pairing | Massage Therapist!Bucky Barnes x f!Reader
summary | While on vacation, your best friend books a spa day for you to loosen up. A luxury spa, the hottest masseuse you've ever laid eyes on, and the slip of a sound lead to a very not normal massage. But in your defense...he had very good hands and a flexible definition of tension relief.
warnings | MDNI 18+ Barbies only, please | female reader, no use of y/n, vacation fling, porn with a sprinkle of plot, open ended, inappropriate use of towels + massage oils (literally don't...don't do this at home), fingering, dry humping, unprotected p in v, pussy pronouns, exactly one (1) clit smack, soft dom Bucky if you squint, slight Romanogers if you squint even further and hold the phone at the right angle, reader is briefly described as being smaller than Bucky (if I missed anything please let me know)
word count | 5.6k
phoenix chirps | Hi Barbies! It's time for my first installment for the Barbie collab put on by the @stantastic-association. It's been so fun watching this come together that I can almost hardly believe it's my turn to post. I don't have much to say about this one, except that I feel the need to remind you that this is fiction. Please don't engage with massage therapists in this manner out in the real world. Even if they do suspiciously look like Bucky Barnes.
dt | Literally everyone who had to listen to me bitch about needing to lock in since...January? Y'all know who you are, and I'm giving you all a big forehead kiss through the screen. I hope you can feel it. Though a very special dt to @miraclediviner who made sure the collab ran as smooth as butter and didn't let me slack off. You're a real one Mecca ❤️
"We should do a girls trip!"
A dreaded six word sentence among friend groups. It always felt like something elusive that would always get talked about, but never actually get planned. In the history of your particular circle, those words were carelessly thrown around during Pinterest searches or doom scrolls after too much wine more times than you could count, but never once made it out of the group chat.
That was until the self appointed leader of the group, Natasha Romanoff, decided that enough was enough. In her own words, she was tired of the drab concrete buildings in which you worked soul sucking desk jobs and wanted to explore. But she didn't want to go alone. So, she planned. She made itineraries that the group was excited about. A few helped narrow down the field to a destination of the Amalfi Coast. But somewhere between the planning stage and the plane taking off for a two week trip to Positano, only you and Natasha had actually managed to buy the airfare and split the cost of an ocean front hotel room in the picturesque town.
Arriving in a landscape dotted with colorful cliffhanging houses on the bluest waters you had ever laid eyes on should have been enough to decompress. Yet the first thing out of Nat's mouth when you had barely unpacked a bag in the small hotel room you would be sharing was: "You look like you need to relax." Evidently the charm of being in another country without having to think of emails and spreadsheets for two weeks was not enough to bring your shoulders down from where they had permanently bunched at your ears.
And that is how you found yourself herded to the five star spa attached to your hotel. The air was tinged more prominently with orange blossom and citrus oils here, mixing with the salt air of the sea that seeped in through the windows. There was a soft melody of instrumental music along with water bubbling from a few rock fountains that dotted the reception area, granting a relaxing atmosphere from the bustling of the hotel lobby just beyond the entrance.
You had been directed to a pair of plush armchairs by the receptionist and offered a glass of cucumber water along with a list of services that were outrageously priced, even for a tourist town. You supposed that the main focus of stepping into a place like this should have been the ease of which it was to relax. But what really wasn't relaxing were the prices on the laminated sheet.
"Nat I - " you began in a hushed tone, but were cut off by the wave of her hand.
"We're on vacation," she sighed taking a small sip of water. "Just charge everything to my card, and you can pay me back when you can. I need the miles anyway." It wasn't so much of an offer as it was a request to just treat yourself. Like innately, she knew that you would argue over spending an exorbitant amount of money on a ninety minute massage.
Slumping back in your chair, you knew it was futile to argue when Natasha put her mind to something. The receptionist approached shortly after, getting you both on the schedule. Her voice had a distinct charming Italian lilt that you supposed was meant to be calming, though it felt performative in a way; like everything in this over priced spa. Maybe that's how they were able to charge such high prices. If clients were lulled into a false sense of comfort at every turn, it hurt less when money changed hands.
Natasha's name was called first by a tall, muscular blonde man wearing dark blue scrubs. Before she disappeared behind the frosted glass doors flanked by two lemon trees, she gave a sly wink, her nose scrunching slightly. A secret girl code that loosely translated to her likely coming back out with her masseur's personal phone number.
Good for her, you thought. Though you dreaded if she actually did get it that you'd be spending the rest of the vacation playing tourist alone.
That left just you and the incessant dripping sound of water in the reception area, which truthfully wasn't all that relaxing when it had you debating if you had time for a bathroom break. In the middle of your deliberation, you heard your name called.
When your eyes lifted to see who your appointment was with, you now had a concrete reason as to why services here were so expensive. A six foot, broad shouldered muscular man with chestnut hair, and blue eyes that could rival that of the ocean waters of the coast was looking at you expectantly. Your gaze drifted down to the clipboard that held your assessment form you had filled out while waiting. And you were sure it was a normal sized clipboard, but it looked dwarfed being held in his hands. Hands that would soon be on your skin.
His smile was warm, and looked to be the most genuine form of soothing in the spa as you walked up to him on unsteady legs. "I'm Bucky, looks like I've got you for the next hour and a half," he introduced himself, and you immediately noticed he did not carry the same Italian accent of anyone you had encountered at the hotel.
He held the door open for you into a warmly lit hallway, with more greenery and a stronger scent of lemons. "Do you have any problem areas you'd like me to address?"
The only problem that came to the forefront of your mind - aside from your sore back muscles - was that your mind was now…blank.
And yet he patiently waited for an answer as he directed you to a small dim room. Likely having rendered so many women speechless, that this was just part of his routine when he introduced himself to someone new.
The room he showed you to only held a massage table, a small cart with various oils and towels, and the same plinking music that had been playing in reception could also be heard in here, albeit much softer. "Uh, my back kind of? It was a long plane ride," you said, finally finding your voice.
Bucky nodded, jotting something down on the clipboard he still held. "Taking care of yourself on vacation? Good girl, sitting that long can cause unneeded stress on your muscles."
The praise coming from his mouth seemed to slip out so naturally, your brain almost didn't register it. But the rest of your body sure did.
He's probably like this with everyone, he's just trying to get a bigger tip from you. You reminded yourself.
"If you'll just undress to your comfort level," he pulled the drape of the massage table back, "I'll be back in five minutes."
And with that, he was out of the room with the door closing behind him with a soft click. Truthfully your comfort level with a strange man in a foreign country should've been to add more clothes and walk out of here. Especially with the way your thoughts were racing as you pictured his hands on your body.
Perhaps you should go request a different masseuse. One that you didn't want to do things with he probably wasn't allowed to charge for. But with the way your back ached and the crick in your neck from an eight hour flight, you didn't want to wait for a different masseuse. Nor did you want to explain to Natasha why it was necessary and get teased relentlessly.
Deciding you'd like the full experience, you stripped bare and folded your clothes in a neat pile on the chair in the corner. Sliding into the cocoon of soft sheets on your stomach, you shifted the drape over your backside and as soon as you made yourself comfortable with your head on the rest, a knock sounded at the door.
"Alright sweet girl," Bucky's smooth voice reached your ears once more as he stepped into the room. "Let's see if we can't get you to relax."
This was already a bad idea, you surmised. Your body was reacting to the baritone of his voice in ways you hadn't even considered when Nat suggested a massage. Like it was reminding you of the dry spell you had currently been in with your dating life and that something or someone needed to rectify that soon.
He peeled the sheet away from your back to begin, the sudden rush of air hitting your nerves and sending a shiver down your spine,
"Cold?" He asked from somewhere above you, concern lacing his words.
"A little?" Your voice squeaked the lie piling on to your mortification. You weren't really cold, more like your nerve endings you long thought dormant were reacting to any form of provocations.
You heard the click of a button somewhere and a sudden wave of gentle heat flowed from a vent on the wall next to you. "There we go," he murmured. "I want you to be as comfortable as possible."
Some more shuffling occurred while you watched his shadow cast by the dim amber lights dance around the dark floor. A click of a cap being flicked open almost had you peaking over your shoulder to see what was going on, but eye contact would likely only heighten this one sided awkwardness you felt for the next ninety minutes.
A warm sensation dripped over your skin, and you felt goosebumps rise in its wake. Bucky's palms were on you next with a firm pressure that already had the tension floating from your body and into his palms. Deft fingers kneaded the muscles along your spine first, pausing to roll among your shoulders.
Sinking further into the table, it was almost easy to forget who was on the opposite end of the hands that you could describe as harbingers of magic. Your eyes slipped shut, finally letting out a deep breath you didn't remember inhaling.
"Good girl, keep letting go," Bucky whispered, knuckles digging into your shoulder blades and working your muscles loose. There was that praise again, made all the more intimate by the fact that you were now naked and his hands seemed to be working overtime to pull every bit of tension out of your body.
He made it so easy to relax. More so than anything out in the reception area. The aura around his person inviting and safe in a way that made it easy to let go. From the warmth of the room, the slide of his fingers, the gentle praise, a floaty kind of feeling rushed to your head. It was then he found a knot just to the right of your spine that was worked out with enough pressure for an involuntary moan to slip past the barricade you'd been carefully crafting.
And it really wasn't even something you could pass off as a momentary lapse of judgment, especially if he kept skillfully working your muscles out like he was.
But Bucky, professional as he was, never wavered even when he felt the tension rising back to your body like you had done something wrong. "Happens more often than you think," he reassured. "Make all the noise you need to, sweetheart. You don't need to hold back on my account," he said evenly, and you could hear the ghost of a satisfied smile in his tone.
With permission granted unlocking something in your brain, you sighed, letting whatever slightly pornographic sounds come out. It wasn't like you would see him again anyway to be embarrassed about it. And as you fully let go, both of Bucky's hands continued working lower now to where the drape covered the last bit of your decency.
"Your lower back is really tense…" he muttered, hands wrapping around your waist, your attention flaring to the point of contact. "Desk job?"
Your mind momentarily stuttered as you tried to get your mouth to form words that weren't 'you can bend me over a desk'. "Uhm, yeah, unfortunately. I try to stretch but…"
"I can put a towel under your hips if you'd like?" he interrupted whatever your thinly veiled excuse was going to be for not getting up and stretching for ten minutes every hour. "May help me work out some of this discomfort."
You spied him already rolling up a piece of fabric into a tight cylinder. His hands and fingers glistening in the low light looking like a sin you'd love to commit.
You nod in agreement, and shift so he can wedge the towel under your hips. In doing so, the drape covering your ass narrowed, now just barely keeping you concealed.
More oil was added to your skin and Bucky's hands returned to your lower back. You had to give it to him, the added cushion under your hips did help your spine stretch, and the oil was already seeping into your muscles, aiding in the relaxation. But now you had a different problem entirely. The towel had been placed in such a way it pressed right against your clit, the texture of terrycloth mixed with the oil dripping down providing a delicious friction you hadn't been expecting.
And just why had you decided it would be a fabulous idea to get naked? As if the heat pooling between your thighs the second you laid eyes on your masseuse wasn't bad enough, you now had to deal with the fact that every time his thumbs pushed from the swell of your ass to the middle of your spine he unknowingly rocked you just right to send sparks shooting through your limbs.
If you thought keeping your noises to a minimum before was a challenge, it was certainly about to be an even bigger struggle. Screwing your eyebrows together, your fingers gripped the face cradle harder, you dared to let out a much more breathy exhale than before. Slightly worried that if you held any further noises in, Bucky would catch on to the lewd activities happening under the drape.
It would be so embarrassing to come like this, you thought for a brief second, another airy moan traitorously leaving your lips.
That time, Bucky's hands did pause, ever so briefly, on their upward trajectory. Enough that it was obvious he noticed your sounds had changed. But he didn't draw attention to it verbally. Instead, he moved…slower.
His hands trailed down, past your hips to your thighs. Thumb digging just a touch more into your muscles as he moved with leisure.
You barely noticed the drape that had still been covering your ass was being pushed up, too focused on the way he seemed to know when to press on your lower back to get another inappropriate sound out of your mouth. On the next pass, Bucky's fingers grew bolder, dipping between your thighs and nudging your legs apart.
It eluded you that his thumbs were getting closer and closer to where you were now dripping on every pass. Rational thought had long since flown out the window with the way he was slowly rocking you against the towel.
At least…until he drifted experimentally. Two fingers slowly and precisely slipped directly between your thighs ever so slightly relieving the ache that had been building since you had put your body in his very capable hands. It was too deliberate, yet slightly timid to be considered an accident. Much like the soft moans he had elicited from you moments earlier.
Your eyes flew open, breath catching as he did it again. Two fingers mindfully stroking your clit like he was testing your reaction. "I can stop," he said easily once you met his piercing blue eyes over your shoulder, pausing his ministrations but not taking his fingers away. "But I am very good at my job."
You were aware that you could say no. Surely such a posh and highly rated establishment would not survive if such acts were being performed under duress.
You were also aware that while you could…you had absolutely no intention of asking him to stop. Much like when you gave yourself grace by letting your mouth fall open, moans flowing freely, you rationalized that you were on vacation. You were never going to see this man again, and your body was wordlessly begging your mouth to just say yes. Shifting to tilt your hips in a silent dare for him to keep going, you both performed a staring contest in the soft light. But you realized quite quickly that he wasn't going to move again until you said something verbally.
Letting out a shuddering breath, and throwing all caution to the wind along with the last of any rational thought, you imperceptibly shook your head and gave a shaky whisper of "don't stop."
A slow grin spread across his face, a spark of delight as he gingerly tossed the drape to the side. There was no use for it now, considering it had turned into a small sliver that covered nothing.
"Turn over for me, sweet girl, if we're doing this, let's do this right," he murmured, giving a slight tap to your clit before withdrawing, a gentle hand coming to your hip to help maneuver you to your back.
With shaky arms and his guidance, you adjusted. The towel you had been grinding against was also discarded quickly, all the better so you didn't see the mess you had likely caused. Bucky's hands were on you again, steady, but sure, working their way slowly back up your thighs like he was still giving you the chance to back out.
"Beautiful," you swore you heard him whisper above the low music that was still faintly playing in the background. Heat spread from your chest to your ears as you chanced a glance at him while his fingertips made their journey back between your thighs. But his eyes, dark and hooded, were fixated on the dance of his hand moving closer to your center.
You let out a small 'oh' the second he circled your clit, thighs parting further — an invitation to keep going while your fingertips dug into the table. Eyes falling closed, your body arched into the movement, rocking without abandon now that it wasn't something you were trying to hide.
He had not been over exaggerating, he was very good at his job. Executing just the right amount of pressure on the bundle of nerves, every so often dipping to gather the slick now freely dripping from your cunt and tease your entrance. Like he was a lover made just for you, and had learned every single way to provide the highest amount of pleasure to make your head spin.
"When's the last time she was taken care of, hmm?" his voice was closer than it had ever been, your eyes flew open again to see he had moved so his torso was hovering over yours, hand that wasn't performing magic between your thighs braced next to your head.
Fuck, his eyes were more disarming up close. Two shimmering pools of bright blue reflected what could only be described as starlight from the ambient lamps.
Did you really want to admit to a stranger how long it'd been since the last time anyone touched you like this?
"Uh…" you stammered, "haven't really…been awhile."
Real smooth. But what were you meant to say when words were drowning before they had a chance to form?
A gentle, compassionate look crossed his features. "Tsk, you can't neglect something as precious as this sweetheart."
With that, he finally pushed a long finger past your entrance, the stretch sudden causing a needy whine to travel up your throat.
"There you go. Just relax for me…" he whispered the command right against the skin of your cheek, and to your credit, you really did try. But the coil in your lower belly was tightening further and further.
Another unabashed moan slipped past your lips as he added a second finger, your jaw going slack from the sudden stretch while your fingertips dug further into the table to the point your knuckles ached. "I'm trying," you protested, though several parts of your body were continuously clenching.
Above you, a deep rumble vibrated from Bucky's chest. His hand that had been planted next to your head reached for yours, working your grip free of the table. Your fingers interwove with his creating a far more intimate connection than you had been braced for.
"Keep trying sweetheart, you can do it," he coaxed, leaning further in until his lips were right next to yours. While his hands and words were confident, there was a hesitation in the movement of his lips. Like he was a man who was afraid of pushing too many boundaries.
Your fingers squeezed his once his thumb pressed deliberately onto your clit, back bowing off the table while your thighs spread further, one ankle falling carelessly over the edge. "You're so close," he whispered, lips finally meeting the corner of yours. "Can feel it in the way she's squeezing me."
"Mhm," you managed to whine, lips chasing his automatically when he went to pull away.
There was barely a second of hesitation and his mouth was on yours, greedily drinking in the sounds of pleasure as he pushed you closer and closer to release. He tasted of bergamot, lemon and sea salt, like the personification of the small town itself.
It was like something snapped between you the second your lips collided. Something untamed finally being set free after being unfairly caged. Your hand flew to the nape of his neck, drawing him in closer, enough that with the angle, he had to withdraw his fingers from your cunt so he could steady himself above you.
You wanted to grumble at being denied, body clenching desperately around nothing. Until Bucky adjusted, knee finding the bare space of table between your legs. With a slight bounce, his large form soon eclipsed yours as he settled into a comfortable position. All the while, his lips never really ceased contact with yours. Exploring parts of you that you hoped he never dared venture with other clientele.
But any unfounded jealousy you may have stumbled upon exited your mind the second he pressed his hips to yours. The hard, throbbing ridge of his erection had your mind reeling. It hadn't really even occurred to you that he could be as affected as you were, needing his own form of tension relief. Perhaps the soft dark blue scrubs he wore were intentionally chosen to hide such things.
Your legs bent at the knees, drifting to either side of his torso until you cradled his lower body with yours. A sound came muffled from his throat, his teeth sinking into the plush flesh of your lower lip when your hips twitched upwards, bare pussy dragging across the outline of his cock that sent fire rushing through your belly.
Your free hand fisted into the hem of his top, thoughts running rampant of how you planned on daydreaming about ripping this very top off when you got back to your hotel room to now being able to experience the real thing. His hips moved in needy, urgent circles, the head of his cock catching your clit every so often causing your thighs to clench around his frame harder. His movements were so delicate, so restrained, you wondered if he was reconsidering.
Testing the already flimsy boundaries, your hand released his top, moving to rest on the warm skin of his abdomen. A shudder radiated from where your palm was placed as the weight of him sunk deeper onto you. Your hand explored further, your own hips canting up to meet his; soaking the front of his pants with your slick. Fingernails scratched into the hard wall of muscle, contracting like claws with each slow grind.
When you reached his shoulder, Bucky released his grip on your hand, yanking the fabric off and discarding it. It had been one thing to imagine what he looked like underneath the navy blue top. It was another thing in itself to see it in the ambient lighting of the massage room. The flickering candles on the shelves reflected shadows on every crevice that had to have been honed by hours in the gym. Both hands now moved of their own volition, traipsing up the dips until they smoothed over the light dusting of hair along his chest.
"Seems only fair I suppose," he chuckled softly, watching your hands explore. "That you get to feel me up now instead of the other way around."
You felt your cheeks heat once more, moving to withdraw your touch. But, Bucky moved quicker, gripping your wrist and placing a soft kiss to the delicate inside with a smirk.
"Knew you were going to be special the minute I laid eyes on you," he whispered, tugging your wrist until your hand landed at the nape of his neck again, your fingers carding into the soft hair.
"Bet you say that to every girl who walks in here," you mumbled, gaze darting to where his other hand was palming his erection through his pants that were slick from where you had been grinding against him.
A short laugh flitted from his lips, pulling the waist of his pants down further until his thick cock was freed. "I do, but none of them have ever gotten to do this though," he admitted gently, running the tip of his cock already leaking with precum through your folds.
The meaning behind his words barely registered when your eyes were still glued between your bodies. His large hand was wrapped around the thick shaft as he fucked into it, tip gliding through your aching pussy until it kissed your clit and withdrew again.
The motion continued, teasing away what little self restraint you had left with each dip that barely caught at your entrance. A frustrated exhale escaped your lips, looking back up to meet Bucky's eyes. "Can you just - " you huffed as he slid through even slower, like he had all the time in the world yet you knew the ninety minute session would have to end sooner or later.
The corner of his mouth pulled up again, head dipping so his nose brushed yours. "Patience sweet girl," he murmured against your lips. "Don't wanna rush this."
Your leg wrapped higher on his hips wondering if your strength could out match his. But his grip found your thigh, fingers digging into your flesh to keep you from using your muscles in an attempt to get what you want. His hand released his cock, letting it fall heavily onto your hip so he could cup your jaw.
"Breathe with me, okay? In," he inhaled, your lungs expanded on command, chest rising to meet his.
"And out," he exhaled, lips brushing yours intimately while your breaths mingled, his hips adjusting so you felt the nudge of his tip at your entrance.
You really should have expected him to press in the next time he coaxed you to inhale, yet the stretch of him finally filling you completely and slowly was something no amount of breathing exercises could've ever prepared you for.
A loud whimper tore through from your throat while you adjusted to his size, the hand at the base of his neck gripping a bit tighter to steady yourself. Bucky hiked your leg up further, hooking it around his hip — freeing up his other hand to completely cradle your face, elbows tucking under your shoulders while he settled his weight onto you. An intimate gesture you least expected, from someone who was a stranger a little more than an hour ago.
He hadn't even really moved yet, letting your bodies get acquainted; muscles clenching around his throbbing cock while his thumbs slowly brushed over your cheekbones. Every breath leaving your mouth was shallow, attempting to get air to your lungs while every other nerve ending was just concerned with pleasure.
Your fingernails found solace digging into the taut muscle of his bare back, clinging to reality as he finally buried every inch in. Eyes watered as you held his stare of concern marred behind feral need. "Breathe sweetheart," he reminded you once again, thumbs never ceasing the calming movement against your skin.
The table swayed gently with the start of his hips rocking. The ridges and veins of his cock massaging the most intimate and sacred parts of your body.
Needy deep grunts and soft breathless moans soon filled the room, articulated by the whisper of your skin connecting and the nature sounds that were once meant to be relaxing. They now only fueled a delirious fantasy, mixing with the heat rising. Where the room melted into something far more primal and less composed than anything the upscale spa had offered in their list of services.
His strong hands continued to keep your head tilted up. Every desperate thrust into your already fluttering pussy, still aching for the release he denied you earlier had your eyelids dropping. But his hypnotizing eyes that watched every flicker of pleasure on your features were hard to stay away from for long.
"Come on now, darling, let go of that last bit of tension," he breathed softly, head dipping to your collarbone so his lips were right next to your ear with another deep thrust that had stars bursting in your vision.
Words seemed fleeting, as much as you wanted to say for the umpteenth time that you really were trying, but the bliss washing over your body in waves was hard to release. Nothing would have made you more content than to stay in this haze of citrus scented oils.
"So stubborn." You swore you heard him huff, trailing a hand between your bodies where his thumb found your clit, massaging gently.
Entire body locking from the jolt caused a gasp to punch out from your lungs. Thighs and arms wrapped tighter around him, nails digging further into his skin until you were sure the half moons would become a permanent feature to his otherwise flawless body.
"There you are, now let it all go." Bucky's teeth grazed the column of your neck, thumb picking up speed in time with his pace that was becoming erratic. Pleasure finally crested through your nerve endings, flowing to every limb and ligament as you fell over the edge. Saliva pooled on your tongue, eyes finally falling closed to surrender to the sensations. His lips found yours again, an intimate gesture designed to bring you back to the present. He groaned deeply, a tremor rumbling through his entire body as you felt the throb of his own release flare into yours.
Bucky pulled back from the crook of your neck, hair that had been perfectly styled now fell in front of his wild eyes while realization crashed down on both of you. A sudden dawning of what just happened probably…should not have happened. Your limbs were still limp, muscles melting into the table in a sensation you had missed for too long.
"Am I - uh - going to have to pay extra for that?" you asked in an attempt to diffuse the situation, breath still ragged.
He laughed, low and genuine, brushing a piece of your hair back from your forehead. "Nah, we'll keep that off the books."
You giggled in response as he carefully maneuvered off of the table. You propped up on your elbows, accepting a clean sheet he handed in your direction, like he knew your body was already growing colder without his to keep you warm.
"When do you leave?" he asked sincerely, donning a fresh scrub top. Eyebrows drawn together in earnest.
You really hadn't been expecting him to all of a sudden seem so vulnerable, for someone who got you to the position you were currently in with such quiet confidence. "Oh, we're here for two weeks."
He nodded, looking now at a planner that was splayed open on the small counter. "Do you…want to come back tomorrow? I can take you to dinner first and then I can get you another…more appropriate session."
He tripped over his words as he asked, endearing in a truly charming way. "Yeah," you agreed easily, swinging your legs off the side of the table. "I'd like that."
Bucky's shoulders dropped, relief flooding over his features. "Great," he smiled, handing you a business card. "I've, unfortunately, got another appointment I need to get ready for, but I'm looking forward to it."
"Hope it's not one just like this?" you asked, turning the card around in your fingers to see what you assumed was his personal cell phone number scribbled in a margin.
"No," he chuckled again. "This was a…uh…first for me."
Natasha was already in the reception area when you drifted through the frosted glass doors. Everything that had first annoyed about the corporately saccharine decor was muted, the only thought on your mind was when you would get to see it again.
"So?" Natasha asked, a perfectly manicured eyebrow raised as she scrutinized your sudden glow. "How was it?"
You accepted another small glass of cucumber water, settling beside her. "Amazing. I'm coming back tomorrow."
The redhead's eyes narrowed at that, her tongue swiping over her bottom lip. "Is that so? And here I thought this was meant to be a girls trip?" she teased, nudging your foot with hers.
"Weren't you the one who said I needed to relax?" you shot back, briefly flashing the business card before tucking it back into your pocket with a playful smile. "Not my fault the relaxation method doesn't fit your definition of a girls trip."
After Chirps: Okay, maybe I did have more to say??? I hope you liked this one! But I'd be remiss if I didn't link the masterlist post for the collab, and let y'all know that along with all of the other scrumpdillyumptious fics coming, my veterinarian Bucky fic comes out in less than a week! As proud as I am of this one, that one is my baby and I can't wait to share it ❤️
May we get something with age gap, daddy kink, size kink, slightdom! Bucky, body worship (especially tits and ass)🫦
Yes we absolutely may nonnie
TW: all of the above + dbf!Bucky, age gap (reader is in her early 20's, Bucky in his 40's), readers parents are asleep upstairs, very brief mentions of alcohol consumption
It always starts off this way; secret fleeting glances exchanged across the table over your mothers servings of mashed potatoes and slices of Turkey, your father mid telling a recycled joke remaining none the wiser to the way Bucky's striking blue eyes are devouring more than just the food.
You'd never intended on it going this far, harmless flirting with an older man at first. Just a young girl fresh home from college with a silly little crush on your dads best friend. The last thing you'd expected was for the older man to reciprocate your desires. One too many drinks on a hot summers night after losing all restraint to reject your flirtatious advances. Alone together under the hot July air half a bottle of whiskey down in the aftermath of a family party, one last bratty quip was all it took for the self discipline to shatter and that was you done for. Pinned to the ground under the stars in your parents garden, shaking under him pounding into you until even when you closed your eyes, you still could see the stars.
You already knew what he was thinking tonight from the way he licked his lips slowly, stealing glances whenever your parents were distracted, undressing you with his eyes. Even when he wasn't looking at you, its like you could feel him thinking about you, what he was going to do to you as soon as that bottle of wine put your parents to bed. The anticipation alone already sending heat straight to your core.
You didn't have to anticipate for long. Less than an hour later and your parents are dead to the world upstairs in bed, while their daughter is spread open on the living room sofa with your fathers beloved best friend in between your legs, thighs hooked over his broad shoulders as he devours you like it's the last time he ever will.
You squeal into the cushion you've clutched tight against your chest, teeth sinking into the softness to stifle your moans. Bucky abruptly stops his expert tongue circling around your needy hole tutting as he gripped the cushion away from your arms "no, no pretty baby" he whispered softly, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear as he leaned into it "daddy wants to hear every pretty little sound your making for me, even if it wakes your real daddy up" he grinned before heading back down to your heat.
Eyes rolling back, you take your bottom lip in between your teeth biting softly down as a steady stream of whimpers force their way past your makeshift barricade to the sweet sounds. "that's my good girl" Bucky groans into you, savouring the sounds that are going straight to his dick.
An obscene gasp is ripped deep from within you when he slips two thick fingers into your hole, all the while sucking lightly upon your clit, breathing out a sinister chuckle at the noises he's forcing you to make. "quiet baby" he coos "almost think you wanna get caught" he speeds up his fingers "yeah? you don't want your parents seeing what you let a man twice your age do to you, do you? See you all spread open for me, callin' me daddy while your real one has no idea what I'm doin' to his little girl"
You're not sure if its the movement of his fingers hitting deep within you or the vulgarity of his words, but you're coming undone over his fingers, whining and writhing over the sofa as pleasure washes over you. "That's it baby come for daddy" he coaxes you through your orgasm, sweet praises of how good you are for him, how well you're gonna take him, how dirty his princess is until you're coming down from your high and his fingers are withdrawing from your soaked pussy.
Before you can even catch your breath he's pulling your top over your head. Straight to caressing your left breast in his large palm while his lips attach to your right breast, tongue slowly swirling around the nub making it harden under his attention. "Such perfect tits baby" he smirked against your breast "never gonna get tired of seeing these, touchin' em, fuckin' worshiping them"
"Daddy please" you whined "need you". He clasped a palm over your mouth, eyes dark with lust staring into your own "you get me when I say so, understand?" he growled "Once I'm done worshipping every inch of this body, my body, then I'll have you screaming on daddy's cock princess". He gave no time for you to respond, immediately going back to suck on your nipples, alternating between sucking and peppering wet sloppy kisses all over your chest, big hands roaming all over your body making you feel him everywhere all at once.
His lips went from your breasts, to your neck suckling lightly on that sweet spot that had your head flopping back, down your stomach, and over your legs. The whole time whispering into your skin about how perfect you are, how hard you make him, how you're the most beautiful girl he's ever seen. You felt like you were floating.
The crescendo of compliments and sweet loving touches came to a halt when two big palms were manhandling you on to all fours. He lined himself up with your dripping entrance, leaning over to pepper kisses across your spine as his thick length pushed its way in, always a burning stretch even after months of trying to get used to his massive size.
"fuckkkk look at you baby, taking daddy's big cock so good, you always do" he grunted pushing in the last delicious inch, bottoming out as your cunt fluttered around him, your own juices dripping out around his thick cock. He pulled out til just the tip was still inside you, before slamming back in hard making you yelp out. He chuckled darkly, he always finds some peverted amusement in knowing you struggle to take all of him, turning him on beyond belief watching your little hole split open on his length.
He set a slow but rough pace. Every drag of his cock letting you feel ever ridge and vein pulsate against your sensitive walls, every moan from your lips spurring him on to be the cause of more. "C-close d-daddy" you whine. "yeah baby? Gonna cum all over daddy's cock? Gonna be a good girl and let me feel that perfect little pussy cum for me?" he grunts through gritted teeth, his pace quickening and his rough fingers finding your clit.
You slap your hand over your mouth to silence the scream that emerged from your lungs as your orgasm ripped though you. Bucky too lost in chasing his own high to reprimand you for keeping his ears from hearing your sweet sounds. "F-fuck baby… daddy's g-gonna fill you up, send you to bed f-fuckin' drippin' with me" he groans, spilling his hot cum deep inside you as your walls shake around him, still quivering from your high.
Your sweat slicked bodies collapsing on the couch together as he wraps you in his big arms. Placing a tender kiss to your temple as you both catch your breath "y'know I'll be helping your dad out the next few weeks so I'm gonna be around a lot more" he whispered cupping your face in his hands and kissing the tip of your nose "I think I'll have you like this every night"
BROTHER’S BEST FRIEND BUCKY X F!READER (college au)
SUMMARY. Being Steve Rogers’ sister meant years of boys looking at you like a warning sign. Now that you’re in college, your lack of experience becomes a major problem. So you ask your brother’s best friend to teach you everything. What starts as lessons becomes something neither of you have a name for yet.
WORD COUNT. 11.7K
WARNINGS. college au, brother’s best friend trope, MDNI, inexperienced reader, smut, tit play, handjob, dick pronouns, pussy inspection, pussy pronouns, oral (f and m receiving), an attempt at teabagging, cum swallowing, vaginal fingering, dry humping, bucky cums in his pants. No use of Y/N.
NOTES. You can imagine reader as Steve’s adopted sister, there will be no physical descriptions. One might argue this part is just porn without plot. One would be partially right.
Main Masterlist || Series Masterlist || 1 ~ 2 ~ 3
READ ON AO3
A week goes by, and you kiss him twice more.
Once on his couch on Wednesday, which starts because you sit down close enough that the intent is pretty clear. The second time is Thursday, at his door when you’re leaving, which starts because you turn around and he’s right there.
You’re getting better at it. More confident, less in your own head, less managing the moment and more just in it.
Tonight is Friday, and you’re back on his couch.
“Can I try something?”
There's no version of him that would say no to your question. “Yeah.”
“I want to — I want to start it this time.”
He doesn’t ask what, because he already knows. He settles back slightly, like he’s making room. “Alright.”
So you close the gap and kiss him. The kiss in itself isn’t any different. But it feels different when it’s yours to start. You bring one hand up to his jaw the way he always does to you, and you feel him still like the contact surprised him. That small victory does wonders for your nerves.
He kisses you back slowly, letting you lead, his hand coming to rest at your waist with a patience that you are choosing not to read too much into. You shift closer and his grip tightens, fractionally, like some reflex he’s only barely managing.
When you finally pull back, his eyes open. His thumb makes one slow pass over your hip. “That was good.”
“You could be more specific.”
“You didn’t hesitate.” His thumb again, same slow drag. “That’s the main thing.”
You’re close enough that you can see the detail of him. The line where his jaw meets his throat, the soft stubble that’s absolutely not helping right now. The lamp behind him is the only light and it’s warm and doing nothing to help you think straight.
“What’s next?”
He looks at you for a moment, like he’s reading something. Then he stands up. Before you’ve quite registered what’s happening, his hands are at your waist and you’re being lifted. Foot-off-the-ground-lifted. He’s walking toward the bedroom with your face against his jaw, his mouth pressed to your temple.
You don’t say anything. You’re not sure you could.
Thing is, you've been in his bedroom before. But this is entirely different. You’ve been there to to grab something, just passing through. You know the where the bookshelf is, you know he has a photo of you and Steve, you know he has a lamp that sits in the corner.
But one of that prepared you for being carried into it. The fact that it's Bucky carrying you.
He lays you down on his bed and looks at you. There’s something in how he does it, that makes your whole chest tighten up.
“I’m going to take your shirt off.” You realise he’s telling you so you know what’s coming, giving you time to say no before he does anything. “Along with the rest of your clothes. And then I’m going to put my mouth on you.” He watches your face process this. “Questions?”
“That’s — that’s a lot of steps.”
“It’s really not.” He reaches down and gets the hem of your shirt in both hands. You sit up to let him pull it over your head. When you’re back down, his eyes move over you in a way that makes you want to simultaneously stay very still and also disappear.
His mouth finds your collarbone and works down slowly, hands mapping out the territory of your ribs, your waist, learning you, inch by inch.
He moves like he has a plan and also like the plan isn't the point. Like the point is every single inch of the way there.
But he doesn’t rush past your breasts. He cups one fully in his palm, thumb brushing slow circles over the nipple until it’s tight and aching under his touch. “These are sensitive,” his breath is warm against your skin. “We’re gonna take our time right here so you figure out exactly what you like. Tell me if it’s too much or if you want it harder.”
His lips close over your nipple and he sucks. Slow at first, then deeper, pulling the peak into his mouth that makes your toes curl. It’s nothing like the quick graze you expected.
This is hungry, his tongue swirling around it while he holds the suction. You arch hard, a shaky sound ripping out of you with his name. He switches to the other breast without breaking contact, sucking just as thoroughly, letting you feel every pull, every flick, until both nipples are swollen and slick and throbbing in the cool air.
You hadn't known it would feel like this. You'd thought that it would feel good, fine, whatever. You hadn't accounted for the quality of his attention. The way he's watching your face while he does it, checking, adjusting, reading you. It’s with the same focus he brought to explaining what made a good first date. It's the same focus and it's directed entirely at you. And you don't know what to do with that so you just make the sound his mouth is pulling out of you and try not to think.
When he finally releases them with a soft pop, he murmurs “you like that?” His dark eyes go over your face and decides it himself. “Yeah, you do. What about this?” He grazes his teeth over one sensitive bud, then bites down lightly, just enough pressure to sting in the best way. Your hips jerk and you moan outright, louder than you’ve ever let yourself be. He soothes the bite instantly with his tongue, then sucks again, harder this time, alternating between both breasts like he’s memorizing every reaction.
It feels like he's building a map of you for himself. For some purpose you haven't named yet. And won't name right now, because you can't think right now. Also because naming it would be a problem.
His mouth stays on you longer than you thought it would, sucking and licking and testing until your chest is heaving and your thighs are trembling around nothing.When you press them close together, he says against your chest, “don’t do that.”
“Do what—”
“Squeeze your thighs.” His hand slides between your knees and parts them easily. “Keep them open.”
Something about being told that with his mouth still on your breast rearranges your brain chemistry entirely.
He makes his way down your stomach, mouth and hands both, leaving heat everywhere they go. His stubble drags across your ribs, raising goosebumps. It's a small thing, the scrap of his beard on skin.
It shouldn't be a significant thing.
It is, though.
His fingers find the waistband of your underwear and tug them down your legs and off.
Then he just looks. Both hands on your inner thighs, spreading you open under the warm light of his bedroom, studying your pussy with an attention that makes your face go absolutely warm, sweat beading at your temples.
“Bucky—”
“Give me a second.”
“You’re staring.”
“You’re so wet.” He runs his thumb, a sliver of a touch, through your folds, and your hips jerk. His words aren’t quite to you, more like something he’s noting down for personal records.
“Why are you apologising?” He looks offended almost.
“Because it’s — it’s a lot.”
“Yeah.” He looks up at you, the blue of his eyes now only a ring. “It is. That’s good.” His thumb again, the same barely-there stroke, and you make a sound you weren’t planning on making. “That’s very good, actually.”
It’s the voice he uses when something matters to him. You've heard that voice applied to other things over the years. An arguement with Steve, the conversation with Jaxon before it got physical. It’s the serious kind of voice, the one that inevitably says ‘this matters to me.’
The fact that it's being applied to this, to you, like this, makes it harder to breathe.
He keeps your thighs spread open with his hands, and his voice is warm like he’s walking you through something just for the two of you. “That’s just your body showing me exactly what it wants. Nothing to be sorry about. I’m gonna touch you right here so you can feel what feels best for you. Just let me hear whatever comes out, okay? I want to know.”
His thumb strokes slowly through your folds, spreading the slick. He hums softly, when your breath hitches. “Breathe for me.” Then his thumb finds your clit and circles it once. It's soft, light and careful and your whole body jerks.
“Bucky—”
Eyes move to look at your face now. “Feels good?”
You make a sound that's both a gasp and a hum. He keeps the slow circles, then brushes over it with the lightest flick of his thumb. You gasp again, softer this time.
Bucky pulls the hood back just enough with one finger, gentle as anything, then circles again with a touch more pressure. Your thighs tremble under his palms and another soft moan slips out.
“Good girl. See how much wetter you’re getting?”
Does he realise you're not in any position to answer him…
His forefinger circles your entrance, for one small moment, you wonder if he's going inside. But he just collects the slick and brings it back to your clit in slow, patient strokes.
Just when you think you're used to what he's doing, he shifts down between your thighs and you feel his breath against your skin. That’s when you understand. When he'd said he's gonna put his mouth on you, he didn't only mean your tits.
“Wait — Are you — are you going to—”
“Yes.”
“With your — your mouth.”
“That’s generally how it works.”
“I know how it works, I’ve watched porn, I just —” You try to think of useful words, the verge of failing. “I didn’t think you’d actually —”
He looks up at you from between your thighs with the patient expression of a man who has all night. “You didn’t think I’d what?”
“I mean. It’s not — you don’t have to. Like it can’t be that enjoyable for you, it’s—”
“I want to.”
“But—”
“I want to.” He says it the second time like the first time didn’t register, which it didn’t, which he can tell. The second want is more enunciated, letting you know its value. “That’s not a polite offer. I want to put my mouth on your pussy. Are you gonna let me?”
The framing of that sentence evaporates any ability to construct a counter-argument. “Okay… yeah. Okay.”
“Now, relax.” He turns his head and presses a kiss to your inner thigh.
“Why’d you start with your mouth?” You question, mostly just to be saying something, because silence right now seems like more than you can manage. “I thought — I figured you’d use your fingers first. Mouth seems more—”
“More what?”
“Intimate? I don’t know. I thought fingers came first.”
He looks up at you again. “Before I put anything inside you, I want your body to know what pleasure feels like. I want you to know what it feels like to want more before I give you more.” He holds your gaze. “Does that make sense?”
Your mouth is very dry. “Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh.” And with that, his mouth meets your cunt. He exhales into you like he didn't mean to, this warm, involuntary breath, and it hits you that he wants this. He wants this specifically, not as the next step in the curriculum.
Because the sound he made when his mouth first touched you is not a teaching sound.
If you’d thought kissing him was breathtaking, this was on a whole another level. You decide to constantly remind yourself to breathe, because he sure as hell isn’t helping.
The first sensation your register is heat of it. Just that, just warmth and the soft press of his lips against your core. His tongue drags slowly through your folds and your hand shoots to his hair of its own accord.
He licks into you like he’s learning you, cataloguing every place that makes you twitch and keeps coming back to it.
You've watched enough of him to know the difference between him going through motions and him when he’s actually into what he’s doing.
Now, he’s into what he’s doing. The sounds coming from him are laced with want. They aren’t even pointed at you. It seems to escape him rather than come from him. Like he forgot he was supposed to be in control of this. Like you're the one doing something to him.
When his lips close around your clit, you make a noise that could only be described as a cry. Only reassurance after that mortifying ordeal is that he makes a sound back.
His lips close around your clit again, and you have to consciously bite down to not let another noise out.
Like he’s sensed your dilemma, he says against you. “You can be loud. No one’s going to hear you.”
“I’m not—” you start to object, but then he sucks and the rest of that sentence ceases to exist.
Your hand tightens in his hair without you deciding to. He actually groans at that, a vibration against your clit that shoots straight through you, and you loosen your grip immediately.
“Sorry—”
He comes off you just enough to speak. “Don’t apologise.” He looks up the length of your body at you. “You can pull it. You can do whatever you want with my hair. Grip it, pull it, push me where you want — however feels good. It’s for you.” A pause. “Yeah?”
He says it's for you. Like he wants to make sure you understand that. Like it matters to him that you understand that.
Only when you nod, and say yeah, does he go down.
He eats you with with an attention, learning what you respond to and using it, building pressure with his tongue against your clit while his hands hold your hips steady when they try to roll up into him.
At some point one hand leaves your hip and slides up your stomach to your breast, his thumb rolling over your nipple, and the moan that comes out of you at the combination is loud enough that you’re briefly grateful for thick walls.
“Bucky—”
A hum against your clit but he keeps going.
He hums like he's satisfied. Like that sound you just made is something he wanted.
Your hand is in his hair and you can feel him, how present he is in this, how little of him is elsewhere.
Nobody has ever been this entirely here with you before. Not that anyone has been with you before.
But even in the small ways like conversations, attention, the general experience of being in a room with people, you've always felt the slight elsewhere quality of other people's focus.
He doesn't have that. He's completely, entirely here. And not just now.
You know it isn’t something you should be analysing right this moment, but what he’s doing to you isn’t just physical.
Finally, your hand fists in his hair, the way he said you could. The sound he makes is something you’re going to be thinking about for a while. You know he’d said it was for you, but the way he’s responding, it’s hard not to think there’s a little something in it for him too.
You feel the tension building, coiling tighter with every stroke of his tongue, your thighs shaking either side of his head.
“Don’t stop,” you manage, “don’t — please—”
He doesn’t stop. His tongue works your clit in tight circles, his hand flexing into your hip. Everything tightens to a single unbearable point and then snaps. A sound tears out of your throat that you’ve never heard yourself make, your pussy clenching around nothing while he works you through every shuddering wave of it, slower now, softer. He draws it out until your legs are trembling and your hand in his hair has gone slack.
A kiss is pressed to your inner thigh. Then your hip. He’s moving back up your body and settling beside you. You try to remember what your name is.
“That was— I need a minute.”
“Take your time.”
You turn your head to look at him. His mouth is wet, his hair is a disaster from your hands, and he looks… he looks like someone who thoroughly enjoyed himself. There's something open in his expression, something that isn't quite contained, and you look at it for a second before he notices you looking and rearranges slightly.
You saw it. You aren’t in any condition to process it though.
“In porn,” you start and pause to catch your breath.
“Mm.”
“They make it look sort of — performative. Like they’re doing it but they’re also sort of doing it at the camera. That was nothing like that.”
“No.”
“That was—” You don’t have the word. “Better.”
He looks at you for a second with something in his face that he keeps mostly to himself. “I’m glad it was.”
He disappears for a minute and comes back with a glass of water and a washcloth warm from the tap. Sitting on the edge of the bed beside you, he hands you the water first. His hand stays on your knee while you drink.
When you’re done, he’s gentle with the washcloth, so careful, taking care of you like it’s just the next thing he wants to do and not a task he’s ticking off. Your face is warm and you try not to feel too much about the fact that someone is doing this, that he’s doing this, without being asked.
You wonder if this is part of the curriculum or entirely something else.
When he’s done he sets everything aside and looks at you. “You need anything else? Hungry, or—”
“No. Can — Can we just lie down for a bit?”
“Yeah, ‘course.”
He moves up the bed, and you roll toward him. That’s when you realise that he’s still in his sweats and his t-shirt. Entirely, fully dressed. And you are wearing nothing at all, which strikes you as a profound injustice.
“You’re still dressed.” Before he can say anything, you’re talking again. “That’s not fair.”
His eyes slowly drag over your body, which feels like a touch in itself. During the thorough once-over, he also appears to be giving this the serious consideration it deserves.
Without another word, he reaches back and pulls his t-shirt over his head in that one-handed way that shouldn’t be as effortless as it is. “Lift up.”
As you straighten up, he puts it on you himself, guides your arms through, smooths it down over you.
His face tips forward to press a kiss to your temple, just his mouth at your hairline for a moment. Your whole chest does something you’re going to deal with later.
He pulls the comforter up over you both. “Better?”
You hum. Find the space against his side that your body has apparently already decided belongs to you, your cheek against his shoulder, his arm settling around you.
He’s warm, too warm almost. It’s way too comfortable not to fall asleep.
You’re not going to fall asleep though. You’re just lying here, that’s all, with his t-shirt pooled around your thighs and the smell of him close enough to be a problem and his heartbeat doing something steady under your cheek.
There’s nothing to do and nowhere to be and his hand keeps moving, up and down, up and down.
This is nice.
He’s nice.
You close your eyes.
It's morning.
You can tell Bucky's awake because the arm around you is too still. Sleeping people don't hold that kind of stillness, it's a different quality entirely. He's doing a very convincing impression of someone unconscious and you're doing a very convincing impression of someone who isn't lying here thinking about his mouth.
Neither of you are particularly committed to either bit.
"You awake?" he asks after a while.
"No."
The sound he makes is almost a laugh. His thumb moves once over your shoulder. "How do you feel?"
You turn your head and he's already looking at you. The blueness of his eyes startle you in this grey light sweeping through the windows.
There's something underneath the casual delivery of his question that is very much not casual.
"I'm fine, Buck."
"First time's a lot. Even when it goes well."
The fact that he says 'even when it goes well' like he's genuinely leaving the door open. Like he'd sit there and hear it if you say, ‘actually, I have a few notes.’ You don’t say that. You have no notes.
"It went well. Quite well, actually. I'd go as far as really well."
"Yeah?"
"You were there."
"I was. Wanted to hear you say it."
That thing that's been quietly building since last night stirs again and you decide not to look at it directly. The part of your brain that is always oriented toward the next thing clears its throat. "I want to learn the other part."
He doesn't answer immediately. You fill the gap yourself. "How to touch someone. A guy. I want to know how to do it properly."
A breath. "Yeah. Okay."
"Should I … start with my mouth? Like you did?"
"No." He shakes his head once. "That's different."
"How?"
He's quiet for a second. You can tell he's actually thinking about how to say it rather than just saying something. "When I did that with you, it was because it was your first time. Even fingers can be a lot the first time. Guys don't need that. It's not the equivalent."
You think about it. It makes sense. The way he explains things always makes sense.
"Also, hands is easier to start. You'll know what you're doing before you're, you know. Down there."
"Right. And you don't need—"
Unlike you, it's not his first time. Any of this. You knew that going in, it was the entire point of coming to him, it was why you knocked on his door almost two weeks ago. And still there's a small stupid pang, that you are absolutely not going to mention.
He doesn't seem to notice. "So. Hands."
"Hands."
The covers shift to reveal his torso. There’s an intense urge to reach out and touch the plane of muscle. You don’t.
"Whenever you're ready."
You shuffle forward on your knees across the mattress until you're close enough that your body is almost touching his. He watches you with his hands loose at his sides, giving you the room.
He's still in his sweatpants. You get your hands to the waistband and he lifts his hips slightly to help, cooperating without making it a whole thing.
You look.
For a full second, maybe two.
Because your brain is constitutionally incapable of silence, you say, "hi."
Bucky closes his eyes briefly, the expression of a man asking for patience from a higher power. "You don't have to greet it."
"I wasn't greeting, I was — it was a general hi." You look up at him. He looks back down at you. "He's really pretty."
Something happens to Bucky's face that he was not prepared for. His mouth does a thing, not quite a laugh, but also not not one. "He’s — That's not — people don't usually—"
"I’m just being honest." You look up at him and then back down. "He's also big."
"Okay."
"No, I mean significantly." You're doing the math and the math is concerning. He's not even fully hard yet. "How is he going to fit?"
"It'll fit."
"That's not an explanation."
"You don’t have to worry about that now. I'll make it fit.” There's a pull at the corner of his mouth, the effort of keeping his expression neutral while you sit there conducting what is essentially a full appraisal. "Are you going to touch it, or..."
The first contact is just your fingertips. Light, just along the length of him. He pulls in a breath and his hips shift, barely.
"You're so soft." You mean it genuinely. The skin of him is warm and smooth, absolutely not what you'd expected at all. "Like the skin. I didn't think it'd feel like that."
"Yeah." His voice has gone slightly strained.
You wrap your hand around him loosely. More curious than purposeful. He goes very still, the kind of still that takes effort.
Your thumb drifts up to the tip. There's a bead of precum there, you touch it. The sound Bucky makes is quiet and completely wrecked, his head dropping back for one unguarded moment before he pulls it back together.
You did that. Your thumb did that.
You swipe your thumb over the head again and he hisses through his teeth. "Keep doing that. And this is going to be a very short lesson."
So naturally, you do that again.
"Fuck — okay. I — I'm gonna move your hand."
He takes your hand in his and adjusts everything. The grip, the angle, the pressure, and wraps your fingers around his cock properly. His hand over yours. "Not that tight — Just like that. You feel the difference?"
"Uh-huh."
He does one slow stroke with your hand inside his, all the way up. His jaw goes tight. And he does it again. On the third one, he lets go of your hand, and drops his to the sheet.
You do it on your own. Same grip. "Like that?"
"Exactly like—" He stops as you do it again, his whole body jerking once. "Yeah. Yeah, that's—" His hand tightens its grip on the sheet. "Good."
You find the rhythm easier than you expected.
Bucky is quiet in a way that's the opposite of silence. His breathing changes, his throat moves when he swallows, and the hand that isn't gripping the sheet finds your knee and holds it. Like he needs something to hold onto and your knee was there.
You shouldn't be this focused on how he looks right now. You are. The flush starting at the base of his throat. The way his jaw has gone slightly loose.
You've seen Bucky composed in every situation you can think of. Watching that composure come apart because of your hand is doing something to you that has nothing to do with learning anything.
"Is this okay?"
"More than." He gets it out with some effort. His eyes are on you and they've gone dark, most of the blue gone.
"You can talk to me." You glance up to his half lidded eyes. "I told you things."
"That's different."
"How is it different?"
He opens his mouth, closes it. You get the impression the answer to that question is more complicated than right now warrants. So you let it go and keep your hand moving.
When you twist your wrist slightly at the top, the noise he makes is involuntary. His hand comes off the sheet to catch your wrist.
"Where did you—"
"I was paying attention."
He stares at you. There are about four things happening in his expression at once and none of them are teacher friendly. He lets go of your wrist.
The sounds he makes are quieter than yours were. Held back, like he's rationed himself. But they're there. His hips move into the drag of your hand, just slightly, small involuntary pushes he's not entirely winning against.
Warm puffs of breath are on your neck, as he drops his forehead to your shoulder.
You've had his attention directed at you for two weeks but this feels different. This is him needing something to lean on and choosing you as destination.
His hips buck up, once, fully. Immediately, he pulls back fast. "Fuck — sorry—"
You want to tell him not to apologise, that watching him lose his composure is doing something to you. You don't say any of that.
He's close. You know it before he says anything, from the way his thighs have gone rigid and his breathing's come apart entirely.
"I'm almost — Stop." His hand closes around your wrist.
You let go and drop your hand back to your own knee. You knew what was coming but you didn't quite anticipate it. He exhales deeply and spills across his own stomach, his grip on the sheets going white for a moment, a low groan working out of his chest before his whole body goes loose.
Before anything sensible catches up with you, you reach out one finger and drag it slowly through the mess on his stomach.
There’s no lesson in curriculum that says you have to touch his release. You don’t care about it at this moment.
You're curious, is all. You've been curious about him in increments for the past two weeks and this is just the latest increment.
The sound Bucky makes comes from somewhere very deep and takes his whole body with it. At once, his hand snaps up and catches your wrist.
"Don't." His voice is completely wrecked. He looks it too. Undone in a way you haven't seen him before, fighting hard against something that might be a laugh and losing to both at once. "Do not."
"Why not?"
"Because." Completely black pupils gaze over you. "Because I just came and you're going to — Fuck. Why are you like this?"
"I was curious."
"Of course you were." He drops his head back against your shoulder and laughs.
You feel the laugh through his whole chest. You feel it against your shoulder and through your arm and somewhere behind your ribs. It's the kind of laugh that makes you want to make him laugh again.
His hand is still loosely around your wrist. He hasn't let go.
"Was that okay? Genuinely. Tell me if I did something wrong."
He lifts his head to look at you. "You did nothing wrong."
"The wrist thing—"
"Was very much not wrong." His voice is strained, but also a little offended, like you're being ridiculous. "Where did you even pick that up?”
"I told you. I was paying attention. Do I get a grade?"
"You're not getting a grade."
"Feedback then?"
"The feedback is that you're going to be a problem."
You don’t know what he means by that. You don’t ask.
Two dates happen, but you are very intent on calling them lessons.
The first one is a bookshop and coffee after, which Bucky picks because he remembered you mentioning it three years ago. You tell yourself normal people hold onto information like that. After all, you remember his favourite author too.
He buys the book before you can get your wallet out. When you open your mouth, he says it's part of the curriculum, with a completely straight-face. You tell him that's a stretch. He shrugs and holds the door open.
The second one is harder to explain away.
He cooks. Which was not on any syllabus you'd agreed to. You sit on his kitchen counter and talk for two hours before the food is even on the table.
You're calling them lessons. That’s easier.
But why’s it becoming harder?
The next time you see Bucky it's a Thursday, and the word lesson doesn't come up at all.
What does come up, eventually, is his mouth on your clavicle. The fact that there’s a movie playing matters less now than it did five minutes ago. Somehow, you've ended up horizontal with his weight half over you. His lips trail up to your throat. Tipping your head back, you give him more space to work with.
But there’s one specific thing in your mind that needs attention right now. That’s been lying dormant for a week. "Teach me something."
"I am teaching you." There’s no attempt on his part to untangle from you. In fact, he moves, rucking your shirt as he goes. His mouth takes in your pebbles nipple, and you make a sound you hadn't planned on, your hand going to his hair. He does it again, the slow suction almost pulling your body off the couch.
"That's not teaching me anything," you manage.
"Sure it is." He doesn't look up. "You're learning what you like."
"That's not—" He does it again and and you lose your train of thought.
There’s no point in being logical about this, you let him play with your tits however he pleases.
After what feels like a lifetime, he surfaces. His face still rests on your torso as he looks up to you.
"Can you please show me the next thing?"
"There’s a next thing?" His crooked lips tell you he’s messing with you.
"You know what I mean."
"No, I don’t."
"Bucky."
“If you want it that bad, you can say it.”
Trying to glare at him from this angle not only proves to be a minor exercise, but also futile because he just smirks. “Fine. Blowjob. I wanna know how."
He holds your gaze. Then he sits up, which means you sit up too. He's doing that thing where he actually thinks before he opens his mouth. The fact that it’s rarer in people makes you like him a little more. If that’s even possible.
"Okay.”
"Just okay?"
"Did you want a longer answer?"
"Well, for starters, I want to know how to actually do it."
His hand comes to the back of your neck. Before you've worked out what's happening, he's pulling you in. His other hand rests warm on your bare waist as he kisses you. "Sure you want to switch right now?" he asks against your mouth.
"Yes. I've been thinking about it since the handjob."
Something happens to his expression that he doesn't manage to contain. "Have you now?"
"Don't make it weird."
"I'm not making it weird." He sits back. You feel the absence of his warmth immediately. "Honest explanation or the polished version?"
"Honest, obviously."
"See what gets you a reaction, what doesn't. Same as everything."
"Teeth," you say immediately. "And I don't know what to do with my hands. And how do I even breathe?"
"Don’t forget you have teeth."
"I’m sorry, what?"
"No, I just mean, if you’re just conscious of it — like keep it in the back of your mind, it's gonna be okay. Breathe through your nose. If you need air, just pull off, it’s not a big deal.”
“And what about hands?”
"Base of the cock, whatever you can't reach with your mouth. Or thighs. Both. Whatever feels right." A pause. "It’s okay if you can’t take all of it."
"What if I want to?"
"Then you'll gag and we'll deal with it."
A checklist forms inside your head as he speaks. "Okay but I have a genuine question. It's called a blowjob. But literally no one is blowing anything in the videos I’ve watched. So what is actually happening?"
His mouth opens, and then closes. Then the laugh comes out of him, a real one, helpless, the kind that takes his whole face. Your chest does something embarrassing at that sight.
Framing your face with both hands, the softest kiss is planted on your lips. "You're" kiss "so" kiss "adorable" kiss "y’know" kiss "that?"
Oh God. You’re melting. You’re losing it all. Physically, you can hear your heart melt. But you take his face in your hands right back, mirroring him.
"I" kiss "know."
He grins against your mouth and kisses you properly this time, both thumbs drawing circles at your cheeks.
"Suction," he says when he pulls back. "That's the answer. Suction and tongue. The name's just a name."
"But why is it called that?"
"I — genuinely don't know."
"You don't know?"
"I've never thought about it."
"How have you never thought about it?"
"Because it's never mattered before."
The way he’s tilting his head tells you he’s at least mildly curious about it. Proving you right, he pulls out his phone.
"Buck. No. Don't google it."
"I have to."
"Bucky—"
He's already reading. His expression cycles between certainty and not quite confusion. "Okay so apparently, there are several competing theories."
"Of course there are."
"One is that it comes from a slang term for the act that has nothing to do with the literal — "
There’s nothing else to do but indulge him. "I don't want competing theories. I want one answer."
"Etymology is rarely that simple."
"Oh my god." You reach over and take the phone out of his hand. He lets you. "You just googled the etymology of blowjob."
"You asked."
"I didn't ask you to do it with that level of academic commitment." You set the phone face-down on the cushion. "Forget it. Never mind."
He's still smiling when he stands up. But the heat has returned, to him, and to you.
What you don’t understand is why he’s standing. “I need you to sit.”
“Why? This’ll be more comfortable for you.”
“I just — I wanna kneel.”
"You don't have to kneel."
"I want to."
"You can do it just as well sitting down, it's easier on your—"
"Buck." You look at him. "I want to kneel."
An exasperated but equally fond sigh leaves him. He reaches back and picks up the throw pillow from the other end of the couch without another word, setting it on the floor in front of where he’ll be sitting.
"Floor's hard," he says.
You don't say anything about that. You just kneel on the pillow and he sits on the edge of the couch. You're struck, not for the first time, by how completely not-strange this is. How it's just him. How that seems to be doing a lot of quiet heavy lifting lately.
When you tug at his sweats, he lifts to make it easier for you. You stare at his dick. His dick stares back at you.
This is also the time you can show him that you’ve indeed learnt something. You start with the grip you know he likes, watching him thicken and pulse under your fingers until he’s rock-hard and leaking.
When you lean in and run your tongue, on the tip, through the slit once, his breath shifts immediately.
His hand immediately flies to your head. You lick the tip again, slower this time, savoring the salty bead that wells up, then drag your tongue along the thick underside, tracing every throbbing vein from root to tip. The weight of him on your tongue feels perfect.
When his hand presses gently at the back of your head, you close your lips over the tip of him and suck, carefully. A whole body jerk accompanies an involuntary sound that he desperately tries to swallow back. You take a little more, tongue working the underside the way he’d said.
As you try to take more, your jaw strains with it. If he’d felt bigger in your hand before, he’s an entirely different story in your mouth. The stretch catches you off guard.
He sees you struggling to take him, and he adjusts your fingers around his length. "Your hand — Whatever your mouth can't cover. That's what it's for."
Mouth on the upper half, hand at the base, you finally find the thing that makes his breath change. The slow drag of your tongue and suction combined makes him shudder, you notice. You do it again. Though they’re held back, the sounds coming out of him make it very difficult to concentrate on the task at hand.
“Atta girl.” It slips out quiet, almost hard to catch.
The words hit low in your belly and you feel yourself clench around nothing. You almost lose your rhythm from merely two words. Chiding yourself, you try to recover. His hips twitch like the praise cost him the last scrap of control he had left.
The idea that you could make him forget himself, make him slip like that, make him say something he wasn't planning on saying.
You want more of that. You want all of that.
As you work him deeper, tongue dragging slow and wet along the underside with every suck, your eyes flick lower without meaning to. His balls are heavy and tight just below where your hand grips the base, skin flushed and drawn up.
It is impossible to ignore now. You pull off.
He makes a sound of protest that is thoroughly undignified.
You glance up at him, lips shiny and breathing hard. “What about… those?” Sucking cock has your voice strained. “Do I — should I do something?”
“You don’t have to,” he says, reading it immediately, breath still ragged.
“But I should know, right?”
“It’s — if you want to, cup them first. Get a sense of it.”
He stands up without a word, feet planted wide in front of the couch, cock jutting out heavy and slick right at eye level. The new angle gives you everything you need.
His balls are warm and soft in your palm, making him go very still. You drag your tongue over them experimentally, feeling them draw tight under the wet heat. “Like this?” you murmur against the sensitive skin.
“God, yeah — fuck,” he breathes, thighs trembling. A raw and surprised groan rips out of him when you take one carefully into your mouth and gently suck. His hand fists tight in your hair and releases. “Christ.”
You switch to the other, licking and sucking with growing confidence, tongue swirling as his breath turns ragged. “You’re gonna make me lose it already,” he mutters. “If you don’t want me to blow already, you should come off.”
Satisfied with the way he’s shaking, you reach up and wrap your hand around his cock at the same time, stroking him slowly while your mouth stays sealed around his balls.
His hips jerk hard against your mouth. “Shit — wait—” His fingers slide into your hair and tug you off gently but firmly. “If you keep sucking my balls and jerking me off like that I’m gonna — fuck — cum way too fucking soon. Slow down. Please.”
You pull off from his balls to gently shove him back to the couch. He lands with a soft thud and a groan, and you immediately come back to his cock, lips closing over the head.
This time you don't hold back. You want more of that. More of everything. The sounds of him, the way his control keeps slipping in these small visible ways.
Wet sounds fill the room alongside his ragged breathing. You stop being self-conscious about any of this entirely. Spit on your chin. His hand gripping your hair. You try to take him deeper than you have and it makes you gag, eyes watering. It’s a mess when you do pull off, coughing with tears pricking the corners.
Without a word, his thumb comes to your chin to wipe it. "What did I say?"
"I almost had it."
"You didn't have it."
"I was so close."
"Take me back in your mouth. And stop competing with yourself."
Mouth sliding back down, you take what you can and work what you have. His hips buck upward involuntarily, shoving deeper into your throat for one dizzy second before he catches himself. "Shit — sorry." He forces his ass back down. But the control slips again seconds later, another helpless roll that has you moaning around his cock.
You’re doing this to him.
His hand in your hair is gripping properly now. He says your name and it comes out rough.
Till this time, you were so concentrated on him, you didn’t realise you were dripping wet. Those panties sure are soaked by now.
"Come up." His hand migrates to your shoulder. "Come on, come up."
You don't. You remember his he pulled your hand during the handjob, and you don’t want that to fallen again.
"Baby." The hand tightens. "I mean it — come up —"
It slips out. Just the once, just that word, clearly not planned. You stay where you are and look up at him through your lashes. He forces his eyes to stay open, to keep his gaze on you, but his jaw goes tight and his head drops back. The swear that comes out of him is helpless as his whole body goes rigid and still.
The first hot, thick rope of cum hits the back of your throat, salty and bitter and so fucking him. You swallow it down greedily, sucking harder through every pulsing spurt until he’s shaking and empty.
The taste of him is all over your tongue. "Fuck," his voice is wrecked.
He is a sight as you sit back on your heels.
His chest is heaving. There's a flush across his face and throat. He's looking at you from somewhere between wrecked and something else, something that's been showing up on his face more lately.
"First time, you don't usually swallow. You don't know if you'll like the taste — that's why I was trying to—" He pauses to take a breath. "You should've let me pull you off."
Both of your hands go to his jaw. "Buck." You make him look at you. "I liked it. Very much. Can we do it again?"
Droopy eyes stare back at you, and you generously add, “not right now, obviously."
Something gives in his face and he laughs. His hand comes up to cover both of yours where they're resting on him. Turning his head, he presses his mouth to your palm, warmth transferring from his lips. "Twenty minutes," he says into your hand.
"Fifteen."
"Twenty." A kiss to your palm.
"Seventeen and that's my final offer."
"We can go straight to your cock. I'm ready."
Bucky looks at you. "No, you're not."
"I literally just—"
"Lie down."
There's no room in his voice for the conversation you were about to have. Because you know him well enough, you know that tone means he's already thought about this more than you have. It's annoying. You've gotten used to it. You lie down.
He comes down beside you, and his mouth finds the side of your neck first, and then your jaw. "Have you done this before?"
The audacity of this man. “I’m sorry — If I'd done this before. Why would I be here?"
His lips press somewhere near your ear. "With yourself. Have you touched yourself?"
Oh.
"Yes. Obviously." You didn't mean for the ‘obviously’ to come out quite so defensive.
"This'll be different."
The audacity again. "Yeah, you’re gonna be better —"
"No, I just meant — my fingers are bigger."
Right. You take a breath. He's right, you know he's right. The size, and when you add his experience to the mix... "Okay."
"I want you to show me something first." When you turn to look at him he's already looking at you. He proposes it like it's simple. "How you do it. What you do when you're alone."
The heat that climbs your throat is immediate. "Bucky."
"You don't have to. But it'd be nice if you did."
"No I just —" You press your lips together. It's not that you don't want to. It's just that there's a difference between doing something and doing something with him watching your face for your reaction. "You'll literally be right there."
"That’s kind of the point." A quiet fact.
Working up whatever nerve that requires, you slide your hand beneath the waistband of your underwear.
For the first few seconds you're almost entirely in your own head about it, hyperaware of him, of his attention. But your body doesn't especially care about that. It knows what this is. And gradually, the weight of being watched tips over into something else. The sound that comes out of you is not measured.
That’s when you register a movement without fully tracking it. You feel his breath against your inner thigh, you understand he's not beside you anymore, he's between your legs. Right there, watching up close as your hand moves under the thin fabric.
That is a lot of new information at once.
"Take these off." His hand is at the edge of your underwear.
To make it easier, you lift your hips. He drags them down and off in one slow pull and drops them somewhere behind him. The cool air hits your slick folds. But the most striking part of it all is that he's just looking, eyes dark and fixed on the way you're already glistening, the lips of your pussy flushed and wet from your own fingers. “God, I missed her.” The words slip out before he can stop them.
"Did you — did you just call my pussy 'her'?" The question comes out breathless though you're trying to sound sharp. You can't help picking at him even when your thighs are trembling under his hands.
He doesn't answer, so you naturally continue, "you wouldn't let me call your cock 'him'. But now you're out here naming mine like she's an old friend? That's rich." You manage to get the words out, but your voice cracks halfway through, the heat of his stare making it hard to keep the brat in check.
"That was different." The corner of his mouth twitches like he's fighting a smile. "But, you can do whatever you want, gorgeous."
Did he just — did he just call you gorgeous and send your nervous system into an overdrive? Or did he call your pussy gorgeous? Sometimes it’s hard to keep track, especially when you’re inches away from losing it.
You try for a comeback, but there’s none, the words dissolve into a shaky moan before they’re even formed. Partly because his thumbs are already spreading you open again, exposing every slick inch to the cool air and his hungry gaze.
“Don’t stop on my account.” He urges your fingers to continue their motion, and you find your clit to work the slow circle you know. His hands stay spread open on your outer lips.
His breath is warm against you and it is genuinely insane how much that alone is doing to you. You can feel yourself getting wetter under his gaze, which is embarrassing, and also apparently fine. Because when he notices, he makes a soft involuntary sound that vibrates right through your core. "Put your finger in for me."
For him.
After a short shaky breath, you work one finger in. The stretch is small and familiar but the sound you make is not.
"Just like that… fuck, look at you." You can feel him looking. Not at your face. "Leave it right there."
His thumbs, on either side of your lips, spread you open gently, slightly more. To look at you, at where your finger disappears inside your dripping pussy, at all of it, up close.
"She's soaking wet already." His thumb sweeps through your folds in one slow drag, collecting the slick until it shines on his skin. "Look at her pulsing for me."
A soft whimper leaves you as you try to keep pumping in and out of you.
“Fingers out.” There’s an urgency to his voice now, eclipsing all softness there was there before.
You draw your hand back, and you're about to just keep going, bring them up, towards you. But his hand closes lightly around your wrist. Redirecting you.
He brings your fingers to his mouth, his lips closing around them, his eyes up and on yours while he sucks. He hums like this is a perfectly normal thing to be doing.
The second he releases your hand, his face descends to your inviting cunt, sealing his mouth over your clit. Your hand goes straight to his hair.
He groans at that, a sound that vibrates all the way through you, and his grip on your thighs tightens in response.
The pain of it, just that slight pull of his hair under your fist, makes him groan again. You save this particular information in the box that’s been filing everything about him for almost many years now.
He licks around your entrance, just teasing, testing, then goes back to your clit. You find yourself trying to grind up into him because your hips seem to have their own agenda now. When you roll up, he adjusts, tilts his head, his hands steady on your thighs, not stopping you.
He looks up at you. Actually holds eye contact while his tongue moves against your clit, which is an absolutely unreasonable thing to do to a person. Your hand tightens in his hair. He makes that sound again.
Mouth wet, he surfaces to rest his chin on your inner thigh for a second. "I'm going to use my fingers now."
"Yes," you say immediately. "Please."
His hand traces down your stomach, two fingers this time, slow through your folds. "Breathe."
"I'm breathing." You’re, in fact, not breathing.
"Are you?"
It’s the second time you’re swallowing your words today. Because he decides to slide one finger through your entrance, no further, just to the first knuckle, and stops.
"You okay?"
The stretch is different from your own. He's right about the size of it. But it's not too much, it's just new, it's just a presence you have to get used to. "Yeah, that's — yeah."
He pushes in slowly and it's very different now. The angle, the size, the fact that it's him and not you and that he's watching your face while he does it, which you are acutely aware of. When he's in fully, he stays there for a moment, unmoving. His thumb brushes over your clit, giving your body something else to focus on.
"Doing so good," he murmurs, as he curls his finger, just slightly, and your back bows off the bed. He does it again, finding the same spot, watching your face with that look of his. Patient. Like he has all the information he needs and is simply using it.
"Bucky—"
"I've got you, baby. You’re so good."
It’s the seventh time he’s called you 'baby'. You’ve tried not counting, but everytime it slips out of him without his knowing, it gets lodged into your brain.
His thumb keeps its steady circles and his finger moves in a slow drag. This is the point at which your body stops taking notes entirely and just exists in what he's doing to it. You pull his hair. He just hisses and keeps going.
"More. Buck — please."
"Yeah? You can take me?"
"Yeah — please—"
He adds the second finger. The stretch makes you grip the sheets, makes a sound come out of you that breaks in the middle. He stills immediately. "Too much?"
"No." The word is out before you've finished thinking it. "No, don't stop."
He works them slowly, both fingers, curling and dragging while his mouth reattaches to your clit. Now, that and doing this at the same time is a lot. It splits your attention in a way that eventually gives up trying to split anything and just becomes one overwhelming thing.
There’s no warning this time, it happens suddenly without any notice, you come with your hand fisted in his hair and your face pressed to his pillow, sound muffled. His mouth works you through it slowly, drawing it out until your thighs are shaking.
When he finally slides his fingers free, you feel their absence immediately.
His lips press a soft kiss to your inner thigh, your pubic bone, and then just below your navel. Your whole body is doing something between boneless and stunned.
When he comes to rest besides you, his mouth finds yours. You can taste yourself on his lips and that is also a sentence you're going to need a moment with.
"You did so good for me," he murmurs against your mouth, and the way he says it is so straightforward. Something behind your sternum goes a little weak. His thumb moves over your cheekbone once. He pulls back to look at you.
You lie there and just try to breathe. He's propped beside you, his hand resting on your stomach, moving with the rise and fall of it.
The lamp in the corner is doing something to the room, making it amber and small.
"You know — you can’t just — just say ‘she’s pretty’ okay? That’s not — it’s not—"
"Mm." He hums to let you fumble through your sentence.
You do. You fumble. "That — that was an incredibly unfair thing to say."
"Was it?"
"Yes!" Then, calming yourself down, "yes."
He laughs, a proper one, and you feel it through his ribcage where your arm is pressed against him. "I'll keep that in mind."
Your heart does something it's been doing more frequently around him lately. It’s a problem you’re currently not equipped to take a closer look at.
Shifting away from his grip, you turn yourself to look at him. The thought that's been in the back of your head for the last twenty minutes makes itself known again. "Please give me your cock."
The remainder of his laugh doesn’t come out.
"Bucky."
"I heard you."
"So—"
Taking your hand, he presses your palm flat against the front of his sweats. Where he’s hard. Properly hard. The heat and the shape of him is undeniable under your touch. "It's all yours."
The air leaves your body. The words leave your brain. All the blood in your entire cardiovascular system reroutes to your face in a single catastrophic second and you stare at his chest because you cannot currently look at him.
"I—" Nothing. You have nothing. Completely blank.
He doesn't move your hand away. If anything, he tightens his grip, just lets it sit there under his, while you attempt to reconstruct language.
"That's—" The warmth of him through the fabric is not helping. "You're—"
"Yeah." You don’t know what you were about to say, so you don’t know what he’s actually agreeing to. But he doesn’t seem to have a problem with that.
The smugness is radiating off him, and your voice comes out appropriately three times higher than usual, "I wasn't — I wasn't ready for that."
"You asked."
"I know I asked." Your face is genuinely so warm right now. "I asked and you—" You make a vague gesture with your free hand. "You can’t just — just do that ‘cause I asked."
The completely insufferable almost-smile at the corner of his mouth could power a city. He is enjoying every second of this.
"Stop looking at me like that," you tell his clavicle, because you still cannot bring yourself to look at him. Especially since your hand is enveloping his crotch, both enveloped by his own hand.
"I'm not doing anything."
You risk looking at his face, which is a mistake, because the expression on it is fond in a way that completely destroys you. You bring yourself to look back at his clavicle.
His thumb makes one small stroke over your knuckles, where your hand is still pressed to him, still warm, and you feel it in your whole chest.
The gesture is less reassuring than it should be.
Before you can process what’s happening, he shifts. Sits up properly, back against the headboard. His arm goes around your waist.
One smooth pull, barely any effort in it, and you're up — actually off the mattress for half a second — and then you're over him, knees sinking into the sheets on either side of his hips.
The logistics of it take a moment to catch up with your brain. You're straddling him. You're bare from the waist down and he's still in his sweats and you're straddling him.
You’re also not fully dropping your weight on him, just hovering, thighs tight with the effort of not fully sitting.
"Sit down." His hands rest at your hips, thumbs at the crease where thigh meets the curve of your ass.
"Bucky, I — I'm going to crush him."
Bucky sighs like a patient man, who’s tired of hearing the same thing for the hundredth time. "You're not going to crush him."
"I'm serious, Bucky—"
"So am I. Sit."
You try. That's the thing, you genuinely try. You shift your weight, start to lower yourself, and then the thick line of him presses up against you, the fear of crushing little Bucky surfaces again. You can feel him there, right there, even through the fabric, even from an inch away, and your nervous system is having a full board meeting about the implications of closing that distance. What if you actually crush him?
"Still hovering," he observes.
"I'm trying."
"You're not going to crush me."
"You don't know that."
"I do, in fact, know that. I’m the experienced one, remember?"
Let there be a single moment where he doesn’t remind you of his sexual escapades. You almost consider retaliating by putting all of your weight on him in one go, but you need this guy, you need his cock.
"Shut — shut up."
"Sit down."
"Bucky."
"Sit."
You make an undignified noise at him. He looks back at you like he’s content to simply wait, which he will, indefinitely, and you both know it.
But like everything with Bucky, he surprises you. One slow slide of his hand, down between your bodies, and his thumb finds your clit. It’s one light flick, barely anything. But your hips betray you completely. Your knees buckle and you drop fully.
The sound you make when you land on him is not something you'll be repeating in polite company.
The rough fabric of his sweats drags through your folds and presses flush against you. Your brain, which had been managing perfectly well up until thirty seconds ago, simply stops.
His cock is right there, thick and hard under the thin cotton, pressed directly against your clit, and you are bare, not to mention wet and sitting on him.
The moan that comes out of you has his name in it and very little else.
"Good girl. There you go."
You grab his shoulders. Mostly for something to hold onto, partly because the alternative is floating off the bed entirely.
"Bucky—"
"Feel that?"
You feel absolutely nothing but that, actually. The pressure alone is making your thoughts go sideways. Your hips twitch, chasing it without permission.
His jaw goes tight and he tips his head back against the headboard for one unguarded moment before he levels out again.
His mouth finds your neck immediately. Open, dragging up toward your jaw and back down while one hand palms your breast, thumb working your nipple in slow circles until it aches. You press into his lap, just slightly, and feel him exhale through his nose.
"What are you—" Your own voice comes out strange. "Bucky, if you don't stop—"
"Don't stop what?" He says it against your throat.
"That. All of — just. Don't stop."
He laughs, low, the sound vibrating against your skin. "You want me to stop or not?"
"I want — stop asking me questions."
"Alright." He switches to the other side of your neck and you stop being able to track the conversation.
The thing is, every tiny shift you make drags your pussy across the front of his sweats. The friction is wet and warm and you are not entirely in control of your hips anymore. You rock forward, without even deciding to, and the pressure catches your clit just right and makes your teeth snap shut.
"Let's try something," he says.
You're mostly liquid at this point. "What?" It comes out slurred, half a word, because his cock is pressing exactly where it shouldn't be. He's also got his mouth on the underside of your jaw and your nipple is between his fingers. It's just a lot of ongoing information for your head to process.
He looks at you. His cheeks are already flushed and his eyes have gone the dark kind of blue. "Grind on me."
What?
You just stare at him, hoping he’d give you something more than that.
"Like this." His hands settle on your hips, guiding you. Forward, then back. Your clit drags across the ridge of him, making you bury your face in his neck. "Bucky—"
"Again." His hands repeat it. The same rhythm, forward and back. The fabric is already damp from you and the drag of it is obscene. "You feel that?"
You feel it fucking everywhere. "Yes."
"Just like that."
He keeps his hands on your hips for a few more strokes, setting the pace. Then lets go, one of them migrating to your nipple, the other to your back. Which means you have to do this yourself, in front of him, consciously.
But soon enough, your hips find the drag again and the self-consciousness evaporates.
"There it is.”
The sounds you’re making are nowhere in your control. Small and helpless but rhythmic with your hips. And you can't locate any part of yourself that cares. His hand at your back presses you closer, and the extra pressure makes your breath hitch.
"You're soaking through my sweats," he says into your hair. He sounds ruined by this. "D'you know that? Can feel you through the fabric."
The fact that he's saying this out loud makes you grind harder and your moan is muffled against his neck.
"That's good, yeah." His voice has shed several layers of composure. "Keep going."
His breathing has changed underneath you, shorter, less controlled. With his chest rising and falling faster, you understand you’re taking him apart the same way he's been taking you apart this whole time.
There was some point where his attention, his hands, his mouth, all of it were directed at you, for you to learn. But it’s changed now. It definitely goes both ways. You can feel that now under your hips, in the way his hands are gripping you, grabbing your skin for more. It’s becoming less and less like a teacher.
It’s more like a person who is losing his grip on something. On several somethings.
An urgency finds you now, pace picking up solely because you need to see him as flustered as you are.
"Fuck—" His voice is strangled. "Slow—"
You don't slow down. Your hips have their own agenda now, chasing something that's pulling tight and urgent in your stomach. Bucky's hands flex at your waist but they don't actually stop you, just hold on.
You're close. You know you're close because the friction has gone from good to unbearable in the space of about thirty seconds and your thighs are shaking and his name keeps coming out of you between breaths like punctuation.
"Bucky — I'm — don't—"
"I'm not going anywhere." Still ragged. His hand moves up your back, into your hair, just holding. "Cum for me."
Stuttering, your hips grind down one last time as your orgasm crashes through in waves. You feel him shudder underneath you, his grip tightening, his whole body going rigid.
Breathing his name into his shoulder, you both stay in a limbo.
When you finally manage to open your eyes and lift your head, he's flushed. His neck and his cheeks and the top of his chest. Hair stuck to his forehead, lips parted, he’s breathing like he’s run across the campus.
Something clicks when your gaze travels between his face and the dark, obvious wet patch spreading across his sweats.
"Did you—"
His ears go pink. That alone is enough to confirm it.
"Bucky. Did you just—"
"Yeah." He scrubs a hand over his face. "I did." The tips of his ears are genuinely red and you've never seen this on him before. "I came in my sweats, yes, you don't have to—"
"You came in your sweats."
"I'm aware of what happened."
"Without me even—" You gesture at the general situation. "I was just sitting there."
"You were not just sitting there," he says, slightly pained. "You were. Doing all of that. For quite a while. And you're — " He stops himself, something crossing his face that he seems to decide against finishing.
The laugh starts somewhere in your chest and works its way up before you can stop it. Helpless, falling out of you. You press your hand to your mouth but it's already too late.
"Go on. Get it out." He says dryly.
"I'm not—" You're laughing properly now, shoulders shaking. You can hear him hiss when you shift, your hips rolling just a fraction with the laugh, because your body hasn’t figured out how to stay still yet. The sound he makes is raw, like it got dragged out of him against his will.
“Fuck — give me a minute, baby, please,” he breathes, one hand clamping down on your hip to hold you there. Freezing you in place. His eyes are squeezed shut now.
“Shit, sorry—” the laughter dies in your throat.
“Don’t be.” He exhales, eyes cracking open again. They’re still glassy, that post-cum haze making the blue look almost black. “I’m just… over-sensitive right now. You moved and it’s—” Another small hiss when you breathe too hard. “Yeah. That.”
You bite your lip, trying not to smile again even though the whole thing is kind of hilarious and kind of hot at the same time.
His thumbs stroke slow circles on your hips. You feel the way his cock is still half-hard underneath all that mess, twitching every time your weight settles.
You trace a finger along the side of his neck, right where his pulse is jumping. “Can I… give you a hickey? Just one. Or two.”
His head tips back against the headboard so he can look at you properly. The corner of his mouth lifts, tired but fond. “Hickey?”
“Yeah… I’ve always wanted to…” you trail off.
“Have at it,” he makes space for your mouth, titling his head to one side.
Immediately, you lean in and press your mouth to the spot just under his jaw, sucking slowly at first, letting your tongue drag over the skin until you feel him swallow hard. He tastes like salt and musk. Pulling back just enough, you see the little red bloom starting, then move lower, right where his neck meets his shoulder, and do it again. Teeth grazing just enough to make him hiss through his teeth in a completely different way.
His hand slides up your back, fingers threading into your hair. “Mark me up, gorgeous.”
So, you are gorgeous.
Main Masterlist || Series Masterlist || Next Part
EXTRAS. Thank you for reading. Hope that wasn’t just porn without plot. Last part will be up next Thursday.
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 ashe 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.
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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, oversitmulation, 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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BROTHER’S BEST FRIEND BUCKY X F!READER (college au)
SUMMARY. Being Steve Rogers’ sister meant years of boys looking at you like a warning sign. Now that you’re in college, your lack of experience becomes a major problem. So you ask your brother’s best friend to teach you everything. What starts as lessons becomes something neither of you have a name for yet.
WORD COUNT. 7.7K
WARNINGS. college au, brother’s best friend trope, MDNI, inexperienced reader, first date, lots of questions, kissing. No use of Y/N.
NOTES. Steve is going to haunt the narrative like the wife who dies at the start of a film. You can imagine reader as Steve’s adopted sister, there will be no physical descriptions. She might also give you second hand embarrassment a couple of times, it’s intended 😭 Originally this was supposed to be posted on Thursday, but I’m kinda impatient lol. Huge thanks to Aly for helping me with the header. You’re a sweetheart @barnes-babydoll ❤️
Main Masterlist || Series Masterlist || 1 ~ 2 ~ 3
READ ON AO3
One week.
Seven days of college and you are already standing in a hallway that smells like instant ramen and someone’s questionable life choices, leaning against a wall with your phone in your hand and nowhere to be.
The door to your own room is locked. Again. The little scrunchie hanging off the handle is your roommate’s polite way of saying ‘don’t come in, I’m having the time of my life’ while you stand out here and age. The scrunchie is pink and completely unbothered. You are not.
Jenna is lovely. Truly. Bubbly, thoughtful, left you a welcome card on move-in day. But Jenna also has a boyfriend who goes to the school forty minutes east of here and apparently views the commute as a small price to pay for pussy.
Good for Jenna. Really.
Bad for you, who just wants to put her pyjamas on and read in peace.
Forty-three minutes you’ve been out here. You know because you’ve been checking.
Standing still is making you feel sorry for yourself, so you start walking. Because feeling sorry for yourself seems like a bad habit to pick up in week one.
The campus at night is pretty, at least. You’ll give it that. Little pools of lamplight on the paths, the distant sound of music from somewhere you’re not invited, it’s beautiful. You walk with your hands inside your hoodie pocket and try to remember if this is what you pictured. College. The whole thing.
It’s not, is the honest answer. Though you couldn’t tell you exactly what you’d pictured instead.
High school was fine, technically. You had friends, you had decent grades, you had a shelf of books that kept you company on the weekends.
What you didn’t have was the kind of story other people seemed to be accumulating at a rate that felt almost unfair. The parties you heard about on Monday mornings, the relationships that bloomed and burned, the whole sweeping messy catalogue of experience that everyone else seemed to be building while you were just there. Present. A witness to somebody else’s film.
And the reason has a name.
Steve Rogers.
Your brother. Six feet of golden boy, chronically well-intentioned, impossible to be mad at, and the reason every boy in your high school looked at you the way people look at a fire they’ve been explicitly warned not to touch.
They liked you fine. They talked to you, sat next to you in class, asked to borrow a pen. Not one of them, in four years, so much as attempted anything else.
Because Steve was always there. At the next locker, at the lunch table two over, at the game cheering loud enough that people three towns away probably heard him.
And Steve, god love him, had a look. A very specific look he deployed whenever a boy got within conversational distance of you. Watchful. The human equivalent of a warning label.
Nobody wanted to deal with that. Fair enough, in retrospect. Cowardly, but fair.
The thing is, you’re not even angry about it. You made your peace with the Steve situation approximately junior year and moved on. What you haven’t made peace with is arriving at college.
New place, clean slate, Steve an hour away doing an internship and couldn’t pick you out of a crowd here if he tried.
Everyone assured that the confidence would materialise. That you’d look at someone and be comfortable enough to strike up a conversation. You’ve just discovered that it’s not that easy.
All these girls walk around like they’ve read a manual you were never given. Easy in their conversations, laughing at things with their whole bodies. And you stand slightly to the left of it all, perfectly fine, totally capable, and somehow without a single story to show for twenty years of being alive.
It’s the ugly duckling thing, except you’re not even sure you’re ugly. You just feel like everyone else is fluent in a language you only know three words of.
Your feet have been carrying you somewhere while your brain was doing all that, and you stop walking when you recognise the street. The familiar row of off-campus housing, the brick walls.
Oh.
You hadn’t consciously decided to come here.
You’ve been here twice before. Once to drop off something Steve forgot and once because Bucky made chilli and texted your brother about it. And your brother had forwarded the text to you because even though he was away, he knew you’d want to know.
He was right. You’d walked over immediately. The chilli was extraordinary.
It’s ten minutes from your dorm. You’ve walked it enough times to know it by muscle memory, apparently. Honestly, a little embarrassing, but you’re already standing on the pavement, so.
The light’s on inside.
You go up and knock.
The door opens with him mid-yawn, which is not Bucky’s most dignified entrance. He’s got a glass of water in one hand, hair doing something unruly, wearing a grey t-shirt that’s seen better days and sweatpants with a drawstring hanging loose. There’s a crease on his cheek from whatever he was lying on.
He takes one look at you and the yawn dies.
Because he’s Bucky and this is apparently what he does, he leans against the doorframe. “You look like someone who’s been kicked out of their own room,” he says by way of greeting.
“Locked out,” you correct, stepping past him into the apartment. “There’s a difference. One implies I did something wrong.”
“The sock again?”
“Scrunchie this time. Forty-three minutes in the hallway. I counted.” It’s a stupid thing to admit. But then again, this is Bucky.
“You could always come over here, you know.” He closes the door behind you and heads to the kitchen. “Just show up. Don’t need a reason.”
“I showed up without a reason.”
“You showed up because you were locked out.”
“Fine. I’m dropping over everytime I’m bored then.”
“Fine by me.” He fills a second glass of water and slides it across the counter toward you. You catch it. “Sit down. You clearly need to.”
The apartment is not particularly tidy, but not a disaster either. A jacket over the chair, a book open face-down on the couch, some evidence of a meal recently made. It smells like whatever he cooked for dinner and something underneath that, woodsy and warm, which you file away in the part of your brain you’ve been trying to quarantine for approximately the last two years.
You sit on the couch.
He drops into the chair across from you, and looks at you. “You okay?”
“Uh-huh.”
“That it?”
“I’m getting there.”
He waits. That’s another thing about Bucky. He never rushes you, never fills the silence to make himself comfortable. He just sits with it, patient in a way that people his age usually aren’t and people your age definitely aren’t.
“I need help with something.”
He raises his eyebrows slightly. “School stuff? Because I want to be clear upfront that I am barely staying afloat myself. Like, genuinely, don’t trust me with a thesis.”
“It’s not school.”
“Okay.” He waits again.
You look at the water glass. The couch cushion. The bookshelf behind his head where there’s a framed photo of him and Steve and you, the three of you at some barbecue, Steve and Bucky looking like idiots and you mid-laugh between them. The photo was taken before Steve’s shoulder got broad enough that boys stopped approaching you, so you look very relaxed in it.
“It’s not school,” you say again, which is not helpful.
Curiosity gets the better of him, like it always does. For someone who presents as very unbothered, he is profoundly interested in everything. “Okay, now I’m gonna need a little more than that.”
“I want to date someone.”
Bucky blinks. “Okay.”
“That’s your response?”
“I mean, yeah?” He tilts his head. “That’s pretty normal. I think there’s actually a section in the college handbook that encourages it. Between the one about fire safety and the one about noise complaints.”
“I’m being serious.”
“I know, I’m just saying — you wanting to date someone is not a problem, that’s the most regular twenty-year-old thing you’ve ever said to me. What’s the actual issue?”
You pull at a loose thread on the knee of your jeans. “The issue is I don’t really know how.”
He waits for the rest of it.
“Like, how to do any of it. The dating. The whole…” you gesture vaguely, “thing.” You’re not embarrassed by this, you’re just choosing your words. Articulating it out loud is a different thing to thinking it.
He tips his head slightly to one side. “What do you mean you don’t know how?”
“I mean I don’t know how.”
“That’s not—” He stops himself. Seems to actually think about this instead of dismissing it, which is also something you like about him. “Walk me through it.”
So you do. The whole Steve-related saga, which Bucky has adjacent knowledge of but has never heard your version of. The four years of conversational near-misses and boys who were perfectly nice and went absolutely nowhere. The weird invisible perimeter that your brother’s general existence created around your social life without him ever intending to or probably even noticing.
Bucky listens the whole way through without interrupting, which takes some restraint because his face does several things. There was a wince, a something that might be guilt, a small exhale that sounds vaguely like ah.
“I suppose I never thought about it that way,” he says when you’re finished. “I always just figured you weren’t interested. Like you had other things going on.”
“Nope. I was very very interested. Steve was the problem.”
“Okay, fair. So you want to put yourself out there, meet people, all of that.”
“Yes.”
“And you want advice on—”
“More than advice.”
Another pause. Different from the last one. “What does that mean?”
You take a breath. You’re not nervous exactly. This is Bucky, you’ve known him since you were ten and he was fourteen and he used to steal your Halloween candy and then give it back when you cried. You’ve never been nervous around him. But you’re also aware that what you’re about to say is not easy. It might change everything.
“I don’t know anything… I want to make that clear. Like — anything.”
“…anything,” he repeats, not quite a question.
“Kissing, dating, all of it. Any of it… I haven’t — I’ve never.” You gesture vaguely at the space between you. “None of it.”
The apartment goes quiet. Bucky just looks at you. His expression doesn’t do what you’d expected. You’d braced for amusement, or making it into something mortifying. But he just takes it in. Evenly.
“Okay,” he says finally. “That’s not a crime.”
“I know it’s not a crime.”
“Plenty of people—”
“Bucky.” You cut him off, because you can see where this is going. “I don’t need you to comfort me about my inexperience. I’m not upset about it, I’m just … telling you the situation.”
He raises both hands, palms out. “I would never.”
“You were absolutely about to.”
“I was going to make a completely non-patronising observation about the general population.”
“You were going to say lots of people start later, and then you were going to add something about it being not a big deal, and I was going to have to sit here and be patted on the head about it.”
The corner of his mouth moves. A ghost of a smile. “You’ve gotten better at anticipating my speeches.”
“I’ve known you for ten years, Buck. I can practically write them.”
“Should be charging you, at this point.” He looks at you, and the almost-smile turns into something more real. “Alright. So. What exactly are you asking me?”
“I want to start now… I want to do all of it. The kissing, the dating, figuring out how any of it works. I’m done sitting on the outside of every conversation going hmm and yeah and pretending I have any idea what people are talking about.”
“It’ll happen naturally. You meet someone, things progress—”
“That’s the thing though.” You pull your knee up to your chest. “I feel like I missed a class. Like everyone else sat in on Relationships 101 at some point and I was absent that day and now it’s week six of the semester and I’m so far behind I can’t even—” You drop the metaphor because it’s getting away from you. “I don’t even know how to figure it out. I don’t know what to do, what to say, or even what to look out for—”
“Half of those people don’t know either. More than half actually. Most people are making it up as they go.”
“I know. That’s kind of the problem. I don’t want to figure it out with someone who’s also guessing. I don’t want it to be a mess of apologies and bumped noses — I just — I don’t want two confused people in a dark corner trying to work out kissing by trial —” You see his eyes crinkle. “Don’t laugh.”
“I’m not laughing.”
“You’re about to.”
“I’m not, I promise.” He presses his lips together, very serious, very dignified. “Please continue.”
“I want someone who knows what they’re doing.” This is the part you’ve been circling for the last ten minutes, the actual point of the whole thing. And now that you’re here, you feel very steady about it. This makes sense. This is practical. This is arguably the most sensible idea you’ve had since arriving at college. “And I’ve been thinking about who I could ask. Who I trust enough, who actually sees me like a person and not just Steve’s—”
You can see his expression change. The smallest thing.
“—and who’s close enough to actually be practical about this. You live ten minutes from my dorm. You’ve never once made me feel like a liability.”
Bucky is quiet for a moment that goes on slightly longer than his other quiet moments.
“You want me,” he says slowly, “to teach you.”
“Yes.”
He picks up his water glass, takes a sip, and sets it back down with the focus of someone buying himself time.
“Teach you,” he says again.
“Kissing,” you say, because you might as well be explicit. “Dating. What to do. How things — you know — progress. The whole thing, eventually. But we’d start small, obviously… I’ve thought about this. It’s not a weird impulse, I want to be clear about that. I’ve thought about it.”
“When did you think about it?”
“In the hallway. I had forty-three minutes.”
Another silence. He’s looking at you the way he sometimes looks at things he’s genuinely trying to work out, like he’s reading something in a language he’s mostly fluent in.
“So. Are you going to help me, or not?”
His eyes meet yours.
“Teach you,” he says, one more time, and it’s not a question anymore. It’s something else. The careful placement of a word somewhere he can look at it properly.
You wait.
“Teach you,” he repeats for the fourth time and you understand that Bucky.exe has stopped working.
“Buck, are you really buffering?”
“You want me to teach you.”
“Yes.”
A heavy pause.
“You’re Steve’s sister.”
The sigh that comes out of you could power a small city. “We were doing so well up to this point.”
“No, I mean—” He leans forward, and looks you straight in the eye. “You are Steve’s sister. I can’t just kiss you.”
“I don’t want you to just kiss me,” you say, with the patience of someone explaining something very simple to someone very capable of understanding it. “I want you to teach me how to kiss. There’s a difference.”
He looks at you flatly. “How is that any different?”
“By just kissing me, you’d be straight up kissing me.” You hold up a hand before he can say anything. “By teaching me, you’d also give me pointers. Feedback. Direction. It’s educational.”
“It’s—” He opens his mouth. Closes it. “You know what, on second thought, I think might be able to help you academically, I can finish all your projects, you know the whole lot.”
“Bucky.”
“I can. That sounds easier.”
“Buck.” You nudge his knee with your foot. “Come on.”
He tips his head back against the chair and looks at the ceiling like it might offer him something useful. “If Steve finds out, he will actually kill me. Like, not figuratively. I’ve seen what he does to a punching bag.”
“I’m not going to tell him.”
“That’s not as reassuring as you think it is.”
“Why not?”
“Because you not telling him and him not finding out are two completely different things. And I’ve known your brother for twelve years, and that man has a supernatural ability to—”
“Steve is an hour away doing an internship and has not once called me this week because he’s too busy. He’s not finding out anything. I’ll be very discreet.”
Bucky’s still looking at the ceiling. There’s something happening on his face that he’s working to keep neutral, and you track it with the mild satisfaction of someone whose argument is landing.
“Do you really want me out there,” you say, “inexperienced and completely clueless? Just — unleashed? On the general college population?”
He brings his gaze back down to you. “That’s one of the worst arguments I’ve ever heard.”
“But do you? I’m gonna fumble hard. You want that?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You’re implying it by not helping.”
“I’m not—” He scrubs a hand through his hair. “I can’t just kiss you. Or, you know. Do the other stuff.”
“You can say sex, Bucky.”
“I know I can say it.”
“So say it.”
“I’m not going to say it just because you told me to say it.”
“Okay then.”
He lets out a big sigh. And starts like he has to prove something to you. “I know I can say sex. The word sex doesn’t bother me. I am an adult man and I am perfectly capable of—” He closes his eyes briefly. “Oh god. You’re making this so hard.”
The silence that follows is approximately two seconds long. You can’t help yourself when he’s just handed you this. “Am I making you hard?”
The colour that moves up the back of his neck and settles across his cheekbones is, genuinely, one of the best things you have ever witnessed in your life. Bucky Barnes, who punched Jaxon who bullied you, is sitting in his armchair going pink because you said five little words.
“That’s not funny.”
“It’s a little funny.”
“It really isn’t.”
“Your face is doing something right now. And that is very funny looking.”
“My face is doing nothing.” He points at you, very serious, very flushed. “Do not — I need you to not do that. If we’re going to have any kind of reasonable conversation about this you cannot just—” He waves a hand. “Ambush me.”
“I didn’t ambush you, I asked you a question.”
“You are—” He exhales, drops his head forward, and for a moment you think you might have actually broken him. Then he looks up. There’s something else there now, underneath the flush. Something more considered. The gears working. “You’re sure about this.”
“I’ve been sure about this since approximately the forty-minute mark in the hallway.”
“And you’re not going to tell Steve.”
“I genuinely do not understand why Steve is your primary concern right now.”
“Because he’s six feet of righteous fury and he’s been my best friend since we were eight and if he finds out I— There are certain things a man does not do to his best friend’s sister.”
“This is the twenty-first century.”
“Some principles are timeless.”
“Bucky.” You look at him steadily and repeat your monologue. “I trust you. More than I trust most people. You’ve never once looked at me like I was an extension of Steve, you’ve never made me feel small, and you actually live close enough for this to be practical. Those are three things that are very hard to find in one person. I’m not asking you to fall in love with me. I’m asking you to help me figure out what I’m doing so I don’t walk into the rest of my life completely in the dark.”
His face goes blank, and then there’s something in there you cannot yet decipher.
Your phone lights up on the cushion beside you.
Jenna: heyyy so sorry!!! he just left you can come back 💕💕
You stare at it for a second. Then look up at Bucky, who has also apparently read it from from the chair because his eyesight is absurd.
“I’ll walk you,” he says, standing up, reaching for his keys off the hook, like the decision has already been made for him.
“Bucky—”
“It’s late.”
“It’s a ten minute walk.”
“I know how far it is.” He holds the door open and gives you a look that is doing its level best to be unreadable and is mostly succeeding. “Come on.”
The night air is cool when you step outside. You fall into step beside him with your hands buried in your hoodie.
You let the silence sit for most of the path.
When the lights of your building come into view, you slow down before he does.
“Think about it. Okay? That’s all I’m asking. Just think about it.”
He stops walking. Looks at your building. Then at you, sideways, from whatever angle lets him keep the most of his expression to himself.
“I’ll think about it.”
“I need you, Buck. You’re the only person I’d ask.”
The lamplight does something to his jaw, the line of his cheekbones, the shadow under his eyes that makes him look like himself in high definition. He looks at you for a moment that goes on just long enough.
“Go inside,” he says finally. “Get some sleep.”
“That’s not a no.”
“That’s a go inside.”
You’re already backing toward the door, and if you’re smiling a little… well, the dark mostly covers it. “Good night, Barnes.”
He stands at the edge of the path and watches until the door closes behind you.
You don’t see what his face does after that.
Bucky : come down
That's the whole text. Five o'clock exactly.
You stare at it for a second. Two words and absolutely no context. Very Bucky.
You put your phone face down on the desk, pick the phone back up, look at the two words again. Then you close your laptop. You weren't getting anything done anyway. You haven't gotten anything done since Tuesday, and it is now Friday. The reading list on your desk has been staring at you with increasing judgment.
You put your shoes on.
He's in the carpark. Leaning against a motorcycle, one arm crossed over his chest and the other hanging loose, holding a bunch of hydrangeas that are slightly too big for one hand. The jacket he's wearing is the dark one, the good one, and his hair is doing something that suggests he ran a hand through it once and called it a day. And somehow, infuriatingly, that was the correct decision.
You stop in front of him. He holds out the flowers.
"Hydrangeas," you say.
"You're very quick."
"I meant — why hydrangeas?"
"Because roses are a lot of pressure for a first date and I didn't want you overthinking it." He says it like it's obvious, like he sat down and thought about what would make you comfortable instead of what would make him look impressive, which is a distinction you feel in a specific place in your chest that you're not going to poke at right now. "Also they were the only ones left at the shop."
"And there it is."
"Get on."
“I don’t have a helmet.”
He reaches back and pulls one off the seat. Holds it out. You stare at it. “You planned this.”
“I planned this,” he agrees.
There’s nothing useful to say to that, so you put the helmet on.
"Where are we going?"
"You'll see."
"That's not an answer."
"It's a surprise."
The road opens up past the edge of town, the trees dropping away on both sides and the sky going wide. The first cold smell of salt works its way in through your jacket. You have your hands at his waist, your chin against his shoulder.
The engine is loud enough that conversation is not an option, which means there's nothing to do but sit here with your hands around him and the cold air coming in.
Honestly, it's fine. It's completely fine. The fact that you can feel exactly how his ribcage expands when he breathes is just physics. This is how human bodies work. You are simply in contact with another person for structural reasons.
Twenty minutes later, the engine is going quiet. Below the ridge, the beach is in view, golden in the late afternoon light, almost nobody on it. Just the water and the sky and the peace of a place that's nearly empty.
"Okay.” You climb down and take off your helmet. Whatever your hair is currently doing without the helmet on is surely not a sight, but you don’t mind. "I'll allow it."
"High praise." He takes the helmet from you, and locks both of them to his motorcycle. Without waiting, he heads toward the steps, which means you fall into step beside him. Which is where you always end up with Bucky. Half a step behind and then matching him because the alternative is being left behind. It’s become easier because you've been keeping pace with him since you were ten years old.
"Is this the part where you tell me what we're doing?"
"This is what we're doing."
“We’re … walking?”
“Are you seriously asking me that?”
"Right, but is there a plan? Like a structure."
"There's a beach," he says. "We can get fish and chips. And the rest of it is just — this." He gestures at the general situation. "Being here. Talking."
"So the lesson is vibes."
"The lesson," he says, with the tone of someone who has decided to be patient, "is that a first date doesn't need to be an event. You don't have to take someone zip-lining or to a restaurant so expensive you can't read the menu. You just have to be somewhere with them and see if being somewhere with them is good."
You consider this. "And is it? Good?"
He looks at you sideways. "Ask me at the end."
You let his words in your head, and continue walking. Then, because staying silent is not your best suit, “I’ll admit this is a good start.”
Bucky glances back at you. “Yeah?”
“The flowers were a nice touch. Very first-date.”
“That was the idea. What else are you noticing?”
“You texted instead of calling. Which — is that a thing? Is there a rule about that?”
“Depends. Texting’s lower pressure. Gives the other person time to think about whether they want to come without the awkwardness of having to say ‘no’ in real time.” He shrugs. “First few times, text. Gives everyone room to breathe.”
“Okay.” You file this away. “And the five o’clock timing?”
“Early enough that it’s not presumptuous. You’re not assuming they’ll want to give up their whole night. But it’s not a lunch date either, which is basically the dating equivalent of a job interview.”
“You’ve really thought about this.”
“You asked me to think about it.”
The steps down to the sand are the wooden kind that creak, and at the bottom the beach opens up wide. The water is grey-green and restless.
“So where are we going?” you ask.
He’s already walking toward a spot farther down, away from what little people there is. “There’s a place that does fish and chips about ten minutes up the beach. We’ll walk, eat, come back.”
“It’s normal?”
“That’s the point. You’re not trying to impress them into liking you. You’re trying to find out if you actually like them.”
You look at him. “That’s actually useful.”
“I have my moments.”
The sand is soft above the tide line and harder closer to the water, and you walk in the wet part where it’s easier. Close enough that your shoulder bumps his arm occasionally when the ground shifts. He doesn’t move away when it happens, and neither do you. This is something you notice.
“What do I do if the conversation dies?” you ask. “Like genuinely just — runs out. Silence.”
“Let it.”
“That’s your advice?”
“If you panic and fill every silence, you end up saying something you don’t mean just to make noise. A little quiet doesn’t mean things are going badly. It means you’ve both run out of things to perform at each other and now you’re just — there.” He squints at the water. “That’s actually when you find out if you like someone. Whether the quiet is okay or whether it makes you want to escape.”
You think about this. “What if it makes me want to escape?”
“Then it’s better you know it early.”
The fish and chips place turns out to be a van parked at the edge of the beach access road, which you feel Bucky should have led with.
But the chips are in paper cones and there’s a bench nearby, it brings a sort of warmth to you. The man running it clearly recognises Bucky from the way he doesn’t look surprised to see him, which raises several questions you decide to ask.
“You’ve brought people here before.”
“A few times.” He hands you your cone and sits down on the bench, stretching his legs out. “Does that bother you?”
“No.” You sit beside him.
The chips are good. Genuinely good. The kind that are soft in the middle and crisp outside and salted correctly, which is a thing people get wrong more than they should.
You eat in the quiet that he was just describing, and it turns out it’s the okay kind, the kind where you’re both just watching the water and eating and the sun is dropping lower. It doesn’t feel like anyone needs to perform anything.
“Okay,” you speak after a while. “What else?”
“Eye contact.”
“What about it?”
“Most people get it wrong in one of two directions. Either they never hold it, which reads as nervous or shifty, or they hold it too hard, which reads as unhinged.” He tilts his head toward you, demonstrating the normal amount, which is infuriatingly comfortable. “Somewhere in the middle. Look at them when they’re talking. Look away naturally. Don’t stare like you’re trying to read their mind.”
“How do I know if they’re interested?”
“They lean in. Not necessarily physically — though that too — but they ask questions back. They remember things you said twenty minutes ago and refer to them. They find reasons to stay in the conversation.” He pauses. “And yeah, physically — they face you. They don’t keep looking over your shoulder.”
“What if I’m nervous and I keep looking over their shoulder?”
“Then you look back at them.” He’s almost smiling. “You’re allowed to be nervous. It’s actually — it’s fine to let that show a little. People aren’t looking for someone who seems like they’ve done this a thousand times. They’re looking for someone who’s actually there.”
You look at him properly for a moment, which feels a bit like a test you’re administering to yourself. He meets it without any fuss. Hair that’s doing something casual in the evening wind, the easy way he holds himself, comfortable n his own skin, which is rarer than it looks.
“What?” he asks.
“Nothing. Eye contact practice.”
“How’m I doing?”
“Solidly not unhinged. Eight out of ten.”
“What’s the other two?”
“Feedback reserved for end of lesson.”
He laughs at that, the kind that gets into his eyes. A real one. You feel it land somewhere in your chest like a small warm thing taking up residence without asking permission.
The sun is most of the way down by the time you start walking back, the sky going that deep orange-pink that feels slightly excessive but you’re not going to complain about it. The cold has come in with the dark and you have your hands in your jacket pockets.
“How do you end it? The date. What’s the etiquette?”
“Walk them to the door. Or the equivalent. Don’t disappear from a carpark — that’s lazy and everyone knows it’s lazy. You’ve spent two hours with someone, you see them in.”
“And then?”
“And then you read the room.” He says it easily, like it isn’t the part you’re most terrified of. “Did they have a good time? Are they hanging around at the door or are they already one foot inside? Do they look at your mouth?”
“Do they—” You stop walking for a second, which means he stops too, turning slightly to look at you. “That’s a thing? People actually look at your mouth?”
“People definitely look at your mouth.”
“How have I never noticed that?” You ask him like you’ve been on a thousand dates before.
He ignores that part and answers you genuinely. “Because you’ve never been looking for it.” He starts walking again. “But once you know about it, you can’t un-know it.”
You file this with everything else, which is starting to feel like a lot. “And if they are? Looking at your mouth.”
“Then you have options.” He’s looking at the path ahead, very calm about all of this. “You can kiss them. You can not kiss them and see if they bring it up. Or you can do what people have been doing since approximately the beginning of time. Which is stand slightly too close for slightly too long until someone does something.”
“That sounds like agony.”
“It’s also kind of the best part,” he says. Which you were not expecting him to say. You look at his face, searching, but it’s giving nothing away.
The bike is where you left it. He hands you the helmet and you put it on while he swings a leg over and starts the engine. You climb on behind him. This time your hands settle at his waist more easily, which is something you notice and immediately decide not to think about too hard.
The drive back is colder and faster. When he pulls into the carpark of your building and kills the engine, the sudden quiet is very loud.
You pull off the helmet. Your hair is doing its thing again. When he’s off the bike, he walks you to your door. Like he’d instructed.
His hand reaches over and tucks a piece of your hair behind your ear. You have to actively remind yourself that it’s practical, not a moment, just fixing a problem. Except then his hand doesn’t move immediately, and the two of you are very close. He’s looking at you with the steady attention of someone who is not in any rush at all.
His eyes drop, just briefly, to your mouth.
You notice. Because now you know to notice.
Then he leans in and presses a kiss to your cheek, right at the corner of your mouth and pulls back. There’s the smallest thing happening at the edge of his mouth that isn’t quite a smile but is related to one.
“Good night.”
You stand there for one more second. The hydrangeas are in your hand, a little worse for wear, still very blue.
“I really liked today’s lesson.” You need to say it out loud, and remind yourself that this is indeed a lesson.
He does smile at that. Just a small one. But he’s already turning back toward the bike when it happens, so you mostly just catch the edge of it.
But you catch it.
You take the stairs up to your dorm two at a time with hydrangeas under your arm, and you’re smiling before you’ve even made it through the door.
It’s his couch, three days later. It’s ten at night, and you are supposedly watching something. There’s a film on, anyway, doing whatever films do when nobody’s watching them.
This was your idea. You’d texted him this afternoon: lesson two tonight?
he’d sent back : come over at 9
That was the whole conversation. Which is probably why you’d spent the intervening hours progressively less able to concentrate on anything else.
He’s at the other end of the couch with his feet up on the table and one arm along the back, and you’re sideways with your knees up. There’s maybe two feet between you that both of you are being very normal about.
“When are we—”
“We’re getting there.” His eyes are on the screen.
“You said that twenty minutes ago.”
“And I meant it twenty minutes ago.” He reaches over and steals a handful of popcorn from your bowl. “Stop rushing.”
“I’m not rushing, I just think if there’s a lesson happening tonight we should—”
“There is.”
“When?”
He finally looks at you. The lamplight reflecting on his face is making him look like something you’d want to keep looking at. You try not to. “When it makes sense to. That’s the whole point.” He turns back to the screen. “You can’t just announce a kiss. It’s not a presentation.”
“I know it’s not a presentation.”
“So stop waiting for me to say ‘alright, lesson two commencing.’” He takes another handful. “Just — be here.”
You look at the television. A man on screen is saying something urgent to a woman who doesn’t look sufficiently concerned about it. You watch this for a while without absorbing any of it.
“What if I do it wrong?” Your eyes are to the television.
“Do what wrong?”
“Kiss. What if I— I don’t know what to do with my hands. Or where to — I don’t know the mechanics of it.”
Bucky is quiet for a second. “The mechanics.”
“Don’t laugh.”
“I’m not laughing.” He’s not. His voice has gone a bit different, actually. “The hands go wherever they want. There’s no wrong place for your hands.”
“That can’t be true.”
“Okay, pockets is weird. But otherwise.” He puts the bowl down on the table. “And the angle takes care of itself. You don’t have to think about it.”
“How does it take care of itself?”
“Because—” He stops, seemingly thinking about something. “Come here.”
Your heart does one specific thing. You unfold your legs and shift toward him on the couch, close enough now that your knee is almost touching his thigh. He’s turned toward you with one arm still along the back of the couch and his eyes on your face.
Up close he smells like whatever he washed his hair with tonight and underneath that something warmer, something that has lived in the back of your awareness, that you have never once acknowledged out loud.
His jaw has the end-of-day shadow on it. His eyes, which are very blue, which you are currently very aware of, move over your face in a way that isn’t quite reading and isn’t quite looking.
He reaches over and tucks a piece of hair back. Slowly.
“The thing about kissing is that most of it happens before.” His thumb grazes the line of your jaw, just the pad of it, and your whole nervous system has a brief meeting about this. “The moment before. That’s what’s important.”
You don’t say anything because you have nothing useful to say.
“You feel that?” His thumb traces the line of your jaw again, from the hinge of it down to your chin, and stops there. Your mouth has parted slightly without you telling it to. “That’s the part people forget about. They rush past it.” His eyes drop to your mouth and come back up. “You shouldn’t rush past it.”
You are very sincerely not rushing past anything. You are, in fact, rooted to this couch cushion and doing absolutely nothing.
He tilts your chin up, the gentlest pressure, barely anything, and then he closes the distance.
The first thing is the warmth of it. Just warmth and the soft press of his mouth against yours. His lips are slightly parted and they fit against yours with an ease that your brain tries to categorise and fails. Because there’s no category for this, there’s no prior experience to file it next to. His hand is still at your jaw, the touch so careful.
You don’t move, because you genuinely cannot remember what moving is.
He pulls back just slightly. Just enough. His forehead almost against yours, his breath warm, his thumb making one slow swipe over your cheekbone.
“Breathe,” he says.
You didn’t know it was possible to stop breathing.
You breathe. And he kisses you again.
This one is different. A little longer, a little more certain, his mouth moving against yours in a way that is very clearly asking something and equally clearly content to wait for the answer.
Your hand finds the front of his shirt without you deciding to. It just lands there, fingers curling into the fabric. You feel something shift in him at that, something that was patient turning the smallest degree less patient.
His hand slides from your jaw into your hair, cupping the back of your head. The angle deepens and your stomach drops straight out of you.
You had thought that it would feel like something you were learning. That there would be a separateness to it, some part of you taking notes while the rest participated. That Bucky would feel like a teacher.
He doesn’t feel like a teacher.
He feels like a person who is kissing you like he thought about it before doing it, like he’s been thinking about it.
When he finally breaks it, he doesn’t go far. His hand is still in your hair, his forehead drops to yours, and you’re both just there, breathing the same small amount of air.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.” Your voice comes out different. Softer. You clear your throat. “Yeah, that was—” You stop because there’s nothing useful at the end of that sentence.
He pulls back to look at you and his thumb brushes your bottom lip, just once, just the drag of it, and the noise that very nearly comes out of you would have been profoundly embarrassing.
“Your hands were good,” he says.
You look down. Your fist is still knotted in his shirt. You let go. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He doesn’t move away. “Do you want to try again?”
There are several true answers to this question. “That’s — yeah, that makes sense. Repetition. For learning.”
His lips curve. “For learning.”
“Consolidating the—”
He kisses you again and whatever you were saying is just gone, evacuated, your brain a clean white room. His hand tips your head back slightly and his mouth opens against yours. Your lips part on their own to accommodate his tongue. It traces yours, just the first suggestion of it, and every single nerve ending you have sends up a flare.
Your hand goes back to his shirt on its own. The other one finds his jaw, feeling the scratch of the stubble there. He makes a sound in his throat when you do it, barely a sound, more like a shift in his breath. The knowledge that you did that, that your hands on his face made him do that, is the most disorienting piece of information you have received in your twenty years of being alive.
He kisses you slowly and thoroughly, like he’s in absolutely no hurry, one hand in your hair and the other finding the side of your waist now. The heat of his palm through your shirt is startling enough that you make a small embarrassing sound into his mouth.
You pull back to look at him. “That was me,” you say. “That noise. Sorry.”
“Why are you apologising?”
“It was—”
“Don’t apologise for that.” His voice has gone rougher, you’ve never heard it like this before. He’s also looking at you with an expression that is doing something significant to your ability to think in sentences. His hand is still at your waist and his thumb moves there, just once, slow, back and forth over the fabric. “Ever.”
“Is there — are there more components? That I should know about.” You ask, mostly just to have something to say.
He watches you for a second. “You’re doing fine.”
“I know, I just—” You don’t complete your sentence. Because the honest version is: I want you to do that again. The version you’re going with is: “You did a thorough instruction.”
He looks at you for a moment that goes on just long enough, that thing happening at the corner of his mouth again. Then he takes your face in both hands slowly, tilts you toward him, and kisses you in a way that makes the room go very small, very warm and completely irrelevant. His fingers are threaded into your hair and his thumbs at your cheeks.
You stop thinking about what to do with your hands because they know now. They find his chest, his shoulder, the back of his neck where his hair curls a little, and you feel him exhale through his nose when you touch him there. Like you pressed something without knowing where it was.
When it ends — which you don’t want it to, you notice — you’re closer than you were. You don’t remember moving but you’re almost in his lap, his hands still framing your face, both of you with your eyes closed for a second.
You open yours. He opens his.
“Good lesson,” you say finally.
“Yeah.” He brushes his thumb over your cheekbone once more, like he can’t quite stop yet. “Yeah, you’re a quick learner.”
He drops his forehead to yours for just a second before he lets you go and sits back. Reaching over, he takes the bowl from the table again like that’s a normal thing to do right now.
Main Masterlist || Series Masterlist || Next Part
EXTRAS. Next part will be up next Thursday. There will also be a long fic (college au, senior x junior) coming this Sunday, so if you’re into that, stay tuned? (If anyone was accidentally tagged twice, I’m sorry!)
Summary: The super soldier serum heightened all of Bucky's senses. Vision, hearing, smell. Little do you know every time you get turned on by your hot older neighbour- he knows.
TW: slight smut, masturbation (f), age gap (reader is of age), pervy reader, neighbour!Bucky
Word Count: 1.3k
Authors Note: ik it's a short one- should I make a part 2?
DING! The elevator door spreads open revealing the run down hall leading down to your apartment. Padding down the worn in used-to-be red carpet now faded with time passing walls lined with mysterious damp stains and old rusted radiators that hiss through the night until you reach your front door. The scene before you is different today, the usual painfully empty cold hallway filled with box after box, title scribbled on each one in black sharpie and an array of items threatening to burst through the messily duct-taped tops. You look around curiously, peeking your head towards the wide open door opposite your own, propped open by more stacks of boxes. Clearly somebody's finally accepted moving into the apartment opposite you that had been left vacant for going on 4 months now. You wonder what sucker your all but friendly landlord has managed to convince to actually pay the extortionate rent to live in this dump.
"Hey! I guess I'm your new neighbour" The deep melodic voice startles you, a tall broad man appearing from around the doorway, a metal arm wrapped hard around a brown cardboard box pressing it tight to his chest as he extended his free arm out to shake your hand. The world went blank for a moment, every social skill you've ever learned knocked right out of your head at the sight of him. Never in a million years did you think the fantasy of the 'hot older neighbour' would ever be one you'd have the privilege of living.
He was at least 20 years older than you, rugged features and a stern yet warm face. Silver slivers speckling his short dark beard that lived on his chiselled jawline framed by his dark brown locks. His big blue eyes lock with yours and a smile crosses his pink lips, perfect white teeth shining at you when you realise you're gawping awkwardly. You snap yourself out of your dazed state ogling the mysterious older man forcing yourself to warmly smile back. "h-hey I'm Y/N" you stutter while trying to force your rising blush back down as you shake his hand, his large palm making your hand look tiny. You'd be lying if you said it wasn't attractive. "Nice to meet you Y/N, I'm Bucky"
As the weeks passed after meeting your insanely hot neighbour, you found yourself finding excuses to bump into him. Learning his routine and making sure you conveniently exited your apartment at the same time he did, each time he'd smile and you'd exchange 'good morning'. Always offering to help out with unpacking his many, many boxes as an excuse to be in his apartment. You knew it was wrong but you found yourself craving his scent, absentmindedly rubbing your thighs together for some friction every time he brushed past you too closely. And when you'd watch as his bicep flexed when he picked up one of the heavy boxes had you dripping where you stood, having to remind yourself to pick your jaw off the floor and stop creepily staring.
You could only hope that he hasn't noticed. He never seemed to catch on to your little obsession, always keeping things friendly and neighbourly, almost treating you like a kid at times. Which, to be fair to him, you were. He never so much as suggested anything inappropriate, never giving you anything more than a smile and a pat on the back. Even that was enough contact for you to feed your delusions. You knew it was wrong to be lusting after the kind stranger old enough to be your father, but the longer he was in your life the more your obsession became insatiable.
It started off as something shameful, after small interactions of helping put away old things from boxes or bringing over some cookies you'd baked claiming you'd accidentally made too many but knowing the truth was you baked them just for him, when his hand would brush against yours and you'd bask in the manly sweet scent that oozed from his skin. You really couldn't help but slip back into your apartment and touch yourself. You felt guilty at first, only running your hands across your stomach down between your legs when you'd left his apartment throbbing and desperate for release unable to ignore the feeling any longer.
As time went on the shame subsided and it became almost routine. Even after just seeing him in the hall you'd slink back into your apartment dropping onto the bed and snaking your hands down to your pussy soaked just from his presence. The less the shame bothered you, the louder and bolder you grew, working yourself closer to the edge with his name falling from your lips in high pitched needy whines.
Tonight was no different. You'd baked a pie delivering it to his door with a wide innocent grin from ear to ear. Your eyes raking over his bulging, veiny arm, and the shining metal one that you couldn't help but picture how it would feel inside you, in that tight little black t-shirt when he took the dish from you with a smile and a thank you. A normal neighbourly interaction to any spectators, but to you it was foreplay. Remembering to memorise each detail of his body, his face, his smell just so you could return home and get yourself off to it like a sick pervert.
You focused on his flesh arm tonight, playing the mental image of the big muscles flexing over in your head like a movie as your fingers found your clit. Circling your wetness over the nub and sighing blissfully thinking about him. It's not long before his name chants from your lips like a prayer as your orgasm builds leaving you writhing and panting with your hands in your panties. "B-bucky" you groan nearing your edge.
Your bliss is cut short. A series of heavy pounding knocks upon your door in quick succession ripping you from your heavenly state back to harsh reality. The startling noise leaving you scrambling for your trousers hopping towards the door as you rush to clothe your lower half.
The door swings open as you turn the handle, Bucky stares back at your flushed self, hair sticking to your sweat glistened forehead and your cheeks flushed pink. His jaw is tense, twitching slightly as he stares you down. Backing you up into your own apartment as he steps in, silent. Dangerous. His eyes are dark and his face stone as he continues backing you up, his large palm coming up to silence your lips as you began to speak, stuttering out questioning his sudden intrusion. "Do you know what the fuck you're doing to me" he growls into your ear, pushing your body against the wall with his hand still over your mouth, firmly locking you in place with your back to the cold exposed brick, your eyes wide with shock.
"You think I haven't noticed, sweet girl?" he whispered rough against your ear, catching your lobe in his teeth nipping lightly making you gasp behind his palm. "This whole time… every time you squeezed those soft thighs together and thought I hadn't noticed… every time you stared at me for too long… every single damn time that sweet little pussy started dripping I could smell it" he breathed in deeply through his nose, gripping your cheeks and forcing you to look deep into his lust blown pupils as a wicked smirk grew on his face "Can hear you too. Every time you sneak back to your bed to finger that tight little cunt wishing it was me, moaning my name like I'm not right next door, whimpering so sweet for me. Could hear you fucking yourself every damn night" you gasp out, half ashamed, half turned on from the way he held you rough against the wall while he told you he knew how you touched yourself to him.
His lips find your neck, biting down hard making you cry out as he works his way back up towards your ear. Lowering his voice deeper than you knew possible, smirking against the side of your face "I can smell you dripping for me right now, and I'm so damn tired of not doing anything about it"
warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, porn no plot, light banter, m!masturbation, oral (m receiving), facials, size difference, innocence kink, cucking, sub!steve, soft dom!bucky, stucky homoeroticism, dirty talking, praise, pet names: "doll" "my best girl"
a/n: missing stucky hours + listening to my 40s bucky playlist inspired this fic (totally not another shameless playlist self plug)
word count: 10.1k
masterlist
synopsis:
After Steve is injected with the super soldier serum, Bucky decides to show his best friend what it truly means to be a man—and what better way to do that than through you, their lifelong childhood friend?
“Jesus, Steve,” Bucky muttered, shaking his head with a glass of whiskey cold in his hand. “Look at you. Those muscles are practically busting out of your uniform.”
If it weren’t for the dim light of the bar, Bucky might’ve caught the flush creeping up Steve’s neck. Steve shifted, gripping his own glass before bringing it to his lips.
“I don’t know why we’re even here,” Steve said, draining the amber liquid in one go. “I can’t even get drunk.”
“No,” Bucky agreed. “But I can, so we’re drinking. Just admire the notes of oak or whatever.”
Steve scoffed, but he couldn’t stop a smirk from tugging at his mouth. It was impossible to stay moody around Bucky. “It tastes like gasoline.”
Bucky threw his head back, letting out a hearty laugh. As he straightened up, his eyes involuntarily drifted over Steve’s frame. Ever since the serum had transformed his friend, Bucky found himself constantly cataloging the… substantial changes.
Steve’s chest strained against his white T-shirt, his biceps flexing against the tight sleeves every time he moved. His jaw was chiseled now, his features sharper. Back then, Steve would have choked on a sip of cheap whiskey; now, the burn barely seemed to register. Bucky watched, mesmerized, as Steve’s Adam’s apple bobbed with every swallow.
“So, tell me what this serum is actually doing to you,” Bucky asked, his laughter dying down. His eyes trailed down to Steve’s chest. “Other than making you outgrow your damn clothes… how are you feeling?”
Steve let out a long, grounded sigh of satisfaction, setting his glass back on the scarred wood of the table with a thud.
“I feel… good. Like everything is heightened—” he raised a hand to chest level, “—up to here. Both inside and out.”
Bucky raised his glass, blue eyes peering down to Steve’s lap just over the rim. “That so?”
“Yeah.”
Bucky took a slow swallow and set his own drink down, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “So, tell me. What exactly is it about you that’s heightened on the inside?”
Steve shifted, the wooden chair creaking under his new, heavy weight. His brows furrowed as he searched for the right words.
“It’s like a mental amplification. Everything that feels good feels… great. And everything that feels bad feels that much worse.”
He swallowed hard, his fingers beginning to fidget against the tabletop—a nervous habit the serum hadn’t managed to take away. He hesitated on whether to keep going. Bucky, ever attuned to Steve’s patterns of hesitation, leaned in closer, trying to guage the rest out of him.
“And?” Bucky prodded softly.
Steve parted his lips, his face coloring slightly, before pressing them thin and shaking his head. “That’s about it, really.”
Bucky raised a brow, noting the flush as it crept over his friend’s chiseled features. There was clearly something internal Steve wasn’t mentioning—something he was actively holding back. It felt wrong. Usually, Steve was an open book around Bucky.
“Alright, well,” Bucky muttered, deciding not to pry—at least not yet. He pushed himself off the barstool with a grunt. “Let’s go show our girl your new look, yeah? She should be waiting at the park.”
Steve’s lips quirked into a faint, lopsided smile. He took one last sip of the whiskey—for courage, Bucky suspected—and stood up, his frame nearly blocking out the overhead light of the bar.
“Yeah,” Steve agreed. “Let’s go.”
After the two men settled their bill, they stepped out of the bar and into the crisp night air. They made their way toward the park, the streetlamps casting long, dramatic shadows across the pavement.
There you were, sitting on a wrought iron bench beneath the sprawling branches of an oak tree. You looked like a vision pulled straight from the pages of a fashion magazine, dressed in an off-white collared blouse and a long, pleated skirt, with a simple cardigan draped over your shoulders.
The soft glow of the moonlight caught the curve of your smile as you finally looked up from your book, noticing Bucky and Steve approaching.
“Bucky!” you beamed, standing up and snapping your book shut. “Steve!”
As you drew closer, Steve stopped dead in his tracks.
It felt as though the air had been kicked right out of his lungs. His heart, now amplified by the serum, hammered frantically against his ribs. He had seen you a thousand times before, but seeing you now—with every sense dialed up to ten—was like a man seeing color for the first time.
Your scent—a fragrance he used to only catch when he was standing right beside you—carried on with the breeze, finding his nostrils instantly.
His eyes fluttered shut for a brief, dizzying second as he breathed you in.
Bucky slowed to a halt a step behind him, noticing the way Steve’s shoulders locked and how his gaze became hopelessly anchored to you.
Deep down, Bucky had always known Steve had a soft spot for you—hell, everyone did. Even Bucky had one, and he was shameless about it. But there was something different in the way Steve stiffened this time, and Bucky couldn’t help but wonder just how much that serum had changed him on the inside.
“You guys had me waitin’ forever,” you met them halfway, smiling eyes darting between the two of them. “Don’t tell me you’ve gone and got yourselves drunk.”
“Never that, doll,” Bucky offered you a tipsy, lopsided grin. “Our boy here couldn’t get a buzz going if he drank the whole bar dry.” He gave Steve a pointed nudge with his elbow. “Notice anything… different about him?”
You blinked, eyes drifting up to meet Steve’s. You tilted your head slightly, book held close to your chest. “Did you get taller?”
Bucky snickered as your gaze began a slow, bewildered trail down to Steve’s torso. “And since when did you suddenly start working out?”
“Jeez, you really need to start picking up the morning newsletter, doll.” Bucky laughed, slinging a heavy arm around your shoulder and hauling you into his side. You stumbled slightly against him, rolling your eyes at his familiar theatrics, but he kept you tucked firm under his wing. He pointed a triumphant finger at Steve. “This man right here just got injected with the Super Soldier serum.”
“Super soldier?” you repeated with a soft gasp. You stepped out from under Bucky’s arm, looking at Steve wide-eyed. “Steve, what on earth…?”
Your book was now tucked under one arm as your free hand reached out, hovering for a second before your fingers finally made contact with his bicep. The fabric of his usually loose T-shirt was straining and spreading tight across his muscles.
“Is that really you in there?” you teased, your hand sliding up his shoulder, then tracing the broad and wide expanse of his chest.
The propriety of your actions didn’t even cross your mind; you were simply enamored by the sheer mass of him.
You gave his forearm a squeeze, marveling at how your fingers couldn’t even meet halfway around it anymore. Just a few weeks ago, you had been the taller one—now, he was a mountain of a man, looming over you with a shadow that felt protective.
“Steve, you look great… you feel great, too—I mean, how are you feeling?” You blinked up at him, pressing your palm against his to compare their sizes.
Steve looked like he was about to combust on the spot.
The sensation of your small, soft hand wandering over his new frame and resting in his own rough palm was an absolute assault on his composure. Everywhere you touched felt like it was catching fire, the serum amplifying the friction of your skin against his until his blood felt like it was boiling.
He tried to speak, but his throat had gone bone dry. Bucky, of course, noticed immediately.
“I… yeah. Thanks. I feel good,” Steve stammered, nodding firmly as he looked down at you, a stray blond lock falling over his eyes. “I feel really, really good.”
You giggled at his familiar stuttering, finally pulling your hand away from his palm to tuck a stray hair behind your ear.
Steve, meanwhile, felt a sudden warm ache pooling in his lower stomach—a physical reaction so intense it made his head spin. Your giggle, your scent, the way you looked at him—everything he had loved about you before the serum was now heightened to an overwhelming pitch.
He shifted awkwardly, his trousers becoming uncomfortably, visibly tight, but there was nowhere to hide in the moonlight.
Bucky, standing just a few feet away, watched the flush deepen from Steve’s neck all the way to the tips of his ears. His eyes drifted down, catching the unmistakable, growing bulge that pushed against his friend’s trousers.
Bucky had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from howling right there in the park.
“Steve, you’re shaking,” you said softly, completely obliovious to his predicament as you moved your hand to the center of his chest to check his heart rate. “Is the serum making you sick? Your heart feels like it’s going a mile a minute.”
“N-no! No, I’m—I’m fine,” Steve choked out, his hands hovering uselessly in the air. He was terrified that if he actually touched you back, he’d lose all of his self-control. “Just… feels like a lot of energy. It’s a lot to take in.”
Bucky cleared his throat, a wicked little smile tugging at his lips as he stepped back into the conversation. “Yeah, I’d say he’s got a lot of energy built up right now. Might be a biological side effect—right, Steve?”
Steve returned his words with a glare, and Bucky only snickered louder.
“Let’s not stay out too late,” you said, looking around the quiet park, your voice airy and warm. “My mother baked a fresh batch of gingersnaps before she headed out for the evening. She left them on the counter and specifically told me to share them with you both.”
“Gingersnaps?” Bucky’s grin widened. “My favorite. Your mother always did have a soft spot for me.”
“For us,” Steve corrected, his voice low and territorial.
You laughed softly, playfully beckoning them with a wave of your hand as you turned on your heel. You began leading the way toward your apartment building just across the street, calling back, “Come on! They’re probably still warm.”
As you walked ahead, the long, pleated skirt of your dress swayed with every step. The fabric clung and released over the curve of your hips in a rhythm that felt far too provocative for Steve’s new, heightened senses.
He couldn’t look away.
His gaze was hopelessly locked onto the way you moved, his mind clouded with feelings that were a mixture of protectiveness and something… unfamiliar and hungry.
Bucky nudged him hard in the ribs, leaning in close enough to whisper, “Careful there, Steve. You keep staring like that, you’re gonna burn a hole right through her skirt.”
Steve stumbled over a crack in the sidewalk, his face flushing. “Shut up, Buck,” he hissed, though his eyes darted right back to you the second he regained his footing.
“I’m just saying,” Bucky chuckled, shoving his hands into his pockets as he sauntered beside his friend. “Usually, you’re the one lecturing me about being a gentleman. Now look at you—standing there like a dog watching a steak dinner.”
You glanced over your shoulder, raising a brow at their whispering. “What are you two plotting back there?”
Steve stood up straighter, and Bucky shook his hand in a dismissiving wave despite the smile he tried to fight. “Don’t worry your pretty little head, doll. Just lead the way—we’re right behind you.”
You frowned playfully, but kept on walking anyway. “I don’t like it when you two keep things from me.”
Steve felt his heart leap in his chest at the sight of your lips turned into a little pout. He was still struggling to keep his walk natural, his trousers feeling tighter with every step he took behind you.
“Trust me,” Steve said, his voice coming out a pitch deeper than he intended. “It’s nothing a girl like you would ever want to know. Just… stupid locker room talk.”
He waited until you turned your back to them before leaning toward Bucky’s ears. “Behave,” he whisper-yelled in warning.
“Oh—come on,” Bucky smiled, adjusting his jacket as he met his friend’s panicked eyes. “I’m a saint, Steve.”
Once the three of you reached the building, you led the way up the narrow, dimly lit staircase. The rhythmic click of your heels on the creaky wooden steps was the only sound in the quiet hall.
Bucky leaned back slightly as he climbed, his gaze hooked shamelessly on the sway of your skirt. A look of pure appreciation settled on his face, his tongue darted over his lower lip as he considered just how much his best childhood friend had grown up.
Steve, walking right beside him, felt a sharp surge of protectiveness at the way Bucky was cataloging your every move. He jutted a heavy elbow into Bucky’s ribs—a blow that, with his new strength, nearly sent Bucky over the banister.
“Be respectful!” Steve hissed, his jaw locked.
Bucky wheezed quietly, clutching his side.
“Jeez, Steve… watch the hardware,” he grunted, trying to catch his breath. “And don’t give me that lecture, pal. You’re looking just as hard as I am.” His eyes drifted pointedly down to the front of Steve’s trousers. “Probably harder, considering you’ve got the vision of a hawk now.”
You paused in front of your door, fishing the keys out of your purse. You raised a skeptical brow at the two of them. “What is going on with you two?”
Steve caught his breath, smoothing his expression as he closed the distance between you. He forced a stiff smile.
“Nothing,” he said. “We’re just excited for those cookies. Been thinking about them all the way here.”
Bucky let out a muffled snort behind him, but Steve ignored it, keeping his focus on your eyes.
You chuckled and shook your head, pushing the door open. “Well, don’t just stand there like statues. Come in.”
Steve crossed the threshold with Bucky lingering right behind him. The moment the door clicked shut, Steve realized that coming here so soon after the serum had been a mistake.
The apartment was a sensory trap. Away from the biting wind of the street, your scent was no longer just a trace on the breeze—it was everywhere. It was in the perfume lingering on your soft skin, the traces of your familiar vanilla scent in the kitchen, and on the lived-in warmth of the sofa.
To Steve, you were everywhere.
“Make yourselves comfortable,” you said, heading straight for the kitchen.
Steve didn’t move. He stood in the center of the living room, his body as rigid as a bag of bricks. Every muscle in his legs and back was coiled like a high tension spring. His hands were balled into fists at his sides just to keep them from shaking.
You returned a moment later, carrying a ceramic plate of gingersnaps and tea to the coffee table.
To Steve, you looked effortlessly domestic, the soft light of the floor lamp catching the stray flyaways of your hair like a halo.
As you sat on the sofa, you crossed one leg over the other, causing the hem of your skirt to hike up an inch or two higher than usual. It revealed the smooth line of your calf, covered only by a flimsy, sheer stocking that Steve felt he could easily rip with the slightest twitch of his hands.
A roar of blood rushed to Steve’s ears. He felt himself straining very painfully against his trousers, his fingers twitching with a desperate longing to touch you.
“Sit down, Steve,” Bucky prompted, giving his friend a nudge in the back toward the sofa. “Relax a little.”
Bucky sank into the armchair, leaving the spot on the sofa right next to you wide open. He looked at Steve, then at the empty cushion, and finally at Steve’s visible predicament, his eyebrows rising in amusement.
“Yeah, come here, Steve,” you said, scooting over and patting the empty space next to you.
Steve swallowed hard, taking long, stiff strides until he finally sank onto the small sofa.
The cushions dipped precariously and the wooden frame groaned under his heavy weight. He found his knees sitting much higher than usual, making him look even more like a giant in a dollhouse.
“Man,” Bucky laughed, lifting a cup of tea to his lips. “You’re gonna break the damn furniture, Stevie.”
Steve mumbled a shy, “sorry,” his face burning.
You just shook your head, ignoring Bucky’s usual teasing. You picked up a gingersnap and brought it to Steve’s lips, cupping your other hand beneath it to catch any stray crumbs.
“Say ah.”
Bucky nearly choked, a spray of tea flying back into his cup.
Steve had turned a shade of red that was impossible to hide, the color racing from his collar to his hairline until even his ears were glowing. He sat there frozen—his jaw hanging slightly as he looked from the cookie in your hand to the teasing glimmer shining in your eyes.
“Well?” Bucky taunted, leaning forward in his armchair and clattering his saucer down on the table. He was enjoying this far too much. “Don’t keep the lady waiting, Steve. Go on. Say ‘ah’ for the misses.”
Steve pressed his lips together, giving Bucky a hard glare from across the couch.
“Oh, don’t be such a spoilsport, Steve,” you teased, nudging the gingersnap closer to his mouth. “You said you were hungry, didn’t you?”
Bucky let out a low, wicked whistle. “He’s real hungry, doll. Starving, I’d say. Just look at him—he’s already drooling for a bite.”
“Bucky—” Steve’s jaw dropped in indignation at his friend’s shamelessness, and you seized the opportunity to slide the edge of the cookie past his teeth.
“There,” you hummed, reaching out to catch a small crumb off his bottom lip with a slow swipe of your thumb. “Was that so hard?”
Steve wished the worn cushions would open up and swallow him whole—because hard was exactly what he was. The simple graze of your thumb swiping over his lip was enough to make his whole body shudder. The feel of your lingering touch tingled on his lips, the sensation only making him dangerously need you more.
“Hell,” Steve muttered through the quiet munching. “Would you… please excuse me—”
He stood up so abruptly the sofa groaned. He kept his back turned to you, his hand dropping to swiftly, desperately adjust the painful bulge pushing up against his pants. He took stiff, heavy strides toward the bathroom, each foostep making the delicate floorboards thud and creak under his heavy body.
After Steve disappeared around the corner, you turned to Bucky. He was leaning back in the armchair, looking entirely too smug for his own good.
“Is everything okay with him?” you asked softly. “He’s been acting so… jumpy. Is the serum hurting him? Maybe he needs a doctor.”
Bucky let out a dry chuckle, swiping a gingersnap from the plate. He took a slow bite, savoring the sweetness before his eyes met yours, something mischevious and knowing behind those orbs.
“Hurting him? No, sweetheart. I don’t think ‘pain’ is what Stevie’s feeling right now,” Bucky said, his gaze drifting toward the hallway. “The scientists told him the serum doesn’t just change the muscles. It amplifies everything inside—his heart, his nerves, and his…” He paused, his eyes landing back on yours, “… instincts.”
You blinked, still not quite catching the drift. “Instincts? Like his reflexes?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Bucky replied with a casual shrug, dusting the crumbs off his fingers. He leaned in closer, resting his elbows on his knees to bridge the gap between you. “See, Steve was always the type to keep to himself when it came to women. But that serum? It turned him into a real man—in every sense of the word.”
You tilted your head curiously, and Bucky chuckled at your naivety before pressing on.
“Everything he sees, everything he smells… everything he feels… it’s all ten times more intense than it used to be.” Bucky paused, raising a dark brow. “You followin’ me, doll?”
“I’m trying to,” you murmured, though a slight heat was beginning to prickle at your cheeks.
Bucky glanced toward the closed bathroom door. “Usually, Steve’s got a lot of willpower. But you sitting there, feeding him and touching him like that?” A wolfish grin tugged at his mouth. “I bet it’s taking every ounce of strength in that new body of his just to remember how to be a gentleman.”
You followed Bucky’s gaze toward the darkened hallway, your lower lip poking out in a slight, troubled pout.
“But… is he hurting?” you asked, your heart aching at the thought of Steve in any kind of distress. “If the serum is making things that intense, it sounds… painful.”
Bucky chuckled. “Oh, you’re so innocent doll. That’s why we love you.” He shook his head, leaning back as he watched the gears slowly turn in your head.
“Listen to me,” he continued. “Steve is a gentleman. Always has been, always will be. He’d sooner jump on a grenade than be disrespectful to a lady—but at the end of the day, he’s a man. And a man has certain… needs. Especially when he’s sitting inches away from the person he’s been head over heels in love with since we were all knee high to a grasshopper.”
Your breath hitched, a soft gasp escaping your lips as your eyes went wide to meet his. “Steve… Steve likes me? Like that?”
Bucky gave you a boyish grin. “Like doesn’t even begin to cover it, sweetheart. He’s had it bad for you for about a decade,” he teased before he tilted his head and gave you a slight pout. “Now, don’t go getting me too jealous, either. I’ve got a heart too, you know.”
A deep, hot flush crept up your neck and nestled into your cheeks. You could hardly wrap your mind around the idea that Steve… kind, stalwart Steve, actually liked you. Between that revelation and the way Bucky was staring, you found yourself shifting restlessly on the cushion, rubbing your legs together subtly as if to soothe a sudden warm itch.
Bucky’s eyes dropped, tracking the way your skirt shifted over your thighs. He let out a low amusing hum at the way you wriggled beneath his scrutiny, his own expression darkening with interest.
“If he’s feeling… uncomfortable around me,” you started, your voice small and flustered, “is there anything I can do to help him? I don’t want him to be in pain.”
Bucky watched your legs work together for a moment before dragging his eyes back to yours. “You want to help him, do you?”
“Of course,” you nodded earnestly, meeting his stare with wide, sincere eyes. “I’d do anything to help you two if you were in distress. You’re my best friends.”
Bucky’s grin shifted, wider and somehow more predatory. He leaned in an inch closer, his voice dropping deeper. “Anything, sweetheart?”
Steve walked back into the living room. He looked slightly more composed, though his hair was damp at the temples where he had splashed his face with cold water. His shirt was tucked in tight—perhaps too tight—and he kept his arms stiff at his sides as he approached the sofa. He stopped in his tracks, his frame large in the small room, when he saw how closely Bucky was leaning toward you and the stiff, flustered way you were sitting.
“Everything alright?” Steve asked. His eyes darted suspiciously between his smug best friend and your embarrassed expression.
“Are you feeling alright, Steve?” you asked softly, looking up at him with wide, concerned eyes. “Bucky said the… um, the serum… it might be making things difficult for you?”
Steve froze. He stared down at Bucky, his eyes blown wide with a mix of shock and betrayal. He opened his mouth to stammer out a polite lie—to tell you he was perfectly fine and that Bucky was just talking nonsense—but Bucky didn’t give him the chance.
“I told our girl here all about your little predicament, Stevie,” Bucky interrupted with a gravelly purr. He leaned back, relishing the way Steve’s jaw tightened until the bone looked ready to snap. “Told her how all those new nerves of yours are screaming for a bit of... relief.”
Steve’s face went from pale to a scorched, blistering red. “Buck, shut it—”
“And the best part?” Bucky continued, ignoring the warning as he looked up at his friend with taunting eyes. “She’s a real sweetheart, Steve. She told me she’s willing to do just about anything to help you out of your distress. Isn’t that right, doll?”
Steve’s gaze flickered down to you, searching your face as if he were waiting for you to deny it—or perhaps, secretly hoping for your confirmation.
“Anything,” Bucky repeated for you, his voice low and suggestive. “She’s got a real generous heart, Steve. I think she’s just waiting for you to tell her exactly what a big, strong soldier like you needs to feel better.”
Steve’s chest felt like it was closing in on his heart. Your eyes—still wide and guileless—never broke away from his, and it only made his restraint weaker.
“What do you need from me, Steve?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper. “If you’re hurting… if there’s something I can do to make this easier on you, just tell me.”
If you could be any more innocent, Steve swore he would lose his mind. He had a sudden, violent urge to pin you down on the couch and fuck you right there.
“I… I don’t…” Steve stammered, his voice trailing off as he heard Bucky push himself off the armchair.
Bucky stepped up behind Steve and reached out and to give Steve a firm nudge toward you, forcing his large frame even deeper into your personal space until he was practically looming over your lap.
“Look at her, Steve,” Bucky cooed next to Steve’s ear. “You’ve got the girl of your dreams sittin’ right in front of you, offering her help, and you’re not gonna accept it?”
Steve felt like he could burst right through the seams of his trousers just from looking at you. Your eyes kept flicking down to the heavy, undeniable bulge in front of you before darting back up to his, your teeth nervously strumming over your bottom lip as you fought the urge to stare.
Bucky noticed.
Of course, Bucky noticed.
He let out a sly grin before reaching around and flattening his palm directly over the straining bulge in Steve’s pants. He had done it so casually that you almost believed this wasn’t the first time he’d handled his friend.
“Fuck,” Steve’s eyes snapped wide, head turning to Bucky’s in shock but not pulling away. “B-Buck—!”
“Look at this, doll,” Bucky hummed darkly. He didn’t break eye contact with you as his fingers flexed, squeezing the length of Steve’s cock through the fabric. “You see how hard he is? How much he’s shaking just because you’re lookin’ at him?”
Steve let out a low, involuntary whimper—a sound so ungentlemanly it made his face burn even hotter. He looked down at you, his eyes dark and desperate, pleading for you to either stop this or finish it.
“P-please…”
Bucky gave Steve a firm squeeze, his fingers curling around Steve’s bulge. The pressure made Steve’s head roll back, a deep, broken groan vibrating out of his throat as his body betrayed him.
A dark, damp circle began to bloom against the front of his light-colored trousers, the fabric darkening as a heavy bead of pre-cum soaked through, marking him right where Bucky’s thumb was pressing.
Bucky let out a low, dark chuckle as he relished the way his friend was falling apart beneath his hand.
“Look at that, doll,” Bucky urged, voice raspy.
He shifted his palm slightly to smear the growing dampness into the cloth, making the stain even more obvious and Steve even more shameful. “See what you’re doin’ to him? He’s so worked up for you, he can’t even keep himself dry.”
Steve was trembling where he stood, his massive shoulders shaking as he looked down at his ruined pants before his gaze snapped back to yours—raw and shamelessly.
“Buck… stop,” he whined. It was a pathetic, needy sound, and despite every ounce of strength in his new muscles he could use to push Bucky off, he didn’t. He stayed rooted to the spot, leaning into the touch. “You’re… you’re scaring her…”
“Scaring her?” Bucky chuckled. “I’m not scaring her. Look her in the eye, Stevie. She wants you just as bad.”
Bucky glanced over at you, tilting his head with a flash of innocence that didn’t match the way his hand was still working Steve through his trousers. “Isn’t that right, doll? Don’t you want to help our poor, big Stevie?”
“How sohuld I…” you whispered, voice trembling as you looked up at the two large men looming over you. “What should I do?”
Bucky’s eyes darkened, a predatory smile tugging at his lips. “Get down on your knees, sweetheart. A man loves to see his woman on her knees for him.”
A small gasp escaped you, and you looked up at Steve as if waiting for his approval. He didn’t deny it—his brows were pinched together and his jaw hung open as his chest heaved in deep, heavy breaths. Finally, you slid off the cushions and sank onto the rug. From this angle, Steve looked like a titan, and the damp stain on his trousers sat right at eye level.
Steve swore he could bust right then and there just from seeing you on your knees.
“Now,” Bucky commanded softly. His hand finally let go of Steve’s cock to rest on top of his head, his fingers threading firmly through Steve’s blonde hair. “Open ‘em up. Nice and slow.”
“Slow?” Steve whined.
Bucky clicked his tongue. “He’s been waiting a long time for this, he can wait a little longer.”
With trembling fingers, you reached for the buttons of his trousers. The fabric was strained to the limit, and as you worked them free one by one, the rigid, pulsing heat of him began to push through the opening.
When the last button gave way, Steve’s cock snapped free, heavy and thick.
You gasped at the size. You weren’t sure how it was going to fit in your hand.
“There he is,” Bucky cooed, his hand tightening in Steve’s hair as he forced Steve's head down to look at you. “Now, wrap your hand around him. Take a good grip so he knows he’s yours.”
You reached out, your small hand barely able to meet around the girth of him. The feel of your warm, amateur palm wrapping around his skin made Steve’s eyes shutter closed instantly in pleasure.
“Jesus Christ,” Steve cursed, his hips instinctively bucking forward for more.
“Look at that,” Bucky chuckled.“Can’t even fit her whole hand around you—but it feels good, doesn’t it? So much better than your own hand.”
“So…” Steve moaned, his hips drawing back slightly before he thrusted himself into your palm, “much… better. Fuck—”
You tightened your grip, swiping your thumb over the pre-cum that gathered at his tip and over his cockhead. The friction of your palm against his over sensitized skin made Steve’s knees buckle, his large frame swaying as he looked down at you through his haze of lust.
“See that, doll?” Bucky rumbled above you. “Steve’s a man now—and a man like this… sometimes a hand just isn’t enough to please him. Isn’t that right, Stevie?”
Steve didn’t, couldn’t, give him a coherent answer. He was busy babbling broken, desperate sounds into the air, his head rolling back against Bucky’s chest. “God… please,” he breathed. “Her hand.. it’s so soft—so warm.”
Your face was on fire. You could feel yourself wetting your panties with every heavy breath and grunt that escaped Steve’s lips. And the way Bucky was shamelessly watching you, that wicked little knowing grin plastered on his face, only made you feel smaller—utterly helpless under both of them.
Bucky’s cock was practically jumping out of his pants as his eyes were fixed on the way your small hand looked against Steve.
“Shit. I think he needs more, sweetheart.” He breathed. “I think he needs more, sweetheart. Stick your tongue out. I want you to use that pretty tongue of yours. Lick it—all the way up—and then I want you to take as much of him as you can into your small little mouth.”
You hesitated, your breath hitching as you stared up at the two men.
“I… I’ve never... sucked before—” you confessed, tiny and trembling.
The admission made you sink back on your heels, suddenly overwhelmed. You had Steve right in front of you, practically panting for anything you were willing to give him, which should have made you feel confident—but the performance anxiety was taking its toll.
You were terrified you wouldn’t be able to satisfy Steve, and the weight of Bucky’s watchful and critical gaze only made it worse.
But Bucky didn’t look disappointed.
In fact, his grin grew wider.
“Even better,” Bucky purred. He leaned over Steve’s shoulder, his eyes locking onto yours. “That just means Stevie here gets to be the one to teach you. And don’t you worry, doll... we’re gonna make sure you learn exactly how to take care of a man.”
Bucky’s hand slid down Steve’s forearm, his grip tightening as he nudged him toward you. “Help her out, Stevie. Grab her hair.”
Steve hesitated. His eyes dropped to the plump curve of your lips, and his cock twitched as he imagined the heat of your mouth wrapping around him. Slowly, as if expecting you to pull away, his thick fingers tangled into your hair.
When you let out a soft, shaky sigh at the feel of his touch, Steve took it as the only permission he needed. He tugged a little firmer now, guiding your face closer to his hard length until you stumbled forward on your knees with a small whimper.
“Tell her, Steve,” Bucky urged, his eyes fixed on your trembling lips. “Tell her exactly what you want her to do with that pretty mouth.”
Steve’s tongue sweeped over his bottom lip, with a hand tight around the base of his cock, he guided himself right to your lips. Instinctively, your tongue darted out at the pre-cum collecting at his slit, and Steve’s entire body shuddered with every effort it took from slamming his cock into your mouth.
“How does it taste, sweetheart?” Steve breathed, gauging your expression.
You looked up at him, your eyes a little hazy as the salty taste of him settled on your tongue. It was a completely new sensation—warm, strong, and undeniably masculine.
“It’s… a little salty,” you admitted gently “Is it supposed to taste like that?”
Bucky chuckled darkly, his hand coming up to grip Steve’s shoulder as he pressed himself into his back, his cock subtly rubbing up against the cleft of Steve’s ass through the fabric of his own pants. “Aw. Isn’t that cute? Just a little taste and our girl’s already curious.”
“Open… please,” Steve rasped.
Between the sight of your waiting mouth and the insistent pressure of Bucky behind him, his senses were completely overwhelmed.
“Open your mouth all the way for me, sweetheart,” Steve breathed shakingly.
He guided his throbbing, slicked head of his cock back to your lips, his fingers tightening instinctively in your hair. “I need to feel how warm your mouth is… I need you to take me.”
Shyly, you parted your lips. At the sight of your tongue, Steve took it as a final invitation to lose himself. He nudged your head closer to his cock until your lips stretched over his sensitive head. Already overwhelmed by the sensation of your plump lips sliding over his sensitive flesh, Steve let out a low, guttural growl and tossed his head back.
“Oh, hell…” he cursed, bucking his hips forward without warning.
Steve’s cock slid over your wet tongue and buried itself deep in your mouth. Your eyes went wide as you let out a muffled, helpless choke around his length. That small sound only made your throat tighten around his shaft, and the combination of your sweet, pained noises and the warmth was enough to shatter Steve’s last bit of control.
“Shit… that feels… fuck,” Steve whined, his hips snapping deeper into your mouth. “Feels too damn good—”
“Whoa, Stevie,” Bucky chuckled, though his own breath was hitching as he watched. He reached down, his hand landing heavy on Steve’s hip to try and still him. “Slow down, pal. You’re gonna choke the poor girl if you keep lunging like a wild animal. Take it easy.”
“I—I can’t…” Steve gasped, his head rolling back against Bucky’s shoulder.
His eyes were blown wide and glassy with a terrifying haze of lust. His thrusts became more frantic, his heavy cock sliding in and out of your mouth with a wet, vulgar slapping sound.
“Fuck, Bucky… do you see how she’s looking at me?” Steve grumbled, his voice a wrecked, low vibration.
He looked down at you, watching the way your eyes stayed locked on his even as you struggled to accommodate his size.
“She’s chokin’ around me… I can feel her throat squeezing me… but she’s not looking away.”
He glanced back at Bucky, blonde hair falling over his sweat beaded brow in messy, golden strands. “That—that means she wants it, right? She wants me to keep goin’?”
Your eyes grew wide and teary, your warm, wet throat closing in tight around him as he drove himself in to the hilt. You choked and coughed, drooling helplessly around his thick shaft as his pelvis collided with your nose with every thrust.
The mere idea of it—the very woman he had sought after for years, now pinned on her knees beneath him, servicing his cock—was too much to bear. Your eyes, usually so wide with wonder and kindness, were now glassy and teary as your mouth stretched to accommodate him.
The sight of your vulnerability was the final spark. It was enough to make him cum on the spot.
“Fuck… I can’t—shit, not when she’s looking at me like that…” Steve groaned, rocking his hips faster against your mouth.
“Ste—ve—mmph..”
“You like this, don’t you?” he breathed, his pupils blown wide as he stared down at the messy, beautiful ruin of your face. “My girl… my best girl… taking all of me.”
And then you nodded—a small, subtle little movement you managed to get out despite the possessive grip Steve had on your hair. That tiny invitation made his cock throb violently inside your mouth, pulsing once, twice, before his release finally consumed him and your mouth.
“Look at her, Buck!” Steve beamed, his head rolling back against Bucky’s chest as he drove himself into your throat one last time. “She’s so… fuck… she’s so perfect. God, I’m cumming—!”
Bucky watched, enamored, as Steve’s thick seed flooded your mouth. Steve held your head down, his fingers still tangled in your hair, as his release seeped around the stretch of your lips and down your chin, dripping obscenely onto the floor.
Your face—usually so pretty, soft, and composed—was now fucked to filth. Tears streaked your flushed cheeks, and your lips and chin were smeared with a mask of saliva and Steve’s cum.
It was a sight vulgar enough to make Bucky almost feel bad for you.
Almost.
The sensation of Steve’s salty, warm, and thick cum hitting the back of your throat was like a drug filling your head. His cock throbbed tiredly in your mouth, Steve finally coming down from his high. He let out a long, shaky breath and pulled out of your wet, sore mouth with a heavy, sloppy pop.
“I’m… I’m so sorry,” Steve rasped, his voice filled with regret as he took in the sight of you—kneeling on the floor, breathless and covered in his mess. “Look at you. I ruined you. I didn’t mean to be so—God, please let me help you up.”
He started to reach for your shoudlers, his large palms open and trembling, but he was cut off by the sharp sound of Bucky’s belt being unbuckled.
“Get up, Steve.”
Bucky’s voice wasn’t a suggestion but rather an authorative command that made no move for arguments. He nudged Steve back with a firm, steady hand, his eyes never leaving your messy, dazed face.
“That’s not a way to treat a woman now, Steve,” Bucky purred, finally extending a hand to you. His fingers were steady, a contrast to Steve’s shaking frame. “Our girl has never sucked a cock before—and yet here you are, slamming your pelvis down her throat and ruinin’ her.”
Steve’s face flushed with embarassment and shame. His eyes flickered to Bucky’s briefly before looking back at yours with guilt.
“I know. I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I… I lost control.”
You reached up, wiping the corner of your mouth as Bucky’s hand closed around yours, pulling you to your feet. “It’s okay—”
“You should be ashamed of yourself, Steve,” Bucky interrupted with a sharp click of his tongue, shaking his head.
He pointed to the seat directly behind Steve—the one Bucky had just vacated. “Sit down. Since you don’t know how to pace yourself, I’m going to show you how to properly please a woman.”
Steve swallowed hard, watching your debauched face blink up at Bucky with a dazed curiosity. His heartstrings pulled knowing how brutally he’d just fucked your face, and reluctantly, he took a seat as instructed.
You felt Bucky’s warm breath hit the back of your neck as he pressed up behind you—his bulge rubbing firm against the fabric of your skirt as his hands circled from behind you to your front, undoing the buttons on your blouse one at a time.
“You have to take your time with a fragile woman like her,” Bucky said raspily, his nose finding the crook of your neck and pressing soft, wet kisses between each sentence. “You need to savor this moment—undress her slowly as if unwrapping a delicate present.”
Your blouse was finally undone, and you heard the small gasp that left Steve’s lips at the sight of your lacey bra.
Swiftly, as if he had done this plenty of times before, Bucky undid your bra in one quick moment, the lace hitting the ground.
“Oh—!” you gasped as Bucky’s hands immediately found your nipples, giving them soft and teasing tugs as he circled his digits around the sensitive flesh.
In reaction, your back arched against his chest, only making your ass rub up against Bucky’s straining cock even more.
“Bucky…” Steve breathed from the couch, his hands already working at his half-hard cock. “What’re you… doing…”
“You’ve gotta play with her for a bit,” Bucky explained, giving your nipple a harsher tug that made you squeal. “Hear that, Steve? Means she likes it.”
He nuzzled his nose closer to your face, blue eyes piercing through yours.
“Do you like it, doll?”
“I… I do…”
You were cut off with Bucky’s hand sliding up to your chin and giving your cheeks a firm squeeze in his direction.
“Look at me when you answer, baby,” he warned. “Do you like it?”
“Yes, Bucky... I l-love it,” you whimpered as his hands continued their possessive roam over your body.
Bucky’s grin was dark and satisfied, his thumb grazing the corner of your swollen mouth. “Good. Eye contact is important. Now…”
He reached out, his hand hooking under your chin and firmly turning your face to meet Steve’s gaze. Steve looked completely spent, his blue eyes wide and glazed with a heavy, post orgasmic haze as he watched you from the couch, his hand resting lazily over the rise of his cock.
“Look Steve in the eye while I touch you,” Bucky commanded, his fingers digging slightly into your cheeks to keep your head still. “Tell him how good it feels.”
You shivered, your eyes locking onto Steve’s. He looked so vulnerable, yet so hungry, his chest heaving as he watched his best friend’s hands work over you.
“Don’t keep him waiting.” Bucky urged.
“It… it feels so good, Steve,” you breathed as Bucky continued to grope you. “Bucky’s hands… they’re so warm—I love how he’s touching me—”
Steve let out a choked sound at your words, one hand stroking his shaft while the other gripped the arm rest. “Jesus…”
“He’s got a lot to learn, doesn’t he, baby?” Bucky murmured, his hand sliding down to the hem of your skirt and unzipping the side, letting the fabric fall over your legs and hit the ground. “Tell him how it feels when I do this.”
A mewl escaped your lips the moment Bucky slyly slid his hand down the waistband of your panties, his fingers gently rubbing at your clit before delving deeper against your folds. He shifted around you, one hand groping at your chest,waist, and hips—while the other fingered your wet cunt.
“Ah—Buck!”
“My,” Bucky chuckled, clicking his tongue. “She’s so wet.”
Steve swallowed hard, his eyes glued to the sight of Bucky’s hand disappearing into your lace. “Is she?”
“Long before I even started touchin’ her, I bet,” Bucky explained, nudging his knee between your legs to force them to spread wider for him. “That’s all because of you, Steve. You worked her up so good—she’s dripping around my fingers.”
Still standing and completely exposed to both of the hungry men, you felt Bucky’s fingers probe against your entrance, giving you a few teasing strokes before he pushed firmly against the tight heat of your hole. You arched your back, whining high in your throat as Bucky’s fingers sheathed completely inside you—at first stroking gently before he began to move roughly, enticing shamelessly wet sounds out of you.
“Oh my God—!” you cried.
You squelched around his fingers as he worked your slick folds. Steve’s eyes widened, his breath completely caught in his throat as he watched your body react so easily to Bucky’s hands.
“You hear that, Stevie?” Bucky groaned, increasing the pace in his fingers while rubbing himself against your back. “When a woman sounds like that—it means she’s ready. Ready to be fucked.”
With a sharp tug, Bucky hooked his fingers into the lace of your panties and dragged them down your legs, leaving you completely exposed and shivering in the center of the room. He rested a heavy hand on your lower back, his palm hot against your skin as he guided you toward the couch.
“On the couch, doll. Front and center.”
You stumbled slightly, your knees weak and your inner thighs a slick, aching mess. You barely had time to settle onto the cushions before Bucky was already unbuckling his belt, his pants hitting the floor as he exposed himself completely.
He stepped in, his thighs nudging between your knees and forcing you to lay back until you were spread wide and vulnerable beneath him.
Bucky was big in ways that genuinely worried you. If you could hardly handle Steve’s length in your throat, you weren’t sure of how your body would react to Bucky’s width.
He noticed the way your eyes widened as he hovered over you, his thumb tracing the seam of his own length as he rubbed his tip against your entrance. He let out a low, dark chuckle, completely satisfied with the way he had you squirming and the way he had Steve pinned to his seat, unable to look away.
“You see how she’s shaking, Steve? That’s what you want. You want her knowing exactly what’s coming for her.”
“Bucky,” you whined, your hands coming up to his shoulders for support—and Steve watched with a pang of envy, wishing it was his skin you were clinging to instead. “Please…”
Bucky laughed again, taking the head of his cock and dragging it slowly along your slit, coating himself in your heat. You let out a shaky breath, your hips involuntarily twitching, begging for the friction to turn into something more.
“She’s begging so sweetly, Buck…” Steve gave himself a gentle squeeze around his sensitive shaft at the sight of you. “You need to take care of her—”
“Even though she’s beggin’, you gotta make her wait.” Bucky explained despite the strain of holding back in his own voice. “You stretch her out bit by bit until she’s begging you to just get it over with.”
Bucky poked his tip against the soft, warm flesh of your cunt, pressing just enough pressure to make you gasp but not enough to penetrate all the way through.
“Tell Steve what you want, doll,” Bucky murmured, his hand coming down to grip your hip. “Tell him how much you want this.”
“B-Bucky, please,” you sobbed, your back arching off the couch as you tried to force yourself onto him, but he held his ground, as immovable as a mountain.
“That’s not an answer,” Bucky teased, his eyes darting to Steve, who was leaning so far forward he was nearly off his seat. “Is she asking for a kiss, Stevie? Is she asking for a blanket? I can’t tell.”
Steve’s throat bobbed as he watched the head of Bucky’s cock sliding against your entrance, the size of him making you look so small and fragile. “She wants you inside her, Buck. Just… fuck, just give it to her.”
“I want to hear her say it,” Bucky countered, giving you another shallow, teasing poke that made your toes curl into the cushions. “Tell us, baby. What do you want me to do with this?”
“I want you inside,” you choked out, your face warm with embarassment. “I want… I want you to stretch me. Please, Bucky, fuck me!”
Bucky smirked, satisfied. “That’s my girl.”
With one hand propped near your head to hold himself up, he used the other to grip the base of his cock. He pushed deeper against your entrance, your cunt slowly stretching around him with every stinging burn. You could feel every ridge, every inch of his width forcing your tight walls to let him in.
“Shit,” Bucky hissed a curse, “she’s so tight.”
“Buck,” you whimpered, fingers digging into the muscle of his shoulders as he stretched you with every slide. “Too… too big, I don’t think I—”
“You can, baby,” Bucky countered. He hooked one hand underneath your thigh, hoisting it up toward your chest until you were pinned back, nearly splitting you. “Here—I’ll help you. Steve, I want you to watch me.”
A broken mewl left your lips as you tossed your head back against the cushions. Bucky was filling you—completely and deeply—and he hadn’t even begun to move before your legs were already shaking. With a deep grunt, he finally bottomed out, his hips slamming against yours with a wet squelch so vulgar it made Steve’s breath hitch.
“Her legs are shaking…” Steve pointed out, which only made your body warm even more in embarassment.
You turned your head to look at him, and the sight made you clench instinctively around Bucky’s dick. Steve was at the edge of his seat, his toes curled into the floor as his large hand pumped over his cock. He was still slick from his own cum and the heat of your mouth, leaking profusely and looking every bit ready for round two.
“S-Steve…” you broke off into a whimper as Bucky’s grip on your thigh tightened.
The sudden grip made your eyes flicker back to Bucky’s—his darkening at the way you were looking at his best friend. He let out a sharp, mocking huff.
“Moaning another man’s name while I’m bured this deep inside you, doll?” Bucky pulled back until he was nearly out, the slick wetness around his shaft filling the room before he slammed back in, making you cry out and the couch groan.
“If you’ve got enough breath to call for Stevie,” he growled, pulling his hips back again before thrusting even deeper, “then I’m not working you hard enough.”
The moment Bucky increased his pace, a loud, broken moan ripped from your throat. You tried to hide it—to claw back any shred of composure—but you simply couldn't when you were stripped bare and taken so roughly while Steve watched every single second.
Every time Bucky’s cock kissed your cervix, it felt like your nerves were catching on fire.
You were parted completely by him, his width stretching you so thoroughly that your body had no choice but to acknowledge that you belonged to him.
“A-ah! Bu-Bucky… feels so good—!” you cried out, hands clawing at his back as he fucked you into the cushions.
Each thrust Bucky delivered seemed to synchronize with the wet pumping of Steve’s hand. Bucky looked over his shoulder, a dark smirk pulling at his lips as he caught Steve’s eye.
He nearly pulled all the way out, letting Steve see the wet and stretched out version of you before bottoming out again, filling you completely and making you cry out.
“Lying in your bed at night, wondering what it would like to hear her scream like this for you.” Bucky continued with a gritty rasp.
As shameful as it was—every bit of it was true.
Every day you had spent standing next to Steve—acting small and seemingly innocent—you never would have guessed that little ol’ Steve had the filthiest thoughts imaginable running through his mind.
He used to imagine what it would feel like to have a body that didn’t fail him, a body strong enough to pin you down and finally act on the dirty thoughts that made his blood sing. He’d lie awake in his cramped apartment, staring at the ceiling and picturing your hands on him.
Or better yet, his hands on you—forcing a cry just like the one Bucky was coaxing out of you now.
Every time Bucky’s cock slid out of your cunt, Steve imagined it was his own sinking back into your tight, aching heat. If your mouth had felt that incredible, he could only imagine how it must feel to be buried deep inside you. The thought alone made him pump his cock faster, his body leaking a copious amount of pre-cum thanks to the serum.
He was already on the verge of busting a second load just from the sight of you getting ruined.
“God… ah, fuck,” Steve whimpered, his eyes glazed as his cock became painfully sensitive under his own touch.
“Look at him, doll,” Bucky prompted, leaning down to hiss the words into your ear while he continued to relentlessly pump into you. “Look at how hard he’s working just to keep up with us. He’s been a good boy, hasn’t he? Watching his best friend ruin you while he sits there and plays with himself.”
Bucky pulled back almost to the tip, gripping your other hip and flaring you even wider for the audience.
“He’s imagining it’s him,” Bucky laughed, a dark, sexy sound that made you flare up. “He’s imagining he’s the one stretching you out, the one making you sob his name. But he has to learn how to take care of you first, right? He has to watch me finish inside you.”
Your eyes widened at the thought of Bucky pumping you full.
It was dangerous, but with the way he had you pinned, your body couldn’t help but react. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper into your heat.
“Oh—” Bucky grunted, his cock twitching violently at the feel of your soft thighs locking him in. “Jesus… fuck.”
“Finish inside her,” Steve pleaded. He was timing his own hand to Bucky’s thrust, body tensing as he was prepared to cum alongside his best friend. “Fuck, Buck… do it. She’s pullin’ you in—means she wants it. I want to see you fill her.”
“She’s—she’s so tight,” Bucky hissed, his head falling into the crook of your neck. He drew his hips back as far as your locked legs would allow before sliding back in. “She’s pulling me in… like she’s trying to drain me.”
Bucky pulled back slightly to look you in the eye, his eyes dark with hunger.
“What should I do, doll? Should I cum inside?” he whispered, rocking his hips in a slow, agonizing grind as he fought to hold back his release. “Should I show Steve how to properly breed a woman?”
“Yes!” you sobbed, your hips rising to meet him—trying to rip the orgasm out of him yourself. “Please, Bucky. I want it, please!”
Bucky’s face strained at your words, his hips losing rhythm as he fucked you until his cock twitched and pulsed.
“Christ… you dirty girl,” he grunted between clenched teeth, each thrust making the couch slide an inch against the floor.
Steve watched and listened, tracing the way your body shook and the way your moans pitched higher and higher with every wet slap of Bucky’s hips. He could see the exact moment you both started to go over the edge—and he was right there with you, his hand a blur as he prepared to cum too.
“Shit!” Bucky cursed. “Cumming—fuck—I’m cumming, baby.” He groaned, tossing his head back as you felt his cock twitch inside you, filling you up deeply.
“Oh my god—Buck!”
Your head swam with desire, the feeling of him pumping you full making you cry out as you came alongside him. Your walls clenched around his shaft as he continued to pump lazily into you, his release flooding your core.
Across from you, at that exact second, Steve let out a broken groan as his body jerked in the chair. His hand moved in a blur over his sensitive shaft, his cock twitching in his grip before spilling warm cum all over his fingers and stomach.
The living room that had once been warm with the scent of sweet cookies and tea now smelled of nothing but sex and sweat. Bucky stayed buried deep for a moment, pressing soft kisses to your flushed cheek as the tremors in your legs finally began to fade.
“Good girl,” he murmured in soothingly. “You were such a good girl for me.”
Slowly, Bucky began to pull out.
The sudden loss of him left you feeling sensitive and vulnerable, and you could feel the warmth he’d pumped into you beginning to slick down your thighs, staining the worn cushion of the couch. Bucky reached for the floor, grabbing his pants and pulling them over his shins.
“Did you watch carefully, Steve?” Bucky asked, doing his belt lazily.
Steve didn’t say a word.
He just nodded, pushing himself up from the chair.
You were completely spent, your limbs feeling like stones against the couch, but your eyes went wide as you watched him approach.
Despite having just finished, Steve was already half hard again. You didn’t know how it was physically possible, but a man with his desires amplified by the super-soldier serum worked wonders in ways that even you couldn’t understand.
“I did,” Steve confirmed.
His chest was still heaving as he stood over you, his shadow falling across your trembling frame. He looked devastating—undone, messy, and still starving.
“S-steve?” you whimpered, weakly trying to sit up, “… are you okay? What are you doing?”
Bucky let out a dark, knowing chuckle at the shock on your face. He stepped aside, clearing a path as he looked from Steve back down to you, his hand clamping firmly on his friend’s shoulder.
“Good,” Bucky said. “Because it’s your turn.”
3 weeks since i posted my last fic 🚬 this has been in my drafts since jan and i'm glad i got to finally finish it! another stucky one, but from here on out you guys can expect to see more bucky fics soon (probably knight!bucky or model!bucky, depends if i'm feeling depressed or horny)
thank you guys for sticking around, and i hope you enjoyed!
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SUMMARY. One bored afternoon, one wrong contact. Now your best friend’s dad knows exactly what you look like.
WORD COUNT. 5.7K
WARNINGS. age gap (bucky calls reader ‘kid’, but everyone’s of legal age), smut, MDNI, 18+, sending nudes, public-ish sex (bar bathroom), mirror sex, unprotected pnv, dirty talk, dom!bucky, tit play, pussy pronouns, spanking, choking, creampie, no use of y/n. Usage of nicknames — darling, sweetheart, baby.
NOTES. yet another fic from your professional procrastinator. Lowk wrote this shit in like two days. Apologies for the fuckass summary bc wtf is that (reader accidentally sends bucky a tit pic, and they accidentally fuck, that’s it you guys)
READ ON AO3!
Boredom is a dangerous, dangerous thing.
It's a lazy Sunday afternoon, with nothing interesting on your phone. Your roommate’s out, and apparently your good sense stepped out with her.
For three hours, you’d been lounging around in nothing but a cropped t-shirt and underwear, watching Netflix. But Netflix is boring.
That's when the urge struck you the way urges tend to do. Suddenly, and with very little regard for consequence.
The photo isn’t even that scandalous. Just the right lighting, the right angle, your tee pulled up just enough that your nipple peeks out. It's just enough to make someone’s evening considerably better than yours.
You do three takes, and pick the best one. The one where the shadows do you all the favors. And fire it off to James.
James from psychology. Broad shoulders, nice enough smile, dull enough personality that you’d already mentally filed him under good for now, not forever. He’d been texting you all week. He'd like this. He'd provide you with your much needed solution for boredom.
You toss your phone screen-down and go back to your show, feeling pleased with yourself. A little less bored already.
It buzzes thirty seconds later.
James : This meant for me?
Duh.
You frown. Pick the phone up. Stare at it.
That was a weird way to respond to a tit pic, but okay. You’ve seen worse.
You : Who else would it be for 😏
You lowkey hate yourself for that emoji, but apparently you're the kind of person who sends smirk emojis now.
The response comes almost immediately.
James : Just checking. Didn’t want to assume.
Something about the phrasing snags. It's a little… composed.
James from psychology had responded to your selfie with three fire emojis and a voice note. This does not have that energy.
Your stomach does something unpleasant.
You scroll up. Past the photo you’d just sent to you look at the name at the top of the conversation. And your entire soul tries to evacuate your body through the soles of your feet.
James Barnes.
This is not James from psychology. Not James with the broad shoulders and the dull personality.
Fuck no.
This is James Barnes. Bucky. Your best friend’s father. Who you’d saved in your phone three years ago under his actual name like a normal, reasonable person. Who you had just — oh god — who you had just sent a photo of your tits to.
The phone slips. You catch it. You wish you hadn’t.
No fucking way.
You stare at the ceiling. The ceiling stares back, deeply unsympathetic to your peril.
Somewhere in the universe, every decision you’ve ever made has led to this moment. And you have no one to blame but yourself, the wretched alphabetical order of the names in the contacts, and the fact that they're both named James. Fucking James.
Your thumbs hover over the screen. Everything you type sounds insane.
Wrong number — no, he already knows it was you, you’d answered him back.
That was for someone else — yes, obviously, that’s the whole problem.
Please forget you have eyes — tempting, deeply tempting.
You lock the phone and set it face-down on the bed and lie very still.
The worst part — and you need to be honest with yourself about this — is not the humiliation. It’s not even the fact that this could get back to your best friend, who would never let you live long enough to be embarrassed about it.
The worst part is Bucky Barnes.
The worst part is that he’s built like something a sculptor would chisel out of marble, all broad and ridiculous with that jaw and those eyes and the grey threading through his dark hair that should not be doing what it’s doing to you. The worst part is that you’ve sat across from him at dinner tables and family barbecues and birthday gatherings and spent the entire time thinking thoughts that would make your best friend want to commit a crime.
The worst part is that some traitorous part of your brain is thinking : he didn’t say he didn’t like it.
You pick up the phone.
There’s a new message.
James : You don’t have to be embarrassed, you know.
Yep. There it is. The end of your life, delivered casually, the way he probably delivers everything.
You type another message and hit send before your brain catches up with your fingers.
You : I’m not embarrassed.
The three dots appear almost instantly. Disappear. Reappear.
James : Good.
One word. That’s it. Just good.
It feels like Bucky is not even a little bit flustered, while you are over here one deep breath away from combustion.
Traitor. Your body is a fucking traitor because it has gone warm in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with the room temperature.
Fuck. He’s off-limits. He’s your bestfriend's father. He’s at least fifteen years older than you and has probably seen and done things and lived enough life to make you feel embarrassed about how young and dumb you are.
None of that was stopping the warmth currently spreading through your lower belly.
You could not tell your best friend about this if you tried. Hey, so funny story, I accidentally sent your dad nudes and he’s being weirdly calm about it and I think I’m going to need a minute. No. Absolutely not. You’d rather defect to another country.
You actually should. Pretend your phone died, pretend you never saw it, never acknowledge it and just never go to your bestfriend’s apartment again, never be in the same room as him, move to a different country maybe, change your name.
The phone buzzes again.
James : You still there?
That’s enough of that. You turn your phone fully off, shove it under your pillow, and pull the duvet up over your head like a woman under siege.
You do not look at it for the rest of the day.
By morning, you have three unread messages from Bucky Barnes that you refuse to open, and a deeply inconvenient awareness that the photo you’d sent had been a good photo, and that Bucky Barnes had seen it, and that somewhere on the other side of the city, he probably still had it.
You make a decision, then. The only rational, mature, adult decision available to you.
You go dark. You become, to one James Buchanan Barnes, completely and entirely unreachable. A name in a contact list that simply does not respond.
Ghosting Bucky is, objectively, the most cowardly thing you’ve ever done. You’re aware of this. You think about it every time your phone lights up and it isn’t him, and then feel insane for being even slightly disappointed about that. You think about it when your best friend calls to make plans and you spend the whole conversation wondering if she knows, if he told her, if there’s any conceivable universe where this ends without catastrophe.
The plan had been simple. Foolproof, even.
Get dressed. Go out. Drink something cold and overpriced, let James from psychology say something adequately charming, and spend an entire evening not thinking about the fact that you’d sent a topless photo to your best friend’s father four days ago and have been hiding from your own phone ever since.
Simple. Foolproof.
You are two drinks in and it is going beautifully.
“—so then the professor just stares at him for like, thirty seconds. Doesn’t say a word. Just picks up the marker and writes wrong on the board in capital letters.”
You laugh. It’s genuine, even. James from psychology is, reliably entertaining. The bar is loud, the drinks are good, and everything is fine. Everything is completely, entirely fine.
Then you look up.
The laugh dies somewhere between your chest and your mouth.
Bucky Barnes is standing twenty feet away.
He’s at a table near the far wall. Just there, the way a piece of furniture you keep walking into is just there. Unavoidable. He’s in a dark shirt with the sleeves pushed to his elbows, one hand wrapped around a glass, jaw doing what his jaw always does, which is absolutely nothing and yet somehow everything.
The bar lighting should have the decency to be unflattering. It is not. It is doing him every conceivable favor. The warm glow catches the grey in his hair, but it makes him a hundred times sexier. It accentuates the way he tilts his head slightly when the woman beside him says something.
It’s insufferable. It’s genuinely, deeply unfair, and you want to file a complaint with someone.
Then your eyes circle back to the woman.
Right. The woman.
She’s seated across from him, and she is objectively, aggressively good-looking. Blonde hair. Good bone structure. The kind of effortless put-together that suggests she did not spend forty minutes changing outfits before leaving the house, unlike some people.
She laughs at something Bucky says, touches his arm briefly. And you watch her do it with the fate of someone watching a car back slowly over their foot.
“—you okay?”
You snap back. James is looking at you with mild, pleasant concern.
“Fine,” you say, with a smile you’ve borrowed from someone more composed than yourself. “Sorry, thought I saw someone I knew.”
This is technically true. You elect not to elaborate.
James picks up the thread of conversation and you follow along, nodding, laughing when appropriate, contributing occasionally. All the while, your eyes conduct their own completely independent investigation of the far side of the bar.
You’re not staring. You’re glancing. There’s a difference. The difference is whether or not you get caught, and so far, the record is clean.
Bucky still hasn’t looked over.
Which is fine. Obviously. Why would he? He’s here with someone. Probably a colleague, or a friend, or some equally well-structured woman he’d met through entirely normal adult channels, a date maybe. And you’re here with James from psychology, and none of this has anything to do with the photo incident, which you have all but successfully repressed.
Except you haven’t, have you… not even a little.
Because every time the woman across from him laughs, your jaw tightens by approximately one millimeter. And every time Bucky shifts his weight or picks up his glass or does literally anything with those arms, your drink suddenly becomes the most interesting object in the room.
This is embarrassing. At least, you are embarrassing yourself in the privacy of your own head and there isn’t anyone here to witness it.
There's a part of your brain that kept you up until two in the morning replaying the word good in a text message. The unhelpful part of your brain — to be more specific — says that he hasn’t even looked at you. Three unread messages and he hasn’t even looked over.
Maybe he hasn’t noticed you’re here.
Maybe he has and he’s choosing not to, which is worse, somehow. Which says something about you that you’d rather not examine while you’re trying to have a functional evening with a perfectly decent human being.
James from psychology is saying something about the end of semester, about a party someone’s throwing, about whether you’d want to come, and you are nodding along.
Meanwhile Bucky Barnes sits twenty feet away looking like that, completely unbothered, while the good-boned woman laughs again. And you experience something very close to the desire to put your fist through a wall.
Not because you’re jealous. You’re not jealous. You don’t get to be jealous. That’s not a card you’re holding, it’s not a hand you’ve been dealt. And even if it were, the man is your bestfriend’s father and the whole situation is already a disaster of your own construction.
You’re just. Observing. Critically.
But still, looking at that woman stings, with no valid reason. You’d been the one to go quiet. You’d been the one to ghost. You don’t get to sit here and feel like this about a woman you’ve never met, who has done absolutely nothing to you except exist in his vicinity while looking like that.
There’s even a reason why it shouldn’t sting. Because this is Bucky Barnes, your bestfriend’s dad.
“Be right back,” James says, sliding out from his seat, “bathroom.”
“Sure."
He disappears into the crowd, and you sit there alone with your drink and your critical observations for approximately ten seconds before you look up again.
Bucky’s table is empty.
You scan the room. Find him almost immediately, because your eyes have apparently decided that locating him is their primary biological function this evening. He’s at the bar, leaning against the counter with his back half-turned, the same easy posture he brings to every situation, like he’s never been in a rush for anything in his life.
The woman is still at the table, scrolling her phone.
You look at your drink.
You look at the bar.
You look at your drink again, which does not offer anything useful.
What happens next is not something you can explain in rational terms. The most honest answer is that your body makes a decision slightly ahead of your brain, which has been the source of every notable problem in your life for as long as you can remember.
By the time you’re standing up, threading between tables and barstools toward the far end of the room, it’s already too late to course correct.
Your heart is doing something ridiculous in your chest.
He still doesn’t look over. Not until you stop beside him and set your glass on the bar with a quiet clink. And even then — even then — it’s measured. Calm. Calculated. Like he’d known exactly where you were the whole time and had simply been waiting to see what you’d do about it.
Those blue eyes find yours, and his mouth curves, just slightly.
“Hey, stranger,” Bucky says.
"Hi." What’s that high pitched noise that came out of your mouth, only God knows.
Bucky doesn't seem to mind though. “You never replied.”
It's way too calm for someone who's been ghosted for four days.
“I’ve been busy,” you say.
Bucky looks at you. Just looks at you, and you can already feel sweat beading at your temples.
“Busy,” he says.
“Mm.”
“Four days busy.”
“It’s been a very full week.”
The corner of his mouth does something. You notice that it's not quite a smile.
He turns back to the bar and flags the bartender down. You stand there beside him and study the bottles lined up on the shelf behind the counter as though they contain answers.
They don’t.
“You could’ve just said wrong number,” Bucky says, when the bartender moves away. “Would’ve been the end of it.”
“Would it?”
“Probably not,” he admits. “But it would’ve been polite.”
You open your mouth and close it again. This is not how you’d mentally rehearsed this going. Though, in fairness, you’d mostly rehearsed avoiding it, so you hadn’t exactly prepared a second act.
That's your excuse when you say, “I don’t even know what you’re even referring to. I send a lot of texts.” Stupid, stupid brain.
Bucky's eyebrows do something that makes you want to take back your last sentence.
“Don’t do that,” he says.
“Do what?”
“Act cute now. Especially after that message.”
The noise that comes out of your mouth is not a word. It’s barely a sound. It’s something that happens in the space between oh my god and total neurological collapse.
You stand like a statue for one humiliating moment before you pick your dignity up from the floor. “Look,” you start, with the energy of someone building toward a very reasonable explanation.
Bucky's torso leans towards you, so close you think he might hear your hammering heart. His mouth is by your ear as he whispers, “that was a very nice picture."
The reasonable explanation evaporates.
Your brain performs a full system freeze. The kind where the screen goes blank and the little wheel just spins and spins and nothing loads.
You stare at him. He leans back and takes a sip of his drink, perfectly composed, watching you out of the corner of his eye like he finds the buffering deeply entertaining.
“Mr. Barnes—” you manage. “I mean — that’s not—”
“Relax, kid.”
Kid. The absolute nerve of this man. You’re a fully grown adult who took a very well-lit photograph and he’s standing there calling you kid like you’d tripped over your shoelaces.
“I am relaxed. And I am not a kid,” you tell him, when the power of speech returns.
“You look like you’re about to file a police report.”
“I’m fine,” you say, with the specific energy of someone who is categorically not fine. “I just — you didn’t have to bring it up, okay? That’s all. We could have both just agreed to pretend it never happened and moved forward as normal, functioning adults.”
Bucky turns to look at you properly. Like you’re the only two people in the world. Like James from psychology does not exist, like the well-structured woman at the table across the room does not exist. Like the entire bar has narrowed down to this small, warm space between you two.
“How was I supposed to just not bring it up?”
“Easily. You open your mouth and you say literally anything else.”
“That simple.”
“That simple.”
“Hm.” He looks down at his glass. “No.”
You let out a breath that is entirely undignified. “You’re genuinely being so unfair right now.”
It doesn't slip your mind that you do look like a kid throwing a temper tantrum. Good that he doesn't comment on it. Instead, "you sent the photo."
“To the wrong person!”
“Sure.” He says it the way someone says sure when they mean something else entirely. It makes you want to tip his drink over and also do several other things you’re not going to think about right now. “Still a good photo, though.”
There is absolutely no blood left in the rest of your body. It has all migrated directly to your face.
“You are,” you say, with as much composure as you can scrape together, “fucking unbelievable.”
“You’ve mentioned.”
“I’m serious —”
“I know you are.” And now he does smile, just slightly. And it is deeply, personally offensive how good he looks doing it. “That’s what makes it funny.”
You stare at him. He stares back, calm as anything, and you think that it is genuinely, unfair that this man exists like this. That he gets to stand there looking like that and say things like that and be completely unbothered while you’re over here running on fumes and humiliation.
“You know what. You should go back to your date.”
Something shifts in his expression. Barely perceptible, but it is there.
“She’s not my date,” Bucky says. “Colleague. We’re working on the same project, she suggested drinks.”
“Oh,” you say.
He watches you process that.
“Oh,” you say again, slightly differently.
“Mm.” His eyes are doing that thing again. That calm, assessing thing that makes you feel like he can see several layers further into you than you’d prefer. “You should probably go back to yours.”
“My what?”
“Your date.”
You blink. Scan the room reflexively. Land on James from psychology’s empty chair across the bar, and feel the specific, dawning horror of someone who has just realized they completely forgot that he existed.
James from psychology. Nice enough. Broad shoulders. Currently in the bathroom, presumably expecting to return to a table where you are sitting and not… whatever the fuck this is.
“Oh,” you say, for the third time, which is honestly embarrassing. “Right. Him.”
Bucky looks at you for a long moment. Then he makes a sound in his chest, probably a laugh for someone fluent in Bucky. You're not. Yet.
“Jesus, kid.”
“Don’t,” you say.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“Was I?”
“You had a whole tone.”
“I’m a pretty even toned guy,” Bucky says, and the corner of his mouth is doing that thing again. That not-quite-smile that has been making your life difficult since the whole two years you've known him. That's when it dawns on you that you are in a genuinely stupid amount of trouble.
He leans in slightly, just enough to close some increment of the distance between you, and drops his voice beneath the noise of the bar.
“Go back to your date,” he says. Like a suggestion that is not entirely a suggestion. “Before he comes back and wonders where you went.”
You should. You absolutely should. That is the correct, sensible, adult course of action, and you know it.
“And if I don’t want to?” you hear yourself say. Fucking ridiculous.
Bucky goes still. Just for a half a second. And then those blue eyes move over your face with an attention that makes it difficult to breathe normally.
“Then,” he says, setting his glass down on the bar with a quiet clink, “that’s a different conversation.”
It is unfortunate that your brain decides to play a montage right this moment. It starts with Bucky Barnes looking illegally attractive, and continues to show every time you’d sat across from him at dinner, every time he’d laughed at something and you’d had to look away, that one time he was fixing the sink, and you had to run upstairs to calm yourself down. It ends with this version of Bucky looking at you.
Your whole body is paying attention in a way it has absolutely no business doing in a public bar.
“The bathroom’s in the back,” Bucky says.
You don't think it's a question. You don't think it's an instruction either. Something in between. Or a suggestion.
Whatever the fuck it was, it has you holding his gaze for one more second. Your heart does something completely unreasonable, and then you push off the bar and walk toward the back of the room without looking behind you.
Because you know that you won’t have to. You know that with a certainty, that has nothing to do with logic and everything to do with the way he’d looked at you.
Thirty seconds later, the bathroom door opens and closes behind you both.
The lock clicks.
The bar noise is muffled. There's nowhere to go now. No crowd to blend into, no drink to hide behind, no James from psychology as a conceptual exit.
It's just you, and him, and the long bathroom mirror behind you catching the both of you. That unflattering fluorescent light still manages to do him no harm whatsoever.
It’s offensive. It’s the most offensive thing that’s ever happened to you.
He crosses the distance in two steps, one hand coming up to curl around your jaw, tilting your face up to his, and kisses you. Your hands find the front of his shirt and grip there.
And you think, somewhat deliriously, that this is arguably the most consequential mistake you’ve made in recent memory, and that you are absolutely not stopping.
He pulls back just enough to look at you. His thumb traces your jaw.
“Still busy?”
“Shut up."
He just laughs against your mouth and kisses you again, deeper this time. One hand slides from your jaw down the side of your neck, your shoulder, and finds the zip at the back of your dress. There's a certainty in his movements that suggests this is not his first time navigating the logistics of a bar bathroom. You just cannot decide if that’s annoying or enormously helpful.
The zip gives with a soft metallic hiss. The fabric loosens at your back. His hands slide beneath the straps and push them from your shoulders. When the dress drops enough to expose your bra, he makes a sound against your throat that does terrible, immediate things to your ability to think straight. Your nipples tighten instantly under the thin lace.
His fingers find the clasp at your back. One-handed. It gives with ease.
The bra goes. Cool air hits your skin and then his palms are there, cupping your bare tits like he’s been waiting forevr.
Bucky pulls back just enough to look at you. The expression on his face makes your skin feel two sizes too small— hungry, dark, and so fucking calm it should be criminal.
He cups your breasts in both hands again, just holds you there, thumbs tracing slow, devastating circles over your nipples. “The photo,” he says, “didn’t do you justice.”
Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out.
“Not even close,” he adds, and dips his head to take one nipple between his lips. The warmth of his mouth pulls a sound from you, embarrassingly loud in the small room.
His tongue moves in slow, maddening circles, one hand still palming your other breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers with a precision that is doing nothing for your grip on reality. Your head tips back and your fingers find his hair, gripping tight as another whimper slips out.
“Mr Barnes—”
“I think you've earned the right to call me Bucky.”
“Bucky, we're in the bathroom —”
“I know where we are,” he says against your skin, and moves to the other side. You lose your train of thought entirely.
By the time his hands move lower, you’re already past the point of reasonable objection. His hand slides down over your hips, gathering the fabric of your dress up your thighs. When his fingers find the hem of your underwear, he watches your face.
His fingers slip beneath the fabric and find you slick and swollen. The sound he makes is devastating. “Oh, baby … she’s soaked.” He runs two thick fingers through your folds, spreading your wetness like he’s savoring it. “This all for me?”
You don’t answer, because there’s no version of the answer that isn’t humiliating.
He seems to take your silence as confirmation. “That’s what I thought.” Then, almost conversationally, he adds, “you really sent a picture like that to some boy? What the hell were you thinking, kid?” Before you can even form a reply he spins you around, one hand firm on your hip, and brings his palm down once on your ass. The smack echoes and you gasp, the sting blooming hot and making your pussy clench around nothing.
He doesn’t linger on the scolding. Just leans in, mouth at your ear. “Good thing she’s mine now.”
He brings his hand up, the one that was inside your cunt, now shiny with you. As he holds your gaze in the mirror, he puts them in his mouth. Both of them. Tasting you with an attention that makes your knees want to buckle on the spot. He pulls them free with a quiet, satisfied sound that goes straight to your core.
“You’re very wet,” he casually says, like he’s commenting on the weather, and you want to laugh or cry. Possibly both.
“I wonder why,” you manage.
“Mm.” He turns you fully toward the mirror, hand at your hip guiding you until you’re braced against the sink. You catch your own reflection, swollen lips, sweaty face, and behind you, him, tall and composed and entirely too in control. The height difference is ridiculous. His hands settle on your hips for a second, then one slides up to palm your tit again, squeezing gently while he watches your face in the glass.
“Watch,” he says.
His other hand slides back under your dress. Without a beat, his fingers find your clit and press. You watch your own mouth fall open on a moan you can’t bite back. Your head drops back against his shoulder on its own accord.
“Eyes up,” he immediately says.
You force them open. Meet his in the mirror. He holds your gaze and keeps moving. Two fingers slide inside you now while his thumb stays on your clit, curling just right, stroking that spot that makes your thighs shake. He palms your tit again, rolling the nipple between his fingers in time with the thrust of his hand. Somehow it makes you more wet, being made to look at yourself unraveling while he watches you fall apart.
“Oh, she's greedy, suckin' me in like that."
He doesn't stop his fingers until you’re gripping the edge of the sink, trying very hard not to moan loud enough for the entire bar to hear. He feels everything. Every flutter, every clench. When your legs press together involuntarily he presses a kiss to your temple and says, “none of that,” then nudges your knees apart again with his own.
“I hate you,” you breathe.
“No you don’t." He curls his fingers again just to prove it.
He’s right. You absolutely don’t.
His fingers withdraw when you’re right on the edge, a desperate little sound escaping you. Before you can protest he’s got his belt undone, cock heavy and thick when he frees it. You watch in the mirror as he strokes himself, spreading the bead of precum over the head.
His hands settle at your hips, gathering your dress up over your waist, and you feel the blunt, warm pressure of him against your entrance. He rubs the head of his cock through your folds, coating himself in how wet you are, then pushes in slowly.
The sound that escapes you is something between a gasp and a moan, swallowed quickly with teeth to your lips. He’s thick, stretching you open by degrees, giving you time you don’t even want. When he’s fully seated he stills for a moment, forehead pressed to the back of your neck, breathing hard.
You know he's about to ask you some version of are you okay, you beat him to it by moaning, followed by, "Bucky — please move."
He pulls back, almost fully out, and pushes back in in one slamming stroke. It's precisely calibrated to make coherent thought impossible. His hips roll into you in long, steady strokes that rock you forward against the sink. All you can do is watch the mirror and try not to fall apart too obviously.
The wet, lewd sound of him sliding in and out of you is the only thing you can hear.
“Look at you,” he murmurs. His eyes find yours in the reflection, and there’s something in them, that makes your chest feel strange in a way that has nothing to do with the physical situation. “Forgot you strung a boy along?”
“Don’t —” you start.
Before anything else could come out of your mouth, he drives his hips forward hard enough to knock the word clean out of your head. You bite down on your lip and grip the sink and stop trying to form sentences.
His hand finds the front of your throat, pulling your back flush against his chest so he can go deeper. The other hand stays on your tit, palming and squeezing while he fucks you. You watch the whole thing in the mirror like it’s happening to someone else.
“You’ve been driving me out of my mind,” Bucky says against your ear, his composure fraying. That does more for you than practically anything else has tonight. “Know that? Fuckin' sending' me tits.”
“Good." You push back to meet his thrusts.
“Yeah.” He sounds almost amused. “Good.”
His hand drops from your throat to your hip, gripping hard enough to bruise probably. The way his hip slams into yours is deep and punishing and exactly what you’ve been thinking about since approximately the first time you’d ever been in the same room as him. The slap of skin, the sound he makes on each thrust, the way he keeps making you meet your own eyes in the mirror, it’s all too much and not nearly enough. Once again, you are embarrassingly, humiliatingly close.
Like he's read your mind, “tell me,” he says. Does this man need to embarrass you any further? Apparently yes.
“I’m close—Bucky, please—”
He rewards it instantly, snaking his hand around to find your clit again, two fingers pressing and circling while he keeps fucking you deep. “That’s it. Let her have it. Cum on my cock, sweetheart.”
You cum with your knuckles gripped on the sink and his name moaned loud enough that you’re sure someone outside heard. Your whole body is shuddering, clenching around him in waves so intense your vision whites out. He fucks you through every single pulse, until you’re past oversensitive and into something wordless and trembling.
Only then does he let himself go. His hips stutter, a rough exhale against the back of your neck, and he buries himself to the hilt as he comes. Hot, thick pulses of cum fill you so full you can feel it already starting to leak out around his cock. He stays there, buried deep, letting you feel every twitch, every spurt, one hand still gently palming your tit like he can’t quite stop touching you.
There's only silence for a moment. Silence and the the muffled bass of the bar beyond the door.
Bucky presses one long kiss to the side of your neck, then slowly pulls out. You feel the warm rush of his cum start to slide down your thigh and bite back another whimper at how filthy it feels.
He straightens, tucking himself away with that same effortless calm, then catches your eye in the mirror. His expression is warm and a little smug.
“Your date is probably wonderin’ where you are.”
You look at your own reflection. Dress rucked up. Hair questionable. Expression, the very portrait of someone who has absolutely no business going back to a date in the next ten minutes.
“Probably."
“For what it’s worth,” Bucky says, reaching over to fix your bra with a casualness that is somehow more intimate than everything that just happened, “next time, you can send it on purpose.” The rucked up dress is pulled down, and your underwear pulled up.
It doesn't, in any way, provide a solution for the cum-down-your-thighs situation. Like he's read your mind again, "I want you to walk back and sit with me drippin' outta you."
You stare at him.
That handsome, insufferable man pulls the bathroom door open and walks back into the bar like nothing happened at all.
MY MASTERLIST!
EXTRAS. Wrote this instead of fucking studying. Someone save me. I think I did an okay job of portraying Bucky as not a loverboy, lmk how it went lol
✧･ﾟ:Bucky’s seen it. How you stare at his metal hand. How whenever he grabs something with it your eyes flick down, how when he grazes you with it—even only in brief passing—your body seizes up. At first he thinks it’s aversion, but then he spots the way your breath catches. Sees how you start to lean into the touch. Like you can’t enough of it. Of him.
✧･ﾟ:He runs an experiment. He touches you more. Offering a shiny palm when he helps you out of the car, squeezing your upper arm when he walks past you, even just wiping something off your chin with a light, cool touch. It pays off fast. One night he grabs your thigh during dinner, and you make a low, soft sound. A moan. You grab his wrist, face flushed and lips parted. Then you let go like he burned you, stumbling slightly back and ignoring his affectionate smile.
✧･ﾟ:You’re not expecting him to bring it up so suddenly. You’re hoping to ignore it for a while longer. But you’re on the couch, and he’s lying next to you, and suddenly you feel the chill of metal on your inner thigh. It’s electric. You start out of your seat with a squeak, but Bucky pushes you back down. His fingers tease on your sensitive inner thigh, and you gasp, grabbing his wrist with pleading eyes.
✧･ﾟ:His brows raise in a silent question. He’ll let you push him away, and you’ll never speak of it again. But that’s not what you want. You want to feel how that hard, deliberate hand feels inside of you. How every part of Bucky fits with you, how he can abuse the machinery for your pleasure. You push his hand further down, letting the tips of his fingers brush over your clothed core. Bucky smiles, and gives you exactly what you want.
✧･ﾟ:The first time he touches you there, you don’t think you’re ever going to be able to use a toy again. He filles you up so well your eyes roll back, rushes of delight shooting through you as the cold contrasts your dripping heat. Bucky crooks deep inside of you, and bullies that gooey, hot space inside of you with an efficiency that should be criminal. You’re writing and breathless just on his hand, and he moves to his knees to watch himself work you. Awe shines in his eyes, when you spasm around him.
✧･ﾟ:When he’s done, he licks the fingers clean, and you almost cum again at the sight. He learns that he can vibrate them, and kisses you back down into the mattress, the light feeling tickling near your core before he fucks them into you, and you scream in delight.
✧･ﾟ:He starts to use them more and more. Sometimes he feeds them to you while he drills into your already puffy cunt, making you suck every bit of him in. Other times you’ll be folded under him, his mouth working your core until you shine on his beard, and metal fingers roll and pinch your nipples as you squirm.
✧･ﾟ:Soon there are whole nights where he splays his warmer hand over your abdomen, pinning you to the mattress as he fingers you into oblivion. Other times he lets you buck and roll around, enjoying the chase for when your legs get too weak to scramble away. The pleasure is overwhelming, but you still chase it. There’s nothing but bliss in you, when Bucky drags you to his chest and watches you ride them with a dreamy expression and hazy eyes.
✧･ﾟ:Sometimes he just sits them inside of you, forcing you to feel them. How hard and thick they are, just like his cock, but with Bucky under so much more control. He presses on your g-spot and doesn’t falter when you spasm around him, his cock only pressing near your ass as he keeps your pinned in his lap. You try to grind onto him, but he’s stronger and holds you still. He just wants you to feel them. To take him.
✧･ﾟ:Some part of him likes this even more than you do. He likes that you want this part of him. A part that used to be a curse, now turned only into a bringer of your flushed, pretty face and doe-eyes as you watch him like he’s an angel. Every time you cum on his metal fingers, the arm feels less like a mocking, phantom limb, and a little more like Bucky.
✧･ﾟ:You call his name when he touches you, after all. And Bucky doesn’t much care what part of him is making you do that, as long as you never, ever stop.
✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist✦
✦Author's Note: can you guys tell how normal i am about the metal hand.✦
✦Buy me a coffee!☕️✦
If you’re taking requests can you do something where the reader somehow sits on buckys lap in the car or something and they hit like a rough patch in the road and Bucky like gets turned on from the friction. Sorry I know it’s really freaked out
Definitely not freaked out, just the right amount of freak.
Short drabble, but a drabble nonetheless.
TW: very brief mentions of violence, public grinding
Running through a barren wasteland while the sun scorched down upon you and bullets rained towards you would to anyone else be a dramatic day but since joining what the people are calling 'the new avengers' it's just a normal Tuesday. A mission turning south as your team scrambled to escape the onslaught of shots fired towards you by armed thugs in all black. Ringing in your ears from both the crashes of bullets and your heartbeat pounding thunderous in your head gets interrupted by your new saving grace- Bob slamming the steering wheel of a black SUV harshly to the left pulling directly up in front of the fleeing team.
"Get in!" Bob yells over the loud bangs of bullets pinging off the sides of the car. Doors fly open as you begin to pile in, all scrambling across dark leather seats. Yelena smart enough to roll her body over the hood landing on the passenger door side and launching herself into the seat in front rather than scramble into the overcrowded back. You're the last to dive in, a brief widened glance over the seats making you aware of the lack of space but when there's 20 men hell bent on killing you, you'll take what you can get.
You don't even realise in your flushed hurry to get the hell out of there you've directly planted yourself on the lap of the super solider you've been crushing on since the moment you saw him until you're far away enough from danger to catch your breath. Everyone else in the car catching their breath from the intense chase while yours hitches as you become painfully aware of the thick thigh you're sat on.
You don't even dare to look at him, while everyone else is checking in on the team you're silently praying the journey ends soon so you can finally catch your breath. Heat rising through your whole body from the close proximity, so close you can smell the sweat on his forehead and feel his warm breath tickle the back of your neck. You can't control your instincts to rub your thighs together, your pussy throbbing and your head filled with thoughts of grinding yourself over his thick, muscular thigh. You beg that he remains blissfully unaware to your thoughts, and even more unaware of the way you're twitching on top of him.
His overwhelming prescence under you leaving you holding your breath out of fear your body would betray you and a groan would slip from your lips as your pussy uncontrollably throbbed against his thigh. God why did it have to be him? Literally out of anyone here you've ended up right on top of the man you'd love to be on top of in a very different scenario.
You try to focus on controlling yourself, clearing your mind and attempting to act normal until you're jolted forward when the wheels of the car hit a bump in the road full force, raising you from Bucky's lap for mere sesconds before slamming back down again.
That's when you begin to feel it. A growing lump pushing pressure against the curve in your ass. Your mind doesn't stray further from the possibility of it being his phone or gun or literally anything else ordinary, what else could it be?.
Until the next bump. Your body jostled upward then thudding back down with a small drag of your hips inching forward in the collision, the lump catching perfectly against your slit. That's when you feel that lump grow, bigger and harder as you slide your ass back to it's original position in his lap. The sudden realisation a shocking throb to your cunt. He's hard. Bucky Barnes is hard beneath you.
His cock poking up against your ass, throbbing and shameless to be ridgid in a car surrounded by people. Just a thin layer of fabric separating the thick member from plunging deep into you. You quiver at the thought, the air suddenly feeling thick and hot as your body reacted before your brain.
A small clench of your thighs together as your pussy throbbed. A grunt from under you let you know he felt it too. Oh god he could feel every time you throbbed above him, even without his super solider senses he'd be able to feel it. Your clothed cunt pressing right up against his sensitive cock.
"Just keep looking forward" a low gruff voice and warm breath huffs against your ear, your whole body turning ridged at the surprise, sitting stiff upright and tensing every single muscle. "relax" he cooed huskily into your ear as his thumb began stroking small circles on the side of your thigh. Your body untenses, listening to his instruction and keeping your eyes straight ahead, hoping the rest of the cars passengers remain non the wiser as Bucky rolls his hips up into you. The thick outline of his clothed cock dragging perfectly against the seam of your trousers forcing you to bite down on your lip to stifle a rising moan.
Another bump in the road flings you forward, confidence growing as you seize the opportunity to grind yourself down in his lap, your pussy getting butterflies from the delicious friction. He fails to stifle the small grunt coming from his mouth, quickly covering the insanely sexy noise with a fake cough as you hit another bump giving you chance to grind down harder this time.
"Careful doll" he warned, voice low and dangerous, barely above a whisper. You're anything but careful, enjoying the newfound thrill of trying to secretly get each other off. You grind down again, circling your hips subtly over him You feel his breath heavy against you and you can't help but turn around to finally see the effect you're having on him plastered over his face.
His pretty lips parted and eyelashes fluttering closed for a brief second when you circle your hips again. His eyes meet yours, pupils blown out with lust and his face flushed, his mouth curves to a dark smirk, his eyes signalling you to keep looking forward to not arouse suspicion. Another roll of his hips as he leans in close, his breath tingling on your neck as he drawled seductively into your ear "just you wait til I get you alone"
Summary: The super soldier serum heightened all of Bucky's senses. Vision, hearing, smell. Little do you know every time you get turned on by your hot older neighbour- he knows.
TW: slight smut, masturbation (f), age gap (reader is of age), pervy reader, neighbour!Bucky
Word Count: 1.3k
Authors Note: ik it's a short one- should I make a part 2?
DING! The elevator door spreads open revealing the run down hall leading down to your apartment. Padding down the worn in used-to-be red carpet now faded with time passing walls lined with mysterious damp stains and old rusted radiators that hiss through the night until you reach your front door. The scene before you is different today, the usual painfully empty cold hallway filled with box after box, title scribbled on each one in black sharpie and an array of items threatening to burst through the messily duct-taped tops. You look around curiously, peeking your head towards the wide open door opposite your own, propped open by more stacks of boxes. Clearly somebody's finally accepted moving into the apartment opposite you that had been left vacant for going on 4 months now. You wonder what sucker your all but friendly landlord has managed to convince to actually pay the extortionate rent to live in this dump.
"Hey! I guess I'm your new neighbour" The deep melodic voice startles you, a tall broad man appearing from around the doorway, a metal arm wrapped hard around a brown cardboard box pressing it tight to his chest as he extended his free arm out to shake your hand. The world went blank for a moment, every social skill you've ever learned knocked right out of your head at the sight of him. Never in a million years did you think the fantasy of the 'hot older neighbour' would ever be one you'd have the privilege of living.
He was at least 20 years older than you, rugged features and a stern yet warm face. Silver slivers speckling his short dark beard that lived on his chiselled jawline framed by his dark brown locks. His big blue eyes lock with yours and a smile crosses his pink lips, perfect white teeth shining at you when you realise you're gawping awkwardly. You snap yourself out of your dazed state ogling the mysterious older man forcing yourself to warmly smile back. "h-hey I'm Y/N" you stutter while trying to force your rising blush back down as you shake his hand, his large palm making your hand look tiny. You'd be lying if you said it wasn't attractive. "Nice to meet you Y/N, I'm Bucky"
As the weeks passed after meeting your insanely hot neighbour, you found yourself finding excuses to bump into him. Learning his routine and making sure you conveniently exited your apartment at the same time he did, each time he'd smile and you'd exchange 'good morning'. Always offering to help out with unpacking his many, many boxes as an excuse to be in his apartment. You knew it was wrong but you found yourself craving his scent, absentmindedly rubbing your thighs together for some friction every time he brushed past you too closely. And when you'd watch as his bicep flexed when he picked up one of the heavy boxes had you dripping where you stood, having to remind yourself to pick your jaw off the floor and stop creepily staring.
You could only hope that he hasn't noticed. He never seemed to catch on to your little obsession, always keeping things friendly and neighbourly, almost treating you like a kid at times. Which, to be fair to him, you were. He never so much as suggested anything inappropriate, never giving you anything more than a smile and a pat on the back. Even that was enough contact for you to feed your delusions. You knew it was wrong to be lusting after the kind stranger old enough to be your father, but the longer he was in your life the more your obsession became insatiable.
It started off as something shameful, after small interactions of helping put away old things from boxes or bringing over some cookies you'd baked claiming you'd accidentally made too many but knowing the truth was you baked them just for him, when his hand would brush against yours and you'd bask in the manly sweet scent that oozed from his skin. You really couldn't help but slip back into your apartment and touch yourself. You felt guilty at first, only running your hands across your stomach down between your legs when you'd left his apartment throbbing and desperate for release unable to ignore the feeling any longer.
As time went on the shame subsided and it became almost routine. Even after just seeing him in the hall you'd slink back into your apartment dropping onto the bed and snaking your hands down to your pussy soaked just from his presence. The less the shame bothered you, the louder and bolder you grew, working yourself closer to the edge with his name falling from your lips in high pitched needy whines.
Tonight was no different. You'd baked a pie delivering it to his door with a wide innocent grin from ear to ear. Your eyes raking over his bulging, veiny arm, and the shining metal one that you couldn't help but picture how it would feel inside you, in that tight little black t-shirt when he took the dish from you with a smile and a thank you. A normal neighbourly interaction to any spectators, but to you it was foreplay. Remembering to memorise each detail of his body, his face, his smell just so you could return home and get yourself off to it like a sick pervert.
You focused on his flesh arm tonight, playing the mental image of the big muscles flexing over in your head like a movie as your fingers found your clit. Circling your wetness over the nub and sighing blissfully thinking about him. It's not long before his name chants from your lips like a prayer as your orgasm builds leaving you writhing and panting with your hands in your panties. "B-bucky" you groan nearing your edge.
Your bliss is cut short. A series of heavy pounding knocks upon your door in quick succession ripping you from your heavenly state back to harsh reality. The startling noise leaving you scrambling for your trousers hopping towards the door as you rush to clothe your lower half.
The door swings open as you turn the handle, Bucky stares back at your flushed self, hair sticking to your sweat glistened forehead and your cheeks flushed pink. His jaw is tense, twitching slightly as he stares you down. Backing you up into your own apartment as he steps in, silent. Dangerous. His eyes are dark and his face stone as he continues backing you up, his large palm coming up to silence your lips as you began to speak, stuttering out questioning his sudden intrusion. "Do you know what the fuck you're doing to me" he growls into your ear, pushing your body against the wall with his hand still over your mouth, firmly locking you in place with your back to the cold exposed brick, your eyes wide with shock.
"You think I haven't noticed, sweet girl?" he whispered rough against your ear, catching your lobe in his teeth nipping lightly making you gasp behind his palm. "This whole time… every time you squeezed those soft thighs together and thought I hadn't noticed… every time you stared at me for too long… every single damn time that sweet little pussy started dripping I could smell it" he breathed in deeply through his nose, gripping your cheeks and forcing you to look deep into his lust blown pupils as a wicked smirk grew on his face "Can hear you too. Every time you sneak back to your bed to finger that tight little cunt wishing it was me, moaning my name like I'm not right next door, whimpering so sweet for me. Could hear you fucking yourself every damn night" you gasp out, half ashamed, half turned on from the way he held you rough against the wall while he told you he knew how you touched yourself to him.
His lips find your neck, biting down hard making you cry out as he works his way back up towards your ear. Lowering his voice deeper than you knew possible, smirking against the side of your face "I can smell you dripping for me right now, and I'm so damn tired of not doing anything about it"
First time doing any kind of request so I’m not sure if I’m doing this right, but:
Bucky eating reader out until they’re whimpering and writhing from overstimulation before finally taking them slow and sweet
Ugh thank you for this nonnie
It's safe to say you'd always preferred being more of a giver than a receiver in relationships. You loved nothing more than spoiling Bucky with surprise gifts, endless affection and of course dropping to your knees for him whenever and where ever possible. Countless nights you'd take him deep down your throat, choking and drooling around his thick cock til your voice went hoarse. Sometimes sucking him dry multiple times in the same night, loving every second of his fist wrapped around your hair dragging your mouth on his cock over and over again and never wanting anything in return, simply getting yourself off just from the taste of him on your tongue.
Even when Bucky tried to reciprocate, you'd always cut his time between your legs short by manoeuvring yourself to straddle him sinking down on his length before he'd been given proper chance to eat you up.
This started to bother him. Bucky wanted nothing more to be able to make his girl feel good, maybe even a little bit too good. And tonight he was going to have his way with you, finally spend all the time he wanted uninterrupted licking and sucking until your eyes rolled back and your body shivered.
This is how you ended up in the position you were in now. Hands tied to the bed frame with Bucky's worn leather belt, arms raised above your head naked as the day you were born. Tits on full display with your nipples perked up from his teasing tongue sliding over them before hoisting your legs over his shoulders and diving his mouth in between your legs. Sloppily making out with your pussy til you came screaming his name.
But that wasn't enough for him tonight. Seeing you finally fall apart on his tongue was like a taste of heaven, a taste you'd been withholding from him for months and he wasn't ready to give that up just yet.
With his lips drenched from your orgasm he came up to your face, kissing you deeply allowing you to get a taste of your wet pussy from his lips before kissing back down over your breasts and stomach towards your sensitive pussy. "w-what are you d-doing" you stutter out still dazed from how hard you came, looking down at his ravenous grin from in between your thighs. "Been keeping me from this sweet little pussy for months doll, you really think I'm gonna be done after just one taste?" he winked.
And with that he delved right back in, groaning as his mouth made contact with your puffy lips, the taste of you enough to make him almost cum in his pants like a horny teenager. His tongue went flat against your slit, licking from your begging hole right up to your throbbing clit still sensitive from your first orgasm causing you to whimper out at the overstimulation. His beard prickly against your skin each time his bottom lip dragged up your slit.
He latched his lips over your clit and began to suck, sending indescribable pleasure through your entire body. "p-pl-plea-se B-Buc-k t-oo mu-ch" you whimper feeling yourself grow close again. "Not too much baby" he grinned "you can take it". He dived back in, alternating between gentle kisses to your clit and sucking it into his mouth hard, smiling against the sensitive nub every time you whimpered and struggled against the restraints.
You came so hard your vision went white, whole body beginning to tremble as your orgasm ripped through you. But he didn't stop. His lips continued moving against you, his tongue now relentlessly poking into your hole making you sob. "fuck baby so wet" he moaned into your pussy, his cock throbbing in his boxers leaking from how turned on he was from having your slick drench his face.
"t-too m-mu-ch" you sob, nerves on fire from overstimulation, but somehow still begging for more simultaneously. Your body shakes, trembling against the restraints as you writhe on the bed, twisting your hips trying to escape the endless torture to your over-sensitive cunt. But there was no escaping him, he was hell bent on ending tonight with his beard absolutely dripping with you. Eating you out until he'd be smelling your pussy on his lips for weeks. He gripped your hips. Hard. Forcing you down in place against the mattress leaving you nowhere to go, no escaping him consuming you whole.
He was insatiable, eating you up like he was starved. He was everywhere, his wet puffy lips sliding all over your drenched pussy now pulsing around nothing, begging to be filled even after cumming twice already. "fuckkk look at the way you're clenching around nothing doll, pretty little pussy just begging for me isn't she?" he moaned while tracing the outline of your hole gently, your pussy clenching around the air wanting nothing more than to pull his thick fingers deep inside. "Cum all over my face just one more time baby and I promise I'll fuck that little hole nice and deep. Let you cream all over my cock while I take you slow until you're shaking under me"
He eats you even harder than you ever thought possible, face pressed right into your cunt, juices now coating all over his face from the tip of his nose that kept catching on your clit to the bottom of his chin. "that's it baby, give it to me, soak my fuckin' face" His mouth finding the perfect rhythm to have you screeching out in pleasure, pulling on his belt and trembling violently as you came again more intensely than you've ever experienced. Your whole body deliciously sensitive and shaking as your eyes roll back into your brain, panting like you've just ran a marathon as you floated back to reality.
"God you're so fuckin' good for me baby, soaked me so fuckin' good" he groaned softly coming up from in between your legs. His face absolutely drenched by you, his lips glistening and beard dripping, his pupils blown wide by lust and a dark patch on his boxers where his cock just couldn't stop leaking. You moaned at the sight, your jaw slack and body spent but still craving the rough drag of his thick cock through your tight walls.
He climbed on top of you, freeing your wrists from their confines, red marks from your constant writhing painted across them. You groan deeply in unison as he rubs his length up your slit, your dripping hole coating his cock shiny instantly. His eyes roll back and jaw drops open as a guttural moan leaves his lips when he slides into you. Your drenched pussy opening up for his thick cock with ease as he pushed in every last inch. "now as promised baby, I'm gonna fuck you real nice and slow. Gonna have you shaking on this fat cock pretty girl" he whispered into your ear "Gonna fill you up so good, show you how much I loved you letting me eat that pretty little pussy and you're never gonna keep me from it again"
It's safe to say you'll never keep him from eating you out ever again.
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