto the alley.
bucky leans against the wall, his hand shielding the flame of his lighter from the wind. the cigarette glows, the smoke curling upwards. he takes a long drag of it, letting the smoke fills his lungs.
the cool air does little to ease the burn in his skin— if anything, it makes it worse. every muscle in his body feels like they've been pulled taut, as if the mere memory of you has set fire to his body.
as he exhales, a small white cat slinks out from around a dumpster, moving like a pale shadow in the dark, her delicate paws padding against the concrete as she wanders closer. she's a familiar face that makes bucky sigh.
bucky calls her alpine, a sweet reminder of a trip he once took a few years ago— a quiet winter in the mountains, snow blanketing the world in a stillness he rarely ever witnesses in his line of work. in a way, alpine was his calm in the blinding chaos.
she brushes against his leg, her tail curling, and for a moment, the tension bucky feels in his chest eases, replaced by the memory of calm he almost never allows himself.
steve tucks his hands into his pockets as he leans against the wall beside bucky. he watches his friend for a moment, analysing how his jaw tenses and how his head tilts away like making eye contact with steve would cause every thought in his brain to fall from his mouth.
"you really letting her get to you that much, huh?" steve says, his voice low. he's not teasing anymore— just simply asking.
bucky doesn't say anything. his shoulders are tense as he takes another long drag of his cigarette like it’ll help.
"c'mon—" steve nudges him, "let me hear it."
bucky exhales a long stream of smoke, finally meeting steve's eyes, jaw tight and eyes low, "she just... she gets under my skin. every word, every look, every little movement. i can't—“ he pauses for a second, “i can't stop thinking about her, even when i try not to. i know it's stupid, but—"
he drags in another breath as if he's finally accepting what he feels, "i just... can't look away. i dont want to even if it's killing me inside seeing her kissing up to the customers."
"i mean—" the cigarette trembles in his hand, and a more annoyed expression replaces the forlorn one. "she said he smelt good, steve. can you fuckin' believe that? its like she's trying to get on my nerves."
steve huffs out a laugh, "i mean.. you dont exactly smell like roses and daises, buck. you've got more of a... cooking oil scent—"
"and she said he's clean shaven. what does that even mean?" he runs a tired hand against his jaw, feeling the stubble rub against his fingers, "i shave, don't i?"
the way bucky complains is similar to that of a teenage boy whining about the girl he likes not liking him back. it's boyish. it would be endearing if it wasnt wrapped up in frustration— like he might actually punch through a wall because of it.
"you care way too much about what she thinks for someone who insists they don't give a shit." steve points out, a sincere smile tugging at his lips as he shrugs. "just... ask her out, man."
bucky doesn't answer right away. whether it's because he's not sure how to reply or because he knows steve's right, he doesn't know.
beside him, alpine perks up from where she's curled up next to his feet, ears twisting at full attention towards a noise in the distance. bucky glances down at her— this small, stubborn creature who doesn't leave no matter how many times he shoos her away— and sighs, an uneven trail of smoke trailing through the air.
"i can't." he finally mutters, grinding the cigarette against the brick until the embers die. "what if she's seeing someone? a woman like her would probably have a line of guys out the door."
steve cocks an eyebrow like he has the solution to all of bucky's problems. "last i heard, she's not seeing anybody. hasn't been for a while."
that piques bucky's attention. "where'd you hear that?"
"from mikaela." steve replies like it's obvious.
the name doesn't ring a bell. it's not even in the drawer of names that bucky half-remembers. the cluelessness on his face has steve barking out an amused laugh.
"you don't know mikaela?" he says pushing off of the wall and crossing his arms against his chest, "waitress with the brown hair and blonde highlights? c'mon, buck, you're telling me you don't know mikaela?"
bucky sucks his teeth, shaking his head like the mere idea of knowing waitresses other than you was laughable, "i don't pay attention to front of house.”
"that's a damn lie. you pay plenty of attention to front of house— just not to mikaela or any of the others. you don't know mikaela, but you sure as hell know the one with the tiny skirt and fuck-me-eyes."
bucky exhales through his nose, sharp and frustrated. "watch it, steve." he warns, but it doesn't land as harsh as he wants it to, because it's true— he does know you. he knows you more than he should. more than he wants to admit.
his job was easier before you were hired— before you started running around the restaurant like you owned it, before you had befriended steve or any of the other chefs, before you had stuck your fingers in every single crevice of his fucking brain.
sometimes he wishes he could go back in time to tell steve not to hire the applicant with a dozen waitressing jobs under her belt and references who did nothing but praise you. but other times, he wishes he was the one who had interviewed you just so he could have weaselled his way into your life from the start, claiming some part of you before anyone else had the chance.
bucky flicks the dead cigarette and stamps it out until it's a grey mess of ash on the ground. his shoulders loosen a fraction as he steps forwards, ready to push his problems away and slip back into the kitchen.
"okay. smoke break's over." steve claps a hand against bucky's back, gently ushering him back into the door. "sam can't run the kitchen by himself."
bucky huffs out a small laugh, low and dry, "he probably thinks he can run it better than both of us."
steve nods, "and some days, i think that might be true."
bucky just rolls his eyes as steve playfully pushes him towards the hum of the restaurant. the doors swing shut behind them, leaving the alleyway and alpine behind, quiet again.
hours pass. the restaurant is empty now, the dinner rush long over.
in the kitchen, pans and knives are freshly washed and stacked and the hum of the kitchen is softer, almost intimate. the harsh fluorescent light overhead has been switched off and replaced by a single lamp that casts an orange light over the counters, which smell of citrus scented cleaner.
in the main room, the lights are dimmed and there's a faint aroma of charcoal and expensive cologne in the air. the energy from hours ago still buzzes throughout the restaurant like an echo. a few glasses are left drying on the bar and there's a few chairs stacked haphazardly on top of each other, but otherwise, the building feels quiet.
it's just you and bucky. it's been only you two for the past hour.
steve had left earlier with a tired wave and a reminder to lock up, but not without shooting bucky a knowing look as he stepped out of the door. bucky ignored it at the time— brushed it off with the same scowl he always gave steve when he thought he was being clever— but now that the restaurant was almost silent, it settles a little heavier in his chest.
bucky's sweeping the wooden floor of the main room. sweeping. he never sweeps. not when there's busboys or waitresses or literally anyone else around to do it. he didn't know what possessed him, and neither did you.
when he had asked if you had needed help cleaning, you had looked at him like he'd just asked if the sky was blue— baffled, a little amused, and even a little suspicious. james buchanan barnes offering to help with front of house duties? it's unheard of.
now that it's just the two of you, he can't seem to sit still. he sweeps and sweeps, pulling dust from crevices that probably haven't been touched since they first bought the restaurant.
he glances at you.
you're leaning on the bar, a pen in your hand and your head in the other. you're staring down at a notepad containing god knows what. orders? inventory? you're honestly probably just scribbling nonsense just to look busy— and if you are, it's working.
a particularly harsh drag of plastic against the wood gains your attention. your eyes move upwards before your head does, catching the broom mid-sweep in bucky's hands. he's tense. you can see it in the way his shoulders are squared and that familiar scowl on his face as he drags the bristles against the ground.
"you keep that up and i'm gonna start thinking you have a secret love for housekeeping, james." you joke, watching in amusement.
bucky falters for a moment, eyes flicking up to you before he cocks a brow and continues his assault against the floor, "just figured the place could use it."
"uh-huh." you nod suspiciously, pen poised but not writing. "what's with the sudden kindness? what'd you do?"
"nothin'." bucky's quick to respond, "pretty little thing like you shouldn't be running around the restaurant this late. might get yourself hurt."
you'd be flattered if this wasn't totally out of character for him, and also because it's bucky. he's calling you a pretty little thing? who flayed james barnes and crawled into his skin?
"pretty little thing?" your lips twitch, trying not to grin at the absurdity of it. you raise your brows, "okay, who'd you kill?"
"what, i can't compliment you? you sure seem to like it when customers do it." he snaps, broom held a little too tight in his grip.
you pause and raise a brow, "excuse me?"
bucky stops. he isn't sweeping anymore. the broom stands neglected in his hand, his new focus being you. the way you're staring at him makes his skin burn.
"don't act like you don't know what i'm talkin' about." he rolls his eyes, lip almost turned into a snarl, "all those fancy assholes throwing compliments at you, and you eat it up. but me? god forbid i say a word."
you scoff as you stand up a bit straighter, arms crossing against your chest as a defence, "so it's a crime to like being complimented?"
"it's not a crime." bucky retorts, "but you goin' around sticking your tits in their faces and practically sitting on their laps? it should be considered criminal. and it's all you can do, isn't it?"
you narrow your eyes, "that's rich, coming from a man who stares at them every chance he gets."
"sweetheart, it's hard not to." he fires back, watching as you shake your head in bewilderment.
"so, what are you saying?" you challenge, eyes glaring daggers into bucky. "that you think i'm an attention-seeking slut who parades herself around for everyone to see?"
you know this is destructive. bucky's your boss, the one who can put you out of a job with two words, but part of you can't stop— can't stop pushing, can't stop poking and prodding, needing to hear him either admit it or deny it. you don't really care which one it is at this point— you just want to hear it from his mouth instead of reading it in his eyes.
he lets out an annoyed sigh, "don't put words in my mouth—"
"oh, come on, james. we both know you think it." you take a step forwards, the space between you two shrinking until the air is electric. "just admit it and we can get this over with."
your voice is quiet, but so full of venom. you don't need to be loud— you're so close to bucky that it felt like if you even thought too loud, he would hear it.
your stomach twists as you step even closer. you're practically chest-to-chest with bucky, your chin tilted upwards just enough to meet his stare head on. his jaw clenches as he stands his ground, like he's testing how far you're willing to go, and you both know that neither of you will stand down.
his shadow swallows you whole. you feel like you've been caught inside of it. there's nowhere to step and nowhere to breathe that isn't him— his heat, his stare, his scent, his unrelenting presence pressing down on you.
he looks down at you, his eyes half-lidded and twitching as you near him, "you've got a mouth on you, don't you, sugar tits?"
the nickname wrings out a dry laugh from your mouth. he's mocking you, taunting you, poking at some sore spot just to see you flinch— and god, it works.
"what, want me to put my mouth to better use?"
you don't mean to sound flirty— you really don't— but with him this close, his scent practically wraps around you like a ribbon, warm smoke and faint cologne threaded through something else that was unmistakably him. his presence swallows up the space between you, heat curling up your neck until you feel it burrowing underneath your skin.
"is that an offer, doll?"
"in your dreams, barnes."
he's practically in your face, and suddenly every word you say is full of a weight you don't recognise. it's suffocating.
and then— just subtly— you watch as his eyes slowly rake down from your eyes towards your lips, lingering for too long. tracing the curve, memorising the way they part when he leans in a little closer. his breath fans over your face, and you feel your resolve completely dissolve.
you let out a little hitched breath, sharp and caught in your throat, and it's just enough to break whatever restraint he's been holding on to. bucky's eyes darken, and then he's on you before you can even think twice, closing the space between you and pressing his lips to yours.
it's not gentle. it's claiming, leaving no room for regret or argument, and the world narrows to the heat of your mouth against his and the press of your body against his chest.
he indulges in your taste— almost intoxicating— drinking you like you're an oasis in the middle of a desert. every press of his lips draws a ragged breath from your mouth, and the tension and anger you'd been holding onto melts into something raw.
bucky rakes a warm hand up your back, the other sneaking around your waist, pressing you closer as if he can't get enough of the feeling of you in his hands. his fingers trace the curve of your spine, sliding beneath the fabric of your too-tight shirt.
you break free from his lips just enough to whine, a shaky hand running against his jaw, almost pushing him away. "james—"
every move he makes is deliberate, and there's an air of want in the way his lips trails down your jaw and how he buries his face into your neck, pressing wet, open-mouth kisses along the tender skin.
"if you want me to stop—" he murmurs against your skin, each word soaked in something tender that betrays the intensity of his touch, "jus' say it and i'll stop."
this is wrong. bucky is your boss. every rational thought in your body is telling you that this shouldn't be happening, screaming at you to just pull away, to push him off of you before this goes too far.
but then he nips at the skin on your collarbone, his tongue swiping lightly over the tender spot, and something in you flips. every rational thought you had is drowned out by the heat pooling low in your stomach.
your silence is the invitation he needs. his eyes flick up to yours, searching for even the faintest signs of hesitation, but finds none.
he leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss again. your bodies press against each other, moving together almost instinctively, and he guides you towards a nearby table. without breaking the kiss, you let yourself sink into the edge, the tablecloth cold against your skin as bucky hovers just above, his hands bracketing your face.
your legs wrap around his waist, and you feel the hard outline of his cock straining against his jeans— a delicious yet torturous reminder of how urgent this has become— and it only makes you press against him even harder.
bucky's hands trail down to yours hips, fingertips digging into your sides as he pulls you tighter against him. you grind against him, the friction sending sparks throught your bodies. a whimper leaves you as your hands bunch the fabric of his shirt, tangling the cotton as you pull yourself impossibly closer. bucky pulls away from the kiss, memorising the way you push your hips into his and how you respond to his touch.
you look so pretty and desperate trying to grind against his cock, and he groans at the sight.
"fuck—" he rasps, "you don't know what you do to me."
you whisper, "then show me."
bucky's lips find yours again, harder this time as his hands fall to your thighs. you lean back as his fingers glide under the fabric of your tight skirt, sliding it up until it bunches around your hips, and the sight that greets him is enough to make his mouth run dry.
you're wearing the cutest pair of black lace panties he's ever seen, and the sight alone almost undoes him completely— delicate and teasing, like they were made specifically to drive him insane.
"is this all for me?" the question drips with smugness as his thumb presses against the band of your panties, watching as it cuts into your thigh.
"don't flatter yourself, james." you huff, flustered but defiant, your body betraying you with a small jerk of your hips, "you're not that special."
"not that special?" he raises a brow, eyes focused on the way you lean into his touch, "sweetheart, we both know none of those men were ever gonna get to fuck you. not the suits... not the smooth talkers... not a single one of 'em. if it weren't for me, you wouldn't be sitting here, dripping through this pretty fabric."
you bite down on your bottom lip, because he's right. you would have never given any of these rich guys the light of day. all they were good for was their money and their attention— nothing that made you feel utterly exposed and electric like bucky did with a single word.
he presses the pad of his thumb against your folds, pressing down right over the spot you need him most, feeling you soak through the lace. you gasp at the pressure, back arching just slightly, the soft sound that leaves your mouth almost pathetic.
"look at you. you've been saving this for me, haven't you?" he cocks his head, eyes half-lidded as he watches you squirm. "walking around in this skimpy little skirt and that tiny shirt— practically beggin' me to tear them off of you."
"awfully cocky for a man who hasn't made me moan yet." you murmur, eyes fluttering shut when his fingers hook around the lacy fabric on your hips,
bucky scoffs, the way your hips lift for him to drag your panties down your hips betraying your words. "you keep talkin' like that and i'll make sure the whole block hears you."
the lace slips down the expanse of your legs, each second growing more and more agonising with every painful stop bucky makes. when it finally slips from your foot, bucky stuffs it into his pocket. the lace sticks out like a sore thumb— a trophy.
he looks down at your cunt, a low, guttural groan escaping him, and it's almost enough to make you cum right then and there. his eyes flick back up to yours before his lips crash back into yours, the kiss far hungrier and desperate than before.
your hands thread into his hair as the world narrows in on the taste of his tongue and the feeling of his hand sliding from your knee down to your inner thigh. every glide and subtle press of his fingers ignites a fire you can't control.
bucky catches your bottom lip between his teeth, tugging it until it burns red. you huff when he pulls just a little too hard, but to make up for it, he runs a finger through your folds, your argumentative grumbles turning into airy gasps before he's pressing his lips against yours again, swallowing any last shred of resistance you have left.
his thumb finds your clit, brushing lightly at first, sending heat throughout your body. your breath hitches and bucky's quick to press harder, drawing figure eights onto the bundle of nerves.
his touch is both punishment and reward, a bitter reminder of how he has you unraveling under his touch. every whimper, every shiver, and every gasp seems to feed him, as if your reactions are what's keeping him alive.
you pull away from the kiss to breathe. you can feel the press of a finger against your entrance, and before you can fully grasp what's about to happen, bucky pushes two fingers into you.
your head tilts back before you can stop it, a broken moan slipping from your throat— unrestrained and humiliating. you can feel bucky shifting against your skin and you already know what he's going to say before he even opens his mouth.
"what did you say about not making you moan?" he murmurs into the skin just below your ears, smugness dripping off of every syllable.
heat rises up your neck, but you refuse to give him the full satisfaction of watching you submit to him.
"just..." you breathe, your nails digging into the tablecloth as he pumps his fingers into you, "sh-shut up and keep going.”
he hums, "gladly."
bucky's fingers drag in and out of you, curling against your walls with devastating precision. his fingertips brush against all of your sweet spots like he knows exactly where to touch to make you fall apart.
he can tell you're close by the way your eyebrows knit together in concentration and the way you fuck yourself back onto his fingers. he reaches down with his other hand and adds a delicious pressure against your clit, watching as your arms buckle and almost collapse back onto the table.
"c'mon, cum for me." bucky urges, "cum on my fingers, baby."
and you do, your legs quivering as a wave of heat flashes over your entire body. bucky doesn't stop— he continues his assault on your clit and he drives his fingers into your cunt until you're clenching around him, whimpering protests.
he pulls his fingers out and you instantly clench around nothing. your eyes track him as he brings his fingers to his mouth, tongue darting out to taste you. he groans around his fingers, the sound low and almost animalistic as he leans in to kiss you.
you can taste yourself on his lips, your legs wrapping around his waist, pressing him closer to you.
"that feel good?" bucky asks, his lips glistening with your slick.
you huff out a small laugh, "what do you think?"
he rolls his eyes and dips his face into the crook of your neck, his stubble scratchy as he presses kisses to your skin. you lull your head back, lips parting with a shaky sigh, but then your eyes land on the large glass doors of the restaurant— completely see-through and mercilessly reflective.
all rational thought comes crawling back to you, but your next words are already in bucky's mouth, his hands crawling up to slide into your hair.
"shit, jame—" his kiss steals your breath, "james, we can't—" his tongue grazes yours and you whimper, "we can't—" another kiss, rougher this time. "we can't do it in here. people'll—" he swallows the protest whole, "people will see."
it's almost like he enjoys watching you struggle.
"what, afraid table seven'll walk past and see you sitting here all pretty and spread out on his table?" his words come out muffled as he presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth.
"it's bad for our image, james. if someone walks by—" you grumble into his mouth, but he cuts you off by simply pulling away.
there's a flicker of arrogance in his eyes as he tilts his head like your reasoning doesn't make sense. "i was just knuckles deep inside of you, sweetheart. you're really worried about our image right now?"
"i'm serious." you push at his chest, but it's light-hearted at most. your nails curl into his shirt like you don't want him to stop, "what if steve comes back and—"
bucky just dives back into your neck like it's a five star restaurant, teeth grazing the skin on your collarbone before his tongue swipes over it.
"rogers has a date tonight." bucky pulls back and swipes a thumb against his teeth marks, "he's not comin' back anytime soon."
you glare at him when his eyes flick up to yours, dead serious. "i'm not having sex with you in the middle of the restaurant, barnes."
he rolls his eyes. "okay, okay, fine. whatever the princess wants, the princess gets." he exhales against your throat, the joke falling upon deaf ears when he grabs you by your thighs and pulls you to the edge of the table.
you tense when he wraps a thick arm around your back and his other arm snakes under your thigh, hoisting you upwards. you wrap your legs around his waist and giggle.
he walks you towards the kitchen with ease, eyes closed and face still stuffed in the warmth of your neck. you're almost amazed, but then you remember that he knows this place like the back of his hand and he could probably do this blindfolded.
bucky pushes the door open with one hand and it slams behind you as he presses his lips to yours, swallowing the startled gasp that leaves you. the faint hum of the fridge and the overhead led lights fill the kitchen, but you're far too preoccupied to notice.
he sets you down onto the cold, hard counter, his palms pressed firmly into your thighs and you hiss at the contact. youre pressed flush against his chest, every breath you take tangling with his, like he can't even stand an inch of distance between you. his stubble scrapes along your jaw as his mouth trails to your cheek, and then down your throat, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.
"on the counter?" you furrow your brows, the cold metal searing into the burning skin on your thighs and ass.
he hums, sucking a delicate bruise onto your neck, "on the counter."
"this is such a health and safety violation, james—"
"bucky." he interrupts, voice stripped of teasing or smugness and replaced by something softer— something more sincere. "call me bucky."
you blink at him for a moment. part of you wants to tease him, but another part of you just wants to press sweet little kisses across his face and melt into his arms. you let out a breathy laugh.
“nicknames, huh?” you grin, “okay, i can do that... bucky."
the single word hangs between you, and you swear bucky moans a little bit before he's on you again, lips wet and swollen. every inch of him presses against you, the weight of his body pinning you into the counter.
you can feel his cock straining within the confines of his jeans, pressing insistently against your inner thigh. your hand trails from his neck down to the outline of him, the pressure of your palm dragging out a low, shaky inhale.
"fuck..." bucky mumbles, pressing a kiss to your jugular to hide the sharp intake of air that escapes him. his fingers dig deeper into your hips, pulling you impossibly closer.
you can feel him pulsate under your palm, and the way he presses into your hand makes you bite your lip. "do you want me to—"
he shakes his head, "don't worry about me." he murmurs, his hand sliding down and finding the heat that awaits him. "just lean back. wanna taste you."
you swallow and obey. it's almost pathetic how quick bucky can make you listen to him— one moment you're talking back, and the next, he has you spread out like a whore. every thought of self respect and decorum escapes you the moment he lays a single hand on you.
and then bucky's kneeling in front of you like a sinner at an altar, worshipping you like you're the only source of forgiveness in this sorry world. he's looking up at you with half-lidded eyes as he gently spreads your legs open, his lips parting as he leans closer, letting the heat of his mouth hover just above your cunt.
your breath hitches when his tongue presses flat against you, licking a slow line from your opening to your clit. bucky takes your hand threading through his hair as a good sign and presses his face into you a bit more, nose digging into your heat just right.
compared to his hands— rough and calloused, gripping your hips so tight that you're sure they'd leave bruises— his tongue was soft, poking and prodding at your cunt like he's trying to figure out what makes you feel good and how to make more of those pretty little moans fall from your mouth.
"bucky—" you moan when you feel his tongue breaching your hole, the muscle fucking into you, "oh, god."
bucky hums, the vibrations shooting shockwaves of pleasure throughout your entire nervous system. you rut into his face, but his hands slide up to hold your hips down, and he only pulls off to breath before diving back in.
you're close, and bucky can tell. the sounds are obscene— wet and sloppy— his tongue sliding over your heat and your moans and whimpers mixing together like an orchestra.
when you finally cum, your legs are clamping around bucky's head, your head thrown back against the wall as you grind yourself onto his face. you don't even care if he's breathing— the muffled moans that leak from his mouth tell you he's enjoying it.
when you finally let him go, he pops off of your cunt with a small hum, looking completely pussy-drunk. he presses his cheek against your thigh, a curious finger pressing against your folds.
"fuck, that was good." you blurt out, still fucked out of your mind.
before you know it, bucky's rising to his feet and unbuckling his belt. you start undoing the buttons on your shirt, the action tedious and repetitive when all you want is his dick inside of you. you're left in your bra— black and lacy to match your panties— and bucky's eyes never leave your chest, even when he fumbles with the loops of his belt.
before long, bucky pulls himself out of his boxers. the first thing you notice is how flushed the tip is after being pressed against denim all night. he's also long and thick, and far bigger than anything you've ever taken before. you're almost scared.
he hums, a teasing smile on his face. "thanks, sugar."
even through your hazy state of mind, you still know what he's talking about— and you're going to kill him. steve called you sugar once, and now bucky's running around throwing the word at you like he's taunting you.
you can't believe he's literally about to be inside of you and you're still letting him torment you. you're lucky he's making you feel good, because if he wasn't, you'd probably say some half-assed insult just to spite him. even in the middle of pressing into you, he can't get steve out of his head.
he presses his tip against your entrance, and you have to hold yourself back from rocking onto his dick. bucky tilts his head, almost amused at your desperateness before something else cuts through his thoughts.
"you sure you want this?" he asks, his voice low, giving you one last chance to back out.
you nod quickly, your hands planting themselves onto his shoulders, "i do. i want this."
"mh-hm." he presses a kiss to your forehead with a smile, all rational thought getting thrown out of the window as he teases, "alright, sugar."
you roll your eyes. "oh, bite me, buck." you grit out halfway through a gasp.
and maybe he takes you too literally, because he does— he quickly undoes your bra and he bites you, hard and wet right into the flesh of your breast. your breath hitches as you drag a needy hand up his neck and into his hair, tugging at the root.
he groans into your flesh as he quickly pushes in and bottoms out. it’s quick and overwhelming, stealing the air from your lungs. you gasp, the sudden breach both burns and soothes all at once, your nails clawing at his shoulders just to get a grip.
but it leaves bucky feeling like something is missing, feeling like he needs more of you— like being buried in you isn’t enough— so he tries.
he tugs your bra off of you and tosses it somewhere on the ground, his hands desperate and greedy as his thumbs graze your nipples before leaning down and taking one into his mouth, tongue flicking and sucking like he’s a man starved. it’s so messy yet so good that you’re almost confused.
"what are you—"
you're cut off when bucky jerks. your hips are already flush, but bucky tries as hard as he can to push into you ever further, the tip of his dick practically digging into your cervix. you tremble in his arms as he pops off of your tit, a string of saliva connecting you.
"god, you taste like pure sugar." he groans, “and you're so tight. you been waiting for me? waiting for me to fuck your pretty little cunt?"
you nod, because what else can you really do? he’s grinding against you like his life depends on it, and the force of it has you turning into jelly in his arms. the drag of his cock inside of you has your back arching into his chest.
his hands are pressing into your hips so hard that you’re sure it’s going to bruise. his forehead is resting against yours, and it feels less like sex and more like he’s trying to claim every single part of you at once.
and then he finally pulls his hips back, his dick sliding out of you slow enough to make your walls clench around nothing before he hammers himself back into you with a force that rattles the counters. he swallows your cry in a desperate kiss before he repeats it again, and again, and again before he lays you down.
the counter makes contact with your bare back, goosebumps shooting throughout your entire body, but it’s nothing compared to how bucky’s driving his cock into you like you belong to him. your hands are reaching for something— anything— before you grab a hold of a rickety spice shelf above you, the metal groaning under the tension. one of the containers threatens to fall with a particularly hard thrust, but you don’t pay it any attention.
you’re sure bucky’s gonna be upset with you later, but you can’t really bring yourself to care when he’s fucking you like he’s determined to ruin you.
the kitchen echoes with you moaning bucky’s name and his groans, the loud wet plapping of his dick driving into you almost drowning you both out. bucky’s touch is electric, his hands sliding up your sides to pinch at your nipples with a shit-eating smile.
"you think that asshole at table seven could fuck you this good?" he grits out as he watched you writhe under his hands, "you think he could have you moaning his name like this?"
"ugh— no. fuck, no— only you." you groan, "only you, bucky."
the sound of his name on your tongue has him doubling over. "fuck. that's right." he groans into your neck, teeth nipping at the sensitive skin of your earlobe.
your grip on the shelf tightens until your knuckles whiten and the rattling of the jars and containers gets drowned out by the sound of your heartbeat in your ears. heat coils low in your stomach, and your mouth falls open but no sound comes out— just desperate, broken breaths that tell him exactly how close you are.
bucky feels it— the way your walls flutter and clench around him— and his hand snakes down between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit with ease, pressing down and rubbing tight circles that make your whole body jerk.
“c’mon, sweetheart, give it to me.” he rasps, and you can feel him coming undone inside of you, “give it to me— wanna feel you fall apart on my cock.“
and you do— the coil of heat in your stomach snaps and your head tips back, hitting the cool metal of the counter. a loud, strangled cry leaves your lips when every muscle in your body goes numb, then shatters into waves of molten pleasure with a final thrust.
he lets out a small laugh when he feels you clench around him, coming on his cock. he twitches in you, nails digging into your waist as he drives himself into you, “fuuuuck—“
“cum in me, buck— please.” you whimper, starting to feel overstimulated. your hands reach up to tug at his hair, pulling him towards you, “need it— need you.”
his hips stutter at your plea, your voice breaking whatever restraint he had that was holding him back. a strangled groan tearing from his throat as he buries his face into your neck, his thrusts turning ragged and messy, almost desperate to fill you.
bucky spills into you, cum hot and thick against your cervix, coating your insides like an artist does to a canvas. you pull him to your mouth, swallowing his groans. he feels drunk on the way you’re clenching around him, his thrusts faltering as you ride out your orgasms.
when he finally stills, forehead pressed against yours, he wraps his arms around you, holding you as if you might slip away. and then his voice comes out, soft and unguarded— sweet.
“you’ll be the death of me, sweetheart.”
you let out an uneven laugh, still shaky from your climax. you press a warm kiss to the edge of his hairline just long enough for him to feel it.
“what a way to go, huh?”
the first thing buckys notices when he steps into the restaurant the next day is that it smells of coffee— and it never smells of coffee. the aroma is strong and oddly comforting, wrapping around him as he takes a deep breath.
the first thing he notices is you. you’re already moving between tables, apron tied around your waist and a small trolley full of cutlery standing idly beside you. the sunlight streaming through the windows catches your skin just right, and bucky can’t help the subtle smile that tugs at his lips.
and then you look up at him, all polite and composed, none of your usual snarkiness coating your voice.
“morning.” you say with a small smile, voice overwhelmingly casual, but there’s a softness in it that has bucky’s chest tightening.
“mornin’.” he replies, eyes flicking to a tray of paper coffee cups that sits idly on the bar counter, “you felt nice enough to buy us coffee?”
you shrug like you’re hiding a secret, “i was in a good mood this morning.”
and just like nothing out of the ordinary had happened, you go back to setting up the tables— placing cutlery and plates in their places, smoothing out the table cloths, and straightening up the chairs.
there’s a moment where bucky pauses to study you, his mind racing with the memory of you spread out and arching your back on the table you’re currently setting up, before he clears his throat and moves towards the kitchen.
from the pass, bucky can see steve, already knee-deep in prep work, chopping vegetables with precision. steve glances up at bucky as the kitchen door swings open, eyes already scanning his friend like he’s reading the aftermath of last night before he turns back to his cutting board.
bucky can sense something’s wrong before he even steps through the door. he tucks his bag under the counter and pulls his apron off of the hook, the strap settling into the back of his neck as he fastens it around his waist, preparing himself for whatever smirk and comment steve’s already lining up.
“have fun last night?” steve asks without looking up.
"hmm?" bucky's brow twitches as he opens the fridge and pulls out a tray of prepped ingredients. he tries to look indifferent, but he’s sure the way he tenses his jaw betrays him. “sure.”
he didn't tell steve he was doing anything last night. he just assumed steve would think he went home and sat on his sofa, cooked up some mac and cheese and nursed a beer or three— not that he had fucked you right where he was preparing vegetables.
steve nods like he’s interested, but then his knife pauses. he places it down carefully before he turns to bucky with an inquisitive eye, and bucky doesn’t miss the way steve stares for a moment too long.
“when i opened up this morning, old man pat came by and complained about a noise.” he mentions, his voice even and calm. “said it sounded like a cat screaming and meowing all night long.”
“weird.” bucky mutters under his breath. the memory of you coming undone on his cock plays in his mind on a loop, and you were definitely pretty loud. “probably alpine trying to catch rats near the dumpsters again.”
“yeah, probably.” steve narrows his eyes for a moment before he claps his hands and points to the door with his thumbs, “i’m gonna head over to the grocer to pick up some stuff. you mind watching the stock for me?”
“yeah, sure.”
steve undoes his apron and pulls it over his neck, hanging it back onto the hook. he dusts his hands off and pulls open the kitchen door, but pauses in the doorway.
“oh, and buck?” he calls.
bucky hums as he glances at steve.
“the next time you fuck the waitress in the middle of the restaurant, make sure the cameras are off.“
every muscles in bucky’s body tenses. heat crawls up his neck fast and hot, his eyes instinctively finding you— maybe to see if you heard that steve knows, or maybe to just calm himself down in this moment of immense horror— but you’re there, folding napkins with practiced motions and pursed lips, completely unaware that steve knows your dirty little secret.
bucky blinks, still frozen. he feels like he’s a kid caught with his arm elbow-deep in the forbidden cookie jar.
“and hey—“ steve casually adds as he pulls his jacket over his shoulders, “while you’re at it, next time, invite 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.✦
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summary: you have totally inappropriate feelings for your older coach, teasing him every practice brings some thrill in your dull college life. Riling him up is your favourite pastime now, you can't help it! Coach Barnes' reactions are just so fun... especially when he gets jealous. The best part though, is when he puts you in your place.
warning: 18+ nsfw mdni! smut, dubcon, slight jealousy, age gap, oral (m!receiving), raw sex wrap it before you tap it pls, creampie, slight nipple play, p in v, slight brat taming, pwp (well i guess slight plot), dirty talk, kind of public sex, nearly getting caught so exhibitionism kink sorta?, pet names : brat, sweetheart, baby, slut, whore
word count: 4.9k
a/n: i miss coach Barnes so much, due to @/superbassbuck's forty-love! I actually yearn for him. This is my first time writing smut so im sorry if it sucks! :) but i hope you enjoy this!
College has been boring for you lately, nothing exciting would ever happen. Parties were fun for a while until it felt repetitive, the boys weren’t really your type either. Surprise surprise college boys don’t know how to fuck a girl properly, disappointing sizes and they could barely last two minutes.
That is until you had the brilliant idea to try out for the cheerleading team. Being a cheerleader had its perks, immediate popularity, catching the attention of the football team.. oh and of course getting ruined by your hot older coach basically every other day.
You’re not quite sure how it first started. The first time you attended cheer practice your eyes immediately zeroed in on the much older man blowing a whistle. He was devilishly handsome and you were immediately hooked. That tight shirt was basically a second skin that hugged his broad shoulders and muscles, god those pecs were basically greeting you as he walked towards you with a polite smile
“Hello, you’re the new recruit right? I’m Coach Barnes.. nice to meet you sweetheart, go put your stuff by the bench and start warming up.” That deep voice caused a sliver of heat to crawl down your stomach. The two of you shook hands and you, his big ones engulfed yours. Your thoughts drifted to imagine how they would look all over your body, those thick fingers could do so much– no– stop– that’s literally your coach! You shouldn’t have these untamed fantasies... although, your thighs seem to betray you, rubbing against each other - which he noticed, of course.
There seemed to be a crackling tension every time during practice, the way coach Barnes would help you stretch. His hands hold your waist with a firm grip whenever you seem to be off balance; you could feel the warmth of his palms even through your uniform. The first few times you thought you were simply imagining it, how his fingers linger on your legs longer than necessary, how his hands trail up your thighs and even dip under the edge of your mini cheerleading skirt that was borderline inappropriate.
You were sure it was one-sided. There was no way in hell your cheerleading coach would reciprocate the same dirty desires whenever he was in the same room as you. That all changed one afternoon. During warm up, you were up and bending over to stretch your legs and back - what you didn’t expect was a hand giving your waist a small squeeze.
Tilting your head back, you found your coach standing right behind you, and before any words could escape your lips he pulled your body back. You felt it.
Everyone else was too distracted to notice; it seemed innocent enough for a coach to help someone stretch, if it wasn't for the thick bulge pressing against your ass. “Just keep stretching..” he murmured loud enough for the two of you to hear, maybe it was the way he said it, or because of how inappropriate this was with everyone around, but it had your pussy clenching around nothing as you stayed still.
Slowly he began rocking back and forth, causing very slight friction between the two of you. You could feel it throb even through the layers of fabric. You tried to push your hips back for more. He wasn’t letting you. Coach Barnes held onto your waist still, preventing you from moving an inch. This made you whine softly, careful not to attract unwanted attention - Your little fit made him preen to having this control over you.
Once it was time to actually start cheer practice, the both of you had to pull away. You immediately straightened up knowing your panties were soaked and clinging to your pussy lips. However, you were more focused on the string of precum that seemed to connect the wet spot coating coach Barnes’ shorts and your skirt, which settled right on top of his obvious erection.
Thankfully his shorts today were black, so no one would notice if they didn’t pay close attention. Watching him adjust his pants made you chuckle. He raised an eyebrow seeing your reaction. “You think it's funny? Fuckin’ brat,” he muttered out, his jaw clenched as he walked away to go rally up the other girls.
From that moment on, you decided to make it your personal mission to mess with your dear ol’ coach, walking into the practice room with your skirt pulled higher than usual. Everytime you bend down just a little it would expose your plump ass, paired with your lacy panties just to rile him up even more. At the corner of your eye you could catch his stare; hungry eyes that trace the curves of your body from bottom to top.
Teasing him did come with its consequences. Turns out it was fairly easy getting coach Barnes to snap. While everyone was practicing their flips and poses, you were on the side doing a scale pose. You effortlessly pulled your leg up, hitting that ‘High-V’ motion. Whilst balancing, you were counting every second until you hit your limit, legs trembling and breath laboured.
The countdown was interrupted when you felt a steady hand holding your thigh, pushing your legs further apart to form a straighter split.
Coach Barnes stood behind you, his wide solid chest pressed against your back as he leaned his head close to your neck. His salt and pepper beard scratched against your neck as he whispered into your ear. “Focus, look straight and hold the pose.” He knew what he was doing and he could see the effect it had on you, the stimulation from his hand sliding closer to your core, giving small squeezes, the overall warmth of his body pressed up behind you… god you were struggling to keep it together.
After a few moments he moved his hand up, hooking his finger under the waistband and gently stretching it, testing the elastic. He grinned, pulling on the band back far enough before letting go. The fabric snapped back, hit your skin with a smack. The sudden feeling made your knees buckle - thankfully your coach was there to keep your balance.
“Tsk tsk tsk.. seems like you’re not concentrating today… and why is that sweetheart?” he purrs, not letting you have a breather as his fingers glide against your clothed pussy.
“Already so wet, fuck- look at you… Better stay quiet, you hear me? Wouldn’t want any of the other girls to catch you like this, hm?” You let out a soft whimper before nodding, biting your bottom lip to keep the noises from escaping.
The pleasure you felt from the simple friction was enough to get you close. You let out a shaky breath, panting. “Coach.. I’m close– god– please don’t stop”. Here's where the consequences came.
“You think this is a game? All this time you’ve been giving me a show, prancing around basically half naked...I had to go home and fuck my fist everytime cause of you. I think you need a little punishment, brat,” he snarls. His finger pushed down, prodding at your entrance through your underwear before completely pulling away.
You were at the very edge and the sudden loss of contact had your pussy throbbing for more, letting out a small whine as you tried to look like you weren’t about to cum in front of everyone a few seconds ago. He grinned in satisfaction seeing how distraught you were before walking to the center to start the cheer session as usual.
In a hazy blur, practice was finally over. You were packing your things, already thinking about how you were going to go home and imagine your hands were his, gently sliding across the sensitive parts of your cunt.. Suddenly, coach Barnes blew his whistle, gaining everyone’s attention. The team gathered around him to listen to his announcements. “Good job everyone, I will see you for the game this Friday. But I do have to speak with you,” he points at you, before continuing. “Stay back, we have things to discuss.. everyone else is dismissed.”
Once everyone had left, coach Barnes gestured for you to follow him. You entered the room and closed the door behind you. Now it was just the two of you.. there was a heat that coiled below your stomach at the possible things that could happen right now. He beckoned you with his finger. You immediately obeyed, now standing right in front of him. He leaned down and hooked your chin up,your lips inches from touching.
“You seemed distracted today.. that won’t do. I think a little punishment is needed.” You tried to catch his lips for a kiss. He immediately pulled away, just for you to be out of reach. “Use your words, what does the little slut want?” His words had sent a jolt of pleasure straight down to your core. Your eyes flickered down to the massive bulge straining his shorts, and you salivated.
Your hand rested on the bulge, rubbing it slightly. “This.. I want this, coach please– I need it- I need it so bad- I need you.” Your words satisfied him. He placed a hand on the waistband of his shorts.
“On your knees.” The command immediately had you kneeling, positioning yourself face level with his throbbing erection.
He pulled down his shorts and boxers, his cock now resting on your face. God it was so heavy. You could smell the precum leaking from his tip– how was he this big… Your shaky breath fanned his cock, making it twitch. Instinctually you reach out, wanting to touch his girth- but he gently swatted your hand away. Wrapping his hand around his thick cock, he slapped it against your face a few times before rubbing it all over your face.
You began pleading “Please, please–”
He cuts you off by shoving his cock into your mouth. “There we go.. is that better? This is what you wanted, right?” He coos, holding your head still. Hearing your muffled replies he started to push it all the way in, until your lips were touching his base. Coach Barnes let out a groan, “Shit– you’re so warm..I knew this pretty little mouth would feel good” You gagged, his tip was hitting the very back of your throat.
One of his hands was on your face while the other fisted your hair, he roughly began rocking his cock into your mouth, using your mouth like a toy– not that you mind. You preferred being manhandled, having them do the work for you. Your whole body felt hot with need as he continued to use your mouth and all you could do was let out muffled moans. The vibrations sent pleasure down his length.
Drool and saliva was dripping down your chin, but you were too busy being dizzy from your coach’s cock to care. You could feel it twitching inside. He was close. Your tongue started lapping at the underside of him. His thrusts became sloppy as he mumbled curses. You could see coach Barnes’ face morphing into one of intense pleasure. With a final thrust he plunged his cock all the way in. His cock pulsed as hot spurts of cum filled your mouth which you happily swallowed.
Slowly he pulled out of your mouth, taking a moment to look at your tear-streaked, ruined makeup. He pulled you upright and cupped your face.
“You swallowed it all? Good girl,” he smiled. You nod, as his hand moved down to your waist, gently curled around it. Right as you were coming down from your high, leaning into his touch, his hand left you again to lay a firm smack against your ass.
“Seems like you’ve learned your lesson for today, better be in top shape for friday yeah? You’re dismissed.”
You’ve been distracted for the past few days, whenever you tried to focus on anything the scent, feel and taste of his cock would cloud your mind. The girls locker room was busy with everyone touching up their makeup and rehearsing the cheer routine that they were performing soon.
Maybe after tonight's game you could get rewarded by coach Barnes, the thought had you thrumming with excitement as you all got onto the field.
The cheer performance went just as planned, perfect flips and formation. You haven’t missed a beat– well until you caught a glance of him by the bleachers with a proud smile, your chest squeezed at the sight and maybe it made you a bit distracted because you stumbled the last turn. Your cheeks burned with embarrassment as you quickly recovered with the ending pose, fortunately it couldn’t have been that noticeable as the crowd cheered.
Soon all of you settled back to the bleachers to let the football teams continue their match. Coach Barnes praised the girls for their hard work tonight. He gave each of the girls either a high five or a ruffle on the head, however when it was your turn he instead patted your back before sliding his hand down and giving that ass a firm squeeze, which caused you to let out a soft gasp.
It seems like a bad night for the rival football team as they lost, the college students all cheered but the opposing players started to falter and never recovered. You were confident the reason was due to getting distracted by the cleavage shown from the low cut of your cheer tops, why else did they start staggering after half time which was coincidentally right after the routine.
Post-game celebrations were the best part of the night, the gymnasium was prepped with food and drinks. These were exclusive to the jocks and cheerleaders, hosted by both coaches.
While sipping on some drink, you saw Elliot who was the co captain talking with his friends. Without thinking much you walked up to him, “Hey Elliot! I haven’t seen you since that party, congrats on the win tonight!” you congratulated him.
Elliot was delighted to see you, he immediately grabbed you by the waist and picked you up; With ease, he spun you around while smiling, “Thank you.. I’m sure it's because of the killer routine you guys did today. It had them tripping over themselves on the field. Which I mean– c'mon who wouldn’t be?”
Elliot’s words were just harmless flirting in your head, you giggled as he finally set you back down. His hands lingered around your waist for a moment longer than needed before letting go, sometimes sneaking back as the two of you caught up.
You were oblivious to the specific someone that had eavesdropped and watched the whole interaction from the side. Coach Barnes was being chatted up by the other football coach about how well his boys played tonight or something– he wasn’t paying attention.
Seeing how the jock had his hands on your body, it made a surge of irritation go through coach Barnes’ chest, his grip tightening on the plastic cup in his hand. The nerve of Elliot to touch you so freely… Not that you seemed to mind. The conversation between the two coaches soon ended as he excused himself, discarding the half crushed cup before walking towards you.
“Sorry to cut in, Harding, but I need this little missy to help me with something.” Coach Barnes spoke, giving Elliot a firm look and interrupting the conversation between the two of you, placing a hand on your shoulder. Elliot was too much of a coward to say no, so begrudgingly all he could do was nod and walk away.
Your stomach did a small swirl as coach Barnes had dragged you out of the gymnasium, already imagining where things were leading to. He took a turn heading for the girls locker room, once inside he made sure that it was just the two of you, alone.
“You needed me for something, coach..? I’d love to help in any way I can..” you lowered your voice, hands trailing up his chest feeling his hard pecs. Instead of teasing back, he clicked his tongue and grabbed both your wrists before backing you up against the lockers, pinning your hands by the sides of your head.
“So.. Harding eh? You let anyone put their hands on you?” he growled, eyes narrowing at you in jealousy. You hadn't expected such a reaction from coach Barnes, you opened your mouth wanting to explain the misunderstanding that had formed however you paused… Why not have some fun?
You let out an amused huff and tilted your head to the side, “Is there a problem coach? Don’t tell me you’re jealous… aw.” a retort escaped your lips, the thrill of testing the older man’s limit sent a jolt of pleasure down to your cunt.
The way his face scrunched up in annoyance was satisfying, as expected, the result of poking the bear would be thrilling. Coach Barnes smashed his lips against yours, “He would never be able to satisfy this pretty little thing.” He murmured while his hands let go of yours, one of them trailing down and going under your skirt, a finger pressing against the clothed clit.
The little gasp you let out was practically a plea to keep going, “You need a more experienced man, not some flimsy college boy… or do I need to prove it to you?” pulling your underwear to the side he played with your bare pussy.
All you could do was whimper as your hips bucked to get his fingers closer to the heat that's building in you, “Oh? What’s this… dripping already? Tsk tsk tsk… Who’s this pussy wet for huh?” He chides, shaking his head in mock disappointment, your usual bratty self unraveled and what was left was a begging mess of nerves want and need.
“Y-you…” your voice was no louder than a breath, embarrassed to admit how wet you were for him. Coach Barnes heard your response and his lips curled into a wolfish grin, “I couldn’t catch that, one more time… you know the things I wanna hear.” His tease had your cheeks flushing as you bit your bottom lip.
“You made me wet, okay? Is that what you wanted to hear god!–” You cut yourself off with a moan as his fingers pinched your little button. He could feel your sweet juices soak his hand, slowly he slipped two fingers in breaching that tight dripping hole. Your walls immediately clenched around his thick digits making coach Barnes groan at the feeling, god you were so warm and wet… not to mention the loud squelching noises had unraveled something in him.
His thumb started to rub circles around your clit while the other two fingers kept pumping in and out. You let out little moans and whines, trying to swallow it down so no one passing by outside could hear how good your own coach was making you feel. He noticed and pushed the two fingers deeper inside before curling them, his fingers reaching that spongy area which made you cry out his name seeing stars.
“God!– Coach Barnes!–”
“So fucking needy, does my little slut want to come?” You nod desperately for him, his fingers began pumping faster helping you to chase that high. He could feel you trembling against him, drenching his whole hand. “Come for me, c’mon.” Those three words had pushed her over the edge, your eyes rolled back and your mouth formed an O shape. Your whole body was shaking, pussy clenching hard on his fingers as you came.
As he pulled out his slick covered fingers out of your pussy, some of your cum had leaked down and dripped onto the floor. He brought his fingers up to his lips, licking them clean. The sight was intoxicating, your coach who was knuckles deep inside you just moments ago, was now sucking his fingers while groaning. “Fuck, I knew this pussy would be sweet.”
There was no snapping back, no retorts or teasing, what was left of you now was a pliant and leaking mess who’s in need of a cock to fill that pussy up.
Impatiently, he started pulling his shorts down as if the fabric was burning him. His cock sprang free, the head red with how hard he had been precum leaking from his tip. Seeing his cock again after being deprived of it these few days was like a drug. You were ready to drop down and please him but he reached out and kept a firm grip on your waist while his other hand began stroking his hard length.
“No baby, my cock wants a taste of that little pussy too.” He turned you around, making you bend over with your cheek and hands pressing against the lockers for support. Coach Barnes’ rubbed his cock against your wet folds, it would have been embarrassing how fast your slick coated his cock if it wasn’t for the feverish feeling overtaking you.
“Fuck… look at you,” the way he said it, he wasn’t talking to you but your pussy. He pressed his swollen tip against your entrance, the feeling of just how thick his head was made you squirm with excitement. As his cock breached your tight heat, you could feel every ridge and vein stretching out your walls.
Holy shit, he was huge.
The burn from the stretch was both painful and delicious, you gasped as he kept thrusting deeper not letting you accommodate his long and girthy size. Coach Barnes stilled and groaned once his full length was inside of you, allowing you to finally breathe. You felt his balls slap against your already sensitive clit making you squirm and push back your hips needing to feel more.
“Oh God!– Coach Barnes, you're so big!”
Your desperate little act and whine turned him on even more, not wasting anymore time he started to rock his hips into you relentlessly. “No other college boy can fuck you this good huh? You’re such a fucking slut.” He slammed his hips harder making you whimper, “I know what this pussy needs, a thick experienced cock from a real man. How does it feel to actually be filled up hm?”
You couldn’t think straight, your body trembling from being pounded by coach Barnes however you knew better than to not respond when he was talking to you. “Good– feel good– oh!”, though it seemed like your words weren’t enough for him as his hand leaned down to pinch your hot and raw clit. “What? Didn’t catch that, use your words slut.” he snarled, pausing his thrusts to get your attention.
The sudden lack of pleasure made you whine, he squished both your cheeks with one hand tilting your head back to look at him. His eyes bored into yours waiting, “Please coach Barnes… your cock is my favourite!– I need it so bad fuck– it’s so good, so fucking big!” Satisfied he let go of your face and pulled his hips back until only the tip was inside before slamming the whole length inside in one rough thrust, burying himself to the hilt of your warmth.
“Thats right, I’m glad you know your place baby.”
The locker room was filled with sounds of skin slapping bouncing off the thin walls, your loud moans was a dead giveaway that someone's pussy was getting ruined inside there. Not to mention the room completely smelled like sex and sweat.
His thrusts were getting sloppy, your walls were clenching tighter, not wanting to let go as the two of you were chasing the high that was so close. At the very peak of ecstasy suddenly coach Barnes heard footsteps walking down the hallway, getting closer to the locker room. He covered your mouth with his hand, suddenly well aware the two of them would be the first thing anyone walking in sees.
Coach Barnes stilled and whispered into your ear in a hushed tone, "someone's coming, we have to move.” which made you huff and whine, not wanting to stop fucking. “Relax, I bet they’re just walking past… no one would come in here– just continue pleasee!” you arched your back to get some friction going. Not dealing with your whining he quickly pulled out and hauled you over his shoulder like a potato sack, the only available area to hide in is the showers.
The footsteps were getting louder, and so was your heartbeat as he made sure nothing was left behind and went into one of the shower cubicles locking the door once inside. You were squirming and throwing a fit while he did all this, ready to tell coach Barnes he was being paranoid but you went silent the moment you heard the doors open.
“Hello? Is someone there?”
You recognised this voice, it was the cheer captain Alice. Oh fuck. The panic was rising up but your coach knew how to handle it, he motioned for you to answer as he turned the shower head water on. Fortunately the cubicle was big enough that the water didn't hit either of you. Taking a deep breath you gulped, “Uh..– yes! It's me sorry I was just taking a shower you know how it is, I didn't wanna go back all sweaty.”
Alice calmed down hearing a familiar voice and chatted up a conversation with you, thinking you were taking a shower. For a while coach Barnes’ shoulders relaxed knowing they weren’t caught, but as you continued the conversation with the cheer captain he couldn’t help but admire you. Skirt hitched up showing that pretty ass, panties shoved down and slick leaking down your inner thighs.
God what a sight, his half hard cock began to throb and get rock hard for you once more. Deciding to have a little fun after the things you put him through, he positioned himself behind you again, hands on your waist and gave you a little heads up by nudging his aching tip against your hole.
Tilting your head back you looked terrified, wide eyed and shook your head no at him even if a tiny part loved the thrill and possibility of getting caught. Even if your face hid that fact, your body definitely didn’t because you were already gripping onto his tip. Seeing how your pussy practically was begging for his cock, coach Barnes’ lips curled up into a grin making you bend over properly before sliding his length inside with ease while you were in the middle of responding to Alice.
“Yeah I think we did great to– NIGHT!” You tried covering up the moan with clearing your throat after.
“Look at you… she could catch us any moment but that’s what fun isn’t it?– Oh you definitely like that, look at her sucking me in, god– you’re such a whore.” he whispered, leaning forward and sucking on your neck.
It was honestly a miracle for Alice to not notice the subtle sound of skin against skin, how you were failing to even pay attention and answer with how distracted coach Barnes had you. Thank god Alice was called by her friends, she got her bag and quickly ended the conversation leaving the locker room. The moment you heard the door open and shut, all the moans and whimpers that you pushed down escaped.
Your true self unraveled fully, some bratty cheerleader who turned into nothing but a filthy slut at the sight of your coach’s cock. As he rocked his hips into you at a merciless pace, the water couldn’t hide the sounds anymore. He used his free hand to pull your top up showing your tits at full display bouncing back and forth.
No bra, of course.
“You always walk around like this? They’re begging for attention.” He clicked his tongue in a mock scolding tone as his pointer finger began playing with your hardened nipples, flicking at them, pinching and twisting. The unexpected touches caused jolts of pleasure straight down to your throbbing core, at this point all you were babbling nonsense as the heat was getting closer to exploding.
“I’m gonna cum!– oh my god yes yes yes– please don’t stop!”
It seemed like you learned who you belonged to so he continued to drill into you giving you that release you longed for, as your body spasmed multiple times your thighs were trembling from the immense pleasure. He watched as you came for the second time today, your release making your walls grip around his cock even tighter. You were barely hanging on to sentience as coach Barnes continued to pump into you, after a few thrusts he grunted and buried himself to the brim.
“Take it all– gonna fill you up fuck!–” He cummed inside of you, hot and thick white spurts filling you up completely. Both of you were a panting mess, you could barely stand without his hands holding you upright. After catching his breath, coach Barnes slowly pulled out of you.
“My little slut made such a mess hm? Now what should you say?”
“Thank… thank you, coach.”
“I’m hoping to see you every week after practice?” He chuckled, pulling your panties up and fixing your top. You could only afford to nod dumbly, knowing your cheerleading coach had ruined your pussy and got you addicted to his cock. No other guy could ever compete, you’d forever come running back to coach Barnes to satisfy your needs and he was happy to do so.
taglist : @superbassbuck @charlottemart @epiphanyrogers @sheriff-bodecker let me know if you would like to be added :)
bucky seeing p0rn for the first time after the dating apps don’t work out👀
I'm deadddd, this was so vague so I just ran with it
The Education Of James Buchanan Barnes
pairing | post!tfatws!bucky x fem!reader
word count | 6.3k words
summary | when dating apps fail him and thirst traps become his downfall, bucky barnes finds himself spiraling down the internet’s most unholy rabbit hole—pornhub.
what starts as horrified research turns into full-blown obsession... especially when you, his sharp-tongued best friend, catch him red-handed and make very sure he lives out every filthy fantasy he’s been hiding.
tags | (18+) MDNI, smut, unprotected sex, rough sex, face sitting, breeding kink dirty talk, roleplay mentions, overstimulation, sexual humor, porn discovery, reader catches bucky watching porn, friends to very horny lovers, reader is a menace, teasing, flustered bucky, dom!bucky, subtle power play, consent is sexy, reader rides his face, doggy style, missionary? i hardly know her, mutual pining (solved by porn), no use of y/n, reader is a problem and bucky loves it, aftercare.
a/n | yeah, I definitely went overboard with this. I hope you freaks enjoy this
taglist | if you wanna be added to my bucky barnes masterlist just add your username to my taglist
likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨
sᴇʀɪᴇs ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ
ɴᴇxᴛ ᴘᴀʀᴛ
divider by @cafekitsune
You sipped your drink slowly, already biting the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing as Bucky glared into his beer like it had personally betrayed him.
“So,” Sam started, barely hiding his smirk. “How was the date with... what was her name again? Velvet? Vixen?”
“Vesper,” Bucky muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “And she asked if I’d be into choking her with my vibranium arm before we even finished our drinks.”
You snorted into your glass.
Sam leaned forward, grinning. “I mean... was she wrong?”
“Sam.” Bucky’s glare was instant, but mostly performative. “I just met her.”
You glanced at him over your glass, amused. “What app did you find this one on?”
He groaned. “The same one you said was ‘normal.’”
“No one said it was normal,” you said, raising a brow. “I said it was better than Tinder. That’s not a high bar.”
Bucky leaned back with a sigh, looking thoroughly done with the entire 21st century. “I miss when people met at soda shops and asked each other about their families instead of sending... pictures of their genitals.”
Sam barked a laugh. “Aw, poor Grandpa’s overwhelmed by the sex-positive future.”
“You know what’s not positive?” Bucky muttered. “The fact that I Googled ‘how to get back out of the dating app’ and it sent me to a subreddit with people just as confused as I am.”
You exchanged a look with Sam, both of you clearly enjoying this way too much.
“Have you... considered other ways to meet people?” you asked, trying not to grin. “Like not being a digital hermit?”
Bucky looked between the two of you, deadpan. “I’m this close to living in the jungle again.”
Sam raised his glass. “To Bucky Barnes, the only man who can bench-press a car but can’t survive Hinge.”
Bucky slammed his glass down—not hard, but with enough force to earn a side-eye from the bartender.
“I just don’t get it,” he muttered. “I’m trying to talk to these women like a normal person. I say, ‘Hi, how was your day?’ and one of them responds with—” he fumbled with his phone, squinting at the screen, “‘Send me a pic of the arm, baby, I wanna see what’s gonna rearrange my insides.’”
You choked.
Sam full-on cackled, grabbing his chest. “Wait—rearrange her insides? Yo, that’s poetry.”
“She sent a GIF after that,” Bucky went on, staring at the phone like it might explode. “A GIF. Of a hydraulic press crushing a watermelon. What does that mean?”
“I’m gonna die,” you wheezed, nearly spilling your drink. “She wants you to hydraulically press her coochie, Barnes. Come on.”
“I thought she was making a smoothie metaphor!” Bucky snapped. “And then another one asked if I was into CNC. I said I didn’t know what that meant, and she said ‘perfect.’”
Sam wiped a tear from his eye. “Oh my god—Bucky, you’re gonna end up in someone’s kink diary.”
“She sent me a TikTok about edging,” Bucky added, horror slowly overtaking his face. “I thought it was about gardening.”
You completely lost it, head in your arms on the table. “Please stop, I can’t breathe.”
Bucky scowled. “I’m serious! She said she wanted to edge me for hours, and I said that sounded peaceful, like a nice walk—and she sent back forty-seven emojis.”
Sam gasped between wheezes. “You’re getting sexted in hieroglyphics and you think it’s a hike, I’m begging you to never leave the house again.”
Bucky looked between you both, betrayal written across his face. “I survived Hydra. I survived seventy years of brainwashing. But I will not survive being called ‘daddy’ by a woman who lists her job as ‘freelance foot model and energy witch.’”
“Wait—did she have the crystals?” you asked, barely able to form the words.
He nodded grimly. “She said my aura was ‘screaming trauma kink.’”
Sam actually slid off the stool, wheezing on the floor.
He shut the door behind him with a dull thunk, then stood there for a moment in the silence. The kind that pressed in around the edges when no one else was around. Just him, the creak of the old radiator, and the words “rearrange my insides” still echoing in his head like a ghost.
Bucky sighed, tossed his jacket onto the back of a chair, and walked into the kitchen, opening the fridge as if disappointment wouldn’t be waiting there too. One beer left. Great.
He grabbed it, popped the cap off with his metal hand, and made his way over to his laptop.
It sat there on the table like a challenge.
He opened it. The familiar whir kicked on. A sigh slipped through his teeth.
“I fought in two wars,” he muttered to himself. “Survived Hydra. Took down a helicarrier. But this? This is the real enemy.”
He hesitated, fingers hovering over the keyboard.
Then he typed:
"What does CNC mean?"
Enter.
He leaned forward slowly, reading the top search result. Then the second.
His eyebrows pulled together. His mouth fell open just slightly.
"...Consensual non-consent?"
He clicked the link. Read further.
He leaned back in his chair like he’d just been shot.
“Why—why would anyone want that?” he muttered, scandalized. “That’s just... that’s just assault with permission.”
Still, he didn’t close the tab.
He opened a new one instead.
"Edging meaning (not gardening)"
More links. More acronyms. More trauma.
His face contorted in quiet horror as he scanned descriptions, diagrams, tips and techniques.
His beer sat forgotten on the table.
Eventually, he clicked a link that just said “beginner’s guide to porn kinks.” It was a blog. Fairly clinical. Until it wasn’t.
Then he clicked another.
And another.
Until eventually he wound up on a site with thumbnails—little videos with previews. Titles he didn’t fully understand.
He stared at one.
A girl, on her knees, mouth open, eyes wide.
Title: “Training My Pretty Submissive Brat”
He blinked. Then hovered. Clicked.
The video loaded.
He sat still, very still, as it started playing.
And then...
“What the hell—” he whispered.
The guy was talking. Dirty. Commanding.
The girl was moaning like someone had just whispered state secrets in her ear. She was calling him sir. Begging. Crying out when he—
Bucky slammed the spacebar to pause the video, hand clenched on the table.
He stood. Paced.
‘I shouldn’t be watching this,’ he thought, running his hand through his hair. ‘This is wrong. This is not—that’s not—’
He looked back at the screen.
Unpaused.
A few seconds passed.
He sat again.
Watched. Silent. Rigid.
His jaw clenched. His eyes darted across the screen like he was scanning enemy movement.
Then his hand—his metal hand—tapped the edge of the keyboard.
Paused again.
His chest rose and fell.
“I mean… he’s not hurting her,” he thought. “She’s asking for it. She likes it.”
Beat.
“And she’s loud.”
He sat back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, glaring at the paused screen like it had insulted him personally.
Then he muttered, “Is that what people want now?”
He reopened the search bar.
"How to talk dirty in bed"
The search results hit him like a grenade.
By the third article, his ears were red. His fingers hovered over the trackpad like they didn’t know whether to scroll or just snap the whole laptop in half.
He clicked another video.
This one was slower. More intimate.
The woman straddled the guy’s lap, whispering in his ear. He growled something back, then pushed her down on the bed—
Bucky’s breath caught.
He didn’t even notice his hand moving under the table at first.
Didn’t notice the low groan that slipped from his throat when the man on screen said, “Good girl—just like that.”
He froze. Eyes wide. Mouth dry.
He swallowed hard.
“…I need another beer.”
But he didn’t move.
Didn’t stop watching.
Because something in him had been starved for this. For contact. For control. For someone wanting him, even in fantasy.
The next video autoplayed before he could stop it.
Another couple. This time, softer lighting. Moaning, whispered praise. Her back arched under his touch as he moved slow, deliberate, like every second was sacred.
Bucky swallowed hard.
He sat motionless for a full minute.
Then his hand drifted down.
Hesitant. Awkward.
He undid the button of his jeans, fingers brushing over the bulge in his briefs. The contact was enough to make his breath stutter.
“Jesus,” he whispered.
He shifted in his seat, pushed his jeans down just enough, and curled his hand around himself. Warm skin against cool air. His metal hand clenched uselessly on the table as the other moved slowly, uncertain.
The sounds from the video—soft, rhythmic, intimate—filled the room.
And Bucky gave in.
His eyes didn’t close. He watched—studied—the way the man touched her, held her, spoke to her like she was something precious and filthy all at once.
“Such a good girl,” the man murmured. “Taking all of me. Just like that.”
Bucky bit down on a groan, his hand moving faster now, hips twitching in his seat.
He imagined saying those words.
And then—
He imagined you.
Your voice, sharp and sarcastic, going breathy and soft when he touched you. Your legs around his waist. Your fingers in his hair. Your mouth whispering his name like it meant something.
And that thought—you, under him, with him—wrecked him.
He jerked harder, gritting his teeth, chest rising fast.
A low moan slipped out. Sharp. Uncontrolled.
His head fell back, eyes clenched shut as heat coiled in his gut. His body trembled.
One more stroke—
And he came.
Hard.
He let out a strangled noise, hips lifting off the couch, body seizing as white-hot pleasure shot through him. His hand slowed, milked every last pulse, until the aftershocks faded and all that was left was—
Silence. Reality. Shame.
His breath was harsh in his ears.
The screen was still playing.
The woman moaned, laughing, pulling the man closer.
Bucky stared. Then looked down.
At himself. At the mess.
At the way his hand was still wrapped around his cock, softening now, shame creeping in like a slow burn.
He let go like he’d been scalded.
The aftershocks hadn’t even faded before the guilt hit—cold and immediate.
Not from what he’d watched.
Not even from what he’d done.
But from who he’d seen in his mind while he did it.
You.
You, laughing beside him at the bar. You, rolling your eyes at his brooding. You, calling him “grandpa” and meaning it with affection.
You—beneath him, moaning, touching, giving yourself to him in the fantasy that had just ripped through his body.
His stomach twisted.
He yanked his pants back up, hands clumsy, face burning not with arousal now—but with shame.
“Fuck,” he muttered, pacing, one hand raking through his hair, the other clenching into a fist. “Fuck—what the hell’s wrong with me?”
You were his friend.
You were real.
And he’d just used the idea of you like… like some porn star on a screen.
His jaw tightened. He couldn’t look at the laptop. Couldn’t look at himself. He felt dirty—not because he’d touched himself, but because it felt like a betrayal. A violation of something pure.
He sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.
That hadn’t been just need.
That had been you.
And now he didn’t know how the hell he was supposed to look you in the eye again.
A Few Weeks Later
There was a knock at the door.
Three knocks, then a pause.
Then two more.
“Come on, Barnes,” your voice called through the door. “I brought sacrificial offerings.”
Bucky hesitated.
He sat in the dark, boots still on, bruised knuckles resting against his knees. His hoodie clung to him, sweat-damp and rumpled, his mind still halfway in the mission, halfway in the same loop it had been stuck in for weeks.
But it was you.
He got up slowly and opened the door.
You stood there with a paper bag in one hand, a six-pack in the other, grinning like you had zero intention of leaving whether he wanted you to or not.
“You gonna let me in or should I start monologuing like a Bond villain?”
He stepped aside without a word.
You strolled in like you owned the place, already heading to the kitchen with practiced ease.
“Brought dumplings, noodles, and enough alcohol to bleach the taste of both from your soul,” you said, setting things down. “You looked like someone clubbed you with your own metal arm last mission, so—figured I’d play nurse. A sexy, underqualified nurse with boundary issues.”
Bucky closed the door quietly behind you.
“You’re not a nurse,” he muttered.
“Not with that attitude.”
You popped the beers open, handed him one, then flopped onto his couch like you lived there. Legs kicked up, food containers opened without ceremony, your usual grin in place.
He stood a few feet away, beer untouched in his hand.
He hadn’t seen you in weeks—not really. He’d ducked every casual run-in, bailed on team movie nights, even ghosted your texts under the excuse of "needing space." He figured you noticed.
You just hadn’t said anything.
Until now.
You eyed him, casually, between bites. “You gonna sit down or do I need to pull you onto the couch like a Victorian housewife?”
He sat. Slowly. Farther away than usual.
You noticed. Of course you did. But you didn’t call him on it.
Not yet.
Instead, you nudged a container toward him and said, “Eat, soldier. You look like a sad, haunted lumberjack.”
And still—he didn’t say a word.
Because all he could think about, sitting beside you again after a month of silence, was the way your mouth had looked in that fantasy.
The way your voice had sounded moaning his name.
The way he’d used the memory of your real, friendly, teasing self to—
He swallowed thickly.
You kept eating, casual, sharp, familiar.
Exactly how he remembered. Exactly what made it so much worse.
You wiped your fingers on a napkin, leaned back, and gave him a look.
“Alright. You look like you’re two seconds from overthinking yourself into an early grave. Movie time. Something with violence or explosions—your love language.”
Before he could protest, you were already standing and heading toward his desk.
“Wait—” he said, starting to rise, but too slow.
You flipped open his laptop. “Let’s see what Grandpa Barnes has in his—”
“Ah—ahh—yes, please—!”
The moaning hit like a tactical nuke.
You froze.
So did he.
Both of you staring wide-eyed at the screen as the speakers screamed filth into the otherwise silent apartment.
Bucky moved fast.
Too fast.
He lunged over the couch, hand outstretched like he was taking enemy fire.
You dodged.
Smooth, practiced. Years of training paying off.
“No—” he barked, face already crimson, “Please—don’t—!”
“Oh my god—” you laughed, holding the laptop just out of reach. “Is this—is this Pornhub? Are you seriously—you are! You’ve been watching porn, you absolute degenerate.”
He groaned, dragging his hand down his face, mortified.
“Please give me the laptop,” he said, voice low, wounded, like you were holding a hostage.
But you were already clicking the spacebar, pausing the video mid-thrust.
“Oooh,” you said, squinting at the tab title. “‘Brat tamer destroys needy sub’? This is what you’re into?” You looked at him, eyebrows raised. “Bucky.”
“Stop,” he muttered, pacing now, hands on his hips. “I was—researching.”
“Researching what? The anatomy of a throatfuck?” you said, howling with laughter. “Brat tamer—are you even on Tumblr, old man?”
He looked like he wanted the floor to open and consume him.
“Do you know how much I regret every decision that led to this moment?”
You hugged the laptop to your chest dramatically. “I can’t believe you’ve been hiding this. The secrets. The shame. The kinks.”
“Give. It. Back.”
“Nope. Not until we find out if you’ve got a whole ‘rough dom Bucky’ fantasy folder stashed somewhere. You into praise? Degradation? Impact play? Knife play?”
He growled.
Actually growled.
And for half a second, it stopped being funny.
Because the way his eyes locked on you?
That wasn’t embarrassment anymore.
That was heat. Low. Dangerous.
You grinned, too drunk on the chaos to stop.
“Come on, Barnes,” you said, laptop still clutched like a prize. “Own it. You like a little bratty backtalk? You want someone to whimper please while you tell her she’s being a bad girl?”
He was still pacing, but slower now. Controlled. Coiled.
You didn’t notice.
You were too busy poking the bear.
“Is that what you’re into?” you teased, stepping back. “All that repressed soldier shit finally coming out in dirty little commands and throat grips?”
His eyes met yours. Still embarrassed, sure. But behind it? Something sharper. Something hungry.
“Y’know,” you added, tone light, teasing, “I always pegged you as more of a soft dom. Gentle hands. Lots of praise. But this? This is dark. Kinda filthy. Kinda hot.”
That did it. He moved.
Fast.
Faster than he should’ve.
One second, you were smirking with the laptop; the next, it was out of your hands, clattering to the couch. You were against the wall, chest rising, his body a breath away from yours.
His hand planted next to your head.
His voice low. Controlled.
“Enough.”
You stared at him. The air was suddenly thick. Your heart thudded once, hard.
“You think this is a joke?” he asked, eyes burning into you.
Your mouth parted, but no sound came out.
“You think I don’t know you’ve been toying with me since the moment you walked in?”
That teasing smile faltered—just a little.
“You keep pushing,” he murmured, leaning in, breath brushing your jaw. “You laugh, you flirt, you play. But you don’t realize... I’ve thought about you. In ways I shouldn’t.”
You swallowed.
Hard.
“I know what I watched,” he went on, voice rough, low, dangerous. “I know who I imagined.”
Your breath caught.
His eyes dropped to your lips.
Then back up.
And when he spoke again, it wasn’t a threat.
It was a promise.
“You want to see what I’m into?”
You blinked up at him—cornered, caged—but not afraid.
Not even close. Your smile crept back, slower this time. Calculated.
“Oh,” you murmured, tone shifting. “You imagined me?”
Bucky’s jaw tightened.
His silence said everything.
You pushed your palms slowly against his chest, feeling the way his body tensed under your touch. Solid. Barely held together.
You leaned in, lips brushing just beneath his ear.
“So tell me,” you whispered, voice low and coaxing. “If you’ve already pictured it, Barnes... what did I look like?”
He exhaled harshly through his nose.
You didn’t stop.
“What was I doing?” you went on, dragging your fingers down the curve of his chest. “Was I on my knees? Bent over? Did I ride you while you begged for it?”
A choked sound left him—more breath than voice.
You smiled against his neck. “Or do you want to tell me what you were doing to me?”
His hands twitched at his sides.
You could feel it—the war inside him. Guilt, hunger, restraint. And under all of it, the ache.
“Go on, James,” you whispered, using his real name like a secret. “Tell me. What do you like?”
His head dropped forward, forehead nearly touching yours.
A beat passed.
Then another.
And then—
“I want you on top,” he breathed, voice ragged. “I want you to sit on my face and ride it until your legs give out.”
Your eyes fluttered closed for half a second.
That was not the answer you expected first.
His voice deepened, like now that he’d started, he couldn’t stop.
“I want you on your knees, begging. I want to fuck you from behind so deep you forget your own name. I want to feel you come around me and not stop. I want to stay inside you.”
His breath hitched. His hands were fisting at his sides.
“And when I’m done, when you can’t even move anymore—I want to come in you and keep coming until you’re full of me. Until it’s dripping out of you.”
Your thighs clenched instinctively.
Your nails curled tighter into his chest.
And your voice, still low, still teasing—but now breathy, just slightly—said:
“Damn, Barnes. That’s a whole lot of filth for someone who didn’t even know what edging was last month.”
Your last teasing whisper hadn’t even left your lips before Bucky moved.
One second you were pinned between him and the wall, and the next, his hands were on your hips, gripping tight. Then the ground disappeared beneath your feet.
You gasped as he lifted you—easily, effortlessly—hauling you against his chest like you weighed nothing.
“Jesus, Barnes—” you started, but his mouth was already on yours.
It wasn’t a kiss. It was a claim.
Hot, rough, needy—his lips crashed into yours with the force of every filthy thought, every sleepless night, every moment he’d spent imagining your mouth, your body, your sound. His teeth scraped your bottom lip. His tongue pushed past yours. There was no hesitation. Just heat.
You moaned into it, hands threading into his hair, pulling him closer even as he carried you down the hall.
Your back hit the wall once, then the doorframe, and then—
The bed.
He dropped you onto it like a man starved for touch. The mattress creaked beneath you, sheets rumpled and cool against your skin as you propped yourself up on your elbows, breathless and grinning.
Bucky stood at the edge of the bed, looking at you like you were his undoing.
You tilted your head, voice low and mocking.
“Is this the part where you get all commanding, Sergeant? Or are you gonna make me do the work?”
His jaw clenched. He stepped forward. Then dropped his weight onto the bed, climbing over you, hands already at your thighs, dragging you down the sheets toward him.
“I told you not to push,” he growled.
You smiled, voice syrup-sweet.
“And I told you I liked pushing.”
His hands slipped under your shirt, yanking it over your head in one smooth motion. Your bra was next, tossed aside without ceremony. He ducked down immediately, mouth hot against your collarbone, then lower—kissing, biting, devouring.
You gasped, head falling back as his mouth found your breast, tongue circling your nipple before he sucked it between his lips, hard.
And still—you teased.
“Careful, Barnes. Gonna make a mess before you even get inside me.”
He looked up at you.
Eyes wild, hungry, dark.
And then he dragged your jeans down—fast, rough, like he didn’t have the patience for anything else—and crawled up between your legs, pressing his body to yours until there was nothing between you anymore.
“Then shut up,” he growled, grinding against you, his cock thick and hard through his jeans.
“Make me,” you whispered, pulling him down by the collar.
And he did.
His mouth was everywhere—jaw, neck, breasts, stomach—kissing, biting, groaning like he couldn’t get enough, like he didn’t know where to start because he wanted all of you.
Then he pulled back, breathing hard, eyes raking over your body like a man finally allowed to look.
“Get up,” he rasped, voice dark and thick with want.
You blinked up at him, dazed and grinning. “What?”
He sat back on his heels, hands gripping your thighs.
“I said get up,” he repeated. “I want you on my face.”
Your breath caught.
Dead serious.
You didn’t question it. Didn’t tease.
Instead, your lips curved into a slow smile as you shifted, sitting up, climbing over him with fluid, easy confidence.
“As you wish, Sergeant.”
That name hit him like a punch to the chest.
His hands guided you—firm, reverent, needy—until your knees were braced on either side of his head, your body hovering just above his lips.
He looked up at you like a man who’d prayed for this moment.
And then?
He pulled you down.
No hesitation.
Just mouth.
Hot, wet, desperate—he groaned the second he tasted you, tongue already lapping through your folds, lips sealing around your clit like he was starving.
Your head tipped back with a sharp gasp, fingers flying into his hair as your hips bucked against his mouth.
“Fuck—Bucky—”
He growled in response, hands gripping your ass, holding you down, keeping you there.
You rocked against him instinctively, gasping as his tongue flicked and circled, licked and sucked. He was moaning into you, mumbling things you couldn’t even make out—except for one word that hit clear, over and over:
“Mine.”
You looked down at him, eyes wild, mouth open.
His eyes met yours.
Dark. Glazed. Possessed.
You could see the man he used to be—the soldier, the weapon—but right now?
Right now he was just yours.
And you were his.
You couldn’t stop moving.
Couldn’t stop grinding against his mouth, against his tongue, the pleasure slamming through you in waves, harder and sharper with every flick, every suck.
Bucky moaned beneath you, the sound filthy, shameless, needy—like your taste was saving him from something dark and deep and buried.
His hands held you tighter, guiding your hips as you rocked against his mouth, your thighs trembling around his head.
“Fuck—fuck—” you gasped, one hand gripping the headboard, the other buried in his thick, messy hair. “Don’t stop—don’t you dare stop—”
He didn’t.
If anything, he doubled down—lips sealing tighter, tongue working you harder, sloppier, his groans vibrating against your clit like a live wire.
He wanted this.
He wanted to suffocate on you, drown in you.
And you gave it to him.
Because when you looked down, saw those glassy, desperate blue eyes staring up at you, pleading for more, there was no holding back.
The coil snapped.
Your whole body locked as the orgasm ripped through you, sharp and searing, your hips jerking uncontrollably against his mouth.
“Bucky—” you cried, voice cracking, thighs clamping around his head as you came—hard.
He didn’t let go.
He held you there, arms wrapped around your thighs, mouth still working you through it, licking and sucking every shudder, every twitch, like it was a gift.
You collapsed forward, one hand braced on the headboard behind his head, the other still clutching his hair, your body wrecked, shaking, soaked.
And when you finally opened your eyes—chest heaving, heart pounding—you looked down at him.
His lips were wet, chin glistening, eyes blown wide with hunger.
He looked like he could live there. Like he’d happily die there.
And all he said, voice hoarse and full of worship:
“You taste like heaven.”
You were still trembling when he sat up behind you, hands stroking your thighs, your hips, slow and reverent like he needed to remember the feel of you.
“You good?” he rasped, voice wrecked from moaning into you.
You nodded, barely catching your breath, lips curving into a slow smile.
“Still waiting for that doggystyle fantasy to come true, Sergeant.”
That was all it took.
He growled low in his throat, grabbing your hips, flipping you effortlessly onto your stomach. Before you could even laugh, his hands slid under your body and lifted your hips high, chest pressed down into the mattress.
You moaned, the stretch in your spine perfect, delicious.
He leaned over you, his breath hot at your ear.
“This how you want it?”
You arched your back, ass pushing against him. “This is how you want it.”
He growled again—low, deep, possessive.
“Exactly how I want it.”
Then you felt him—his cock, thick and hot, dragging through your soaked folds, the head catching on your entrance.
He didn’t push in yet.
Just rubbed, slow, deliberate, teasing.
You whimpered, tried to push back.
He gripped your hips tighter.
“Not yet,” he murmured. “You’re gonna feel all of it.”
Then—he pushed in.
Slow at first, but deep, the stretch burning in the best way as he filled you, inch by thick, pulsing inch.
“Fuck—” you moaned, hands clutching the sheets as he bottomed out.
He held still once he was fully inside.
Like he was savoring it.
Like this—being buried in you, your body wrapped tight around his—was what he’d been starving for.
Then he moved.
Pulled out halfway.
And slammed back in.
You cried out, the sound muffled by the sheets as he started thrusting, each snap of his hips harder, deeper, rougher than the last.
His hands gripped your waist like you were his anchor.
His rhythm brutal, relentless.
He fucked you like he meant it—like he’d dreamed of this for weeks, like every fantasy had led to this.
You were gasping, moaning, clawing at the bed.
“Look at you,” he panted behind you. “So fucking tight—taking me so good.”
You couldn’t speak.
Could barely breathe.
And when his hand snaked around to rub your clit, you screamed his name.
He didn’t let up.
Just pounded into you harder, faster, until the sound of skin meeting skin filled the room, filthy and loud and perfect.
He was so deep in you.
Deeper than anyone had ever been—physically, yes, but also fully. Like this was where he belonged. Like this was where you belonged.
His hips rolled, the angle perfect, his cock dragging against that sweet spot inside you with every rough, claiming thrust.
And his voice—low, wrecked, filthy—poured right into your ear.
“You like that, sweetheart?” he growled. “You like being on your knees for me?”
You whimpered, nodding, voice breathless.
“Yes, Bucky—fuck—so much.”
He leaned over you, chest flush to your back, still moving inside you—slow now, torturously deep, like he wanted to feel every pulse of you clenching around him.
“Yeah, you do,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “My good girl. So fuckin’ wet for me. You were dripping on my face—you know that?”
You moaned, your body shaking, ass pushing back into him.
“I saw you,” he said, his rhythm stuttering just to drag the next thrust out longer. “When I told you to sit on my face? You didn’t even hesitate. You just gave it to me.”
You gasped as his hand slid down your back, curving over your ass, squeezing.
“And now you’re letting me fuck you like this,” he went on. “Taking every inch like a good little cocksleeve. You want me to fill you up, don’t you?”
You shuddered, squeezing around him so tight he groaned.
“Yes,” you panted, shameless. “Fuck, Bucky—fill me up—please—I want it.”
He slammed into you harder, rhythm picking up again, fast and unforgiving.
“That’s it,” he growled. “That’s what I like. You begging. You dripping. You mine.”
You cried out, bracing yourself against the mattress as he drove into you faster now, hand slipping beneath to rub your clit again.
“Say it,” he hissed. “Tell me who you belong to.”
“You,” you choked. “You, Bucky—I’m yours.”
He groaned deep in his throat, thrusts faltering for a beat like the words knocked something loose in him.
Then he grabbed your hair, gently but firm, pulling you up just enough to kiss your neck—bite it—then whisper:
“When I come, I’m gonna stay inside you. Gonna keep you full for hours. Walk around dripping with me.”
You whined, thighs shaking, the pressure building again—faster, sharper.
“Bucky—please—”
His voice was a growl, low and thick with promise.
“Come for me.”
And you did.
Hard.
Your whole body clenched around him, your scream muffled by the sheets as the orgasm ripped through you, sharp and messy, your walls fluttering around his cock.
Your moan was still echoing when he grabbed your waist, pulling you back—up, off the bed, into his lap.
You barely had time to gasp before you were straddling him, his chest pressed flush to your back, his mouth at your neck, and his cock still inside you.
“Not done,” he growled, arms locking around your waist. “Not until I come in you.”
Then he thrust up into you—hard, deep, devastating.
You cried out, your body already overstimulated, every thrust hitting that perfect spot inside you all over again. His hands were everywhere—gripping your hips, spreading your thighs wider, keeping you open for him as he pounded up from beneath you with bruising rhythm.
“Fuck—Bucky—” you whimpered, hands flying back to clutch at his hair, his shoulder, anything.
He was relentless.
Grunting with each thrust, hips snapping up into you, his breath ragged against your ear.
“Feel that?” he rasped. “How deep I am? How you’re still so fuckin’ tight?”
You nodded, moaning, body jerking with every thrust.
“You’re gonna take it,” he hissed. “Every drop. I’m not pullin’ out—you hear me? I’m comin’ inside you.”
“Yes,” you gasped, barely able to speak. “Please—Bucky—fill me up—”
He groaned, deeper than before, thrusts losing rhythm, his grip bruising on your hips as his body started to shake.
“Fuckfuckfuck—gonna come—”
One last thrust—brutal, final—and he buried himself in you, arms tightening, head thrown back as he came hard, deep inside you.
You felt it.
Hot.
Thick.
Flooding you as he groaned your name, holding you tight in his lap, still pulsing inside you.
And he didn’t let go.
Didn’t move.
Just stayed there—buried—chest rising against your back, his breath warm at your neck, whispering,
“You’re mine.”
You collapsed forward onto the bed, body still twitching with aftershocks, breath ragged and uneven. Bucky followed, slow and heavy, staying close, still inside you for a moment longer like he couldn’t stand to let you go just yet.
Eventually, he pulled out with a soft groan.
You whimpered at the loss, hips squirming on instinct.
He stayed behind you for a second, hovering—eyes locked on the way his release slowly dripped out of you, sliding between your thighs and onto the sheets.
You could feel him watching.
You tilted your head back with a lazy grin. “If you’re gonna stare like that, at least have the decency to offer a towel.”
He huffed a rough laugh—half-exhausted, half-stunned. “Sorry. Just... didn’t wanna forget what that looks like.”
You stretched like a cat, all smug satisfaction and afterglow. “Yeah, well. Take a picture next time, Barnes.”
He leaned down, kissed your shoulder—soft, slow, grateful—then flopped beside you, dragging the sheet up over your tangled bodies.
His arm wrapped around your waist, warm and heavy.
Neither of you spoke for a minute.
Just the sound of your breathing slowing. Your bodies cooling.
Then he murmured, voice quiet against your skin, “You’re in my head now.”
You smiled, eyes drifting shut.
“Good,” you whispered. “Took you long enough.”
You lay there, tangled together in the warm quiet, your body still thrumming, skin slick and flushed. Bucky’s arm was wrapped around your waist, his breath slow against the back of your neck, lips occasionally brushing your shoulder like he wasn’t even conscious of doing it.
You grinned.
Couldn’t help it.
“So…” you said, voice casual. “How long you been jerking off to me, Barnes?”
He froze.
You felt the heat bloom off him before he even said a word.
“Don’t.”
Your grin widened. “What? It’s a fair question. Based on how fast you devoured me, I’m guessing… at least a month?”
He groaned into your shoulder. “You’re the worst.”
“I’m right,” you countered. “Don’t think I didn’t catch the way you almost cried when I said ‘as you wish, Sergeant.’ You’ve been unwell.”
He muttered something unintelligible and buried his face in your neck.
You rolled to face him, propped on one elbow, smirking as you traced a line down his chest.
“So, tell me,” you purred. “Now that you’ve got a taste... what do you want to do to me next time?”
His throat bobbed.
You waited.
“I dunno,” he mumbled.
“Oh, you know.” Your nails lightly scratched his ribs. “Come on, be brave. Tell me.”
He grumbled. “You’re gonna use it against me.”
“Correct,” you said sweetly. “Now spill.”
He exhaled slowly, then muttered:
“...Sixty-nine.”
You grinned. “Classic. What else?”
He covered his eyes with one hand. “Breeding.”
Your eyebrows lifted, delight flashing in your eyes. “Oh? Really leaned into the ‘stuff me full, Sarge’ angle, huh?”
“Shut up.”
“I won’t, actually,” you laughed, leaning closer, lips brushing his ear. “Anything else you wanna act out, Barnes? Any other dirty little fantasies you been keeping locked up?”
He hesitated.
Longer this time.
Then—reluctantly, quietly:
“...Roleplay.”
You blinked.
Then broke into a slow, wicked grin. “Okay, now this I need to hear.”
“Nope,” he said immediately, trying to roll away. “That’s enough honesty for one night—”
You climbed on top of him, straddling his hips, pinning him down with a devilish smile. “Tell me if I need to show up next time in a pencil skirt and glasses, or if I should wear that SHIELD catsuit and call you ‘Sir.’”
His eyes snapped open.
And you knew.
You gasped. “Oh my god. You have a thing for the whole ‘secret agent mission gone sideways’ scenario, don’t you?”
He groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “Please stop.”
“You want me to cuff you to a chair and interrogate you,” you went on gleefully. “Or, wait—no—you want to interrogate me.”
“I’m begging.”
You leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “You want me in red lipstick and a wiretap, don’t you?”
“I’m never telling you anything again.”
You leaned down, lips brushing his.
“I’m gonna make all your little roleplay dreams come true,” you whispered.
“Kill me now,” he muttered.
“Nope. Gotta save your energy. You’re not done with me yet.”
You grinned, smug and sated, curling down against his chest, eyes closing as his arm wrapped around you again.
pairing: bucky barnes x avenger!reader
summary: you think it’s nothing—just a one-off, a fluke—when bucky softens at the sight of a baby in your arms during a cookout. but then it keeps happening. babies at airports. babies on recon. babies in vending machine ads. and every time, he looks at you like you’re the answer to a question he hasn’t asked out loud yet. he starts carrying gum “in case someone’s kid gets fussy on a flight,” stares too long at tiny boots in store windows, and once, unironically, asks if your hypothetical child would like goats. you’re not dating. officially. no one knows. but you’ve been sharing a bed for months and he makes you tea without asking and you’re starting to have dreams about pacifiers. he’s subtle about it. until he’s not. until he’s standing at a target, holding a baby hat like it cracked his ribs open, and says he wants a family—with you. not someday. now.
word count: 10.7k
content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, piv, oral (f! receiving), soft dom bucky, light bdsm undertones, bucky barnes being whipped (he gets the baby fever first let's bffr), kind of feral bucky, you think you guys are in a situationship when he's fully looking at baby registries, nipple play, yearning, angst, dirty talk, praise, overstimulation, self-induced angst, multiple orgasms, talks of pregnancy and starting a family, marathon sex, riding, fingering, body worship, size kink, bucky picks the reader up, he talks you through it, breeding kink, unprotected sex, creampie
notes: this is the most unhinged, feral thing i've ever written. i hope you enjoy!
The baby gets handed to you like a bread basket.
No warning, no instruction manual. Just, “Here, can you hold her for a sec?” from someone—one of the off-duty OXE staff maybe, or someone’s civilian cousin. You don’t catch a name, just a flurry of motion, and then—
She’s in your arms.
Somehow, between the last debrief and the next recon drop, a grill appeared in the Watchtower's rooftop patio, along with several folding chairs, a cooler full of Avengers-branded soda, and one slightly charred volleyball. You suspect Val had something to do with it. Some psychological team-building exercise disguised as a cookout.
Either way, you’re here.
She’s maybe seven months old, squishy-cheeked and furrow-browed, in a tiny Sentry onesie. Her hair is an indecisive wisp of something light brown, fine and floaty like thistle down, and her eyes—heavy-lidded, contemplative—regard you as though you’re a particularly uninspiring segment of the Discovery Channel.
“She’s—uh,” you say, because your brain’s buffering. “Hi?”
“Hey,” you say again, dumbly.
Next to you, Bucky lowers his beer so slowly it’s like watching a magic trick. He blinks once, then again, like he’s not sure you’re real or the baby is. Possibly both.
“What—why—did you steal a baby?” he asks.
“She was just handed to me.”
You shift, trying to get comfortable. She’s a solid little thing, warm like a fresh loaf of bread, and her hand is currently fisting your collar with alarming purpose. Your shirt stretches under the assault.
Bucky’s still staring. You can feel it—like a sunlamp trained directly at your temple. His mouth is parted slightly. One finger taps against the side of his bottle, rhythmically, unconsciously.
“She’s fine,” you say. “I’m holding her fine, right?”
“Yeah. No, yeah. You look—good.”
You glance at him. His eyes snap up to yours, then away again, like they touched something they weren’t supposed to. The tips of his ears are pink.
You almost say something—tease him, maybe—but the baby chooses that moment to yawn, a full-body, jaw-cracking affair. She snuggles closer into your chest, small cheek pressing into the fabric of your shirt, and suddenly it’s less funny.
Bucky tilts his head, unreadable. “She trusts you already.”
“She’s a baby,” you say, trying to shrug it off. “She trusts anyone with a pulse.”
“No. She knows,” he says, like it’s a settled fact. His gaze lingers on the place where her fingers clutch your shirt, and then—slowly—drifts back to your face.
You feel that look all the way down your spine.
The barbecue hums around you—low, uneven, weirdly domestic for a group like this. Someone’s burned the corn on the grill again (probably Walker, judging by the smoke and the defensive muttering). Yelena’s holding court by the picnic table, sunglasses perched on her head, force-feeding Bob the world’s most questionable potato salad and narrating it like a cooking show. Alexei’s seated in a folding chair two sizes too small, already shirtless and red-faced, beer in hand, yelling something about meat science. Ava is off to the side, calmly reading the nutrition label on a bag of marshmallows like it might be a coded message.
But you and Bucky are caught in this little bubble. A stillness between the beats. The baby, breathing softly. Bucky, watching you like the moment means something more than he’s prepared to admit.
She shifts in your arms. Grunts. You adjust your hold, and Bucky makes a small, strangled noise.
“She good?” you ask.
“She’s—she’s got a strong neck,” he says, as though that’s a compliment. Then, after a second. “You’re really good with her.”
“You’ve seen me hold her for thirty seconds.”
“Still.”
You hold his gaze a beat longer than you should. It’s soft, something unguarded in it. You remember, vaguely, hearing Steve say once that Bucky used to watch people the way most men look at stars. Like there was something miraculous in the simple fact of their existence.
You think maybe you’re beginning to understand what he meant.
“She wants you,” you say, mostly to break the tension. The baby is reaching now, hands grasping toward the collar of Bucky’s henley like she’s on a tiny mission.
He stiffens. “She what?”
“She’s targeting you. Consider it payback for all that glaring you did at the diaper bag earlier.”
“I wasn’t glaring,” he says. “I was…assessing.”
You arch an eyebrow. “Well, she’s assessing you back. Here. Take her.”
You don’t give him a choice. You shift the baby into his arms, and despite all his protesting, he takes her like he’s afraid she’ll break—gently, like someone handed him a fragile truth.
For a moment, he just stands there—awkward, tense, unsure. His left arm, the vibranium one, catches the light in hard, gleaming lines. But then she sighs, her head lolls toward his shoulder, and his body reacts before his mind does—he cradles her closer, shifts to support her neck, leans in slightly like he’s listening to her breathe.
A hush settles around you.
“She’s warm,” he murmurs.
“That’s a good sign. You’d know if she was cold. Babies are very vocal about injustice.”
His eyes don’t leave the baby’s face. Those eyes—stormcloud blue, too old for his face, always a little wary—are softened now. They flick across her tiny features like he’s reading scripture. Absorbed. He sways just slightly, unconsciously, like some long-dormant instinct is waking up in his bones. “She’s got little eyelashes,” he says, like it’s the strangest thing he’s ever seen.
“She’ll grow into them,” you say softly. “It happens.”
He’s silent a long time. The baby squeaks in her sleep and tugs at the collar of his shirt.
“She’s… safe,” he says, the word delicate on his tongue. “You can feel it, can’t you? Like the whole world isn’t so bad. Just—quiet, for once.”
Your chest aches.
He glances at you then, and for a split second, he looks completely vulnerable. Like there’s something perched just behind his teeth that he doesn’t know how to say.
You step closer. Not enough to touch. Just enough for proximity to pass as intimacy.
“Bucky.”
He doesn’t look away from you.
“I think you’d be good at it,” you say quietly. “The whole dad thing.”
You watch the thought settle on him—slow and heavy, like snowfall. He blinks, once. Breathes in, shallow. His jaw shifts, like he might say something and doesn’t. And then—
“I’d want you there,” he says.
It’s not casual. Not joking. Just... real. A plain sentence, stripped of armor.
You freeze. The baby exhales against your collarbone like she’s aware of the moment and giving it space. Bucky, for his part, looks like he’s just handed you something delicate and possibly flammable.
“Oh,” you say, brilliant as ever.
And he nods. That’s it. A small thing. But he looks weirdly shell-shocked by the admission, like he’d surprised himself saying it aloud. Like he hadn’t even meant to. His smile comes after, slow and stunned and slightly lopsided—almost sheepish, as if he's staring straight at the sun and can’t quite believe it’s warm.
Then her parent’s voice breaks through, all cheerful gratitude. “Hey—thanks! I just needed a sec.”
You watch Bucky blink back into the moment, his hands reluctant as they ease from the baby’s back. He doesn’t quite give her up at first. His fingers linger on the edge of her onesie like they’re memorizing the feel of it. When he does let go, it’s too slow to be casual.
Just like that, the baby’s gone. The space she took up in your arms feels heavier now that it’s empty.
You glance sideways. So does he. But you don’t quite meet in the middle.
Instead, you reach for a napkin and hand it over wordlessly. He accepts it like it’s a diplomatic gesture, dabbing at the drool spot on his shoulder with a sort of distraction.
“She liked you,” you offer, voice quieter than you meant it to be.
His lips quirk. A ghost of a grin. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
There’s a silence after that—longer than it needs to be. Not uncomfortable, just... spacious. Like it’s waiting for someone to step into it. Neither of you do.
Then Bucky clears his throat. “Wanna go in on a pack of bibs?”
You blink. “What?”
He shrugs, suddenly preoccupied with smoothing the napkin along his leg. “Just—you know. For next time.”
You almost laugh. You want to. But something in your chest goes soft instead.
“Yeah,” you say. “Sure. Next time.”
.
Everyone else calls you “the new Avengers.” Valentina prefers to call you just "the Avengers," like saying it with enough fake reverence will make people forget it started as a Hail Mary branding ploy and ended with supernatural darkness swallowing half of New York.
You still call it the Thunderbolts in your head. Not out of loyalty. Just because it fits better.
Technically, you weren’t supposed to be on the roster. Neither was Bucky. He was busy playing congressman—pressed suits, policy meetings, public appearances where he looked like he’d rather be fighting a bear. He wasn’t exactly thrilled about the job, but it was penance, or progress, or both, depending on who you asked. You’d been benched too, in a less official capacity. Tactical reassignment, they said, which is just HR speak for “we don’t know what to do with you yet.”
But then Bob Reynolds cracked in half like a cosmic wishbone. And everything went sideways.
They needed people who could navigate pocket dimensions without losing their minds. People who wouldn’t balk at the Void whispering their worst memories back to them in surround sound. People who could get in and out of a childhood bedroom that wasn't theirs, and still say the right thing.
You and Bucky, for better or worse, fit the bill.
Yelena vouched for you. You’d worked a few ops together—low-profile, high-risk, the kind of assignments that didn’t end up in press releases. Bucky came with his own résumé, mostly consisting of grim nods and trauma credentials.
So now you’re here. In a Watchtower with folding chairs and lunchboxes with your face on them. With a new badge and a code name you didn’t pick. With Bob, whose grip on sanity is improving in inches. With Ava, who can barely look at light too long without phasing through it. With Alexei, who’s taken to shirtless speeches and the New Avengers merch like a religion. With Walker, who somehow thinks this is a promotion.
And Bucky.
You don’t talk about what you are.
There’s no label. No neat little term to slot yourselves under, no status update or whispered confession over pillowcases. No one’s dared to say the word “relationship,” and yet you’ve brushed your teeth side by side, curled instinctively toward each other in sleep, passed cups of coffee back and forth like currency. You’ve learned each other’s silences. Memorized the geography of old scars. He knows how you like your eggs. You know when his silence means don’t ask and when it means please.
It’s not nothing. It never was.
You’re just not telling the others. Not because you’re ashamed—god, no—but because it’s yours. And because once the world knows something, it stops being sacred. It becomes strategy. Becomes leverage. People like Valentina will smile too wide and call it a liability. Alexei will make a crass joke. Walker will ask for details.
It’s easier this way. Quieter. Unnamed, it can’t be ruined.
And besides—you don’t even know what to call it. What to call him, when it’s three a.m. and he’s tucked behind you in bed, breath warm against your neck, arm slung around your waist like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.
Bucky’s not a man who rushes things. He moves like he’s learned the cost of wanting too much. And you—you’ve never let someone all the way in without already picturing the exit wound.
But moments like earlier—when he held that baby like she was breakable and looked at you like you were the answer to a question he hadn’t meant to ask—they’re getting harder to ignore.
You don’t think about it. Not actively.
You just… catalog. Silently. Like a squirrel with emotional acorns.
.
It’s past midnight when you find him again in the kitchen.
You knew he’d be here. You always do.
There’s leftover risotto on the stove and a mostly full bottle of red wine on the counter. He’s sitting at the tiny table like it’s a church pew—hunched a little, fork in hand, bare feet braced on the cold tile floor. His hoodie is soft with age, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, and the vibranium arm glints under the light. His hair’s still damp from the shower.
He looks up when you pad in—doesn’t startle, doesn’t flinch. Just finds you with those soft, sleep-starved eyes like he’s been waiting for you. “You’re up.”
“So are you,” you say, sliding into the chair across from him. “Could smell garlic from my room.”
“I put more cheese in it this time,” he says, with the quiet pride of a man who’s learned domesticity through stubborn practice and YouTube videos.
You reach for the wine, pouring yourself half a glass. The silence between you is familiar. Easy. It’s the kind that grows roots.
“Bad dream?” you ask.
“Yeah,” he says.
You nod. You don’t ask about it.
Instead, “You always this good at risotto?”
“First one was basically wallpaper paste,” he admits. “Sam said it was fine. His sister actually cried.”
You snort, half-choked on your sip. “Cried?”
“She got emotional. Said she saw God in a grain of arborio.”
You’re still grinning when he pushes the pot toward you with a silent offer. You help yourself, spooning some into a mismatched bowl. It’s warm. Comforting. Rich with butter and—yeah, definitely more cheese.
This—this is your favorite version of him. Not the soldier. Not the team lead or the briefing-room strategist. Just Bucky. Tired and soft-eyed in the kitchen, humming low when he stirs a pot. Still, in a way that feels rare.
You think about the baby again from earlier. About the way he looked at her. How his whole body went still, but his eyes went soft, like he’s seeing something he misses but can’t remember.
You stir your wine with a finger. Casual. Not casual at all.
“I’ve been thinking,” you start, mostly just to fill the space. “Weird day, huh?”
His brow ticks up, a silent question.
“That baby,” you say. “She just… latched on. Like I was made of Velcro.”
There’s a beat.
“She liked you,” he says. Quietly. Not teasing. Just honest.
You huff a small laugh, not quite hearing the undertone. “She drooled on me. That’s practically a proposal.”
But he doesn’t smile.
He’s looking at you the same way he looked at the baby—still, like something cracked open and never quite resealed. You miss it entirely. Instead, you sip your wine and stretch your legs beneath the table, toes brushing his. “But, I mean, you held her like a pro. Natural instincts, huh?”
His gaze lingers on you for a moment more before dropping to his bowl. He stirs it aimlessly, the motion absent.
“I used to think I’d have a bunch.”
That surprises you, but he keeps going.
He smiles a little, faint and crooked. “Back when I was just some punk from Brooklyn. Thought I’d get married. Have a couple kids. A porch swing. You know. The American Dream.”
“What changed?” you ask, voice gentler than you meant.
He shrugs. “Everything. Time. Who I became.”
You nod slowly. Try not to let your chest cave in.
“Rebecca used to say I’d be a good dad,” he adds. “She said I was good with her dolls.”
“Your sister?”
He nods. There’s a glow in his eyes now—faint, faraway. “She was eight years younger. I helped raise her, after my ma got sick. Used to walk her to school, do her hair. She liked braids. I wasn’t good at ‘em, but I tried.”
You try to picture it—Bucky, hair slicked back, hands clumsy with a brush, coaxing bows into place on a giggling child’s head.
Your lips twitch. “Braids?”
“Bad ones.” He finally glances at you, mouth quirking faintly. “She called ‘em ‘buckle braids.’ Said they looked like seatbelts.”
You laugh, unexpected. He ducks his head, a little embarrassed, but you miss the way his eyes stay on you too long.
“She’s still alive, isn’t she?” you ask softly.
He nods. “We talk. It’s… complicated. A lotta years between us now.”
There’s another pause.
You don’t fill it. You just watch him, lit gold by the stovetop light, swirling his water like it’s something stronger. He looks far away in that moment—not guarded, not distracted, just... elsewhere. Like his mind is somewhere quieter, and he’s trying to remember how it felt to live there.
He looks like a man trying to remember a life that feels more like a dream.
You think about the look on his face earlier, when that baby yawned and curled into your chest. How he’d watched like he couldn’t quite breathe. Like he’d seen something he wanted and couldn’t name. And yeah—okay—it tugged at something in you too, sure. But not like it did to him. He’s still in it. Still holding on to the ghost of that moment with both hands, even now.
You look at him—soft in a hoodie and bathed in golden light, cheeks pink from wine and warmth and maybe something else—and your chest twists with something slow and awful. The kind of ache that leaves no bruise.
And still. You push your bowl toward him and say, “Okay, fine. I’ll admit it. This is good.”
He snorts, low. “Told you. Not totally helpless.”
“Mm,” you hum. “Jury’s still out.”
But your smile lingers, even as your heart doesn’t know where to settle.
You don’t talk about babies again. Not directly.
But when you both stand to rinse the dishes, you brush past him and say, “For the record… I bet you’d nail braids now.”
And his ears go pink.
You pretend not to see. Because if you do—if you look too closely—you might not be able to keep pretending you don’t know what all of this means.
.
“I want ten of my babies. Obviously.” Ava dips a fry into mustard with the kind of grim determination usually reserved for defusing bombs. “Different thing.”
You’re all at the diner again. It started as a joke—something Walker demanded once after a particularly grim mission, swearing by the restorative power of bacon and drip coffee—and somehow, it stuck. Now it’s tradition: post-debrief pancakes, a rotating cast of bruises and black eyes crowding into a corner booth that’s definitely too small. No one’s sure when it became sacred, but no one skips it, either.
The baby talk started again—somehow inevitably—because of the mission.
A standard evac turned sideways. Smoke, rubble, a collapsed stairwell. Someone heard crying. Alexei went full Terminator through a wall. And when the dust cleared, there he was—coughing soot and holding a six-month-old like it was a live grenade. The baby didn’t even cry. Just blinked and drooled and grabbed Alexei’s nose like he owed him money.
It should’ve been a footnote in the mission report. It turned into a full-on debate about parental instincts, fight-or-flight hormones, and who would actually survive trying to raise a baby while doing this job.
From there, it was only a matter of time before Ava declared her hypothetical soccer team of spawn with a kind of detached confidence that suggested she’d already drawn up the chore wheel.
You nod in reluctant agreement, as if that’s a normal sentence to hear over diner food at 9 a.m. on a Thursday. “Different thing,” you echo, like that explains anything.
There’s a pause filled only with the faint sizzle of a kitchen grill and the shriek of someone’s child two booths over. You’re content to let the silence stretch, to keep spooning eggs into your mouth like a sane person, until John leans back. His arm stretches across the vinyl booth with the exaggerated flair of a man who thinks he’s charming. He tilts his head toward you like he’s about to ask for a kiss, and then drops the bomb.
“What about you? Ever think about having kids?”
Your fork pauses mid-scramble. You blink. Once, then again, slower. The question isn’t new—it’s just never been aimed quite so directly at your throat before.
And somewhere in your mind, like a coin dropping into a well, you hear Bucky’s voice again.
“I used to think I’d have a bunch.”
The memory curls in your chest like a secret.
“Sure,” you say finally, and it comes out like a shrug in sentence form. “Sounds like fun. You know. In a nightmarish, identity-altering kind of way.”
John grins like you’ve handed him a gift. “Hey, I know a guy if you’re interested.”
“Oh?" you deadpan, already regretting it.
“Banked some before deployment, real clean record, full medical—”
There’s a sound beside you. Ceramic on laminate. Not a crash—more of a punctuation mark. You glance over.
Bucky’s hand rests on his coffee cup like he’s trying to stop it from shivering apart. The cup’s rim taps against the table once, sharp and accidental. His face doesn’t move. Doesn’t look at you, or at John. He stares into the coffee like it’s a black hole that might finally suck him in, if he just glares hard enough.
Walker doesn’t notice. Or pretends not to, which is maybe worse.
You shift slightly, angle your body just enough to catch Bucky’s profile. Not his eyes—he’s not giving you that. But you see the muscle ticking in his jaw, the way his thumb presses against the handle like it’s either that or throwing the cup against the wall. He breathes, chest pounding and heavy, like he’s counting to ten. Like ten isn’t enough.
And you—idiot that you are—you feel it too. That low, aching pull at the thought of him with that baby. How natural he’d been. How soft his voice had gone. And how, for one weird, echoing second, you’d let yourself imagine it. Not just him with a child. But him with yours.
(It’s a thought you shouldn't let live, but it does anyway—burrows in, sharp and hungry. He’d be such a good father. Steady hands, steady voice, a tenderness in him that most people never get to see. You’d watched it spark to life like muscle memory, something old and unforgotten.
And then, because your brain is a traitor, the thought tilts—what it would feel like to give him that. To give him that child. Not some hypothetical future, not a vague maybe someday. You. Him.
That kind of closeness. That kind of permanence.
The weight of him over you, inside you, something rough and completely undoing. It knocks the air from your lungs before you can even feel it coming.
You imagine his voice rough and low—you’d look so fuckin’ good like this, he’d murmur, hands spreading over your stomach, already possessive. Full of me. Mine. You imagine his mouth, soft stubble between your thighs, saying let me make you a mom, like it’s the last sane thought in his head.
And you—well, now you're sitting in a diner booth trying to pretend you didn’t just think the words “let me make you a mom” while someone’s child screams three feet away. You’re not proud. You are, in fact, actively praying for death. Or coffee. Whichever comes first.
So you do what you do best. You pivot.)
“Anyway,” you say, louder now, aiming your voice like a dart at Walker’s oblivious skull. Making sure your voice is light enough to convey that there isn't a world that it would ever happen with him. “Let me know if your guy offers a bulk discount. I’ll take two or three. Maybe four if they come pre-housebroken.”
John laughs. “First five are free. They just start billing you in sleep and soul erosion.”
Bucky finally moves. Not much. Just enough to slide the cup an inch back toward the middle of his placemat, like maybe now it’s safe. Like maybe no one noticed.
You’d like to kick John under the table. Just enough to shut him up. Just enough to let Bucky breathe.
Instead, you swirl your fork through yolk and wait for someone else to speak. Hope to someone out there that this whole baby thing will be put to rest.
.
But that day was just the start.
You don’t know if something cracked open in the universe or if Bucky secretly bartered a piece of his soul to a baby-loving deity in exchange for emotional clarity, but suddenly—it’s like the planet has been overrun. Babies. Everywhere. Strollers, carriers, those ridiculous kangaroo pouches. Toddlers with juice mustaches and light-up shoes. Infants in tiny sunglasses.
Worse, you’re always with him when it happens.
It starts innocently enough. You’re on stakeout. The intel turns out to be garbage—no targets, no movement, just an empty building and a guy who might’ve been Hydra or might’ve just been bad at directions. You’re about to call it when Bucky… stops walking.
No explanation. Just freezes on the sidewalk.
You turn, squinting. “What? You see something?”
And then you hear it. A laugh. Tiny. High-pitched. Pure. You scan the street and there it is: a baby in a stroller, arms flailing with chaotic joy, pink beanie slipping sideways on her round little head. Her mom is pushing her like it’s just a Tuesday. But Bucky—he crouches. Hands on his knees. Watching like he’s stumbled across the Ark of the Covenant.
“That’s a good laugh,” he mutters, almost worshipful. “That’s… like a top-tier laugh.”
You blink. “You ranking baby laughs now?”
He doesn’t answer. Just keeps watching. Like the baby might do it again. Like he’s rooting for her.
You nudge him with your elbow. “Want me to get you a ringtone?”
He says nothing. His silence is telling.
Then it escalates.
Buenos Aires. Late afternoon. The heat’s syrupy, everything sunstruck and slightly too bright. You’re waiting for the decryption key to finish running—loitering under a chipped awning while the team fans out down the block, pretending to be tourists. You’re halfway through a warm soda and reading something in Spanish when Bucky drifts up beside you.
You don’t look at him. You’ve learned not to. He does this thing sometimes—leans in close enough for his shoulder to brush yours, says nothing at all, and just exists like a slow-burn fire you’re pretending not to feel.
This time, it’s worse. He gestures toward a store window. Shoes. Not just any shoes—tiny tactical boots, scaled down like someone was kitting out the junior division of the Avengers. Rugged soles, reinforced stitching, little laces that look too delicate for real fieldwork but too precise to be anything but serious gear. They’re absurd. They’re perfect.
“You think they make those in toddler size 5?”
You turn. Slowly. Give him the full weight of your skepticism. “Planning to outfit your own baby militia?”
He shrugs. Casual. Easy. Too easy. “Just wondering. Hypothetically.”
But then his eyes flick toward you—just for a beat. Like he’s measuring something. Like he’s waiting for a reaction you don’t know you’re giving.
You keep walking. Pretend not to feel your heart skip unevenly.
And it becomes a pattern. A weird, creeping, almost endearing pattern. You’re raiding safehouses, rerouting encrypted intel, shaking a tail in Prague, and somehow Bucky is the one lingering in front of vending machines, pointing at squeezable yogurt pouches like they’re alien tech.
“These have the little resealable caps,” he says, deadpan. “For babies, I think. Smart.”
You blink. “You want one?”
“No,” he says, looking thoughtful. “Just—clever design. Kid-friendly.”
You stare. He shrugs. Again. It’s becoming suspicious. Too real.
.
Later, it’s dark. Safehouse. Everyone asleep or pretending to be. You and Bucky are curled in the guest room that’s technically yours but hasn’t been solo occupancy in weeks.
He’s already touching you before your brain catches up. Warm fingers ghosting under your shirt, calloused and rough, sliding over your ribs like he’s taking inventory of your soft places. You’re breathing shallowly before he even kisses you, your body already recognizing this as surrender.
There was a time when you thought Bucky would be a gentleman.
Reserved. Polite. Old-world chivalry repackaged in tactical black. You’d imagined he was probably hesitant in bed, at first. The type to ask twice, maybe three times, before putting his hands anywhere remotely close to where you’d actually want them. You thought he’d kiss softly. Whisper his affections like prayer. You thought—foolishly—that his stillness was quiet.
It’s not.
It’s restraint. Caged hunger. A man constantly one flick away from wrecking you completely.
Because Bucky doesn’t fuck like a soldier. Or a hero. He fucks like a man starved. Like he’s spent entire decades in lockdown with nothing but the memory of heat, and you’re the only warmth he’s ever wanted. He’s filthy in the way that makes your ears ring. Filthy in the way he moans your name when he’s too far gone to realize he’s saying it out loud.
Filthy in the way he says please.
That’s the worst part. The please.
Please kiss me, sweetheart. Please, let me stay in a little longer. Please, don’t stop. Please, I’ll be good. Please, have my ki—You gasp. He hasn't said that last part. You can't entertain that.
“Remember that time in Bolivia?” he murmurs, more statement than question, voice a gruff rasp against your throat. “When I fucked you against the wall and I had to put my hand against your mouth, because—Jesus—because you were being too loud?”
You tried to open your mouth. You usually have some sort of witty remark. But tonight his hand is trembling a little, and your chest’s too full of ache to joke.
"We can't do that here, sweetheart. I need you to stay quiet for me. Can you do that without my help?"
It’s always like this—a little desperate, a little unhinged. Like you both know it can’t mean what it means and keep doing it anyway. A nightly game of chicken with the truth.
Your legs spread, obscene, filthy, and soaked—giving him just the right view. He ducks down underneath in a flash, tongue swiping out before he does so, the pink flesh needy and hungry. The flutter of his eyelashes as he takes you in and wraps your legs around his face.
And when he pushes his tongue inside you, it’s slow. Not teasing. Not lazy. Like he’s trying to stay—inside you, with you, in the moment.
Your hands are in his hair, your legs wrapped tight around his head, and then—midway through a breath, a moan, a whisper of his name—his hand slides up.
Spreads across your stomach.
Not rough. Not possessive.
Settled.
Just—there.
Like he’s holding a thought.
His thumb traces one slow arc across your skin. Then another. Circling your navel like he’s drawing a map. Or casting a spell. You don’t even register it until his breath stutters.
You freeze—just for a second—but he doesn’t stop moving. Doesn’t stop looking at you, either. You look down and his eyes are dark, wide, wrecked. Like he’s trying to rein it in. Like he’s already failing.
“Jesus,” he murmurs, half-strangled, pulling away from your cunt long enough for you to see the long, shimmering streak that connects his mouth to you. “You’d—fuck, you’d look so perfect like this.”
You blink down at him, too far gone to process. “Like what?”
He doesn’t answer. Just looks at you—like he wants to say it. Like the words are climbing up his throat and he’s fighting to keep them down. He presses a kiss to your thigh instead, then to your core, mouth hot and desperate.
“Sorry,” he breathes. “I just—”
You’re not stupid.
But you are, maybe, willfully stupid. Denial’s easier than everything else. Safer. You pull his head closer instead, scratch at his hair, drag him deeper into your legs feels like you're trying to climb out of your own skin.
Come inside me, come inside me, the thought, intrusive and loud and irrational, echoes in your head, even as he wrenches your first orgasm of the night from you. You watch as he licks up the remnants from between your legs, then the way his tongue darts out to catch the streaks around his stubble.
And you think, with a sense of finality, that you're fucking doomed.
.
It doesn’t help that the rest of the team is starting to notice. Yelena’s not subtle—she’s taken to raising her brows whenever you and Bucky so much as walk in the same direction. Alexei hums under his breath sometimes, low and vaguely ominous, usually something about “strong bloodlines” or “resilient genetics,” just loud enough to make your skin prickle. Even Val, smug and sharp-eyed, had that moment last week where she looked between the two of you, then at the empty supply room, and muttered, “Better not be rearranging furniture in there.”
The thing is—you and him have always been subtle. Always toeing the line but never stepping over.
Except now, lately, that subtlety is starting to unravel. Not in big ways, but in increments. A slip of tone. A lingering look. The way he doesn’t bother disguising the softness in his voice when he says your name. It’s like he’s decided—quietly, firmly, permanently—that you’re it. And he’s just waiting for you to catch up.
It’s in the little things.
He starts carrying gum in his pocket “in case someone’s kid gets antsy on a flight.” He asks if the noise-canceling headphones in your shared gear bag might work for toddlers. He watches you when you pick up a fallen pacifier at a rest stop, eyes going all soft at your hands, like he’s imprinting something in his head he doesn’t quite understand.
Then, during a recon op, he nudges you awake after you dozed off in the back of a surveillance van. “You sleep like a baby,” he says quietly.
You think he means it as a compliment, but your heart flips and your brain short-circuits, and you spend the rest of the mission wondering if he’s trying to tell you something or if you’re going insane.
(You do not, in fact, sleep like a baby. You drooled on the armrest. He said nothing.)
Weeks pass. Missions blur. The baby sightings continue like clockwork. You start to brace for them. For Bucky’s inevitable sighs. For the way his expression slips into something almost wistful.
You’re trained to read microexpressions. He should know this. You see it—the way his jaw softens, the way his shoulders fall just enough to say I want this. Not now, maybe. But someday.
And more terrifying: the way he keeps looking at you. Like you’re part of that someday.
And God—how could he?
How could he look at you like that?
You’re good at the quiet things. The watching, the stitching-up. The banter. The fight, when you have to. But you’ve never known what it means to build something that doesn’t involve exit strategies or a go-bag tucked under the bed.
Bucky… he deserves someone solid. Someone who’s not half a shadow. Who’d instinctively know how to hold a baby without second-guessing. Who’d have a laugh that sounded like Sunday mornings, and hands that were always warm. Someone who could braid a child’s hair without worrying they’d pull too hard. Someone kind. Someone permanent.
Not someone like you.
You’re not sure if he even sees the difference. You’re not sure if he knows he’s dreaming with his eyes open when he looks at you like that.
But you do.
You just pretend it doesn’t mean anything. Because if it does—if he’s looking at you like he already knows, like he’s already chosen—
Well.
You’re not ready for that kind of fallout.
Not yet.
.
The worst—by far—is the petting zoo in Nebraska.
You’re there under completely fabricated cover identities. Something about an eco-terrorist cell operating out of an adjacent farm-to-table cheese shop. You’ve both got sunglasses and fake names and those little earwig communicators that make you feel like you’re in Mission Impossible. You’re trying to be inconspicuous.
But then you pass the small animal enclosure.
There’s a toddler up ahead, perched on her dad’s shoulders like a giggling parrot. She squeals—delighted—at the sight of the baby goats, then gets lowered gently down so she can feed them through the fence. Her little fingers curl around the bars, one of the goats licks her hand, and she lets out a laugh so pure and shrill and untouched by the horrors of modern living that it actually makes your chest hurt.
You don’t even register it at first—just the absence of footsteps beside you. Then you glance back.
He’s standing there, completely still, like he’s been struck by divine intervention. Like that baby goat and that toddler just rewired something deep in his old brain. His expression is unguarded in a way that makes your stomach tilt. Soft and stunned.
He doesn't even pretend to be focused on the mission anymore.
And then—then—he turns to you. The most serious he's ever been. Eyes locked on yours.
“Do you think ours would like goats?”
You nearly choke on your lemonade. Actually choke. You cough once, twice, like your lungs are trying to escape your body. “What?”
And it’s not just the question—it’s the way he says it. Our kid. Not flippant. Not ironic. Not followed by a wink or a smirk or even a shy smile. Just fact.
“I said,” he repeats, casually, clearly, like it’s the most normal thing in the world, “hypothetically, would our kid be into goats.”
You just stare at him. You’ve stopped trying to be cool about this. The number of times he’s said our baby with absolute, unsettling conviction has reached what can only be described as a statistically significant trend.
“I don’t know, Bucky,” you say, rubbing your temples. “I think most hypothetical babies are goat neutral until proven otherwise.”
He hums. Actually hums, like he’s storing that away. “Makes sense. We'll have to test it early. Build a baseline.”
“Stop,” you say, pointing a finger at him like that might restore order to the universe. “You’re not serious.”
His eyes flick to yours. And there’s no twinkle there. No smile. Just this steady, almost stubborn kind of affection—so open it knocks the wind out of you.
"You said I’d be good at it,” he says, voice low, so only you can hear. “The whole dad thing.”
You open your mouth. Then close it. Then open it again like a very confused fish. Because you remember saying it. You remember the patio, the way the baby curled into his chest. The kitchen, the risotto, the late hour and the way he’d talked about braiding Rebecca’s hair. You remember the quiet ache in your chest, the one that’s back now, curling tighter.
And you don’t know what the hell to say. You really don’t. Because he’s looking at you like he’s already imagined the whole damn life and decided it was worth every scar. Like he’s already picked out the parts of himself he wants to give a kid—the kindness, the patience, the rebuilt softness—and buried the rest.
So you make a joke. Mask it. Swallow the quake in your throat and reach for levity like it’s body armor.
“Well, if the goat thing doesn’t work out, we can always try hamsters,” you say. “Low stakes. Contained mess. Give Yelena's little guy a friend.”
The goat bleats behind you. Bucky doesn’t flinch. Just watches you like he's still waiting for an answer—a real answer—that you're not sure how to give.
You move on.
.
It finally breaks in a Target.
Of course it does.
You’re on a supply run for the team. Technically, this is all mission prep and there's assistants for things like this—med supplies, energy bars, razors, weird thermal socks Yelena swears by—but somehow, somewhere between the bottled water and the electrolyte tablets, you and Bucky wander into the wrong aisle.
Not wrong like “accidental.” Wrong like fate’s playing dirty.
Now you’re standing in front of an endcap display you definitely didn’t mean to find, and there it is. Tucked between pastel swaddles and soft-textured washcloths, like a landmine in the wrong aisle—a tiny cotton baby hat, pale blue with little stitched ears.
It’s nothing. Just a hat.
But Bucky’s staring at it like it cracked his ribs open.
“Hey,” you murmur, stepping closer. “You okay?”
He doesn’t answer.
Just reaches out and picks it up. Turns it over in his hands slowly, like it’s something fragile. Like it might vanish if he isn’t cautious enough. His thumb brushes over the tag. He squints at it like he’s trying to make sense of the fibers. His jaw’s set hard, but there’s something in the line of his shoulders—something tired.
“Bucky,” you say again, gentler this time.
He doesn’t look at you. “Did you know their heads are soft?” His voice is quiet. “Babies. Their skulls don’t even come together for a while. You have to be real careful.”
You blink. “Have you… been reading about this?”
He swallows, shrugs. “I don't know. I just—I see stuff. I look it up.” He sets the hat down too fast. It doesn’t bounce. It just flattens there on the shelf like it’s watching him back.
You don’t speak. Neither does he. You just stand there for a second, like the air’s been drained from the aisle.
There’s a baby crying somewhere in another aisle—high-pitched and sputtering. A lull, then a hiccuping wail. A mother murmurs something gentle in response. The sound floats over the shelves and then disappears.
Eventually, you both walk.
Wordless. Past rows of seasonal candy wrapped in rustling orange plastic. Discount school supplies. Travel-sized deodorant and decorative lint rollers. Your cart is still half full, but you don’t look at it. Your eyes keep tracking him instead. His steps are slower than usual, like each one is being dragged out of him. His shoulders slope in that particular way you’ve started to recognize—like he’s still holding that hat in his mind, apprehensive and afraid.
The automatic doors swish open and spill you into the afternoon like you’ve been exiled.
Outside, the parking lot’s too bright. The sun glares off windshields and the pavement radiates that late-summer kind of heat—baked rubber and exhaust fumes and burnt asphalt. A shopping cart wheel squeals in the distance, sharp and whiny. The plastic Target bags crackle like they’re judging you.
You lean against the car. It’s hot through your shirt. The silence settles again—heavier now. Thicker. Like it’s pressing into your ribcage and asking for something neither of you are sure you’re ready to give.
You look at him. Not just glance—look.
He’s standing with his back half-turned, metal hand flexing and unflexing at his side, like he’s trying to let something out but doesn’t trust what’ll happen if he does. His vibranium arm glints in the sunlight—charcoal black veined with gold, all matte finish and unforgiving elegance. It doesn’t belong here, not really. Not in this mundane little parking lot, not against a backdrop of SUVs and clearance bins.
But neither does he.
You let the silence stretch a little longer. Let the heat sweat on your back, the wind tousle your hair, the tension between you wind tighter like thread pulled taut.
Then, finally, like you’re testing a live wire. “What’re you thinking about?”
He breathes in slow. Shaky.
And then, finally, he speaks—voice soft, too soft for someone built to survive war. “Do you have any guesses?”
That’s new.
You blink. Look down at your shoes. Your reflection warps in the car door.
“I don’t want to guess wrong,” you say. Even though you know fully well.
He huffs something between a sigh and a laugh. It’s not bitter. Just… tired. Then he gestures loosely, not at anything in particular. Just out. Broadly. Helplessly.
“We keep running into this,” he says, quieter now. “Not just here. Everywhere. At the grocery store. On recon. That billboard downtown with the giggling baby and the diaper brand we’ll never have enough time to run and grab from the store. That kid last week with the tiny shoes, remember that one?”
You do. You remember too well.
“There was this moment,” he continues, voice cracking, not looking at you yet, “when I saw that kid—and I thought, he’s going to walk into your arms someday. And I realized—I already want that."
He’s pacing now, one hand on his hip, the other dragging through his hair like he’s trying to pull something out of his skull. The sleeve of his hoodie is shoved up to the elbow. His dog tags are visible. His metal hand flexes open and closed like he needs something to grab onto.
“I just couldn't stop thinking about it.” He laughs, breathless and small. “Which is stupid, right? I mean—look at me. Who the hell am I to want something like that?”
“Bucky…” You trail off. Because he deserves it. He deserved all of it and you want to give him everything.
“But this? You?” he says again, shaking his head like he still can’t believe he has to say it out loud. “This isn’t hollow. This is wanting. Real wanting. Not some half-dead echo of need or distraction or—God—forgiveness. I don’t want you because I think you’re gonna fix something in me. Or because I think this’ll be easy. I want you because it’s you.”
His eyes find yours again—steady, burning.
“Because when I think about a future without you in it, it feels wrong. Like my bones know it. Like every damn instinct I’ve got wants to drag me back to wherever you are and just—stay.”
Your throat tightens. He presses on.
“And don’t get it twisted—I see you. I see the way you move through missions. The way you think six steps ahead, the way you take hits like they’re nothing and still check on everyone else first. You’re not some fragile thing I wanna put behind glass. You’re steel. You’re tougher than half the people I’ve fought beside. You don’t need anyone. Hell, you don’t need me.”
He steps forward. Lowers his voice.
“But I want to be needed by you. I want to be the guy who gets to hold you when the world’s too loud. I want us. A home. A baby—maybe two. One of ‘em likes goats. I don't know. Maybe we argue about preschool names and you yell at me for lettin’ them eat cereal off the floor. You're the person I want to be a disaster in front of at 3 a.m. because our hypothetical child won’t sleep unless you sing that dumb Fleetwood Mac song—”
“Fleetwood Mac isn’t dumb.”
“See? That’s exactly the tone you’d use,” he says, as if that proves a point.
You blink hard. Your chest aches in that quiet, painful way reserved for things that are almost too good to believe.
“And I’ve been trying to be subtle,” he says, a rough laugh in his throat. “Pointing at strollers like a moron. Buying those damn pouches with the resealable caps. I kept hopin’ maybe you’d see it. Maybe you’d say somethin’ first. I didn’t wanna scare you off. I know what we’ve been through. What you’ve been through.”
He looks down for a second, then back at you—gentle now, gentler than you’ve ever seen him.
“But I’ll wait. As long as you need. I’m not going anywhere. And if you’re scared? Good. Me too. Means we’re not makin’ this decision with our eyes closed. But don’t pretend it’s not real. Don’t tell me I’m imagining this, because I know what this feels like. I’ve spent too long not feeling anything to mistake this for anything else.”
His vibranium hand curls into a loose fist at his side. Not clenched. Just steady. Anchored.
“I want this. With you. All of it. Even the hard parts. Especially those. I want the missions and the night shifts and the baby who won’t stop crying and the mess and the fear and the way you look at me like I might still be good. I want all of that, and I want it with you.”
And there it is again—that feeling like your ribs are about to crack open from the pressure of it all. From the weight of being seen this clearly. This completely.
You step closer, close enough now that the heat from him leaks into your skin. You stare up at him, eyes burning.
“You really want all that with me?”
He nods. “More than I’ve ever wanted anything.”
“And you’re really not afraid I’ll mess it up?”
His smile is small, pained—like he’s trying to hold it together with fraying thread. “You’ll mess it up. So will I. We’ll accidentally teach them to swear. Maybe we let Alexei babysit and they come back speaking fluent Russian and craving vodka. I’ll still want you. Even when we’re sleep-deprived and overwhelmed and knee-deep in goldfish crackers. Especially then.”
Your voice cracks open without warning. Raw. Bare.
“Bucky—what the hell am I supposed to say to top that?”
“You don’t have to say anything,” he says softly, hand cupping your cheek with the kind of conviction that makes your knees go weak. “Just… don’t walk away. Don’t—God, please—don’t say no. Not to this. Not to me.”
You nuzzle closer into his hand. Your voice, when it comes, is paper thin. “You really think I’d say no to goat-loving, minivan driving Bucky Barnes?”
His mouth twitches. “You making fun of me?”
You smile. You’re shaking a little. “Only a little.”
He laughs, and it’s a real one—wet around the edges, but honest.
And that—God. That lands like a sucker punch.
You take a breath. Step closer. Your heart is a drumbeat in your ears but your voice—your voice is iron and sunrise. “Okay. Let’s say, hypothetically, we make our first one now. What then?”
Bucky’s entire body stills.
Like he’s been hit center mass—not by a bullet, but by possibility. Like your words cracked open a vault somewhere deep in him and he’s still trying to process what came out. His breath hitches. His brows lift just slightly. You can almost see it—each implication of what you just said unfurling in real time: first one, meaning more than one. Meaning permanence. Meaning forever.
His eyes go wide—like, really wide. Like he’s just been handed the Infinity Gauntlet and told to babysit it. His mouth opens, then closes again. Then opens. A soft, stunned “Now?” escapes.
You nod, never been more sure of anything in your life. “Yes. Now.”
And it’s like a switch flips. Whatever gears were turning in his head just snap into place, and then he’s grabbing you—gently, desperately—and kissing you like he hasn't kissed you thousands of times before. It’s all hands and breath and something that tastes like joy, wild and uncontainable. You laugh into it, half-giddy, half-overwhelmed, and then someone leans out of a passing minivan and honks.
You both jump. Bucky flips the guy off without looking. “Keep driving, asshole!”
You’re laughing so hard your ribs hurt, and you have to clutch his arm just to stay upright. He looks at you like you’ve personally realigned his entire future.
Then it’s a race. You barely make it through the parking lot without tripping over yourselves, bumping shoulders and brushing hands and laughing like lunatics. Bucky opens the car door for you like he’s being timed for a rescue op, and the moment your ass hits the passenger seat, his hand is on your thigh—firm, possessive, fingers warm even through the denim.
He doesn’t even pretend to drive normally. The car peels out like you’re being chased, tires screeching as he swerves onto the freeway with all the caution of a man on fire.
His other hand clenches the wheel, knuckles pale. “You sure you’re not gonna regret it?” he asks, voice low, like it’s been scraped out of him. Like he’s terrified this is a dream and one wrong word will wake him up.
You glance over. He’s flushed down to his collar, eyes flicking from the road to your face and back like he can’t decide which is more dangerous. You’re smiling so wide it hurts your cheeks.
“If you keep asking questions like that,” you murmur, “I might pull you over and climb on top of you right here.”
He chokes. Visibly swerves. “You—you’re not joking.”
“I am, Bucky. We're at a fucking Target.”
He lets out a groan like it physically pains him. “You’re evil.”
You lean your head back against the seat, breathless with laughter. But then you glance sideways and—yeah. That look on his face? That’s love. That’s a man about to commit several felonies in your name.
“I’m gonna treat you so fuckin’ good,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Gonna make you feel safe and spoiled and full of me. Gonna worship you every damn night. You don’t even know.”
“Oh, I know,” you say, suddenly a little breathless. His grip on your thigh tightens, just for a second.
His foot presses harder on the gas.
The car hums like it’s picking up on the tension. Bucky’s jaw is set, eyes dark, every red light a personal affront to his timeline. At one point he actually mutters “no” at a yellow light and runs it anyway. Another person flips both of you off until they squint and see who's in the car. Bucky doesn’t blink.
When the Watchtower finally comes into view, he exhales like he’s just crossed a finish line. The tires screech again as he parks, but you barely register it. Because the second the engine cuts, he turns to you, all flushed cheeks and unholy devotion, and whispers, “Upstairs. Now.”
And then—
He lifts you like it’s muscle memory, like your body belongs there, bracketed against him. Your legs wrap around his waist. Somehow, some way, he finds the bedroom with barely a glance, kicks the door shut behind him, and lays you down like you’re breakable.
Not fragile. Important.
He hovers above you for a beat, breath uneven, gaze raking over your face like it’s the first time he’s really let himself look. Like he’s memorizing this—just in case the world tilts sideways again.
He bends down, his voice rasping against your mouth. “You still sure about this?”
You pull him back to you by the waistband of his jeans. “I said I wanted all of it. The house. The minivans. The goats. I meant it.”
Something in him loosens. Not all the way, not yet—but enough to soften his edges. He exhales through his nose and kisses you like it’s a vow, mouth warm and open and aching. His hands find your thighs, settle there like they’ve always known the shape of you. Thumbs brushing slow circles like he’s grounding himself on your skin.
You kiss him back with everything you’ve got, fingers fisting in the fabric of his shirt—and when you tug, it’s not subtle.
And you tug at his shirt again. “Bucky—”
“No, just—let me—” He peels it off over his head in one fluid motion, and fuck. You’ve seen him shirtless before. Dozens of times. Training sessions. Medical checks. Casual Sundays in sweatpants.
But not with the full breadth of him laid bare, chest heaving, dog tags glinting faintly in the low light. Thick, ropey muscle, that deep ridge where his hip cuts in and disappears under the waistband of his jeans. He’s massive. Bigger than you can ever brace for. Every inch of him looks carved from the kind of strength that short-circuits your higher brain function.
And it hits you, all at once, how strong he really is.
Not just tactical, not just capable—but superhuman. The kind of strength that could lift a car or crush a man’s throat or pick you up like you weigh nothing. You’ve felt it before—in combat, in sparring, in those accidental brushes where he’d catch your wrist or hoist you clear of an explosion.
You’re trying to keep it together—you are—but then he grins. That slow, crooked, devastating thing like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. “You’re staring,” he murmurs, voice gone husky with amusement.
You shoot back, “So are you.”
“Yeah,” he says, and steps in, close enough that his chest brushes yours, heat radiating off him like a furnace. “Difference is, I’m about to do something about it.”
Your mouth goes dry. Your brain attempts a witty reply and fails spectacularly. So you shove at his shoulder with mock offense, and he grabs your wrists—gently, easily—and pins them to the mattress above your head.
Oh.
It’s nothing. No pressure, no real force. But it reminds you. Reminds you exactly what he’s capable of. How easily he could break you. How he never has.
“Could hold you like this forever,” he murmurs. “You’d let me, wouldn’t you?”
You squirm beneath him, flushed and wrecked and undone.
“You’re so goddamn beautiful,” he breathes, dragging his nose down your throat. “I could carry you around all day. Pick you up, fuck you against a wall, against a table, hell, the fridge, if I wanted.”
You gasp, and his grip tightens—just enough to feel it.
"I need to get you ready first," He pulls back slightly, meets your eyes. “That okay?”
You nod. Hard. “Yes. Fuck, yes.”
His stubble rubs along your neck, your collarbones, until he pauses at your chest, nuzzling one of your nipples with his eyes closed. His tongue darts out, sucking and pulling at the sensitive muscle, more for his sake than for yours.
There's a graze of his teeth—then, his other hand comes to meet your other breast, ever the multi-tasker. He murmurs your name, once, twice, the sound vibrating low against your skin.
You don't know how long he stays like that, in that blissful purgatory, his leg, between your legs, just barely giving you the stimulation you need, until his mouth, his beautiful, beautiful mouth, gets faster, more greedy, and the leg you're grinding against pushes deeper against you—
"Come for me, sweetheart."
It's like fucking fireworks. You cum with a groan, eyes closed shut, whining low and deep and overwhelmed.
When you come to, vision returning to you in hazes, you look at him through fluttering lashes, the way he strokes his cock in front of you. Painfully hard, red, and weeping, but it's his words that make you short-circuit next.
“You’re gonna let me put a baby in you, huh?”
Your breath catches.
He kisses you before you can answer—deep and consuming and hungry—and when he pulls back, there’s a look in his eyes you’ve never seen before. Something molten. Something fierce.
“Been thinkin’ about something else too,” he confesses, dragging his mouth along your jaw. “You, round with my kid. All soft and happy. Maybe bossin’ me around with that look you get when you’re pretending not to care.”
The words stick—and it's all the warning you get before he's slotting his cock in between your cunt, slipping inside of you.
His hand settles on your stomach, low and possessive. He presses his palm there like he’s already claiming it. Like he’s asking permission to fill it. You can feel it, the pressure delicious, as his thrusts get messier, less controlled. The room's filled with the sound of it, groaning and snapping and skin slapping together.
“I’ll be good,” he says, voice cracking. “I’ll be so good. You’ll never have to lift a finger. I’ll make breakfast. I’ll learn lullabies. I’ll paint the damn nursery if you want me to.”
You moan, high and helpless. “Keep talking.”
He thrusts—deep, slow, intentional. “I’ll hold your hand through the appointments. Rub your back when it hurts. Run to the store at 3 a.m. for pickles, or chocolate, or whatever the hell you need—”
Then, his hand–the metal one—moves between you, lower and lower until his thumb's hovering right over your clit, pinching and squeezing and rolling it, and you have to fight every cell inside of you not to cum right then and there, even while he's looking at you and saying everything so, so goddamn perfectly.
You clench around him, once, twice, like a vice grip that's desperate for him to feel just the way he makes you feel.
“Jesus,” he breathes. “You’re so—fuck, I just wanna—” He shakes his head, then mutters against your collarbone, “Don't do that, not yet, I'll cum."
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” you whisper. "I just wanna–oh god—show you how thankful I am."
His hips rock against yours.
“You wanna thank me?” he pants, jaw trembling as he fights to hold on. “Then do it with an ultrasound. Let me hear it. Let me see it.”
You whimper, wrecked by the words alone.
“Say it,” he demands, but softer now. Frantic and obsessed. “Tell me you want it too. Tell me you want to keep me forever.”
“I do,” you gasp. “I do—God, Bucky, I do—”
Then he shifts, pushing himself deeper inside, and one brutal thrust later, raking his hands across your abdomen, you gasp. Shuddering, shaking like a leaf, finishing in his arms so hard that you nearly twist out of his grasp.
Seconds later, Bucky spills into you, and you can feel the precise moment he throbs inside you, warmth filling you up, up, up, and you can fill the drip of his cum spilling out from the sheer volume of it. You've never felt so full.
When you try to get up, he stops you with a gentle pull against your waist. He buries his face in your neck. “Need you to stay still,” he growls, words slurred, “make sure it takes.”
And who were you to say no to that?
You're tangled up in him, hours later. Or maybe minutes. Time’s a blur. The sheets are kicked halfway down the bed, your leg slung over his hip, the air still thick with heat and something heavier. Sweeter. Like gravity finally decided to show up and drag you straight into the future.
Bucky’s arm is around your waist, metal plates cool against your damp skin, the weight of him grounding. He’s curled slightly, head bowed like he can’t stop looking at you. His fingers draw mindless, absent circles on your belly—like the thought never left him. Like it’s only just beginning.
Neither of you says anything for a long time.
And then, quietly, “You okay?”
You nod, not trusting your voice. Your heart’s still hammering like a warning bell and a love song. “You?”
He huffs a laugh into your shoulder. Presses a kiss there. Then another, softer. His voice is hoarse when he finally answers. “I’ve never been this okay.”
There’s a pause. You don’t fill it. You just watch as his thumb drags slow and soft across your stomach again, like he’s memorizing the shape of possibility.
“I can see it,” he murmurs. “Not just a kid. Our kid. One that frowns like you and kicks like me. One who’s smart, and stubborn, and throws food at Walker's head during holidays.”
You snort softly. “You think we’d raise a kid that obnoxious?”
His grin is lazy and real, eyes bright with something so big it makes your chest ache. “I hope so.”
You stare at the ceiling for a beat. Let the words sink in. Let the idea grow legs.
Then you roll closer, press your palm over the hand that’s still stroking your belly.
You whisper it this time. Fragile. Hopeful. “You think this’ll do it?”
Bucky shudders—actually shudders—and shifts to kiss your jaw, your cheek, your mouth like it’s a prayer.
“Sweetheart,” he says, low and wrecked, “I’ll do it again. And again. All night, if that’s what it takes.”
Bucky was trying-really trying-to hold it together.
You were already moaning beneath him, legs wrapped tight around his waist, your body slick with sweat and your cunt squeezing him like a fist with every thrust. He’d been taking his time, keeping it controlled, steady, even though he was right on the edge. Even though every part of him wanted to ruin you.
He was close. So close.
And then your hand slid down between your bodies.
At first, he thought you were going to touch yourself, chase your orgasm with him still deep inside you--and fuck, the idea made his hips jerk.
But then he felt it. The shift. The drag of your fingers at the base of his cock.
And suddenly--
Your hand pushed his hips to still and the condom was gone.
Bucky’s eyes snapped open, he ripped away from the crook of your neck, where he planted himself to stay grounded, his rhythm faltering, heart slamming into his ribs as you tossed it aside like it didn’t matter. He stared down at you, stunned, panting. “What the hell are you doing babydoll?”
Your voice was soft, breathless, a little ruined. “I want you.”
“I’m already inside you,” his brows pinched as he growls, but it came out shaky, unsure.
You pulled your legs up higher around his hips and looked him in the eyes. “I want all of you,” you whispered. “I want you to come inside me.”
That was it. That was the moment he fucking lost it.
He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t give himself time to think. He slammed back into you--bare, raw, thick and hot--and the sound he let out wasn’t human.
“Christ, baby, fucking--I--” he groaned, the stretch hotter now, slicker, real. “You feel--God, you-- you--this has to be heaven.”
Your mouth fell open in a moan, hands digging into his back, pulling him down until he's practically laying on you. Your cunt clamped down around him like your body was begging to be filled, and Bucky fucking snapped.
His head was spinning, ears ringing as he started moving again, but there was no control left. No rhythm. Just need. “You want this?” he growled, breath hot against your jaw. “Want me to fuck you like this? Fill you up ‘til it’s leaking out of you?”
You couldn’t even form words. Just nodded, already trembling underneath him. “You’re mine,” he snarled. “My good girl, taking it raw. You don’t wanna stop me, do you? Don’t wanna go back?”
You whimpered, “Never.”
That's what did it.
His thrusts turned frantic--deep, punishing, desperate. You were crying out, clinging to him like your life depended on it, and Bucky was unraveling above you. Every time you clenched around him, it pulled him deeper, wrecked him harder. He was ready to start sobbing at the sensation "Baby fuck you're milking this cock I---" his head falls forward resting against your forehead.
You whine and whisper against him, "You're gonna make me cum Jamie"
His eyes glossed over completely, “Cum for me princess, cover my cock with your cum before You make me cum” he panted. “You want that? You want my come inside you?”
Your legs tighten around his waist as you moan louder from his words your breathing gets caught in your chest as your tremble against him, “Yes, Bucky--I James...James please.”
He slammed in one last time and came hard, buried to the hilt, cock twitching as he spilled inside you--thick, hot, so much you could already feel it dripping out around him.
He stayed there, chest heaving, forehead pressed to yours, both of you shaking with the aftershocks.
Neither of you spoke for a long moment.
Then your fingers brushed his cheek. “You okay?” He blinked. Let out a breathless, wrecked little laugh. “You just broke me,” he whispered. “Fuck completely broke me baby.”
And when you kissed him-soft, slow, full of everything you couldn’t say-he realized you’d meant to.
You wanted him wrecked. And you’d get that side of him. Every. Night after this.
♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎♥︎
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⋆˙⟢ your complete guide to all destinations · where to next? · select your vacation romance below───ᝰ.ᐟ
⤷ “ STEVE ROGERS ˎˊ˗
⤷ “ BUCKY BARNES ˎˊ˗
⤷ “ NATASHA ROMANOFF ˎˊ˗
⤷ “ ARI LEVINSON ˎˊ˗
⤷ “ MORE SUMMER FLINGS ˎˊ˗
a fever he can’t sweat out
⤷ “ steve rogers x roommate!fem!reader ˎˊ˗
─ .✦ the HYDRA mission was successful. steve's a little off, sure, but it's just exhaustion. except his heart won't stop pounding, heat's crawling under his skin, and every cell in his body is screaming that the only cure is you.
o come all ye faithful
⤷ “ husband!congressman!bucky barnes x wife!diplomat!reader ˎˊ˗
─ .✦ publicly still married, but a private split. it works... mostly. until bucky shows up unannounced to your embassy christmas party and sees you getting a little too close to your lawyer. turns out he doesn’t share.
𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ spring into stardew! @/pinksplace
─ .✦ after suddenly finding himself the owner of a new (admittedly decrepit) farm located in the quiet recesses of pelican town, bucky barnes has to face his toughest challenge yet: growing parsnips... oh! and falling in love
⤷ “ ft. reap what you sow ˎˊ˗ coming soon!
✎𓂃 january jumble scribbles
─ .✦ a prompt is given for each day of january, and the challenge is to write up to 300 words for each one. all fem!reader pairings.
⤷ “ ft. various marvel, c evans and seb stan characters ˎˊ˗
⭐︎ warnings: nsfw, smut, fluff, sexual tension, reader is a college student, age-gap (reader is early twenties, bucky is presumed mid 30s) voyeuristic and exhibitionism, homoeroticism, "slut" "good girl" "whore" public sex, fingering, dry humping, groping, dirty talk, degrading, size difference, mechanic!steve, slight steve x reader, reader is a pervert but bucky is too highkey, player!bucky, bisexual awakening!!!!
⭐︎ word count: 10.2k
⭐︎ a/n: happy pride month!!! if it wasn't obvious enough, yes, it is based on the song call me maybe by carly rae jepsen. real ones know the parodies to this song on youtube. wasabi productions ifykyk. gif by sebstangif
synopsis:
There’s a new guy who moved in right across from you. He’s a total mystery, but his looks certainly aren't. Since he's subtly trying to get your attention, how could you not entertain him? Especially when you have your best friend, Steve, in your ear telling you to go for it.
← previous fic | main masterlist
Hand washing the car on a hot summer’s day was something you would never normally do.
You always let your dad handle a job like that. He’d always tease you for being ‘spoiled,’ always hitting you with the typical line of, “What happens when I’m gone? How will you take care of yourself?”
And every time he hit you with that line, without fail, you would find yourself grabbing the plastic bucket, soap, and sponges out of spite, just to prove a point.
Now, you were outside, drenched in a mixture of sweat and water as the sun beamed down. You were splayed over the hood of the car in a way that looked anything but sexy. You had on a tank top and shorts—natural, given the heat—but despite the porn director approved outfit, you looked anything but pornographic.
Matter of fact, if someone were to come up to you now, they would probably lose interest instantly.
“Hey there,” a familiar, deep voice called from behind you. “Looking pretty hot.”
Normally, you would scramble to make yourself look at least somewhat decent for anyone who approached you in this state.
But it was your best friend—so who cares?
“Steve,” you huffed, raising a leg to balance yourself on the hood of your dad’s car. “Are you going to help me or just taunt me?”
Steve crossed his arms, watching you slip and slide all over the green station wagon that looked like it was ready to fall apart at any given moment.
“Has your dad seen you like this yet? I’m sure if he saw what a poor job you were doing, he wouldn’t ask you to clean it again.
You puffed a strand of hair out of your face. “The reason I’m cleaning in the first place is to prove to my dad that I’m perfectly capable.” You mumbled under your breath, “… He called me spoiled.”
Steve chuckled lightly. “Can’t say I disagree.”
Sneering, you spun around and hurled your wet, soapy sponge in his direction. It landed right in the center of his chest, dampening his snug t-shirt with a dark spot that began to spread. He laughed, catching the sponge before it hit the ground.
“Get off the hood before you hurt yourself,” he grinned, taking a step closer.
You grunted as you slid off the car. As you stood up, your eyes trailed past Steve’s shoulder—something unfamiliar catching your attention.
The house across from yours had been unoccupied for months, but someone had recently moved in. Days had passed, and you hadn’t seen the new neighbors yet. But for the first time since the ‘FOR SALE’ sign was removed, you were finally seeing the man who lived there.
He was tall—maybe around Steve’s height. He had dark hair that fluffed messily at the top, and he was covered in dirt, looking as though he’d been doing yard work all morning. The sun hit his eyes, and he squinted, shielding them with a large hand.
As he looked up, his gaze drifted across to your lawn, and his eyes met yours for a long moment.
A warm, friendly smile tugged at his lips, and he waved. You blinked, a light smile forming on your own face when you realized he was waving at you. You waved back shyly, and his smile grew wider.
“He waved at me,” you pointed out.
Steve, curious, glanced over his shoulder. When he caught the man’s eye, he gave a quick, short nod—a casual greeting between guys.
“He seems nice,” Steve shrugged. “Your new neighbor?”
You nodded, stealing a few more seconds to look at the man across the street. He bent over, his large traps tensing against his cotton tank top as he shoved a pair of gardening gloves over his rough hands. He crouched, his dirty boots and jeans digging into the soil as he began to pull at stubborn weeds.
A man. Hard at work.
The best kind of man.
“He is,” you breathed, looking back at Steve. “And he’s hot, too.”
Steve huffed a laugh, stepping out of your way and towards the car, sponge in hand. “You trying to make me jealous, sweetheart?”
You rolled your eyes, grabbing a spare sponge from the soapy tub. You stepped up to the opposite window from Steve and began to scrub.
“You know, I’ve seen this play out in movies and stuff—” Steve shouted from the other side of the car. “The girl who washes her car and catches the eye of the conveniently attractive neighbor across the street.”
You quirked a brow. “In movies, or in porn?”
Now, it was Steve’s turn to roll his eyes.
“Point aside, you should go for it.” He peeked at you over the roof and nodded in your neighbor’s direction. “You’ve been single for quite a while now. It wouldn’t hurt to dip your toes back in the dating scene.”
You snorted. “Whatever happened to you being jealous?”
Steve shook his head at your comment. “I’m just saying—you’re young and pretty. You could grab that guy’s attention if you really tried.”
Pausing your sponge, you glanced over your shoulder, catching your neighbor’s gaze again. He had been staring at you—for how long, you didn’t know. Either way, your heart did a little flutter in your chest, your face warming at the thought of him watching you.
“You really think so?”
Steve hummed. “Have I ever lied to you?”
Since that day, and with the help of Steve’s encouragement, you found yourself spending more time outside just to catch your neighbor’s eye.
Most mornings, he was already out there working on the front of his house—mowing the lawn, painting fences, or tending to the plants.
The job itself didn’t matter. It was the man behind it all who suddenly made this boring, textbook suburban neighborhood interesting.
Despite only a few days passing since you last washed the car, you miraculously decided to wash it up again the day Bucky was working on the front of his house. How convenient!
Grabbing your tools while wearing a tank top—thinner than the last one—and shorts that rode so far up they were bordering on a wedgie, you stepped out with a confident stride that immediately caught his attention.
He glanced at you from his spot on a ladder, squinting as he smiled.
“Good morning!” you chirped.
“Morning,” he shouted back, nodding to the same car parked on your driveway. “Cleaning again?”
“Oh, yeah,” you smirked, motioning to your bucket. “Just something I like to do every few days.”
If Steve or your dad were here, they would be laughing in your face.
The man’s eyes slowly raked over the car—taking mental note of just how pristine and shiny it already was—before trailing back to you. “Must be a high maintenance girl, huh?”
It was just something about the way he said it—his voice deep and textured with a rasp that made every syllable sound flirtatious. You chuckled softly, your face warming.
“Something like that.”
He chuckled in return before getting back to work.
You dunked the sponge into the bucket of soapy water and got to work. Most of your time was spent focusing more on suggestive poses than actually getting the car clean. You stretched your arms high to reach the roof so the hem of your tank top rode up, then leaned low over the hood, letting your short shorts ride up to reveal the curve of your ass.
It didn’t take long for your clothes and skin to be covered in soap and water. The sun was in your favor today, catching the water as it glistened on your skin and the soap as it trickled down your thighs.
One quick glance over your shoulder made your heart stutter.
You knew you were doing it right because he was looking right at you.
He slowly began to descend the ladder. Before you knew it, he was walking in your direction, crossing the street until he reached your driveway. You had to bite back a smile as the sound of his boots scuffed closer, stopping just behind you.
“I believe we haven’t properly introduced ourselves,” he called out to grab your attention.
You didn’t turn around right away, careful not to make it too obvious. You glanced over your shoulder first, your back arching in a way that felt a bit of a strain—thanks to your usually terrible posture—then slowly stood up, trying not to groan at the sudden soreness.
“I don’t believe we have,” you said, setting the sponge down and wiping your wet hand on your damp shorts. Good enough.
You extended your hand and gave him your name.
He returned the gesture with a smile, his grip warm and rough—the hands of a working man.
“It’s nice to meet you. I’m Bucky,” he huffed. “Bucky Barnes.”
He looked around, appearing almost skeptical to be standing in your driveway. “You look young,” he pointed out. “Are your parents home? I’d like to introduce myself, being new to the neighborhood and all.”
“They’re on vacation,” you explained. “I’m a student over at Jepsen University.”
“A student, huh?” He rubbed his chin with his left hand. No ring. “A pretty thing like you oughta’ be careful at Jepsen. There are a lot of nasty frat boys roaming around campus.”
You chuckled, a light sway in your movement. “You went there?”
He nodded. “Graduated top of my class.”
Even though there was no ring, you still needed verbal confirmation before throwing yourself at him.
“How are you and the family liking the neighborhood so far?” You tested.
Bucky took it upon himself to lean against your car, making the frame creak slightly. He didn’t seem to care about the soap dampening his jeans.
“Well, me and my girl are liking it so far,” Bucky said. “It’s quiet, and plus, I get a good view across the street.”
You made a face at his explanation. My girl. He had a wife? Or a daughter? He was deliberately flirting with you, wasn’t he?
Bucky caught your expression and laughed lightly, waving a hand dismissively.
“My girl Alpine,” he clarified. "She’s the cat loafing on the windowsill in my living room, always staring out.”
You felt your face warm, and your posture eased up instantly. Not only was your neighbor hot as hell, but he was single—and a cat dad! There was a bit of an age gap, but that wasn’t something you couldn’t handle.
You crossed your arms, the movement accentuating your breasts beneath the thin tank top, and jutted your hip out to emphasize your curves. You smiled pridefully, watching as Bucky’s gaze traced a slow path from your eyes down your body.
“Like father, like daughter, then.”
His grin widened handsomely. “What can I say? We like looking at pretty things.”
You smiled, biting the inside of your cheek. He was such a natural flirt—and despite all your attempts to grab his attention, your words suddenly failed you when the time came.
Bucky glanced around the driveway as if he were still searching for someone. Then, he asked, “That guy who usually comes over to help you out—” he brought up slyly, still looking around, “he your boyfriend?”
You blinked at his question. The way he was subtly trying to fish for information made your stomach do a flip in celebration.
“Steve?” you asked, your voice coming out breathier than intended. A small, teasing smile tugged at your lips. “No, he’s not my boyfriend.”
You noticed the way Bucky’s shoulders relaxed slightly at your words. He was jealous.
“He goes to Jepsen, too?” He questioned.
“Yeah, he’s my senior.”
“Ah,” Bucky drawled. “A frat boy, then?”
You couldn’t help but laugh at his endless questioning. “I wouldn’t call him that. He’s my best friend,” you reassured him, watching the way his blue eyes searched yours. “He just comes over sometimes to help out—or more like he comes over to make fun of me while I do all the work.”
Bucky chuckled a deep, gravelly sound that was effortlessly charming. “Best friend, huh?” He pushed himself off your car, taking a step closer to you. Fuck, he even smelled good. “Well, I can’t say I blame him for wanting to hang around. Though, if you ever need a man who’ll actually help instead of just laughing at you, you know where I live.”
He tilted his head toward the house across the street, his gaze dropping to your lips for a second before meeting your eyes again.
“You said your parents were away on vacation?” he asked.
You nodded.
“For how long?”
“Just for a couple of days,” you replied.
Bucky hummed, an amused smile playing on his face as he looked at you. He leaned in, his voice releasing a low murmur as his warm breath tickled your skin.
“A couple of days, huh?”
You caught his gaze tracing a path down your tank top before he met your eyes with a devastatingly slow smirk. If he had this much confidence at his big old age, he was definitely a troublemaker when he was in college, that’s for sure.
“Would you look at that? That’s plenty of time for us to get well-acquainted.”
He watched the way your breath hitched and smiled, looking satisfied. He pulled away and turned back towards his side of the street. If he didn’t know any better, he might have thought he heard a small whine escape you.
“See you around, neighbor,” he called over his shoulder with a charming smile, sauntering down your driveway and back towards his own.
As he walked off, your heart was beating with excitement—beating far too fast to keep up. And the only thing you could think about was how much you were going to gloat about this to Steve later.
You sat across from Steve at the same dingy diner where you two met every Thursday for brunch.
While you sat cross legged on one side of the booth, Steve sat opposite from you in a crisp navy blue collared shirt with a name tag that read HYDRA’S MECHANIC! and the name Steven on the top right.
“He has a cat, Steve. A cat!” You smiled, dipping your toast into a pool of egg yolk. “Her name is Alpine—and he called her ‘his girl.’ Isn’t that so sweet? I nearly had a heart attack right there in the driveway.”
Steve held a coffee mug in his hand, watching you. He was supposed to be heading into work in twenty minutes, but he was currently occupied with the girl in front of him—and her endless rambling.
“And he’s single,” you continued through a mouthful of toast. “No ring, no wife—just a gorgeous, ripped cat dad with a voice that sounds like it came straight out of a smutty audiobook.” You paused, taking a quick sip of your drink. “I mean, yeah, he’s definitely got a few years on me. He’s a little older, but honestly, it doesn’t matter. It just makes him more…” You sighed dreamily. “Capable.”
Steve didn’t say a word. He set his coffee cup down, picked up a fry, and dipped it slowly into a side of ranch with a lopsided smile.
“What?” you asked, your brow furrowing as you caught his grin.
“Nothing,” he said simply, the corners of his eyes crinkling.
“Steve. I know that face,” you pointed out. “That’s your ‘I’ve got something to say, but I won’t’ face mixed with something else. Come on, tell me! What are you thinking?”
Steve chuckled, wiping his hand on a napkin before leaning back in the booth. “I don’t know how I feel about you going after some guy who’s that much older than you. He seems like the type of guy you have fun with—not someone you bring home to your parents.”
Your eyes went wide. “What? You encouraged me to go for it!”
Steve held up his hands defensively. “I know, I know! It’s just… I don’t know. Can’t a guy worry?”
You couldn’t help but smile at his bashfulness. “Aw, you’re worried over little ol’ me, Stevie?” You tilted your head, taunting him.
He rolled his eyes. “You know what? Forget I even said anything—”
“No, no,” you leaned in, resting both arms on the table “Okay, fine. I’m hearing you. What can I do that’ll make you more comfortable in this situation?”
Steve shrugged, lifting the coffee cup and bringing it to his lips. “Could start by meeting the guy, I guess.”
“Okay,” you agreed casually. “He did mention you, actually.”
Steve quirked a brow, eyeing you over the rim of his mug. “Did he?”
You nodded. “He asked if you were my boyfriend.”
He scoffed a laugh. “Boyfriend? He’s already getting jealous? God—how old is he again?”
You gave him a look. “He was just curious, Steve.”
“Sure, and I’m a superhero fighting crime in New York.” Steve set his mug down, dipping another fry into ranch and plopping it into his mouth. He gathered his phone and wallet, quickly tucking them into his pockets. “I gotta go. Shift is starting soon.”
“Wait.” You sat up straight. “My dad won’t stop texting me asking if you can fix the wagon—it keeps making this weird noise and he won’t leave me alone until you look at it.”
“I’m free tomorrow after work. I’ll swing by then. I’ll consider this—” he motioned to the table, where the bill sat squarely in the middle with your name on it, “—payment for the repair.” Steve pushed himself out of the booth, licking the ranch off his thumb before pointing a finger at you. “I’ll text you. And don’t screw the guy ‘til I meet him.”
You couldn’t even get a word in before Steve was already rushing out the door, the bell jingling after him.
“Yeah. Okay, Dad.”
After paying for brunch, you drove home feeling giddy.
Turning the corner onto your street, you spotted Bucky right outside his house, mowing the lawn. This time, he was shirtless.
You purposefully slowed down to get a good look at him, but the moment he looked up and spotted your car pulling into the driveway, he smiled—aiming it right at you through your fishbowl wagon on wheels.
Parked in the driveway, you took a quick look at yourself in the pull down mirror, checking to make sure there weren’t any crumbs on your face or a stray strand of hair sticking out. Smoothing down your top and adjusting your shorts, you stepped out of the car—aiming for casual. But with the way your heart was beating, you were anything but.
Bucky had killed the mower engine and was wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. He looked hypnotizing, his chest and stomach glistening in the afternoon sun.
“Eventful day, I take it?” He nodded towards your car. “Noticed your wagon was missing from the driveway this morning.”
He had noticed you were gone? You tried your best not to smile.
“Oh, yeah,” you leaned against trunk nonchalantly. “I went to have brunch with a friend.”
Bucky crossed his arms over his chest—a move that did very interesting things to his biceps that were hard to ignore—and leaned his weight back on one leg.
“Let me guess,” he said, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Steve?”
After Steve’s comment about Bucky being jealous, you couldn’t help but bask in confidence. You quirked a brow, a teasing smile playing on your lips. “Are you jealous?”
Bucky tilted his head, pretending to contemplate the question as he looked you up and down.
“Only a little,” he admitted with that handsome smile of his.
You grinned. “Well, there’s no need to be jealous, I assure you,” you explained, pushing yourself off the car.
Taking a step back, you gestured vaguely to his yard. “I’ll let you get back to it, though. You look pretty busy,” you said, despite how much you actually wanted to pull up a folding chair and just stare.
You turned to head towards your front door, but you didn’t get far before his voice stopped you.
“You know,” Bucky called out as he began crossing the street. “Your car is looking a little dirty.”
You stopped and turned back, your breath catching as you watched him make his way onto your driveway. Shirtless and confident, he looked even more imposing standing on your property than he had the other day. He came to a halt beside the green wagon, glancing at the circle of bird poop sitting right on the roof.
Then, he looked back at you with a smile—as if he already knew you wouldn’t say no.
“Need some help cleaning?”
“I…” Your eyes trailed to his bare chest slicked with sweat. You didn’t know how you were going to control yourself, but despite it all, you swallowed hard and said, “Yes.”
Minutes later, you found yourself grabbing all the supplies needed to get the car cleaned. Bucky stood by the bucket, holding the hose as the water filled the plastic. It took everything in you not to stare at the way the sun was shining down on his tanned skin, sweat and water glistening down the hard lines of his stomach.
His jeans sat dangerously low on his hips, the hem of his briefs peeking out over the top. He hadn’t even started cleaning the car yet, but he already looked hotter just standing there than you ever felt trying to look appealing while washing the wagon.
When the bucket was full, he lifted it by the handle without much struggle. You watched as his biceps and forearms flexed against the weight of it. His eyes caught yours, and you swallowed hard, quickly forcing your gaze away.
Bucky stepped to the passenger side, opposite where you were standing. He didn’t seem bothered by your staring.
Actually, he seemed to be feeding off the attention, especially after catching you several times.
“This is a nice car,” he commented, dunking a sponge into the soapy water. “Vintage. I’m surprised she’s still kicking around.”
While Bucky scrubbed down the passenger side, you kept trying to sneak glances through the untinted windows. From where you stood, you had a perfect view of his chest muscles and his stomach pressing against the glass as he worked.
“Uh—yeah,” you cleared your throat, forcing your focus back. “It’s from the sixties. It’s my dad’s, actually. Steve just helps me fix it up.”
“Your friend Steve,” Bucky mused, peeking at you over the roof. “He a mechanic?”
“Yup,” you nodded. “So if you hear loud car noises coming from across the street tomorrow when he fixes it, you can blame him.”
“This Steve guy sounds like a total catch,” Bucky said with a light laugh. “You sure you’re not dating him?”
You weren’t sure why Bucky was so insistent on you having a secret relationship with Steve. You had your fair share of insecure men who were jealous of you hanging around with someone like Steve Rogers, and you figured that habit died out once men hit the age of twenty five. But with Bucky standing across from you, poking at your relationship with Steve, you were starting to think that wasn’t the case.
“I swear, I’m not dating Steve.” You raised a pinky so he could see it over the roof. “Besides, he’s like an older brother to me.”
Bucky blew a raspberry.
“Poor kid,” he chuckled. “But really, I’m surprised he hasn’t made a move on you.” He bent down to clean the rim right above the tire, letting his eyes trail over your body through the window. “If I had a pretty girl like you in my life... we wouldn’t have been friends for long.”
You felt your heart stutter.
What did that even mean?
Did he mean he would make you his girlfriend?
You wanted to hear him say it—to blurt out the answer himself.
You dumped your sponge in your bucket, letting yourself get damp with the soapy water.
“Is that so?” you challenged, trying your best to play it cool. “And what would we be then?”
He stood up with a low groan, looking at you over the roof. He began making his way towards your side of the car, moving purposefully slow as he dragged his sponge across the hood—hardly even pretending to clean it anymore.
“After watching you wash this car—looking like a woman straight out of my dreams? We’d be a lot of things,” he said smoothly, locking eyes with you as he reached the corner of the bumper. “But ‘friends’ sure as hell isn’t one of them.”
You grinned, allowing him to be the one to approach you as you continued scrubbing.
“So,” you kept your voice playful, a little teasing. “You’ve been watching me?”
Bucky didn’t bother denying it.
He stopped just inches away from you. He let his tongue run slowly over his bottom lip, his eyes traveling shamelessly down your body. He was mesmerized with the path of the soap bubble trickling down your collarbone, sliding between the curve of your breasts before disappearing into the thin fabric of your tank top, where your perky nipples were poking right through.
It was hard for him to ignore. They were practically begging to be licked.
“Hard not to,” he rasped, stepping closer until he was standing directly behind you. He propped one strong arm against the roof of the wagon, locking you in. “Especially when you’re giving me a view like that from across the street.”
You let out a shaky breath—one that you hoped he didn’t catch, but he did. You stared at him through the reflection of the window, and his eyes were on you—tracing your face, leaning in to smell you.
It was this very moment that made you remember the age gap, because he was moving and talking so smoothly, like it was all natural to him. As if he had been swooning women like you for years.
But you weren’t going to let that shake you up.
You pushed your hips back subtly, letting your damp ass press against his hips. You tried not to gasp at the straining bulge that was waiting for you between his legs.
“Well, I’m right here,” you said quietly, staring at him in the reflection. “So, what then?”
Bucky looked around, his gaze sweeping across the street to make sure no one else was near.
With one hand still propped against the car, the other found your hip, giving it a firm squeeze to keep you right where you were with your ass pressed tight against his cock.
“Do you want to know what I love most about being in this neighborhood, aside from the fact that I have a super attractive neighbor living across from me?”
He rocked his hips forward, letting his hard bulge nestle perfectly between the curve of your bottom. His cock was fighting the restraint of his jeans, and just from that small movement alone, you could feel how big he was.
Bucky pressed his lips against your ear, murmuring low and tickling your skin with his warm breath. “I love how quiet it is. There’s rarely anyone outside, or even driving by... so when I touch you like this...” His hand slid up from your hip to cup your breast through your tank top. “No one will even notice.”
You gasped as he fondled your tits, his rough fingers flicking the sensitive peak of your nipple. As he dampened your shirt with his wet hands, the water seeped through the thin fabric, making every bit of friction feel even more sensitive than the last.
“Oh my god,” you gasped, your eyes fluttering shut.
“Oh,” he let out a low, rough breath. “You’re so reactive. I’m going to have so much fun with you.”
Bucky’s hand left the roof of the car to wrap around your eyes, pulling you even closer against him. He rocked his hips—back and forth, in a steady rhythm—dry humping you right there against the green wagon in your driveway where anyone could see.
The friction of his denim against your damp, thin shorts made a warm heat pool in your lower belly. Every grind of his hips was met with a hard twitch in his jeans, making your body ache for more.
His hands were everywhere. One hand gripped your hip, tickling the skin beneath the fabric as he gave your flesh a possessive squeeze.
The other continued to fondle your tits, tickling your nipple through the wet cotton. His thumb and forefinger would catch your nipple, rolling it until you were arching your back and whimpering his name.
“Cute noises coming out of you,” he murmured against the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin. “I wonder what kind of noises you’ll make if someone were to drive by and see what I’m doing to you?”
You shuddered as his hands roamed lower, his fingers playing with the hem of your shorts. He undid the button with just one hand, letting his fingers trace the skin of your mound, grazing low until he found your clit—lightly rubbing the nub of his finger against it.
A moan left your lips as you arched your back deeper against him. He groaned as your ass rubbed against his throbbing cock.
While Bucky’s fingers toyed with your clit—rubbing in deep, circular motions—he rocked his hips, seeking pleasure of his own. You were moaning, breathing hard as you stared down at him playing with you.
“Bucky… I… mph—” you moaned, your voice pitched high. You ground your hips against his hand, fucking yourself onto his fingers.
With Bucky standing right behind you, he looked down at the soapy water trickling over your chest, his cock growing harder by the second.
He wasn’t lying when he said you looked like a woman straight out of a dream. He wanted nothing more than to tear your clothes apart—which he could do easily—and fuck you right on the hood of the car he’d been watching you parade yourself on for the past few days.
He was so horny, he needed to sink into you—fast.
But first, he needed to see how much of him you were willing to take, starting with his fingers.
“Gotta test you, baby,” Bucky rasped against your ear. “See how much your little pussy can take.”
His hand traced down from your clit to your folds. He groaned once his fingers made contact with your slick heat. You were so wet, so easily riled up, and so ripe for the taking, yet he wanted to make this last.
Bucky glanced around one more time—the coast was clear. He shoved your shorts down, exposing your ass to the cool air, and pushed your lace panties to the side. He probed his middle finger against your entrance, dancing his digit in a curling motion to prepare you.
“So wet,” he murmured, grinning at your little gasps and mewls. “Could easily slide my finger right in.”
His middle finger slowly eased into your pussy, the warm flesh of your entrance accommodating him smoothly. There was a bit of a stretch, sure, but he could easily finger fuck you right now with no struggle at all.
“How many can you take?” he asked.
You felt your face warm at his question. “… Two.”
He hummed against your ear. “Two, huh?”
Without warning, his ring finger took a quick drag against your entrance—already stuffed by his middle finger—and slid in slowly. Your mouth dropped as a broken gasp tore from your throat. The stretch was burning. His fingers were long and thick, and having two of them inside was enough to fill you completely.
“Fuck—Bucky!”
Bucky didn’t give you a chance to fully adjust to his two fingers before he started moving—thrusting in and out, curling deep inside you as he searched for every sensitive spot. With his free hand still clamped onto your hip, he humped you from behind, groaning as his denim jeans grew even tighter around his throbbing cock.
He was so hard it was painful.
His need to sink himself inside you was spiraling out of control as he felt his pre-cum soaking into his waistband. He gritted his teeth, his jaw clenching as he watched the way your ass bounced against his hand, swallowing his fingers with every move.
“Christ,” he hissed against your neck. He slowed his hand just enough to hook a third finger against your entrance, probing the tight and overtaxed muscle. “You’re squeezing my fingers so tight, baby.”
He looked at you through the reflection of the window, and you stared back, caught in his dark gaze. “It feels good, doesn’t it?”
You nodded with a whimper.
Bucky hummed in satisfaction, and without warning, he pressed the tip of his pointer finger against your stretched entrance.
Your eyes flew wide at the sensation as he slowly began sinking that third finger in, forcing you to press your tits and hands into the glass window for support.
“Bucky,” you gasped. “What are you—!”
“Think you can take three?”
He couldn’t even sink his third finger in all the way, your body simply wouldn’t allow it.
The stretch was a dizzying mix of burn and pleasure, your hips going stiff as you struggled to take him in. He was breathing hard against your ear, and you could feel every heavy throb of his cock right behind you.
“Oh my—fuck, Bucky! It’s too much, I can’t—”
He continued rutting his hips against yours, silently encouraging you to accommodate all three fingers. You could tell he was trying to hold back. His fingers stayed there, unmoving, while his hips did all the work.
“Shit,” Bucky cursed, his hand stilling completely inside you. “Three’s a little tight, huh? Come on, baby. Try for me. If you can take three, then you can take my cock with no problem.”
You let out a shaky breath, trying to relax the muscles that were fighting him.
Slowly, you began to push back, easing yourself onto those three thick fingers and sinking down until you felt the base of his hand press against your folds.
Bucky groaned, his head dropping onto your shoulder as he felt your tight cunt finally give way to accommodate him. He was hard as hell, his balls growing heavier and his cock thickening against your lower back with every heavy breath he took.
“Fuck. That’s a good fucking slut,” he hissed, his hips rutting in an uneven motion. “Taking all three fingers—God, you’re being so good for me.”
His teeth traced the column of your neck, biting gently to make you gasp. His lips closed against your skin, sucking and marking you as he murmured filth in your ear.
“So fucking tight,” he whispered. “Been watching you for days, thinking you were going to be untouchable—just eye candy for a man like me living across the street.” He curled his fingers, hitting your sensitive spot and making you cry out his name. “Who knew I’d have you right here, pinned against your daddy’s car, being stretched out in broad daylight.”
You watched him through the reflection, your pussy clenching around his fingers at the dark way he was staring at you.
“Oh, you’re such a little slut for your neighbor, aren’t you?”
Your cunt fluttered around him, his fingers fucking you so thoroughly you felt like you could cum.
“Bucky,” you whined, your hips twitching as you tried to clench your legs together. “I’m—I’m gonna—”
“No,” he grunted, his voice deep and rough. “Not yet.”
If he had fucked you for even a second longer, you would have cried out in pleasure and came right there in your driveway.
But instead, he abruptly yanked his fingers out, the vulgar squelch sound following after. You let out a cry of frustration, your body slumping against the window as he left you feeling cold and aching.
Behind you, Bucky’s eyes locked onto yours in the window’s reflection as he slowly licked your juices off his fingers. The act was so unapologetically filthy that your face burned with embarrassment.
“You even taste sweet, too,” he murmured.
He took a step back, his hands fumbling with the zipper of his jeans. He gave himself a quick squeeze through the denim before finally freeing himself.
You couldn’t help it. You looked over your shoulder and your breath hitched.
Now, you understood exactly why he wanted you to take three fingers first.
His cock was massive, thick and pulsing for you. He stepped back into the space between your legs and slapped his cock against your lower back. It was hot, hard, heavy, and already wet at the tip where he leaked pre-cum. His breathing was labored as he grabbed his shaft, rubbing the tip against your bare ass—smearing his slickness and marking you from behind.
Bucky moaned at the sight of his pre-cum glistening on your soft skin.
“What a pretty, pretty whore,” he cooed. He leaned over you, his thick arm hooking around your waist to bend you over while your hands pressed against the window.
He couldn’t wait any longer. He slapped his cock against your wet pussy, making you wince as your body hummed with anticipation.
“Your pussy’s all stretched out now, ready to take me.” He grabbed his shaft, positioning the head right at your entrance.
The tip of his cock nestled perfectly between your wet, aching folds. Just the sensation of it alone was enough to make him groan in pleasure.
It felt as if your entrance was giving him warm, wet kisses, welcoming him home.
“So, it should just slide right in,” he rasped, slowly drawing his hips forward and beginning to sink into you. “Fuck.”
He couldn’t even make it past the head because of how tight you were squeezing him. His face scrunched in a twist of pleasure and pain, his arm wrapping you tight as he fought for control. You mewled and whined so sweetly—the sound of it should have made him feel bad, but it only made him want to tear you apart more.
“Fuck—how the hell are you still so tight, even after everything?”
Every time he tried to draw his hips forward, your body buckled and clamped down, refusing to give an inch more than the head of him.
“God,” he hissed, forehead dropping to the back of your neck as he struggled to breathe. “What a tight pussy fuck.”
He tried to rock into you again—slow and agonizing. He was gritting his teeth until his jaw ached, his cock pulsing as your cunt fluttered around him, desperate to stretch around his size.
“F—fuck, Bucky, I’m trying—” you whimpered.
“Come on, baby,” he rasped, rocking his hips and trying to find pleasure from what little was already inside you. “I already stretched you out. I know you can take me. You’re just so fucking small.”
You looked at him over your shoulder, and your breath caught. His face was twisted. He looked almost angry—snarling from how difficult this was for him.
You tried pushing your hips back, wincing from the delicious stretch.
“Is this hurting you, Bucky?” you asked, your voice coming out more timid than you’d like. “Are you hurting because I’m so tight?”
A raspy, deep groan tore straight from his throat. You were asking out of genuine concern, but he took it as a challenge.
“God—you fucking—are you trying to test me?”
Bucky kicked your legs wider, his hands clamping down on your waist. He hauled your body back into his, then completely sheathed his cock into your tight pussy.
The air left your lungs the minute your ass pressed against his pelvis. His dark curls were hot against your skin as he finally, finally buried himself all the way inside you. He was in to the very hilt, but you were still so tight that moving was nearly impossible.
He stayed perfectly still for a moment, his forehead resting against your shoulder as he let the sensation of your tightness settle.
In the window’s reflection, it looked as filthy as it felt—a large, shirtless, and sweaty man mounting and rutting into you from behind like an animal, his broad shoulders swallowing your frame as his heavy arms circled you, keeping you pinned close and tight.
“Fuck,” he choked out. “There it is. There you are.”
After a moment of adjustment, he began to rock his hips. He drew in and out slowly, fucking you with deep, hard strokes that made the car creak.
“Christ, look at you,” he hissed, his eyes fixed on your reflection over your shoulder. “Stretched wide open—fucked like a whore for the whole neighborhood to see. You’re taking every goddamn inch of me, aren’t you, baby?”
Your face twisted in pleasure, your bottom lip hanging open as you moaned a litany of words. “Don’t stop... Please, Bucky, please.”
“This was why you were putting your body on display for me, huh? Hoping I’d finally cross the street one day and fuck you.” He fought for his breath as his hips increased the pace, his cock sliding in and out of you, relentlessly making you his. “You’re a smart cookie, too. Made sure your parents were out of town so you could act like a total slut.”
You moaned, eyes rolling back at his filthy words as your body clenched in reaction. “Yes! Yes, Bucky! I’m a slut for you!”
He groaned as he tilted his hips, forcing himself even deeper into your abused pussy.
“Squeezing me so tight... I can only imagine how you’d react if your parents were to drive down the street right now. Imagine them seeing their precious daughter getting split open by her older neighbor—a man they haven’t even met yet.”
He felt your body begin to tremor, your walls fluttering around his pulsing cock. He leaned in even closer, his hot, raspy breath dancing against the shell of your ear.
“Now, what would happen if your poor best friend—Steve, was it?—drove down here expecting to fix your car, only to find you with your tits pushed against the glass, stuffed full of my cock? How would you react then?”
Your knees wobbled and your eyes rolled back at the image. Your body convulsed, your pussy squeezing him impossibly tight at the filthy thought of it.
“Oh, my god—S-steve...!”
Bucky huffed a disbelieving laugh, followed immediately by a deep, guttural groan at the sensation of you clenching around him. He didn’t even care that you moaned another man’s name when he had you stuffed.
“Fuck, so goddamn tight,” he rasped, his arms wrapping around you tighter as you shook. “Shit, you like it, don’t you? The idea of getting caught by your best friend? Fuck—what a goddamn nasty whore you are.”
His hips began to blur against yours as he fucked you harder, the car creaking and groaning with every thrust.
“Bet he doesn’t even know how you’re clenching around me just at the thought of him. Bet he’d ask to join in, wouldn’t he? Would you let him?” He leaned over, biting your shoulder to stifle his own grunt. “Would you let your best friend watch me split you open like this?”
You nodded frantically, sweat beading at your temple from being used so thoroughly. The talk—the idea of it was filthy, a dream that you would’ve never considered doing, but Bucky was fucking you so good that anything he said at this point was hypnotic.
“Yes, yes, Bucky, please! You both can take turns using me!”
“Nasty little slut,” Bucky hissed, his teeth biting gently at your skin again. “Fuck. I’m getting close.”
You nodded hard again, your knees nearly giving out if it weren’t for his big hands holding you back. “Me—me too, shit—!”
Bucky’s grip on your body tightened, pulling you close against his bare and sweaty chest.
After three hard thrusts that bottomed out against your womb, he let out a deep grunt against your neck, his body going stiff as he finally came.
His cock pulsed as cum began to spill out of his tip, pumping you full of his seed and staying completely stuffed inside you until you were filled to the brim. Your head tossed back as a cry left your throat, your overworked pussy clamping down on him and pulsing in a way that milked every last drop out of him.
He held you tight, breathing deep into your back as you both fought for air. “Fuck—you’re draining my balls dry, sweetheart.”
You both started to laugh—deep, tired, and rumbling laughs at everything that had just transpired out in the open, right in your very driveway.
Bucky looked down, pulling out slightly and watching with blown out pupils as his cum trickled out of you and onto the concrete, where it mixed with the soapy water.
“Dirty, dirty girl.”
You spent the following afternoon in your room, going through lectures, though you were hardly paying attention to them. With your cheek resting on your palm, your eyes kept drifting to the open window that gave you a perfect, convenient view of the house right across the street.
Bucky’s house.
The driveway was empty, and the lights inside were off. The blinds were pulled open though, and you could see Alpine—the little cat he mentioned—loafing on the windowsill and staring back at you.
In that moment, the two of you were exactly the same.
Just waiting for Bucky to come home.
The silence of your bedroom was overtaken by the rumble of a truck engine. Sitting up and peeking out the window, you recognized Steve’s battered pickup truck turning into the driveway before the engine cut out.
Steve climbed out of the driver’s seat, looking as exhausted as ever, but he had still shown up for you.
You smiled, racing down the stairs to meet him outside. In the driveway, it was clear that his shift at Hydra’s mechanic shop had done a number on him. His navy blue collared shirt was stained with sweat and motor oil, with dark streaks smeared across his jaw and down the length of his thick forearms.
“Steve,” you breathed with a smile. “Thought you forgot about me.”
Steve shut the door, the truck shaking from the force. “Could never forget about you. Work was just running me late.” He reached for his tools in the flatbed with a tired groan. “How’s your car holding up? Been using it since we had lunch yesterday?”
Your face warmed at the question.
Using it wouldn’t be the right term for it, you thought.
“Not really,” you said, trying to hide the bashful expression on your face.
“Still making that weird creaking noise?” he asked, walking over to the front and popping the hood.
You bit your lip and nodded. “Yep.”
Steve stood over the engine, glancing at wires and mechanical parts that were completely foreign to you.
“How’s it looking?” you asked, hovering over his shoulder.
He didn’t look back as he lifted a straining wire with his pointer finger, examining it closely. “Looks like she’s been through it.”
You had to bite back a snort. You would’ve complimented him on his sense of humor—if only he had known any better.
“Thanks for doing this, Steve,” you said, giving him a pat on his sweaty back. “My dad’s going to be real grateful.”
Steve nodded. “How are you and that neighbor doing?” He still kept his focus on the wires, his voice casual and unassuming. “You two didn’t screw each other after my warning yesterday, right?”
You were so glad he was focused on the engine—the face you made would’ve given it all away.
“What kind of girl do you think I am?” you scoffed playfully, crossing your arms defensively.
Steve glanced up at you with a chuckle. “A good one, I hope.” He brought his tools to the edge of the car, rummaging through the kit. “You two exchanged numbers yet?”
“Do I have to?” you shrugged. “He lives right across the street.”
Steve tilted his head, agreeing. “You make a good point.” He looked back at the engine. “When are you going to introduce me to the guy?”
You leaned against the car with a roll of your eyes. “Steve, you’re sounding an awful lot like my dad. And why are you in such a rush to meet him, anyway?”
Steve shrugged, pulling a wire stripper out of his toolbox before setting it back down on the ground. “I’m your best friend, alright? It’d give any man peace of mind to know what kind of person you’re talking to. Hand me a wrench, would you?”
Crouching, you dug into his toolbox until you found something that resembled a wrench. You handed it to him.
“Thanks,” he mumbled, taking the tool from your hand. His brows furrowed as he wrestled with a stubborn bolt, the muscles in his forearms and biceps flexed hard, giving you an up close and personal view of a working man.
After the filthy things Bucky hissed in your ear yesterday, you couldn’t help but stare. Bet he’d ask to join in, wouldn’t he? Would you let him? Even worse was the memory of what you cried out in response. You both can take turns using me!
You wanted to slap yourself for the secondhand embarrassment you were giving yourself.
You wouldn’t consider it—no, you couldn’t. Steve was the person you grew up with, the one who fended off your bullies in kindergarten. Steve was the one who drove you to school every morning in high school. Steve was the one who took you to prom when no one else did.
Steve was family.
But as he stood there, covered in motor oil and sweat, you finally understood why a man like Bucky would be jealous over you hanging out with a man like Steve Rogers.
The wrench slipped, clattering against the frame of the car before hitting the driveway with a noise that made you flinch.
“Shit,” he cursed under his breath. He bent down to pick it up. He stood up straight—reminding you all over again of just how big he was compared to you—and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.
While you were having filthy thoughts about your best friend, he was standing there in an increasingly sour mood. Between the long shift at Hydra’s and the oppressive heat of the bright afternoon sun, he looked completely spent.
You didn’t know the first thing about wire strippers or engine blocks, and you felt useless just hovering over his shoulder.
“I’m going to go make you a lemonade,” you said, giving his shoulder another supportive pat. “I’ll be back, okay?”
Steve didn’t say anything. He just gave a single, firm nod to let you know he heard you.
As you retreated inside, a car that Steve didn’t recognize pulled up to Bucky’s driveway.
It was a sleek, black convertible sports car. Steve couldn’t help but clench his jaw at the sight of it. Of course Bucky drove a sports car.
He stood no chance against his rundown pickup.
Bucky stepped out of the vehicle, running a hand through his hair. As he turned to glance at your driveway, expecting to see you, his blue eyes landed on Steve instead.
For all that talk about wanting to meet him, Steve really only cared to do it if you were there, bridging the gap. So for now, until you returned with his lemonade—which he was sure would make Bucky jealous—Steve tried to keep himself too occupied to notice him.
But he kept catching movement in his peripheral vision. Then another. Then another. A stupid, persistent movement that wouldn’t go away, like a goddamn fly.
Steve finally lifted his head and saw Bucky still in his driveway, waving.
Waving?
At what?
Steve turned around, expecting to see you standing right behind him with the lemonade, but you weren’t. The porch remained empty—meaning Bucky was waving at him.
“Need any help there?” Bucky called out from across the street, resting his hands on his hips.
Steve pressed his lips into a thin line and shook his head. “I’m good!” he called back. Short, straight to the point, and friendly enough.
He looked back down at the engine, but it didn’t take long before a bright spark jumped from the terminal with a loud popping sound. Steve jolted back with a hiss, snapping his hand away from the burn. “Shit!”
Across the street, Bucky was already making his way over with a smug grin that Steve caught—and one he especially wanted to wipe off.
Jesus. Where were you?
“Here,” Bucky finally reached him, occupying the small space between the car’s engine and where Steve was standing. “Let me help you with that.”
Before Steve could fight for his spot, Bucky was leaning over the hood, adjusting the wires in a way that made Steve—the man wearing an actual mechanic’s uniform—feel like a fool.
Steve stepped up to the hood, propping his arm against it as he looked the man over. “So, you’re the new neighbor that moved in not too long ago, right?” He already knew the answer, but this was at least him trying for short conversation.
Bucky looked up at Steve, his eyes slowly tracing over his uniform. Steve felt his eyebrow twitch.
Was Bucky silently insulting him?
“Yup,” Bucky drawled with the pop of the p. “And you must be my pretty neighbor’s best friend. The one she always talks about.”
It was getting harder by the second for Steve to go along with this. Bucky acted like the very frat boys at Jensen that Steve had warned you to avoid at all costs—and this man was in his mid-thirties, for crying out loud.
“Yeah. That’s me,” Steve mumbled.
Bucky stood up straight, extending his hand for a shake. “Bucky.”
Steve was wary, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looked at the offered hand before finally reaching out to take it.
“Steve,” he replied with a firm grip.
Bucky stared at Steve for a moment longer—as if studying him—before looking back down at the engine with a huff of laughter. “You know, for a guy who works at a mechanic shop, you’re struggling pretty bad with a simple alternator issue.” He bent over the engine again, examining it. “Are you trying to actually fix the car, or just trying to impress your lady friend?”
Steve let out a dry laugh as he pulled a rag from his back pocket to wipe his hands. “It’s been a long day, alright? I’ve been dealing with different cars all day, the sun is giving me a headache, and now I’ve got my best friend’s neighbor to worry about—”
He stopped himself before he could spill too much, but Bucky caught it anyway. He chuckled, the corners of his eyes wrinkling as he looked up at Steve from where he was bent over. “You’re worrying about me?”
Steve swallowed hard, trying to play it off. “I mean, I’m just looking out for her. New guy in the neighborhood, it’s just a habit.”
Bucky hummed, a small, knowing grin resting on his lips as he turned back to the engine block.
He leaned further under the hood of the old sixties station wagon, his fingers moving towards the distributor cap and the fraying ignition wire Steve had been struggling with. Bucky repositioned the stubborn ceramic boot, adjusting the distributor to ensure the connection wouldn’t spark again.
He wiped his hands on his thighs as he stood up straight.
“Since it’s an older model, you’re going to need to buy a specific point and condenser set for a sixties Ford wagon. But this should hold her over for now.” Bucky looked over at Steve. “You got a piece of paper so I can write down the part number you need?”
Steve blinked, surprised and undeniably impressed by how easily Bucky had handled it.
“Oh. Y-yeah, hold on—” He dug into his back pocket and pulled out a small, worn notepad and a pen, handing them over.
Bucky took them, resting the pad against the car’s fender as he scribbled down the specifications. Steve glanced up, watching you through the kitchen window where you were completely oblivious, still focused on making the lemonade.
Surprisingly, he actually liked the guy. Despite the age difference, he could see potential in Bucky. He was handsome, owned his own house, drove a nice car, and was clearly respectful and handy. He was exactly the type of man your parents wouldn’t pass out at the sight of.
He was a good man for you—regrettably so.
Bucky finished writing, flipping the notepad shut and handing it back to Steve along with the pen. “Here you go.”
Steve smiled, and this time it was polite and genuine.
“Thanks,” he muttered. “It was nice meeting you, Bucky.” He held up the notepad with a slight nod. “She’ll appreciate this. I’ll tell her you said hi.”
Bucky’s smile widened just slightly. He glanced over his shoulder, catching your silhouette through the kitchen window where you were still occupied with the lemons. His gaze lingered on you for a split second before he looked back at Steve, his expression unreadable.
“Don’t mention it,” Bucky said smoothly, giving Steve a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Remember, I’m right across the street if you ever need help.”
He gave a parting nod before turning on his heel, brushing past Steve to head back to his side of the street.
Steve watched Bucky disappear past his front door. By the time the door clicked shut, you had finally stepped out onto the porch with two glasses of lemonade in your hands. Perfect timing.
“Sorry I took so long,” you said breathlessly, walking down the steps and handing him a glass. “It’s been a minute since I last made it from scratch, so…”
“You just missed him.”
You raised a brow in confusion. “Sorry?”
Steve brought the cold glass to his lips, taking a long sip of the tart drink before nodding towards the house across the road.
“Bucky.” He let out a satisfied exhale, wiping his mouth with the back of his arm. “He was just here—helping me with your car, actually.”
Your eyes went wide, your head snapping towards Bucky’s house—though he was nowhere to be found. You reached up, trying to smooth down your hair.
“He was? Is he coming back?” You asked, sounding too excited for your own good.
Steve shrugged, taking another sip. “Probably not. Seemed like he had other things to do.”
You looked at Steve, your eyes narrowing skeptically.
Steve caught your look and let out a soft laugh, adjusting the cold glass against his palm. “What?”
“So…” you teased, swaying back and forth subtly. “I assume you two talked for a bit then? How was he? What do you think of him?”
Steve shrugged again, a genuine smile breaking through the tired expression he had on before. “Alright, alright. You know what? He’s not a bad guy. He actually helped me fix your car. I like him.” He handed you back the empty glass, flipping through the crumpled pages to find the note Bucky had left. “He even told me what part we needed to order to get this thing fixed up and working again—”
He froze in the middle of his sentence. His eyes went wide, staring at the page as his words got lost in his mind.
You raised a brow, confused with Steve’s sudden change in demeanor. “Well? What part is it? Is it expensive?”
When he didn’t answer, you took it upon yourself to step closer and peek your head over his arm to look at the notepad. What you saw made your breath hitch, and your own eyes went wide.
There was no part number.
Written in bold handwriting, on the paper was a phone number, Bucky’s phone number, followed by a little message in black ink.
you’re gonna have to call me if you want that part number.
xoxo, buck.
Your jaw hung so loose, a fly could’ve flown in at any moment. Steve didn’t know what to say either—if anything, he was standing there frozen, waiting for you to say something first.
“Oh my god,” was all that managed to leave your mouth. You looked up at Steve, your wide eyes meeting his. “Is Bucky…?”
Steve, poor Steve, who remained completely oblivious to the fact that you and Bucky had fucked just yesterday on this very driveway, only felt confusion and secondhand guilt.
He glanced across the street at the sleek, clean Mazda resting in Bucky's driveway, specifically staring at the custom vanity license plate on the back that read ‘BIGBUCK.’
Steve swallowed hard, his cheeks flushing with a rosy shade of pink. Though, he could easily excuse it for the sun.
“Of course,” he mumbled to himself. “He drives a Miata.”
if you were curious to know why a mazda miata specifically, you can thank r/askgaybros for that when i was conducting my research.
if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!
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