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AnasAbdin

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@beppybeesnuggets
Reblogging this manually. Op doesn't want credit for fear of being terminated.
Happy pride month to the tiny cowboy and tiny Trojan man from Night at the Museum
This hands down the best comment in the notes, I will not be taking criticism.
Polyamory is safe for work. Polyamory is safe for kids. Polyamory is safe for day time tv. Polyamory isn’t more sexual than any other relationship and it can be just as romantic, sweet, and healthy.
Aggressively reblogs.
I have no idea if my Moots will care... but!
I GOT THE JOB AHHHHHHHHHHH
Happy Pride!
Every pride, you must reblog this. No exceptions
I love that four different people on my feed scheduled this joyous person to reblog by 8am on June 1. I look forward to seeing this a dozen more times today.
I like how seven years later you can say “steve rogers ending” and we all rise like sleeper agents ready to beat the dead horse
I got to have a mental breakdown in front of my mother talking about Steve's ending, and had to explain to her how important the MCU was to me because I discovered it during Covid.
Genuinely my brain doesn't know if I'm happy for him for getting his peace or pissed off at him for ditching Bucky. I genuinely dont know atp.
there's no fucking way
dont forget to tip (reblog) your server (creators) if your enjoyed the service (content)
Sean posted this in the community tab on YouTube
For the inevitable “WHERE’S SUBNAUTICA” comments.
Someone give the man a pat on the back and a coffee and tell him its okay 😭🤣 (its out of your control my guy)
p*rnstar — [camstar!bucky x virgin!reader]
Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, porn, masturbation, fleshlight, sex toys mentioned, p in v sex, innocence kink, sex recording, coercion, blowjobs, dirty talk, degrading, praising fingering, virginity loss, stalking, size difference kink, very cringe usernames. word count: 9.7k he's a busy man! masterlist a/n: first post for bwa's buckyverse collab! so happy to have created this lil group of bucky writers to come together and make a series of bucky fics for you guys. credit to @barnesonly for reader's and bucky's username. if you find them cringe, blame her. /j
synopsis: You’ve never had sex before, still untouched and completely inexperienced. But when you stumble across Bucky’s porn channel—you quickly become his number one fan. You’re always in his comments, always in his chats, and never expecting it to go anywhere beyond the screen. Luckily for Bucky, your social media is linked to your account, making it easy for him to find you.
You were completely mesmerized by the video playing on the screen. The image of a large and strong muscular figure rutted his hips up into the silicone, slick with his precum and lube—the poor toy looking like it was on the verge of tearing apart in his large hands.
After stumbling across the account Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917, you were immediately hooked.
He never showed his face, but you didn’t need to know what he looked like to be entranced. His grunts and moans were engraved in your mind like a song you knew by heart. You were enthralled by the sight of his broad, sweat-slicked back, every movement etched into your memory. The sheer length and size of him held you captive, hypnotized. You had memorized the rhythm of his patterns right before he came, you knew it like the back of your hand.
His moans would rise slightly higher in pitch. His breathing would get heavier. He’d curse and grunt out, “fuck, fuck.” or “shit, fuck.”
And then it happens.
With one final thrust, he filled his toys to the brim with his cum, always thick and a creamy pearlescent white.
You had one hand tucked in your panties, rubbing at your clit as you came just in time with him. You tossed your head back against the pillow, panting and sweating from the aftermath of your self-lovemaking.
You withdrew your hand, catching your breath as the aftershocks of your orgasm faded. Moving lazily, you wiped your fingers clean before reaching for your phone. Just as always, you began typing out a comment—first in line the moment his new video drops.
Pleasure_Ring: Great video as always! It made me feel really really good! I can’t wait to see the next!!
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Thanks, baby. I’m glad you enjoyed it. That one was for you.
A minute passed by and another notification popped up on the bottom right of your screen, but this time, it was a direct message.
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: I just read your comment. You’re always so supportive. I wish you were here. I’d be fucking you instead of this flimsy toy.
Your face flushed after reading his message. He was always so quick to respond, and although he was pretty responsive to other commenters too, you couldn’t help but feel like his replies to you were always a bit more personal than the rest.
Pleasure_Ring: I really wish I was there too! But I admit, I’m a little scared just thinking about it haha.
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917 is typing…
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Scared? How come?
Pleasure_Ring: I’m a virgin. I’ve never had sex before.
Most people would find it pathetic to be flirting through a porn site. Even more would say it’s worse to be tangled in a para-social attachment to one of the biggest stars online.
And sure, maybe they're right. You were hooked on the mysterious man with the ridiculous username. But this was your ritual, your private indulgence, the part of yourself you never let anyone else see. Besides, you knew it would never be more than flirtatious comments flashing across a screen.
Men like him always had plenty of women waiting in their inbox.
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: A virgin, huh? That’s cute. What’s a sweet little thing like you doing watching videos like mine?
Pleasure_Ring: Because yours are the only ones that actually satisfy me. Any woman would be lucky to spend even one night with you.
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Oh, sweetheart… I don’t think you could handle a night with me.
Your heart thumps faster in your chest at his response. As much as you wished you could stay up and keep chatting, reality always kicked in. You had responsibilities, so conversations with him were usually cut off after midnight.
Pleasure_Ring: I don’t think I could either… but I’d still like to try for you.
Pleasure_Ring: It’s getting late, and I’ve got a shift in a few hours. Have a great night, Bucky. And thank you for another wonderful video. <3
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: So soon, doll? I was just starting to enjoy our little chat.
You stared at the screen, tempted to type something back to keep the conversation going. Glancing at the clock, you let out a reluctant sigh.
You logged off before you could second-guess yourself, because you knew that if you responded, you’d be up for hours.
And when Bucky refreshed the page, impatiently waiting for a response, your username was already gray and your status was offline.
Bucky laid back in his chair, finishing the last line of the description before hitting upload. He has never been great with captions—or usernames, for that matter… but lately, his descriptions weren’t just filler text to satisfy his fans. They were subtle messages, written only for you.
Need my pleasure ring to come help me out instead. Getting tired of using my hands and toys. Enjoy.
Once everything looked right, he clicked post. Same ritual, same time. Every three days.
The moment his upload went live, he sat up straight in his chair. The glow of the monitor lit his dark room, his eyes glued to the screen. Eleven minutes—that’s how long the video ran. By his calculations, you should already be online and commenting in twelve.
Two minutes in, he refreshed. Another two more minutes, he refreshed again. Over and over, because he knew. He knew you’d be the first one there in his comment section without fail.
You always were.
At this point, it’s been well past eleven minutes with zero notifications. In Bucky’s eyes, this was more than enough time for you to receive the notification, watch the video, and send a comment or a message like you usually do.
So why the hell weren’t you doing it?
He dedicated this video to you, goddammit. Actually—he dedicated all of his videos to you. But this one especially was planned, recorded, performed with you in mind. And yet, your account still showed offline.
He pumped himself for the first half of the video—his face nuzzled into the softness of his pillow. His groans and grunts were muffled as he fisted himself, his leaking tip grazing against the smooth fabric of his bed sheet, leaving a wet stain every time he grounded and bucked his hips.
Then about halfway through, he reached for the clear silicone toy. He positioned the camera against the headboard, sitting up straight as he started fucking himself with the toy—the clear silicone squelching and spreading wider as he rutted into it like an animal.
“Fuck, yes baby,” he groaned in the video. “S’fucking good, taking all this cock in your tight little virgin pussy.” He said.
And God was that line especially meant for you.
It was a damn good video—he was so fucking proud of himself. Which only made it harder for Bucky to understand why your account still showed offline.
With an annoyed sigh, he propped his elbow on the desk, chin resting in his palm, and refreshed one more time for good measure. When nothing changed, he clicked on your profile and began to lurk.
For all the attention you gave him, your account was practically a ghost. No videos. No profile picture. No caption. No name. You were only following one account—his. And you had one follower, too… also him.
Bucky never followed anyone else.
He scrolled down a bit, and his eyes widened at what he saw on the screen.
Your account was linked to your social media profiles—your Instagram and TikTok.
In order to create an account, you had to attach a phone number or email address. During sign-up, there was also the option to link your social media—tied to that same phone number or email—a small popup buried among the usual flood of terms, agreements, and permission requests that appeared in sequence.
So either you let it slip past you, your finger tapping carelessly just to get it out of the way.
Or… you wanted him to find you.
The cursor hovered over the link. Bucky sucked in a breath, clicking on your Instagram. When the screen finally loaded, his eyes immediately widened and his heart skipped a beat. Your profile was public. Your name was right at the top, and there you were in your profile picture—smiling, front and center.
Aside from his secret porn account, Bucky didn’t do social media. He couldn’t be bothered figuring out how it works, but he knew enough to recognize that Instagram was all about pictures and videos. And that was exactly what he needed.
Finally, he could see you.
His number one fan. His pleasure ring.
He scrolled down, coming across a mix of photos. Selfies, your eyes bright and innocent with a sheepish smile. Food. Didn’t care. Landmarks. Didn't care. Pictures of family and friends—he only looked for you.
There were beach shots, carefree and playful, your body posted in a skimpy bikini glowing in the sunlight.
His breath caught in his throat. His pants grew tighter. He shifted in his seat, trying to adjust the growing pressure between his legs. He leaned closer as he looked through every picture, careful not to accidentally leave a like in his wake.
“Damn, baby,” he muttered, staring at your pictures, unable to tear his eyes away.
He scrolled down, saving every single image that displayed your face and your body—each one feeling like a treasure.
All the pictures of you were seemingly innocent. Even in your bikini shots, you weren’t trying to show off. You didn’t jut your hips out or pose provocatively. Your pictures weren’t screaming for attention.
It was cute.
But it just made him want more. Need more. He would’ve loved to see you bend over just a little bit. Maybe even press your arms together to accentuate your cleavage.
God. He would’ve loved to see that.
His dick throbbed in his pants as he scrolled further down your Instagram. More selfies of you just meant more photos in his special folder. With one hand rubbing himself steadily and the other on the mouse, he hovered over your TikTok link next.
Once your page loaded, he felt his heart drop in his stomach.
There were only two videos, both of them being with your friends. It was some stupid trend you were doing—Bucky never understood the whole appeal of trends—but you were dancing to them, and his heart skipped a beat in his chest as he watched, captivated.
Your dancing was… pretty bad to say the least. Actually, it was awful.
But Bucky couldn’t tear his eyes away because he got a full view of your body. Every movement of your body, even the clumsy dance steps, had him entranced. The rhythm was completely off, but it didn’t matter. It was the way you moved, the curve of your body in each frame.
His cock was completely hard, poking and straining against the fabric of his sweatpants. He was palming himself for so long, his warm hand rubbing up and down against his throbbing clothed shaft—he didn’t even realize the precum leaking through his pants until his fingers grazed against it.
“Shit,” he grunted.
There was something about watching you—his once mysterious, loyal viewer and commenter—right here, in his monitor. Dancing. Your body on display, completely unaware, yet captivating in every move.
He grabbed the hem of his sweatpants and brought it down to his thighs, freeing his cock from the suffocating fabric. His hand encircled around his shaft, his grip tightening just slightly as he began pumping himself. He dragged his thumb over the wetness of his tip, smearing it over the head.
Bucky let out a low groan, his breathing growing heavy as he fucked his hand to the sight of you. With the other hand, he kept switching through your photos, moving faster as his cock throbbed helplessly in his grip.
He grunted and groaned, staring at his monitor with half-lidded eyes as he stroked himself. He stopped at another picture of you, a top down selfie with a low cut blouse. Your eyes—wide and innocent, batting up at the camera, the curve of your breast straining against the shirt.
A low moan rumbled from his chest at the sight. His hands moved faster and eagerly against his cock, precum leaking down from the tip to his shaft as he pumped and worked his throbbing dick.
“Fuck, baby. I want to cum all over that pretty face,” he breathed. “Gonna paint your face and tits with my seed—shit.”
Everything was overwhelming his senses right now. Your pure and clueless eyes, the way your lips—soft and plump—curved up into a smile.
Everything about you screamed ‘innocent.’
And the best part of it all, was that you were a fucking virgin. A helpless, clueless, little virgin. Perfectly ripe for the picking.
His cock throbbed hot and heavy in his hand, each pulse bringing him closer. He could hardly believe it—your social media, left wide open, public and linked straight to your account. Like an invitation.
Like you wanted him to see.
His fist worked faster, the slick sounds of his own hand echoing in the dark room. He was right there, teetering at the edge, when another one of your videos caught his eye. A casual clip, nothing special—just you laughing with your friends, the camera panning across a storefront in the background.
His heart lurched in his chest. He knew that place.
He blinked hard, his other hand flying to the mouse as he replayed the clip, pausing on the sign. His pulse roared in his ears. That store was only a few streets away. Which meant…
You were here. In his town.
“Fuck—”
The word ripped out of him as his body jerked. His cock erupted in his fist, hot streams spilling over his knuckles and thigh as he shook, riding the wave of release harder than he had in years. Harder than he had in any of his videos. The excitement, the discovery, the sudden nearness of you—it all came crashing into him, tearing his orgasm from the very pit of his stomach.
He slumped back against his chair, chest heaving, eyes still glued to the frozen frame of your smiling face.
You weren’t just his number one fan anymore. Fuck, you were real. You were so close, and now, he knew exactly where to find you.
He was still catching his breath when he switched tabs, his cock softening in his hand as he scrolled deeper through your pictures. Every shot held him captive. Was this how you felt when you watched his videos—entranced, unable to look away?
A few minutes had gone by when he heard a ping! sound from his other tab. He switched over, and there you were. Your account, blank as ever, no profile picture, no name, but now a message glowing at the bottom of the screen.
Pleasure_Ring: Loved your new video! It was amazing as always. I can’t believe your toy isn’t broken yet!
He felt his heart stutter in his chest. A needy grin curled at the corner of his lips. You were late to his video, but that’s okay. He had your videos and pictures to keep him at bay for now. His fingers darted across the keyboard, replying almost too quickly.
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Glad you liked it, doll. Took you longer than usual to show up tonight.
His fingers hovered over the keys, debating if he wanted to send this next message or not.
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Had me wondering if you forgot about me.
You took longer than usual to respond, and even though he was coming down from his post-release haze, his heart was still pounding anxiously in his chest.
Pleasure_Ring is typing…
Pleasure_Ring: I know! I’m sorry. I got distracted cooking dinner.
Pleasure_Ring: But I could never forget about you, Bucky.
His grip on the mouse tightened, and he felt his cock twitching again. God, he loved when you said—typed—his name. But the longer he stared at your words, the more restless he felt. He needed more.
He needed you.
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Dinner, huh? You had me worried there for a second. You’re usually the first one here. Couldn’t stand the thought of you forgetting me.
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: You know… I don’t even know your name. What should I call you, sweetheart?
He already knew it, of course.
He could say it out loud, taste it on his tongue right now if he wanted. But he wanted you to give it to him. To hand it over willingly.
He saw you typing, then stopping. Typing again, then stopping. The little dots taunted him, making his jaw clench. He hated this. He hated playing the waiting game—especially now that he knew you were just a few minutes away, living in the same town as him.
Pleasure_Ring: Do I really need to tell you my name? I kinda like being your little secret. <3
Pleasure_Ring: Besides… I think you like calling me doll, don’t you?
Bucky’s brow twitched in mild frustration, his cock throbbing in his lap again as his eyes traced your text over and over. You were a teasing little minx—taunting him, torturing him. He knew you were obsessed with him just as much as he was with you, so why the hell were you playing so damn hard to get?
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Come on, baby. Don’t be like that.
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: You touch yourself to my videos every night, and yet you can’t even share your name? Don’t make me beg for it.
He dragged in a sharp breath as he waited for your reply, his hand lazily stroking his half-hard cock while he leaned back in his chair, tension swimming through every vein.
Pleasure_Ring: You’re so silly, Bucky.
Pleasure_Ring: Why ruin the mystery? I kind of like it this way… just you and me, no names needed. <3
His cock was rock-hard again, straining for a second round. He wrapped his fist around it as he split his screen in two—one tab open to a photo of you smiling sweetly, the other to your chat box on the site. His strokes were slow, shudders slipping past his lips as he teased the sensitive flesh. Every pulse in his palm matched the flick of his gaze between your face and your words.
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: You won’t give me your name, but I bet you’d spread your legs wide and let me fuck you like the needy little slut you really are.
He was playing a dangerous game with that message. It was too direct, maybe even a little mean. He might even risk scaring you away.
But with your picture staring back at him, soft and innocent, how the hell was he supposed to hold back?
Pleasure_Ring is typing…
Pleasure_Ring: I would do anything you’d want me to if you were here.
His heart stopped. His cock throbbed violently as the words sank in, repeating it in his mind like a prayer. A sweet little virgin like you, so naive, so unknowing, willing to let a man like him do anything to you?
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Oh, sweetheart. You shouldn’t have said that.
He couldn’t hold back anymore. He stroked himself faster, pressure coiling hot at the base as he pumped his length with desperate need. Groans tore from his chest, hips jerking up into his fist as pleasure overtook him.
In his mind, it wasn’t just his hand—it was you. You on his bed, camera capturing every angle as you wrapped those innocent lips around his cock. You moaning, trembling, surrendering that precious virginity to a filthy porn star like him.
Pleasure_Ring: Maybe. But I really would do anything you’d ask me to.
And fuck, you lived in the same town as him. You actually lived in the same town as him.
It would be so easy to find you. To claim you. To stuff your tight, untouched little holes full of him until you were stretched and dripping, used just like one of his toys.
The thought alone was enough to make him come a second time. With his head tilted back, a low growl-like moan escaped his throat. His hips stuttered wildly as his release tore through him in sharp waves of pleasure, hot seed spilling over his fist until his hand was a sticky, soiled mess.
He slumped back in his chair, breath ragged as he wiped himself clean with hurried, clumsy hands. His fingertips grazed the keyboard, already halfway through typing his next message.
He couldn’t let the moment die, he didn’t want to lose you just yet.
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917 is typing…
But then your text bubble popped up first.
Pleasure_Ring: It’s late, so I’ll be going to sleep now. I’m sorry our conversation got cut short. But thank you again for your video! I’m already looking forward to the next one! <3 Nighty night, Bucky!
And just like that, your status flickered gray. Offline. Gone.
His hand froze over the keys.
What?
That’s it?
You showed up online extremely late, give him a few teasing words that leave him aching, and just… log off?
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Come on, baby. You can’t leave like that. Aren’t you having fun?
He knew you were offline, yet he sent the message anyway—clinging to the hope that maybe your status would flicker green and you’d answer him right away, being his number one fan and all.
A minute passed. Then another. And another.
He sat there, staring at the empty chat box, his foot tapping impatiently against the wooden floor. When it finally sank in that you weren’t coming back, he closed the porn tab with a long and disappointing sigh. Dozens of comments waited for him on his latest video, begging for his attention—but he didn’t care. He couldn’t be bothered.
All he wanted was you.
Your picture still glowed on his other monitor, your smile taunting him. He pulled his pants back on, leaning forward as his mind spun. You were so close—he could feel it. And with your account still open, still public, still inviting, he knew he wouldn’t stop.
He would find you.
And once he did, you would be his.
It had been three days since you last commented on his videos. Three days without your little messages, without your sweet words that fueled him through the long and lonely nights.
Bucky was restless.
He kept checking your account, refreshing the page, waiting for that familiar username that was dedicated to him to pop up in his notifications list again. But instead, you were busy elsewhere.
Your Instagram was suddenly so active. Story after story, pictures of food, photos of crowded streets, little story clips of you laughing with friends. They were all innocent things, but to him, they were breadcrumbs.
He looked closely at the background in your stories, taking screenshots and zooming in on shop signs and store logos. Most of these were ones he recognized. He compared timestamps, piecing together your routine slowly.
Each update you shared felt like you were inviting him in, pulling him closer without even realizing.
And no—he wouldn’t call himself a stalker. Sure, he scrolled through all your socials, jerked off to your pictures, learned your full name, the area you lived in, who you spent time with.
But that wasn’t stalking.
That was devotion.
He was your number one fan. Just like you were his.
Your cart wobbled against the tiled floor as you turned into the produce aisle. Today was your weekly grocery restock. The store was busy, noisy, and packed with people trying to weave in and out of each other’s way. You grabbed your phone out of your pocket and snapped a quick picture of the cotton candy grapes piled high in their cartons.
They were your favorite, and this was the only grocery store near your area that carried them.
Try these! They taste just like cotton candy!
You added the caption and posted it to your story, sliding your phone back into your bag before moving on. A few minutes later, as you rounded the corner towards checkout, someone brushed past your shoulder.
You glanced up, and a man stood there, tall and broad-shouldered.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, his voice low, achingly familiar. “Didn’t see you there.”
You smiled politely, brushing it off. “No worries.”
You went back to your cart, but for some reason, your gaze lingered on him for just a second longer. There was something… familiar about the way he carried himself, about the way his words came out and how he looked.
You shook the thought off and pushed the cart forward, but you didn’t get very far when he stepped behind you, resting a gentle yet heavy hand on your shoulder.
You glanced over and paused. The same man was staring at you, his eyes locked on yours with a look like that feels unsettling. You cleared your throat, shifting uncomfortably under his gaze.
“Uh… can I help you?”
His jaw tightened, his grip on your shoulder pressing just a little harder.
“...Pleasure ring?”
Those words rang back in your ears like a loud bell. Your eyes went wide and you felt like your heart dropped in your stomach. Your gaze darted quickly around the aisle, checking to make sure no one else was close enough to hear.
“I—I’m sorry? What did you just say?”
He narrowed his eyes slightly. “Aren’t you happy to see me?”
The longer you stare at this man, the realization hits you all at once. The thickness of his neck. The breadth of his shoulders. The sheer size of him, impossible to mistake. You’ve seen this frame before—night after night, on a glowing screen.
You leaned in slightly, whisper-yelling, “You’re Lord of The Rings nineteen-seventeen? You’re Bucky?”
The ridiculous username felt even more absurd now that it left your lips.
He didn’t even look around or even seemed to care about his alter ego being mentioned outloud. All he cared about right now was having you, right in front of him.
“...You haven’t been watching my videos,” Bucky said instead. His thumb brushed once across your shoulder, subtle but possessive. “Are you okay?”
The words should have sounded caring, but instead they struck you like an accusation. Your pulse quickened, panic rising up your throat.
He was watching you that closely?
He noticed?
How did he even find you here?
“I—uh—yeah, I’ve just been… busy,” you muttered.
You knew you should step back and pull away from his touch. This man was stalking you. Yet, your body betrayed you. The deep rasp of his voice sent a warm sensation trickling down your spine, curling in the pit of your stomach.
Creeped out or not, your body remembered him. It remembered his moans, his growls, the way he spoke dirty to the camera like he was speaking only to you.
“I’ve missed you in my comments,” he continued, his hand moving from your shoulder to the ends of your hair, twirling it with his fingers. “I’ve missed our cute little chats… haven’t you?”
You sucked in a breath.
The loud chatter of customers and grocery carts dimmed into the background noise. You should pull away, God you should pull away—but your body swayed just slightly towards him instead.
“Y-yeah,” your voice was soft and shaky. “I… I do too.”
The moment the words left your mouth, your stomach curled with dread. Yet, your body didn’t match your fear. Your chest was rising and falling faster, your thighs pressing together instinctively. You hated the way a tiny spark of excitement flickered inside you when he stepped closer.
Bucky’s mouth curled into a faint smirk, like he knows your own body is betraying you. He gave your strand of hair a gentle, teasing tug before letting it fall.
“That’s my good girl,” he murmured, his eyes tracing every curve on your face, studying you, taking you in.
You pressed your lips together, you stared back at him, captivated. He never showed his face in his videos—only his body, hands, and voice. You had always wondered what the man behind the camera looked like, and now here he was, inches away. He was unbelievably handsome. His gaze was intense. His voice was magnetic. You couldn’t look away, even if you tried.
“Are you nervous?”
You blinked at him. “What?”
A small chuckle escaped his lips, his hand lifted up to your cheek, cupping it softly and making your skin tingle.
“You teased me in your texts,” he reminded you, his voice deep. “Told me you’d let me do anything to you if I was with you.” His thumb brushed your cheek softly, almost soothing.
“How true does that still ring?”
Your eyes darted nervously around the aisle. A few people passed by with carts, sparing you both brief, casual glances. To them, it probably looked like nothing more than a man grocery shopping with his girlfriend, caressing her cheek tenderly.
But you knew better.
“I…” your lip trembled nervously. “I-It’s still true…”
His mouth curved into a slow, smug smile, as if he knew exactly what kind of effect he had on you—how easily your knees wanted to give beneath you.
“That’s my girl,” he murmured, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “My number one fan.”
You felt your stomach tighten. Every inch of your skin felt hot under his gaze. This was dangerous—you knew it. You were untouched, inexperienced, but the way he looked at you, the way his voice reached your ears, only made the ache between your legs grow heavier.
“How ‘bout we go back to your place,” he leaned in slightly, voice getting lower and dangerous, “and you do your grocery shopping later?”
Your heart felt like it could burst out of your chest. You glanced down at your cart, the cotton candy grapes you’d been so excited to buy, and then back up at him. The way he held you, the way his eyes burned into yours, the very offer you’ve been secretly dreaming of despite your nerves…
It made the idea of staying here feel like hell.
“Okay,” you breathed out. “Yeah, let’s… let’s go back to my place.”
A small, approved hum escaped his lips. He pulled his hand away from your cheek and trailed his hand down to your bare arm, down to your hands—interlocking his fingers with yours.
“Lead the way, princess.”
This was wrong. So dangerously, undeniably wrong. But you had spent countless nights dreaming about this man, the pornstar with the ridiculous username, and now he was right here, holding your hand.
He led you out of the store with a smile on his face, already looking proud to have you by his side even though you guys just met.
“I can’t wait to see your place, princess,” he murmured smoothly, stopping just outside the sliding doors. His gaze dropped down to you, quiet and expectant, waiting for you to take the lead.
“There are so many things I want to do to you.”
By the time you reached your front door, your heart was hammering so hard it felt like it might break free from your chest.
Your hands trembled so badly you could barely fit the key into the lock. Bucky stood behind you, his presence comforting yet demanding as he waited for you to open the door.
The door finally opened, and you felt an insane wave of embarrassment as soon as he stepped inside. Your apartment wasn’t exactly ready for company. You had shoes littered near the door, laundry draped over the arm of the couch, your desk drowning in clutter.
He looked around and let out a low and amused hum.
This was a terrible idea, inviting a stranger into your home. You’ve never done this before. But he’s not technically that much of a stranger if you two have been talking online for months now… right?
“Show me your bedroom, sweetheart,” he said, his tone gentle but leaving no room for disobedience.
When he sensed your hesitation, his chin tilted subtly toward the hallway, like he already knew exactly where your bedroom was. That smug smile never left his lips.
“Go on.”
You swallowed hard and turned toward the hallway, each step feeling heavy and anxious. You were nervous, extremely nervous. But the excitement of having a man in your home, this man you’d been secretly attracted to for months, sent a shiver of arousal down your spine.
You led him down the hallway, his footsteps heavy behind you. Pausing at your door, you glanced back over your shoulder. His smile widened, eyes glinting.
“You gettin’ shy, doll?”
Your cheeks burned, and with a shaky exhale you pushed the door open.
Embarrassment hit instantly. The bed was undone, white sheets tangled in a mess, with clothes scattered lazily across the mattress. He stood in the doorway, his silence madly deafening while you stood there nervously with your hands clasped behind your back, waiting for him to say something.
Finally, he stepped forward, the corner of his mouth curving upward.
“I like your room, princess,” he said smoothly. He stepped up to the edge of your bed, his fingers dragging lightly across the wrinkles in your blanket.
“Is there where you watch my videos?” he asked. “Do you touch yourself right here, in this bed?”
“I—I… do sometimes,” you confessed. You pointed your finger toward the desktop in the corner of the room. “Sometimes I watch… on my laptop.”
His head turned to follow your finger, a smile tugging at his lips. He strode toward the desk, fingers grazing over the surface.
“Yeah? This is where you chat with me?” his fingertips trailed slowly across the top, pausing over the chair. “You sit here, spread those pretty legs on this chair, and put your fingers in that tiny little pussy of yours?”
You fiddled with your fingers, too flustered to meet his gaze. “Y-yes…”
He came back to you, steps steady and eyes locked on your face. When he reached you, he took one of your hands, gently prying it from the other, holding it in his much larger one. His palm stroked against yours, tender in contrast to his words. Then he lifted your hand slowly, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles, his eyes half-lidded and dark.
“How did you find me?” you asked softly.
He exhaled, rubbing soft circles against your skin. “You stopped commenting on my videos. You stopped chatting with me. And I know it was only a few days…” his voice went softer, “…but doll, I missed you.”
Your heart fluttered wildly in your chest, your face hot and warm. The ache between your thighs pulsed with every word he spoke.
“I missed you so damn much. Couldn’t stop thinking about you…” he continued, pressing another kiss to your hand, then brushing your knuckles along the slight stubble of his jaw. “I couldn’t help it. I started looking through your account.”
You sucked in a breath, looking up at him as he continued.
“Your account was blank. No name. No picture. Nothing.” His voice dropped lower. “But your social media was linked, all public and left wide open.” His smile deepened, almost smug as he leaned in closer, his nose brushing yours.
“You wanted me to see them, didn’t you?”
His voice was so raspy and so hungry, it made your whole body shiver. You couldn’t trust your voice, especially not when you were so afraid it would crack and betray how timid, how inexperienced you really were.
“I-I… didn’t know—”
“Oh, but you did,” he cut you off, one hand still intertwined with yours, the other cupping your cheek. “You wanted me to find you. I bet you hoped I’d click, hoped I’d follow the trail…”
He spoke so confidently and so sure of himself—but the truth was something else entirely. You didn’t realize that your social media was tied to your account and you didn’t bother to check. You had only made that account to interact with Bucky’s videos only.
You should have been afraid. The way he tracked you down, the way he admitted to stalking your socials—it should have terrified you.
But it didn’t.
It only made your body burn with excitement, your core clenching with a hunger that only he can satisfy.
“You teasing little slut,” he murmured, his voice growing rough. “But you’re not a slut, are you? You’re a virgin—isn’t that right?”
You nodded. “I-I am…”
“And you’d still do anything for me? Anything at all?”
You paused for a moment. You knew exactly what he meant. He hadn’t followed you home for small talk.
Your body screamed yes, aching for him, but your mind shook with hesitation. You've seen his videos. You knew how rough he could be. How brutal his thrusts looked, how the silicone toys bent and threatened to snap beneath his strength. The way his grip tightened until his muscles flexed and strained—it was terrifying, yet intoxicating.
Could you really take him? You weren’t sure.
But God, you wanted to try.
So you nodded.
An approved and low growl escaped his lips. He leaned closer, pausing right before your lips.
“There are so many fucking things I want to do to you, princess,” he rasped. “First, I’m going to kiss you—then I’ll teach you how to really please a man. And after that…” his mouth curved into a wicked smile, “I’ll show you how a man properly pleases his woman. You understand?”
“O-okay.”
His lips pressed against yours.
It started off soft, patient, exploratory—until his hunger took over. The kiss deepened, his mouth grew reckless, his tongue desperate. His hands roamed greedily, gripping your waist, pulling you closer. He broke away only to tug at your clothes, then immediately slammed his lips back against yours like he couldn’t resist you.
“Fuck, sweetheart,” he groaned into your mouth. “You taste exactly like I imagined—maybe even better. Shit.”
Bucky was getting harder by the second, but truthfully, he’d been aching since the moment he laid eyes on you in the store. But now, with you trembling in his arms, he finally had you.
He caught your hand in his, guiding it down until your palm pressed against the thick bulge straining against his jeans, you shuddered at the contact. Your fingers started moving without you thinking, rubbing against him in small, and timid strokes.
He let out a low chuckle. “Look at you, baby. You want it so bad, don’t you?”
Your breath hitched, and you could only nod, meek and shy.
He moved your hand along his clothed length, forcing you to feel every ridge of him. His lip caught between his teeth as he let out a hiss of pleasure. He was so hard for you—so desperate—that he started to feel himself leaking just from the friction of your trembling palm.
“Fuck, baby,” he grunted, ripping your hand away from his crotch.
You blinked up at him, startled and confused.
He reached in the back of his jean pocket, pulling out a small camcorder. His breathing was heavy, and his eyes were dark.
“Baby,” he rasped, voice needy. “I want to record this. I want to see you undress for me… capture every second of it.” His fingers trembled as he flipped the device open, eyes half-lidded, fixated on you like a starving man.
“Bucky…”
“What do you say, baby?” he pressed, taking a slow step forward.
You bit your bottom lip, nerves tying your stomach in knots. You weren’t ready for this—not at all. But the thought of being behind Bucky’s lens, of being admired and captured the same way you had admired him through his videos, made your skin warm with anticipation.
He grabbed your hand gently. “I won’t upload it,” he promised. “This one’s just for me—to keep, to look back on. Think you can give me that, doll?”
His words were soft yet strained with a lust and desire that he was desperately trying to hold back. The ache between your legs pulsed harder with every word, and deep down, you already knew you couldn’t say no.
“…Okay,” you whispered. “I want to be put on display for you, Bucky. I want to be yours.”
A slow, satisfied smile curved his lips. “That’s my girl.”
He nodded toward the bed. “Stay there, at the edge. Watch me.”
You stood frozen, captivated, as he began to strip down. Shirt, jeans, everything—gone in moments, until his bare and large body stretched against your sheets and rested against the headboard. With one hand, he steadied the camcorder, and with the other, he reached for himself slowly.
“Take your clothes off,” he ordered, the red recording light blinking as the camera pointed straight at you. “I want every second of this. Give me a show, baby.”
Heat climbed your chest and neck as you began lifting your shirt, pulling it over your head. You glanced at him—and your knees nearly buckled. He was already stroking himself, precum glistening at the flushed tip, his chest heaving with each desperate pump.
“Good girl.”
You pushed your pants down, stepping out of them until you stood in nothing but your bra and panties. Your hands fidgeted nervously at your sides—not knowing what to do with them next.
“D-do you… want me to keep going?”
A dark chuckle slipped from his lips, almost mocking. “Oh, baby. You’re fucking adorable, you know that?” his hand pumped slow and hard, his cock twitching under his touch. “Yes. Keep going. Take it all off, nice and slow for me…”
Your fingers trembled as they hooked around the strap of your bra, sliding it off your shoulders before unclasping it. The straps fell loose, and you let it slip from your hands. The cool air rushed against your bare chest, making your nipples pebble instantly.
“Panties, baby,” he murmured, voice rough. “Get rid of ‘em.”
Slowly, you eased them down your legs, stepping out of them until you stood completely bare before him. Your arms instinctively folded in front of you, trying to hide yourself.
Bucky’s mouth curved into a smug grin. “Don’t you dare hide from me. You’re too pretty to cover up.”
Your arms dropped hesitantly at your sides, and his grin only widened.
“Good girl,” he rasped. He shifted against the headboard, spreading his legs wider, the thick length of his cock pulsing as his fist pumped it. “Now crawl to me, princess.”
“C-crawl..?”
His eyes darkened, his hand tightening around himself. “That’s right. On your hands and knees. Crawl over here like the sweet little virgin you are.”
Your breath caught, and for a second you thought you wouldn’t be able to move at all. But his hungry stare made your body obey before your mind could catch up. You climbed onto the bed, the mattress dipping slightly, and lowered yourself onto your hands and knees.
Slowly, you crawled toward him, the soft sheets brushing against your bare skin, your heart beating fast in your chest.
Bucky let out a low and approving growl, the camcorder following your every move.
“That’s it, baby… fuck—” he groaned. “You look so perfect like this. Like you were made to kneel for me.”
You swallowed hard as you approached him, staring at his cock—thick and hard, flushed at the tip. Your lips parted as you let out a soft gasp—the sheer size of him made your throat go dry.
“Have you ever had a dick in your mouth, baby?” he asked.
You can only shake your head no.
He let go of himself, his free hand sliding into your hair, guiding you closer to his lap. “Open that pretty mouth for me, doll,” he coaxed. “I want to be the first man you taste.”
How could something that big possibly fit in your mouth? His grip kept you steady, urging you forward.
“There you go,” he smirked, watching your nervous little breaths. “God, you’re trembling. Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll teach you exactly how to do it. All you gotta do is listen to me.”
“Stick out that tongue—yeah, just like that. Such a good girl.” His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth before pressing down on your lower lip, opening you wider. “Mm, look at you. Never done this before, huh?”
You shook your head, embarrassed, but he only chuckled.
“Of course not. My innocent little fan, saving herself for me,” he guided you closer until the blunt tip of his cock brushed your tongue, smearing precum across it. The taste was strange, salty and thick, and you whimpered softly at the unfamiliar sensation.
His laugh was low and condescending, but not cruel. “That’s it, baby. Don’t pout so cutely like that… only makes it harder for me to hold back.”
He stroked your hair, petting you like you were some pet while his hips gave a subtle roll forward, testing you.
“Just wrap those lips around me nice and slow. I want to see that sweet virgin mouth stuffed full of cock for the first time.”
Your lips closed timidly around him, sealing over the tip as your tongue flicked against it, tasting more of that salty, musky flavor. Your jaw ached instantly, but the way he groaned, deep and guttural, made you shiver with pride.
“There you go,” he praised, fingers tightening in your hair. “God, look at you. My perfect little virgin, already learning how to please me.”
You tried to sink further, taking more of him in, but the sheer thickness made your throat tighten. You gagged softly, tears threatening to well in your eyes, and pulled back with a desperate little gasp.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, thumb brushing your damp cheek. “That was good, baby. So fucking good. Just relax your jaw, take it slow. You’ve got such a tiny mouth—I didn’t expect you to take all of me your first try.”
His hand guided you down again, inch by inch, your lips stretching around him as drool began to slick your chin. He hissed through his teeth, head falling back against the headboard.
“That’s it… fuck, that’s it. God, you don’t even know how sweet you look right now, doll. Choking on my cock like you were made for it.”
You felt his cock pulse on your tongue, thick veins throbbing against the roof of your mouth.
“Fuck—baby—” he growled, his breathing ragged as his cock twitched violently. “Gonna—shit—gonna cum down your throat—”
Suddenly, his hand yanked you back, pulling your mouth off him with a wet pop. You gasped, spit stringing between your lips and his swollen tip, confused and dazed.
“W-what…?”
“Not yet,” he panted, his hand flying to his cock and holding it still, trying to calm himself down.
His chest heaved, his eyes glazed and hungry as he stared at your flushed, ruined face. “Not wasting my first load on your mouth, princess. I’ve been waiting too long for you.”
“Bucky…”
He leaned forward, thumb smearing your spit across your swollen lips. “No… I’m gonna be the first man to cum inside this virgin cunt.”
He adjusted the camera in his hands, sitting up straighter. “Lay down,” he ordered, nodding toward the mattress. “Face down, ass up.”
His words were so filthy and vulgar—it made your face burn—but still, you obeyed. Lowering yourself onto shaky arms, you crawled forward and eased your chest against the mattress. Your cheek pressed into the sheets as you raised your ass for him, baring yourself under his gaze.
The arch felt awkward, your back straining from holding the position. But the low, hungry sound that escaped from his chest sent a shiver of pride racing through you. You pushed yourself even higher, desperate to please him.
“Look at you. My shy little virgin, already posing like a whore for me,” the sound of the camcorder’s little beep made your body tense—he was recording this, capturing you in such a vulnerable position.
The mattress dipped as he shuffled closer, his large palm running over the curve of your ass. You gasped, burying your face into the sheets in embarrassment.
“You’re trembling,” he noted, squeezing the soft flesh in his hand. “You nervous, baby?”
You nodded weakly, voice muffled against the pillow. “Y-Yeah…”
“Mmm, but you’re already being so sweet for me,” he rasped, his thumb gently pressing against your wet, slit folds. “Your pretty little cunt is weeping just for me, sweetheart.”
You let out a soft gasp, the camcorder beeped again as he adjusted it to get a better view. His grin widened with hunger.
“Don’t worry, doll. I’ll take care of you. Gonna stretch this virgin pussy nice and slow… and make you put on the sweetest show for my camera.”
He teased your pussy, thumb rubbing over your entrance and his finger rubbing against your clit. You were already so wet—embarrassingly so.
“God, baby… you’re dripping,” he groaned, the camcorder beeping softly as he angled it lower. “All this for me?”
You whimpered into the sheets, trembling as he shifted his hand and pressed a finger, testing your tightness before slowly sinking inside.
You gasped louder, your whole body jolting forward against the mattress even though it was just his finger. “B-Bucky!”
“Shhh, it’s okay, sweetheart,” he murmured, leaning close. “Just my finger. Gotta test this tight little pussy before I give you more.”
He moved slowly, letting you adjust to his finger as you writhed against the sheets, your walls already fluttering helplessly around him. He slowly eased another finger inside, drawing out a desperate moan from you.
“So tight,” he groaned so low, almost like he was talking to himself. “So fucking tight—baby. Can’t wait to put my cock inside you…”
When he finally slipped his finger free, you sagged against the bed in relief—but then you felt him shifting behind you. The camcorder beeped again, and the feel of his heavy, thick cock pressed against your entrance—hot and throbbing.
You suddenly remembered how his toys would stretch helplessly around his thickness—literally on the verge of tearing. Your eyes widened. You weren’t sure if you could take him fully.
“B-Bucky…” your stomach started twisting with nerves. “You’re too big… I don’t think I can—”
“You can, baby,” he interrupted softly, steadying himself with a hand at your hip. He leaned close, his lips brushing your ear. “I’ll go slow. I’ll take care of you.”
He pushed forward before you could say anything. The thick tip pushed past your virgin walls. You cried out at the burn, your hands gripping the sheets.
“I know, I know,” he soothed, though his voice shook with restraint. “I’m sorry, doll. I’m so big, I know—but you’re doing so fucking good for me.”
The stretch hurt, but it also made a strange heat bloom low in your belly.
He kissed the back of your shoulder, keeping himself still while you trembled beneath him. “Breathe for me, princess. Let me in nice and slow… I promise—it’s gonna feel so good.”
Your fingers clawed at the sheets as you let out a high, broken moan.
“Shhh, that’s it, baby,” Bucky rasped, his voice thick with both lust and control. “My sweet little virgin… finally getting split open by a real cock.”
You shook your head against the mattress, gasping. “B-Bucky—it’s too big, I can’t—I can’t take it—”
He hushed you softly, his hand sliding from your hip to rub comforting circles against your trembling waist.
“Yes you can, doll. You’re made for this—you’ve been watching my videos every night. Studying me. Practicing with your pretty little fingers and wishing it was me, isn’t that right?” His cock inched deeper, slow but relentless, his breath hitching at the unbearable tightness of you.
“That’s my girl,” he encouraged, pressing kisses along your bare shoulder. “Doing so good for me. Ruinin’ this sweet little virgin pussy nice and slow…”
A sharp moan escaped you as he sank another inch inside, your body trembling around him.
“God… you’re squeezing me so fucking tight,” he groaned, teeth grazing your shoulder as he adjusted the camera with one hand, angling it to capture the stretch of his cock sliding in and out of you. The red light blinked, recording every second of your first time.
“Such a sweet little thing,” he moaned, condescending but tender. “Crying on my cock like you don’t love it—but listen to yourself, baby. You’re moaning like a slut already!”
Another desperate cry left your lips, and he groaned low in his throat. You adjusted your hips slightly, moving your back a bit to try and get comfortable. The slight movement made his hard cock pulse and throb inside you uncontrollably—the sensation unbearable.
“Oh, fuck—” he cursed, his breath catching. “Fuck. If you keep moving like that, doll… shit, I’m not gonna last.”
You shuffled your hips back, desperate for more, for him, even though the stretch burned.
“B-Bucky…” you gasped, your voice breaking into a moan. “You’re so big… too big… f-feels so good…”
That praise alone made him groan, his head dropping to your shoulder as his cock twitched inside your tight heat. His hand squeezed your waist, trying to stay in control, trying to savor it, but every little shuffle of your hips threatened to undo him completely.
“Fuck, doll,” he grunted. “You keep saying that—calling me big while you wiggle on my cock so cutely… I’m gonna lose it.”
You moaned again, arching your back to push into him, the words tumbling out between gasps. “Want you, Bucky… wanna take you all… please, you’re so big, fill me up, please…”
That was it.
A sharp growl ripped from his chest as he tossed the camcorder aside, the device landing forgotten on the sheets somewhere. Both his hands clamped down hard on your hips, holding you in place.
“Alright, sweetheart,” he gritted out, voice laced with hunger. “You asked for it.”
With one rough, needy thrust, he drove himself all the way inside, stuffing you full until his hips were flush against your ass. The sudden fullness made you cry out, your walls clamping down on him so tight it pulled another curse from his lips.
“Jesus Christ—this tight little virgin pussy’s gonna kill me,” he gasped, his fingers digging into your hips possessively. “You feel that, doll? That’s me—every fucking inch of me—buried inside you.”
Your cry broke into a helpless moan as he bottomed out, the stretch almost unbearable, but your body clung to him desperately. The way your cunt spasmed around his cock made Bucky curse low and vicious.
“Fuck—look at you,” he growled against your ear, pulling back only to slam in again, harder. “Taking me so deep, squeezing the life outta me. My sweet little virgin, getting ruined on my cock.”
“Bucky—ah—s’too much—” you whimpered, though your hips still rocked back to meet him.
His laugh was dark, breathless. “Too much, huh? Then why’s this greedy little pussy dripping all over me? You’re lovin’ it, doll. You’re lovin’ how I’m stretchin’ you out.”
Your moans grew louder, more desperate, every inch of you unraveling under his relentless pace. He held your hips so hard you knew he’d leave bruises, pounding into you like he wanted to brand himself inside your body.
“Good girl—fuck, you’re my good girl,” his hips moving rougher and sloppier. “Fuck. So much better than the videos, huh?”
“Oh my god,” you cursed, your face pushed up against the pillow. “I… can’t—gonna… gonna cum—” your walls fluttered and clenched down on him so tightly as you let your release take over you.
“Jesus—fuck, sweetheart—” he snarled, hips snapping erratically as he buried himself to the hilt. “Fuck, fuck! Shit… fuck.” His cock pulsed deep inside you, and with a final shuddering thrust he spilled into you, filling you full with hot, warm and thick seed.
The room was filled with the sound of your ragged moans and his guttural curses, both of you trembling through the aftershocks.
Bucky slumped forward, his weight pressing you into the mattress, his lips brushing the side of your damp and sweaty neck. “That’s it… that’s my girl. Took me so good.”
You were still trembling, your body sensitive and aching, when Bucky finally eased himself out of you with a slow, careful pull. You whined softly at the loss, burying your face into the sheets.
“Easy, doll,” he hushed, his voice husky but gentle. His big hands smoothed over your hips, down your thighs, rubbing away the tension he’d left behind. “You did so good for me. I’m so proud of you.”
You turned your head slightly, catching his smug little grin as he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your damp temple.
“Messy bed, messy girl,” he teased lowly, though his tone held nothing but warmth. He brushed your hair back from your flushed face and tucked it gently behind your ear. “Knew you were my number one fan for a reason.”
Despite your exhaustion, a shy laugh escaped you, your chest fluttering at his words.
“You’re… so full of yourself,” you mumbled weakly. “H-how did I do…?”
“You did so fucking good, sweetheart. Shit, I remember when I was a virgin too, baby,” he chuckled, pressing another kiss to the top of your head. “I was a whimpering, sensitive mess. But fuck, I had so much fun ruining you.”
Your face flushed hot, nuzzling your nose in his chest out of embarrassment.
He laughed softly, holding you tighter. “Get some rest, princess. We’ll go back for your groceries later.”
You couldn’t help but laugh again, small and breathless, before your eyes fluttered shut, comforted by his large hands on your waist and the warmth of his body wrapped around yours.
Days passed, and Bucky kept his promise. The video never showed up online.
He went back to posting his weekly content, but this time, there was something different. In one of his recent uploads, a faint audio clip played in the background as he stroked himself for the camera.
Your moans.
His grunts.
He never showed the footage on screen, but the audio was enough. Enough for you to recognize yourself, enough to leave you trembling in your chair, your fingers buried between your thighs. The thought of him getting off to your body, your sounds, over and over—it made you fall apart embarrassingly fast.
You slumped back in your chair now, thighs trembling, breath uneven as you dragged your hand away from your thighs. For a moment you just sat there, dazed, staring at the frozen video frame on your laptop.
Then a notification blinked in the corner of the screen.
You clicked it.
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Hey, doll.
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917 is typing…
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Can’t stop watching that little video we made. But I dropped the camera right before I got to stuff your pussy full of my cum.
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: How about we try filming another one?
Anesthesia hazeˎˊ˗
pairing: boyfriend!Bucky Barnes x reader
summary: After waking up from surgery still under anesthesia, you meet a ridiculously pretty stranger who claims to be your boyfriend. Convinced he's too perfect to be real, you spend the next hour flirting with him.
word count: 2.1 k
warnings: fluff, post-surgery / anesthesia humor, memory loss (temporary), established relationship, bucky barnes being soft, tooth-rotting fluff, mild embarrassment, idiots in love.
a/n: how crazy is that there's already +400 people following me now? I started working on this thing when I was a bit under 300 and timing was crazy. So I saw this tiktok & came with this silly idea lol not used to writing this much fluff, but I hope you enjoy it. (Also, update on rockstar!Bucky coming soon.) | dividers by @enchanthings
You blinked down slowly, the world swimming into focus in patches of white and blue. Hospital room, beeping machines, and— oh.
There was a man sitting beside your bed. A really really pretty man. Dark hair, sharp jaw, shoulders that looked like they were personally crafted by Michelangelo. And his eyes, of the most ridiculous shade of blue you've ever seen.
"Hi," you breathed, the word slurring slightly. "Are you real?"
The pretty man's lips twitched into a smile. "Yeah, sweetheart, I'm real. How you feeling?"
"Floaty," you admitted, trying to lift your hand but it felt like it weighted a thousand pounds. "Everything's… soft. Are you a nurse? You're the prettiest nurse I've ever seen."
He laughed and the sound made your fuzzy brain light up. "I'm not a nurse, baby. I'm Bucky, your boyfriend."
You squinted at him suspiciously. "No."
"No?"
"No," you said firmly. "Because if you were my boyfriend I'd definitely remember. I would remember so hard you'd be all I ever thought about. I'd be insufferable about it."
"You're insufferable about it," he said, grinning now. He reached out and took your hands, his thumb stroking over your knuckles. One hand was warm, the other was cool metal. "You literally have a folder on your phone called 'Bucky being pretty' with like three hundred photos in it."
Your eyes went wide. "I do?"
"Yes, you do."
"…can I see?"
"After you're more awake." He was trying so hard not to laugh. "The nurse said you'd be loopy for a bit."
"I'm not loopy," you insisted, then immediately contradicted yourself by reaching up to poke his face. "You're loopy. Your face is loopy. Too pretty, not fair." Your finger booped his nose. "Boop."
Bucky caught your hand before you could poke him again, pressing a kiss to your palm. The gesture was so tender it made your drugged heart skip. "You tell me that a lot."
"Well, it is true." You tried to sit up and failed spectacularly. Bucky immediately stood up, his hands gentle as he helped adjust your pillows. "Woah, you're really tall too. How tall are you? Like eight feet?"
"Just six feet, baby."
"That's so many feet." You grabbed at his jacket as he tried to sit back down. "Wait, come back. I need to look at you more."
"I'm right here." But he stayed standing, letting you stare up at him with unbashed wonder.
"Your eyes are blue," you announced, like you'd discovered something groundbreaking.
"They are."
"Like… aggresively blue. Who gave you permission to have eyes that blue? That's illegal, you should be arrested." You gasped suddenly. "Wait, are you a criminal? Is that why you're in the hospital? Are you on the run?"
"I'm not on the run, I'm here because my girlfriend had surgery and I wanted to take care of her and make sure she was okay."
You processed this slowly, then after a minute of silence, you said: "Your girlfriend is so lucky."
"Yeah?" His smile was soft, affectionate in a way that made your chest warm even through the drug haze.
"Yeah. I hope she knows how lucky she is, if I had a boyfriend that looked like you—" you sighed dreamily. "I'd never let you leave, I'd just stare at you all day. I'd cancel plans, I'd call in sick to work 'sorry, can't come in, too busy looking at my boyfriend's face."
Bucky actually had to cover his mouth to hide his laughter. "That so?"
"Mmhmm…" You tried to focus on him but everything kept going a little fuzzy at the edged. "What's your girlfriend like? Is she pretty? She's probably pretty, you seem like you have good taste."
"She's beautiful," he said quietly. "Smartest person I know, funny, brave as hell, a little reckless sometimes, which gives me heart attacks. But yeah, she's pretty perfect."
Your drugged brain felt emotions about this that you couldn't quite name. "Wow, you really love her."
"More than anything."
"That's…" your eyes were getting misty. "That's so nice, everyone should be loved like that. I wanna be loved like that." You looked up at him with the saddest eyes. "Do you think anyone will ever love me like that?"
Bucky's expression did something complicated. He sat back down on the edge of your bed, taking both of your hands in his. "Baby… sweetheart, I'm talking about you. You're my girlfriend."
You blinked slowly. "…I am?"
"Yes."
"But…" You looked down at your hands, then back up at his face. "But you're so pretty."
"So are you."
"And nice, you seem really nice."
"You're nicer."
"And you have good hair." You reached up to touch it and he let you, patient as a saint while your clumsy fingers carded through the strands."It's so soft, do you condition? What's your routine? I need your routine."
"You bought me the conditioner," he said, amused. "You did a whole presentation about hair care."
"I did?" You perked up. "Was it good? Did I use a PowerPoint?"
"It was very thorough, had charts and everything."
"Past me is so smart." Your hand dropped from his hair to his face, cupping his cheek. Your thumb traced his cheekbone, then down to his jaw. "You have a really good bone structure, like… really good. Are you a model?"
"Not a model."
"You should be, you'd be great at it. You'd just stand there being pretty and everyone would throw money at you." You gasped dramatically. "Do you even have a job?"
"I'm an Avenger."
Your jaw dropped. "Like… the superheroes?"
"Yep."
"Oh my god, you're a superhero! A pretty superhero." You looked at him with renewed awe. "What's your power? Is it being pretty? Because that should count."
He was fully grinning now. "I've got a vibranium arm. Super soldier serum."
"Can I see the arm?"
Bucky glanced at the door, then shrugged off his jacket and rolled up his sleeve, revealing the black and gold vibranium arm. Your drugged gasp was deeply gratifying.
"That's so cool!" You grabbed at it, running your fingers over the plates. "It's pretty. You're pretty. Everything about you it's pretty… do you sparkle in the sunlight?"
"That's vampires, baby."
"Are you a vampire?"
"No."
"Are you sure? Because you look like you could be a vampire. A really hot vampire." You squinted at him. "Smile, let me see your teeth."
He humored you, smiling wide. You peered at his teeth very seriously. "Okay not a vampire, just a regular pretty person." You seemed satisfied with his conclusion. "Can I tell you a secret?"
"Always."
You leaned in conspiratorially, nearly falling out of the bed. Bucky caught you easily, steadying you. "I think I have a crush on you."
"Do you now?"
"The biggest crush. An embarrassing crush." You bit your lip. "But you have a girlfriend so I shouldn't be saying this… that's not good etiquette, I apologize." You tried to look serious. "I respect your relationship, even though I'm dying inside.
"Noted," he was shaking with silent laughter now. "What if I told you that you're the girlfriend?"
"Then I'd say you're lying because there's no way—" you gestured vaguely at him. "—that someone who looks like that would date someone like me."
"And what's someone like you?"
"You know, regular, average… not a superhero. Probably have weird hobbies." You paused. "Do I have weird hobbies?"
"I don't thinks is weird, but you enjoy collecting vintage objects—"
"See? Boring."
"I think it's cute."
You stared at him. "Okay, but if we're actually dating—which I still don't believe—but IF we are, then I need to know some things…"
"Shoot."
"Have I kissed you?"
"Many times."
Your hand flew to your mouth. "Oh my god."
"Just yesterday you kissed me goodbye like five times because you kept forgetting things and having to come back inside."
"What else? What else have we done? Have we—" You lowered your voice to a whisper. "—held hands?"
"We live together."
The machine monitoring your heart started beeping faster. "We what?"
"We share an apartment… have for three months now. We meal prep on Sundays—"
"That's so domestic!" You clutched his hand tighter. "Oh my god, am I living my dream? Is this real life?"
"Very real life."
"Prove it. Tell me something only my boyfriend would know."
Bucky thought for a moment, his smile going soft. "You talk in your sleep, usually about work, but sometimes you just say random stuff. Last week you had a full conversation whether cats understand democracy. You also steal all the blankets and I have to burrito wrap you to get any covers. And when you're really tired, you make me play with your hair until you fall asleep."
Your eyes were getting watery again. "That sounds nice."
"It is nice, the best part of my day."
"Even the blanket stealing?"
"Even that."
A nurse peeked in, smiling at the scene. "How's our patient doing?"
"She's very high," Bucky said.
"I'm in love," you corrected, squeezing his hand. "With him, this pretty man. He says he's my boyfriend but I think he might be a hallucination because he's too perfect."
The nurse laughed. "He's been here since they brought you in, hasn't left your side."
"Really?" You looked up at Bucky with wonder.
"Really," he confirmed.
The nursed checked your vitals, adjusted your IV and gave you some ice chips to suck on. "The anesthesia should wear off in another hour or so. You'll probably be pretty tired though."
After she left, you went back to staring at Bucky. "Can I ask you a question?"
"Anything."
"If we're dating, can I kiss you?"
His smile could've powered the sun. "You don't have to ask for permission, sweetheart. But maybe wait until you're a little less loopy?"
"What if I forget? What if the drugs wear off and I forget that I'm allowed to kiss you and I just pine forever?"
"Then I'll remind you. Like I do every morning."
"Every morning," you repeated dreamily. "We have mornings together. Plural mornings."
"So many mornings." You yawned suddenly, the exhaustion hitting you. Bucky stood and adjusted your bed so you could lie back more comfortably. "Get some rest, baby."
"Will you stay?"
"I'm not going anywhere."
"Promise?"
"Promise." He settled back into the chair, but kept hold of your hand.
"Bucky?"
"Yeah?"
"When I wake up and I'm not high anymore, will you still be this pretty?"
He brought your joined hands up and kissed your knuckles, his eyes crinkling with tat smile you'd apparently been cataloging in a folder for months. "Guess you'll have to wait and see."
"Can't wait," you mumbled, eyes already drifting closed. "Gonna wake up with the prettiest boyfriend in the world."
"Get some sleep, sweetheart."
"Okay, but just so you know—" you forced your eyes open one more time to look at him. "—if we really are dating, then I'm the luckiest person alive."
"Funny, I was thinking the same thing."
You fell asleep with his hand in yours, the steady beep of the monitors, and a smile on your face.
Two hours later.
You woke up slowly, the fog clearing from your brain. Everything came back in pieces—the surgery, the recovery room, and oh god, Bucky. Your boyfriend Bucky. Who you'd apparently hit on while high.
He was still there, slouched in the in the uncomfortable hospital chair, scrolling through his phone. When he noticed you were awake, his whole face lit up.
"Hey," he said softly. "Welcome back, how you feeling?"
"Mortified," you croaked. "Please tell me I didn't say anything too embarrassing."
His grin was evil. "Define too embarrassing."
"Bucky—"
"You told me I should be arrested for having blue eyes. You asked if I sparkled in the sunlight. You said you had a crush on me and then apologized because you didn't want to disrespect my relationship."
You covered your face with both hands. "Oh my god."
"Oh and you called my face 'loopy'". He was definitely laughing now. "And you said you'd call in sick to work just to stare at me all day."
"I hate you."
"No you don't. You love me, you told me so multiple times, very emphatically." He stood and came to bed, gently pulling your hands away from your face. "For the record, I recorded about five minutes of it."
"You what?!"
"For posterity." His eyes were sparkling with mischief. "And for the next time you try to say I'm not pretty."
"I didn't—I don't—" You couldn't even form a defense. "You are pretty."
"So you keep telling me." He leaned down and kissed your forehead, then your nose, then your lips. "Feeling better?"
"Physically, yes. Emotionally, destroyed."
"Well the good news is the surgery went great. The bad news is I'm definitely showing that video at our wedding."
"Bucky!"
But you were smiling, and so was he, and honestly? You'd embarrass yourself a hundred times over if it meant waking up to that face. Even if you already knew you were allowed to kiss it.
manchild.
pairing. bucky barnes x fem!reader synopsis. bucky can’t help but wonder why they always come running to you,, or your living fossil of a roommate disapproves of your taste in men and its totally not because he wants a taste of you. manchild au masterlist. warnings. mdni! smut (pwp, service dom!bucky, unprotected piv, oral sex - f receiving, clothed sex for like a sec, fingering, creampie, tummy bulge, dirty talk, dry humping, possessiveness, dumbification, praise, temperature play, food play, nipple play, pussy pronouns, hair pulling - m receiving, multiple orgasms, consent kink, implied competency kink and cum eating, bucky barnes begs agenda 2025™, both bucky and reader spend the whole fic towing the fine line between horny and pervy), no use of y/n, angst, fluff, frenemies to lovers, roommate!bucky, cocky+flirty!bucky, also guard dog!bucky (if that even makes sense) (it doesn’t), jealousy, pining, so much bickering, attachment issues, miscommunication bc these two combined have the emotional intelligence of a chihuahua, bucky’s hobby is baking bc i said so. reader inclusivity. bucky can pick the reader up (but he’s literally a super soldier so 🧍♂️), one mention of bucky trying to grab the reader’s hair, reader has a nut allergy and does not speak russian (neither do i, so please forgive the very small amount of google translated russian) word count. 16.3k hyde’s input. god bless sabrina for saving the summer again. also don’t let this flop, it’s my birthday tomorrow and i’m not above crying over poorly-received erotica (i’m joking) (no i’m not)
Bucky Barnes is not someone you’d call a friend.
He’s more of a nuisance, really. A fossil, dropped off at your door by one Sam Wilson with a simple request: “Can he crash here for a few days?”
That was four months ago, and Bucky’s still living on your couch.
Which is exactly where he’s sat right now, head buried in a book you barely even remember owning. The pages, so full of neglect, give him hassle as he tries to turn them, catching on one another and refusing to be pried apart by vibranium fingers.
“How do I look?” You ask as you step out from your bedroom, hands fastening an earring into your right ear.
Unfazed by your appearance, he doesn’t bother glancing up from his book as he sardonically replies, “With your eyes, like the rest of us.”
You contemplate plucking one of your heels off and throwing it at his head. Knowing your luck, it will fly right past him and smash your coffee table into pieces. Just like your roommate, it’s vintage. Unlike your roommate, you willingly brought it into your home.
“Ha. Ha.” Rounding the couch, you swat his feet off the table before snapping his book closed. “Now if you’re done playing comedian, would you answer the fucking question?”
“That’s your generation's problem, you know? You swear more than you breathe.”
“Better than waging a world war every few years.”
“Considering the current state of the world, I wouldn’t rest too comfortably on that one,” Bucky rises from his seat and squeezes past you, irritatingly close in a way that makes sure you feel each defined muscle in his chest as it brushes against your shoulder. “Anyway, you look fine, as always.”
“I look fine?” You parrot his words and follow his footsteps over to the kitchen. “Careful Barnes, don’t get too excited, it’s not healthy for a senior citizen’s heart.”
“You know what I mean,” a heavy sigh slips out the soldier’s mouth as he busies himself filling the kettle, glancing back at you from over his shoulder as he continues speaking. “I don’t understand why you worry so much about all of… this.” He gestures at you, water splashing off the tips of his fingers.
“God forbid a woman cares about looking good on a date,” you’re becoming annoyingly aware of the pout on your lips and try your best to correct it, whilst prying open the fridge door and fishing out a bottle of beer. “Gee if only it were still the 40s, then I could slap some mercury on my lips and hit the town with a man ready to buy me off my daddy for the cheap, cheap price of two goats!”
The frustration within you only rises as you struggle with the bottle’s cap, the skin of your hand pinching as you put all your force behind removing it. Since when are twist-tops so damn hard to twist off?
Bucky’s by the kettle, pouring boiling hot water into a mug he’s wrongfully claimed as his and looking irritatingly fine surrounded by steam — which has your mind trailing back to a few weeks ago: an early morning, exiting your bedroom to find your lodger stepping out the bathroom with nothing but a towel around his waist and the remnant dew of a steaming hot shower trailing down his very naked, very defined biceps, and pectorals, and- He’s not even trying to mask the amusement on his face as he indulges in your failure.
“Don’t you think you’re being a little ridiculous?” He asks and pries the bottle out of your hold, effortlessly ripping the cap off with a twist of his left hand. A familiar warmth curls between your legs, awakening a response from you that you’ve sworn, under no circumstances, will happen due to Bucky Barnes. You barely want to exchange air with him, nevermind bodily fluids. “There’s no way you’re worth two goats.”
“Every day I wake up and resist the urge to smother you in your sleep.”
Your vitriol is met with a smirk taking over his lips. Watching as he brings the beer up to his mouth, you catch yourself forgetting to blink as the soldier engages you both in a staring contest, all the while he’s tilting the bottle up to steal the first sip. He presses the cold glass back into your hand. You try not to focus on his tongue, peeking out to swipe over his bottom lip and clean up a remnant drop of beer.
In a move that puts you even more on edge, Bucky shuffles closer to you. Delirium floods your mind as the smell of smoke, and musk, and a just a twinge of sweat floods your nose, a smell so masculine it has you debating setting feminism and your own self-preservation back hundreds of years by nuzzling your face into the pulse point of his neck, like you’re some damn animal being exposed to pheromones. Meanwhile, he appears none the wiser to the negative effect he’s having on you, too busy reaching his arm behind you and into the fridge.
“Those boys you entertain, do they ever pay you any compliments?” His voice is so gentle, you almost wonder if that’s how it would sound whispering in your ear. Luckily, you don’t actually wonder about that. Not at all, not even a little. “Or is that your job too, like the bill?”
As quickly as he caged you in against the fridge, he moves away and leaves the cool air to rush over your skin, dragging your mind back into reality and away from whatever thoughts it keeps trying to tempt you with. You track his movements towards the island counter as he sets down a glass bowl, marked by condensation and filled with a batter of some sorts.
It's becoming more and more common to catch Bucky pottering around in the kitchen, a recipe on his phone screen and a personalised ‘Kiss the Baker’ apron — which Sam bought as a joke for his birthday — tied around his waist. He’ll never admit it, but a part of you believes baking helps him relax, to shut off whatever thoughts are floating around in that disturbingly pretty head of his and let him focus solely on measuring, mixing, and making delicious sugary treats. You can hardly complain when he’s gifting you the privilege of an at-home bakery. Fortunately, he gives you plenty of other reasons to complain.
“Boys I entertain? Way to make me sound like a stripper,” you huff, sneaking over to dunk a finger into the batter as he turns to grab his coffee. “And I’ll have you know, they do pay me compliments.”
Licking your finger clean, you can’t fight the humm of approval that creeps up your throat nor the way your eyes slip shut as you savour the cold, tangy sweetness of the cake mix. Something warm presses against your left side as Bucky returns to the island, setting down his mug and a cake tin.
“Really? What kinda things do they say?” Just as you go to double dip, he smacks the top of your hand with a wooden spoon, and you nearly freeze at the contact. For a few short seconds, the factory in your mind goes into lockdown as every single one of your brain cells scramble to not conjure up the image of him smacking that utensil on a very different part of you. “Hands off. It’s a lemon cake, not a lemon and your-dirty-fingers cake.”
You silence your thoughts with a swig of beer before putting a safety distance between Bucky and you, unsure whether to be relieved at his obliviousness to the less than ideal affect he’s having on you, or offended by his complete lack of reaction to being so close to you while you’re all dressed up and waiting for another man to take you out.
Not that you want him to be affected by that, or you in general, though.
Your phone lights up with a text from an unsaved number: im hear, r yu coming down or shuld i com up? You shut it off and stuff it into your purse, deciding it's best to keep a man waiting anyway; he’ll appreciate your presence even more once you finally give him it.
Besides, you’ve yet to answer Bucky’s question.
“I’d tell you but I’m too sober to stomach you yelling ‘Heaven to Betsy!’ and giving me a lecture on your medieval dating ethics.”
You earn a genuine laugh, in which his knees bend a little and his head is thrown back, while his vibranium hand winds up splayed across his midriff. The sun is setting beyond the window, lingering shades of orange warmth frame a heavenly glow around Bucky, highlighting a slight curl in his hair and the piercing blue of his eyes. The view is uncomfortably pleasant, so you bring the bottle back to your lips and turn your head away, suddenly utterly fascinated with the eggshell colouring of the kitchen cupboards.
“I think there’s a leak under the sink,” the comment is absentminded, a meager attempt at steering your mind away from the man and his mixing bowl.
Bucky ignores it and drags you right back to the actual topic at hand.
“That’s funny,” there’s a shuffle of tin behind you. You glance back around to find him smoothing batter into the cake mold, wooden spoon clasped in metal fingers spreading the mix evenly. You’ve never noticed how good Bucky is at spreading things. “Cause I swear I remember Sam mentioning something about the last guy moaning his own name in your ear.”
Beer shoots to the back of your throat.
In a spurt of coughing, amidst the burning pain of the carbonated liquid dripping out your nose, you hurry over to the sink. Mouth dropped open in a dry heave, you lean into the basin and try to minimize the mess you make in search of a breath. Heat envelops you from behind and a pair of sock-clad feet come into view next to your maroon heels. You briefly register the cool brush of metal against the back of your neck as he tries to tidy back your hair and, while you appreciate the action, you can’t help note how completely unnecessary it is. Too distracted to care, your attention shoots straight to the weight of his flesh hand pressing into your lower back. Heavy, warm, large, it pollutes your mind with the knowledge of how it feels to have him soothe your skin — even if there is a layer of silk in the way.
The moment air returns to your lungs, you shoot up straight and ache to step away from him and his wandering-to-all-the-wrong-places hands. The battle against his touch is mute, not even one percent of his strength is put behind the way he grips your forearms and turns you to face him.
Bucky’s eyes scan over you, studying your features. You swallow back whatever feeling brings salivation to your mouth. His thumb reaches towards his own and you watch, transfixed, as a pink tongue darts out to greet it, licking a stripe over the pad of it. A splash of cake batter stains his ring finger. You swallow back more saliva; confusingly, your mouth feels drier than ever. Only when he delicately presses his thumb beneath your eye and swipes over your waterline do you realise you’re teary-eyed.
“See how clumsy you are?” There’s a chastising lilt to his voice that sends blood rushing to your face, and then immediately back down to the overwhelmingly empty space between your legs. “Can’t even swallow properly without ruining your mascara.”
You need distance.
You need to move.
You need to leave.
“He’s here!” The words are almost a gasp as you turn out of his hold. The weight of his gaze trails over your legs as you rush around the kitchen island, fishing your keys out of your purse and rambling out the nerves he’s summoned. “Okay, there’s some leftover pasta in the fridge if you’re hungry, and you’re welcome to the beers if you get thirsty. Big remote turns on the TV, the little one changes the channel. Behave and take care of the place while I’m away, okay?”
“Quit talking to me like I’m some kind of guard dog,” he complains as you pull open the front door and cross one foot over the threshold to safety.
“Oh, I’m sorry!” You cheer back, trailing the door behind you as you go. “I wasn’t aware you were going to start contributing rent, I’ll send you my bank details.”
With that, the apartment door slams shut and you head out for a date in which three things will happen: you’ll flirt, you’ll fuck, and you won’t think about your roommate.
Only one of those things ends up happening.
It’s not from lack of an offer that you wind up taking a cab back to your apartment. Your date had been nice… enough. He complimented your outfit, took a sufficient amount of interest in you, and he even bought you flowers — of course, he’d accidentally left them in his parent’s home. Where he lived. In the basement.
And the thing is, you’re not shallow. Time’s are tough, the economy sucks, and the world is still adjusting to the sudden return to half its population post-Blip. So you were more than game to play sneak-me-into-your-bed-without-waking-your-parents, but, as the pair of you waited on a taxi to arrive, his hand found your waist and your treacherous mind noticed something it shouldn’t.
Bucky’s hand was larger. And warmer. And more welcomed against your skin.
Sick to your stomach by your own thoughts, your night ended with you tip-toeing past the familiar figure sleeping on your couch — definitely not pausing to take in the sheer width of his naked shoulders dangling half-off the cushion — and crawling into bed alone, belly full of Thai and mind full of Winter.
When morning comes, the bedroom door creaks as you pry it open, a fist rubbing sleep out your eye and a yawn announcing your arrival.
“Did you eat my ice cream?” Bucky calls out from somewhere, voice muffled and full of accusation.
Despite barely finishing a glass of wine the night before, there’s a throbbing pain beginning in your temples and souring your already bitter mood.
“Wow, good morning to you too,” you stumble more than walk over to the kitchen, in search of the salvation of ice cold water.
That’s where you find him: laid out on his back, grey sweatpants clinging to bent knees, with everything from his shoulders up inside the open cabinet beneath the sink. His arms are inside too, tinkering away at something above his face.
“Good morning. Did you eat my ice cream?” If ever a thing such as a verbal eyeroll were to exist, Bucky would be doing it. From the lack of seeing his eyes, there’s every chance he is literally rolling them.
Your journey toward the fridge is interrupted by the troubling sight of a glass full of water, a plate hosting a slice of lemon sponge cake, and two miscellaneous white pills that anyone who suffers the unusually cruel punishment of a menstrual cycle is likely familiar with. A post-it note with your name written neatly across it sits next to the unexpected care package.
“So what if I did?” The painkillers go down effortlessly, though there’s a lingering chemical taste that has you gulping down an extra sip of water. “What are you doing, anyway?”
“I paid for it!” For all his outrage, he doesn’t care enough to poke his head out as he chastises you. “You said there was a leak, so I’m checking your pipes. I’m quite good with my hands, you know.”
Is he dense, or is he saying this shit on purpose? The double entendre in his words is glaring, yet you haven’t the confidence nor the will-power to address it, to poke the proverbial bear out of fear. Fear of him scolding your dirty mind, or fear of him doubling down on his suggestive wordplay, you’re not quite sure.
You choose to steer clear of the topic and, more importantly, the unexpected twinge in your chest in response to Bucky’s unrequested help.
“And I paid for the freezer you left it in, the electricity that kept it frozen, and the apartment you live in,” you don’t intend to sound so snappy, like a sulking child fighting against their own self-confessed crimes. “So I think you can spare me some goddamn ice cream.”
You’ve taken to joining Bucky on the floor, sitting across from him, cross-legged and back pressed against the cabinets that surround the kitchen island. In your lap lies the slice of cake, a mouthful already missing and melting its tangy sweetness onto your tongue. You almost moan, but it’s unclear whether the sugary treat just tastes that good or the visual of the soldier laid out on his back and tinkering away beneath your sink is just so stimulating.
If you mention the strange noise your car’s engine has been making recently, would he fix that too? You can already picture him slicked in sweat and oil, hands on his hips as he stands over the opened hood and assesses whatever the damage is. You’d have to watch over the whole thing, of course — not out of your own self-interest but on the off chance something goes wrong and Bucky needs help taking off his oil-stained shirt, or pants, or-
“Your date was that good, huh?” You almost jump out of your skin when he speaks.
“He bragged to me about how he and his college roommates used to play pool,” the pause in your sentences seems to capture Bucky’s attention, coaxing him out from beneath the sink. “Using a shotgun instead of cues.”
As he sits up, elbows finding rest upon his knees, you can’t help but note the five-o’clock shadow he’s sporting. For reasons that have nothing to do with the fraying seams of your sanity, you need him to shave.
To Bucky’s credit, he doesn’t laugh. Yes, his lips glitch somewhere between a cheeky grin and a serious frown, but he does not outright laugh like you expect him to. Instead, he nods down at the half-eaten cake and tilts his head — an unspoken question, is it good?, that only weakens his argument about not being a guard-dog. Between the puppy-dog blue eyes and the yearning for approval, you half expect him to sprout a tail and start panting.
Scratch that last thought, actually. Bucky and panting should not coexist in a sentence together, nevermind in your imagination.
“Mind feeding me a bite?” Yes, actually, you would mind, but one glance at his fingertips stained in whatever-the-hell is going on with your sink leaves you no choice but to tear off a corner.
Bringing the piece of cake to meet his awaiting mouth, you brace yourself for the tentative scrape of teeth stealing it out of your hold. The delicate brush of his lips enveloping your fingers throws you off your axis, and the challenge in his eyes as they hold contact with your own has your thighs involuntarily squeezing themselves together.
For a moment, you swear you catch him glance down at your lips.
Then you remember the health insurance your job provides does not cover the cost of being institutionalised, so you stop hallucinating and come back to reality where Bucky Barnes is not so much a flirt as he is a pest, a stray animal abandoned at your doorstep by a friend who decided to take advantage of your good-natured heart.
“Can you give me the exact phrasing your date used to describe this shotgun-pool?” The soldier is gone in the blink of an eye, flat on his back again and continuing his attempt to seal the leak.
“Why?”
“I’m making this list,” he says, and he must shift his hands higher above his head because suddenly the soft cotton of his white shirt has ridden up his torso, presenting your eyes with a golden platter of sun-warmed skin. “I’m calling it ‘the manchild files’.”
“That’s not even funny,” neither is the way he inches deeper into the cabinet, exposing not only the glaringly white tan-line delineating where the band of his boxers should be resting but also the beginning dark curls of a happy trail.
“Well ‘the stupid files’ sounds so simple, I was worried you’d try to jump into bed with it.”
“Are you seriously about to slut-shame me in my own fucking kitchen?” Whilst slutting yourself out on my floor like your name is Mike and you’re about to show me some magic? is the quiet part you don’t say aloud.
“I’m critical but I’m not hypocritical,” there he does again with that verbal eye-roll. “I wasn’t exactly the image of celibacy when I was your age-”
“Yay, more grandpa lore!” Your interruption earns you a nudge from his leg, but you know it made him laugh because his shoulders gently shake.
“I’m not slut-shaming you, I’m taste-shaming. I swear, being useless must be the precursor to having a chance with you.”
“It is not!” You gasp, yet you’re hardly surprised — Bucky’s not exactly subtle in his disapproval of the men you date.
If there is anything to be thankful for, it’s the alleviation that comes with Bucky shimmying out from the sink again, happy trail redressed and a hand diving into the pocket of his sweatpants. With a dramatic clearing of his throat, he brings his phone up to his face and starts reciting.
“After being told you have a nut allergy, Carter B. said Wait, like, you’re allergic to cum?” You’d always known showing him how to use the notes app would come back to bite you in the ass somehow. “Tommy L. walked into a lampost because he got distracted… watching a squirrel run up a tree. You almost got stood up by Steve K. because he accidentally locked himself inside his own car. Lee B. asked you-”
“Bucky B. is about to lose his other arm if he doesn’t shut up.”
“I rest my case,” and he still has the nerve to open his mouth, awaiting another bite of cake.
You cave with no fight and give it to him.
Because you’re a nice person, not because you want to feel his mouth on you again.
Something cool drips onto the bottom of your naked thighs after Bucky reaches over you and grabs at the glass of water, stealing an obnoxiously large gulp; or is it just exaggerated by your stare zeroing in on the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he drinks?
A thought pops into your mind.
“Did you leave these on the counter because you expected me to be hungover?” Your tone is inoffensive, and unoffended, a simple curiosity you need answered.
“You have a headache, right?”
“Uh-huh,” your eyes narrow skeptically.
“Yeah, I figured you would,” Bucky takes another sip, more condensation trickling down onto your legs. “You always have one after eating Thai food.”
Something inside of you stops.
Your heart, or your lungs, or your mind. Your goddamn liver, for all you know.
This is not supposed to be happening. Bucky is not supposed to fix things just because you mentioned it, once in passing and as a scapegoat from focusing too much on him. And he certainly isn’t supposed to notice things, useless little factoids that not even you know about yourself until he brings them to light. Hell, he’s not even supposed to still be here, sleeping on your couch and criticising your love life.
When the thing inside of you clicks back into place and starts again, a new weight rests atop your conscience.
Maybe it’s not so bad having a roommate, having Bucky be that roommate. Maybe you’re starting to get used to coming home to the smell of baked vanilla and the signature grouchy look he wears as he asks you about your day, about how your co-worker pissed you off, about why you’re home later than usual and not wearing a jacket out in the cold of winter.
“By the way,” he’s calling out from beneath the sink again. “You’ll be happy to know I’m touring an apartment next week.”
“Oh.” The bite you just took turns sour in your mouth. You struggle to swallow it down. “That’s great. Finally! You’re going, and I’m staying here, and I’ll have my apartment back to myself. That’s… Great. It’s great!”
No, really, it’s great.
“You’re joking,” a palm on your lower back guides you to the right, just in time to avoid being trampled beneath a cart.
“I wish,” you say, and saunter over to some colourful packaging that’s captured your eye.
After a moment of inspecting the product in hand from every angle, you put it back on the shelf.
“Let me get this straight,” Bucky pushes the cart along behind you, grabbing that same colourful packaging and dropping it in with the rest of the groceries. “You lean through his window, kiss him goodbye on the cheek and then he just… What, crashed his car?”
“Into a wall with street art of a cliff painted on it,” as you add the most important detail, laughter is already bubbling up your throat. “He literally crashed his car into a cliff without even getting to switch out of first gear!”
The pair of you make up quite the sight.
An entire morning of tiptoeing through the limbo of delirium, after an entire night spent trying to block out the relentless banging from the upstairs neighbours. The door to your bedroom crawled open some time past four and there was Bucky, head poking through the space and looking rather pleased to find you wide awake — despite his claims of just wanting to make sure you were asleep.
Seated on opposite ends of the couch, both of you found a quiet solace in the other’s inability to sleep. While a movie marathon played over the TV, the sex marathon above continued. When exhaustion took claim of your body, you drifted off with your arms resting on the armchair and your head resting on your arms. You awoke atop a pillow and beneath a blanket, legs stretched out over the couch and Bucky curled up on the floor by your feet — like any good guard dog would be.
After a botched attempt to sneak past the soldier, only to have him scare the living daylights out of you by grabbing your ankle as you tried to step over him, you both came to the shocking realisation that the fridge was void of any food.
Which brings you to here: standing in aisle 7, laughing an ache into your ribs over yet another one of your failed dates, with a half-filled cart and matching bags forming under your tired eyes.
“I think it’s time we had an intervention about where you’re finding these men,” Bucky says that last word like it's covered in poison, burning his tongue on the way out.
“They find me!” You say, as he reaches for the box of strawberries you just put down. “As generous as I am, do you want to maybe slow down on how much shit you load into our cart?”
His hand freezes, the box of red fruit clasped in a confusingly delicate grip of vibranium fingers
“You picked it up,” his tone is riddled with confusion. “Don’t you want them?”
“Contrary to popular belief, I’m not made of money.”
“Okay?” He replies, like it’s the most irrelevant piece of information you’ve ever given him — and you once spent an hour ranting to him about the inefficiency of the ink cartridges in your office’s printer. “I’m paying, so do you want it or not?”
“Since when do you have money? Did your pension finally come through? I mean… You are old enough. Also, aren’t you literally a vet?”
“You managed to say all that in one breath, yet you failed to answer a yes or no question.”
A bubble of silence surrounds you both. Bucky blinks, slowly, exaggeratedly. It’s the perfect opportunity to stare at his face and notice the five o'clock shadow has grown. A gruff ‘excuse me’, followed by a man shoving between you both to grab some strawberries, pops the bubble.
Without a word, you snatch the box and place it in the cart.
Half-way up the fruit aisle, Bucky gets the genius idea to open his mouth again: “You wanna know what my theory is?”
“Nope,” you say, popping the p and glancing back at him over your shoulder. “But you’re going to tell me anyway.”
He looks vexingly domestic like this, wearing a sweater and pushing your shopping around. Thoughts betray you, wandering off into dangerous territory as they begin to question how others perceive you from the outside.
What do strangers see: two roommates that quarrel like it’s a biological need, or a couple doing their weekly shop? Two strangers forced together by a circumstance named Sam Wilson, or two lovers unwilling to voice that the metal container between them is too much distance?
“I think you date idiots because they’re idiots.”
“Gee whiz, grandpa, that’s so insightful. I sure do hope I’m as wise as you when I’m your age, but I’ll probably just be dead.” You feel the cart meet your back in a gentle bump, a non-verbal warning to cut the teasing.
“Dating those incompetent men, it’s like…” he pauses, searching for the right words, and plucks a bunch of bananas from your hand, dropping them in with your mounting pile of fruit. “Jumping out of a plane! You get the thrill of falling but, the moment something a little too real and solid appears on the horizon, you pull out the parachute and, that’s it, you’re safe. No danger of falling flat on your face and getting your feelings hurt.”
“I don’t know when you last jumped out of a plane-”
“Remember that Karli situation a few months ago?”
“But not ejecting your parachute leads to a little more than just falling flat on your face.”
“So my metaphor isn't perfect,” Bucky trails off, eyes staring past you and mind lost in thought. You follow his line of sight and find a couple at the end of the aisle, hands intertwined and smiling at each other like they’re the only two people in the world. An unnamed emotion tugs at the soldier’s lips, but he won’t let it take over his stoic features. “But you get my point. If you were actually looking for something serious, you’d date someone better than those men.”
Unprompted and unwarranted, his words spear your heart.
Memories replay in your head, a kaleidoscope of the featureless faces you let take you out, dine you, wine you, kiss you. A handful of immeasurables: how many times you’ve brushed off mispronounced versions of your name, how many excuses you’ve made for the way they talk to you, how many times you’ve lowered your own standards to help a man feel desired. In your wake lies a graveyard of failed relationships, with no proper funeral nor mourning.
You swallow back the lump in your throat.
“Okay, psychoanalysing me aside, what’s left on the list?” You ask, making your way round to Bucky’s side of the cart.
“Well, I still need to write down Jeff G.’s cliff accident.”
“The other list.” You watch as he struggles to fish out the scrap of paper from his pocket.
“Eggs, pasta, feta, toilet roll,” his brows are furled, his eyes are glaring, and with each item he lists off, his words grow more unsure. “Grapefruit? Your handwriting is shit.”
“I was in a rush!”
“And sitting on a jack-hammer?”
“Gimme that,” you snatch the list, he yields it with no protest. As you scan over the scribbled ink, a frustrating truth comes to light. Bucky’s right, your handwriting is shit. “Is grapefruit even in season?”
“Huh,” it’s the sound of hollow amusement.
“What?”
“Just…” His presence looms over you, infecting your senses with the woodsy smell of his cologne and the arduous heat that radiates off of him. When he nods his head to the right, scoffing out a laugh and poking his tongue into his cheek, you find yourself wrestling between temptations of slapping him or pulling him closer. “You really don’t notice what’s right in front of you, do you?”
Lo and behold, on the right side of the aisle, grapefruits.
You make it through the rest of the shopping list in relative silence, with the occasional side-comment from the super soldier that either rouses a grin onto your lips or has your eyes rolling in faux disagreement. Little by little, you peruse the aisles and fill the cart; and, when Bucky picks out the only ice cream flavour void of nuts, you bite your tongue and choose to say nothing.
“I forgot to ask,” you finally speak, standing in the self-checkout zone and struggling to find something to do with your fidgety hands as Bucky scans each item — you insisted on helping and he insisted he’d get it done quicker alone. “How did the apartment viewing go?”
“Oh. Fine,” you grimace as he says your least favourite f word. “The current lease isn’t up yet, so you’re stuck with me a little longer.”
Are you supposed to feel this relieved?
In theory, you were never supposed to feel anything in regards to Bucky Barnes. In practice, it’s a lot more complicated, a pendulum that seems to swing in constant motion between red hot aggravation and red hot something else you refuse to give a name.
All you know is there are times where you wonder if his back is okay sleeping on the couch, and you contemplate asking him to come meet you during your lunch breaks, and you crave to have the anxious shake in your leg quelled by his daily check-in calls whenever he and Sam go off on another misadventure. Whatever reason lies behind your behaviour, the familiarity of ignorant bliss tempts you away from seeking the answer.
Besides, Bucky will be leaving soon. He’ll no longer be your roommate and you’ll both fall out of whatever routine convenience has forced upon you both.
A series of beeps capture your attention.
At the epicentre of the noise stands an elderly woman, grey hair pristinely curled and an outfit that screams Sunday-bests, struggling with the check-out machine. With no employee in sight and no do-gooder fellow customer stepping out of their way to help, the woman’s distress grows with each beep the machine makes at her.
Knuckles brush down your arm, and there’s Bucky at your side, waiting for you to pay him any mind.
“You mind handling the rest?” He asks, in that softly-spoken tone of his that would make anyone feel like swooning. Maybe that’s why it takes you a few moments to notice the wallet he’s holding out to you. “Cash is in the back pocket. I’ll be a few minutes, okay? Just finish bagging everything, leave the carrying to me.”
There’s no time to get a single word out before you’re staring at the back of his head and watching as he makes his way over to the elderly woman.
For every item you scan, you sneak a glance. The butter beeps onto the screen, and you peek how Bucky has effortlessly become the woman’s personal helper. You pass the strawberries through and reward yourself with the sight of Bucky’s cheeky grin — with the way the elderly lady laughs and swats at his arm, you can only assume he’s made some flirtatious comment. Clicking on the option to pay cash, you nearly give yourself whiplash as you turn to watch them again, Bucky’s just about finishing bagging her groceries while the woman opens her shopping-trolley bag.
Waiting on the receipt to print, your reflection stares back at you on the self-checkout screen: a hue of endearment glowing off your features. The smile quickly melts off your face when you realise that he… Oh no.
Bucky is charming.
Part of you has always known he was handsome — you’re stubborn, not blind — yet the sight of him now, all dashing smiles and twinkling eyes playing rescuer to a woman who, despite the difference in their physical ageing, is closer to his own age than you, it troubles you. The acid burn in your throat is not a manifestation of jealousy, no; it’s the queasy feeling of knowing you’ve never looked across at a date, caught him in a moment of content, and felt the unyielding desire to be the reason behind it.
Someone clears their throat beside you, a man with a wrinkle in his forehead and an agitated look upon his face, so you quickly excuse yourself and, with plastic handles digging into your fingers, you approach Bucky and the elderly lady.
Upon noticing you, Bucky’s quick to tug the bags out your grip, a scolding already falling off his tongue: “I told you to leave these to me.”
“Yeah, well, Mr. Frowny-Magoo over there didn’t appreciate me hogging up the cashier,” the comment is meant as nothing more than a lighthearted joke, yet you swear you see something shift in the soldier’s stance, his shoulders tensing and his jaw clenching as he glances back at the stranger.
Fortunately, the elderly woman interrupts whatever he’s contemplating doing to him.
“Она твоя жена?(Is she your wife?)” She’s looking between you both expectantly, speaking words you don’t understand. “У нее лицо ангела. (She has the face of an angel.)”
Whatever she says, it clearly has an effect on Bucky. His head turns to the side, to you, and a visible softness overcomes his gaze as it traces over your face. His shoulders are relaxing, his jaw is unclenching, and he’s switching the bags over to his metal hand, renewing his grip and freeing up the hand that now hangs right by yours, knuckles gracing over your own in a way that feels like a dare, a challenge, a temptation to lace your fingers together.
You clench your fist shut.
“Я знаю. (I know.)” He says, eyes lingering on you a few moments longer than necessary, before he’s back to smiling at the elderly woman.
Halfway home and doubling your pace to keep up with his effortless stroll, curiosity finally gets the better of you.
“What did she say back there, that lady you helped?”
A stranger rushes past you both, phone glued to their ear and stressing down the speaker. Bucky takes grip of your arm and tugs you closer to him.
“Do you spend your time getting bumped into when I’m not around?” His fingers give your arm a squeeze before releasing you. “And, if you must know, she said I was the most handsome man she’s ever seen.”
Little force is put behind the shove you give his shoulder.
You’re too busy agonising over how much you agree with her.
Bucky leaves.
Not forever, but three weeks away on some stealth mission with Sam sure begins to feel like it.
It happens on a Friday. After the week from hell at work, a friend’s mid-week engagement party, and the unexpected downpour of rain during the journey home, you walk into an unlit apartment and a note stuck to the fridge.
Sam needs me. Be safe, don’t bring strangers home. B.
The batch of freshly baked cinnamon rolls sweeten your night up, at least.
There’s a quiet that always seems to blanket the house whenever you lose Bucky to missions.
Before he was dumped on your front door, you’d been used to living alone and the peaceful silence that came with it. Independence, the ability to need no one and want nothing, a trait of yours that once brought pride, now brings you nothing but the static sound of a muted television and the hum of the microwave spinning a meal fit for one.
Mornings become a ritual of waking later yet leaving earlier, no one is there to distract you from drinking your coffee. Though the workload is the same, somehow the slow drag of hours still finds a way to pass quicker than ever, the revolving doors of the office building spit you back out onto the streets of New York before you’re fully ready. Your evenings waste away, starved of noise and company, while you run out of shows to watch and books to read, and count the hours down until all that silence becomes necessary for your eyes to close and your mind to rest.
It’s when darkness rules over the sky and the hour is a single digit that the phone finally rings. A blocked number, untraceable, pulling you out the hands of sleep and filling your room with the noise of your ringtone. He never speaks first, not until there’s an echo down the line of your own sleep stained ‘hello?’.
“You can go back to sleep now.”
You never stay on the line long enough to find out how quickly he hangs up after he speaks. Because it’s only ever meant to be a way to let you know he’s safe, alive, somewhere out there doing who-knows-what and stopping who-knows-who. It’s just an unrequested favour he’s granted you, after the incident in which both he and Sam fell-off the grid for five days and you were nearly rounding up a search party. He’s not missed a call since, once a day while he’s away.
So, when he doesn’t call, it’s only natural that you worry.
The alarm bell rings when you wake up to birds chirping, sun spilling through the crack between the curtains, and not a single missed call nor voicemail awaiting you.
It’s Saturday and there’s no work to occupy your mind, so you force down a bagel, toss a tote bag onto your shoulder, and head out to the local market. But there’s no joy in perusing fruit stands without a six foot soldier trailing your heels and muttering to himself about how exotic fruit has gotten, and how ‘back in my day you had your apples, your oranges, and your pears.’
You wind up home by noon, and the dwelling begins to grow, still no call.
There’s a weight on your chest, and a balloon of anxiety that grows in your throat, and an unwarranted agitation burning at your skin as you read over his note again, still very much stuck to the fridge and taunting you — Be safe, says a man who clearly can’t take his own advice.
Then, why should you?
You agree to go on a date, one you’ve been dancing around agreeing to for a few weeks yet reach for it the moment you decide you’re not pleased with the way Bucky’s lack of a call is ruining your well-earned free time.
And, hey, the guy’s not a complete loser this time. On paper, at least. He’s handsome, tall, and an athlete — ex-athlete, really, but you don’t bother to point that out while he talks about the gymnastic studio he runs. Most importantly, he’s eager to call a cab and get you home, screw Bucky’s warning. If you want to bring a stranger into your home, you’ll do it.
Brooding, uncalling soldier be damned!
After stumbling through the dark of your apartment into your bedroom, and fumbling with your bra long enough for you to grow tired and just take it off yourself, you and Mister Gymnast tumble into the sheets for a performance so lacklustre, it warrants taking all his medals away. At least your date seems to enjoy himself, spilling onto your stomach and falling asleep the minute his head hits the pillows.
“I finished,” last you checked, he hadn't even started.
You lie awake, staring at the ceiling, and try to will the phone to ring. Encased by a stranger’s snoring and a guilty feeling, you let Lady Sleep whisk you away. When your eyes open next, morning has broken and you’re alone in bed with a remnant trace of warmth on the sheets. But the silence is finally gone.
Beyond your door you hear the faint thud of footsteps, the ding of the fridge being opened, the whistle of the kettle. You almost trip in your rush to get dressed, and nearly rip the hinges off the door as you tear it open. Then the smile falls from your face.
“You’re up!” Everyone’s favourite gymnast is there to greet you, a mug in hand as he goes to pull you in for a kiss. The way you swerve is automatic, unplanned, leaving his lips to land on your cheek. “Uhh, I was hoping you’d sleep a little longer, I wanted to bring you breakfast in bed but-”
“He couldn’t figure out how to boil the kettle.”
And there’s Bucky, leaning back against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed over his chest and a smug look on his face. Aside from the butterfly stitches above his left brow, he looks unharmed. Fine, even. Dressed in all black, with a t-shirt that’s hugging his frame a little too tightly for your liking, the double-combo of his dog-tags and vibranium arm on display. Perfectly safe for a man who couldn’t call.
Your date laughs and sheepishly scratches the back of his head before you get the chance to speak.
“Your brother was kind enough to help me.” It’s unclear who laughs first: Bucky or you. “What’s so funny?”
“Oh, nothing, nothing, just…” Bucky says, shaking the laughter away with a nod of his head. “In what world do me and her look related?”
“Wait, if you’re not her brother then, are you-” Fifty shades of horror spill over the gymnast’s face, his head darting between looking over at Bucky and back at you. “Holy shit, is he your boyfriend?”
“Husband, actually,” the soldier’s all too quick-witted, pushing off the counter and reaching for a mug of brewing coffee. “But don’t worry, we’re open. What do you think of our kitchen lights, by the way? My wife here likes them dim.”
Dumb as he is, your date tilts his head up to inspect the light fixtures.
“Oh, they’re nice!”
That does it for you.
“Bucky, shut up!” You snap, finger pointed over at the menace who’s biting back a smirk and stirring away at his mug, face as innocent as sin. Is this some twisted version of revenge, a punishment for bringing a stranger home? You’d prefer the punishment to be a little more… hands on. Preferably in the form of your slapping that twinkle out of his eyes. “He is not my boyfriend, or my husband. He is the bum that lives on my couch.”
“You see how she treats me, Vince?”
“It’s Lance,” the gymna- Lance corrects him.
Moving towards the kitchen, your eyes check over your roommate once more, as though they expect some previously unseen injury to make an appearance on his skin. Come the end of your search, you’re left looking into a face that is sporting a split brow and a cruel level of entertainment from the situation at hand.
There’s a relief to having him back, and it’s wrestling with the exasperating emotions a single missed call conjured up.
“What are you doing here, anyway? Aren’t you and Sam still meant to be… I don’t know, on a homoerotic getaway, fighting crime?” The questions fire out of you as you slip into one of the island’s stools.
“We finished early,” Bucky appears by your side as though from thin air, hand clasping the back of your seat and pushing you in closer to the counter top.
“Aww, don’t worry, big boy, it happens to the best of you,” you tease, an empathetic pat against his shoulder.
The mockery backfires when you notice his brows shoot up and his stare shifts towards your date, who’s too busy trying to open the sugar jar to notice the dig at his own sexual inabilities.
Wait, when exactly did Bucky get home?
“How do you take your coffee?” One-Thrust-Lance asks you over his shoulder.
Before you can answer, a cup is nudged into your grasp and Bucky looks over you with triumph, metal fingers reaching out to drag over a plate of freshly-baked cookies. The smell of warm vanilla pairs well with the soft musk of his cologne, your eyes nearly roll back inhaling it.
“Mmm,” one sip of your coffee is all you need to know it’s perfect, made exactly to your taste. “Coffee and baked goods… I knew I kept you around for a reason.”
In lieu of any verbal response, the soldier takes to dunking one of the cookies into your mug before stealing a bite out of it. You watch as he chews on the sweet treat, head nodding in approval at his own skills. After he dips a second time, you expect him to take another bite, only to find him offering the chocolate chip goodness up to your mouth. Two eyes, blue as any winter, stare encouragingly while you sink your teeth into the cookie.
Heaven couldn’t taste any sweeter, you think, as the perfect blend of coffee stained dough and the sharpness of the dark chips flood your tastebuds.
“So messy,” Bucky tuts quietly, his right hand grabbing a steady hold of your chin while his thumb swipes away the crumbs dusting the corner of your mouth.
That thing inside of you stops again as you watch him bring his hand up to his own mouth, a pink tongue poking out to lick his thumb clean.
Arousal thrums through your blood, a pulsing rhythm that spreads straight to your clit. A squeeze of your thighs brings momentary reprieve, yet the ache fights back with renewed force, drying up your throat and knocking the sense right out of you.
Squirming where you sit, your legs switch position until one foot finds itself tucked beneath the opposite thigh, the heel of it sitting perfectly against your clothed core. You find no mercy, no chance to roll your hips forward in search of the balm only friction will bring to your burning skin. Instead there’s simply Bucky, eyes trailing down the length of you and settling on your short-clad legs. As though his behaviour is not cruel enough, he wets his bottom lip with his tongue
“You like that?” More than you’ll ever know, you almost scream until the logical side of your brain takes the wheel again and you notice him pointing down at the half-eaten cookie. Of course he’s enquiring about his baking skills, what else would this scrambled-egg-for-brains senior citizen be talking about? “Are you gonna make me wait all day for an answer?”
Something smashes behind Bucky, just in time to startle away the racy thoughts from your mind.
“My bad!” Your date — who you damn near forgot was even here — is apologising, bending at the waist and trying his best to collect the fractured pieces of a mug off the floor. “Where do you guys keep your dustpan?”
Bucky pushes away from the island counter, taking the smell of his cologne with him; if you weren’t fully back to your rational senses, you’d miss it.
“I’ll get it, Vince, you just stand there and look pretty.”
“Okay!” Lance, it seems, is just as eager to please the ex-assassin as you almost were a moment ago.
You decide you need to move, to stand up, to stretch your legs. This has nothing to do with the lingering effect of Bucky’s antics, nor the damp patch gathering against your panties.
Slipping off the kitchen stool, you work on chugging down gulps of coffee with every intention of dumping the empty mug into the sink, dashing to your bedroom, and conjuring up the best plan you can come up with to get not only yourself, but also the trash you brought in with you last night out of the apartment and away from an infuriating roommate.
Something on the floor derails you, however, dragging you away from the path to sanctuary. The tiniest red petal, lonesome and neglected upon the cold tile. Three steps over, and there’s another petal. One step until the next petal. You follow the breadcrumb trail all the way over to the garbage can where, with one gentle push of a button, the lid opens up to reveal the unexpected, thrown away like a dirty secret.
A crumpled bouquet of roses.
Everywhere you turn, there’s tension.
In your neck, from sleeping at an unfavourable angle. Within your stomach, where a queasy feeling keeps threatening to spew your guts out onto the bathroom floor. Between you and Bucky, a foreign energy that’s grown over the course of this last week, during which you’ve been avoiding eye contact and his stare is full of accusation.
Retracing your steps, they take you back to the moment Lance left the apartment and you found yourself drowning in Bucky’s company for the first time in weeks. He was barely half-way through poking fun at the choices you made in his absence — most of his focus being on the blubbering fool you brought into your bed — when your patience ran thin and snapped.
Now here you are, bearing the consequence of your own short temper, wiping lipstick off your teeth whilst mentally preparing yourself to go on a second date, planned sheerly out of spite and the need to prove a point.
Poor Lance is none the wiser to his role as pawn in your game of ‘Screw You, Barnes!’.
“Everything okay in there?” Think of the devil and he shall knock on the bathroom door, apparently. “Thought you had your big date at seven.”
The gymnast’s text thread stares back at you, a wall of grey bubbles. You have to swallow down the lump in your throat to speak, “He’s not answering my calls.”
“You’ve been stood up? By that loser?” There’s every chance your storm of emotions is impeding you from thinking straight, but you swear you almost hear a hint of disbelief in Bucky’s voice. Disgust, even.
There’s no point dwelling on the thought.
After a quick wash of your hands, you pry the door open and watch as the soldier leaning against it nearly topples forward before catching himself against the frame. He’s entirely too close for comfort, close enough for you to notice the different shades of blue in his eyes.
“Maybe he broke his phone?” The lack of assurance in your voice has you cringing, the fear of being called out suddenly doubling.
Bucky scoffs, arms crossing over his chest.
“More likely he forgot to charge it.”
Is that what happened to him? Is that why he left you to dwell in the dark over his whereabouts and wellbeing, rendering the usual distraction of a night-time companion useless? Only for you to find him the following morning, right as rain and as annoying as ever, standing in the kitchen and casting judgement-filled glances at your overnight guest?
Thinking about it, about him, brings on an onslaught of anger you’re not willing to address. Not right now.
“Shut up!” It comes across as less independent girlboss and more petulant child, but you’re too busy noticing how firm his chest feels under your palms as you push past him out of the bathroom to care.
Prying open the freezer, you hear the soft click of the toilet door closing. Good, you think, he’s gone away. Out of sight, out of mind. Even if it is only for the short time it takes him to do his business.
That time ends up being even shorter than expected, for only minutes after you’ve dug your spoon into the creamy, frozen goodness of vanilla fudge, the object of both your fascination and your torture is making his way towards the kitchen.
“Didn’t I tell you to stop eating my ice cream?”
“Didn’t I tell you to move out?” Mouth full of vanilla, you shoot him a toothy grin and relish in the grimace it earns you.
Satisfaction melts away when Bucky invades your personal space, metal arm reaching over head and pulling open a cupboard.
“Don’t do that,” you swat at the vibranium bicep, a futile fight that simply makes you all too aware of how smooth it feels beneath your fingertips.
“Do what?” Brain of a caveman, Bucky continues his rustling through the cabinet behind you, features as stoic as a rock as though he’s none the wiser to how your chests brush against one another with each exhale.
“That,” another swat at his arm, though this time he yields. The space between you doesn’t grow, however. It worsens, his attention fully falling onto you now. “Reaching over me like you can’t just ask me to move.”
“Fine, if it really bothers you that much,” are the last words you hear before you’re airborne, two hands squeezing at your hips and moving you two steps over and out of the way.
The soldier doesn’t struggle, not even for a moment, the serum that’s altered his DNA leaving him primed and ready to manoeuvre the most steadfast of objects. Manhandle them, too. Pick them up, turn them over, pin them down, make them scream… Objects, of course, or those big, bad guys he and Sam are always chasing after.
The anger in you is renewed, burning brighter than a star ready to die. You shove his hands off of you and secure another step of distance between you.
“Well aren’t you a ray of sunshine today.” With the rate he’s going at, one would think the soldier makes a living out of deepening the frown on your face. “Is this princess’ first time being stood up?”
You’d slap him, right here and now, if it didn’t mean moving closer and touching his skin; the current top two of your ‘Things To Not Do’ list.
Luckily, the tub of ice cream sits just within reach and your eager fingers take grip of it, sliding it over the counter towards yourself. A mouthful of coolness precedes the burning question on your tongue, “Why didn’t you call?”
“Are you serious?” Now he’s the one scowling and taking a step closer.
“Deadly,” you dig the spoon back into the carton. “Now answer the question.”
“You’re pissy with me for not calling, meanwhile I’m the one who came home to some asshole in your bed?”
He’s moving closer. You try to step backwards.
“Yeah, well, if you’d called like you were supposed to, I wouldn’t have ended up with said asshole.”
Bucky’s eyes narrow, “Oh, so now it’s my fault that you date degenerates?”
The cackle that escapes you could break the soundbarrier.
“Wow! Everybody, give it up for another original dig at my love-life from James Buchanan Barnes!” Voice dripping with seven layers of venomous sarcasm, you give three slow claps of your hands. The cynical smile that overcomes your face feels borderline deranged, something plucked right out of a horror movie. “Okay, yeah, I date losers! Happy? Jesus Christ, Bucky, what do you expect me to do? It’s not exactly like there’s anyone else lining up to date me.”
“I am!” His voice is raised, his eyes are wide, his chest is heaving. “Maybe I’m the biggest idiot, rushing home last week to surprise you. Even brought you flowers. I just… Fuck!”
You don’t move, don’t blink, don’t breathe.
Bucky runs a hand through his hair, knuckles going white as he pulls on the tresses.
There it is again in his eyes, the accusation.
Even though he’s shaking his head, he steps closer.
The kitchen counter is right behind you, there’s nowhere for you to run.
The heels on your feet almost give out beneath you, you try to steady yourself with your hands.
Bucky has other plans and grips both your forearms.
“I am,” he repeats, softer. Slower. The icy exterior of accusation melts away to reveal vulnerability.
A hand meets your cheek and holds you like you are glass, breakable beneath his touch. Your heart’s in your throat, and there’s a current of electricity running down to your toes, and that neglected hunger in your loins creeps in again. His eyes search your face, while his thumb gently swipes over your bottom lip, prying it out an involuntary capture from your teeth.
It’s unclear who reaches for who first, whether he dips and takes possession of your mouth, or you grab him by the collar of his shirt and lay your claim over him. In a matter of seconds, a tentative press of lips against lips divulges into loss of breath, tongues in mouths, and fevered kisses.
The soldier kisses with starvation, like he has walked through the desert of loneliness and at last stumbled upon an oasis, like a bee seeking every last drop of nectar from a flower dying off with the spring, like a body clings to sleep in the throes of exhaustion. It’s a necessity, a human need, a matter of survival to keep your lips interlocked.
The hand on your face holds you steady as he tilts himself deeper into the kiss. Noses brush against the swells of cheeks, eyelids rest close, feet shuffle closer in search of eradicating the crevice of distance between you two. Metal fingers curl around the nape of your neck, a gesture you reciprocate while your spare hand lays flat-palmed against his beating chest. One of his legs winds up between yours and, as he shifts weight from one foot to another, there’s the faintest relief of friction against your cunt and a whine gets caught between your throat and Bucky’s eager mouth.
Despite how you chase his lips, he pulls back and grants you the sight of pure endearment.
“Look at you, whining already. Where’s all that fire gone?” It’s practically a whisper, spoken with fascination. “Or were you just needing Old Bucky to touch you, huh?”
Second-hand embarrassment burns the tips of your ears, while your own unspoken agreement to his question has your stomach twisting up. Survival instincts, that have never been much of a friend, scream at you to flee this feeling, to throw away Pandora’s box before you risk fully opening it and having it consume you.
Bucky intercepts your attempt to push out of his arms.
“Ah, ah, get back here. Not done kissing you,” his words divulge into a barely coherent mumble as he reconnects your lips.
Beneath the heat of his kiss, the discomfort in your chest turns to ashes. Because, while instinct tells you to run from danger, this is Bucky.
Bucky who fixes cupboard hinges, and sleeps with both eyes on the door. Bucky who carries all the shopping, and holds every door. Bucky who calls to hear your voice while he’s away endangering his life, and brings home the silliest trinkets he finds on missions. Bucky who wakes you when you miss your alarm, and knows if you’ve had a bad day simply from looking at your face.
How could you possibly be in danger when it comes to him?
While you’re overcome with epiphany, he’s taken to tracing his lips over the slope of your jaw and mouthing at the skin of your neck. It’s when he lifts you up onto the kitchen counter that your wandering mind is reeled back in, to the physical present where your legs rest on either side of the soldier and the prized possession of vanilla fudge once again sits within reaching distance.
“Are you stealing my ice cream right now?” His lips tickle your collarbone as he speaks, barely a moment after you’ve scooped the spoon into your mouth.
“I’m warm, and it's melting,” his head pops up just in time to accept the spoonful of vanilla you deliver. There’s a glow in his eyes, one that has you questioning if it's been there all along or if it's a consequence of touching your skin. “Don’t want it to go to waste.”
His mouth is on yours again, a rush of three chaste kisses seared against you before he replies, “Then let’s cool you down.”
At a teasingly slow pace, you feel his fingers tug down your dress’ straps, leaving the silky fabric to slip down your frame and pool around your hips. Under the golden hue of the kitchen lights, his gaze studies your bare skin like it's a work of art, an eighth wonder of the world, the greatest poem never written woven into it. Yet it still manages to pale against the face that overcomes him as he removes a final layer of lace.
Unlike Vince, he has no trouble removing your bra.
“So responsive,” he talks as though only his ears are meant to hear it, his vibranium palm gently taking hold of your left breast and rolling the hardening nipple between two fingers.
He’s studying your reaction, bewildered by the goosebumps spreading over your flesh.
When was the last time he truly touched another person? Weeks, months, years, decades? The thought of his hands on a faceless shape makes you sick. First with envy, and then with hypocrisy, an amalgamation of all the men you’ve taken to bed flashing before your eyes. But none of them ever touched you like you were porcelain, and none of them looked at you like you held the key to eternal pleasure. None of them were Bucky.
A chill runs down your spine and a gasp rips out your chest as Bucky swipes the spoon over your skin, leaving a trail of ice cream atop your right breast for his tongue to follow. He plants a garden of kisses along the swell of your chest before pulling away to give the left side equal treatment, another creamy river along your skin for him to clean up.
Moving at their own volition, your hips grind gently against his steady figure as Bucky coats your nipple in vanilla, moaning into your chest as he lays claim over you with his mouth. Spoiling you in his kisses, the soldier begins to yearn for friction, meeting the careful roll of your hips with his own.
Your hand finds his hair and his stare meets yours, intense and all-consuming as he releases your nipple with a scrape of his teeth. You want to soothe his kiss-swollen lips but they’re already wrapping themselves around your other breast, not even patient enough to lather you in the vanilla goodness this time.
Instead, the coldness on your skin stems from metal fingers, perched on your thigh and creeping up the length of it, inch by tormenting inch. A hesitant hand wraps around a vibranium wrist, tightening its grip before you begin guiding his touch inwards, upwards, to where you need it most. Bucky's stronger, more resistant, and holds off your interceptance, left hand continuing its intended path beneath the skirt of your dress and grabbing hold of your naked waist.
He’s everywhere, all over you. Mouthing at your chest, gripping at your hip, rutting into your pussy. The sweet drag of his bulge over your clothed core sires a wet patch against your thong and has your fingers tugging on the roots of his hair, winning you the hair-raising hum of a groan against your breast.
Desperate to feel more, you renew your efforts to lead his hand to the space between your legs and are met with a shake of his head.
“No,” he mutters, and robs you of a hand beneath your dress, using it instead to cradle your jaw while his lips skim over the shell of your ear. “Wanna feel you.”
The warmth of flesh brands your thigh, Bucky’s right arm now leading the charge beneath the silky fabric. With bated breath, you brace yourself against his strong chest and try not to squirm in anticipation of his touch. With one final squeeze at your inner thigh, the soldier’s hand engulfs your clothed cunt and his breath cracks in your ear, a strangled out, feral noise that has your toes curling.
“She’s so wet, darling,” his voice has you delirious, breathy against your ear. His fingers flex against your pussy and a moan catches in your throat. “You gonna let me touch her?”
Something about the way he’s speaking to you, the words he’s choosing, makes you want to fall apart. Your sex-life has always been liberal, you know what it is to have a man’s hands all over you, trying to take ownership of parts of you he thinks belong to him. Men who take, and take, and take, until there is nothing left of you to give, and not once do they care to win your favour, to plead for permission. But Bucky…
“Please, say I can touch her, wanna give her what she needs,” he’s pleading for it, begging for you — wrecked and desperate, breath run ragged from no more than the relief of rolling his groin against your thigh. “Promise I’ll be real sweat, make you feel good.”
Too caught up in his own head, he doesn’t notice you nodding, until you’re granting him salvation verbally, “Touch me, Bucky.”
He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t waste time on taking off your underwear, just moves it to the side and drags the tip of his fingers down the inseam of your pussy. You hear it, more than you feel it, the moment he touches your opening, a sharp inhale at your ear telling you he’s exactly where he wants to be.
As his middle finger slips in, it’s hard to tell which of you reacts louder, both a mess of guttural moans. Once it's fully sheathed within you, he curls it and presses against your soaked walls, grinning against your skin at the reaction it coaxes out of you.
“Don’t hold back,” he chastises you as you bite back another pathetic whimper, a second finger slipping into you. “Let me hear what I’m doing to you.”
He must have a magic touch, you’re sure of it. Thick fingers that fuck into you at a steady pace, curling and teasing at that world-bending spot inside you, while his thumb makes itself useful against your clit, a firm force for your bucking hips to grind up into while you chase the pleasure he’s unleashing on you. In a matter of minutes, the room is alive with your melodic moans, Bucky’s endless hums of approval, and the damn-right embarrassingly loud squelch of him fingering your drooling cunt.
You make the mistake of letting your eyes slip shut, relinquishing yourself to the way he touches you with the rough hands of a soldier yet the delicate stroke of a musician playing his favourite instrument. He must feel the shift in you, for he’s instantly prying his face away from your neck and tightening the metal grip on your jaw, fingertips digging into squished cheeks.
“Look at me,” his words are both a command and a plea. An order you follow and a prayer you answer, eyelashes fluttering open to find his face in front of your own. His lips are a hard line, his brows furrowed in disapproval, and there’s a vein threatening to split down the middle of his forehead, but his eyes. His eyes are affection incarnate, two pools of lust and worship that pose no threat of drowning. “Do you want to cum?”
Never has a more needless question been asked.
You nod into the force of his vibranium hand, but that’s not what he wants, frown deepening.
“Say it,” needy, helpless, spoken like he’s the one on the brink of ecstasy. “Please.”
“Bucky,” it feels good to say his name like this, brain melting into mush and heart racing in your chest. “I want you to let me cum.”
“Let you?” He’s offended by the word, fingers burying impossibly deeper inside of you while he continues to stare you down. “I beg of you.”
No warning precedes the coil in you snapping. The muscles in your core tense, your back arches into his broad figure, your pussy squeezes at Bucky’s fingers with a death grip. He guides you through it, ignoring the cramp in his wrist in favour of continuing to fuck his hand into you, a smile finally cracking over his face as he watches you fall apart atop the counter, nothing but Bucky, Bucky, Bucky surrounding you.
He tries to give you reprieve, a moment to breathe and savour the buzz in your veins, the hand around your jaw shifting to stroke at your cheek while the hand between your legs soothes you with featherlight touches.
You don’t let him, hand pawing down his torso and gripping at the belt of his jeans, delighting in the familiar clang of a buckle being undone, nimble digits that tear leather out its loop and tug down his zipper. Bucky’s bringing his lips back against yours just as you palm at his bulge, his tongue licking into your mouth when you finally release him from the confines of his boxers.
Fingers coated in your own slick grip at your thigh while the soldier makes it his mission to steal your breath, rendering you blind to the sight of his cock. But you can feel it. The weight of it in your hand, the burn of want ingrained in his skin. The width of it, and the length of it, and the perfectly mushroomed tip that has him keening into your touch as your pointer finger drags over the head.
“Is this what I do to you?” Still lost in the maze of your orgasm, you manage to gain back crumbs of your usual confidence watching Bucky fall mute. When he merely nods, you play him at his own game, fingers back in his hair and forcing him to look you in the eye. “Say it.”
He doesn’t.
He says something much better.
“D’you even realise how many nights I’ve laid on that fucking couch, hard as a rock and willing you to come out your room?”
“That’s your generation's problem, you know?” You whisper teasingly, incapable of fighting off your own laughter. “You swear more than you breathe.”
“C’mere,” he’s rolling his eyes and pulling you in, kissing you like it’s been a milenia and not a minute, hand nudging yours out the way to take a hold of himself.
Your teeth graze over his tongue as he drags the head of his cock through your folds, and he groans into your mouth before pulling back. Resting his forehead against yours, he’s teasing you both as his tip brushes over your hole before continuing its rutt up, bumping against your sensitive clit.
A wicked voice takes control of your mouth.
“Lance would have fucked me by now.”
“Vince would have cum by now, too,” he’s still rocking his hips, no sense of urgency behind the way he soaks himself in you.
Meanwhile, you’re a handful of seconds away from screaming at him to just stick it in already.
“You- Oh!” Prayers answered, hallelujah, his cock finally sinks into you. It’s a shallow thrust, barely more than the tip before he’s retreating, yet it's enough to mess with your head. “You heard us?”
“Unfortunately,” and he means it, the most subtle of pouts forming on his lips before he feeds himself a little deeper into your pussy. “I’m not great when it comes to timing.”
“I only slept with Lance because you-” Right on cue, he fucks into you even deeper and your words dissappear before they can reach your tongue.
“New rule,” a hand rests on your knee and encourages you to spread your legs wider. “No speaking another man’s name when you’re in bed with me.”
“Technically, this is the kitchen counter-” The bastard does it again, cuts you off with his dick — if it didn’t feel so damn good, you’d slap him.
He’s bottomed out at last, buried himself fully in your cunt. Hands snake around your waist, one palm flattening against your lower back while the other rests a little further up and guides your spine to arch into him, closer, like there’s anymore space left between you to devour.
His pace is still slow, teasing. A toe-curling drag of his cock out of you, letting you feel every ridge and vein before his hips promptly snap back into you and send your eyes rolling back, your head falling back — and smacking loudly against the cupboard door behind you.
Bucky freezes, one hand quick to cradle the back of your skull while his eyes scan over you.
“Jesus, doll, you okay?”
“Please don’t stop,” you plead, ridiculously unfazed by the faint ache when you’ve got him inside of you.
Even though he rolls his eyes, he complies.
“Might have just given you a concussion and all you care about is getting fucked?” He asks, like you could possibly care about anything else when his arms are hooking themselves under your knees and rucking you up off the counter, away from any rogue cupboard that means you harm.
If anything, you’ll gladly shoulder the burden of any possible injury, if it means being granted the sight of his biceps tensing as he effortlessly stands there and fucks you down onto him. Were you in any sane state of mind, you wouldn’t think it, but god bless that super soldier serum.
“You can give me a cockcussion for all I care,” head perched on his shoulder, you watch your nails sink into the fabric of his shirt and wish it would disappear and gift you the naked view of his back.
“Adding that to the list,” he whispers against your forehead, pressing a kiss against it.
Legs bent at the knee, you watch how, with one particularly deep thrust, they bounce at either side of him and one of your heels clatters to the floor.
The room pivots as Bucky turns, you still in his arms and your ankles locked behind his back. At first, you believe he’s aiming to move things into the bedroom, where the only thing your head will be hitting is the mattress when he lays you down. He proves you wrong, however, the cold press of marble against you once more as he settles you down onto the kitchen island.
Much to your chagrin, he slips out of you, cock now sitting pretty against his clothed abdomen and glistening with the sheen of your essence. In the blink of an eye, the soldier is sinking to his knees, metal finger reaching back for your fallen shoe.
The scene plays out like something stripped right out of a morally dubious, low quality pornography retelling of Cinderella, in which Prince Charming has his dick out, Cinderella’s gown is half-way off, and the infamous glass slipper is just a pair of heels you bought on sale.
Bucky is delicate and slow, mouth tickling at your inner knee as he secures the shoe in place. He rests back on his haunches and fully takes in the sight of you, perched upon the counter, hands splayed out on marble, a tangle of silk around your waist, lips parted in search of steady breathing.
There’s an intensity to his gaze, burrowing itself beneath your skin and becoming part of your bloodstream, spreading throughout your body. It makes you want to hide, flee like you do best, but Bucky has other plans.
“The shoes stay on, but this,” Bucky’s fingertips tug lightly on the hem of your dress, exposing a sliver of new skin. “I need this gone. Am I allowed to take it off?”
There he goes again, face the model of innocence while he asks for permission to your body. If you weren’t already dripping against your panties, you would be now. Luckily, he doesn’t push you to verbalise your agreement this time, more than eager to comply the moment you nod your head.
You wiggle your hips as he pulls the fabric out from beneath you, his grip snagging on the waistband of your thong and dragging it away alongside the dress. When your ass cheeks press back down onto the cool of the counter, reality hits you like a freight-train: you’re completely nude, with Bucky on his knees before you, in the middle of the kitchen.
“Buck,” the y of his nickname disappears as you feel him peppering kisses of your leg, inching that little bit higher each press of his mouth. Squeezing your eyes shut, you try to remember where your rational thoughts are stored, conjuring up images of friends, of Sam sitting at this very surface. “I don’t think we should… I mean, people eat off this counter!”
“Don’t worry,” reaching the threshold of your thigh, his kisses seem to speed up, that sauve and composed exterior chipping away to reveal a man who no longer wants to take his time with you. “I intend to eat.”
No sooner than the words reach your ears, Bucky swipes his tongue up your pussy and any fight left in you melts away as you turn to putty beneath his touch, soft and malleable, willing to sit there and take whatever he wants to give.
Give, he most certainly does. Lips latch onto your clit, hands hold your squirming hips in place, tongue dances over your most delicate areas before dipping into your entrance. He drinks from you like you’re the sweetest honey, the richest of red wines, the Holy Grail promising an eternal youth to a man whose time was stolen from him.
“You should see her, doll,” there’s a rasp in Bucky’s voice, a feral undertone to the growl that rests in the back of his throat. One hand tugs his shirt off while the other snakes between your legs, two fingers spreading your lips open in an obscene gesture that has you clamping down on your bottom lip. “She’s drooling for me, all pretty and wet.”
Dropping both your legs over his shoulders, he tugs you right to the edge of the counter and dives back in. You feel his nose bump against your clit and your hand grabs onto your thigh, nails piercing into flesh as your mouth sings a whined symphony.
Vibranium curls around your wrist, prying harm away from your own skin and silently imploring you to hurt him instead, nestling your fingers back into his hair. He’s renewing his effort, a touch that’s more determined than ever to make you fall apart, on his knees and worshipping the altar of your body — fealty and devotion seared into each lap of his tongue, each brush of his lips, each stroke of his fingers.
Who are you to reject his piety? You welcome it, with closed fist and glassy eyes. The soldier shudders — a full-body shiver that shakes down his spine — as the point of your heel digs into his back and your fingers squeeze at his scalp, no mercy shown as you lose yourself in the throes of lust.
When you cum, a silent scream rips through your chest and a burning-too-bright white light turns you blind. He doesn’t let up, tongue still buried in your convulsing walls as your thighs clamp around his head and your feet kick at his back, shoes flying elsewhere into the kitchen. He pays none of it any mind, content to prolong your orgasm for as long as you’ll allow him, slowly rising off his knees with two hands pinning you back against the counter while he continues to feast on your pleasure.
“Ja-mes,” a fractured call of his name is all it takes for him to stop, pupils more black than blue as they stare down at the picture you paint atop the counter: teary-eyes, swollen lips, heaving chest.
He’s hardly the image of composure either, red lines along the expanse of his back, hair a tousled mess, the scruff on his face covered in a sheen of your juices. And, yet, never have you wanted to kiss him so bad.
All you manage, after minutes of floating atop the cloud of your peak, is a cheeky grin and a comment that makes him roll his eyes: “For a fossil, you’re pretty kinky.”
“War camps aren’t exactly known for being fun,” as he speaks, he slowly lowers your legs off his shoulder. “You find ways to keep yourself entertained.”
“Bet you were quite the pleaser, huh?” Trying your best to play it cool, you lay your head fully back on the counter and stare up at the ceiling, praying he doesn’t notice the hypocritical pit forming in your stomach as you listen to your own words. “Probably had all the prettiest nurses fighting over who gets to tend to your poor, aching, throbbing co-”
“Jealousy looks cute on you,” he interrupts, amused, as his hands soothe over your hips.
“I’m not jealous!” You exclaim, barely believing yourself.
One hand reaching out for him, you watch your fingers intertwine with the prosthetic digits and let him tug you back up, chest to chest when his hand finds your cheek.
“I was,” his confession is crooned whilst staring right into your eyes, the tiniest up-turn to his mouth. “Everytime you walked out the door to go date a new loser.”
“Who knew,” your voice is as gentle as his own, nonchalant as a finger dances down the well-defined muscles of his abdomen and elicits a groan out of him. “All along I had my own loser at home.”
Bucky opts for silence as your hand reaches his groin and pays no mind to his cock, red-tipped and leaking, flushed against his stomach. You’re more interested in his jeans — in removing them, to be exact. It doesn’t take much, a sharp tug at the hem before they’re slipping off, meeting restraint as they cling to his muscled thighs and implore him to finish the job on your behalf, shucking them off blindly to where the rest of your clothes lie.
You must have saved a village in a past life to be rewarded with the view of a completely nude Bucky Barnes, skin stained by lust and laced with gold beneath the kitchen light. You must have saved the rest of the world, too, to watch how his eyes roll back and his mouth falls slack when you take his length in hand and give one slow pump of your wrist, releasing it just to watch it slap back against his abdomen.
As you reach for his dick again, his hand secures itself around your own and guides it up and down the length of it. Once, twice, thrice, till he’s breathing heavily and dripping in pre-cum.
“You must be close,” a statement you make with his own bodily reaction as evidence to back it up, yet there’s still room for doubt — to what extent does that soldier serum interfere with him?
“Put me back down on my knees and I’ll cum to the taste of you,” the soldier certainly makes a tempting offer, one that it almost pains you to refuse.
Almost, if you hadn’t already felt the sweet stretch of him inside you.
“Pretty sure putting you back down on your knees might be considered elder abuse, ole buddy.”
“My age may be a hundred and six but-”
“Exactly my point.”
“But my body isn’t,” he’s using that stare of his, the one Sam always warns you about, while you’re full-on cheesing, a rush of adrenaline shooting through your veins as you wind him up.
“Remind me, who threw their back out a few weeks ago pulling a tray of muffins out the oven?”
His flesh hand grips behind one of your knees and tugs you right to the edge of the counter, while his left one, still clasped over your own, drags his tip over your folds.
“I don’t remember hearing you complain when you drunkenly ate half the tray and then threw up over the rest,” admittedly, not one of your proudest moments.
“Shut up and fuck me, Barnes.”
“Yes ma’am.”
Just like that, you’re drowning in him again, gasping for breath as you lose yourself in a flood of lust. Bottomed out, stuffing you full, Bucky barely graces your pussy with the chance to adjust to his stretch once more before he’s moving, the sweet graze of every inch being dragged along your sensitive walls.
Your nerves are still reeling from his mouth, a quiet hum of electric pleasure reawakened by his throbbing cock and his vulgar mouth.
“She fits me like a fucking glove,” his hands are pawing at your waist, your breast, your face, never in one place for too long as he begins to settle into a rhythm of thrusts. “Doing so good for me, darling.”
The softness put into his term of endearment births an ache in your chest, one that will accept no medicine other than your arms around his neck and his lips on yours. Mouths tangled in kisses and sweat dripping down your skin, Bucky halts — your hips pressed together, the swell of his balls resting right against your swollen cunt, the head of his cock resting right against your sweet spot — and grinds.
Slow, deliberate, delicious. You whine into his mouth and feel how he swallows it, feasts on your ecstasy with a willing tongue, and a smiling mouth, and possessive teeth that tug at your lip as he pulls back. He stretches out the feeling, grinding a second time as your noses bump against one another.
“Bucky,” his name is an anchor, a paperweight, something to ground you amidst the floaty feeling of being two orgasms deep with a third approaching any time now.
“I know,” he says, and you believe him. Believe that he knows, that he’s known, that he always knows when it comes to you.
You lay your head to rest upon on his left shoulder when he returns to chasing a high between your thighs, a renewed vigor behind each thrust that has your hips rolling to meet his and your nails raking over the straining muscles of his back.
“I lied,” an unprompted confession stumbles out his mouth, fingers flexing into their grip on your waist. “About the apartment viewing. I didn’t go.”
“Bucky,” is all you can manage, branded into his skin with a kiss along his neck.
“Is that all you can say? Huh?” His voice carries a teasing lilt, paired to perfection with the pad of his thumb rubbing at your clit. “I’m giving pivotal revelations here, and you’re just gonna reply with that?”
Another echo of his name, walls fluttering around his dick.
“Bucky, Bucky,” he’s mocking you, a torturer’s laugh as he moans his name into your ear. “Keep going, you sound so pathetic it’s almost cute.”
Beyond words and beyond sense, you give in to the weight of his palm splaying against your stomach and guiding your back down onto the island. The soldier hooks your legs over his elbows, deepening the angle that his cock fucks into you, and you swear you see stars dance along the kitchen ceiling.
A hand smooths over your gut and you look back at Bucky to find adoration in his eyes.
“You see that?” You almost want to cry when his movement switches back to a slow drag — innnnn and outtttt — until you notice it: the smallest hint of movement beneath your flesh, a subtle visual of the outline of his tip bulging against your skin from inside you. “See how full she is, how good I’m making her feel?”
Pressing your hand against it, you can’t help but giggle as you feel him poke at your palm, only to fall back into a puddle of incoherent noises when he keeps pushing at that sweet spot, over and over. Harder and faster with each draw back of his hips, you feel rivulets of your own arousal roll down your ass and onto the marble, tainting the counter forevermore in the sins the soldier commits against you, the sins you welcome with open legs.
You’re near the edge again, and he feels it, pushing you closer and closer as he slowly spirals into a mess of phrases that barely begin before he’s cutting them off with something new.
“Don’t deserve this-” He catches himself, rips the insecurity in his voice out by the roots. “C’mon, let me see it one more time. Need to see you fall apart.”
“Want you to fall apart too,” you manage to beg, unwilling to watch him hold back or pull out before he finishes. “Please!”
Like any good soldier, he obeys.
Crashing over you like a wave, he’s doubled-over by the waist and sandwiching you between the counter and him. You feel him spill into you, hot ropes of cum painting your walls white as a third crescendo washes over your body.
Both of you seek out the other as his thrusts grow languid and your walls spasm, milking him for every last drop he’s got. When your mouths meet, it’s less of a kiss and more of you simply breathing into the other, exchanging air and body heat.
“So,” you croak eventually, exhausted and spent atop the counter yet completely unwilling to relinquish him from blanketing you. “Are you gonna do that every time I steal your ice cream?”
Somewhere between jello-ed legs and cold compresses, you wind up in bed.
Skin clammy, lips swollen, lust satiated, you practically melt into the buttery softness of your bed sheets as Bucky lays you down. Despite how you’re still basking in the glow of your third and final orgasm, the soldier seems to think, for a second, you can handle another.
With gentle hands prying open your thighs and a curious tongue diving in for a second helping, licking up the dribble of his own cum spilling out your hole, he’s quick to be corrected when you roll away from his touch with a whine and a plea, “think I might actually die if you make me cum again, Buck.”
He’s unbothered by the rejection, wholly embracing it as he curls up behind you and snakes his arms over your naked skin. It’s you who drags the sheet up and over you both, turning in his arms to plant your head on his chest. His heart races beneath it, but you hold off on teasing — your own isn't any better.
“Sam’s going to kill me,” you whisper out into the room, when moonlight is peeking through your curtains and both of your heartbeats have calmed down.
“I’m sorry,” you feel him shift beneath your head and, though you can’t fully see him, you feel that blue gaze land on you. “Have I not made it clear enough what name you should be saying in bed?”
“There’s a serious chance I’ll die and you’re thinking with your dick,” he squirms as you pinch at his nipple. “You’re no better than the men on your list, Barnes.”
Silence floats back in between you for a moment, peaceful as the slow stroke of his fingers dancing up your spine.
“Why would Sam kill you?” He pauses, hand pressing a little harder down against a knot in your shoulder. “He knows you have a crazy guard dog.”
Your crazy guard dog just pressed a kiss against your forehead, how frightening.
“He made me swear I wouldn’t get involved with you. He said you weren’t in the headspace for a relationship, that you needed to focus on inner peace first.”
“Turns out inner peace is being inside of you,” you pinch at his nipple again. This time, he doesn’t run from it. This time, you almost swear you hear a little moan creep up his throat. “So, Wilson’s to blame? I can get behind that.”
“To blame for what?”
His hand’s now running up and down the back of your arm, leaving goosebumps wherever its tender touch goes.
“Why it took you so long to jump my bones.”
“You think I jumped your-” Your head rises off his chest and you stare into the navy darkness of the room, trying to make a concrete shape out where you see shadows of his face. “Wait, so these past few weeks, I’ve not been hallucinating? You’ve been… flirting?”
“It’s been more than a couple weeks, sweetheart,” Bucky seems to have no problem finding you in the dark, hand cupping your cheek and dragging you up to press a chaste kiss against your mouth. “You don’t seriously think I waited until morning to check that sink without hoping to be caught, do you?”
“So you were slutting yourself out on the kitchen floor!”
“Think the kitchen’s seen worse,” worse might be the understatement of the century.
Clothes still lay discarded, counters unwiped, ice cream completely melted. Cleaning you up had been the soldier’s only priority, and you weren’t in the mood or the mindstate to argue with him on that.
A fingertip tickles down the slope of your nose.
“Stop fighting it, you’re tired,” you hear him whisper.
“I want to hear more about your desperate efforts to get my attention,” it’s nothing but a weak protest.
“We have all the time in the world for that. Sleep,” you don’t hesitate to comply when Bucky’s hand presses you back down against the warmth of his chest. “You’re going to need it. Our upstairs neighbours still need a taste of their own medicine.”
+ extra hyde !
· 70% of this fic is just dialogue, these two losers would not stfu! · writing banter + sexual tension feels more exposing than writing literal porn. · lore accurate photo of me whenever bucky barnes exists:
click here to join my taglist.
Kinda wanna also make text fics, kinda wanna find a good app/website to do so.
Any ideas? 🥹
Unknown Love
Part 2
Part 1
ot8!members x fem!reader
Summary: Y/n gets a text from an unknown number telling her she has four months to figure out who he is. What starts as a mystery turns complicated as his messages grow more personal-and harder to ignore-while she's already falling for someone real in her life.
✮⋆.˚✮🎤✮˚.⋆ ⋆.˚✮🎤✮˚.⋆ ⋆.˚✮🎤✮˚.⋆ ⋆.˚✮🎤✮˚.⋆ ⋆.˚✮
Taglist: @whydolife @dearberry @minmin0310
I'm loving this so far, please can I be added to the taglist 🥹💗
the turn of the seasons | CH. 11
> pairing | idol!lee minho x bsf fem!reader
> chapter word count | 4.0k
> genre | friends to lovers, fluff, smut, pregnancy, the tiniest bit of angst
> warnings | angst so light you need a magnifying glass to see it. MDNI.
> ttots masterlist
11. what is a Lee Know?
If someone had told you a year ago that you’d have three stray kids members kneeling in front of you at a beaten down warehouse, willing a baby inside your belly to move for them, you’d ask what kind of drugs were they on - and then proceed to call Minho and tell him all about it.
But now, sitting on a surprisingly comfortable fold out chair on their music video filming site, that’s exactly what was happening.
“What if I try rapping for her?”, Changbin was the first to approach when you arrived, babbling about how they had all been arguing about who had favorite-uncle energy.
“You can try knocking?”, Seungmin, standing a few steps away with Jeongin, suggests.
You look at him alarmed before turning to the boys sitting in front of you, “please don’t knock on my belly”.
“Maybe she’s asleep”, Chan had been the next to join Changbin’s antics, fully expecting you to side with him, bragging that, besides Minho, he was the first you shared the news about the baby with.
“Maybe she just doesn’t like you guys”, Seungmin pipes in again, to which Felix, the third boy directly in front of you, just rolls his eyes.
Minho was off filming an insert for the video with Jisung and Hyunjin, so you were yet to see him that day. Not that it made much of a difference, since you had been surrounded on all corners ever since making yourself known on set. Changbin was quick to find you a chair and him and Felix had not left your side, discussing on the best way to draw the baby attention, setting alongside Chan that whoever could make your little one kick would get dibs on favorite-uncle title.
“Why can’t you just wait for the baby to be outside?”, Jeongin seriously asks, never once having come near your belly. He had made it pretty clear that it freaked him out a bit, and you completely accepted his reasoning. Hell, if you were not yourself the one pregnant yourself, you’d also not be too thrilled about a whole human moving inside someone else’s body.
“It’s more fun this way”, Changbin replies without looking back at his younger members, silently hovering his hand on your belly, awaiting your ok, and placing it right above your belly button when you nod him yes, giving it a rub, “just one kick girl, c’mon, show them uncle Bin is your favorite”
“Jisung would be so pissed if she kicked you before him”, Chan was not wrong. Every time you hung out at the dorms over the past month, Jisung would always ask for the baby to kick. He almost felt it a few times but was yet to catch it.
“He has had more chances than anyone, if she hasn’t kicked for him yet that just means he’s not her favorite”, Felix was usually the first to stand by the members, but on this topic he too was fighting tooth and nail for the favorite uncle title.
You see Seungmin wave to someone behind you and, before you can turn to look at who’s coming, you feel arms circling from above you, a gentle kiss on the top of your head.
“Yah! Get out, you’re sweaty”, you nudge Minho away from you, only for him to lower his body until his face is level with your belly and also drop a little kiss over your bump.
“Hi to you too”, he says softly, only for the baby to kick so hard you can actually see your skin move under your shirt.
“That’s not fair!”, Changbin eyes bulge out as he too had seen the clear movement.
A loud and teasing “Heh!” comes out of Minho and you only roll your eyes as he paddles away to probably find himself some water.
“Wow, she really is a daddy’s girl”, Felix claps his hands slowly and dramatically.
“I admit defeat”, Chan adds.
“I told you guys, she won’t even kick for me!”, you have been trying to drill that onto them, to various degrees of failure.
Of course she’d still kick you randomly. You could feel her hiccup whenever you got out of the shower and the cold hit your body, or when your belly accidentally got wet while doing the dishes. You’d be woken up in the middle of the night in a rush to relieve your bladder whenever she decided she didn’t want to sleep, and you were always readjusting your sitting position at work, based on which vertebrae she had decided to assault that day. But never once had she kicked when you asker her to.
Minho, however?
All he needed to do was place a hand on your bump and she’d respond. He would coo and whisper to your belly, sometimes keeping his voice so soft not even you could hear him. But every time he asked, without fail, she’d move for him. Dance for him, as you’ve been saying.
“You better not be doing what I think you’re doing”, you heard Jisung’s loud voice as he approached the group, and in no time he was also joining the boys in front of you, going through his usual routine of trying to get the baby’s favor. Hyunjin followed closely, giving you a sideways hug as a hi that you quickly swatted away, given how sweaty he also was.
“You guys know that the baby has kicked me before, right?”, is how he joins the conversation.
Chan raises his arms from where he’s sitting on the floor, pointing to Hyunjin as if the younger boy was the voice of reason, “I’ve been saying that! I also felt Bun kick so I’m already ahead of the race for favorite uncle!”
“Those were not intentional kicks, so they don’t count”, is what Jisung adds, with Changbin and Felix nodding along in agreement.
“Nothing the baby does right now is intentional”, Jeongin chimes in, “it’s literally a fetus”
Minho walks back with a towel for himself and hands Hyunjin another one. He squats beside you and puts a hand on your belly again, “don’t listen to them, Bun, you don’t have to kick for anyone but me”.
As always, as if on cue, you feel another nudge from the inside, a little to the left of where Minho holds his hand. He smiles proudly and you try to contain your smile, to not let the boys know.
“She kicked him again, didn’t she?” Hyunjin deadpans. You don’t move a single muscle but the sparkle in your eyes gives it away. You can’t deny this is very entertaining for you.
Jisung is indignant, “you have got to be kidding me”.
“Tell me that was not intentional?”, Changbin points to where Minho’s hand is on your belly, directing his rage at the younger members standing a few steps behind.
Seungmin looks up from his phone and seems to assess the situation for a moment before deciding it’s best to just ignore it, his phone pings again and he takes a peak before turning to you, “Jihye says she just pulled up”.
He doesn’t even wait for a reply before leaving the group, probably going to find his girlfriend. The two of you had grown quite close over the past month, and she even joined you and Bora a couple of times for cafe dates. So you knew Seungmin was actually very affectionate with her, being caught off guard by how reserved he was about it, trying to sneak hugs and kisses when the members could not see to tease him over it.
“There you are!”, your best friend’s voice was the last to make itself known. Bora was finally choreographing something for Stray Kids, to Minho’s dismay. You, however, had never been happier, now having a good enough reason to visit both of them on set. She also comes behind you like Minho did, kissing your cheek as a hello and purposefully bringing her chest close to your back, making it so you could really feel how sweaty she was, “how are you, darling?”
“You are all disgusting”, you scrunch your nose at her, only for her to mirror the gesture at you.
“Now you, scoot over, my turn”, she shoos away Chan and you can only marvel at how confident Bora was, talking to Stray Kids’ Leader Bang Chan, while technically working for him, like he’s a 5 year old kid. To your surprise, the leader just smiled and got up, pulling Felix with him, mumbling something about having to do touch up before the next shoot anyway. Bora places a hand on your belly, “now how are you?”.
To your surprise, your girl kicks.
Bora’s eyes go wild looking up at you, not moving her hand away as if awaiting for you to confirm what she just felt. You bite your lip to contain your smile and nod your head yes, and your friend starts hysterically laughing.
“No way”, Jisung, still lingering, looks appalled between you, your bump, Bora’s hand on your bump and Bora’s victorious expression, “there is no way”, he repeats.
“I knew I was the favorite uncle”, she beans proudly at the 2/3rds of 3Racha looking at her with betrayal written all over their faces.
“You insisted you were her favorite dad like two days ago”, Minho says.
“And now I’m her favorite uncle”, she pokes her tongue out at him.
“Why can’t you just be her favorite aunt?”, Changbin whines.
“Because gender roles are stupid and we were fighting for favorite uncle and I won so I’m the favorite uncle,” she says it all in one breath, while finally getting up once a staff signals they need her for something.
“Dibs on being the favorite aunt”, Hyunjin raises his hand, only for a choir of voices to rise again, all claiming why they should be favorite aunt.
That goes on for long enough that the next set is ready for them to resume shooting, and you are left with Jihye, who found her way in with Seungmin, to watch from the sidelines the next segment of the music video - this time a group dancing bit with just the members, no extra dancers.
Bora is monitoring from the front, alongside the rest of the staff. You keep quiet while they run through the routine a few times, keeping your eyes glued on Minho, who’s leg was doing much better but was still not at 100%.
That had made it so he had been extra clingy over the past few weeks, using his sprained ankle as an excuse for everything when he was near you. You saw right through him but played along anyway, trying to convince yourself that the flutters in your heart whenever he held onto a hug for a little too long were completely normal.
So it doesn’t surprise you when he runs straight to you when the staff announces a five minute break for them to set the next angle. He sits on the floor in front of you, pressing his back to your legs and dropping his head back on your lap. You are handed a portable fan by a manager and holds it over him to ease some of his sweat.
As much as he is warm you are cold though, with the tail end of the summer transitioning into fall, and the t-shirts no longer being enough to keep you comfortable. You shudder and he feels it, looking up at you with an eyebrow raised in question.
“Forgot my hoodie”, you simply say. He fakes annoyance and stands up, returning with a couple staff hoodies and handing them to both you and Jihye, who also only had a light jacket with her.
“Never say I’ve done nothing for you”, he teases the both of you and Seungmin runs along, muttering something about Minho stealing his job.
You both slip onto the new pieces of clothing, thankful for the immediate respite from the cold. You check your phone to see that’s not even that cold yet, blaming the pregnancy for taking away your usual resistance to the lower temperatures.
Soon the members are called back and you and Jihye fall into a quiet conversation about work, relationships, families and everything in between.
—
It’s a couple of days before the pictures drop.
You had slept at your own place last night after getting home from work, enjoying an early night for once in forever, so you’re not surprised to wake up and see texts from Minho waiting for you. That’s an usual occurrence when your hours don’t line up, he aways lets you know when he makes it home and the plans he had on the next day, trying to put aside some hours to see you and the bump. You are surprised, however, to see so many other messages with his as well, all received over the past couple of hours.
[5:16AM] lee minho (baby daddy): morning
[5:16AM] lee minho (baby daddy): don’t go online
[5:16AM] lee minho (baby daddy): call me when you’re up
[6:02AM] lee jihye (ksm gf): please tell me you’re as freaked out as I am
[7:12AM] kim seungmin: hey noona
[7:12AM] kim seungmin: can you talk to jihye please
[7:12AM] kim seungmin: she’s not texting me back anymore
[7:12AM] kim seungmin: this is so fucked up
[7:23AM] hyunjinnie: here if you need to talk!
[7:27AM] bora-bora: why the fuck are reporters calling me at this god forsaken hour
[7:27AM] bora-bora: i will kill someone
[7:27AM] bora-bora: don’t try to stop me
[7:28AM] bora-bora: but maybe help me hire a lawyer?
[7:28AM] bora-bora: or hide a body?
You’re about to completely disregard Minho’s plea for you to not go online when your phone starts ringing.
bang chan (skz leader) is calling you…
“Hey”, he sounds a little out of breath when you pick up, “you okay?”
“I don’t know?”, you reply honestly, “should I not be?”
“You haven’t seen it yet”, the revelation sounds like a worry and a relief at the same time
“What am I not supposed to see?”
“They leaked some photos from set”, he says in a rush.
“Come again?”, and you hear him take a deep breath on the other side of the line.
“Photos. Leaked. You and Jihye.”, he gives you time to let that sink in, “Y/n?”
“Yeah yeah, I’m listening”, you’re not even fully awake yet, how is this your day already?
“At first it was just some blurry shots from far away”, he continues, “but it got some attention overnight and someone, we’re not sure who yet, posted photos from set”
You stay silent, waiting for him to continue, still only half awake. Your brain seemed to refuse to catch up with the information.
“The team is blocking the spread as much as they can, but we’ve been called to a meeting about it”, you hear voices in the back, but unlike the usual happy chatter you could sometimes overhear, it all sounded tense.
“Is there anything I could do?”, is all you can ask, not sure of what you even should be asking.
“Stay safe?”, the question sounds like a plea, “Minho is already inside with Seungmin, he asked me to let you know”
“Thank you Chan”, and as your mind finally starts to catch up you quickly add, “have you guys been able to reach Jihye?”
“Yeah I just talked to her as well”, he sounds uncertain, “she doesn’t sound too good though”
“I’ll call her as soon as we hang up”, your voice carrying the type of confidence you rarely displayed, “take care of the boys, will you?”
“You know I will”, his voice softens, some of the edge melting away, “you’re taking this better than I expected”
“Oh no I’m absolutely freaking out”, and you hear him lightly chuckle on the other side of the line, “but it’s not as if we could avoid this forever”
As soon as the call with Chan ends, you text Jihye back but, before calling her, you do the exact opposite of what you were told and goes online to check what you were dealing with.
You scroll past a few posts before the photos finally pop up onto your feed. There are a few different images at first, most from farther away, blurry and with not a lot to distinguish.
They seem to be from the beginning of the shoot, you had your back to where whoever took them was probably standing, so there was not a lot to see. You seemed to be talking to a couple of the boys - Changbin and Felix, most likely, given the hair colors. Unfortunately there were also staff around you in that picture, the contrast in clothing and actions making it clear that you were not part of their team, but a visitor. There were also a couple of pictures from a different place that you recognized as the parking lot, also blurry and taken from far away, but you knew that the person stepping out of the small grey vehicle was Jihye, her light colored jacket making it easy to identify her.
But as you kept scrolling you come across more photos. Granted, a lot of Stays were being vocal about not sharing them, but if it only took you a few clicks to find them, you were sure they would not be that easy to scrap from the internet.
Those were a lot clearer. There were less of them, taken from somewhere closer but not that close.
Minho handing you and Jihye the merch hoodies when you got cold. The two of you girls talking excitedly amongst yourselves, happy and carefree, with no idea of a camera sneakily capturing the moment - it would be cute if it was not a complete invasion of privacy. Seungmin, Chan and Hyunjin standing in front of you as you talked in between takes, thankfully not too close as Jihye joined you in complaining they were all sweaty. Bora with her hands around the back of both of your chairs, the two of you turned to her as she pointed out some details and shared the thought process for the choreography.
That was enough. There didn’t seem to be anything too compromising, but you could easily see both of your faces - and that was enough to send alarms blearing inside your mind. You didn’t find any mention of you being pregnant however, a small blessing amongst a very shitty situation. A notification comes in as you are about to lock your phone.
[7:45AM] lee jihye (ksm gf): do you mind if we meet for coffee later?
You bite your lip, not sure wether to call her or not. The fact that she wanted to meet up was already a good sign though. You woke up early enough that, if you could clock in a couple hours in advance, you could also leave early to meet her.
[7:47AM] y/n: I get out off work at 4
[7:47AM] y/n: will you be alright until then?
Her text is quick to come.
[7:47AM] lee jihye (ksm gf): yes
[7:47AM] lee jihye (ksm gf): I’ll pick you up
And a beat later,
[7:48AM] lee jihye (ksm gf): thank you
You reply to the rest of the messages you got, giving both Minho and Seungmin updates on your plans and making sure that none of your friends had to worry about you. Having the coffee plan with Jihye was enough to make you spring into action, pushing your own worries to the back of your mind as you finished getting ready and made your way out of the house.
And you managed to stay that way for all of twenty minutes after reaching your desk at work.
“You’re here early”, Seoyun walks in the office, plopping her own purse at her desk before walking over to yours, resting her hip to the wall by your work station and crossing her arms, “is everything okay?”
“Yeah, just need to step out earlier today so I’m trying to get ahead on work”, you mumble a reply, not really looking her way.
“Do you have a project with the marketing team?”, her question is random enough to grab your attention, the quizzical look on your face probably giving her all the answers she needed, “I bumped into Daya coming in, she said she was looking for you”
Daya. Who knew Jihye. Who was into celebrity gossip. Who also knew you, well enough to probably recognize you in the leaked photos. Something on your expression must have given it away that your brain chose that moment to catch up on all the repercussions this could have. Your identity being leaked alongside your job. Your pregnancy. Your home.
“Hey, hey”, Seoyun took a step closer, concern written all over her features, “what’s wrong?”
Before you could reply, a third person walked into your office. She comes straight for you but slows down as she senses something is off.
“Y/n?”, Daya’s face matches Seoyun in concern, eyebrows drawn in together.
You look in between them a couple of times, trying to make a game plan on how to get away from this situation. At the same time you see Daya eyeing Seoyun, her expression also betraying her own calculations.
“So, I have this friend…”, you start, looking more at Seoyun but catching Daya’s expecting eyes on the corner of your vision, “who happens to be a celebrity”
And before you could continue, Daya leaps forward, eyes big in a mix of concern and excitement.
“I knew it was you!”, she whispers-shout while at the same time signaling for you to stay quiet, “some of the other girls at my office think so too”, she adds, walking over to the door to check the corridor, making sure there’s no one else around before closing it behind her.
“Wait, what’s going on?”, some of Seoyun’s concern is replaced by confusion.
“I visited this friend at work and some photos leaked”, you breath out, exhausted but relieved, sensing the camaraderie on the actions of your coworkers, “he happens to be an idol”
“No way”, it’s Seoyun’s turn to widen her eyes, looking between you and Daya, who’s all but bouncing on her feet.
“Yes way!”, Daya screeches, “I can’t believe you know them! And you didn’t even say anything when I was talking to you about them!”
“It’s not as if I really wanted people to know”, you mutter quietly, and she immediately dials down her own excitement.
“Oh shit yeah, I’m sorry, how are you?”, and it sounds so genuine you don’t know how to react “I promise I’m keeping my mouth shut, I’ll try and convince the other girls at my office it’s not you as well, it’s not much but-”
“I’m alright”, you say to cut off her rumbling, and it’s almost true, “Jihye is not doing so well though”
“And that would be…?”, Seoyun is still as confused as ever.
“Lee Know’s girlfriend”, Daya replies, matter of factly.
“Seungmin’s, actually”, you correct her, ignoring the pang of jealousy you feel at her statement.
“You’re kidding me”, Daya’s head snap back at you.
“What is a Lee Know?”, Seoyun almost whines, having trouble keeping up.
So for the next hour, instead of working, you had to explain to your coworkers-turned-allies about your relationship with Stray Kids - minus the whole being pregnant with one of the member’s child.
Daya was a pleasant surprise, getting angry on your behalf at the invasion of privacy, promising you she’d do her best to not let other coworkers suspect on anything. She also apologized for how she talked about the group the last time you met, when she first showed you Jihye’s social media. She felt bad about it now, specially once she realized Seungmin’s girlfriend had deleted her account overnight, a fact not even you had noticed yet.
And you believed her.
You almost felt grateful. This was, by all means, a Stay. A fan of the group you held so dear to your heart and, as scared as you were, talking with her helped.
You knew that most people out there were good. You saw how a big chunk of the fandom seemed to be actively trying to stop the images from spreading. But you also knew that this type of thing had repercussions.
When you finally manage to get back to work, your mind is a little bit more at ease.
> a/n | This entire chapter is just friends being good friends and I know not muchhh happened but I truly enjoy just writing them banter lol As always, thank you for reading, see you soon! > taglist is open!
> taglist | @leeknowscatsooniereal @ihrtlix @straysandstays @xallyouneedislovexx @mysticetti @abominablesnowman24 @i-bitch-you-bitch @w1shyouback @shortcake-whoops @sugarcoathan @scarlettuce-lettuce @rainierii @geni-627 @unemployedcarat @seungminnieinthebuilding @luvvvivi @leoskeipilover @onlydisconopanic @tsunderelino @beppybeesnuggets @makaira-nina2005 @linopotato @mieuseum @minghaosimp @hanniebunch @testingspider @moon-1307 @bunbunbl0gs @skzsmylife @calculatingblightsellsword @euonna @bironment @btch8008s @mxmx09 @hoe4yunhoooo
Woman murders man in broad daylight
beautiful like to reblog ratio on this
That's because people are reblogging it every time they see it. Like I'm doing right now lmao
The Artemis II crew filmed an 80s sitcom style video on their way to the Moon











