warnings::I mean...girl, it's somno and the winter soldier lol.18+ It's dark. Dubcon
Drabbles | WINTER SOLDIER X READER
The apartment door slammed shut, heavy enough to shake the frame, and his heavy boots hit the floorboards like sudden gunshots. His shoulders were rigid, the metal arm whirring faintly as he flexed his fingers.
The mission was a disaster—he had blood on his hands that didn't belong to him, and bad orders that left a bitter, sour taste on his tongue. He was tired of being America’s favorite ghost, tired of the heavy weight of being used as a deadly weapon. He didn't want the war anymore. He needed something soft and warm to ground him—something gentle that wouldn’t fight back in the dark.
You were already asleep when he stepped into the bedroom, curled on your side under the thin sheet while your slow, even breathing filled the quiet room. The sight of you just like that—completely vulnerable, beautifully unaware—sent a dark, thrilling rush straight through his veins.
He stripped out of his heavy tactical gear in silence, the black shirt and cargo pants landing in a ruined heap on the floorboards. His body was still buzzing from the dangerous adrenaline coursing through him. His cock was already half-hard, thick and heavy between his legs.
The soldier climbed onto the mattress behind you without a single word. The bed dipped under his weight, but you didn’t stir from your dream. He pressed his warm chest right against your bare back, the cool metal of his left arm sliding slowly over your waist to pull you flush against his heartbeat.
His flesh hand slipped right under the hem of your soft sleep shirt. That calloused palm glided up your stomach to cup your breast, gentle at first, like he was holding something holy. Then his thumb began to circle your nipple, until it stiffened under his touch.
You murmured something incoherent in your sleep, shifting your weight just a little, but you didn’t wake from the dream. That only encouraged him. His rough hand traveled lower in the dark, fingers dipping between your thighs to find you bare and warm under the covers.
He stroked along your slit with two long fingers, parting your soft folds, feeling the very first hint of slick starting to gather. He began to rub slow circles over your clit, his blue eyes watching your face in the moonlight for any sign of waking. But there was nothing. Just your soft breaths and the occasional, breathless twitch of your hips against him.
Satisfied, he shifted lower on the bed, hooking one of your legs over his to spread you open. His cock throbbed against your ass, the head already leaking. He lined himself up and pushed in with one steady thrust, burying half his length inside your pussy in a single motion. The tight heat clenched around him, and he groaned low in his throat, forehead pressed to the back of your neck.
He didn’t rush. Each thrust was deliberate, sinking deeper until he was fully seated, balls pressed against you. His metal fingers gripped your hip hard enough to bruise while his other hand stayed between your legs, rubbing your clit in time with his slow, deep strokes. The wet sounds of his cock sliding in and out filled the quiet room, punctuated by his heavy breathing.
You stirred again, a soft whimper escaping as your body responded on its own. Your pussy fluttered around him, growing wetter with every push. Bucky leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “That’s it,” he whispered, voice rough. “Take it. Just like that.” He picked up the pace slightly, hips snapping forward, the head of his cock dragging against that sensitive spot inside you.
Your eyelashes fluttered in the dark, but you didn't quite wake up. Your body just arched back into his frame instinctively, chasing that dangerous warmth. Bucky took full advantage of your surrender, rolling you onto your stomach without ever pulling out. He covered you completely, chest to your back, metal arm braced beside your head. From this angle he could drive in harder and deeper.
He fucked you steadily, using your sleeping body for his own relief after the hellish day. Sweat beaded on his brow as he chased his release, grunting with each thrust. His flesh hand slid under your hips to keep rubbing your clit, determined to pull an orgasm from you even in your unconscious state. Your walls started to tighten, pulsing around his cock as your body tipped over the edge. Slick gushed around him, coating his length and dripping down your thighs.
Bucky groaned, burying himself to the hilt as he came. Hot spurts of cum flooded your pussy, filling you until it leaked out around his cock with every shallow thrust. He stayed inside you, breathing hard, the tension in his shoulders finally easing. After a moment he pulled out slowly, watching his seed trickle from your well-used hole.
He rolled you gently onto your back and spread your legs again. His tongue dragged through the mess between your thighs, licking up the mixture of your juices and his cum. He sucked on your clit softly, cleaning you with long strokes until your hips twitched in your sleep.
Only then did he crawl up beside you in the aftermath, pulling the thin sheet over both of you. The storm inside him had finally passed. His metal arm wrapped around your waist once more, pulling you flush against his chest, holding you close as his breath finally evened out.
The cruel, rough day faded away into the background, replaced entirely by the quiet comfort of your body pressed flush against his. He pressed one soft, lingering kiss to your bare shoulder, his blue eyes finally closing as sleep claimed him too.
✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦
✦summary: you fell for bucky a long, long while ago. and you think about him, every day and every night. if only you knew that he thought about you too.✦
✦warnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, friends to lovers, light emotional angst, everyone's bad at feelings, fluff, smut, plot and porn mix (dirty talk, use of sex toys , fingering, pussy eating like crazy, fantasization, praise kink, manhandling, perfectly "appropriate" use of bucky's metal arm, nipple play, dumbification, semi-public sex, dry humping, sensitive reader, finger sucking, masturbation, bucky gets nasty, body worship, overstimulation, mean!bucky, oral m!recieving, praise kink, monster dick bucky, he fucks like a machine), no use of y/n, no descrption of reader✦
✦wc: 7.5k✦
✦Author's Note: request! who wouldn't fantasize about bucky barnes?✦
You think you might be a freak.
Compared to everyone else in the building, you’re perfectly normal. On the outside. Where everyone can see. You don’t have any powers, and you’ve never been shot up with serums or infinity stones. You’re a human, with a sharp tongue and shaper brain, pretty features and a charming smile, and absolutely no desire to be anything else.
Tony even asked you once. If you’d consider it. The whole hero thing. You’d laughed and shaken your head. You told him that you’re not that kind of brave. That you prefer to stay behind the scenes, helping with the tech and med services. Tony had laughed with you, and remarked causally that you’d be good at it.
You’d smiled and waved him off. But he was wrong. Because you can’t be normal about anything.
You’re not casual. You’re obsessive, and quietly insane. You don’t become the top of your field like this while being anything else. It’s easy to contain yourself in this kind of work, in it’s order and chaos all at once. There are rules that you to follow, then break, and everyone praises you and you glow like a diamond catching sunlight.
Not absorbing it. Because it passes right through, and it’s never enough, and you get addicted to it. The praise, from these living gods. They all love you, and you bask in it, and then you look at him.
Bucky.
The only one who doesn’t praise you. Who doesn’t treat you like a good dog, bringing them treats and newspapers. When you met him, he barely treated you like anything at all. Tony had introduced you, he’d looked you up and down, shaken your hand, and walked away.
But you.
You’d been a fucking goner.
Bucky’s handsome in the way you used to only see in movies. Your exact type, from the hair to the eyes to the way he carries himself. Silent and in control, kind but not overly nice, polite without expectation. You’d made it two years without developing a crush on anyone. Somehow, surrounded by some of the world’s most handsome men, you’d maintained that tiny sliver of your sanity.
Then there was Bucky. And you lost yourself.
You’re not weird around him. You’re not a stalker, and you’re not that kind of insane. You’re perverted in the privacy of your head, drooling over his massive hands and muscles, but swallowing it before it leaks out of your lips. You don’t react when Tony says his name, save for a traitorous pulse in your cunt.
“You ready to look at his arm?” Tony asks, and you hum.
“Think so. Just maintenance?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Tony sighs. “I’d work on Terminator myself, but Cap says I spend the whole time looking like I want to throat chop him. So,” he shrugs. “Don’t look like you wanna throat chop him.”
You laugh softly, and grab the tools off the bench. It’s not a big deal. You’re the only person besides Tony, in the whole building, who’s qualified to work on Bucky’s arm.
But that means you get to be close to him. Just the thought of it makes your skin hot, your heart buzzing more than thumping, your fingers fidgeting with the straps of your toolkit as you restlessly wait.
Bucky says your name, and your head shoots up. He’s there. He’s right there, and watching you with those careful, beautiful eyes.
“Hi,” you say, and it sounds so pathetically breathless.
Bucky tilts his head. His hair looks soft. You want to run your fingers through it, to pull on it, to feel it tickling over your face as he ruts into your drooling pussy-
He’s staring at you. He must’ve said something that you didn’t hear. Fuck.
“What?”
His lips twitch. Just the smallest movement up, almost impossible to catch. Your heart skips, and you almost miss his words again.
“You the one workin’ on me today?” His voice is low. It rolls through the air like thunder.
You wonder, if there’s any part of him that isn’t addictive.
You’re here for a job. You’re here to give him medical treatment. You plaster a sweet smile on your face, and gesture to the chair. You can be normal about this.
“Tony has bad bedside manner,” you say smoothly, and Bucky chuckles.
God, that’s worse than the smile. It echoes through your chest, and you almost choke on it. How fucking bad you want him.
“He does call me Schwarzeneggerevery time I’m here,” he mutters, crossing the room. “Don’t even know what that means.”
You hum, pretending to look at your tools. He’s sitting down next to you. Your knees are bumping. You’re normal. “Arnold Schwartzinagor. Actor who played the Terminator.”
“Ah.” Bucky pauses. “Sam calls me that, too. It a good movie?”
“It’s fine.” You shrug. “If you like stuff from the 80s.”
“I don’t know things from the 80s.”
You laugh softly, and look up with an apology on your tongue. You find Bucky staring at you, and your breath catches in your throat.
His eyes are so intense, you think they can see right through you. To the lust, pounding in your bloodstream. You have to open your mouth to breathe. Bucky’s eyes flick down. Just tracking a movement. Nothing about you.
You kick yourself internally, and push the casual smile back into place.
“I think you’d like some of it.” You reach for his arm, and Bucky turns it palm up, still staring at you. “I mean, any decade will have it’s ups and downs.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You run your fingers over the plates of metal, and for a second, forget all about the Bucky attached to them. It’s a beautiful artwork of technology. Overlapping, gold-inlaid, smooth under your fingers. You turn the wrist slowly, and there’s only a faint whir. No clicks. Shuri must be using a muffler, or some kind of fluid that moves the wires instead of gears-
“You want me to go?”
Your head shoots up, a panicked flush spreading over your cheeks. “No- No- I- I’m just-“
Bucky raises his brows, light amusement dancing in his eyes. Your words falter. He’s fucking with you.
“Shut up,” you roll your eyes, and Bucky chuckles again.
God, that sound. It’s going to be the death of you.
“It’s just- It’s amazing technology.” You mumble defensively, and Bucky shrugs.
“I can tell, from the way you’re eye fuckin’ it.”
“Eye fucking.” You shake your head, biting back your smile. “How do you even know what that means?”
“Too much time with Sam.”
“Hm,” you grab your screwdriver, running your hands up the mock muscle—he should be thanking Shuri even more, she didn’t have to give him biceps—looking for a panel. “Tony told me you weren’t going to talk.”
“Tony’s got that bad bedside manner,” Bucky shrugs with his good arm. “You gonna be nicer to me, doll?”
You just hum, ducking your head to hide your flush. Doll. He called you doll.
And Bucky huffs an amused laugh, at your non-answer. But he keeps talking to you. He tells you what Sam’s already gotten him to watch, and what Steve’s trying to get him to watch next, and what Steve’s saving so they can look at it together.
“Is Star Wars any good?” He asks, and you snort.
“Do you like cowboys?”
“I’m neutral.”
“Do you like space?”
“Yeah,” he pauses, then mutters, “I wanted to go to the moon. When I was a kid.”
You look up, and find a faraway look, etched over his handsome features. Your smile softens, and you lower your voice to a whisper, because this feels like a secret. “Yeah?”
Bucky nods, his eyes finding yours again. “I heard we got up there eventually.”
“We did. A few times.” It’s hard to hold his gaze. An unbearable ache is staring to pool between your thighs. “But now there are aliens on earth, so the final frontier is less… Coveted.”
Bucky’s lips twitch. It seems to be the closest he really gets to smiling. You want to see it over, and over, and over again.
“I think you’d like Star Wars.” You’re still whispering. You don’t know why.
“Alright,” Bucky says. And that’s it. He just… Trusts your words.
He asks for you again, next week. Tony claps you on the shoulder and thanks you, because Christ, he stares at me and I feel like I’m under surveillance. You roll your eyes and don’t respond. It doesn’t feel like that when Bucky stares at you, but he also does stare at everyone. So you’re not special. You’re just another person in his line of sight.
“I tried those donuts you were talkin’ about,” he tells you one afternoon, and you hum.
It’s the new routine. Bucky comes for you to work on his arm. You’re normal about it. You talk like people, and his lips twitch, and you feel something press on top of your chest, trying to gnaw your heart right open.
“Liked them,” he adds, staring at you. As always.
You hum, looking at him under your lashes. “Did you have the cookies and cream?”
He nods. “Just like you told me to.”
You smile despite yourself. It’s those small confirmations that he thinks about you, which get you the most. It means you mean something to him. It drives you insane.
“Sam says there are all kinds of ice cream flavors now, too.”
“Sam’s right.”
Bucky sighs. “Hate it when that happens.”
You laugh, a bubbly, pathetic sound that only Bucky pulls out of you. His fingers twitch under your hand, and you glance up.
It would be wise, if you stopped doing that. Every time you find him staring at you, you feel fucking insane.
“You should try cotton candy ice cream,” you murmur. “It’s fucking crazy.”
“That is my favorite kind of thing.”
“I know.”
Bucky’s lips twitch, and your heart almost bursts. “You got a good place? For ice cream?”
You shrug. “The grocery store?”
Bucky grunts, and his fingers twitch again. You focus back on his hand, because you don’t understand why they keep doing that. The rest of the session passes, and Bucky smiles at you before he goes, and you hold onto it like he just handed you a pearl-strung noose. Clutched between your teeth and priceless, but making your breathing short.
The rest of the day always passes in a daze, after you see Bucky. The seconds rush past you in an avalanche, and then you’re in your room, and you let it take over.
How much you want him. How much you need him.
You lay, flat on your back in bed, and let your thoughts run wild. Bucky’s massive hands, one cool and one burning hand, would wander up your thighs. He’d shove your knees open, and kiss over the sensitive, hidden patches of skin. The stubble he’s been growing would scrape and tickle, as he kissed over your weeping pussy.
“All for me?” He’d murmur, and you’d nod helplessly. “You just walk around, pussy leakin’ because of how bad you need it?”
And you’d whimper. You do. There’s nothing you can do to help it, but save that desire for locked doors and hot, tangled sheets. Your fingers—smaller than Bucky’s, but all you have—rub over the swollen lips of your pussy, spreading your arousal as you picture that it’s Bucky instead. You push one finger in slowly, then a second one because you need them to stretch you like Bucky’s would.
“Messy girl,” he’d coo in your ear, and your back arches. You start to fuck yourself, slow and tentative as your thoughts run wild.
This is what just one of his fingers would feel like. Pumping in and out of you, his palm grinding down on you clit until you’re trembling beneath him. You’d try to push up into his hand, but he’d shove you right back down and kiss over your throat. Licking and nipping and driving you out of your fucking mind.
“Buckyyyy...” You moan at the air, and when you squeeze your eyes shut you can almost feel him.
“There you go, babydoll,” he’d kiss under your ear, his body pressing over yours. Warm and massive, pinning you to the bed, forcing you to just take it. “That’s it. You like that, don’t you. Like fallin’ apart on my fingers.”
You whimper and grab at the sheets. Your wrist aches, and you can’t hit that gooey, wet spot inside you, but god you just need to cum.
“I know,” Bucky would hit deeper. Wet, lewd sounds would fill the room, as he pounded his fingers into you at an unforgiving pace. “I know, sweet girl. C’mon, show me how pretty you are when you cum.”
Your back arches off the bed. Your hand shoots over your mouth as you moan and cry out his name, your thighs shaking and pussy squeezing down on your fingers. You lay there for a while after you’re done, holding the sheets in a vague form of Bucky.
Tomorrow, you’re going to see him again. Maybe just over breakfast, or passing in the hall. But you’ll see him. And you’ll have to look him in the eyes, and pray that he can’t see it just under your features. That all he’d ever need to do it touch your head, and you’d fall to your knees.
You’re devoted to him. He thinks of you as a friend, and he’s not your boss, but he’s boss adject, and there’s nothing about him that’s accessible. There’s no world where this ever goes beyond fantasy.
But god, you’re going to fantasize. You can’t hurt anyone, by just fantasizing.
That’s what you’ll tell yourself over and over, to avoid the guilt.
It’s all just a fantasy.
You‘re perfectly professional about it. It’s not Bucky’s fault that he’s so handsome it feels like you shouldn’t be allowed to look at him. You can keep your desire bottled up, keep in the warmest, wettest pits of your stomach. It can seep out between your thighs when it becomes too much to bare. It can breed into itself and spread up into your heart, festering in the dark. But Bucky will never see it. You’ll be good, and you’ll act sane, and that will be it.
He’s been through too much already, to add your insatiable, ardors devotion to his list of problems.
You’ve developed an easy friendship. That’s all you’ll allow yourself to have, all you let yourself think about in his presence. When you’re working on his arm, you don’t think about those big, cold fingers being buried in your pussy until you’re alone in your room. All your daydreams are trapped in your sheets, and your moans absorbed and locked in your pillowcase.
You think about Bucky pinning you down with a warm, splayed hand on your abdomen. About his smirk, as he bullies three metal fingers into your pussy, forcing a perfect stretch before fucking you like a toy. His cold thumb swiping over your clit, sending shivers through your body. His eyes gleaming and attention burning, as he drags out orgasm after orgasm.
That hand would be like having a personal fuck machine, and he’d act like it until the very end. All taunting and teasing until you were spent and limp below him. Then he’d kiss the corner of your mouth, your cheek, the space between your eyes. He’d coo about what a good girl you were for him, and you’d whimper, your voice lost from screaming his name.
“What’re you thinking about?” Bucky says, sitting next to you at the kitchen counter.
You swallow, and shrug meekly. You never feel small around anyone but him, but you’ve never been this lost in anyone but him. It’s a miracle no one’s noticed, how Bucky shows up and suddenly you’re all flushed cheeks and girly giggles. You might as well be twirling your hair and kicking your feet. It’s pathetic. You can’t stop.
“Nothing?” Bucky pushes a little, and you give him a close-lipped, full smile.
“Nope.”
“You looked like you were thinkin’ about something.”
“I wasn’t.” You look back to the sandwich you’d been working on. Bucky keeps staring at you. He always does. “Nothing going on up here, Barnes.”
Bucky’s lips twitch.
The whole world seems brighter, like he’s just like some holy kind of candle.
“I don’t believe that,” he murmurs, and you shrug.
“You don’t have to.”
“Well, I don’t.”
“Good for you.”
“It is, isn’t it,” he chuckles. “I’m gonna love being right.”
You blink, shooting his a sideways look. “Being… Right?”
“I know you’re thinkin’ about something.” He shrugs. “I’ll figure out what.”
Oh. Under no circumstances can he find out what you’re thinking about. “It’s not anything interesting,” you try lamely, and Bucky smirks.
“Ah. So it’s something.”
“I- That’s-“ You sputter. “Why do you even care-“
“I like knowin’ what you’re thinking,” he shrug. “It’s always interesting.”
You blink at him. For some reason, that makes your throat close up, your eyes burning with embarrassing tears. Your knees are wobbling, and you’re sitting down. You grunt and look back to your sandwich, and Bucky chuckles.
“C’mon. Tell me.” He leans closer. There’s a gravity, from his heat, and it makes you want to just collapse over his chest.
You look at him from the corner of your eye, and you won’t tell him. That’s against the rules. It defeats the purpose.
But god, he’s looking at you. Really looking at you. You can count each shade of blue in his eyes. If you move just an inch, your noses might bump.
“I’m hungry,” you whisper, and Bucky’s brow knits.
He looks down to your sandwich. Then back to you. Adorable confusion flashes over his face. “You should… Uh- Eat.”
You nod, and he clears his throat, leaning back. You wish you could grab the collar of his shirt, and drag him back.
“You ever seen this thing called the Princess Bride?” He asks, not touching any food himself.
Just sitting there. With you. You try not to think about it too much.
You nod, chewing on your sandwich with puffed out cheeks. “’S a really good movie-“
“Chew then swallow, doll.” Bucky’s lips twitch, and you flush and obey.
“It’s a good movie,” you mumble, giving him a sheepish smile. “Sorry.”
Bucky shrugs, his gaze dropping to your mouth. Your breath hitches. You go perfectly still, afraid that if you shift, he’ll look away.
His tongue darts over his lips. He tips his head, his forearm flexes as he curls his fingers, and your breathing gets shallow. Something electric has shifted in the air, and it’s making you dizzy. Bucky reaches up slowly, and if you weren’t rooting in place, you think you’d fall out of your chair.
His thumb wipes the spot right above your lips, and a shock rushes through your body. His nostrils flare, his eyes lock onto yours, and his touch lingers.
When he pulls back, the movement is slow. Controlled. Your tongue flicks out, to lick where his thumb had been. Bucky’s nostrils flare.
There’s something on his thumb. Tiny little breadcrumbs that must’ve been stuck to your cheek from the sauce. Bucky brings the finger up to his mouth, holding your gaze, and sucks the crumbs away. Heat pools in your tummy, and your thighs press together.
Bucky stares at you. You grab the edge of your seat with white knuckles, trying to keep yourself from falling off.
“Crumbs,” he mutters, and you nod.
“Yeah.”
“I- Uh-“ He coughs, and looks away. Disappointment sinks like a boulder into your stomach.
You don’t know what you expected. Hell, you’ve told yourself what to expect. You’re not allowed to be disappointed by him. You’re not allowed to want anything from him, except for what your head can offer.
“Sam’s been tryin’ to make me watch it,” he mutters, and you blink.
“What?”
“Princess Bride.”
“Oh.” You’re still a little drunk on his proximity. He smells like something rich and spicy, and it’s fogging up your brain. “Cool.”
Bucky nods. “We’re gonna watch it next Friday. In that common room, where Stark makes us do game nights.” He gives you a sideways look. “I never see you at those.”
You shrug. “I’m not an Avenger.”
“Stark says you get invited.”
You do. But that would be a night of drinking and laughing and being closer to Bucky than you can handle, so you usually lock yourself in your room and pretend he’s fucking you stupid.
“You’re invited to movie night, too.” He adds casually, and you swallow.
Movie night. Where Bucky would be near you. In the dark. You can’t go there. You’ll lose your mind.
But he’s looking at you with such dim, cautious light in his eyes. There’s no expectations. Just hope. And it pulls the words out of you before you can stop them.
“Oh- Okay.”
Bucky beams, and that makes it worth it. The risk, that he might brush your hand in the dark and you’ll moan loud enough for everyone to hear.
He reaches up, and wipes a few more breadcrumbs from your cheeks. Time seems to stop, when he touches you. It’s dangerous, and you barely manage not to fall all over him before he pulls away.
“You get messy,” he mutters, and oh, God.
You shouldn’t have said yes. Why the fuck did you say yes. Now you’re going to have to sit next to him, after that.
You get messy. He has no idea.
That night, you end up back in your bed with a vibrator pressed over your panties. It makes the feeling stronger, with the friction of the fabric, and you toss your head back. It’s easier and easier to get lost in the fantasy, lately. The better you know him, the clearer it gets.
You can almost feel his hands, mapping over the curves and soft dips of your body. You can almost smell him.
He mouths at your breast, pinching and rolls your nipple between metal fingers. You make a broken, pathetic sound, and he smirks.
“I know, doll. Too much, isn’t it?”
You whimper, pressing the vibrator down. Bucky hums, his hand wrapping around yours, and your hips jerk when he angles it to shove right against your clit.
“Too much,” he coos, making out with the softness of your breast. “I’m barely even touchin’, and you’re already about to fuckin’ fall apart for me.”
Your eyes roll back, as Bucky starts to guide the vibrator up and down. Your mouth falls open in a long moan, as he grabs your hips and pushes them higher, further exposing your pussy. He bites at your nipple, then turns his attention to the neglected one. You writhe in the sheets, gasping his name, and he smiles.
“Dirty girl.” He pushes your hand back, just enough for him to rip away your panties, exposing your cunt to the cold air. “Look at that, pretty little pussy fuckin’ shining for me.”
You grind down, trying to find friction on the sheets. Bucky pushes the vibrator against your bare pussy, and your eyes roll back in your head. He starts kissing all over your chest, pawing at your breasts and swirling his tongue around you nipples, sending electric shock through your body. He licks the sensitive buds the same way he licked his thumb. Your hips start to roll mindlessly, as the coil in your stomach threatens to snap.
When you cum, it’s with a cry of his name. The coil snaps, and heat floods out of your pussy, all over the vibrator and your hand. Your body convulses with the sheer force of it, and Bucky kisses down. Over your abdomen, your hips, your inner thighs.
“What a mess, baby.” He mocks, before pressing the sweetest kiss to your clit.
You sob, trembling in the sheets, and grab at his hair.
But your hand finds nothing.
Because it’s just another fantasy, kept in the confines of your mind.
Movie night was a bigger mistake than you could’ve ever imagined.
You show up, and it’s just Bucky and Sam. Sitting on opposite ends of the couch, because men are strange creatures.
“Stevie’s on a mission,” Bucky says, staring at you like he’s seeing an angel. Like he didn’t invite you.
There’s an odd rasp to his voice, too. Maybe he’s just tired.
Sam says your name, that signature, I know something that everyone else doesn’t smirk on his face. You don’t think much if it. He always has it, even when he doesn’t know shit.
“Buck told me you’d be comin’. I didn’t believe him.”
“Sam.” Bucky grunts, and Sam shrugs.
“What? I didn’t.” He grins at you. “You never leave your lab-“
“She leaves her lab.” Bucky gives you an apologetic look, but you just laugh.
“No, he’s right. I really don’t.”
Bucky sighs, rolls his eyes, and pats the seat next to him. You smile to yourself, taking a long breath before you move. You’re going to be normal about this. Very, incredibly normal. So normal, they’ll think something’s wrong, because no one’s ever been this normal in history.
You last ten minutes.
The movie starts. You’ve seen it before, but you try to pay attention to every, tiny detail. The only other option is paying attention to Bucky. To the weight of him at your side, the way his knee brushes against yours and his arm is slung over the back of the couch. You’ve never seen him so relaxed and tense, all at once. He’s sunken into the cushions, but whenever you look over, his jaw is tight.
You could swear you catch his gaze, once or twice. If you do, he looks away immediately. And you feel it, that buzzing heat over your skin. But you’re supposed to be watching the movie. He’s supposed to be watching the movie. So you really, really try not to look over.
Bucky’s knee pushes against yours, and you swallow. His fingers trail near your shoulder, and you wrap your arms around your stomach to suppress the shiver. He’s warm. So fucking warm you can feel it, blooming in your core. You shift in your seat, and you’re already wet.
The movie isn’t even a third of the way done.
Bucky’s fingers rest on your shoulder. It’s so light, so casual, you’re not even sure he knows he’s doing it. You take the risk, and turn to fully look at him. He’s gotten even more relaxed, the knit of his brows loosened, pretty pink lips parted as he watches the TV. You want to reach up, and trace the stubble of his jaw. Maybe kiss up the column of his throat, dig your nails into his pecs and make out with that full, perfect mouth.
You let out a tiny sigh. Bucky doesn’t react to it. Too lost in the movie. Not paying you any mind.
And you should look away. You’re not here to Bucky watch.
You turn your head for three whole seconds, before your eyes start to ache. As if they can’t stand not to look at him. You try to resist it, but it plays over and over, on a loop in your brain. The image of him in the dark. The heat from him, almost penetrating under your skin and making you rise up like a balloon. Your head is in the clouds. You have to look at him.
You close your eyes, trying to fight it. Bucky’s hand drops from your shoulder, down to your upper arm, and your breath hitches.
Your eyes shoot open, and Bucky’s right there. Staring at you, with the same intense, focused need that’s clawing at your ribs and up your throat.
He grabs your chin, between strong but gentle fingers. You swallow, letting your gaze trail down his body. His massive chest, torso that looks perfect to hook your legs around, his thick thighs and his crotch.
The bulge, pushing through his sweats. It looks thick. Long and thick, demanding some attention. You look back to Bucky with your best, doe-eyed pout. He smirks, and leans down to kiss you. It’s slow and deep, his tongue swiping over your lower lip before pushing into your mouth. You moan, and Bucky weaves his hair through your hair, tugging slightly. Your second moan is downright pathetic. You grab his thigh, letting your nails brush against the outline of his cock.
Bucky hisses against your lips, and pulls back. You bat your lashes at him, and his lips twitch.
“Messy girl,” he mutters, before pressing a sweeter, mocking kiss to your lips.
He pulls away too quickly, but before you can give chase, you’re lost in a daze. Bucky’s pulling down his pants, taking his boxers with him. His cock springs free, thick and veiny, massive even in his own hand. He strokes himself slowly, giving you a prompting, amused look. You swallow, licking your lips.
“C’mon, doll,” he beckons. “Show me what you can do.”
Almost in a trance, you nod. Bucky’s eyes darken, as you crawl over his lap. You move his hand away, and fist his cock in one hand. He grabs the back of your neck, not to push, but for balance. A low, guttural sound rolls through his chest as you start to pump him, and you smile to yourself.
He really is perfect. A heavy, certain weight in your hand, jumping slightly whenever you squeeze him near the base. You shift back on your knees, using your other hand to massage his balls. He hisses, his grip tightening on your neck, and you smile.
When you look at him, there’s nothing but pure devotion in his gaze. You squeeze again, then pick up your pace, and he groans out your name.
You kiss him, pushing his head back against the couch cushions. He grunts, but lets you guide him. As if he knows that it’s all just a show, before you let him fuck your face like an animal.
“Relax, baby,” you breathe against his lips.
Bucky lets out a deep, rough laugh. “Little hard to do that right now.”
You giggle, swiping your thumb over the slit of his cock. “Is it? Hard?”
Bucky groans, and deepens the kiss. You slide off of him, before he can just grab your hips, pick you up, and sit you on his dick.
You move back, lowering down to your stomach so you’re eye level with his dick. He’s pulsing in your hands, trying to hold himself back. You don’t want him to. You want him to cum everywhere. Down your throat and over your face and tits, claiming you in one of the most primal ways possible.
“Doll…” Bucky rasps, and you look up at him under hooded eyes. He’s a wrecked. Bulging muscles and sweat, slicking on his brow. “Don’t tease- Jesus-“
You wrap your mouth around him, and take him as deep as you can go. He bumps against the back of your throat, but you suppress your gag reflex, relaxing to try and get even more. Your nose brushes against the hair at base of him. Your tongue presses flat against Bucky’s shaft, your fingers still working his balls, and he fists his hand in your hair.
“So- So fuckin’ warm-“ He chokes out. “Holy- You’re somethin’, sweetheart- God-“
You hum, and Bucky’s hips jerk up. He stutters out an apology, but you just moan again. He tries to pull you off, muttering more apologies, and you dig your nails into his thigh. You want it. You want him to use you.
He gets it, after a moment. His grip on your hair tightens. He starts slow, jerking his hips up as he pushes you a little further down, before yanking you back. You moan around his cock, drool falling from your swallow lips. Your eyes roll back. He’s using you, god, he’s using you, and it’s the best fucking thing in the world.
Bucky fucks your face like a fleshlight, and you grind your ass up against nothing. He hits the back of your throat, over and over, salty and heavy on your tongue. The sounds he makes are beautiful and sinful, and-
“Something on my face, doll?”
You blink, and Bucky’s cock isn’t in your mouth anymore. You smack your lips, trying to find it. Bucky frowns at you, the light of the movie making him even more, impossibly handsome. Sam ignores you both, popcorn stuffed in his mouth.
Bucky looks worried. He said something.
“Hm?”
“You were, you were- Uh-“ He clears his throat, then shakes his head. “Never mind.”
He looks back to the TV, and your face burns. His thigh is pressed right against yours. You can swear, when you lick your lips, you can still taste his dick.
You’re so, so fucked.
It only gets worse.
Eating breakfast becomes a trial, because Bucky is always there, and you’re always thinking about his fingers while he eats. How they’d feel stuffed down your throat, gripping your hips, scissoring deep inside of you. He wipes cream cheese off your cheek, and you almost moan.
“You feelin’ alright?” Bucky says, always so caring and worried, and you nod weakly.
“Yeah. Just- Just tired.”
He looks at you like he doesn’t believe you, but lets it go. If you were smarter, you’d be avoiding him. But you’re not. And you still have to work with him, anyway. It makes avoiding him rather impossible.
For a while you cling onto the idea that work would be sacred. That while Bucky’s in your office and you’re examining his arm, it’s purely professional. Not a single dirty thought.
You last about a week, with that one. Bucky startles you walking in. You trip, and he catches you around your waist.
“Careful,” he smiles down at you, all handsome and stupid.
“Uh huh,” you breathe out, and you could’ve sworn a flood gushed out between your legs.
Bucky’s nostrils had flared, and he’d helped you up to your seat. You’d already had the new fantasy, blooming in your mind like the little fucking pervert that you were. You’d tried to shove it down, swaying in the middle of the room, but then you’d looked at him. Sitting with his legs spread in your chair. And you’d been lost.
You imagined climbing into his lap. His arm wrapping around you as you sat down on his cock, grinding slowly, lashes flutters as he kneaded and pulled at your hips and breasts. He’d stand up, taking you with him like you weighed nothing, and pin you to the wall. One arm would stay around you, holding you in place as his mouth started to explore your dripping cunt.
His tongue would work you open, pushing in and out of your pussy. He would’ve already cum inside of you, and every stroke of his tongue would send a wave of your mixed arousals over his beard. You’d watch him, moaning his name, and his thumb would bully and flick and tease your clit, until your were dazed and gasping for air and-
Bucky says your name, and you could slap yourself. This is getting out of hand.
“Sorry,” you mumble, sitting next to him. He smiles at you, so kind.
Always so kind.
“You’ve been kinda out of it, lately.” His words are casual. You still daydream about shooting yourself and running away.
“Just getting lost in thought,” you murmur, and he hums.
“Anything I can help with?”
You shake your head, because if you speak you’ll start begging. Please, please, please, he’s the only one who can help you, you’re going insane with how much you need him, and he could save you, he could really save you-
“Movin’ usually helps me.” He offers softly. You almost don’t hear him. “Y’know. Using my body. Remembering that it’s mine.”
“Yeah?” You say softly, cleaning the panel near his shoulder. He looks at you, and you risk looking back.
You can’t read that expression. You’re not sure you want to.
“Yeah,” he mutters. His gaze might flick down to your lips, but you don’t trust your own mind anymore. “You wanna try it with me? I head to that gym in the basement every night. It ain’t bad.”
And you should say no, but you can’t help it. You nod, and Bucky’s lips twitch, and God, what you won’t do just so he smiles.
You will torture yourself, apparently. Bucky’s too hot to be allowed in a gym. Wearing a tank top that shows off his massive arms, smiling at you all lazy, in the way that’s more of a guard than the slip that you always crave, but a smile all the same.
First, you try walking on the treadmill and just watching him the mirror. He’s lifting weights, and his arms, they should be classified as weapons. You want those biceps keeping you in a head lock, against his chest or at his side. Keeping you still, while his cock pounds relentlessly into your pussy.
Bucky meets your gaze in the mirror. His lips twitch, and you look away, face burning.
You feel him, more than you see him coming over. The gravity of his presence, you think you’d be able to feel him blindfolded and dropped in a crowd of a million people.
“Come on,” he offers you a hand. “Lemme show you something.”
And you can’t say no to him. You really should learn how.
Because the something is training. Wrestling. Throwing fucking punches and trying to get the other down.
“Bucky, I can’t-“
“Yeah, you can.” He raises his fists, nodding to your own. “Up, doll.”
You sigh, raising them slowly. “You’re going to kick my ass-“
“I am. And then you’re going to get better.”
You scoff—he’s ridiculous—but listen. Bucky smirks, and lunges. You yelp and try to scramble away, but he’s too fast. You’re pinned under him in seconds, whacking at his arms and wiggling.
“Bucky- Get off-“
He laughs, standing up with a proud grin. You’ve never seen him so relaxed, so confident. It makes you hornier than you ever could’ve imagined.
He’d been over you. Everywhere over you. Pinning you down and manhandling you, and- Oh God-‘
“Up,” he beckons, and you swallow.
“I- I don’t know-“
“Yeah, you do.” He gives you a playful smile. “Get up.”
You sigh, and scramble to your feet. Bucky raises his fists again. You narrow your eyes, and match.
He chuckles. “Getting competitive?”
You shrug. “You wanted me to.”
Something flashes in his eyes. You’re not sure how to read into it.
“Damn right I do,” his voice is lower. You’re not imagining that.
You don’t get time to think about it, before he’s moving again. You hold your own exactly a second longer than before, but it ends the exact same way. You, pinned under Bucky’s broad, strong body. His face is pressed near your breasts, his fingers digging into your hips, his legs shoving yours apart to stop you from flailing around.
It goes on longer than it shoulder. This strange game that you like playing more than you should. Bucky starts trying to properly get you to throw a punch, but he gives up fast. Soon you’re more play wrestling than doing anything else. You’re giggly and dazed, charging at him like a bull, and he acts as bored and collected as always, but you can see the amusement dancing in his eyes, every time you try to climb him like a tree.
Then something shifts.
He gets you beneath him, and you try to shove at his chest. He catches your wrists and pins them up over your head. Your breath hitches, and he blinks. His hips drop against yours, and you can feel it. The bulge of his cock, pressing into your core.
He’s hard.
Not fully, but enough. Enough that you can imagine every ridged and curve of him, sliding between the puffy lips of your pussy. Your thighs clench, and Bucky grunts, rutting forward.
You both freeze, and your eyes lock. It’s one of those seconds, where you just stare hopelessly at each other. You almost apologize, but your tongue is limp. Bucky’s face is redder than you’ve ever seen it. His cock twitches in his pants.
And this isn’t a dream or fantasy. Bucky mutters your name, and it’s so real you think your heart might pound of your chest.
Bucky moves first. He clears his throat and moves to his feet.
“Better.” He offers you a hand. “That was…”
He trails off. You stare at each other, lost for words.
Bucky turns, and leaves without another word. You sway in the center of the room, breathing shallow, head spinning.
What the fuck just happened.
Bucky kisses up your spine, his mouth hot and possessive. His tongue flicks against your neck, and his fingers dig into your hips. He drags your ass up in the air and you mewl, pressing your face into the sheets.
“Ah,” he scolds, slapping your soaked, swollen pussy. “Lemme hear you, doll.”
You turn your head, moaning loud and shamelessly. Bucky chuckles, kissing a soft spot on your neck.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, notching his cock against your entrance. “Good girl.”
You coo like a baby bird, flushed and dazed. He’s big, so big that it almost hurts. He doubles over you with a groan, pressing his face into your shoulder as he slowly pushes every inch inside of you. The stretch burns in the best way, and you clench down around him.
“No,” Bucky leans down, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Nothin’ to apologize for. Just gotta relax, babydoll. Lemme do the rest.”
You hum, and take a deep breath. You’re grounded, in the feeling of Bucky everywhere. His warmer arm wraps around your neck, forcing you up enough for his lips to trail open kisses over your face.
“That’s my girl,” he mutters against your ear, bottoming fully out. “That’s it. Just take it for me, just like that.”
You mewl, pushing your ass back up, then crying out with delight as Bucky pulls out, and slams back in. He’s met with no resistance, from how your pussy is gushing out with every thrust, every touch, every hot kiss.
But there’s nothing else to be expected. Not with how Bucky’s using you, how worshipful his every touch and kiss is, all while he fucks into you so hard you think the bed is going to break. His breath is hot on your back, the head of his cock drill against that one, gooey spot deep inside you. His cold arm locks around your middle, and his fingers tease and graze over your clit. Rubbing in tight little circles, making your eyes roll back in your head.
Bucky grunts, hauling you up so you’re pressed against his chest. You’re pinned down on his cock now, wet and warm and tight. So fucking tight that it pulls a low, rumbling moan from his chest. His hips slam up in a barely controlled rhythm, chasing more of your heat. You’re limp in his arms. Dazed and smiling like you’re drunk. Bucky uses his arm around your neck to push your head further back, and you have the nerve to fucking giggle.
You’re so beautiful like this that he almost cums right there. Fluttering lashes and the sweetest sounds, you pussy milking him like a machine. He kisses you because he can’t help it, and you hum happily, grinding your ass down into him.
He needs you to cum first. He gropes at your clit, letting his fingers fumble for a second to work you up into a teased, messy frenzy, before he pushes down and rubs in a steady, unyielding rhythm. You cry out his name, squeezing down so hard on his cock, and Bucky buries his face in your neck.
He cums, so hard that his vision goes white. Thick ropes of cum spurt over his hand, squeezing hard at the base of his cock.
It’s not as warm as you’d be, he thinks.
And he thinks. All the time, Bucky just thinks about you. About how you’d feel, molding around him. About how you’d sound right in his ear, how you’d get smiley and drool, and he’s feed you his fingers just so you have something to do with that pretty mouth. You’d moan around them, and he’d thrust up into you so hard he’d knock the damn worries out of your head.
It’s his favorite time of the day, this. Your rooms are closer than you seem to think, or you just forget how good his hearing is.
And every night, right before bed, he gets to settle into the mattress and beat his cock into his hand, listening to you moan and call his name. He’d never tell you. You deserve better, than a broken robot like him. He counts himself lucky he even gets to be your friend, because he’s a man well practiced at restraint. At not getting what he wants.
But this space, where no one can see, he allows himself things. He allows himself you.
But only ever in his head.
✦End note: this might be one of my fave bucky fics i just got to be soooo horny with it✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
him cumming too soon the first time you give him a handjob after being married because he looks at the big shiny ring on your finger and remembers you’re his wife
perfect night for lovemaking, letting the windows open to have the cool night air kiss your hot and sweaty skins. lips smacking, hands holding tightly to one another, the creak of the bed at every sweet and deep thrust. his eyes scanning your body and softening when they meet yours, him kissing your salty skin and biting to leave marks to remind you in the morning of how much he loves you, praises whispered in between kisses, next to the shell of your ear so that only you and the night breeze will hear
sex with a nerd who looks up at you star-dazed as you ride them. pupils blown out wide, their hands trembling as they rest on your thighs because they don't know where else to put them (until you guide them where you want to feel them). their hips involuntarily twitching upwards and rutting into you when you tease to pull out early, the stammered love confession when all you asked them to do is beg. their head thrown back and the half-pleading, half-feral groan when you trail kisses down their exposed neck during the aftermath. how easily they flip you around to bury themselves inside of you again and again and again
knight who is on the verge of breaking his vow when he submits and allows his lady to completely undress before him and grind on his lap, watching her get herself off over the bulge in his pants, and who is absolutely stressing over it.
Note This is porn without plot. Which is weird because I am not that much into writing smut because I can be awkward as hell but some things happened and now here we are. This was gonna be something that was pretended to be at 1k words, a blowjob little thing but then... yes. Expect some Bucky whimpering. On a couch. Lovely. Still, smut might not be my thing but my thing surely is making them so nauseous because they're so in love.
You and Bucky started your evening by watching a movie. ‘Revenge Of The Sith’, Bucky picked this time and groaned a bit when you started fawning over Anakin. By the end of it, you two were just talking, about the movie, a mission that tired you both the week before and even if Bucky liked that new dish soap he picked last time you went for groceries. Your voice a low, familiar hum that calm him as you curled into his side on the too-small couch in his Brooklyn apartment. The one he’d picked because it forced you close. You’d always suspected that.
Once Bucky realized there was no more popcorn, he stood up, walking towards the kitchen for more and in that moment, you sat on the floor, loving the way the rug he bought a couple months ago felt on your knees. He came back and his grin made you feel your cheeks warm. He didn’t say a thing and only sat back down, sprawled across the couch, all six feet of super-soldier taking up every inch of the cushions like a very large, very dangerous housecat claiming a sunbeam.
The only light in his living room is the blue-white glow of the city through the window, catching on the sharp line of his jaw, the metal glint of his left hand resting on the back of the couch. He’s warm. Solid. A wall of muscle and quiet tension that only ever seems to unspool completely when it’s just the two of you. He’d been sharing the popcorn with you, feeding you from the bowl in his hands while you sat down, facing him.
After a few minutes, you realized that Bucky hadn’t said a word for a while, only humming when you say something and the truth is that he’d been watching you. Watching the way your hair fell over your shoulder, the way you bit your lip when you told a particular fascinating story that happened on your trip with Wanda, the way you shifted occasionally to get more comfortable on the floor until eventually you’d leaned back against the couch between his legs.
That was when you’d felt it.
Not intentionally—God, not intentionally at first. You’d just been trying to find a position that didn’t make your neck hurt, so you’d tilted your head back, let it rest against the inside of his thigh, and blinked up at him for no reason other than to check if he was still awake.
He was awake. He was very, painfully, obviously awake.
The bulge in his jeans was impossible to miss from this angle. You could see the thick curve of it, heavy and half-hard, pressed against the rough fabric like it was trying to escape. And there was something about the way he was looking at you—bottom lip caught between his teeth, pupils blown wide despite the dim lighting, chest barely moving like he was afraid to breathe too loud and break whatever spell had fallen over the room—that made you want to be very, very still.
His left leg is bouncing—a nervous tic he’s never quite shaken despite the century of life behind him. You press your palm flat against his shin, stilling the motion, and the muscle immediately goes soft under your touch.
“Sweetheart.” His voice is a low rumble, already frayed at the edges. “What are you really doing down there?”
You don't answer with words. You just turn around on your knees and shift closer, nudging his knees apart with your shoulders until you can slot yourself perfectly back into the vee of his legs. His thighs are thick, solid as oak trees, and when you let the weight of your head fall against the inside of his right thigh, you feel the immediate, violent tremor that runs through him. The bowl drops, the popcorn making a disaster that neither you or Bucky pay attention to. His flesh hand comes up to hover uselessly over your hair, not quite touching, like he’s afraid you’re a hallucination.
“This okay?” you murmur, but you know it’s more than okay. You can feel the answer pressed against the curve of your cheek, hidden beneath the worn dark blue jeans he’d pulled on after his shower. It’s not subtle. It’s a heavy, thick shape, half-hard and twitching with every exhale you deliberately push through your nose against the sensitive seam of his thigh.
Bucky swallows so loud you hear it click. “You’re gonna kill me,” he whispers, and it sounds like a prayer.
That’s when you look up.
You take your time, letting your lashes drag against the coarse fabric of his jeans as you tilt your chin. First, you see the white-knuckle grip he has on the arm of the couch—his flesh hand, veins standing out like rivers. Then his stomach, the muscles jumping beneath his thin henley. And finally, his face.
Oh, his face.
Your man looks utterly wrecked and you haven’t even touched him yet. His jaw is slack, his bottom lip caught between his teeth, and his eyes—those impossibly blue, ocean-deep eyes—are blown so wide with want that the pupil has swallowed nearly all the iris. He’s staring down at you like you’re the last source of light in a universe going dark.
You blink up at him, slow and syrupy sweet. Innocent. The picture of placid devotion. “What?” you ask, your voice a featherlight thing. “I’m just sitting here.”
A broken sound catches in his throat. Not a groan, not a sigh—something higher, more desperate. A whimper. You’ve heard him roar in battle, heard him snarl at threats, heard him laugh that rare, beautiful laugh. But this. This small, punched-out noise of pure, unraveling need? It goes straight between your own legs like a live wire.
“You know,” he grits out, finally letting his hand fall to cup the back of your skull. He doesn’t push. He just holds, his thumb stroking a frantic rhythm behind your ear. “You know exactly what you’re fucking doing.”
You turn your head, just a fraction, just enough to press your open mouth to the inside of his thigh. You only taste the cloth but still, there’s his essence there and when you drag your tongue in a wet, slow stripe over the fabric, his hips jerk off the couch. His cock bumps against your cheekbone, a hot, heavy brand even through the layers, and you feel a gush of slickness soak through your own underwear.
“Bucky,” you say, and it’s the first real thing you’ve said. Not a question. A promise.
His metal hand comes up to cover his own mouth, the cold vibranium stark against his flushed lips. “Don’t,” he begs, but he doesn’t know what he’s begging for. Don’t stop? Don’t look at him like that? Don’t make him come apart before you’ve even gotten his jeans off?
Then his hand came up to cup your cheek, the vibranium somehow warm against your skin, and he said your name like it was the only word he had left. “What do you want?” he asked, and his voice was so soft, so careful, so achingly tender that you felt tears prick at the corners of your eyes. “Tell me what you want and it’s yours. Anything. Everything. Just tell me.”
You turned your head just enough to press a kiss to his palm, then his wrist. “I want to make you feel good,” you said. “I want to take care of you. I want to watch you fall apart because of me. Can I do that, James? Can I be good for you?”
His answer was to pull you forward by the back of your neck and kiss you like he was drowning.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t soft. It was desperate, hungry, all teeth and tongue and the kind of wanting that came from years of deprivation. He kissed you like he was trying to crawl inside your skin, like he needed to taste every corner of your mouth to convince himself you were real.
When he finally pulled back, you were both breathing hard. His lips were kiss-swollen, his eyes half-lidded, and the bulge in his jeans had gone from noticeable to obscene.
“Floor,” he said, and his voice was wrecked. “You want to be on the floor, sweetheart? Then stay on the floor. But if you’re going to kneel there looking like that, you’d better put that pretty mouth to use.”
The command in his voice made your stomach flip. You’d seen Bucky be soft, had held him through nightmares and panic attacks and the kind of grief that came from losing seventy years of your life. But this Bucky—the one who looked at you like he wanted to devour you, the one whose chest was heaving with the effort of restraint—this Bucky made your thighs press together.
You’re merciless. You nuzzle closer, letting your nose trace the prominent line of his erection through the dark denim. He’s thick, so fucking thick, and when you breathe in, you can smell him—musk and heat and something uniquely Bucky that makes your mouth water. He watches your fingers work on his belt, work the leather free, the metal buckle clinking softly. His breath is coming in short, sharp pants. His thighs are trembling under your hands, the muscles jumping like live wires. You take your time, dragging the zipper down tooth by tooth, and you feel the tension in him ratchet higher with every click. Your fingers hook into the waistband of his jeans, and he lifts his hips before you even have to ask, a man desperate to give you anything, everything.
You blink again. Sweeter this time and pull them down just past his thighs, just enough. His cock springs free, slapping against his lower belly with a wet sound, the tip already glistening, flushed a deep, angry red. He’s beautiful. All of him is beautiful, but this—the vulnerability of him, the way he’s trembling like a leaf in a storm while you’re still fully clothed—is a different kind of gorgeous. Thick enough to stretch your jaw, long enough to make your mouth water, curving slightly towards his stomach. You’ve had it in every way imaginable, but seeing it like this—inches from your face, twitching under your gaze—never gets old.
“Look at me,” you command softly, and his gaze snaps down to yours. There are tears clinging to his lashes. Actual tears. He is so far gone for you, so utterly, pathetically down bad, that just the sight of you kneeling between his thighs has him on the verge of sobbing. “Buck,” you murmur, your voice a soft, sleepy thing. “You’re all tense.”
He makes a sound. A strangled, low thing that rumbles up from the back of his throat. His right hand comes up, hovering in the air like he doesn’t know what to do with it—touch you, push you away, fist it in his own hair. His pupils are blown wide, swallowing the grey of his iruses until they’re almost black.
“Fuck,” you breathed, and it wasn’t performative. It was genuine awe. “You’re so big, Buck. How is this going to fit?”
His head fell back against the couch cushion with a thud. “Don’t. Don’t say things like that. I’m already—“ He groaned as you wrapped your hand around the base, feeling the weight of him in your palm. “I’m not going to last. You know I’m not going to last. You’re too much. You’re too fucking much, and I love you, and I can’t—“
Bucky makes another sound. A desperate, keening little whimper that would embarrass him if he had any blood left in his brain. “Stop looking at it like that,” he begs.
“Like what?”
“Like it’s a—a popsicle. Like you’re about to—fuck, sweetheart, your mouth. I can feel you thinking about it.”
You grin, wide and sharp, and finally, finally, you wrap your hand around the base. He’s hot. Velvet over steel. He jerks in your grip, and a bead of precum wells up at the tip, pearly and glistening in the low light.
You lean in, slow, and you don’t break eye contact. You let your tongue dart out, just the very tip, and you lick it away.
Bucky’s entire body seizes. His metal hand slams down on the couch arm, leaving dents in the leather. His right hand flies to your hair, not pushing, just… holding. Anchoring. His fingers twist into the strands, and he’s shaking.
“Oh, God,” he whispers. “Oh, God. Please. Please, baby. I need—I need you to—”
“You need me to what?” you ask, and you kiss the head of his cock. Soft. Chaste. A peck. Like you’re saying goodnight.
He sobs. Actually sobs, a wet, broken sound that goes straight between your legs. “Don’t make me say it.”
“Say it.”
“Suck it,” he gasps, the words tumbling out in a rush. “Please suck my cock. Please. I’ve been good. I’ve been so good all day, I did the dishes, I didn’t complain about the traffic, I—please, sweetheart, just—I need your mouth. I need it so bad I can’t think.” He whines a bit, making your thighs clench. “I’m not gonna last,” he warns, his voice cracking on the last syllable. “Baby, please, I can’t—you waited too long, you were down there looking so pretty, I already almost—“
You cut him off by leaning forward and dragging the flat of your tongue from the base of his shaft to the very tip.
The sound he makes is inhuman. A deep, guttural keen that vibrates through the floorboards. His back arches off the couch, his metal hand scrabbling for purchase on the cushion, tearing a small hole in the fabric. His hips buck again, and you let him, letting the head of his cock bump against your lips, your chin, smearing precome across your skin like a gloss.
“Please,” he sobs, and it’s not a controlled plea. It’s a wrecked, animal noise. “Please, sweetheart, I need your mouth, I need—fuck, I need.”
You take pity on him. You’re not cruel, not really. You just like him like this—wrecked and begging and so full of want it spills out of every word.
You wrap your lips around the head and sink down.
The sound he made was inhuman. It was a sob and a moan and a prayer all rolled into one, and it vibrated through the room like a physical force. His hips bucked involuntarily, pushing himself deeper into your throat, and you had to brace your hands on his thighs to keep from gagging.
“Sorry—shit, sorry, I’m sorry—” He was already apologizing, already trying to pull back, but you held on. You looked up at him through wet lashes, tears already forming at the corners of your eyes from the stretch, and you saw the exact moment he broke.
“Oh, god. Oh, fuck. Baby. Baby, please.”
You couldn’t answer with your mouth full, so you showed him instead. You relaxed your throat, took him deeper, let the tip press against the back of your palate until your eyes watered and your nose pressed against the thatch of dark hair at his base. You held there for a moment, feeling him pulse against your tongue, tasting the salt of his precome spreading across your taste buds.
His hands fly to your head, both of them now, flesh and metal tangling in your hair. He doesn’t push. He holds, his grip desperate but reverent, as if you’re something holy he’s terrified of breaking. You take him deeper, relaxing your throat, letting him feel the wet, silky clutch of it. His hips stutter, barely controlled, and he starts to babble.
“Oh my god. Oh my god, that’s—you’re so good, you’re so fucking good, how are you this good—I love you, I love you, I’m sorry for swearing, I’m sorry, fuck, fuck—“
You pull off with a wet pop, just to look at him. Just to watch the devastation on his face. His chest is heaving, his hair is plastered to his forehead, and his eyes are glazed, unfocused, like he’s already floating somewhere above his body.
“You apologize right now, honey?” you ask and smirk, licking your lips slowly, deliberately.
He chokes on a laugh that turns into a moan. “You make me—ah—you make me crazy, I can’t think straight, everything’s just—please put it back, I was so close, baby, I was so fucking close—“
You oblige. But this time, you don’t tease. You swallow him down to the root, and you stay there. Your throat works around him, your tongue pressing flat against the thick vein on the underside, and you feel the exact moment he shatters.
You hum around him, a low vibration, and his hand tightens in your hair. “Fuck. Fuck, baby, that’s—that’s it. Just like that. Oh, Jesus.”
You take him deeper, inch by aching inch. You let your tongue press flat against the vein on the underside. You let your saliva pool and drip, messy and wet, because you know he likes it sloppy. You know he likes the sounds—the wet, obscene gluck of your mouth working him, the way you gag just a little when he hits the back of your throat.
He’s babbling now. A stream of consciousness, raw and unfiltered.
“So good. So fucking good at this. Look at you—look at my pretty girl with her mouth full of my cock. You’re so—oh—you’re so beautiful like this. On your knees for me. Blinking up at me with those pretty fucking eyes.”
You moan in answer, and the vibration makes his whole body shudder.
When you finally pulled back, a string of saliva connected your bottom lip to the head of his cock. You wiped it away with the back of your hand and smiled up at him.
“Good?”
Bucky looked like he was having a religious experience. His mouth was open, his eyes were glassy, and his chest was heaving like he’d just run a marathon. His metal hand was gripping the couch cushion so hard that you could hear the fabric starting to tear.
“Good,” he repeated, and then laughed, a broken, breathless sound. “Good. Yeah. That was—you’re trying to kill me. You’re literally trying to murder me, and I’m going to let you, because I can’t—I can’t fucking think when you look at me like that.”
“Then don’t think,” you said again, and went back down.
You built a rhythm this time, slow and deliberate. You wanted to savor him, wanted to learn every sound he made, every twitch of his hips, every tremor in his thighs. You found that he was vocal—god, was he vocal—and that every time you hummed around him, he made this desperate little whimper that went straight to your core.
“Please,” he kept saying, like a mantra. “Please, please, please—“
You weren’t sure what he was asking for. More? Less? Permission to come? Permission to grab your hair and fuck your throat the way you could tell he wanted to? It didn’t matter. You knew what you wanted to give him.
You pull off slowly, dragging your lips up the length of him, and you let the tip pop out of your mouth with a wet sound. A string of spit connects you to him, and you break it with a flick of your tongue.
“More,” you say, your voice hoarse. “Tell me more.”
He looks down at you, and his eyes are glazed, his mouth open, his chest heaving. He looks like a man who’s been drowning and just found air.
“I think about this all the time,” he confesses, and his voice is a whisper now, raw and honest. “When I’m on missions. When we’re in meetings with the team and they won’t shut up and then you’re there writing whatever in your book in those old sweatpants and you look do hot it makes me so hard. When I’m trying to sleep. I think about you on your knees. I think about the way you look up at me. Like I’m—like I’m something worth kneeling for.”
You feel a hot, sharp ache bloom in your chest. It’s not just the words. It’s the way he says them. Like a secret. Like a prayer.
“You are,” you say, and you mean it. “You’re everything worth kneeling for.”
You take him back again into your mouth. You sink down until your throat spasms around him, until tears prick at the corners of your eyes. You stay there for a count of three, four, five, your nails digging into his thighs. Your head kept bobbing up and down, your hand working on the base when you were too busy sucking and licking at his head.
It starts with a whimper—high, thin, desperate. Then his whole body seizes, his thighs clamping around your ribs like a vise, his hands yanking your hair hard enough to sting. He screams. A muffled, desperate thing, bitten off behind his fist. His whole body arches off the couch, and his hips jerk, and this time he doesn’t stop them. He thrusts up into your throat, shallow and frantic, and you let him. You take it. You fucking love it.
“I’m gonna—baby, I’m gonna come,” he warns, his voice cracking. “You have to—if you don’t want—fuck, you have to stop—”
You double down. You suck harder, hollow your cheeks, bob your head in a fast, filthy rhythm. You reach up and cup his balls, heavy and tight, and you roll them gently in your palm and just like that, he comes apart.
He comes with a broken wail, a broken shout of your name his hips pumping up into your mouth, his release hitting the back of your throat in hot, thick pulses. You swallow everything, greedy for it, and you keep sucking, keep milking him, moaning around him as the vibrations draw out every last shudder from his frame, until he’s whimpering.
He goes limp like a marionette with cut strings.
You stay where you are, mouth soft around his softening length, until his fingers loosen in your hair and start stroking, gentle now, soothing and pushing at your head, too sensitive to take any more. Only then you pull off slowly, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. Your lips are swollen, your chin wet, your eyes still glassy with tears. You look up at him, and he’s crying.
Tears stream silently down his temples, disappearing into his hairline. His lips are parted, panting, and he’s staring at the ceiling like he’s just seen the face of God. You press a kiss to the inside of his thigh, then his knee, then crawl up his body until you’re straddling his lap, your forehead pressed to his.
“Hey,” you whisper, cupping his stubbled jaw. “You okay?”
He blinks. His eyes focus on your face, and a smile breaks across his tear-stained cheeks—wobbly, radiant, so full of love it makes your own chest ache. He pulls you into his chest, wrapping both arms around you so tightly you can’t move, burying his face in your neck.
“I love you so much,” he mumbles into your skin, voice wrecked and hoarse. “I love you. I can’t words. I forgot how to words.”
You laugh, soft and fond, and kiss the side of his head. “That’s okay. I love you too.”
He’s a disaster. Sprawled across the couch, his jeans around his knees, his chest heaving. His face is flushed, his eyes are wet, and he’s staring at you like you’ve hung the moon.
“Come here,” he rasps, and he hauls you against his chest, burying his face in your neck. His arms wrap around you, tight and desperate, flesh hand and metal hand both clutching at your back like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.
“I love you,” he mumbles into your skin. “I love you so much. That was—fuck. That was—”
“Good?” you offer, running your fingers through his sweaty hair.
“I blacked out for a second,” he admits. “Like, actually blacked out. Saw the light. Met God and he just said, ‘Tell your girlfriend she’s a menace.’”
You laugh, a bright, startled sound, and he lifts his head just enough to look at you. There’s so much warmth in his eyes. So much softness. The kind of love that doesn’t need words, that lives in the curve of his smile and the way his thumb is tracing circles on your spine.
“I’m not done with you,” you say, and you feel him stir again beneath you. Already. The supersoldier serum is a gift.
His eyebrows shoot up. “You want—now?”
“I want to ride you,” you say, plain and simple. “I want to be on top. I want to watch your face while I fuck myself on your cock.”
His hands tighten on your hips. His pupils dilate again, swallowing the grey. “Yeah,” he breathes, licking his bottom lip while watching your face. “Yeah, okay. Yeah, I want that. I want that so bad.”
You don’t bother with stripping. You just reach down and shove your own shorts and underwear to the side, just enough to bare yourself. You’re soaked, slick and ready, and when you line him up and sink down onto him in one slow, steady motion, you both groan.
He’s thick inside you, stretching you open, filling you up. You pause when he’s fully seated, just breathing, just feeling. His head falls forward to rest against your collarbone, and his hands are shaking on your waist.
“So tight,” he whispers. “So warm. Fuck, sweetheart. You feel like coming home even when I fucked you this morning. Oh shit.”
You start to move.
Slow at first. A gentle roll of your hips, a lazy grind that makes his eyes flutter shut. You brace your hands on his shoulders, feeling the hard muscle flex under your palms, and you find a rhythm. Up and down. Rocking and circling. Every drag of his cock against your walls sends sparks up your spine.
He’s watching you. His eyes are open now, dark and hungry, tracking every shift of your expression. Your bitten lips. Your flushed cheeks. The way your head falls back when you find the right angle.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, and his voice is low and rough and so full of awe. “That’s my girl. Take what you need. Use me. I’m yours. I’m so fucking yours.”
You speed up. The couch creaks under you, the springs groaning in protest. Your thighs are burning, but you don’t care. You chase the feeling building low in your belly, the tight coil of pleasure that’s winding tighter with every thrust.
Bucky’s hands roam. Up your sides, under your shirt, across your stomach. His metal fingers are cool against your heated skin, a delicious contrast. He palms your breasts, thumbs your nipples, and you moan, loud and wanton.
“You’re so beautiful,” he says, and his voice is breaking again. “Look at you. Riding me like you were made for it. Like you were made for me.”
“I was,” you gasp. “I was made for you, Bucky. Only you.”
His hips buck up to meet yours, and the new angle makes you see stars. You cry out, your nails digging into his shoulders, and he does it again. And again. A relentless, perfect rhythm that has you teetering on the edge.
“Come for me,” he begs, and his hands are gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. “Please, baby. I want to feel you come around my cock. I want you to—fuck—I want you to soak me. Let go. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
You fall.
It crashes over you like a wave, white-hot and blinding, and you scream his name. Your body clenches around him, vice-tight, and he follows right after, a broken moan torn from his chest as he spills inside you.
You collapse against him, boneless and trembling. His arms close around you, holding you safe, and you press your face into the crook of his neck. His heart is pounding against your chest, a wild, frantic rhythm that slowly, slowly begins to slow.
Neither of you speaks for a long time. The city hums outside the window. The couch is a mess. You’re both a mess.
He presses a kiss to your temple. Then your forehead. Then the tip of your nose.
“I’m fucking down bad for you,” he says quietly, like a confession. “Like, embarrassingly down bad. Sam and Steve make fun of me. Natasha says I look at you like a puppy watching its owner eat bacon.”
You laugh, weak and breathless. “A puppy?”
“A very pathetic, very lovesick puppy,” he confirms. “She’s not wrong.”
You tilt your head back to look at him. He’s soft now. Sated. The sharp edges of his want have smoothed into something gentle and warm. He’s still flushed, still a little sweaty, and his hair is a complete disaster.
“Good,” you say, and you kiss the underside of his jaw. “Because I’m down bad for you too. Embarrassingly. Pathetically.”
He grins, wide and bright, and it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.
Later, after he’s carried you to the bathroom and cleaned you up with ridiculous tenderness, after he’s changed the sheets on the bed because “there’s no way we’re sleeping on that couch tonight, sweetheart, it’s a biohazard”—later, when you’re tucked under the blankets with his arm around your waist and his face buried in your hair, he speaks again.
“Hey,” he murmurs.
“Hmm?”
“Next time,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “Can I kneel for you?”
You turn in his arms, pressing your forehead to his and grin. It's a silent conversation, knowing that he loves spending his time like that. He kisses you then, soft and slow, and you fall asleep like that. Tangled together. Wrapped up in each other. Two people so ridiculously, embarrassingly, down bad that it loops all the way back around to being the easiest thing in the world.
depraved post incoming…do y’all…remember that one bucky fic where he went to a glory hole (?) and does anyone have any idea if that author has added on to that story? all i remember was that it was hot asf.
“I can't trust my own mind. So, until they figure out how to get this stuff out of my head I think going back under is the best thing . . . for everybody.”
PAIRING: college!bucky barnes x college!reader
WORD COUNT: 333
WARNINGS: reader is drunk, friends with benefits implied, confession of feelings,
no use of y/n.
SONG PROMPT: jump (for my love) by the pointer sisters
LYRICS: “you are the one.”
NOTE: had nothing planned for today’s one like the others so i scraped something together 🥲
event masterlist | day six | day eight | main masterlist
Music thunders throughout the house, loud enough that the pulse of it can be felt under your feet as you shove past the throes of college students and stumble out the front door and into the rain. Your heart's pounding from both what you've just seen and the amount of alcohol you'd consumed tonight.
You had to get out.
But Bucky's quick as he jogs after you, catching your arm.
"C'mon, wait up—"
You turn to push him away, but the alcohol in your body makes the world spin, you lose your footing and hit the floor.
"Jesus," He breathes, dropping to his knees beside you.
"I'm fine." You sniffle, cheeks flushing, pushing his hovering hands away feebly.
Bucky shakes his head, "You rushed outta there like a bat outta hell. . . don't lie to me."
"It's silly."
He shrugs, "Tell me anyway."
"I saw you, with Nat," You whisper shakily, "And I know we're not— we're just— we're messing around, but. . . but it not like that for me, not anymore."
Bucky's eyebrows furrow in confusion, and you watch the moment realisation dawns on him, and then his expression softens into something you're too afraid to name, "Oh, baby—"
"Don't call me that," You choke out softly, "Please, I can't— we—"
"She means nothing," Bucky's hands cup your cheeks, thumbs brushing away your tears, "Okay? Nothing to me. Nat kissed me, I didn't kiss her back, okay? I'd never. . . because it's you."
You frown, wobbly and uncertain, ". . .what?"
He tilts his head, smiling softly, "I don't want Nat. . . I want you. You are the one, you idiot. Since the day you dropped those books on my feet in the library."
"Am I dreaming?" You croak.
Bucky chuckles as he stands, scooping you up off the floor, rain still pouring around you, "No, baby, you're not."
"Then say it again." You sniffle.
He kisses your forehead, "You're the one, and I'll remind you again in the morning, when you're hungover and regretting your life choices."
🏷️: @metal-armed-muse @kileyking @nightfirecomit @juniebjonesin @chocolatemilkshakex @spring-soldier @spideyskywalker @phoenix-in-writing @buckytakethewheel @i-loveyoubutyourenotmine + to be added to the tag list? comment on this post or send in an ask!
avengers!bucky seems to hate you, and you find his hatred for you kinda hot
cw: 18+ minors dni — fem!reader, avengers!reader, frenemies to lovers, reader is lowkey a freak, suggestive content
bucky barnes masterlist ༻ navi
you honestly shouldn’t find bucky’s hatred for you hot.
the way he sighs when you walk into a room, or the way he grumbles under his breath when you’re both paired together on a mission. the way his eyebrows furrow and his lips pinch together in a thin line, just makes you want to climb his big body like a tree and maybe that thought is crazy, but god forbid a girl is attracted to a six foot something man with massive biceps.
you let out a proud grin when you manage to sneak your leg under bucky’s and slam his back onto the mat.
you see the way bucky clenches his jaw, sitting up with a frown.
“awh dont be upset that i kicked your ass while sparring… again.” you let out a high pitched laugh, running away as soon as bucky jumps to his feet.
“you piss me the fuck off.” bucky grumbles, going to the side to take a sip of his water.
“i know.” you shrug, coming closer to him since he’s made it obvious that he’s not going to chase after you like last time.
“i don’t know why though.” you sigh, sitting down on the bench beside him. “i really don’t do anything bad to you, i just… exist and to you that is somehow a problem.”
you hear bucky let out a long, loud sigh, before he gets up. “cmon let’s go again.” he says, cracking his neck.
you roll your eyes, realising that he just completely ignored everything you just said.
this happens all the time and now it’s starting to get annoying. every time you try and have a normal conversation with him that doesn’t include cussing or cursing, he ignores you.
you stand up crossing your arms. “no.”
“no?” bucky repeats, his eyebrow raising.
“no.” you say again. “im done. im always nice to you, i never cause any problems for you and you. you’re just ugh.” you throw your hands in the air because you can’t exactly tell him that even though he’s never once said a positive thing about you, you still want him to rail you into the fucking mattress.
you let out a frustrated sigh, picking up your water bottle and walking out of the training room.
before you can even get close to the door, you feel a hand wrap around your wrist and pull you back.
you gasp, when you’re spun around so you’re facing bucky. bucky who’s jaw is clenching so damn hard, you’re surprised he still has his teeth in his mouth.
“wha—mmph” you eyes widen in surprise, when bucky roughly crashes his lips against yours. your eyes quickly close, when you feel him push you against the nearest wall, his hands sliding around your waist. you kiss him back more fiercely, pushing your tongue in his mouth and nibbling on his bottom lip. he groans, one of his hands wandering down to your ass, giving it a light squeeze before he pulls his mouth away.
he pants, resting his forehead on yours. “that’s fucking why i can’t speak to you. or look at you. or be any fucking where near you, because everytime you smirk at me, or look at me with those damn ‘fuck me’ eyes, all i can think about is bending you over the nearest fucking surface.” and with that, he turns around and walks out of the training room.
for the first time ever, you’re left speechless.
you wanna be one of the first to read my bucky fanfics? why don’t you ask to join my taglist :)
AN: hehe just a lil something until i publish my main fic 💋
pairing: 1940s!bucky barnes x bakers daughter!reader
summary: james buchanan barnes has been a thorn in your side ever since you moved to brooklyn when you were eight. you refuse to let your guard down, no matter how much his stupid good looks & incessant flirting tear at your defences
warnings: 18+ MDNI, fluff, flirty!bucky, stubborn!reader, slow burn, teasing, overuse of 40s slang, lots of dialogue, probs not canon compliant, bucky is a ladies man 🙂↕️, 'doll' used a lot, reader wears a dress & heels, lil bit o' jealously, bucky is down bad, suggestive content at end, heavy making out, dry humping, not beta read, barely proofread, no use of y/n
word count: 7.8k
authors note: this one's for @phoenix-in-writing and my flirty 40s bucky peeps 🫶 post covid low has me doubting everythingggg, but i managed to birth this baby. i'm fragile so pls be kind. 40s slang meanings: necking - making out; cheesed off - annoyed; bird-dogging - trying to steal someone else's date/romantic partner.
song inspo: beware.. the south london lover boy. - raye
divider credits: line dividers by @/omi-resources, letter dividers by @/httpssturns
He's just so charismatic
And he talks as if he's doing road
And he says, "I'm too toxic for you, darling,
but when we kiss, it feels like home"
A rush of warm summer's air brushed the back of your neck, the bell above the bakery door jingling and alerting you of a new customer.
"I'll be with you in a minute," you exclaimed softly over your shoulder, your hands occupied with wrapping up the order of mixed berry mini tarts for Mrs. Johnson. She had come by the bakery a few days earlier to place a special order for her granddaughters birthday, and made you promise you would bake them and not your father—she swore your baking tasted sweeter than his, that you put in a 'dash of sunshine'.
A deep, raspy voice filled the small bakery. "Take your time, doll. I'm in no rush."
The light yellow ribbon trembled in your grip, your fingers tightening around the fabric for a split second. You swallowed back the annoyed sigh that worked it's way up your throat whenever you heard his voice.
You finished wrapping Mrs. Johnson's order in silence, not bothering with a reply. The less you spoke to him the better your chances were of leaving the bakery in a good mood.
"You're an angel," Mrs. Johnson smiled as you handed her the warm cloth parcel. "Here," she dug into her coin purse and placed a few dimes on the wooden counter between you, "something to thank you for your hard work." She gave you a small wink before making her way to the door, exchanging warm pleasantries with the only other customer in the bakery on her way out.
You grabbed the dimes and put them in the tip jar next to the register, turning back to the small work bench to wipe it down.
"What a big tip, angel. What ya gonna do with all your riches?" Came the deep voice again, layered thick with honey and much closer to you this time.
The sigh finally slipped out of you. "What are you doing here, James?" You asked exasperatedly, keeping your back turned to him.
"What will it take for you to call me Bucky, doll?" You could hear the faux pout in his tone. "I'll get on my hands and knees."
"Your ma didn't place any orders, so I'll ask again: what are you doing here?" You said in response, finally turning to the man who lived to annoy you with his presence.
James was leaning against the counter, his blue eyes bright with a smirk that was quirked to the left—his jaw moving as he chewed on gum.
"I wanted to come say hi to my favourite girl."
You ignored the thrill that his smoky rasp sent down your spine. "I am not your anything," you bit out, crossing your arms over your chest.
His smirk morphed into a shit-eating grin, "who said I was talking 'bout you?" His lips smacked obnoxiously. "Mrs. Johnson's always been a big fan of mine."
You moved from behind the counter, rolling your eyes at his arrogance. You made your way to the display in the window, moving around sweet bags that weren't out of place.
"She know you takin' Dot out dancing tonight?" The question slipped from your lips before you could stop it. You squeezed your eyes shut, your lips pressing into a thin line. You weren't supposed to know that.
James appeared at your side, nudging your rib with his elbow. "You keepin' tabs on me, doll?" He sounded ecstatic and your heart gave a traitorous flutter.
"No," you scoffed, "she came by yesterday and wouldn't stop gabbin' about it."
The oven timer went off in the kitchen, saving you from James seeing your trembling hands. When did they start shaking?
"Is that jealousy I hear?" He followed behind you, leaning against the small kitchen's doorframe. You busied yourself with taking the bread out of the oven, resisting the urge to look at how his shoulders made the room smaller—since when did he get so broad? "You know I've been askin' you to go dancing for years."
"And what? I just become another bird clinging to the James Buchanan Barnes' arm?" You asked in a sickly sweet, sarcastic tone. "I'd rather pluck my eyes out."
James staggered back dramatically, clutching his chest like he'd been shot. "You wound me, sweetheart. I don't know what I did to deserve this kinda treatment." The big grin on his face contradicted his words—he enjoyed this, whatever it was.
"You know what you did," you mumbled, swatting at his chest with a dish towel. “Now, are ya gonna buy something or continue being a pest?”
His hand shot up quickly, grabbing the end of the towel and pulling abruptly. You stumbled forward a few steps, his strength catching you off balance. You braced a hand on his chest on reflex, trying to stabilise yourself. His body was warm beneath your palm and the contact sent sizzling currents of electricity racing up your arm, travelling through your veins and making your heart beat faster.
His scent wrapped around you—minty freshness from his gum, a lingering hint of tobacco, something masculine and uniquely him. You inhaled instinctively, your mind going hazy. You briefly forgot you were meant to hate him.
"As long as I'm your pest."
All prior teasing and flirtation was gone from his voice, leaving behind a vulnerable sincerity you'd never heard from him before. His free hand came up slowly, resting on top of yours—your eyes latching on his thumb stroking the back of your hand softly. Your nerves lit up under his touch, and your breath hitched at how his hand completely swallowed yours.
You made the mistake of looking up at his face, catching his hooded eyes zeroed in on your lips. His head dipped lower, his minty breath caressing your face. The air around you thickened, your heart stuttering in your chest. You could see a faint scar on his nose, your hand hanging at your side twitching with the urge to trace it.
The service door behind you banged open with a loud force, breaking whatever spell James dragged you under. You jumped away from him like you had been burned, just in time to see your father's head pop out from over a stack of crates.
"Bucky, I'll have to put you on the payroll at this rate! Do ya mind helpin' an old man out?"
James was by your father's side before he even finished his question, lifting two crates off the trolley like they weighed nothing. His eyes met yours for a second, soft and open, before his signature smirk took over and one of his eyes twitched in a flirty wink.
Right. You hated James and his stupid, charming, handsome face.
Fifteen Years Earlier
The first thing you noticed was the air was thicker than your old neighbourhood, a hint of sot laced through the Brooklyn winds. The sidewalk was uneven beneath your shoes; a mix of dirt, harsh gravel, and cracked concrete taking your full attention—the last thing you wanted was to return home with a scraped knee after your ma's warning. Your parents were hesitant to let you wander the neighbourhood alone—they were busy unpacking from the move—but the adventurer in you couldn't sit still.
You rounded the corner, following the tinkling sounds of children's laughter. A smile bloomed across your face when you spotted a couple of kids a few houses down, jumping on the sidewalk as they played hopscotch. They looked to be around your age—a scrawny boy with blonde hair and a girl with dark hair pulled into braids. Your footsteps picked up as you eagerly approached the duo, missing the front door to your right opening and boots stomping down the steps.
Before you could greet the kids playing, your head snapped back—a harsh tug pulling at your pigtail and causing your scalp to flash with pain. The force threw you off balance and you fell to the side, your palms and knee hitting the rough ground—small stones embedding themselves in your flesh. You looked at your palms in shock, tiny dots of red surfacing and heating your skin. Your vision blurred as your eyes filled with tears, a small sniffle escaping you; your ma was going to be so disappointed. There was tiny flecks of blood smearing the hem of your dress where your scraped knee was starting to weep.
"I-I'm—" A small voice started behind you, making you whip your head back to your attacker. He was taller than the blonde boy, with floppy hair that was a matching brown to the girl with braids. His bright blue eyes were widened in panic with his pink mouth slightly agape, his hands hovering uselessly near your head. You would've thought he was cute, if he hadn't just injured you in lieu of a greeting.
Your voice was quiet, though laced with a small fire. "Why did you do that?" A silent tear streaked down your cheek, adding more warmth to the heat flushing your skin. You weren't embarrassed—no, you were something far more dangerous. You were angry.
"James Buchanan!" A woman yelled from the front porch on your right, her dress flowing behind her as she rushed down the wooden steps. "What are you doin' to that poor girl?!"
The scent of lavender engulfed you as she reached you two, her firm hands gripping the boy's—James—shoulders and pulling him away from you. She squatted down next to you with a gentle smile, her brows furrowing as she examined your bloody knee and hands. Long brown hair pinned away from her face and light blue eyes confirmed your suspicion—she was your assailants mother.
"Are you okay, sweetie? Can you stand?" She placed soft hands on your elbows, helping you to stand slowly. She moved a hand to your back, rubbing between your shoulders soothingly. "Let's get you cleaned up, that okay with you?" You responded with a small nod.
"M'sorry, ma. I just wanted to talk to her…" James mumbled guiltily. Your gaze snapped to him with a hardened glare. So he could apologise to his ma but not to you?
"Go play with Becca and Steve, I'll deal with you later." His mom said sternly, leading you away from him and to the porch steps. You kept your gaze on him, narrowing your eyes as he lingered next to the gravel now spotted with your blood.
"I won't forget this, James."
When your father first opened his bakery you and your mother didn't have much hope. It was a small store wedged between an abandoned butcher who had gone out of business and a bookstore that got new releases a year late and had rot lining the bookcases. There was hardly any foot traffic, and for the first few weeks after opening the only customers were dockworkers on their lunch break or tourists who had gotten lost.
One day your father decided to go door to door in your neighbourhood with boxes full of his—and your—baking, and the next day there was a line waiting outside the door before you opened. A month after that, your family's bakery had become the go to for Brooklyn's residents—despite your family being 'transplants'. From then on your life routine consisted of school, the bakery, and then home—sometimes the bakery before school, depending on how many special orders your father had.
It didn't take long for you to figure out that bakeries—like coffee shops—had an atmosphere that invited gossip. Something about the smell of caramelised sugar and freshly baked bread, the golden hues of sunlight that trickled through the large windows, the soft droning from the antique radio in the corner—it made people relax and let their guard down. And it made them forget that you were also there, standing behind the counter trying to tamp down your amused smile as you overheard conversations about overbearing mother-in-laws, school crushes, and illegitimate babies.
Unfortunately for you, that meant you heard the name "Bucky Barnes" fall from more girl's lips than you could count. From your fellow classmates giggling over how much of a 'dreamboat' he was, to the women who were lucky enough to go dancing with him, you heard more about him than you ever wanted to.
"He's a really good dancer," the redhead giggled to her friend, a slice of apple and rhubarb pie sitting between them on the window table.
"Oh, I'm sure," The friend replied in a dreamy voice. "You didn't stop at dancing though, did you?" She asked in a singsong tone, wiggling her eyebrows.
You pressed the roller harder into the flattened dough, rolling your eyes at their conversation. You had twenty minutes left before you needed to close shop, which meant you only had to wait ten more minutes before you could politely usher them out the door.
Dot sighed heavily, "we went back to mine and were necking for a bit, and then he just…stopped."
"I bet he was a good kisser, at least," the friend offered.
"Really good, which is why I'm so cheesed off!" Dot let out a huff. "He was even a gentleman as he turned me down, saying that it's nothin' to do with me—that his heart just 'wasn't in the right place'. That there's some special dame he can't get over."
A snort slipped out of you before you could stop it—James, only having eyes for one girl, really? Your hands froze on the roller as their heads whipped to you standing behind the counter.
Dot's eyes narrowed at you, her head tilting like she was trying to put a name to a face. Then the recognition hit her.
"You know him, don't you? You know Bucky?" She asked you, eagerly leaning over the back of her chair.
"Yeah, I guess. He lives 'round the corner from me," you offered with a small shrug. The last thing you wanted was to talk about James with his latest date.
She looked at you expectantly. "Well? Do you know if there is a special girl?"
Ever since his voice dropped in the seventh grade, James has had a new girl on his arm every week. Each week, he got caught playing footsie with a different girl under the school desks, received high fives from his fellow wolves for heavy petting a dilly at the pictures, and on multiple occasions sported a black eye from his attempts at bird-dogging. He was an incorrigible ladies man; there was nothing special about being his girl.
You rubbed a flour covered hand against your temple. "We don't talk 'bout that kinda stuff," you mumbled. "We're not that close."
Dot hummed, a perfectly plucked eyebrow raising on her forehead. "Really? Isn't he here, like, every day?"
Is that why they were still here? Were they waiting for James to turn up?
"I wouldn't say every day," you replied, wiping your hands on your apron. "His ma likes my focaccia and lemon bars." You started to loudly pack up the register and front counter, hoping they would get the hint to move on.
Dot's friend whispered something low to her, both their eyes trailing from the humid mess that was your hair down to the faded loafers on your feet. Your shoulders inched higher under their scrutinising stares, a string of sarcastic remarks loaded on the back of your tongue.
"Pie was good," was all Dot said, standing from her chair and gathering her bag, her friend following suit. They offered you a brief wave as they opened the door, the chime from the bell announcing their departure. The sound was like music to your ears—your shoulders dropping a fraction and a tired sigh leaving your lips.
What the hell was that?
You turned back to the raspberry tart you were working on, trying to immerse yourself in the new recipe you were testing out while the words "special girl" rang out in your head.
The bell sounded again, the jingle causing a sigh to escape you. You should've made sure to lock the door after them.
"Sorry, we're closed." You called out, your eyes not leaving the sticky red mess beneath your hands.
"Sign on the door says otherwise." Came the husky, low voice that haunted your dreams.
"Speak of the devil," you muttered under your breath. You turned your head over your shoulder, seeing James sauntering towards you with that stupid, roguish grin. "If you're looking for Dot, she left a few minutes ago."
"I know."
You squinted your eyes at him. "Did you wait until they left to come in?"
He shrugged sheepishly, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck. "Maybe."
You scoffed, resting a hip against the counter and throwing him a smug look. "Heard that you left her feeling…unsatisfied."
He met your look with an arrogant smile, his eyes flashing with interest."You talkin' about me again, doll?"
"Unwillingly."
He leaned both arms against the wooden counter in front of you, drawing your attention to his exposed forearms. Your eyes followed the line of a vein bulging through his skin, his rolled sleeve cutting off your view of it travelling up his bicep.
"She was just practice."
Your eyes snapped up to his glowing blue eyes, a flush creeping up your spine at being caught staring. The lust searing under your skin churned into disgust at his words. "Practice? That's all these girls are to you?"
He shrugged nonchalantly, "gotta keep my moves fresh for when you finally come to your senses."
You barked out a harsh laugh. "In your dreams, Barnes."
He stood to his full height, rounding the counter and trailing a hand along the wood grain as he stepped closer to you.
He cocked his head to the side. "How'd you know you're all I dream about?"
Your heart leaped into your throat and you scolded your body's reaction, reminding yourself he talks like this to every dame in a thirty mile radius.
"Don't you have anything better to do? Like finding some other girl to harass?" You turned back to the raspberry tart, taking a steadying breath and willing your heartbeat to slow.
"I'm right where I want to be."
His voice was right next to you now, low and raspy in your ear. A hint of smoke clung to his clothes, a smell that normally repulsed you but had you leaning closer to him.
A raspberry burst beneath your pinched fingers, drenching your skin in it's glistening juice.
"Look at the mess you've made, doll."
Before you could grab the rag sitting on the counter, slender fingers wrapped around your wrist. His thumb brushed against your racing pulse, dark eyes meeting yours as he slowly brought your stained fingers towards his mouth. Your breath caught in your throat, all coherent thoughts leaving your brain—everything in your body single-mindedly focused on where his skin was touching yours, on his breath ghosting the tips of your fingers. You watched, entranced, as his tongue peeked out to wet his lips, gliding along the plump flesh. You stepped forward instinctively, your body craving his warmth and your mind clouding with desire.
His lips are so pink.
He pressed a soft kiss to the tips of your fingers, a small gasp leaving you at the contact. A hum sounded from his chest, his lips vibrating faintly under your fingertips. A low buzz started to thrum throughout your body, tingles erupting from where your skin pressed against his soft lips.
"Sweet," he whispered low, heavy.
His eyes lifted to yours again, dilated pupils swallowing blue irises. He flashed you a wink before taking a small step back, his free hand grabbing the rag on the counter. He gently wiped the sticky berry off your fingers, taking more care than necessary for the simple task. He put the rag down, his hand moving from your wrist to clasp your fingers delicately. He brushed a lingering kiss against your knuckles, his fingers squeezing yours before he let go.
James' eyes traced over your face almost intricately, like he was committing your flustered expression to memory. His hand lifted slowly, his thumb brushing against your temple in a barely there touch—a light dusting of flour covering his skin once he pulled his hand away.
"Think I want to place a special order," he drawled, pink lips stretching into a lopsided smirk. "That's if you're on the menu, sweetheart."
He turned on his heel, strolling towards the door—pinching a bag of cookies on his way. "Don't miss me too much!" He hollered over his shoulder, flipping the sign on the door to 'closed' and leaving you with the sinking realisation that maybe it really is a thin line between love and hate.
The heels of your pumps clicked on the concrete sidewalk, the sound echoing through the still night air. The neighbourhood was unusually quiet for a Friday night, the impending storm encouraging your neighbours to stay inside and forgo their usual Friday plans. You envied them—staying inside with a glass of wine and your well worn copy of The Hobbit felt far more appealing than the date you had just left.
Your date was a nice enough guy—the son of one of your mom's friends—but he was…boring. Kind, but shy. A gentleman to a fault. The type of guy you wouldn't look twice at if he came into the bakery. You suppose he felt similarly to you, the date ending with not so much as a cheek kiss goodbye—hell, he let you walk home alone from the restaurant. Sure, it was barely a ten minute walk from your place, but it felt wrong. Was his chivalry just an act that he dropped once he realised the date was going nowhere?
The faint sound of deep, husky laughter interrupted your thoughts as you rounded the corner. Your heart rate picked up in anticipation, sweat starting to prickle your palms. Because there he was, the man whose face kept popping into your head—uninvited—all throughout your date. He was lazily strolling towards you, hands stuffed in his pant pockets and head tilted towards the smaller man next to him. Steve was rambling, his hands waving around energetically as he spoke. James threw his head back with a loud, unfiltered laugh; the sound sending a rush up your spine, even from twenty metres away. It didn't take a genius to know they had been out drinking, their movements languid and carefree.
Steve noticed you first, raising his hand with a wave and calling out your name in greeting. They were closer to your house than you were so there was no avoiding them—something you weren't even sure you wanted to do. You normally tried to limit your time spent interacting with James, but something had shifted—you felt your body, and mind, yearning to be near him.
James' head jerked towards you quickly, his body visibly stalling as he looked at you. You closed the distance, Steve meeting you halfway with a tipsy smile and a quick hug while James stayed a couple feet behind, looking momentarily stunned.
"Hi Steve," you greeted with a soft smile. You made eye contact with James once he reached you two, giving him a curt nod. "James."
"What, no hug for me, doll?" His signature smirk was back, although looking more like a dopey grin with the alcohol flowing through his system. His eyes were slightly glazed over, trailing from your head down your body to your heels—his gaze getting stuck on the formal dress you were wearing. It was a white dress with small, dainty flowers that you had worn only a handful of times—saved for the very rare occasion you had a date.
You gave him a once over, your sight catching on the chest hair peeking out where he had unbuttoned his shirt. Combined with the veins on his forearm you had admired before, you felt an unfamiliar warmth growing in the pit of your stomach.
You snapped your eyes back to his. "And end up smelling like a distillery? No thanks."
"Oh, Jesus," Steve mumbled, shaking his head. "Not this again."
James ignored both Steve and your jab at him. "You been out dancing? Without me?" His eyes wandered over your dress again, his bottom lip jutting in a pout. A shiver raced across your body as you remembered those inviting lips touching your fingers in the bakery.
You crossed your arms over your chest, pushing your chin up in faux confidence. "It's none of your business where I've been."
He took a step closer, tilting his head to the side—his eyes softening under the dim streetlight. You could smell the lingering scent of sweet whiskey and tobacco on him, clouding your head further.
"On the contrary, it is entirely my business." His voice was rough yet smooth, like honey drizzled over gravel.
You scoffed, trying to hide your nerves.
"O-kay," Steve dragged out. "I'm leaving you two to…whatever this is." He brushed past you, walking in the direction of his place—the same path James should be taking.
The both of you ignored him, stuck in a staring match—for what reason, you're not sure of.
You broke contact first, stepping around James and continuing your journey home. He was by your side in a second, humming a tune under his breath as you leisurely walked down the street.
"So, where were you?" All playfulness was gone from his tone, leaving behind genuine curiosity.
"Again, it's none of your business."
"Your safety is my business, doll." He said low, serious. You ignored the way your heart jumped in your chest at his concern.
You sighed, relenting. "If you must know, I was out for dinner."
He stopped abruptly, making you turn to him with raised eyebrows.
"Dinner, as in a date?" He asked, his features pulling down into a frown.
"Shocking, I know," you mumbled, kicking a loose stone with the toe of your shoe.
His head swivelled, looking down the street in the direction you came from. You watched his eyes squint and his jaw clench. "Well, where is he then? Your date?"
You shrugged, turning back to walk towards your place. "I don't know. I walked home from the restaurant."
James jogged to catch up to you, grasping your forearm gently. "Alone? Are you fucking serious?" He seethed through clenched teeth.
You ripped your arm out of his hold, continuing your walk. "Yes. I can take care of myself."
He shook his head at your stubbornness, a humourless laugh escaping him. "I'm pretty sure it's illegal to let a beautiful dame walk home alone at night." You scoffed at him, a flush rising under your skin at him calling you beautiful. "I'm serious, doll. That's no man."
You reached the small path leading to your porch steps, turning to him to say goodnight, finding him already looking at you with a hopeless look in his baby blues. "You're not seeing him again…are you?"
Inexplicably, your heart tugged towards him. Maybe it was due to his tipsy state, but his flirtiness was gone and your usual sass died on your tongue. You told him the truth, for once.
"No, he was boring."
His face lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. That dopey grin returned and his shoulders dropped, like he had been holding in a breath. "Good." His eyes flicked down to your dress again, his eyes twinkling.
Suddenly, a large hand palmed your waist and another clasped your hand, lifting it above your head before James clumsily spun you around on the uneven sidewalk.
"James! What are you doing?" You squealed as he continued to try dance with you, your free hand instinctively gripping his shoulder.
He spun you around once more, both hands moving to your upper back as he dipped you low. You let out a gasp, your shocked eyes meeting his shining ones. Even while tipsy and slightly uncoordinated, he really was a good dancer.
"There she is, there's that smile." He muttered softly, quietly, tenderly.
You didn't even realise you were grinning up at him.
Your hands rested on his shoulders as he brought you back up slowly, the two of you standing closer than before. The air went still around you, and you swayed closer to his warmth. His hands stayed on your upper back, gentle pressure holding you steady but not pulling you closer. Even with liquor running through his veins, he was a gentleman—his hands never straying and making you uncomfortable.
This wasn't the Bucky you heard stories of, copping a feel any chance he got. No, this was your James—unashamedly flirty but…respectful. And you hated it—hated the stupid flutter in your chest, hated your brain turning to mush. Hated the hitch in your breath as your eyes fell to his parted lips, hated the overwhelming urge to lean forward and finally get a taste of him.
You hated how despite everything, you wanted him. Badly.
"M'sorry," he mumbled low, whisper quiet. "Couldn't help myself, that dress is perfect for dancin'."
His head dipped lower, warm breath ghosting your lips and erupting tingles along the flesh. You held your breath, your eyelids drooping in anticipation. A soft chuckle escaped him, the whiskey laced exhale brushing your face. His lips settled oh so faintly on your right cheek, a tender touch you were not expecting. Your hands clutched his shoulders tighter, one of his thumbs caressing between your shoulder blades in a soothing motion.
He took a step back and your eyes fluttered open, darting around his face in confusion. His usual arrogance was gone, an expression you could only describe as affectionate taking it's place.
He turned his head towards your house, brows furrowing in an instant.
"Are your parents home?" He asked. You imagined it was a question he had asked girls dozens of times before, but this felt different—he sounded concerned, not suggestive.
You shook your head gently, trying to clear the fog he had clouded your mind with. You took a step back from him as your lungs filled with air again.
"Um—no, they're—they went to visit my aunt in Cape Cod." You replied, your voice small and airy.
He raised his eyebrows, a displeased grunt sounding from his chest. "With the incoming storm?" He shook his head, "they won't be back for days."
You walked up the path towards the porch, your legs feeling unsteady. Your house keys trembled in your hands as you grabbed them from your clutch. James followed closely behind you, a hand hovering over the small of your back as you climbed the steps.
"It's fine, we have supplies stocked up." You said with a shrug.
He let out a deep breath. "That's not what I'm worried about, sweetheart." His head whipped back to the street, his eyes scanning the dark neighbourhood. "You never know what beasts are lurking," he muttered, a tense edge to his voice.
You let out a snort as you put the key in the lock. "Yeah, like you're not the most dangerous thing lurking the streets."
His mouth quirked to the side, "you think I'm dangerous?" He stepped closer, the intoxicating scent of him wrapping around you. "Do I make your heart race, doll? Get your blood pumping, make you hot under the collar?"
You let out a stuttered breath before you could stop it, your body reacting to his proximity exactly as he suggested. You shouldered the door open with more force than necessary, needing an escape from him and his increasingly irresistible face.
James stepped through the door behind you, causing you to turn to him with your eyebrows raised. "…What are you doing?" You dragged out.
"Keeping you safe."
A shocked laugh sounded in your throat. "You can't stay with me, James, that's—people might get the wrong idea." Your hand clutched the door for support, your body half turned towards the man who you wanted to leave, and wanted to kiss until your lips were bruised.
He shrugged, taking a step back onto the porch. "Fine. I'll stay out here then."
"What? Don't be ridiculous, it's about to start pouring down." You could feel a headache forming at your temple—why must everything be so difficult with him?
"Well, I either get hypothermia or," his lips inched into that infuriating smirk, "our neighbours get the wrong idea." He tipped his head towards you, "it's your choice, doll."
A frustrated breath left you. "…Fine. But you're sleeping on the couch."
He gave you a mock salute. "As you wish."
You turned around, walking to your lounge and turning on the lamp in the corner by the couch—soft lamplight illuminating the room. You heard the front door softly click closed, the sound of James' boots scuffing faintly along the hardwood floors. You stood in the middle of the lounge, suddenly feeling awkward and shy in your own home.
"I'll get you a blanket," you mumbled to him, wringing your fingers together nervously. You went to the linen closet in the hallway, grabbing him a clean blanket and pillow. You took a second to breathe, trying not to focus on the fact that he was going to be in your home. With you. Alone.
You walked back into the lounge, seeing him sitting on the couch and untying his boots. You cleared your throat softly, gently placing the bedding on the cushion next to him. He looked up at you, the soft light making him look younger. You dragged your gaze away before you got caught staring at his lips, before you caved in and did something you'd regret.
"The bathroom is down the hall, second door on the left."
His lips lifted into a soft smile. "I know," he said. "I've been here before."
You let out a small, nervous laugh. "Right."
You turned to walk towards the stairs, towards your room. You stopped with a hand on the doorframe. "I'll see you in the morning, James."
"Good night, doll. Sweet dreams."
You woke to the faint smell of coffee trickling under your door and the soft drumming of rain against your window. For a few minutes you basked in that half awake state, where the world didn't exist outside of your warm sheets and you briefly forgot about everything that was waiting for you outside your door.
The sound of clanging pots stirred you from the dreamy in between, making you drag yourself out of bed with a groan. You threw a cardigan over your silk nightgown, your bare feet padding against the floor as you made your way downstairs.
Your brain was only half functioning as you walked into the kitchen, the memories from the night before only rushing back when you were met with the sight that was James' back covered in a white undershirt. You froze in your path, your wide eyes glued to his muscles shifting beneath the soft cotton. Your eyes trailed over the wide expanse of his back and shoulders, watching his biceps flex as he moved pots around on the stove. Heat blazed beneath your skin, simmering in the pit of your gut.
"Enjoying the show, doll?" His voice rasped out, thick and heavy with sleep. The sound alone had your body erupting in goosebumps.
You opened and closed your mouth like fish out of water. You tore your gaze away from his distracting frame to the kitchen counter where two plates of eggs and toast were sitting.
"Did you…make breakfast?" Disbelief dripped from your tone.
"Mhm. Coffee will be ready soon," he turned then, granting you with the sight of his sleep-ridden face. He nodded towards the kitchen table next to the window. "Sit, I'll bring it over."
You followed his instruction with no argument, feeling dazed. Had you hit your head and woken up in an alternate reality?
He brought the plates over, flashing you a soft smile before going to grab the coffee percolator and a couple of mugs. He poured both your cups of coffee, settling in the chair across from you like this was your normal routine. He dug in to his breakfast and you followed suit, albeit hesitantly—you weren't sure if this was real or if you were still dreaming.
"Sleep okay?" He asked before taking a sip of coffee, soft eyes meeting yours over the lip of his cup.
You nodded slowly. "Yeah, fine…you?
He shrugged lightheartedly, "not the worst couch I've slept on."
You both went back to eating before you couldn't hold your question in any longer. Your fork clanged noisily on the porcelain plate. "What are you doing here, James? Why…why did you make breakfast?"
He shrugged again. "'Cause."
You narrowed your eyes at him. "That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer you're going to get," he replied, mouth quirking to the side in barely contained amusement.
You let out an annoyed huff, leaning back in your chair and crossing your arms. James mirrored your posture, his eyes roaming across your face. Your eyes flicked down to his arms, thick biceps bulging against his chest.
"You look beautiful in the morning, doll." His tone was soft, borderline reverent—causing butterflies to unleash havoc in your stomach.
You scoffed. "Bet you say that to all the girls."
"I mean it when I say it to you."
You shot up from your chair, collecting the dirty dishes to give your nervous hands something to do. Your chest was feeling too tight, your skin too warm. You felt like you were going to combust under his gentle stare.
"You can go home now—I'm in no imminent danger." Your voice shook, your plates in your hands trembling as you walked towards the sink.
You heard the scrap of James' chair behind you, the creak of the floorboards beneath his feet as he made his way towards you.
He said your name softly. "Look at me, please."
Placing the dishes next to the sink, you turned towards him—against your better judgement. You rested your hands on the counter behind you, gripping it for support. You watched his adam's apple move as he swallowed, an almost hesitant look crossing his face. Was he…nervous?
He let out a breath, rubbing a hand against his day old stubble.
God, he looked unfairly handsome in the morning.
"Are you ever going to give me a chance?"
There was no teasing in his voice, no playful flirtation. He sounded sincere, and as if in despair.
"…What?"
He stepped forward, his eyes searching yours. "You're all I think about, and it's driving me crazy. It's been driving me crazy for the past fifteen years."
A small gasp escaped you, your hands clutching the counter tighter. "You're—you don't mean that."
He took another small step forward. "I do."
You shook your head, refusing to believe the words coming out of his mouth. "No, you don't. You like the chase, you like that I'm something you can't have."
He let out a breathy chuckle. "I'll admit our back and forth is fun, but it's not the sole reason I want you."
You pushed off the counter, darting past him and into the lounge—needing to put distance between you and the insufferable man who has been a thorn in your side for more than half your life. He didn't mean what he was saying, he was just taking advantage of your early morning vulnerability.
He followed behind you, calling your name out softly. You hated how it sounded falling from his lips.
"Just—listen to me."
You whipped back to him, fire blazing in your eyes. "No! I don't believe you!" You threw your hands up. "What about all the girls you've dated, huh? If you couldn't stop thinking about me like you claim, why have a new girl on your arm every week?"
He looked at you with wide eyes, a hand going up to tug his hair in frustration. "What else was I supposed to do? The girl I liked wouldn't give me the time of day!" He put his hands on his hips, his teeth chewing on his bottom lip. "And maybe…maybe I hoped it would make you jealous," he muttered low, sheepish.
You could feel your walls crumbling, your defences falling at the sincerity in his voice and face. In the fifteen years that you had known him, he had never said anything like this to you. Yeah, he was brazenly flirty, but he'd never said something so honest…so vulnerable.
"You never said sorry," you mumbled, staring down at your fidgeting hands.
"What?"
"For hurting me, the day I moved here. You never apologised to me." You hated how meek you sounded, how that day still affected you despite all the time that had passed.
He stepped forward slowly, gently grabbing your hands. You watched, stunned, as he lowered to one knee before you. He looked up at you with soft, pleading eyes. Your heart stumbled in your chest at the sight of him on his knees before you.
"Sweetheart, I am truly sorry for hurting you—for causing you pain at any point in your life." He took a breath, his hands squeezing yours. "This doesn't excuse what I did, but—I was so excited," a lovestruck smile took over his lips, "I just really wanted to talk to the new, pretty girl." He let out a small, self-deprecating chuckle. "Guess I came off a bit too strong."
Your eyes grew warm, your vision blurring with tears. This man just kept on surprising you, making you feel things for him you didn't think was possible.
"You don't have to forgive me, but please believe me when I say all I want is you." He stood to his full height, one hand dropping yours to cradle your jaw—his thumb brushing against your cheek tenderly. You looked into his eyes, seconds away from drowning in the pools of blue.
You swallowed through the lump in your throat. "But…Dot said, she said there was a special dame."
"For a smart girl, you can be real thick sometimes." His forehead dropped to yours. "You're the special dame, doll. Always have been."
You had gone speechless, not a single coherent thought running through your head. Your eyes darted across his face, scrutinising every flicker—trying to find any inkling that he was lying. All you could see was sincerity, hopefulness, and something frighteningly close to love.
"Bucky," you whispered, leaning your face into his hand.
His eyes flashed, a harsh exhale leaving his nose. His eyes flicked down to your lips, then back up to your eyes.
"You've never called me that before."
Then he was leaning down, his other hand dropping yours to cup the back of your neck, tilting your head back. His lips brushed against yours lightly, giving you the chance to pull away. Your hands came up to his chest, one palm laying flat against his racing heart and the other bunching the fabric of his undershirt. You pulled slightly, encouraging him to press his lips to yours harder.
His lips moved against yours slowly, languidly—like he was trying to savour the moment. He tasted like coffee with a faint hint of mint. You kissed him back eagerly, a small noise vibrating in your throat. The hand cradling your jaw moved down your back before resting on your waist, pulling you closer to his body. The kiss started to grow desperate, his lips sucking your bottom lip with a small nip from this teeth, drawing a gasp from you. You had been kissed before, but never like this—not like you were being consumed whole. His lips were even softer than you imagined.
He tilted his head, running his tongue along your lips. You opened for him willingly, feeling heat build in your core at the first touch of his tongue against yours. A whimper tore from your chest, a hand trailing up from his chest to the back of his head—your fingers tangling in his soft locks. He groaned into your mouth as you gave an experimental tug—the sound sending currents throughout your body. You broke away to gasp for air and his lips travelled along your jaw, his stubble scratching your skin deliciously.
"Kissin' you feels like home."
A breathy moan escaped you as his lips continued their journey, mouthing at your neck and drawing more needy noises from you. He tugged you closer to him, your hips pulled flush against his.
"You sound so sweet, doll." He muttered into your neck, his mouth latching to a spot below your ear and sucking gently. It sent shocks down your body and you gasped at the sensation.
"Taste sweet, too."
Your hips started to roll against his, instinctively seeking friction to quell the desire lighting up from his touch. He responded to your movements eagerly, both hands dripping your hips.
"You…you still owe me for—for the cookies you stole." You gasped out, his mouth on your neck unrelenting.
He pulled back with a wolfish grin, his lips spit slick and glistening. His eyes were dark and hooded as they met yours. "Think I have a few ways I can pay you back."
He spun you quickly, walking backwards until his legs hit the couch and he sat down—pulling you on top of his thighs. Your nightgown bunched around your knees as you straddled his lap, your hands resting atop his shoulders—your fingers digging in to the hard muscle. His mouth met yours again, devouring you like you were his first proper meal in days. His hands on your hips pushed down, encouraging you to settle your weight fully on top of him. His hips bucked up beneath yours, pulling a moan from both your throats.
You slowly rolled your hips back and forth, need clouding your thoughts as you felt a hard bulge press against you. You pulled back from his lips, desperately sucking in air. His head dropped to the crook of your neck, his breath ghosting your skin as moans slipped from his lips. Wetness pooled where your body was rocking against his, and your body started to shake as an unfamiliar pleasure started to build.
James' hands on your hips gripped tighter, stilling your urgent movements. His head lifted to look at you and he looked ruined—eyes glazed over, lips swollen, chest rising and falling rapidly. He pressed a kiss to your lips before moving to your cheek, then nose, then forehead—covering your face in soft pecks that had you giggling in his arms.
"It's 'bout time I took you out dancin', sweetheart."
