Summary: Jax has been so busy with the club lately, you feel like you hardly see your husband at all. When he comes home and barely says a word to you, the stress both of you had been feeling comes out in the form of a nasty fight that leaves you both sleeping alone. But, despite the harsh words you exchanged with each other, neither of you liked being too far away, especially in your own home.
Word Count: 4.3k | I do not give consent to having my work republished or posted to any other platform or profile other than my own. | Masterlist
Warnings: angst, mega angst with a small bit of fluff, swearing, arguments, fighting, unresolved argument, jax is hella rude, reader kinda is too, mentions of dv, insinuations of dv (not with jax and reader), implications of hitting your partner, slight sexist remarks, that may be all.
The fight was stupid. Aren’t they all?
This one really was. At least it started out stupid, but only grew into a more serious fight the longer it went on.
Jax had come home close to midnight, a tired, grumpy man who’d spent his day dealing with club business - most of which he hadn’t yet told you about despite one of his vows being to do just that, to keep you in the loop as best as he could.
You’re his wife, after all. You deserved that, at least.
He’d stripped out of his clothes, leaving a trail leading all the way to the bathroom, and that was only after he greeted you with a simple, chaste kiss to your cheek without saying a single word.
That in itself made you a little annoyed, because after not hearing from him for most of the day, and after waiting for him to come home all night, that was all you got? Well, that and a now messy hallway.
You bit your tongue as you followed the discarded clothing trail, picking up each one and wondering how bad of a day he had to justify needlessly making the house a mess, especially after you spent a good few hours cleaning it earlier, but you doubt he noticed that with how quickly he disappeared into the bathroom as soon as he stepped through the door.
After you picked up his jeans, shirt and boxers, you lifted your gaze and looked at Jax through the foggy glass of the shower, your eyes narrowing at how tense he looked. “Long day?” you asked, and he just grunted, shaking his head and barely acknowledging you.
“Yeah,” was all he said, and you lifted a brow, debating on whether or not to push him further, but you weren’t cruel. He obviously dealt with some serious shit today, if the red stain you saw on his jeans was anything to go by, and wanted to have a shower in peace.
So you left the bathroom and entered the bedroom, stuffing his clothes into the laundry bin and making a mental note to do them as soon as you wake up tomorrow in hopes to get that stain out for him - not that he’d really care anyway. Another stain would just take its place soon enough.
You went back into the living room, where you had been patiently waiting for him to come home, and sat back down on the couch. You picked up the book you’d been reading and had set down when you heard him come home, only to receive that vague greeting from Jax before he left you alone again.
It was less than ten minutes later when the shower turned off, and only a few more minutes passed before you heard footsteps leading up to the living room, and when you lifted your gaze from the book and met Jax’s tired eyes, you felt your heart clench in your chest.
He was dressed for bed, wearing just his sweats, and he looked exhausted, both physically and mentally, and you wanted to help him in any way he’d let you, because you’d both been each other’s safe spaces since you started dating, and you’d like to think that was still very much true now that you’ve been married for just over a year.
But instead of giving you an explanation, or a proper greeting, or a gruff apology for his sad excuse of one, he gave you a tight lipped smile he didn’t even try to make reach his eyes. “‘M goin’ to bed,” he said, and you squinted your eyes at him, making him pause when he already started to turn away and head back down the hall. “What?”
You narrowed your eyes at that. Yes, he was allowed to have bad days, he’s the President of a fucking motorcycle club that gets put through the ringer damn near every day, and you’d never try to invalidate that, but to have him be so short with you and so distant wasn’t appreciated in the slightest.
Your shoulders lifted in a sarcastic shrug, “Oh, hey, babe. How was your day? Mine was good, thank you so much for asking,” you said, sarcasm dripping from every word. You just couldn’t help yourself. “That’s usually how a normal husband greets his wife, you know.”
Leaving his clothes on the floor was one thing, but pretty much ignoring you was something else, and especially since this wasn’t the first time he’s come home this week in a bad mood and essentially ignored you in your own home.
Jax let his shoulders drop, he let out a deep huff, “Don’t start,” he muttered, running a hand over his damp hair, and that only made you even more annoyed.
You set the book aside, having not really read much of it anyway, and sat up a bit. “Don’t start?” you echoed, narrowing your eyes, “I’m way past that. What happened to your eye?” you asked, the beginning of a black eye that was obviously forming on the left side of his face something you’d noticed while he was in the shower, but didn’t say anything about.
Jax propped his hands on his hips, his head tilting to the side in a way that told you he was already done with the conversation. It was a look you’d seen him give countless times to others, and he’d given it to you a handful of times as well, but everyone else didn’t get the same treatment that you did. You weren’t just anyone else, you’re his wife. “It’s nothin’,”
“It doesn’t look like nothing-”
“It’s just club shit,” he cut you off, effectively making you briefly shut up. “You know how it is.”
You pressed your lips together, your arms coming up to cross over your chest. “Yeah, I do know how it is,” you agreed, trying to reel your temper back in, because as much as he was pissing you off at the moment, you didn’t want to start a fight he obviously didn’t have the energy to have right now. “But I also know that you once promised to never keep things from me. Club shit included.”
Jax went silent at that, and you watched the way his jaw locked, a muscle in his cheek twitching slightly. He waited a few breaths, no doubt trying to calm himself down too, before he softened his expression just a tiny bit. “Babe, I promise, it’s nothin’ for you to worry ‘bout right now, alright?” he said, seeming to hope that would be enough for now. “I’ll tell you all about it soon.”
But it wasn’t enough, because lately you’d been feeling detached from him, and like he was keeping things from you, and you didn’t like that. At all. “No, it’s not alright,” you said, standing up from the couch, and his eyes lifted with your movement. “Jax, you barely said a word to me when you got home, you left your clothes all over the floor, and instead of sitting down and talking to me about it, you just told me you were going to bed. I feel like we don’t talk anymore.”
Jax exhaled harshly through his nose, and he broke eye contact with you as he shook his head. “Look, I’ve had a long fuckin’ day, alright? I told you that,” he said, his voice raising a bit as his eyes met yours again. “I don’t feel like sittin’ down and talkin’ about it, okay? Is that alright with you?”
Your eyes hardened at that, but so did his, and you’d come to a clear stand off, despite you simply wanting him to communicate with you a bit better. But that was asking too much of him, apparently. “Fine. Whatever,” you said, letting your shoulders drop even though your whole body was tense now. “Goodnight then.”
Jax let out a short huff, and he gave you a look you’d seen too many times to count at this point. “You mad at me now?”
Yes, you were, but he clearly just wanted to go to bed and forget about today, and who were you to stop him? “No, Jax,” you answered, crossing your arms. He gave you another look, this one almost comically unimpressed as he mirrored your stance, his own arms coming up to cross over his chest. “Fine. Yeah, I am kinda mad at you.”
Jax huffed and shook his head, muttering something under his breath you weren’t able to catch. “So I deal with bullshit all day with the club, and then when I come home and try to leave all that shit behind me, I have to deal with my wife too?”
You squinted at that, his choice of words adding to the anger you felt burning inside of you. “You don’t have to deal with me, Jax. And I don’t think that’s a very fair thing to say to me,”
“But jumpin’ on my back as soon as I get home is fair to me?” he shot back, stepping around the half wall separating the hallway and the living room. “I expected you to be the one person who wouldn’t fuckin’ push me when I’ve already had a rough day.”
“And how am I supposed to know that? That you’ve had a rough day?” you asked, ignoring the sting you felt at the way he was so dismissive of you right now, like you were just another person to him instead of his partner.
“The lack of greetin’ wasn’t obvious enough?”
You flared your nose at that, and this wasn’t going the way you wanted it to at all. Starting a fight was the last thing you liked doing with Jax, but you also didn’t see this de-escalating anytime soon. “You’re acting like an ass right now, Jax,” you said, ignoring his question you had a feeling he wasn’t expecting you to answer anyway.
Your choice of words had his brows raising, and his head tilting back a bit. “I’m actin’ like an ass,” he repeated, stating it rather than questioning it. “You ain’t in no position to be sayin’ that to me, babe.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“You’re actin’ like one of those needy chicks that hang around the clubhouse instead of my wife,” he grunted, his face lacking any resemblance of the softer side of him that always seemed to be around when he was with you.
Hearing him reduce you to a needy chick, someone who just hangs around to get laid by one of the Sons, had your jaw clenching angrily. “You’re calling me a fucking crow eater? Are you fucking serious? Why?” you scoffed, “Because I just wanted my husband to look at me for more than five seconds and to have an actual conversation with me?”
“Because you keep fuckin’ pushin’ it when you know it’s just makin’ shit worse,” he said back, as if that justified his words. “You ain’t a crow eater, but you are my old lady, and when I need a fuckin’ minute to myself when I get home, you give it to me.”
A humorless laugh left your lips. “Oh, I give it to you? Is that what I’m supposed to do? We’ve been over that, Jax. You don’t get to boss me around like one of the Sons,” you said, “And how am I supposed to give you something you never asked for? Do you want me to read your mind? So I know you need a sec to yourself instead of taking it out on me as soon as you get home?”
“I didn’t want to take it out on you,” he said, and his voice raised even more. He was clearly getting as worked up as you are. “I tried to not fuckin’ take it out on you. But you just had to go and start somethin’, huh?”
“Don’t pin it all on me, Jax. That’s not fucking fair,” you glared at him, “You can’t just expect me to be all happy and understanding when you come home and fucking ignore me, especially since you’ve been doing it all week. How is that fair to me?”
“This life ain’t supposed to be fuckin’ fair, babe,” he scoffed, his biceps flexing as he crossed his arms more firmly over his chest, and any other night you’d be all over that, but you’d gotten so mad so quickly, you couldn’t even take a second to appreciate just how hot your husband is.
You rolled your eyes and turned away, opting to just stop looking at him since the anger in his eyes wasn’t helping you calm down at all. How is he mad at you right now? When he was the one at fault here? “Don’t give me that,” you shook your head, “That’s bullshit. You can’t blame it on the life all the time, Jax. You were given many chances to leave, and to make shit better. It doesn’t get better, and you just have to deal with it and let me in, not push me away when it gets hard.”
“I’m not pushin’ you away. I’m tryin’ to not bring this shit home with me, but clearly that ain’t workin’,” he muttered, running his hand over his mouth. “And I ain’t blamin’ it on the life either. Things get hard sometimes, like right now. I’m dealin’ with a lot of shit with the club, and I don’t need you breathin’ down my neck about it as soon as I get home.”
“Me just wanting to talk to you counts as me breathing down your neck, now?” you asked, understanding the point he was trying to make about as much as he was understanding yours. Not at all. “What’s next, I have to ask you for permission to touch you in case you had a bad day and decide to take it out on me instead?”
“Jesus Christ,” he nearly yelled, his eyes darting around the room as if he was looking for a chance to escape, as if simply hashing something out with you was such a big thing to ask of him. “That’s not what this is and you know it. You don’t have to ask permission to do shit with me, alright?”
“But I’m supposed to be able to tell when you want space, then give it to you after you already made me feel like shit for caring?”
“I didn’t mean to make you feel like shit-”
“Well, you did. You made me feel like some idiot who needs to get permission from you to be able to talk to you, let alone touch you,” you cut him off, “And you make me feel like I’m some afterthought, that I’m just here for you to come home to. I’m your wife, Jax, I’m supposed to be the person you come to with this kind of shit, not brush off and ignore so you can bottle it up on your own.”
“You are the person I come to with this kinda shit-”
“It doesn’t seem like it. You’d rather barely say a word to me when you come home, then go back out the next day and do it all over again-”
“‘Cause you make it fuckin’ impossible to get a word in without you flyin’ off the fuckin’ handle,” he cut you off this time, and his voice was a lot louder than before. He moved to stand in front of you, towering over you and making you regret ever opening your mouth. But there was no going back now. “I don’t need to deal with you and your fuckin’ insecurities when I’ve got enough shit goin’ on, alright?”
You narrowed your eyes, your gaze as cold as his is. “My insecurities?”
“Yeah. What the fuck are you even complainin’ about, huh? What, I didn’t greet you properly when I got home, so that means you get to be on my case for the rest of the night? To bring up shit that doesn’t even fuckin’ matter?” he was in your face now, angrier than he’s ever been with you, and you actually shrunk back a bit.
“You’re out of line, Jax,” you tried to reel him back in, but you feared he was already too fired up, and you’d pushed him to his breaking point.
“You’re the one puttin’ me outta fuckin’ line!” he yelled, and you flinched at both the loudness of his voice, and the way he raised his hand to brush his hair out of his face. He caught your flinch, and instead of instantly calming down, it only seemed to irritate him even more. “You thought I was gonna hit you?”
And maybe you should’ve assured him that, no, you didn’t think that, and you’d never think he’d ever put his hands on you like that, but you were still so mad, you didn’t have much control over what you were saying right now. “It wouldn’t surprise me if you did,” you said instead, even though it would definitely surprise you if Jax were to ever destroy your relationship beyond repair by hitting you. “The way you guys treat your old ladies, the way you treat women in general. I’ve seen the aftermath of an argument between your mom and Clay. It’s not pretty.”
You knew that would hit him hard. There was nothing he hated more than to be compared to Clay, and the fact that you insinuated him possibly hurting you in the way Clay had hurt his mom was pretty low. Even you knew that. It would cut deep for him to hear that you might actually believe he’d be capable of doing that to you, even though you didn’t believe that at all, but you were just so upset with him, you wanted him to feel the way you were feeling.
Jax scoffed and shook his head, taking a few steps away from you. “You’re unbelievable,” he said under his breath. “I ain’t Clay. I’d never put my goddamn hands on you like that. Ever. You should fuckin’ know that.”
And you do know that, but you didn’t say that.
Instead you turned away and sat down on the edge of the couch, feeling the way the tension in the room became less angry, but remained just as heavy. The argument seemed to be over, with neither of you wanting to continue it after that.
“I’m gonna stay out here tonight,” you said, your voice rough from holding back tears. You looked down at the floor as you curled in on yourself. “I’ll sleep on the couch. I don’t want to see you right now.”
A humorless laugh left Jax’s lips, and he turned away, heading down the hallway towards the bedroom as he muttered, “I don’t wanna see you either,”
That was by far the worst argument you and Jax had ever had. That was the most heated you’d gotten with each other, to the point of getting into each other’s faces and letting your mouths spew words without letting your brains think of the consequences for it after.
You and Jax were both stubborn, and he was more hot-headed now that he’s the President of SAMCRO, and the longer you’re with him, the more unwilling you are to be treated like the other old ladies you’d met. It was definitely a clash, but you and Jax are usually able to make it work. You and he are usually able to talk things through before they get to a point where everything just explodes and you end up angry with each other.
In the years you’ve been together, there have only been a handful of times where you and he couldn’t reach an agreement, or you couldn’t get each other to see your point of views on things, and even then, they weren’t as bad as tonight was.
You felt your eyes sting, and you quickly reached over to flick the light off before curling into a ball on the couch. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it definitely wasn’t as soft as yours and Jax’s bed, and you almost wished you’d told him to sleep on the couch instead.
But you ignored the flat pillow that was more for decoration than to be used as an actual place to rest your head, and you pulled the throw blanket up to your chin, leaving most of your lower half uncovered.
This was the first time you and Jax willingly chose to not sleep in the same bed. Of course there were times where he ended up crashing at the clubhouse and you had to sleep alone in the bed, and there were times where you’d fallen asleep on the couch waiting for him to come home, but he’d always bring you to bed with him, because you didn’t like not sleeping next to each other.
And even though you meant it when you said you didn’t want to see him, it didn’t change the fact that your heart was hurting, and even though it was because of him, you still wanted to be with him in your room, not out here by yourself.
But you were still so upset, and you were stubborn and bitter and didn’t feel like getting up and putting your differences aside so you could both get a decent enough sleep tonight.
With your luck, it would just start round two, and you weren’t in the mood to deal with that at all.
So you got as comfortable as you could, and tried to ignore that Jax was sleeping by himself in the bed you’d been sharing with him for the last two years.
It took you what felt like hours to finally calm down enough to go to sleep, but it wasn’t peaceful. You were barely asleep, just unconscious enough to chase away the tiredness from the fight and leave you feeling slightly more rested, but it still wasn’t a good sleep.
You weren’t sure what time it was or how long you’d been out here, but you were able to faintly hear the sound of the bedroom door opening, and the sound of a few footsteps. Even with your eyes closed, you could see the brightness slip into the darkness behind your eyes as the hall light turned on, but you didn’t fully wake up until a few moments later.
The sound of more footsteps barely registered in your mind, and you were almost completely back to sleep when you felt the blanket you’d been using slowly lift off of you, and then felt a familiar hand slide under your back.
You almost thought you were dreaming, because of course Jax would be in your dreams, but then you felt your body being lifted up, and you opened your eyes. You squinted at the harsh light coming from the hall and turned your head, burying your face in Jax’s chest as he slid his arm under your legs, keeping his other one wrapped around your back.
“Sorry,” he muttered, using his shoulder to flick the light switch off when he walked past it, and you just groaned as he carried you the short distance to the bedroom.
You knew he was taking you to bed, and even though you were still quite pissed at him, you didn’t try to get out of his hold, nor did you tell him to stop and put you down.
He left the bedroom door open as he walked around the bed, and he gently set you down on your side of it. The sheets and comforter were already pulled back, and you melted against your cool, much comfier pillow as Jax pulled the covers up over you.
You instantly cuddled under them, your eyes falling shut as he rounded the bed again and got in on his side next to you. You kept your back to him as he slid under the covers and moved closer to you, and you instinctively leaned back against him.
“I’m still mad at you,” you mumbled as he wrapped his arms around you and pulled you back against his chest.
A much softer laugh than all the sarcastic and humorless ones from before came out of his mouth at that, and he laced his fingers with yours under the sheets. “Yeah, I’m still mad at you too,” he said back, and you tried to fight off a smile as he buried his face in your hair.
You thought that would be the end of it, that he just brought you to bed since he didn’t want you to sleep apart unless you absolutely needed to, and you were still very much not on good terms right now, but the soft sigh you felt against the back of your neck had you refraining from falling asleep just yet.
“What happened before,” he started, his voice low and much more gentle than it had been earlier in the living room. “It got outta hand. We both said some shit, but it ain’t gonna break us, alright? We just needed to cool off for a bit.”
You held his hand a little tighter, because despite all the things he’d said to you during the fight, that was what impacted you the most. “No. It won’t break us,” you agreed, and you felt the way his lips curled up just slightly against your skin.
“That’s my girl,” he mumbled, and you fought off another grin, knowing that you and he would need to actually talk things out properly in the morning, but for now, you were more than content to fall asleep in his arms like you had many times before, and you held onto the hope that tomorrow’s conversation would be much more efficient that the one from a couple hours ago.
This was such a real argument. The nerve of him to refer to her as a crow eater, (which I can totally see him saying tbh, unfortunately) but not actually mean it since he obviously cares and loves her so deeply. So Jax coded. Ugh, yes. Just yes.
Summary: After eight years, Jax’s high school sweetheart returns to Charming due to a family emergency. Since you and he didn’t keep in contact after you moved to New York, Jax is eager to know everything there is to know about you since you left, and you’re curious about what he’s been up to as well. A lot can happen in eight years, as you and he learn, but some things never change. What happens when you and he reconnect with no expectations weighing you down, but feelings that had never went away rush back to the surface? And what happens when you find out something you aren’t sure you could ever move past, when all Jax wants to do is move forward?
Genre: fluff, smut, angst | Warnings: season 5 jax x reader, abel and thomas don’t exist in this, wendy and jax never got married, tara and jax never dated - swearing, indications of smut, descriptions of smut, mentions of illness, descriptions of illness, alcohol consumption, mentions of getting arrested, sexual themes, toxic friendship, insecurities, body insecurities, implications of bad past experiences with guys/during sex, unprotected sex, hair pulling, swearing, dirty talk, oral (f receiving), (m receiving).
Word Count: 43k
Intro
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Part 8
Playlist for the series: Almost - Lewis Capaldi, Nightingale - Demi Lovato, The Only Reason - 5 Seconds of Summer, Wish You The Best - Lewis Capaldi, Just Give Me A Reason - P!nk & Nate Ruess, I’m Scared I’ll Never Sleep Again - 5 Seconds of Summer, she’s all i wanna be - Tate McRae, The Cut That Always Bleeds - Conan Gray.
Just SUCH an amazing read from start to finish. I absolutely loved this series, and I loved how much love and care you could feel was put into it, as well as much love and care it has IN it. So so amazing 🧡
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Summary: After radio silence for eight years, Jax runs into you on a random street in Charming. Even though you are both busy, he manages to ask you out for drinks and a chance to catch up - an offer you are all too happy to agree to. | Series Masterlist
Word Count: 1.6k | I do not give consent to having my work republished or posted to any other platform or profile other than my own.
Warnings: fluff, swearing, mentions of illness, mentions of hospitals, mentions of drinking.
Longing.
That was the first feeling that took over Jax when he saw you again for the first time in eight years. The feelings that came over him after were too many to decipher, but the main one was relief, because at least he knew that you were alive and well after radio silence for what felt like forever.
Eight years, and as soon as he saw you, it was like no time had passed. Like nothing had changed at all.
Except maybe for the fact that you were even more stunning now than you were back when you were twenty two, and Jax thought you were the prettiest thing he’d ever seen back then. But now? Fuck, you might just be the most gorgeous girl in the entire world.
But what the hell were you doing back in Charming?
Jax had just finished meeting up with Nero and was getting back on his bike when he saw you, and he instantly froze. There you were, as pretty and as oblivious as ever as you walked down the sidewalk next to him like you knew exactly what kind of reaction you were getting out of Jax, even though you hadn’t seen him yet.
Was that even you? Was he imagining things?
He was given an answer to both of those questions, yes and no, when your gaze flickered over to the left, seemingly able to feel his eyes on you, and your own met his almost instantly. You stopped walking, your brows furrowing for just a split second before your mind seemed to register that, yes, that is your ex with his leg mid-swing over his bike, just as frozen as you are.
Then a pretty smile formed on your lips as you took a few steps towards him, your eyes never leaving his even as your fingers curled against your palms at your sides. “Jax,” you said his name with a hint of uncertainty, and it was the first time he’d heard you say it in so long. The first time he’d heard your voice in so long. “Hey.”
Jax stood up straight, swinging his leg back over his bike as he turned to face you fully. “Hey,” he said back, fighting the instinct he had to move towards you. He leaned against his bike instead, letting his eyes trail up and down your body and really take you in.
You were here. You were really here, in Charming.
“I gotta say… I never expected to see you back here,” he said, crossing his arms as his eyes met yours again.
You pressed your lips together, lifting your shoulders in a slight shrug as you looked around the street that seemed to be void of any other human life. “I never really thought I’d be back here either,” you admitted, “But my dad’s sick, so I came back to be there for him.”
Jax nodded, because he knew your dad wasn’t doing well. He’d been keeping an eye on the family you’d left behind while you pursued an apparent ‘life changing opportunity’ in New York - something he wasn’t sure he had ever truly believed, and he’d found out that your dad’s health had declined in the last few months.
He wasn’t surprised that was the one thing that brought you back to Charming, but he is surprised that this is the first time he’s seen you here since you left. You never came to visit, never called, never checked in. It was like you’d become a ghost, and Jax never moved past that.
“Yeah, I heard about that,” he said, looking at the ground before squinting back up at you, the setting sun burning his eyes but he’d be damned if he put on his sunglasses now and have his view of you even slightly tinted. “I’m sorry.”
You shrugged again, giving him a tight lipped smile. “It is what it is,” you said, then bounced once on your feet as you gestured to him. “How are you? How have you been?”
Jax let out a soft, short laugh as he shook his head. “I’m alright, darlin’,” he answered, and he watched you press your lips together at his words. He let a few seconds pass before he returned your question, a little too eager to hear the answer, despite his cool attitude about running into the love of his life after nearly a decade apart. “How have you been?”
You played with your fingers as you answered, “I’ve been okay,” then adjusted the strap of your bag on your shoulder, and it was then when Jax noticed the small duffle bag you were carrying.
Figures. He sees you again and forgets to always be aware of his surroundings. It was safe to say you still had quite a big effect on him.
He nodded towards the bag, “You goin’ somewhere?”
You looked down before nodding, your fingers curling around the strap. “Oh, yeah. I was just heading to the hospital. My dad had a list of things for me to get for him from the house since they finally got him into a room,” you said, “I think I got most of it, except for the bottle of bourbon he requested. That’s still safe in the liquor cabinet.”
Jax’s lips turned upwards at that - his mind going back to all the times you and he stole various bottles of alcohol from your dad’s liquor cabinet, so much so that he went as far as to put a lock on it just to keep you out.
Fortunately, that was when Jax became more involved in the club, so you and he raided the bar at the clubhouse instead of your dad’s precious collection of bottles. Still, that was a memory Jax was fond of, because doing something he wasn’t supposed to be doing never felt better than when he was doing it with you.
“I think he’ll live,” he shrugged, then realized immediately how poor his choice of words were. His eyes widened a bit, and when you squinted over at him and pursed your lips to stop a laugh from leaving them, Jax stood up straight. “Shit, I meant… I think he’ll be fine without it.”
Jesus, how heartless did that make him sound? The old you was a sucker for dark humor, but would you feel that way towards dark humor about your own dad? He wasn’t sure, and he was all for you going off on him right now, because he just spoke before thinking about it, and that was something he was working on doing less.
But you didn’t yell at him, and you didn’t retreat back to what he said before his weak attempt at fixing it. “Yeah, I think so too,”
That had him relaxing a bit, because of course you would just brush it off and not try to make him feel like shit for his bad choice of words. You’d never been like that before, especially with him, so it didn’t surprise him at all that you weren’t like that now.
And you always were quite fond of his bad mouth and his inability to bite his tongue in almost every situation he found himself in.
Jax stuffed his hands in his pockets as he looked down at the ground. “So are you plannin’ on stayin’ at the hospital for the rest of the day?” he asked, kicking at a rock that skidded its way over to you. “Or do you think maybe I can steal you away for a few hours tonight?”
You looked down at the rock with a soft laugh before nodding, “I wouldn’t say no to catching up for a bit,” you said, “What are you thinking?”
“Drinks?” he offered, “Not from the clubhouse, though. I’m thinkin’ somewhere a little nicer than that.”
You nodded in agreement, then tilted your head in thought. “Is that bar we went to for my twenty-first still open?”
Jax thought back to your twenty-first birthday, when you and he went out to use your ID for the first time, your real ID, not the fake ones he’d had made for you and himself, and ended up getting completely wasted. But it was a fun night, and that bar was a lot nicer than anything he was thinking of, and it was also a place he’d never gone back to since you left, because the memories he had there were all of you.
“Yeah, it is,” he answered, “I got someone I gotta talk to, but how ‘bout we meet there for nine? Gives me a chance to make myself pretty.”
Another laugh left your lips, and Jax knew he wanted to coax that sound out of you all night. “Doubt that takes much time,” you said back, then nodded, “Nine is perfect. I’ll see you there.”
“See you later, darlin’,” Jax said back, watching the way you fought off another smile before ducking your head and quickly making your way down the street. Jax did have to go talk to Chibs about the possibility of SAMCRO dropping the gun business and moving into an escort one, but he still waited until he could no longer see you before getting on his bike and grabbing his helmet.
And it was then when he realized that he didn’t get your phone number, and he doubted it was the same as your old one. He cursed to himself, but didn’t worry about it too much, because even though a lot of time had passed, he knew you, and he knew you wouldn’t stand him up. And if something were to come up, he was easy to reach, and you were now aware that the clubhouse was still around, so you could find him there if you needed to.
So with that, Jax put his helmet on and let the engine of his bike roar to life, and then he was off to the clubhouse, where he would not so subtly rush through explaining why porn was a much better business to be in than guns to the rest of the guys.
please, please, please. stop writing only smut i'm so tired of this, i'm begging y'all.
don't get me wrong i LOVE writing and reading smut just as much as the next person but you know what i also love? writing and reading STORIES. i love me a good smutty story but i'm just so sick and tired of looking for something to read and stumble upon a thrizillion of blurbs of pure and plain generic smut.
just gave the biggest eye roll of my life after reading this. complaining about people writing the things they like and want to write about is so wild to me. like no one asked for you to read it. if you don’t like it, it’s not for you. especially if these people are simply writing unproblematic smut (meaning no disturbing topics and kinks in them), i don’t see the issue in that, especially not one big enough to start begging for people to stop writing. lmao. do better. no one is writing for one specific person, so let’s not have that mindset. thank you.
Summary: Halloween was just another day to the guys of SAMCRO, though it meant the girls who frequent the clubhouse could dress up in the most revealing outfits and no one would question it. Luckily for Jax, you go all out, and luckily for you, Jax had never been able to keep his hands off you, especially when you dress up for him.
Word Count: 5.4k | I do not give consent to having my work republished or posted to any other platform or profile other than my own.
Warnings: smut, unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), swearing, hair pulling, spanking (barely), this was fun to write, i hope you enjoy it.
Halloween didn’t mean much to the guys of SAMCRO. It wasn’t anything special, wasn’t anything to really look forward to every year, it was pretty much just another day to them.
With that being said, it was a holiday, and holidays usually meant sex and booze, so who are they to not celebrate a holiday?
The clubhouse was flooded with club members and crow eaters, the radio cranked up loud enough that the pictures were shaking on the walls, and the glasses behind the bar were tapping together.
Despite it being the 31st of October, there weren’t many Halloween decorations around. Since everyone was aware of the party being thrown tonight, a few of the guys randomly picked up a fake skull or two and a few pumpkins and scattered them around the clubhouse, but other than that, there wasn’t much festivity going on.
None of the SAMCRO guys were wearing much of a costume, their usual attire intimidating and scary enough. The girls, however, went full out.
While Halloween was just another day to the guys, it was the night the girlfriends and crow eaters could wear the most revealing costumes and outfits imaginable, most with the full intention of catching the eye of one of the club members and spending the night with them.
Oh, and then there was Bobby, who pulled out his Elvis outfit and threw that on for his costume, which is much more effort than any of the other guys put in, so props to him.
Jax was leaning against the bar, his elbows propped up onto the surface behind him as he listened to Bobby-Elvis speak non-sense on the stool next to him. The neck of a beer bottle was held loosely between his fingertips, a cigarette stuck in his mouth as he glanced around the room.
It was buzzing with people, more so than normal, and Jax didn’t recognize most people in here, so it was safe to say the news of the party had gotten out to the rest of the residents of Charming.
While Jax normally didn’t like this many people in his space and sticking their noses into his business, he decided that tonight was an exception. There were enough members of SAMCRO scattered around to pick up on anything if something were to happen, so he didn’t really worry much about the people he wasn’t familiar with. It was Halloween, after all, people just wanted to let loose and have fun.
All around the room were countless girls that had wandering eyes, and for the most part, they seemed to be wandering over to Jax. Well, either Jax or the man dressed as Elvis beside him, so he took a lucky guess.
But Jax didn’t really give any of them a second glance as his own eyes drifted to the doors once again, his patient always being tested by you. The party had been going on for just under an hour, and even though he’d texted you over an hour ago and told you to come over, you still weren’t here.
You had told him you were putting your costume together, but seriously, how long did that take? Did you go out and buy the fucking thing an hour ago and that’s why you weren’t here yet? He was sure most of the girls here didn’t put this much time into their costumes, which made sense since they were all planning on ending the night with their costumes on the floor anyway, but still.
Jax huffed quietly, bringing his beer up to his mouth and awkwardly drinking from it. Bobby turned his head and nudged his elbow against Jax’s shoulder. “What’s with all the huffin’?” he asked, looking over at him over the rim of his glasses. It was then when he probably realized that Jax was hanging out with him instead of with you, and the reason for that was because you weren’t here. “Your girl not coming tonight?”
Shrugging, Jax wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, wiping away some of the beer he spilled. “I don’t know, man. She said she was,” he answered, and as soon as he said that, his phone went off from its place in his pocket. When he reached for it and saw your name, he showed Bobby, who just laughed.
“Speak and she shall appear, huh?” he grunted, turning his attention back to his own beer as Jax raised his phone up to his ear and stubbed out his cigarette.
“Where are you and why aren’t you here yet?” he asked, slouching more against the bar. “I’m stuck hangin’ with Bobby-Elvis instead of you.”
He heard your laugh on the other end, and his lips instinctively turned upwards. “No way he’s actually wearing that,” you gasped.
“Oh, he is,” Jax said, “And I’m wonderin’ why you’re not here yet and rescuin’ me from him.”
He could almost vision the eyeroll you just did as he heard some shuffling on your end. “Oh, hush. I’m almost there,”
That had Jax perking up. “You are?” he asked, sounding way too excited as he looked over at the door again. “Wait, are you walkin’ here?”
You were quiet for a few seconds, and the shuffling stopped, as if you physically paused at his question. But then you resumed, “Yeah?”
Jax groaned, “Why didn’t you ask for a ride? I would’ve come and got you, babe,” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes with his free hand. “I don’t like you walkin’ around town at night, especially on a night like this.”
“Okay, dad, thank you for your concern,” you sweetly said, and Jax was the one rolling his eyes now. “Why does your voice sound so weird, by the way? Did you get in a fight? You sound like you’re talking with a busted lip or something.”
That had his lips curving upwards in a smirk. “Don’t worry about it,” he brushed off your questions. “So when will you be here?”
“In, like, three minutes,” you answered, “Think you can keep being entertained by Elvis until then?”
Jax sighed dramatically, “I’ll try,” he murmured, “I love you.”
“I love you,” he could hear the smile in your voice before you hung up, and he stuffed his phone back into his pocket.
“She’s on her way,” he announced, and Bobby turned to look at him again.
“Shit, does that mean I’m gonna be on my own for the rest of the night?” he asked, giving Jax an offended look.
“What are you talkin’ about, man? You’ve got a whole group of chicks over there that would love to switch places with me right now,” he pointed out, and Bobby turned his head to look over at the girls as well. “Chicks dig Elvis, bro.”
Bobby hummed, a grin spreading across his face before he stood up from his stool. “I’ll go see if you’re right about that,” he muttered before heading in their direction.
Jax got to watch as a girl instantly wrapped both her arms around one of Bobby’s, and he let out a deep laugh, because he was right - even though he wasn’t entirely sure he was five seconds ago.
But his attention quickly left Elvis and his girls when the door swung open, his eyes naturally drifting over to the motion, and when he saw who had just walked in, he felt his jaw go slack, and his jeans grow a bit tighter.
It was like time had literally stopped as you stepped into the clubhouse, your eyes nervously flickering around the room as you looked for him. And Jax couldn’t take his eyes off you if he tried.
You had a tight, dark red corset that was wrapped around your torso, your breasts looking even more incredible than they usually do. A short, tight skirt that showed off your legs hugged your curves in all the right places, and a flowy, transparent piece of fabric trailed behind you as you took another step. From your hands all the way up to your elbows were matching red gloves, and you were wearing silver heels that gave you a bit more height over the other girls here.
You were dressed as a fucking showgirl. His fucking showgirl, and damn did you look edible. You looked like a treat just for him, and Jax wanted a bite.
Your eyes scanned the room again before they met his, and a small, pretty smile formed on your face before you were making your way towards him. As you got closer, Jax could see how perfect your makeup looked, and he assumed that was what took you so long to get here. Your eyes were red and sparkly, and your lips matched the shade of your outfit perfectly.
Everything you had on was red, and it just quickly became his new favorite color. He wanted to bury his face between your breasts, and he wanted to bend you over and pull up that skirt that was barely covering you anyway, and fuck you until your makeup was no longer perfect.
Jax could already feel himself getting hard, his grip tightening on his beer bottle, and he couldn’t tear his eyes away from you. It felt like his words had become caught in his throat, and he was instantly reaching for you once you were in front of him.
You leaned up and pressed a kiss to his cheek in a barely-there pressure so you didn’t mess up your lipstick, but Jax found himself wanting to wear your lipstick on his face. “Hi,” you greeted, raising your voice so he could hear you over the loud music. When you pulled back and gave him a once over, he watched your smile fade, and an unimpressed look replaced it. “Jax. Where’s your costume? You couldn’t at least put on a different shirt? It’s Halloween.”
Jax laughed, setting his beer down onto the bar to be completely forgotten about as he grabbed onto your hips and pulled you closer. “I’m wearin’ a costume,” he said, opening his mouth to show you the plastic fangs he had stuck to his teeth.
He’d grabbed them off one of the racks when he went to stock up on booze with Tig, and he refused to pay five fucking dollars for them, so he ended up slipping them into his pocket with a discreet ease he’d perfected over the years.
They were uncomfortable and made him drool a bit when he talked, so he was probably going to take them out soon anyway, but still. He had a costume, no matter how big or small. “See? Vampire. Scary, huh?”
You rolled your eyes as he held you against his chest. “You put in no effort at all,”
“Babe, with a costume like that,” he said, nodding down at your corset and letting his eyes linger on your cleavage for a few extra seconds, “I don’t need to wear a goddamn thing. You’re the whole fuckin’ package, lookin’ like a goddamn wet dream. Fuck me, got myself a real-life showgirl. No one in here is lookin’ at me.”
You huffed, “And you’re clearly delusional,” you stated, then pursed your lips up at him, and Jax didn’t hesitate as he leaned down and kissed you. His tongue brushed against yours, one of his hands sliding into your hair while the other slid down your body and grabbed your ass. His tongue slid past your red, glossy lips and brushed against your own, and he could taste the cooler you’d most likely downed before coming here.
So you drank before walking to the clubhouse at ten at night. And while wearing this outfit? Jesus, had he taught you nothing?
“What have I told you about drinkin’ and walkin’ alone at night?” he muttered when he pulled away from your lips, but he kept his mouth close to yours. “I swear, you don’t listen to a single thing I say to you.”
You pouted and shook your head. “Not true,” you denied, then smiled up at him. “I always listen to you when you tell me I’m pretty or that I look sexy.”
Jax huffed, his hands sliding back up to your hips. “You do look sexy. What were you thinkin’ putting this thing on when you know how fuckin’ pussy whipped all these guys are?”
You laughed, glancing around the room at the members of SAMCRO. “As if they’d try anything. Everyone knows I’m your Old Lady,” you waved him off, your arms draping around his neck. “Besides, I thought it was cute. You know, very… red.”
He scoffed and shook his head, his arms banding around your waist and pulling you right up against his body. “Yeah, it is very red. I think red is your color, babe,” he mumbled, dipping his head down to kiss you again.
You kissed him back, then pulled away with a grimace on your face. “Of course your costume makes kissing feel weird,” you muttered, wrapping your arms tighter around his neck. “Not the biggest fan of those fangs, Jax. I like tasting you, not plastic.”
Jax rolled his eyes, one hand releasing your waist to pull the fake fangs from his mouth. “There, better?” he grunted, tossing them aside before his hand returned to your hip, only for his other one to slip under the hem of your skirt, his fingers brushing along the curve of your ass. “I like tastin’ you too, baby. Every inch of you.”
His words were a deep rumble, his head dipping down to press open mouthed kisses along your neck and shoulder. He licked along your pulse point, feeling the way your heart rate had already begun to pick up, and he smirked against your skin.
“I wanna take you outta here,” he murmured against your skin, his fingers teasing along the edge of your panties, right there in front of fucking everybody. He pulled back to look at you, but his eyes instinctively dipped down to your cleavage, and he held back a groan. “Wanna peel this thing off you with my teeth.”
Your eyes widened a bit as you looked around the room, but you and he were pretty much in your own little world. Everyone was too busy minding their own business, and if they weren’t they knew better than to interrupt you and him when you’re together.
“I just got here,” you complained, looking back at him as you pressed your body close to his. “Do you know how long it took me to get this thing on?” you gesture to your corset with a pointed look.
Jax nodded slowly, his hands sliding down the backs of your thighs. “Yeah, I do. It took too fuckin’ long, babe. Made me wait all night for you,” he said, and before you had time to react, he was lifting you up and throwing you over his shoulder, his big hands holding your skirt down so you didn’t flash anyone as he carried you back towards where his room is. “And now I can’t wait to get you all to myself.”
You were laughing as he held you as securely as he could, your face heating up as people had to duck out of the way. Jax was clearly on a mission, and that meant they needed to clear the path or deal with him walking straight into them, and luckily they all chose the first option. “Jax,” you scolded as your hands tightly gripped the end of his kutte.
But he just held you a bit tighter as he carried you into the room before he set you down on the edge of the bed. He kept his eyes on you as he reached behind himself and shut the door with a loud bang, the noise from the party fading away, and he watched as you pressed your thighs together.
“I appreciate the effort, babe. I really fuckin’ do,” he promised, kicking off his pristine Nikes before shrugging off his kutte. “You look like every wet dream I’ve ever fuckin’ had. My sweet little showgirl.”
Next was his shirt, and he let it fall to the floor before he was moving towards you, his hands wrapping around your elbows as he pushed you back so you were lying down on the bed, your legs dangling off the side of it.
He followed you down, his lips finding yours in a deep kiss that was full of teeth and tongue, and he kissed you until you were breathless, then he pulled away and trailed mouth down your jaw. He nuzzled his nose between your breasts, his hands coming up to grope them through the tight, restrictive material. “This stays on,” he decided, pressing kisses to the tops of your breasts before moving further down your body.
Jax’s big hands ran up and down your thighs, creating goosebumps along your skin as he looked up at you with a heated gaze. He dropped to his knees beside the bed, sliding his hands up to bunch your skirt around your waist. You lifted your hips when his fingers twisted in the fabric of your panties, already knowing where he was going with this, and he grinned up at you as he tugged them down your legs.
They joined the growing pile of clothes on the floor as he gripped your knees and pushed them further apart, his eyes fixated on your core as he leaned in and pressed lazy kisses along your inner thighs.
“Jax,” you whispered, propping yourself up on your elbows as he pulled your heels off as well. Your skin was flushed, your chest heaving a little as you looked down at him, your eyes already hooded with need.
Jax smirked up at you, his arms curling around your thighs, his hands pinning your hips down on the bed. “You’re already so wet, baby,” he commented, leaning in to press a kiss to your pelvis bone. “And it’s all for me. This pretty little pussy belongs to me.”
He leaned in and licked a stripe up your slit, his eyes closing as your taste coated his tongue. He sealed his mouth over your clit, his hands pushing harder on your hips when you tried to buck up against his face. “Fuck,” you sighed, falling back on the bed as he guided your legs over his shoulders. You pulled your gloves off before letting your hands slide into his hair, tugging on the strands as he buried his face between your legs like he’d been deprived of this all week instead of just all day. “You really wanted this, huh?”
Jax grunted at your teasing tone, one of his hands joining his mouth. He slid two fingers inside you, your tight, wet walls greedily sucking them in deeper. “Fuck yeah, I wanted this. Wanted this sweet pussy all night,” he muttered, his tongue flicking over your clit. “‘M gonna make you cum with my mouth before stuffin’ this pretty little hole with my cock.”
You gasped, pulling a little harder on his hair. “Holy fuck… feels so good,” you whined, arching your back off the bed as he worked his fingers in and out of you.
He fucked you a little faster, his fingers coated in your arousal with every thrust of his hand. “You’re gonna cum for me already, baby?” he mocked, but he didn’t let up. His free hand slid up your body, fingers fumbling with the laces of your corset. It took a few tries, but he was finally able to loosen it enough to be able to tug it down your body, your breasts now exposed.
You pouted down at him, your thighs starting to tremble at either side of his head. “Don’t be mean to me,” you whined, and Jax let out a deep laugh against your core.
“I ain’t mean, babe,” he said, curling his fingers inside you in a way that had you inhaling sharply, your nails scratching along his scalp. “I’m about to make you cum on my tongue then on my cock. That’s pretty fuckin’ generous of me.”
You huffed and rolled your eyes, then they rolled back inside your head when his teeth gently scraped along your puffy bundle of nerves, and you were suddenly rendered completely speechless. You were moaning loudly, thighs trying to close around his head as you started to shake. “Jax. Oh, fuck,” you whimpered, pulling hard on his hair as your pussy clamped down around his fingers.
He groaned against you, his fingers moving at a steady pace inside you as your wetness coated his lips and chin. He licked you all over, drinking you up as if you didn’t let him go down on you whenever he wanted it - which was all the time and something you never said no to.
“That’s my good girl. My pretty fuckin’ showgirl,” he praised, his voice low and muffled as he slowly pulled his fingers out of you once your body slumped back down on the bed. He sucked them clean with a shameless, deep moan, his eyes flickering up to your flushed face.
Your lipstick was smudged, your hair was messy, and your pretty costume was altered so he could see all his favorite parts of you. You looked effortlessly sexy, and Jax’s cock twitched almost painfully in his jeans.
“God, you’re fuckin’ pretty,” he mumbled, standing up and towering over your trembling form on the bed. He leaned down to kiss you, only further ruining your perfectly applied lipstick as he let you taste yourself on his tongue. He broke away after a few seconds, bracing one knee on the bed beside your thigh as he pulled at his belt and unzipped his jeans.
You were writhing and blushing and giving him eyes that so vividly begged him to fuck you, Jax was rock fucking hard as he shoved his jeans and boxers down his legs, kicking them off to the side before he was on you.
He wrapped his hands around your biceps, guiding you further up the bed before he settled in between your thighs, his cock pressing against your core as if it had a mind of its own. As if it even knew it belonged inside you.
“Gonna fuck you so good, baby,” he murmured, turning his head and kissing you deeply as his hands slid down your body. One grabbed onto your thigh, guiding one of your legs to wrap around his waist while the other gripped the base of his cock so he could coat himself in your wetness. He nudged his tip against you before guiding himself all the way in, your warmth instantly taking all of him at once.
His forehead dropped to yours, his hips rolling against your own as his fingers dug into the soft skin of your thigh. Your breath hitched, your nose bumping against his when you tipped your head back on the pillow, a shaky moan leaving your lips. “Jax… oh, fuck,”
He grunted, slowly pulling nearly all the way out of you, before he pushed back in just as slow. “You feel so good,” he groaned, eyes shutting as he dropped his head onto your shoulder, his lips pressing open mouthed kisses along your skin as he started to thrust in and out of you. “This is what you needed, isn’t it? You needed this too. Needed to get fucked just like this.”
Your moan was enough of an answer as you wrapped your other leg around his waist. “Fuck yes,” you gasped, your heels digging into his lower back as his hips hit yours over and over again. “Needed this so bad, Jax.”
“Yeah, you fuckin’ did. Needed to be stuffed full of my cock, huh, baby?” he rasped, rocking his hips faster as his hands came up to cover your breasts, feeling the way they bounced in his hold with every thrust.
You looked fucking wrecked, your skirt hiked up around your waist, your corset pulled down and your hair a mess on his pillow. You looked fucking incredible before, all done up and perfectly presented, but this sight was what drove him wild. Your makeup all smeared, your body bare in all the places that count, and your hair a tangled mess.
He buried his face in between your breasts, his thumbs and index fingers teasing the hard buds of your nipples as he rutted into you. “You’re mine,” he muttered against your skin, “You were fuckin’ made for me. Pussy squeezin’ me so fuckin’ tight, like this cock is the only thing you need.”
When he lifted his head, he kissed you in a deep, messy kiss, his tongue sliding along your own as his hands squeezed and groped your tits. Your sounds were lost to the back of his throat, your nails raking down his back as you took him.
“Say it,” he mumbled, one hand sliding up to wrap gently around your throat. “Tell me you’re mine. That this is all mine.”
He gave a hard thrust, one that had you inching up the bed with a sharp inhale. “Fuck. I’m yours. I’m yours, Jax. You know I’m all yours,” you obliged, nails digging into his inked up skin as your back arched off the bed a bit. “It’s all yours.”
Jax smirked down at you, giving your neck a gentle squeeze before he pulled out of you, not giving you a chance to complain before he sat back and grabbed your hips, turning you over. “Arch that back for me, baby,” he said, hands guiding your hips up and back. He gave your ass a firm smack, eyes glued to the way your skin blossomed almost instantly as he slid his cock back inside you from behind. “Fuck, look at you. Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”
You propped yourself up on your forearms, your fingers tangling in the messy sheets as he set a deep, steady pace. “Fuck yes,” you sighed, your body jolting forward with every thrust. “So good, Jax… just like that.”
He grunted, his fingers digging into your skin as he held your body still. The piece of fabric that was sticking out of the top of your skirt kept blocking his view of watching himself disappear inside you, so he tugged it out and let it fall to the floor with a deep laugh. “Fuckin’ costume, babe,” he muttered, eyes locked onto the sight of his wet, glistening cock sliding in and out of you. “It’s hot as hell but not when I’m tryin’ to see all of you.”
You huffed out a laugh of your own. “You’re the one that wanted me to keep it on,”
Jax rolled his eyes, his hips hitting your ass in a rough, sharp thrust that had you shutting up pretty quickly. “Goddamn, you feel so good. Takin’ me so good,” he praised, sliding one hand up your back before he tangled his fingers in your hair and gave it a gentle yank. “You gonna cum for me again?”
You pressed your lips together as you nodded quickly. “Yeah,” you whimpered, fingers twisting the sheets tighter when he reached around and started to rub at your throbbing clit. “Oh, fuck, I’m gonna cum.” you moaned, your head falling forward once he let go of your hair.
Jax fucked into you harder, the headboard hitting the wall with every thrust. “That’s it, baby. Cum for me, all over this cock,” he groaned, his fingers rubbing tighter circles on your clit. He felt you clamp down around him, your face pressed against the bed as you came for him, your warmth enveloping him like a second skin. “Fuck, there you go. There’s my good girl. My good fuckin’ girl.”
He gave a few more deep thrusts before he stilled, his grip on you so tight he was worried he was going to bruise you. He filled you up, his cock shooting out white ropes that filled you entirely, your body shaking as you took all of it.
A light layer of sweat stuck to his skin as he leaned over you, his lips peppering kisses onto your shoulders and neck as he rolled his hips a couple more times.
“So good,” he whispered, slowly pulling out of you before moving to lay down on his back. His hand reached out and he pulled you down with him, his arms wrapping around your body as he held you from behind. One hand rested on your stomach while the other groped one of your breasts, his thumb teasing your sensitive nipple as he pressed a kiss to the back of your head, right where he had been tugging on your hair. “I love you so fuckin’ much, babe. You’re stuck with me, you know that?”
You laughed quietly, nodding slowly as you pressed your thighs together and looked over your shoulder at him. “I know, Jax,” you murmured, leaning up to press a chaste kiss to his lips. “I love you too.”
Then you were prying his arms off you as you got up from the bed, and the way your legs were still shaking had him smirking as he leaned back against the headboard. He watched you adjust your corset, pulling it back up so your chest was covered once again, and then you pulled your skirt back down and smoothed it out.
But then you turned to look at yourself in the mirror above his dresser, and you let out a soft gasp. “Jax!” you turned to face him and gave him his second unimpressed look of the night as you placed your hands on your hips. “You ruined my makeup. It took me so long to do. I look like I just got fucked.”
Jax let out a laugh, sitting up straight on the bed, shamelessly naked while you tried to fix your appearance. “Well, you did just get fucked, babe,” he pointed out, unable to stop the smugness from coming out in his voice, not that he even tried to anyway. “And fucked real good, you can’t deny that.”
He stood up from the bed as you tried to wipe away your smeared mascara, but only ended up ruining it even more. He wrapped one of his arms around your waist, pulling you right up against his body as he dipped his head down and pressed kisses to your collarbone.
“That’s what happens when you walk around lookin’ like how you did before I got you alone. And who gives a fuck if your makeup is a little messy?” he asked, his free hand coming up to rub under your lip where there was a smudge of red.
You groaned, bracing your hands on his chest. “I do, obviously,” you muttered, dropping your head to his shoulder as you swayed a little on your feet. “Now we can’t go back to the party because everyone will see that we just fucked. And I refuse to let the guys tease me about it all night, because I know you all talk about your sex lives with each other for some reason.”
One of Jax’s brows raised as he looked down at you, fingers curling under your chin as he guided your gaze back to his. “You think we’re actually gonna go back to the party after that?” he laughed, giving a slow shake of his head as he bumped your nose with his. “And trust me, they’re all too busy tryin’ to get laid themselves to notice your pretty face is a mess.”
You gave him another unimpressed look as you rolled your eyes. “Wow, thanks,”
He grinned, pulling you with him as he walked backwards to the bed again. “Why don’t we just stay in here, I can undress you properly, and fuck you until you don’t care what those guys think?” he suggested, fingers already tugging at your skirt once again.
“But it’s Halloween,” you pouted up at him, but he could already tell that you’d given in again.
Jax shook his head, his lips brushing against yours. “It’s just another day, baby,”
You squinted your eyes up at him, but then your mouth curved upwards in a grin he’d seen way too many times to count, and he was letting you push him back down onto his bed, this time with you on top.
-
Happy Halloween ! Stay safe and eat candy and chocolate until it’s November 1st x
Pairing: New Avengers Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Summary: Bucky Barnes always taught you to respect the cold. But now, stranded together after a mission gone wrong, you learn exactly what happens when you don't heed his warnings.
Warnings/Tags: 18+ MDNI, porn with a delectable plot to feast on first, friends to lovers, mutual yearning, some angst, some fluff, lots of smut, hurt/comfort (for safety, i don't think it is?), drunk reader, mentor!Bucky, forced proximity, hypothermia symptoms, there's only one bed sleeping bag, fingering, unprotected p in v in multiple positions (please wrap it before you tap it), no use of y/n, no descriptors that i'm aware of (please let me know if that's false). Nicknames used: rookie, sweetheart, sweet girl, good girl, perfect angel, solnyshko (you'll see what it means, but it is sweet)
Word Count: 11k
Chirps: I've been kicking around this idea for awhile, but it is a mix of a few different WIPs I had going. I genuinely don't have much to say about it, except this pairing has my entire heart. If you enjoy them, come yell at me so I can write a sequel that is sitting in my WIP folder.
Dedication: @miraclediviner for the beta read, even though they have a million other things going on. who single handedly stopped me from putting my head through a wall after I reread this too many times and about gave up. you're a real one, mecca 🩵 love you pookie
Honorable Mention: I'd like to thank the glorious @houseofhyde for putting me on Mentor!Bucky. If you haven't read their stuff, what on earth are you doing here?!?! Go forth and read their work, everything they put out is a masterpiece. Though my take on him is a bit different, that man has (and could get me) in a chokehold, quite literally.
I'll stop yapping now. On to the story!
Bucky Barnes had taught you many things since you were placed under his wing as a New Avenger.
Ibuprofen and water will fix 90% of injuries. Sleep and eat whenever you feel safe — you never know when you will be able to again.
And always, always, always respect the cold.
Those words had settled under your skin the moment you touched down in the Swiss Alps for this mission. When someone who used to hold the moniker of Winter Soldier tells you to respect the cold, that was something that stuck with you. Even though you hadn't begun the mission anticipating this would be the outcome.
Waking up in a pitch black room, the cold gnawing at your skin, like it had been circling you while you slept and had finally pounced at the first sign of vulnerability. Seeping into every crack of your body, through the thin fabric of the sleeping bag you were currently wrapped in, permeating your still damp clothing and maneuvering down to the marrow of your bones.
The fire must have gone out sometime after you had both gone to sleep. The final gut punch in the entirety of a mission gone wrong.
"Bucky," you called. But your voice came out sluggish and foreign. Like it didn't belong on your tongue or falling from your numbed lips even though his name was a cornerstone of your speech most days.
He didn't stir, a soft snore coming from where you had watched him make himself comfortable. Directly between you and the door, just in case this safe house, too, was compromised.
"James," you tried again, voice edged in panic you hoped he'd hear. Trying to force the urgency into every syllable. Your pulse was hammering under your ribs, the distinct feeling that something was wildly, wildly wrong. But your brain couldn't focus on anything past how cold you were.
Always respect the cold.
Had you somehow caused the god of winter displeasure? Maybe it was when you complained the entire hike here how snow and ice was getting into your boots, saturating your second to last dry pair of socks you packed for this trip. Excuse you for not being grateful for the winter wonderland after almost dying in a shootout.
"Bucky," you called again, as loud as your voice could go, words sticking oddly to the back of your throat. You fumbled with the zipper of your sleeping bag, attempting to find him in the darkness. Your muscles had apparently decided now was a great time to stop working. To shiver so uncontrollably every move felt like you were being electrocuted.
You crawled to his sleeping bag, pushing on his shoulder. "Buck…it's — the fire's out," you stammered as your teeth chattered.
That finally got him to stir, rolling over in the darkness. "Alright, rookie. What's the first thing you do when you wake up cold on a mission?"
It was always a teaching moment with him. "Uhm…" you paused, searching for the right words. Which was ridiculous, you knew what to do. In some corner of your brain that was just frozen over and needed to defrost. "I…wake you up so I don't turn into a Popsicle?"
Bucky chuckled, the sound still rough with the edges of sleep. But it's brief. Like he was waiting for the actual answer beyond the sarcastic comment. But it didn't come. It couldn't form in the haze you were currently swimming in.
For a moment you felt almost bad for waking him up. Because truly, you would not have survived the mission without him in the first place, and so he did deserve rest. Not to be woken up by his trainee who couldn't focus beyond the way her teeth were chattering and how her skin felt oddly prickly.
"Nice try, what would you do if I wasn't here?" he asked gently, turning his back to you, stoking the small embers in the fireplace in an attempt to get it started again.
You paused, momentarily mesmerized by how the orange and gold glowing lights of the coals danced in the darkness. You blinked against the hypnotic scene. Brain working overtime, screaming that he asked a question, but the words coming from his mouth sounded like he was talking underwater.
"You're always…here though. And 'm…too tired." You tried talking past your aching jaw, past the tightness in your chest that felt like you were drowning, past the sharp sting every time you took a breath, but it wasn't working. All those years spent training just seemed to be futile in this very narrow moment. Was your vision going now too? Flames danced in front of your eyes as it sparked back to life. Maybe you just needed to sleep now that the fire was going. Yeah…that — that sounded like a plan.
You wanted to crack a joke. Usually that would've been so easy. The kind of half-muttered banter that always coaxed a laugh from the normally stoic soldier. But your tongue felt too thick, the cold running too deep to think of a punchline.
Bucky's entire being stiffened as he suddenly turned to face you, features shadowed in the dim light the small flame was producing. "Hey, are you okay? What's going on?"
He was in front of you in a blur of motion, everything slowed down as you looked at your trembling hands. "'m fine, I think. S'just….little cold. Can't really….feel my fingers."
His brow creased as he examined you, shaking like a leaf even though the fire was starting to heat the small room. Past the fogginess of his tired brain, he could see the paleness of your lips, and the ashen sheen your skin had taken. And those things brought his alertness front and center.
His hands never shook, not even now with fear crawling up his throat. But his voice was hoarse when he spoke. Like he'd been screaming into the void for hours. "Fuck."
The back of his hand pressed against your forehead. Burning against your skin, a strange kind of warmth, almost painful after all that cold. His touch softer than you expected as it moved to your cheek. He muttered something, words you couldn't quite catch before his fingers skimmed down to your wrist.
"When's the last time you ate?" he asked, voice even but you heard the edge beneath it. Was it…concern? For what? You were just a little tired and cold from the fire going out.
You tried to laugh it off, but the sound got caught in your throat. "Uh…'m a lil fuzzy on the…probably before the firefight? On the jet?"
"Not good enough, you know better."
He knew better. As the sole person responsible for your safety, he should've watched you closer. Should've realized that you had just changed clothes and curled into the sleeping bag.
His hands didn't stop moving. He checked your clothes finding nothing but cold fabric. Some of it still damp. Your pack must have gotten soaked when you ran from the chaos. With nothing else dry, you just made do.
Nothing about you was warm.
You weakly tried to bat his hands away, but it felt like you were encased in quicksand. Your hand just barely made it to his forearm. "Stop fussing. Was tired…you — you made me hike up a mountain, Barnes."
"Yeah, yup. You're right. This is a hundred percent on me." He would gladly shoulder the blame at this point if it meant you kept talking. Talking meant you were still coherent enough to make it through without medical intervention. His hand easily caught yours, holding it steady despite how you still shivered. His thumb tried to rub warmth into your cold knuckles.
You caught the hitch in his breath as he threw a threadbare blanket around you, his jaw clenched tight enough you could see the muscles protruding from his cheek. The only form of body language betraying his fear.
"You're such a bad sergeant letting your rookie get this cold," you tried to tease, but the words came out punctured in the wrong spots, syllables falling over each other.
He didn't laugh like you expected when you teased him. Why? Instead, his hands were back, moving with trained urgency on your body, faster than you could comprehend. Pushing the sleeve of your shirt up to check your elbows, the base of your neck. Anywhere a pulse would be. His movements controlled, careful, unrelenting no matter how much you tried to get away from his coddling.
Bucky tucked the blanket further around you and was immediately ripping through his pack, a checklist already forming in his mind. Food first, if he could even get you to eat past the way your teeth were clacking together. Warm clothes next, if he had any. But he didn't and neither did you.
Because this was not how the mission was supposed to go.
He found a granola bar, a warmer blanket, still cursing himself for being unprepared and watching the consequences of it play out in real time.
"Alright you — eat this," he gently set the bar in your lap, turning to stoke the fire. The last thing he needed was for it to go out again.
You tried to pick it up, but it was clear your motor functions had taken a sabbatical. "B-Bucky, I — I can't…" you muttered, fingers tugging helplessly at the wrapper, your hands trembling so hard the bar nearly fell to the floor. But you could not for the life of you summon the strength to pull the foil apart.
"Shit, I'm sorry, sweetheart," Bucky was in front of you faster than your brain could comprehend. He shook his head, easily discarding the wrapping, throwing it directly into the fire. The coals hissed and crackled at the intrusion. "C'mon, now, open up."
"N-no airplane sounds?" you teased, trying to find the humor past the way your vision was tunneling. Your jaw shook violently, muscles continuing to spasm as your body worked overtime to heat up.
He smiled weakly, but the blue of his irises held no humor. "Not right now, just try to chew, okay? I don't need you choking on me."
The granola felt like sandpaper in your mouth, rough, coarse, wrong. Bucky's hand slid to the back of your head, holding you firm. Fingers worked at the knots in your neck, trying to ease the tension from the jitters, but you barely registered the warmth.
His touch should have been startling, bare skin on bare skin, heat seeping into you like sunlight after a year of rain. Instead, you couldn't feel it. Couldn't feel anything at all. Just the soft press of his palm against you, the gentle drag of his thumb across your wrist, sending little sparks of sensation to places that were slowly going dark.
Everything felt distant, your hands, your mouth, even your own voice. Your consciousness felt like it was being pulled further and further out to sea, while your body stayed on the shore.
Every time you had to force yourself to swallow it felt like dragging yourself uphill.
"Atta girl, just a little more for me." Bucky's voice sounded close and far away all at once.
You tried to reach for him, hoping he could anchor you in this fog that was settling in your mind. But you missed, fingers flailing as they landed clumsily on his arm. Your tongue was too heavy to form words, you couldn't even ask for what you needed. Not that you even knew, your brain going fuzzier even as you managed the last bite of the granola bar. Words lost before they even had a chance to form.
"Alright rookie, we gotta get these layers off before this really sets in." It almost sounded like a plea. "I'll scold you later for not changing into something drier."
Before what sets in? Thoughts ebbed and flowed through your brain, but none of them could conjure up what that meant. Before you could even protest, his hands were on you. Moving carefully, but without hesitation. Lifting your arms, peeling your shirt up and over your head. The small warmth of the fire prickled at your bare skin like tiny needles.
You wanted to make a joke about him needing to at least buy you dinner first before he undressed you, but it wouldn't come. Maybe that was for the better. Your brain couldn't keep up with your mouth anyway.
"I'm sorry," he apologized quietly. So soft you thought your ears were deceiving you as he moved your limbs more, stripping off your socks and pants, laying them by the fire.
You weren't even sure if the apology was more for your benefit or for his. And what was he apologizing for? The mission? The fire going out? Undressing you when you really didn't know what the problem was? But your trust in him ran deep enough in your psyche you didn't question why it was happening. Bucky Barnes was a man of many things, but taking advantage of you while you were barely comprehending your movements was not one of them.
In a blur, he was shucking off his own shirt and pants, movements hurried. You watched his breath fog in the air. And why was he suddenly getting undressed? Not that…you were complaining. If you could get the synapses of your brain to connect, you'd likely tell him that all he was succeeding at was giving you heart palpitations at the new expanse of muscle in front of you. But your body felt like it was floating into the night with the smoke of the fire and up the chimney.
"Okay, c'mon," Bucky coaxed. "We're doing this the old-fashioned way with body heat." You felt the brush of the sleeping bag as he opened it wide, bringing it under your legs.
You couldn't fight him. You didn't want to. Not when the single thought you were holding onto was that Bucky was safe. He was going to keep you safe, no matter what.
He guided you in, tucking your limbs close as he followed, the scent of him wrapping around you mixed with smoke and cold air and something sharp and familiar. Home. This is what home and safety smelled like, you continued to remind yourself.
He pressed his forehead gently to yours, just for a second and you felt his breath — warm and real and present — grounding you when everything else felt like it was spinning away. He tucked your head under his chin, shifting so you could lay on the warmth of his arm. You hummed weakly in contentment even while you still shook from the cold.
You wanted to apologize for acting like this, to tell him that this was eons better than being in a sleeping bag alone, but you couldn't control the tremors jarring your muscles. The zipper's soft rasp suddenly sounded impossibly loud in the small room as he sealed you both into the bag, trapping all of the heat between you
"Keep talking to me, sweetheart," he whispered, the words fell around the crown of your head as he brought you in as close as he could. Big arms wrapped around your body until there wasn't an inch of skin left untouched by his.
"Your bicep makes the best pillow…" you finally conjured around your clacking teeth, settling against his chest. The warmth of him and the sleeping bag was faint at first, but soon all encompassing, effective at melting the polar ice caps that seemed to have settled over your being.
You felt him laugh, soft and disbelieving that that was the first thing out of your mouth after asking for airplane noises. His arms wound impossibly tighter around you while his hands traced gentle lines along your spine. "Yeah," his voice was thick with an emotion you couldn't quite place. "You've told me that before."
Your first real mission with the New Avengers ended in some dive bar, which felt like a test and a celebration all rolled into one. Yelena Belova and Ava Starr challenged you to a drinking contest, something about an initiation for all new members after their first successful mission. You really should have known better. Considering you were the only new member after the press conference announcement. But you'd spent most of the past few months trying to prove you belonged. And it was hard to say no when everyone was watching you.
So you succumbed to the peer pressure. You lost track after the fifth or sixth shot or fuck, maybe even seventh. You vaguely remember announcing your intention to climb onto the bar for a Coyote Ugly routine — something you would have regretted for the rest of your life.
And you would have, if Bucky hadn't stopped you just as your foot was about to grace the bar top.
His arm slipped around your waist, steady and warm, lifting you easily and anchoring you to the floor before you could embarrass yourself.
"No ya don't. Let's get you back to the Watchtower." His deep voice cut through your vodka fueled idea with enough authority you gave a mock salute.
You let him steer you through the crowd, clinging to his side like a drunken kitten. It was just easier to have Bucky take the lead. After all, Valentina had assigned you to him ever since she scoped you out to join the team. Supposedly so you could 'learn from the best', but all you seemed to be learning was how to trail after him like a shadow.
You knew how to fight, knew how to cling to the darkness and sneak around, knew how to fire a weapon with ease. Why else would Valentina have plucked you off the streets to join the team?
So what was there to learn? Not much in terms of weapons and defense. Instead, you watched. Absorbed as much as you could about your new teammates so you could fit in and learn the order of things.
Often wishing the person you called a mentor would see you as something more than just his rookie or responsibility in the days since you had been introduced.
It was easy to fall for someone who pulled you out of danger and put himself in harm's way without a second thought, whether that be gunfire, scolding from Valentina, or you just getting caught in the cross hairs of an argument between Walker and Bob. Easy to fall for someone who carried you to the med wing even if it was just for a scratch. Easy to love someone that made you laugh even while in the middle of enemy fire. Who called you "rookie" like it was both an insult and a secret term of endearment that was meant only for you.
Harder, though, to believe he'd ever see you as anything but another problem to manage.
You were halfway to serenading a streetlight with likely the worst "Singin' in the Rain" impression in New York history when Bucky caught your wrist. Even then, some part of you was afraid he'd let you go. Let you embarrass yourself. But Bucky never did. Never left you to weather the worst of yourself alone.
"Come on, solnyshko," he said, rolling his eyes but softening the words with a smile. "Let's get you home before you start professing your undying love to the street lamps."
That stopped you, one hand still wrapped around the cold metal pole. That nickname was new. And even as your eyes met his, through your hazy mind, you could almost see the flash of shock on his features that it had slipped out so easily.
"Why would I profess my love for an inanimate object?" you slurred as he tugged you toward a waiting taxi. "Lampposts don't call me sweet names in languages I barely understand. Or keep me from passing out in alleys. Or save me from myself in public. People who do those things are much more worthy of my love."
Bucky only shook his head, muttering something he knew you wouldn't understand in Russian as he guided you into the backseat.
Solnyshko, he had called you. The word lingering in your foggy mind, warming the hollow places you'd almost convinced yourself would be empty forever.
The cab pulled away from the curb, city lights blurring outside in a mix of greens and yellows. He settled beside you, keeping a measured, protective distance you couldn't help but close, resting your head against his shoulder. Normally, you were careful to give him space. Respecting invisible boundaries he never needed to say out loud, but you seemed to realize anyway.
But tonight, between his warmth, your exhaustion, and the vodka Yelena all but poured down your throat, you let yourself lean in, feeling his steady presence more than anything else. You felt him tense for all of half a heartbeat before his arm raised to drape around your shoulders, allowing you to get closer, and relax.
"It means 'little sun'," Bucky said softly, his voice low over the cab noise. The words curling into your mind like a cat finding a comfortable spot in a sliver of light.
You hummed in response, letting your eyes close. Breathing in the safety you found only with his presence, and under the warmth of his attention. "I think I like that better than 'rookie'. Even if I can't pronounce it right now."
The cab ride blurred into a shiny elevator, rising and falling beneath your unsteady feet, then into dimly lit hallways echoing your laughter that tangled with Bucky's patient shushing. At some point, he pressed a hand over your mouth to keep you quiet, but you both dissolved into helpless giggles in the hush of the Tower.
Your memory blinked in and out, every time you opened your eyes in what you swore was a millisecond, scenes shifted in front of you. The next thing you knew, you were perched on the edge of Bucky's bed.
You had never been afforded the luxury of being in his room before, but it seemed to match his entire being. Private, precise, everything in its place — except for you, out of place, dizzy, and so tired. Bucky was kneeling at your feet, unlacing your boots with the same care he handled a weapon on the battlefield. His touch so gentle it made something in your throat ache.
"You're awake again," he said in amusement, his eyes catching yours as he set your boots beside his by the door. Your jacket was folded neatly on an armchair, ready for your inevitable walk of shame in the morning.
Bucky never allowed chaos, and yet…here you were. Chaos incarnate wrapped in too many shots, bad decisions, and poor impulse control.
"Why am I in here?" The words slipping out before you could stop them, loose and honest, every filter you normally had in place gone with the vodka.
He only smiled, still kneeling in front of you. His arms were braced on either side of your hips. "And leave you to wake up hungover and confused? What kind of leader would I be if I left you to your own devices after you tried to drink Yelena and Ava under the table?"
You looked down at your knees, now a little embarrassed. "Not my finest moment, I suppose."
Bucky laughed, soft and private, like it was a sound he only ever saved just for you. "It's okay. I'll scold them for taking advantage of my rookie later."
My rookie. The way he said it made your heart swell even though it shouldn't, equal parts comfort and ache. Because that's all you were. Always his responsibility, never just his.
He cleared his throat, as if he could hear the alcohol-addled thoughts swirling in your mind, and suddenly decided space was the best course of action for them. "Now, do you want something to change into?"
You nodded, suddenly very aware of the scratch of denim against your skin and the way the events of the night had seeped into your outfit. Even as sleep tugged at your eyelids, you knew you would regret drifting off in his clean sheets in your street clothes.
He pressed a simple black t-shirt into your hands. It was well worn, soft and smelling so unmistakably like him it made you feel dizzier than that lost shot of vodka. You wondered if he had any idea what it meant, handing you something of his. The fabric feeling more like an answer to a question you'd never dare ask out loud. "Bathroom's over there. Try not to pass out before you change, okay?"
"Think I'll manage," you mumbled, yet the world tilted unpleasantly as you made your way to the door. You steadied yourself against the wall still clutching the shirt like a lifeline.
The smell of it so familiar it ached. Sandalwood, leather, and the barest hint of gunpowder. If you were blindfolded, you'd probably be able to find your way to him by scent alone. Your senses so attuned to the idea he meant safety, nothing else ever mattered.
You changed, clumsy but ultimately triumphant as your limbs worked past the increased blood alcohol haze. You padded back to the bedroom, the oversized shirt reaching just to mid thigh, swishing around your legs as you moved.
The room was dimmer now, save for a light on the bedside table casting the room in a glow that felt entirely too romantic for what this was meant to be. A platonic sleepover. Another problem you were having Bucky solve in the mess that was you.
In this honeyed light, it softened the sharp lines of Bucky's silhouette as he leaned against the couch. He'd changed too while you had fought with your clothes. Sweatpants, a t-shirt that matched yours, looking entirely too vulnerable for someone you'd personally watched break jaws without flinching.
He gave you a lazy half-smile. "Congratulations, you didn't pass out. Gold star, rookie."
You snorted. "Ha, thanks. Was a bit touch and go for a minute."
"You take the bed, I'll just be on the couch," he said, already moving to pull the covers back for you.
You sat on the edge of the mattress, feeling the cool, soft sheets against your bare skin, and the urge hit you. Sudden, sharp, maybe a little puerile, but so, so honest after the echo of the team's laughter in a crowded bar had faded. This was the only kind of honesty you could muster. Asking him to stay not because you were drunk, but because you couldn't bear the thought of drifting alone in the quiet after so much noise.
"No," you blurted as he turned away. Your hand shooting out to catch his wrist, surprising even yourself. "Don't…don't go over there."
Bucky wavered, caught off guard at your request. "You…you want me to —?"
You nodded in earnest, fingers still holding him like you were worried he would slip away. For a moment, you thought he'd refuse. Draw one of the invisible boundaries you always tried so hard not to cross with him. Your heart stuttered, bracing for disappointment already.
It wasn't the drinks or the exhaustion of the mission making your chest ache. It was the weight of having done everything right and still feeling like the floor might drop out at any moment. Success was supposed to feel like safety, but all it did was remind you that people were watching you now like they never had before. Waiting for you to prove you were worthy enough for a place on this team.
You wanted something easy, something soft, something inviolable. And right now, that meant Bucky. "Please, I don't…I don't want to be alone."
Bucky wanted — should have — protested. To say that no, you were drunk and you wouldn't remember why you were waking up next to him in the morning. Even if nothing was going to happen.
But your eyes were big and glossy, pleading in a way that was breaking down every single piece of armor he carefully crafted when it came to you.
He hesitated, but ultimately relented, climbing into bed beside you, letting you fold into his side. You immediately curled against him, finally feeling at rest. The ache in your chest easing as the world narrowed to the safe harbor of his arms and the smell of clean cotton and sandalwood.
You told yourself you'd forget in the morning. Chalk it up to the alcohol causing you to be so clingy and make a self deprecating joke. But even as sleep tugged at you, some stubborn, hopeful part of you just knew. That this was the kind of night you'd press between the pages of your memory and keep forever.
In the hush of the room, you drifted, half-awake, feeling his arm settle lightly on your shoulder. And, because the vodka clearly had you saying whatever jumped to the forefront, you mumbled into his chest: "Your bicep makes the best pillow."
A low laugh rumbled beneath you as he pulled you closer, tucking the sheets around your tangled limbs. You wondered if he understood the way you meant it, the kind of truth that only spilled out in the dark, when you were too tired to be afraid of what you wanted. As sleep pulled you under, you thought you could hear him whisper, barely audible, right at your ear: "Goodnight, solnyshko."
The memory flickered, gone as quickly as it had come, leaving only the ache of warmth receding and the harsh reality of cold settling in again. Bucky's arms held you tighter, willing heat back into your body with every pass of his hands up and down your spine.
You felt the tremor in his breath before you heard it. A shiver rippling through his nervous system that had nothing to do with the cold. His voice was no longer the steady thing you were used to. Taking on a raw vulnerability you had only heard once when you had somehow jumped in front of a bullet for him.
"Stay with me, solnyshko. Please."
The nickname sounded different now. No longer a gentle tease used to get you away from off-key singing to a street lamp, but a plea. He was saying it like it was a prayer, landing in the space between you like an invocation.
"You gotta be okay. You don't get to check out on me now. Not after everything. I — I still need my little sun."
Your shivering had slowed from the slow warmth, but your vision was still fuzzy. Your tongue still felt too heavy and lopsided in your mouth. Instead of answering, you focused on the weight of the blankets and the sleeping bag at your side, the press of his chest, the rhythm of his voice.
You let yourself drift, clinging to the sensation of being held. Every sweep of his hands over your back grounded you, calling you back from a freezing darkness that was threatening to swallow you whole.
Your fingers tapped where they were pressed against his skin, a silent acknowledgement that you were still here, just stuck behind plate glass and fog for a short while longer.
The convulsions that had racked your muscles now came in fits and bursts, replaced by a strange aching warmth as feeling returned. It almost hurt, the way your nerves fired back to life one by one, like stepping into a hot shower after too long in a freezing pool of water.
Bucky kept talking, threading stories between breaths, pulling you back toward consciousness while your head was tucked underneath his chin, his hand curling at the base of your neck to hold you in place.
"Hey," he murmured, thumb tracing circles against your back, "you remember Paris? You let it slip that you hadn't seen Casablanca, and I had to fix that."
Your head nodded, nose brushing against his collarbone with each pass.
"I pulled it up on my phone in that terrible little hotel room with the threadbare sheets. I really didn't expect you to cry."
A shaky laugh escaped you, quiet and strangled, but real. Your lips curled up, just a little. "You cried," you managed, but the words were as slurred and soft as they were teasingly accusatory.
Even now, the memory was fuzzy at the edges, but you remembered the way he'd found tissues and pressed them into your hands. While also pretending not to wipe his own eyes. You remembered how you'd felt safe enough to let yourself be that sensitive. It wasn't the first time and it certainly wouldn't be the last in his presence. How your head had fallen onto his shoulder once the movie ended, safe enough to let your true self be seen.
You felt his fingers tighten at the nape of your neck when he heard your voice, his bicep flexing underneath your ear, and something akin to relief gently roll through him. His touch steadied you. You could feel his pulse now, thudding beneath your cheek. A lifeline you didn't know you needed.
"I did," he continued, though he had vehemently denied it when it happened. Threatening bodily injury upon you if you so much as whispered it to your teammates. "It had been so long since I saw it. Didn't think it would hit me as hard as it did."
He kept talking, voice low and steady as the room grew warmer. "You hogged all the blankets on that mission. It wasn't the first time. Or the only time I let you."
You hummed, eyes fluttering through another shiver the more your body temperature came back to normal. Your limbs felt tingly the warmer you got, uncomfortable in a way you couldn't quite describe. The pins and needles feeling more like static shock through your whole body.
You winced at the strange, electric sensation running through your limbs. It was agony and comfort tangled in one. But every time he touched you — his palm against your back, his arm curved around your waist — it was easier to stay here than let the frozen tundra claim you. Tethered to the present, to him.
"You're okay, I know it hurts now. Just means you're coming back."
A pathetic noise escaped you as your fingers tapped a steady motion on the hard planes of his chest. It hurt to talk; your jaw still ached from how hard your teeth had knocked together from the cold.
"Strange how you always seek me out to sleep next to in those missions. Especially when you complain that I snore."
"You do snore," you mumbled as another involuntary spasm ran the length of your body, your muscles rebelling at the warmth they were relearning to hold.
"Yeah, well, you're not so innocent yourself, rookie. I've still got a bruise from when you somehow kicked me off of that tiny twin mattress we had to share in Belarus."
"I'm blaming that on Walker, he took the one good bed. Asshole."
Another deep sigh left him, and you could feel the tension in his body continuing to bleed out of the sleeping bag. Like in the grand scheme of things you calling John Walker an asshole was the signal that you were almost out of the woods.
His hands never stopped moving. Circling warmth into your skin, keeping you secured to the present. When Bucky spoke again, his voice was quieter. Devoid of the humor from earlier, but not the warmth.
You felt the atmosphere change, the way his next words landed heavy and true in the small space between you. There was something in the way he held you that your brain was just now comprehending. Like he was afraid to let go.
"Can't put all the blame on you I don't think. Sometimes it was me. Sneaking into your bed. Just…easier. Sleeping next to you."
"I get it," you whisper, finally feeling the fog break in your mind. Your eyes blinked open again, the world still blurry at the edges, but slowly coming into focus. "My bed feels too big without you in it."
You didn't mean for it to sound like a confession, but it came out that way anyway. The truth of all those nights you had spent wrapped in each other slipping out as you thawed.
Your head tipped back as far as the confines of the sleeping bag and Bucky's iron grip at your back would allow. Just enough to meet his eyes in the low light of the fire. Your heart fluttered like a caged bird when you saw the worry in the depths, etched across every line and plane of his face.
Even in the dim glow you could see the relief sweep through him, the telltale softening at the corners of his eyes, the subtle tilt of his brows.
You wondered if he knew how much you needed him. That you were only here right now because of him. How much of your bravado was just a cover for how safe he made you feel.
"There you are." His thumb traced the apple of your cheek in a move so gentle it would have brought tears to your eyes if you could figure out how to summon them. "You have no idea how worried I was. Still am. Don't do that again."
His voice was too raw for comfort. Gone was the tone he used when he gave you commands on the battlefield. Replaced instead with a broken whisper. You'd never heard him sound like that before. The sound made your throat ache, made you want to match the way his hand was cupping your face, but you were still working out how to move in your thawing body.
You let out a breath of laughter, unfurling into the cold air like a pale flag. "I didn't mean to. But I'm nothing special, Buck. You would've done the same for anyone on the team."
"You really think that? You really think I'd be half naked in a sleeping bag with any of them? Least of all Walker? And you know Yelena would've stabbed me before I even tried."
"Quite the visual you're painting, Barnes."
His grip tightened, like he could make you believe his words through his touch alone. "Don't. Don't you dare say you're nothing special."
"Bucky —"
"No, just —" he let out a frustrated half-laugh, half-sob. "Let me get this out before I lose my nerve."
It felt like moving through wet cement, but you mustered the strength to let your hand drift up his chest, clumsy, searching for anything to anchor him to you. The warmth of his skin seeped into your fingertips, a sharp contrast to the dull ache still lingering in your bones.
He leaned in closer, just barely, like he was afraid you were still swimming in the icy depths and wouldn't resurface.
"I've been tongue tied by you since day one," he said. The words stumbled out, rough and honest, nothing like the easy confidence he wore as armor for the world. "I know I don't say things right. I really never have. Not with you. But I remember every damn thing you say to me. Every time you call me by my name my heart skips a beat. Every time you laugh at my terrible jokes. Every time you look at me like I'm worth something more than I am."
Your chest tightened at his words, part disbelief, part relief, and all surrounded by a dizzying hope you tried so hard to smother. No one had ever looked at you the way he was looking at you now. Like you were the first glimpse of the sunrise over a snowy mountaintop.
His eyes searched your face, desperate, unguarded. You felt the weight of everything he'd never dared to say pressing down between you.
He shifted, just enough that the sleeping bag crinkled around both of you as his knee slid between yours so there was no more space left between you. This close, you could see the way his jaw clenched, feel the slight tremor in his hand as he held you steady in the reality of the moment.
"Do you know why I called you solnyshko? That night you got drunk?"
You shook your head, rendered speechless as the dam of his emotions broke free into the world. It was terrifying, being on the receiving end of so much honesty, but you let yourself be swept away in it. Spellbound by the hypnotic blue of his eyes.
The memory of that night flashed before you. Your mingled laughter, the city lights blurring past while he let you melt into his side, the Russian endearment he'd let slip that meant more to you than you'd ever said. You'd tucked away every piece as it came back in the hangover that followed, never daring to hope it meant as much to him as it did to you. And now here he was, tearing down every wall you'd carefully built.
"You're not just some rookie I'm supposed to look after. Not just another Avenger on the team. You're —"
He broke off, inhaling a shaky breath, and you felt him gather himself beneath your touch. Shoulders hunching forward into your body, eyes pleading for you to understand.
You wanted to tell him that you did. That you'd been waiting for this, for him, ever since you joined the team. Your heart was pounding against your chest so hard it hurt, but raw and alive. Louder than the fire crackling or the wind outside.
"You're the brightest thing in my life, little sun. The only thing that makes any of this — any of me — make sense. I know I'm supposed to be your mentor, the one teaching you how to survive all of this, but the truth is I'm the one that needs you. I need you to always come back to me. To make me laugh when the world feels like it's about to collapse. I need you to know you're special, because I…" His voice faltered, almost letting the words evaporate into the dark, but he continued.
"I don't want to imagine a world where you're not in it. I can't. I love you, okay? I've loved you for so long I don't remember what it was like to live before you."
The words slammed into you one by one. Too much, too astounding, too everything. You wanted to laugh. To cry. Maybe do both. Instead, you were left shell shocked more than when you woke up in the cold darkness, drinking in the sight of him in this new light. Hair mussed from your fingers running through it, eyes bright and open and so defenseless it hurt. This was Bucky Barnes, all of him, and he was handing himself over to you.
His confession hung in the air, raw and trembling. But ultimately so, so real. The heat between you was no longer just a matter of survival. It was something that could burn down this tiny safe house if you let it.
He dropped his forehead to yours, voice barely more than a breath. "You're my sun. My warmth in the coldest winter. My solnyshko. Please don't ever think you're nothing. You're everything to me."
You closed your eyes, forehead pressed to his, letting the silence say everything you couldn't yet. Basking in the warmth of both his body and confession. You wanted to remember this moment forever. The feel of his skin, the sound of his voice, the knowledge that after months of yearning and finding little pieces of solace in his company where you could, his feelings for you matched the ones you had been harboring but never speaking out loud.
You didn't even realize you're moving until you're already there. Lips pressed to his, fingers knotted in his hair, clumsy as your limbs were still coming into their warmth. Dizzy with relief and hunger, but then his hand finds your jaw, cradling you like you're something breakable and precious. For a moment, all you know is heat. Him, the fire, the wild beat of your heart.
He kissed you back, just as fierce, just as desperate. His arm slipped around your waist, drawing you in, almost encouraging the slow roll of your hips on his knee you couldn't stop, all tangled limbs with breathless want. You could feel him shaking under your touch, not from the cold, but from the force of everything he's ever held back.
You deepen the kiss with a soft sigh, pouring every ounce of feeling you've tried to bury into him. The scrape of his stubble on your skin sends a zap of electricity straight through your belly, heat pooling where he was pressing you into his thigh. A soft sound escaped him that made you tug him closer, arms looping around his neck. Everything else melts away. The mission gone sideways, the trek up the mountain, your close brush with fatality. It no longer matters. What does is you and Bucky and the promise of something that's been simmering between you for far too long.
Almost all at once, something began to shift with each breath you shared. It started as a low ache when you feel the hard press of him against your hip, when it spirals into urgency. Need overtakes any caution, sharp and sudden. Your hands tug at his hair, his lips ghost over your jaw, nipping below your ear drawing a sharp gasp that turns into a moaned expletive when it hits you. That this isn't a dream brought on hypothermia. It isn't just about gratitude or adrenaline. It's about the want that neither of you ever dared to act on.
Your pulse is thunder to the storm of his touch as he roamed lower, fingers pushing the hem of your tank top up to explore skin he's never had the privilege of feeling. One more inch, one more movement of bravery, and there's no going back.
Then just as quickly, he pulls away, breath ragged and chest rising and falling rapidly. Both of his hands come to frame your face, and he's now looking at you with worry. With fear.
For a fleeting moment, you wonder if you've gone too far. If this is the part where he stops, where the spell breaks and you're just friends again, and he's just your mentor. But his hands are gentle and grounding, his eyes burning with heat, his lips parted and glossy from your kisses.
"Hey," he whispers, voice rough. "Are…we don't have to. You just — you almost…" he trails off like he can't bring himself to say the words, thumb brushing your cheek. "I don't want to cross a line if you're not okay. If it's just the adrenaline—" His voice breaks, and you can feel how much he's fighting himself. "I need you to want this…me. Not just because I almost lost you tonight."
The words catch in your throat, not because you don't know what you want. But because how are you meant to follow up his declaration of love?
Your hands wrap around his wrists, thumbs stroking his knuckles. "I've wanted this for so long," you whisper, voice trembling with hope. "You have no idea how long I've wanted this. I love you, Bucky. Not just because you saved me tonight, but because you always have. I'm yours, if…if you want me. I've always been yours."
The relief in his eyes is blinding while your body aches with his absence, every nerve firing with longing until his mouth is on yours again. Hungrier, fiercer than before — full of all the things you've both been too scared to say and trying to make up for every second he'd held back.
He’s everywhere at once…hands, lips, breath. The sleeping bag forces you even closer, trapping heat and longing, nowhere to go but into each other. His hands push your tank top up, clumsy and reverent, and you have to pull away for a second so he can drag it off over your head, flinging it somewhere behind you. You shiver, not from cold, but from the ache of his gaze as he takes you in.
His fingers find your bra clasp with a confidence that surprises you; his mouth sears a line of kisses down your neck and across your collarbone that has heat pouring into your belly and your hips rolling for purchase against his thigh placed just so. There’s a quick, practiced flick and suddenly you feel the band loosen, straps sliding down your arms.
You can’t help it, really. A laugh bursts out, small and incredulous, nerves and desire swirling together. “Where the hell did you learn to do that?”
Bucky huffs a breathless laugh, his hands already cupping and kneading your breasts, gentle yet greedy. “You really want me to answer that right now?”
He pinched your nipple softly, rolling his thumb, and a gasp escapes before you can stop it. Sharp, unguarded, punched from somewhere deep in your chest. You bury your face in his shoulder, smelling the familiar scent of him now mixed with a musk of desire. Still grinning, dazed with disbelief and hunger. “Actually, no. Never mind.”
The more his touch explored your body, the brighter your need burned. The thin fabric of your panties was already dripping, you could feel the slide of it along the ridge of his thigh. The warm heat seeping through both layers of cotton, causing gasps and moans to tumble from your lips. Made worse as Bucky shifted his own form, dragging your hips in a languid pace. Every so often you would brush against his cock, straining hard against his boxers.
Your touch grew adventurous, moving down Bucky's torso, fingers dipping below his waistband. Keen on alleviating the twitching length of him currently pressed to your belly. But just before you could explore further, his hand caught your wrist. He brought it between you to land on his chest, his pulse beating steady underneath the hard muscle.
"Just feel what you're doing to me, here, sweetheart," he rasped in your ear, drawing the lobe between his teeth and biting.
He interlaced his fingers with yours, securing them as a bridge between your two hearts. His thigh was damp with your arousal when he pulled it away, your whimper respondent and desperate with the loss of friction.
"Don't worry, sweet girl, I've got you," his lips ghosted over your forehead as he strained against the walls of the sleeping bag. His fingers found the edge of your panties, rolling them down slowly, like he was waiting for you to protest. When you didn't, instead shifting your hips to help get then off, Bucky let out a small sound of approval.
His movements are measured, careful in the way he always is with you. He drags his fingers down your stomach, igniting a fire in their wake on your skin. Until his touch finally brushes your clit in one torturously slow motion. It's barely more than a whisper of pressure, but it's enough to make your hips jolt into him, and elicit a needy whimper from your lips.
You try to wriggle free, aching to touch him, to give back even half of what he's giving you. But one arm is trapped around his neck, pinned by his weight, and the other is still captured in his grip, pressed to his heart so you can feel just how wild it beats beneath his chest.
"Bucky…"
"Shhh, it's okay. Let me take care of you." His voice is rough, hungry and full of promise.
His fingers grow bolder, tracing tight, slow circles over your clit, coaxing out every soft, desperate sound from your lips. He kisses you again, drinking in your moans like he needs them to breathe.
You tangle your fingers in his hair, pulling him closer as your hips roll into his hand, chasing pleasure as it blooms low and hot in your belly. "Feels so good, Buck…" you mumble against his mouth, voice trembling with another broken gasp.
His answer is to slip lower, gathering the slick arousal with his fingers until he presses one inside, filling you with a slow deliberate push. His thumb finds your clit again, drawing practiced circles, every movement calculated to undo you.
He groans, low and steady against your throat. "You're so tight… squeezing my fingers. Kinda worried about the next steps I had planned."
You laugh, a shivery breathless sound that melts into a moan as he thrusts deeper. "Just — just please don't stop. We'll figure it out."
He slides in a second finger, working you open, stretching you for him. He curls against that soft, sensitive spot deep inside as his thumb never lets up.
"Buck, I'm…God…right there, please."
He kisses your neck, your cheek, and in response his voice is a gentle command. "Let go for me, solnyshko. I've got you."
The pleasure crests. Sharp, shattering, impossibly good. Heat rushes through your limbs, stealing your breath, and leaving you trembling in his arms. He keeps working you, coaxing every last tremor out of your muscles, until you finally sag, boneless and shaking against his chest.
He brings his hand to your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek, still keeping your hand pressed against his racing heart. His lips find your forehead, your eyelids, the tip of your nose, and finally your mouth. Like he's counting your pulse, making sure you're still here and breathing.
"You okay?" he murmurs against your hairline. "Do you want to keep going, sweetheart? We can stop. Whatever you need."
You nod, frazzled, breathless. "Definitely keep going…." you whisper.
Bucky releases your hand, pushing his boxers down to join your panties at the bottom of the sleeping bag.
His touch is gentle as he shifts, hiking your thigh up over his hip so the head of his cock nudges at your entrance. "Gonna have to improvise, can't risk opening the bag." There's worry in his eyes, even behind the lust.
You reach for his jaw, thumb brushing the stubble on his cheek. "It's okay. I want this. I'm not going anywhere," you whisper, and roll your hips dragging the tip of him through your slick, catching your clit with every pass. Your need already back, despite still trembling from release.
He groans, head falling backward as his hand splays across your lower back, fingers digging into the swell of your ass like he can't decide if he wants to stop you or urge you on.
"Bucky…"
The way you moan his name makes him dizzy with memories All those times you'd ever said his name before. To get his attention. When he made you laugh so hard you couldn't hold back. In the heat of a battle to check on his position.
But this? With you needy, whimpering, drawing out your own pleasure from his body? Was by far his favorite. He was already cataloguing it away. Memorizing every tremor that left you with the sound of his name on your lips.
And he realized as you continued to slowly fuck yourself on his cock that was so hard it was making his vision tunnel, all control that he thought he had over this situation was fading with each sound you make. "God, sweetheart, look at you…"
He brought your thighs to straddle either side of his hips, adjusting himself on the hard floor that was cutting through the too thin sleeping bag. But it doesn't matter. Not when you're wet and pulsing, your bare pussy gliding over his thick length making him shudder with every pass.
He's throbbing against you as you roll your hips in slow hungry circles. Your forearms brace on either side of his head, unable to sit up much further as the zipper of the sleeping bag groans in protest.
Your clit catches on his swollen head, until you're gasping, whimpering, using your teeth against his neck to stop from crying out in pleasure. Your legs burning at trying to keep up.
"Bucky please…"
He was wrong before. That was his favorite way you said his name. Begging, pleading, in a voice that only he would ever get to hear when it was just the two of you.
"You don't have to beg for anything from me, just take it," he growls, breathless, mesmerized by the way your weight feels on him. "I'm yours, just…just take what you need."
You try, fuck you try. Your hips shift in a desperate attempt to line yourself up, to take him in, but the damn sleeping bag has you trapped. There's no room. Your elbow bumps the side, your hand getting wedged awkwardly between your bodies before it even makes it halfway to where you need it to be.
With a frustrated sigh, you drop your forehead to his shoulder. "Can you, uh, help me out here, Sarge? I can't move in this fucking thing." And you knew better than to ask to open it when you're finally warm and so close to being together.
A deep chuckle leaves his mouth, as he adjusts beneath you, his hands guiding you, patient and gentle even in his desperation. "Should've known you'd use my rank against me," he teases, angling you just right. Then he lines himself up, the swollen head of his cock nudging at your entrance once more.
A thumb and forefinger nudge your chin towards him and away from the crook of his neck, a silent request for him to be granted to watch the pleasure that's about to unfold cross your features. He nods once, in silent reassurance.
Then oh so slowly, you sink down, Shuddering from the fullness, the stretch, the weight of what this means and what you now can't take back. His fingers flex on your hip, and you can feel his restraint beneath your touch. The way his muscles have all gone rigid except for the softness of his face that is looking up at you with reverie and adoration.
"That's it — fuck…" he chokes, eyelids fluttering as you take him all the way in. You swear you can feel him cleaving you in two, pressing so deep you forget how to breathe. Until everything tunnels to the beating of your hearts and where you're joined.
Or maybe it's just the angle, the tightness, the sheer overwhelming sensation as your hips begin to rock, dragging him out and in with a slow, needy grind. "And…you were worried it — fuck — wasn't going to fit," you breathe out, forearms shaking as you lost yourself in the bliss.
He let out a huff of laughter, turning into a groan with another drag of your hips. "Shouldn't have doubted you. You've never let me down, not once. Look at you now, taking me so well. That's my good girl."
You shudder at the praise, your whole body tightening around him. You hold still for a moment, just to feel the stretch and the way he fills you, so impossibly deep you can feel the pulse of his heartbeat nudging next to yours. His hands slide up your sides, thumbs drawing lazy circles on your skin like he wants to memorize every inch.
You try to set a rhythm, slow at first to savor the feeling, but your thighs tremble from effort and anticipation. Each rock is a sweet torture, dragging him out almost to the tip before sinking back down again, savoring every inch. The sleeping bag creaks as heat and sweat slicks between your bodies. You bite your lip, chasing a breath as a whimper escapes.
"Look at me. Let me see you fall apart for me, sweetheart." Bucky murmurs, one hand catching your jaw, tilting your face so you can't hide from his gaze.
His words in that tone, the steady pressure of his hips rolling up to meet yours — it's almost too much. Your fingers clutch at his chest, nails digging into muscle, needing to anchor yourself to something real as the pleasure winds tighter and tighter. Bucky moves with you, meeting every thrust, his own restraint starting to crumble.
"So beautiful," he rasps, eyes never leaving yours. "My perfect angel, so fucking good —"
The praise shot straight from his mouth, voice rough with need, to where your climax was already building past the point of no return. Your movements became more fervent as you chased your release, feeling it bloom like a ball of light, fragmenting your soul.
Your orgasm rips through you, blinding and bright. Sounds of pleasure you've never made before reverberate off the walls of the safe house, while you pulse and flutter around him. You slump forward, boneless, sated without a second thought. Forearms too weak to hold yourself up as you tuck yourself into the safety of Bucky's embrace.
His hands are shaking on your hips, his chest heaving under yours. You've barely had a chance to catch your breath before he starts whispering in your ear, voice wrecked in a way you have never heard it. "You don't know what you do to me, solnyshko. Fuck, you have no idea. Every time you crawled into bed with me I nearly lost my mind I —"
He's moving before you can answer, gentle but urgent as he tries to maneuver you. But the sleeping bag soon becomes a battlefield of tangled limbs and crinkling fabric, laughter escaping your mouth faster than you can catch it at his frantic movements.
"Hold on — sorry — I'm usually better at this, " he groans, finally managing to shift you beneath him managing to keep you joined, one hand guiding your leg around his hip. Your nails scrambling for purchase on his arms as you tremble beneath him.
"It's been pretty good so far, I'm not complaining," you exhaled, still trying to catch your breath.
"Yeah?" He grins, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Wait until I get you back to the Tower and have more room."
Your heart stutters when you realize…there's going to be a next time. But you barely have time to register that admission when his hand comes to rest beside your head and you feel the full weight of his stare. His eyes are wild in the light of the fire, pupils blown wide as his nose brushes yours before pulling you in for a bruising kiss that is all tongue and lips and raw unfiltered passion.
He slowly thrusts into you again, the angle makes him go deeper than you expect, his control shredding as he chases his own relief. The sleeping bag scuffs across the floor and you're fairly certain if he wasn't bracing his vibranium arm so hard into the wood it groaned, you would be skidding into the wall by now.
"You feel so fuckin' perfect, can't believe I get to have you like this."
Your lips part to say something but you're lost in a flurry of sensation. His warmth, his words, the way he's so careful to not crush you.
"Never let myself believe I could have something as good as you. You're all I'll ever want."
He thrusts into you, every muscle in his body trembling with the effort of holding back. "It's always been you. Every damn time, it's you in my head. You have no idea how many nights I dreamed about this while you were laying in my arms."
His pace falters as the words spill out. You're helpless beneath him, caught in the hurricane of his confessions and the long drag of his cock against your still fluttering walls. "Didn't want to fuck up what we had. Our friendship, but fuck you feel like you were made for me."
"Always wanted you," you gasp, finally finding your voice, rolling your hips up to meet him. "Only you."
He loses his rhythm, driving into you with desperate thrusts, all restraint gone. His words tumble out between gasps, half-prayer, half-plea. "Can't believe I almost lost you. Don't ever scare me like that again, please — I'm — "
Your hands find his face pulling him down, your lips catching his and all of his words he's pouring into the night, just as he falls apart above you. Shuddering, groaning your name, holding you like a lifeline as his release tears through him.
He pulses inside of you, pulling a small aftershock of your own free at the sensation. He fills you so completely, so thoroughly, with yet another rough confession of his love.
His face buries into your neck, breath hot against your skin. "You're everything," he whispers, voice breaking, as he relaxes into you.
Even as his tremors slow, he hauls you closer, maneuvering your bodies side by side. Limbs tangle again in the confines of the sleeping bag that you absolutely cannot wait to trade for a bed.
You press a kiss to his neck, letting your fingers drift across his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his pulse beneath your palm. He curls an arm under your head, pulling you in closer, tucking you into the curve of his body like you're the only thing that matters in the world.
You shift against him, nose brushing the underside of his jaw, inhaling his scent that means home. "Hey Bucky?" you whisper past the drowsiness that's tugs at you.
"Yeah, sweetheart?"
"I'm not cold anymore."
His arms wrap tighter around you like he was trying to make sure. "Good. I plan to keep it that way," he says with a small, shaky laugh.
In the quiet that settles between you, it's easy to forget the blizzard, the botched mission, the hypothermia, the world outside these four walls. All that's left is the safety of his arms, the scent of sandalwood, the afterglow, the soft ache that promises so much more than you ever could have imagined.
Exhaustion pulls you under, the warmth of his body anchoring you through the night. Tomorrow there may be chaos again, but tonight, you let yourself rest in the only place you've ever truly belonged.
Not as his rookie. Not just a teammate.
Just his.
At last.
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Jax-Pocalypse 2025 Masterlist
A Walking Dead/SOA style mini-series
When the dead don't stay dead, it's a good thing the Sons have guns.
Pairing: Jax Teller x fem!nurse!Reader
Series warnings/tags: 18+; Horror/gore/violence, zombie outbreak, death, hurt/comfort, smut
《Jax-Pocalypse Playlist》
Installment List 《dates/titles are tentative & possibly more to come》
*Each installment has their own warnings/tags*
☣ Outbreak
☣ A Safe Haven
☣ No Other Choice
☣ Still Awake
☣ The New Normal
☣ Pretending It's Fine
☣ Bite the Bullet 《October 15th》
☣ Beneath the Stars 《October 17th》
☣ Confiding Truths 《October 20th》
☣ Protect Our Own 《October 22nd》
☣ Separated 《October 24th》
☣ A Reason to Fight 《October 27th》
☣ Hard Choices 《October 29th》
☣ Looking Forward 《October 31st》
Summary: When you suddenly start to distance yourself from Jax, he’s left wondering what he could’ve possibly done wrong that would make you not want to be around him. But after a party, Ope tells him something that has alarm bells going off in his head, and he finally starts to connect the dots. | Part 1
Word Count: 9.5k | I do not give consent to having my work republished or posted to any other platform or profile other than my own.
Warnings: angst, fluff, swearing, mentions of smut, probably inaccurate age estimates (doesn’t matter at all though), this is so long, i’m sorry.
Jax was not having a good day.
He was woken up extremely early by Clay, who had sent him to go run errands for him at the crack of dawn, so he was more tired than normal.
The two of them hadn’t been agreeing on much lately, and it was really putting a strain on their relationship, as well as Jax’s place as future president of Samcro.
Jax wasn’t a fan of being on Clay’s bad side (though he’s on it quite often), so he was trying his best to mend the strain as well as he could, but it was difficult when he wasn’t being met halfway. But that was really the only thing that was going south in Jax’s life at the moment, so it really wasn’t too bad considering his lifestyle.
He’d been up for hours already, and he hadn’t gotten the best sleep last night, so he was a little grumpy. He thought maybe since he helped Clay out earlier, he’d be in a better mood, but he was wrong.
When he got back to the clubhouse, he was planning on stopping by your place because he knew you were the only thing that would make his day better, and since it was still early, he didn’t want to keep feeling irritated for the rest of the day.
But, just as he was getting ready to head back out, Clay had called him into the chapel for a talk, and even though Jax had a feeling that talk wasn’t anything good, he still went ahead and put himself through it.
The talk had been even worse than Jax thought it would be. Clay had finally picked up on what was going on between you and him, even though neither of you were doing anything to hide it.
Jax had spent his whole life running from his feelings for you, why on earth would he go into hiding now that he’s got you?
But that was maybe something he should’ve been doing, because Clay was not happy with the amount of time Jax had been spending with you. Ever since he was made VP, there had been an intense pressure put on Jax, and an expectation for him to put all of his time and effort into the club.
That was understandable and somewhat fine, but Clay himself had been in a committed relationship the whole time Jax had known him, and he was the president of the club. Wouldn’t he understand that he couldn’t actually put every single second he had into it?
Apparently not, because he had completely ripped into Jax the second he stepped through those doors. Accusations were hurled at him, and insults that really had no effect on him were what he was met with, and Jax had to bite his tongue too many times to count.
He didn’t enjoy bickering with Clay, even though that was all they seemed to be doing lately, so he didn’t fly off the handle with him like he really wanted to. He simply took it while holding himself back, knowing that the sooner Clay said everything he wanted to say, the sooner Jax could go to you.
But that was when you had become the topic of Clay’s wrath.
He berated you, degraded you, and said all the things that would have had Jax knocking someone’s teeth out had they’d been anyone else. Clay didn’t know you, he didn’t know the first fucking thing about you, and he had no right to be speaking about you the way he was.
The more Clay talked about you, the angrier Jax had got, but he had to reel himself in. The last thing he needed was another disagreement and for more bad blood to form between the two of them, and he also didn’t feel like beating the shit out of the man who helped his mom raise him, even though Jax was three seconds away from doing just that.
He knew damn well everything Clay was saying about you was complete bullshit, but he didn’t want to say something that would make him think there was something serious going on with you and him.
Even though there is. There definitely is, and it was about time too.
Jax had been pining over you for most of his life, even though he did a very poor fucking job at showing it or doing anything about his feelings for you. He knew he was trying to run from something that was inevitable. He knew that, for as long as he had you in his life, he would always feel this way about you. Trying to run from it or hide how he felt was pointless, because there would always be countless reminders.
The polaroid he keeps tucked in the frame of his mirror - one that was taken so long ago. Both of you were so young and, well, as innocent as you could be. Even though it was from forever ago, it was still one of his favorite photos. It wasn’t the best quality, and the color had faded over time, but it was probably in better shape than most of his possessions.
In the photo, he has his arm draped around your shoulder, a small, barely-there grin on his face since he thought he was way too fucking cool to smile for pictures back then - even though he was rarely not smiling when he was around you.
You were both leaning against an old car, your legs crossed and your bodies slouched. There was an embarrassed, lopsided smile on your face, and your hair was half pink, which was still one of his favorite looks on you.
It was different, and that made it so you, because you were different too. A good kind of different. The best kind.
There were bright white clips pinning back the sides of your hair, your baby face on full display and was probably why you looked so embarrassed. For some reason, you never seemed to believe you were pretty back then, even though Jax always thought you were stunning and tried to tell you that on a regular basis, but he was subtle about it, and you’d always been clueless.
Gemma had taken the photo when you and he were waiting for your mom to pick you up from the shop after work. Jax had been there all day, and you had only been there for an hour or so since you came there from school, and he had long since dropped out at that point.
You hung out with him until your mom came and picked you up, then Gemma had given him the polaroid, and he’d kept a close eye on it ever since. He had to hide it in his drawer for a few years since Tara had become quite irritated by the sight of it, which was probably why the saturation was so poor now, but it was still one of his most cherished belongings.
Under that polaroid, on the surface of his dresser, was an updated picture. An actual photograph taken on a camera that wasn’t made twenty years ago, and it was a lot bigger.
This one was from a few years ago, and taken around the time Jax realized that he needed to get a move on if he wanted something with you - even though it still took him a few years after to actually work up the nerve.
He was on his bike, his arms crossed and a lazy smirk on his face, and you were behind him, your arms wrapped around his middle, and the biggest, prettiest smile was on your lips. With time, he got to watch you go from a shy and awkward girl to the stunning and not overly-confident, but still confident, woman you are today.
That was his second favorite photo.
There were other reminders of you everywhere he looked, your chapstick you keep in his room, your sweater that always gets left on the chair in the corner, the smell of your perfume still lingering on his kutte and his clothes.
Everything reminded him of you, really, and that was probably why he decided to say fuck it and kiss you all those months ago. He was done pretending you weren’t his entire world, he was done running from the one thing he knew would always make him happy.
And you did make him happy. Beyond happy, but having Clay know that and and use it as a form of weakness or a way to try and rile him up was not ideal.
So he lied.
When Clay informed Jax that he was aware of what was quickly blossoming into the best relationship Jax had ever been in, he fucking lied.
He lied his ass off and said you weren’t important, that you didn’t matter, that you were just another girl, but it was all a lie. One big, mean lie he had to say to ensure Clay would leave you alone and stay out of your business.
The absolute last thing he wanted was for Clay to start giving you a hard time since apparently Jax had been too invested in you lately and not the club, which was bullshit in his opinion since he’s had to watch the president of the club be all over his mother for years while still calling all the shots.
Nothing he said about you was true, but Clay seemed to believe it as he let Jax leave soon after that conversation was over, thank fuck.
It left him feeling agitated and pissed off, and when he got back to his room and checked his phone for the first time that morning, he saw that he’d missed a couple calls from you, and that you’d sent him a few texts.
The last one was sent just over twenty minutes ago, and Jax quickly shut his door as he clicked on your contact. It rang five times before he was sent to your voicemail, and he groaned, because that was when he remembered that today was the day you’d be going on a trip with your class, and you wouldn’t be back until late.
You had told him about it a few days ago, and he had meant to pass on an invite for you to crash in his room afterwards, but he just hadn’t gotten around to it.
It was too late now, and since you didn’t answer his call, he assumed he had just missed you and that you were already wrangling up your third graders and getting them ready for the trip.
He reached up and pulled off his hat, tossing it blindly onto the chair as he slumped back onto his unmade bed. His fingers messed up his hair as he typed out a text to you, and he hoped you’d get back to him soon, because he really wanted to see you at some point today, and he hoped you’d come by after you got back.
Just missed you, I guess. Sorry, meant to swing by before you left for work. Maybe you can come by after? I’ll be up late. Or I can come to yours. Have a good day.
He sent the text then looked at the screen for a few seconds, as if your top priority right now was going to be checking your phone, then he tossed it aside on his bed, his head falling back onto his pillow.
He wanted to see you before you left, but of course Clay had instantly put him to work as soon as he woke up, and it took away the brief time he could’ve been spending with you, especially since the errands he had to do weren’t all that big of a deal anyway.
Jax didn’t want to think of himself as one of those guys who needs to see their girlfriends to be able to properly start their day, but that was exactly what he was. Well, he didn’t have to see you, though he preferred to, a simple phone call would be good too.
And then there was the fact that you weren’t his girlfriend, not really, since he hadn’t put a label on it just yet. He assumed he didn’t need to, because he was with you and you were with him. Wasn’t that a label? Things had always been easy like that with you and him, he genuinely thought that you and he would easily go from friends to so much more without actually talking it out.
He knows he needs to set the record straight soon and tell you that you’re it for him, but for now, you and he were in a good place, and he liked where things were at the moment.
You never got back to him, and by the time it was nearly midnight, he stopped waiting for a reply since he assumed you’d been so busy throughout the day, you didn’t have time to answer and probably ended up crashing as soon as you got home.
He was sure he’d wake up tomorrow to a text from you, one of the cute ones you send him whenever you feel guilty about missing out on plans with him or when you simply missed his texts. You rambled, even over text, and he rather enjoyed reading your paragraphs when all you really needed to send was a sentence or two.
But he loved it. He loved everything about you, and he always had.
When he woke up the next morning, it was close to 11 AM when he rolled over and checked his phone, but instead of receiving one of your cute and lengthy texts, all he got was a single sentence.
Got in late, maybe another night.
One single, simple sentence that sounded more like the way he texts than the way you do.
While his texts usually lacked personality, yours were normally full of it. They were so you, and you texted the way you talked in person, which was bubbly and full of life.
This seemed dull, and that wasn’t like you.
But he wasn’t about to dwell or make assumptions over a text. Maybe you were tired. You said you had a late night, so maybe you were still trying to wake up.
He sent a quick text back, offering to bring you a late breakfast and promising he’d be able to spend more than just a quick visit with you since it was the weekend and he hadn’t been given any grueling orders from Clay.
While he didn’t normally wait around for a text message, he couldn’t ignore how the time was ticking by, and you hadn’t answered him. He didn’t know if you saw the text and just wanted to have a chill day by yourself, or if you genuinely hadn’t even read it yet, but when it became the late afternoon, his offer had expired since Gemma would need his help with something for the rest of the day.
That was fine, since Jax ended up being distracted until he passed out on his bed well after midnight. He half expected to wake up to a text from you, an apology message and an offer to have that late breakfast today, but when he grabbed his phone, there were no texts from you.
It was a little odd, since you usually text him every day, even the most random shit, so to have you absent from his messages was a little weird.
He got dressed as he texted you again, trying to ignore the way he felt about you having completely ignored his previous one, and asked if he could stop by your place later since he missed you.
He felt weird asking if he could come over, because usually he just shows up, like you show up at the clubhouse and let him whisk you away to his room, but things felt off right now, and he didn’t want to show up and have you be annoyed at him for it since he clearly missed out on the hint.
The day went on, and you never got back to him.
And as the days went on, all his texts to you went unanswered, and all his calls went straight to voicemail.
What the fuck was happening? What the hell had he missed? He obviously missed something major since it wasn’t like you at all to just ignore him like this. He thought back to the last time he saw you, which was last Thursday morning, and tried to remember everything that happened, and if you seemed off.
As far as he could tell, you were as happy as ever that morning. You had invited him over for takeout and old movies on Wednesday, and he ended up staying the night. There was nothing different about you that night, and you were your usual, beaming self. You had forced yourself into his arms when he arrived, then whined when he had to leave the next morning.
He hadn’t seen you since then, and he hadn’t been able to reach you since then, so he wasn’t sure when something could’ve possibly happened that is making you be so closed off with him.
Maybe you just needed some space. Maybe you were going through something right now, and you just needed a little time to yourself, even though Jax would be a little offended that you didn’t come to him if something truly is bothering you. You tell him everything, and he tells you everything, with the exception of the club, because he didn’t want you anywhere near that lifestyle. You were way too good for it.
He wasn’t ashamed of it, but he also knew that you were far too sweet and far too innocent to be caught up in that part of his life. Every other part was as much yours as it is his, though.
It was Wednesday now, and despite his best efforts to get you to talk to him, Jax had received radio silence on your end. He tried going over to your place, but you either weren’t home, or you simply didn’t come to the door, and it’s not like he could just show up at your work. You worked at an elementary school, and he didn’t have kids, so that would’ve looked fucking weird.
The clubhouse was booming, the framed mugshots shaking on the walls from how loud the music was, and every room was flooded with the guys that made up the club, as well as a fair share of crow eaters.
Yet another raging Samcro party was in full swing, and while Jax normally enjoyed the parties, it was hard to ignore the way his arm hung loosely by his side, instead of it being draped over your shoulder or wrapped around your waist. It was normal for you and him, so to not have you here was a little unnerving.
Even before you and he got together, you were always under his arm. You didn’t like crowded places, and you weren’t all that familiar with anyone who made up Samcro except for himself and Ope, so you naturally stayed close to him. He didn’t mind it at all, in fact, Jax loved having you glued to his side.
Sure, it usually meant the girls stayed away from him, and even though there were some nights he craved finding one and taking her back to his room to try and find something in her that he’d only ever found in you, he never minded having you by his side.
The thought of taking any of these girls back to his room made him cringe now, because you were the real deal. What he has with you is unlike anything else he’s ever had before, and he’d become rather spoiled by you in the months you’d been together.
He hated thinking about the nights he’d spend with you at parties, then the times he’d instantly take one of the crow eaters back to his room once you’d gone home, and he’d fuck her while pretending she was you.
It felt like a waste of time now, especially since you’d always felt something so much stronger than just a friendship with him, and he’d been too much of a coward to do anything about it until now.
But that was before. Now that he’s got you, he doesn’t want to ever let you go. Even though there was some obvious tension with you right now, Jax still wanted you and only you, and that was something he was sure he’d always want.
He’d sent you a quick text earlier, letting you know there was a party happening and that he hoped you could make it. He didn’t like how desperate he was starting to sound, but he seriously didn’t know what the fuck was going on with you. He’d never really gone this long without seeing or hearing from you, and that fact was making him feel on edge.
He wasn’t sure if you were coming tonight, so his mood was a little sour as he leaned against the side of his bike outside, his second beer of the night held loosely in his hand as he smoked a cigarette.
His eyes flickered around the lot, his shoulders slumped as he held the smoke in his mouth for longer than necessary. He didn’t want to dampen anyone’s night since he wasn’t in that good of a mood, so that’s why he is outside instead of by the bar.
It was also a way he could watch everyone who arrived, and he was shamelessly waiting for you.
And you didn’t let him down, because a few minutes later, you were here.
But even though you made direct eye contact with him, you didn’t come over and say anything to him. You just gave him a short wave before heading into the clubhouse, breaking his line of sight with you completely.
What the actual fuck was going on?
Jax assumed you had a bad day, maybe you were still stressed about whatever was bothering you the last couple days, so he gave you some time to come out and see him when you wanted to.
But then half an hour went by, and he was still sitting by himself outside, and that was when he went to find you.
He walked into the clubhouse after tossing away his third cigarette of the night - he didn’t usually smoke this much, but the way you seemed to be avoiding him was making him feel anxious. He found you at the bar, one elbow propped up on the surface as you sipped on a beer. A relaxed smile was on your lips as you talked with Juice’s girlfriend, the same girl you were chatting with the night Jax kissed you.
Tonight felt like that night, and you looked as carefree as you did that night, and for a second, Jax completely forgot that you had ignored his texts all week and hadn’t even tried to reach out to him.
Jax was already in a better mood at just the sight of you as he crossed the room, easily sliding between bodies until he reached the bar. “Hey, you,” he mumbled, coming up behind you and wrapping his arms around your waist. His chin rested on your shoulder, his lips brushing against the side of your neck as he pressed himself against you. “Where have you been? Feel like I haven’t seen you all week.”
Now that you were in his arms, Jax finally felt himself starting to relax. He wasn’t used to being away from you, and he wasn’t used to not talking to you for days on end like that.
And he missed you.
The baggy shirt you were wearing smelled like the perfume you’d been using since you were a teen, and it was a scent that he always associated with you since the first time you wore it.
He felt his shoulders drop now that he knew you were at least physically okay, but he could feel the way your body tensed up in his arms, and his relief at seeing you was quickly wearing off.
Your smile faded, and you forced out a laugh, something that had him furrowing his brows. You lifted your shoulder subtly, making him lift his head off it. As if you didn’t want him touching you right now. As if you wanted to get away from him.
“Yeah,” you muttered, and he could barely hear you over the music. “I’ve been busy, I guess.”
That was it?
Jax furrowed his brows even more as he loosened his grip on your waist, but he kept his hands on your hips since he was unwilling to let you go just yet. It wasn’t like you at all to reject his touch like that, and you’d never done it before. You’d usually melt into him and give him that gorgeous fucking smile he loves so much, but you weren’t smiling at all right now. If anything, you seemed eager to get away from him, and he fucking hated it.
There was a sinking feeling building up inside him, and he felt himself start to panic a bit, but he tried to reel it in as best as he could. “Busy, huh? Too busy to return my calls or texts? Or to come say hi when you got here? That’s not like you,” he murmured, his protective instincts flaring up inside him at your coldness. You couldn’t even turn your head and look at him. “Talk to me, baby.”
You pressed your lips together, your eyes flickering over to Juice’s girl as if you were asking her for help to get away from him, and that fucking stung worse than anything.
“Hey,” he said a little louder, but his voice was also a little desperate as he looked over at Juice’s girlfriend as well, and the look in his eyes had her quickly grabbing her beer and scurrying away to find her boyfriend. Once she was gone, Jax grabbed your waist and turned you around so you were facing him. “You’ve been avoiding me. What’s goin’ on, huh? Since when do you shut me out like this?”
You were looking down at the floor while he tried to get you to meet his eyes, and all he wanted to do was figure out what the hell was going on in that pretty head of yours, because you were acting like a completely different person.
“I’m not shutting you out, I’ve just been busy with… life, I guess,” you answered, and it was a pretty pathetic excuse. You set your beer onto the surface of the bar behind you before leaning against it and crossing your arms, finally meeting his eyes. “I honestly didn’t think you’d notice.”
Your words were offensive, as was the look in your eyes. They were cold, distant and guarded, and for the first time since he met you, he had no idea what you were thinking, and he had no idea how you were feeling.
Not being able to read you like he normally does had a look of hurt crossing his face, but he tried to mask it as best as he could. “I wouldn’t notice? What are you talking about? You’re the most important thing in my fuckin’ life, you’re a part of me, of course I’m gonna notice when you start to avoid me out of nowhere,” he muttered, and he really wished you and he weren’t in a room full of people right now.
He moved closer to you and reached for your hands, uncrossing your arms and guiding them up to drape around his neck instead. He just wanted to feel close to you right now, physically, because emotionally, it felt like he was talking to the brick wall behind you.
“You’re usually glued to my side, but then you went off and disappeared for days without a word. You thought I wouldn’t notice that? I’m never not thinkin’ about you, baby,” he rasped, leaning down so his forehead was pressed to yours. “Whatever’s got you so distant and closed off, you talk to me about it. That’s what we do. That’s what we’ve always done.”
He wasn’t sure if he was getting through to you or not, because you went back to avoiding his eyes, and he knew that if you didn’t tell him what he did to piss you off so much, he’d spend the rest of the night, the rest of the fucking week trying to figure out what he did wrong.
Your arms were tense around his neck, and he hated how you looked like you wanted to be anywhere else right now. It made him feel like he was losing you, and he didn’t know why.
“I don’t feel like talking,” you said, sounding way too casual as you slid your hands down his chest, and he felt his heart race a bit at the familiar gesture, but then you reached up and gripped his chin between your thumb and index finger, and you turned his head to the left. “The crowd’s that way if you’re looking to get laid. I’m going home.”
Jax’s eyes landed on a group of girls who were obviously interested in fucking him, and the fact that you even pointed them out had his heart stuttering in his chest. His expression hardened as he turned to face you again, and he crowded you against the bar. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean? I’m not interested in them, I’ve only got eyes for one girl in here,” he said, watching as you reached for your jacket. “And now you’re telling me that you’re leavin’?”
You seriously thought he’d throw everything away for a random girl who meant nothing to him? What the hell had gotten so messed up inside your head that would lead you to think things like that? He wasn’t sure if he should laugh in disbelief or be utterly offended.
“I want to leave, Jax,” you said, your voice sounding tired as you tried to move around him.
He reached for your wrist before you could get far, his skin heating up as he felt the earlier panic start to come back. “Don’t run from me, baby. We need to talk about this,” he practically begged, meeting your guarded gaze with desperate eyes. “Whatever this is. I want you. Only you. Don’t you believe that?”
Your expression was unreadable as you looked up at him. “Sure, Jax,” you said, and his grip loosened on your wrist. “Can I go home now?”
He stepped away from you, his hand falling back to his side as a defeated feeling took him over. “Will you call me later? Or tomorrow?” he asked, fearing he already knew that you wouldn’t.
“Yeah, sure,” you answered, then you turned around and left without another word.
Jax was left standing there feeling like a complete fucking idiot, and he didn’t quite understand what just happened. Never had you ever wanted to get away from him so quickly like that before. Never had you ever rejected his touch or refused to even talk to him.
He stared at the door for a few more seconds before turning away, and his eyes landed on the group of crow eaters once more. A blonde girl he may or may not have hooked up with in the past gave him a small pout. “Aw, baby, did your night just get ruined?” she cooed, leaning forward and pushing her cleavage even more out than it already was. “I can make it better, I promise. I’ll make it so much better. Let me come with you to your room.”
A feeling of nausea bubbled up his throat, but he just forced out a smile as he shook his head, not trusting his voice right now as he headed towards his room. When he was inside, he immediately locked the door in case she decided to follow him.
Now that he was away from the smell of alcohol and smoke and the deafening sound of the music, he was left to deal with the countless questions forming in his head. All of which had to do with you, and with yours and his relationship.
He’d never felt so lost and confused, and the fact that you had refused to stay and talk things out with him didn’t sit right. It had a lump forming in his throat as he swallowed harshly, his eyes flickering all over his room.
Usually after a party, or even during one, you’d be in here with him right now. But he was alone, and you felt so fucking far away.
His eyes landed on the polaroid stuck to his mirror, and he pushed off the door and walked over to it, his hand plucking it from its place to get a better look at it.
You and he were so young in the picture, and you were so close. That closeness stayed with you throughout all these years, but now it felt like you were slipping away, and he didn’t know how to stop it.
Did he rush this? Were you not ready to take this step with him after all? Had he completely misread things?
The sound of the doorknob twisting, then someone knocking broke him out of the trance he’d fallen into, and he closed his eyes tightly before turning around and unlocking the door.
“I don’t wanna have sex with you,” he said when he swung the door open, thinking it was the blonde girl who thought she still had a chance with him now that he’s with you.
But it wasn’t the girl. It was his fucking mom.
“Well, that’s a relief,” she said as she let herself into the room, and Jax felt his face flush as he shut the door behind her and locked it again - just in case. Gemma turned and looked at him, and her gaze softened as she took in the conflicted and hurt look on his face. “I assume you meant to say that to one of those girls who are always eyeballing you?”
Jax huffed, “Yeah,” he muttered, shaking his head as he looked down at the polaroid again. “What are you doing in here?”
She shrugged as she moved to sit on the end of his bed. “Clay’s shitfaced and I don’t really feel like putting up with that right now,” she answered, then her own eyes flickered to the picture in his hand. “You know, when I took that, I could’ve sworn you two would end up getting married one day.”
Jax lifted his gaze and looked over at her, then he slowly shook his head. “No. I’m not talking about relationships with my mom,”
“Why not? You listen to me complain about Clay all the time,” she stated, leaning forward and bracing her elbows on her knees. “Besides, I know her. It’s not like she’s just some random girl. She’s the girl, isn’t she?”
Jax dropped his gaze to the picture once more, his eyes trailing all over your younger self. “Yeah. She is,”
Gemma tilted her head expectantly. “So what’s going on?”
He pursed his lips, his shoulders lifting in a shrug. “I don’t know. But I fucked it up somehow,”
She furrowed her brows. “What do you mean?”
Jax shrugged again and tore his eyes away from the photograph. “She’s acting different. She hasn’t talked to me in days, and tonight it was like she couldn’t get away from me fast enough,” he mumbled, a bit embarrassed that he was talking to his mom about his relationship troubles at the ripe age of thirty one. “I know I fucked up somehow, but I don’t know when, because she doesn’t want to talk to me.”
Gemma hummed, nodding slowly as she gestured for him to sit with her. “Well, when was the last time she wanted to talk to you?” she asked once he was sitting on his bed next to her.
Jax tipped his head back, frustration building up inside him as he tried to think about that answer. “Friday. Last week,” he replied, “I missed her calls because Clay had me out doing all this shit for him, and when I got back and tried to call her, she wouldn’t answer. Tonight is the first time I’ve seen her in a week, and all she wanted to do was fuckin’ get away from me.”
“Hm,” was all she said back for a few seconds as she shifted her gaze to the floor. “Well, we all go through things we don’t want people to see us go through. But you love her, and she loves you. I can’t remember a time you two weren’t in love with each other. You just need to be there for her, like I know you will be. Maybe she just needs a little more time, and she needs you to give that to her.”
Jax locked his jaw as he looked down at the old stains on his jeans. “I miss her,”
Gemma smiled at him, wrapping her arms around him in a tight, brief hug before she pressed a kiss to his cheek. “You two are gonna be fine. You’ve known each other too long to not be,” she said as she stood up and took the polaroid from him, putting it back in its place on his mirror. She opened the door to his room, then paused and looked back at him. “There’s some blonde out here waiting for you. I’ll send her on her way. Night, baby.”
Jax groaned and ran his hands down his face as she closed the door behind her, and he quickly stood up and locked it for the third time before he unzipped and kicked off his jeans, then tossed his shirt onto the floor and got into bed. It was still early, but he was done partying for the night, because he’d never be able to enjoy himself because of whatever was going on with you and him.
The next day, Jax was actually working in the shop for once when Ope stopped by, Kenny and Ellie hanging off him with big, innocent smiles directed up at their dad. “Hey, man,” he greeted, prying Ellie’s hand off his arm so he could greet Jax with their usual half hug. “How are you doing?”
Jax shrugged, wiping his greasy hands on the cloth before shoving it back into the pocket of his jeans. “Not bad,” he answered as Ope gestured for his kids to go look at the vintage car that was in the shop for repairs.
“Oh yeah?” he laughed once they were away. “You’re lyin’ to me now?”
Jax let out a huff as he shook his head. “It’s kinda hard to be in a good mood when your kids have seen my girlfriend more than I have this week,” he muttered, hating the fact that he felt envious of an eight and an eleven year old. You’re Ellie’s teacher, and Jax actually felt jealous that she’d gotten to see you every day this week. How low could he possibly get?
Ope furrowed his brows, a confused look taking over his face. “What? What are you talking about?” he asked, “She was just here last night, was she not?”
“Yeah, for about five seconds before I tried talking to her and she went home,” he mumbled, giving his best friend a defeated look. “I don’t know what I did, but she’s pissed at me.”
“She’s never been pissed at you,” Ope said, crossing his arms over his chest. “Did you and her get into a fight when she was here last Friday? You tend to say nasty shit when you’re tryin’ to prove your point.”
Jax couldn’t even feel offended at that, because he was too busy feeling confused instead. “Friday? What are you talking about? I didn’t see her on Friday,”
Now Ope was wearing an equally confused expression. “Well, she didn’t come here to see any of us,” he laughed, then continued when Jax narrowed his eyes. “She came over Friday morning before work. I would know, I was the one who told her where to find you.”
Jax felt his ears start to burn at that, and he straightened up a bit. “I never talked to her on Friday,” he stated, but his voice was quiet, like he was finally starting to figure it out.
“Well, maybe she waited as long as she could for you and Clay to finish talking, but she had that big school trip last week. She probably would’ve been late if she waited any longer,” Ope offered, and Jax just nodded slowly.
You were here on Friday, but Jax had somehow completely missed you. You never mentioned anything about that last night, not that you’d really mentioned anything at all, but Friday was also the same day he realized something was off.
“I’m gonna go see her,” he said, already moving across the lot to where his motorcycle is. Ope just waved him off then went to go collect his kids, and Jax was off to your place.
It was after school now, meaning you should be home, so when Jax arrived at your house, he was fully expecting you to answer the door.
But as he raised his hand to knock for the fourth time, he was growing more agitated than before. “Come on, baby, I know you’re home,” he said, loud enough so you could hear him, but not loud enough to cause a scene for any of your neighbours to see.
When you finally swung the door open a few seconds later, you looked just as gorgeous as you did last night, but also just as annoyed. “What?” you asked, your voice sounding irritated as you leaned against the doorframe and crossed your arms.
You’d changed into your after work clothes, which was just a long shirt and comfy shorts, and it was one of his favorite looks on you, but then again, he thought you looked hot in everything you wore.
“What?” he echoed, narrowing his gaze as he shook his head. “You didn’t call me last night when you got home. And something tells me you weren’t going to call me today either, am I right?”
You didn’t answer him, you just gave him a blank look. “What do you want, Jax?” you muttered, then straightened up when he pushed past you and walked into your place. “Hey-”
He turned to face you once he was standing in your living room, and he mirrored your stance, his arms coming up to cross over his chest. “What the fuck is goin’ on? You’ve been MIA for days, and now you’re giving me the cold shoulder,” he said, watching the way you clenched your jaw. “Talk to me, please. What did I do to piss you off so much?”
You glared at him for a few seconds, then you stood up straight, blindly reaching behind you to close the door. “Nothing,” you lied, and he knew you were lying, and he was sure you knew that too. “I’m fine.”
Jax shook his head as you moved to stand in front of him, and then you were draping your arms around his neck, but you still had that far away look in your eyes, like this was just something you had to do, rather than something you wanted to do. “No, you’re not,” he said back, but you just shook your head.
Then you were leaning up and pressing your lips to his in a firm kiss, the first one you’ve shared all week. And Jax immediately melted into it, his lips moving softly against yours as his hands instinctively went to your hips. He couldn’t help it. He’d missed you way too fucking much this week, and even though you were all over the place, he was greedy for you. For any part of you.
The kiss was filled with frustration from both of you, longing on his end, and bitterness on yours. One of his hands came up and cupped the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair as he deepened the kiss until he physically couldn’t kiss you anymore.
When he pulled away, he pressed his forehead to yours like he normally does after kissing you, but then you flinched, and the relief he felt had once again disappeared.
Jax stepped away, his jaw locking a bit as he looked down at you. “Tell me what’s wrong. Something isn’t right with us, and I wanna know what it is,” he demanded as he crossed his arms, finally having had enough at this point. “You’ve never acted like this with me before. Did I fuck up somehow? Say something to make you mad?”
You huffed quietly, your shoulders dropping as you rolled your eyes. “You really want to talk right now?” you asked, moving towards him again, your hand reaching out to tug at the belt loop of his jeans. “I can think of something a lot more fun to do.”
Jax felt the usual desire building up inside him at your words, and your suggestive action, but he caught your wrist in his hand, gently guiding it away from his jeans. “No, baby. We need to talk first,” he said, his voice firm as he tried to get you to meet his gaze. “No more bullshit.”
Why you were suddenly coming onto him like this after you seemed to be repulsed by him last night was beyond him, and your odd behaviour just concerned him even more.
He was always ready for you, but right now, his body wasn’t reacting to your advances because even it knew something was wrong, and he knew that if he were to say fuck it right now and have sex with you without actually figuring out what was wrong, it would just feel so… wrong.
Something was bothering you, and he couldn’t focus on anything else until he knew what it was.
Jax pulled you over to the couch, guiding you to sit before he knelt down in front of you, forcing you to look at him now that he was at your eye level. “I can feel you pulling away from me, and I don’t like it one goddamn bit. I can’t fuckin’ stand it, baby,” he mumbled, taking your small hands in his big ones. “And I’m not gonna let you distract me with sex until we’ve talked this out. You’re way too important to me for that shit.”
He felt the way you tried to pull your hands from his, but he just tightened his grip. “You don’t want to have sex with me right now? You seriously just want to talk?” you asked, your voice laced with disbelief, and he wasn’t sure why that was such a big surprise to you since he’d talked to you a hell of a lot more times than he’s had sex with you.
Before he could open his mouth and question you on it, you continued,
“I thought sex was all this was to you. I thought this was all you wanted from me. Is it not?” you asked, “Or is that just something else I was wrong about?”
That had him reeling back a bit, his lips parted as his gaze narrowed. “Jesus Christ, baby, is that really what you think?” he couldn’t hide how offended he felt by your words, or the way a feeling of anger built up inside him at your question. “You can’t be serious, I- yeah, sex with you is amazing, but it’s not all I want. It ain’t even close.”
You scoffed and looked away, but he reached up and guided your gaze back to his, his eyes hard and his jaw set.
“I care about you more than anything, more than just the physical shit. You’re my best friend, my ride or die. Yeah, I want you physically, but it’s so much more than that. Haven’t I made that clear by now?” he asked, hoping like fuck he was getting through to you at least a little bit, because if this was just about sex, then that would be an easy fix.
It wasn’t.
You let out a groan of frustration, your eyes squeezing shut as you tipped your head back. “Fucks sake, Jax. Haven’t you realized this yet?” you muttered, roughly pulling your hands away from his as you stood up and put some distance between you and him. “I heard you. I fucking heard you when you told Clay I’m just another girl to you. That I’m not important. That I’m nothing.”
Jax froze, his eyes widening as his heart stopped beating inside his chest. His blood ran cold, and he felt a light sweat begin to form on his skin - a telltale sign that he had been caught. He’d been caught doing something fucking horrible to the one person he knew that never deserved it.
It all made sense now. You’d come over to the clubhouse on Friday morning, and you heard him lie his fucking ass off to Clay in an attempt to shield you from this side of his life. That’s why you’d been ignoring his calls, that’s why you’ve been avoiding him, that’s why you wanted fucking nothing to do with him last night.
You thought you weren’t important to him. You thought you weren’t the most important person in his life. You thought he wanted you for just sex and nothing else.
Jesus fucking Christ.
He slowly stood up, his expression one of horror and guilt. “No, that’s not true. I swear to God it’s not true,” he swore, taking a step towards you. “Baby, you gotta believe me. That was a fuckin’ lie, okay? I said that shit to protect you, to keep Clay off your back.”
You glared at him, a humorless laugh leaving your lips. “Cut the shit, Jax,”
He shook his head quickly. “No, I swear. I never meant for you to hear that shit. It was a lie. A fuckin’ stupid lie to keep you away from all this bullshit,” he pressed, sounding more desperate than he ever had in his life. “You’re not just some girl to me, you’re everything. I love you, I’ve loved you for so long.”
“Oh, don’t even try to fucking lie to me right now, Jax,” you muttered, glaring at him even more as your eyes filled with tears, and he had never hated himself more than he did right now. “I fucking heard you. You said I meant nothing to you, and you implied that we were just fucking around. You expect me to just believe you lied about that? I heard those words come from your mouth with my own ears.”
Jax hated it when you cried, because it made him panic more than anything else ever had. It was one of the worst sights to see, your pretty eyes tinting red and filling with tears, but these ones were all because of him, and that made it even worse.
“Please. I swear on my life, I’m telling the truth. I wanted to make Clay think you didn’t mean anything to me so he’d back off and leave you alone. It was all bullshit to keep you away from all this fuckin’ darkness I have around me,” he begged, taking another step towards you. “Everything I’ve done is for you, to protect you. I love you more than anything.”
You shook your head quickly, your body tensing up as you crossed your arms tighter across your chest, a way to protect yourself from him. “No. No, don’t you fucking say that. You don’t get to say that to me,” you said, shoulders beginning to shake a bit. “You don’t get to tell me you love me when you’re a liar. You can’t tell me that when I don’t even know what’s real and what’s not anymore.”
Jax’s heart shattered at the obvious wall you were building up around yourself. You were building it up to protect yourself from him. “I’m sorry. I’m so fuckin’ sorry, baby. I never meant to hurt you. Never. I just want to protect you,” he whispered, his throat closing up as his own emotions started rushing to the surface. “I know I fucked up. I know I fucked this up, but you need to believe me when I say that you’re my whole goddamn world. I love you.”
You winced at his words, tears beginning to roll down your face in waves as your whole body began to shake. “I’m so fucking confused,” you cried, covering your face with your hands as you sobbed. “You don’t know how much it hurt to hear you say those things about me. You, of all people. It felt like I was fucking dying, Jax. I was a mess for days.”
He moved quickly, his strong arms wrapping around you like a shield. You resisted for a few seconds, but he just held you tighter, and you slumped against him. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he rambled, pressing a series of kisses to your temple and to the top of your head. “I love you so much. I’m so sorry.”
Jax slowly moved down until his back was against the front of the couch, and you were on his lap, your sobs muffled against his neck. He’d never felt so helpless before as he held you, his own eyes burning with tears he didn’t even deserve to shed right now.
“You’re my heart, and I was scared of what this life would do to you, so I lied to try and keep you away from it. At least until you warmed up to it,” he murmured, pressing another kiss to your head. “You’re the only thing that’s ever made sense to me, baby. I’d fuckin’ die for you, I swear I would.”
You were his past, his present, and he wanted you to be his future too. He couldn’t live without you, he wouldn’t. He didn’t know how to, and he didn’t want to. He didn’t know how he was going to fully fix this distance he put between you and him, but he wouldn’t give up on you. That was one thing he’d never do.
Your eyes were red and you had streaks of tears on your cheeks when you pulled away from his neck. Your face was flushed, and your bottom lip was trembling as you looked at him, and yet you were as pretty as ever to him. “I want you to tell me everything. I want to know everything, even the things you don’t want me to know, okay?” you weakly requested, “That’s the only way this will work. And as long as you don’t say things you don’t mean about me, even if you think you’re just protecting me.”
Jax felt like his heart was in his throat as he slumped back against the couch, his hands coming up to cradle your face. His thumbs wiped at your tears, the tension in his body fading a bit as looked up at you. “My pretty girl,” he rasped, his voice quiet as you hesitantly leaned into his touch. “You deserve so much more than me. But you’re mine. And I promise I’ll tell you everything. Anything you want to know.”
You nodded slowly, your shaky hands coming up to rest on his shoulders. “We’ll start slow. Take our… take our time,” you stated, your breathing starting to even out, though your voice was still quiet. “But no more lies, Jax. No more secrets, or I swear I will never talk to you again.”
Like hell he’d ever let that happen. “No more lies, no more secrets,” he vowed, and he hoped like hell he’d be able to stick to it. In this world, his job had always been to protect you, he wasn’t about to stop now. You were his biggest weakness, but you also made him stronger, because thanks to you, he has something to fight for now. “I’ll never stop lovin’ you, baby. Never. You have to believe that.”
He heard the way your breath hitched, and felt the way your hands gripped his shoulders tighter, and he watched as a small, hesitant smile formed on your face. “I do,” you murmured, then pursed your lips. “Well, at least I think I do.”
Jax shook his head, one of his hands coming up to cradle the back of your neck, and he pulled you flush against him. “I should’ve found a better way to protect you,” he muttered, his other arm wrapping tightly around your waist. “I’ll make this better. I’ll make it right.”
He had to, because he couldn’t live without you.
-
Once again, I apologize for this being so long, I didn’t plan for it to be, I swear. Thank you for 6.2k followers x | @montgomery-929496 @skel-skell
i died after the first one then came back to life after this one. so so beautifully written, and the angst was just 🤌 i love when a man BREAKS after he unknowingly fucks up. so good.
Summary: You’ve known Jax your whole life, and not once had he ever made you feel inferior or unimportant - just the exact opposite. You were on cloud 9 when you discover that your feelings for him were very much mutual, until you overhear a conversation with Clay that has you questioning every minute you’ve ever spent with him.
Word Count: 5.3k | I do not give consent to having my work republished or posted to any other platform or profile other than my own.
Warnings: angst, swearing, self-deprecating thoughts, angst again, mentions of smut, all that oh so fun stuff.
In all your twenty nine years of life, you couldn’t quite remember a time when you weren’t head over heels in love with Jax.
Jax Teller.
The man you would do absolutely anything for, and the man you were certain you would never be able to have.
Ever since you were little, you’d been living life on the sidelines. So much so, you even felt like a side character in your own life. You put others before yourself, and you never cared what happened to you as long as it meant someone else was okay.
It was a bad habit, a potentially dangerous habit, one that could get you very easily killed, and one that extended to even your mere acquaintances. People who potentially didn’t give a single fuck about you, were also the ones you’d put your life on the line for, because if you didn’t, you’d carry that guilt around with you until the day you die.
You were trying to not be so damn selfless, but it was a tough thing to ask of yourself. You were the one who has to live with yourself, after all.
It was a habit that Jax fucking hated, and one he berated you constantly for. You lost count of all the times he’d gone off on you for not taking care of yourself, for not putting yourself first, and for doing something so reckless for someone like him or for someone that didn’t even matter.
He’d told you over and over again to not worry about him and that he can take care of himself, and you tried to listen, you really did. But you had never been the person to just sit back and watch something turn to shit. You had to help, in any way you could, even though you’d be on the other end of a lecture from Jax for it.
You’d known Jax your whole life, and you couldn’t remember a time when he wasn’t more than a short drive away. He’d always been right there, so close by, but just out of reach.
You were a few years younger than Jax, and your mom and Gemma had been close for quite a few years before they had you and Jax. Growing up, you only had your mom to rely on since your dad knocked her up then fucked off with a younger girl. That was fine, because you had a great mom and one who had put her own life on hold just to ensure you had a pretty decent one.
Because your mom and Gemma were so close, you were often at her house since she’d watch you while your mom went off to work. Every day, five days a week, you’d be with her, and by default, with Jax.
You and he would keep each other company while Gemma worked in the office at the shop, or you and he would mess up the living room and raid the fridge on the days you’d spend at their house.
It was fun, because Jax didn’t think you were lame or annoying because you were close in age, with him only two and a half years older than you. Right from the start, even at such a young age, he’d been protective of you. You were the first girl in his life, of course he was bound to feel protective of you, but it also ran much deeper than that.
You grew up together, you were navigating through life together, of course your connection was strong.
As you got older, that connection only strengthened, and as the time went on, your feelings for him grew from just seeing him as your best friend to seeing him as something more. He was, without a doubt, your first ever (and possibly only) crush, but there was no way you could ever tell him that. Your friendship with him meant way too much to you to throw it away over a silly little crush.
But that crush was just the beginning, because not long after you and he became teenagers, you realized you liked him a lot more than you should if he was just your crush.
You were falling in love with him.
All throughout school, you were often sitting by yourself or with a few of the other friends you’d made over the years, but you weren’t as close with them as you were with Jax. You also didn’t catch the attention of many guys, and you weren’t sure if that was because of something you were doing, or because they thought you were with Jax since he was never far from you.
People probably thought you were either together, or that he was your brother with a different last name. The second one made you cringe, because the thoughts you were having back then of Jax were definitely not thoughts you would be having for someone you saw as family.
But Jax was your family.
He’d been there with you through every phase, every heartbreak, every celebration, everything you considered important, he’d been there.
When your mom nearly had a heart attack when you bleached the ends of your hair then dyed it pink, Jax had been the one who went out and bought the stuff for you, then supported you once your mother found out.
While she meant to make you feel stupid for doing it, Jax made you feel confident about it. He’d actually told you that you looked hot, and that was the reason you kept the pink ends for two years straight. You were sure he had just said it to make you feel good about changing up your appearance and that was it, but his words always had a much bigger effect on you than anyone else’s.
All throughout school, you had to watch him flirt shamelessly with girl after girl, and every time he walked down the hall with one under his arm, you always had to look away or bury your head in your locker. It hurt to see him flaunt around his newest quest, when all you’d ever wanted was to be the one under his arm.
You didn’t want to know what he was doing with these girls, but it was pretty fucking clear what was going on. He’d find someone he thought was pretty enough and see them for a few days or sometimes even as long as a week, then he’d move on.
The amount of girls he’s had sex with was way higher than the amount of guys you’d been with. You’d only been with three guys during your high school years, and you weren’t one to sleep around much after you were done with school either. Your body count was definitely less than twenty. It was probably closer to ten.
Jax’s, however, was high. You didn’t know the exact number and you didn’t want to. All you knew was that all throughout his Freshman and Sophomore years, he slept around a lot.
When you entered your Freshman year, that was when he met Tara. His first real relationship, and his first love. While you wanted to be supportive of your best friend, it was hard to see them together, and it was hard to think about the fact that he felt for her everything you felt for him.
But even though he was growing up and ended up dropping out of high school, and you were focusing on getting good grades so you could get a decent job and take some of the stress off your mom, you two stayed inseparable. Even though everything in the world was changing, you and he stayed the same. You were going in different directions, but he never let you stray too far.
That was just the kind of guy he is. When he cares about someone, when he loves someone, he doesn’t play games.
By the time you graduated high school, Jax and Tara had been going steady for a few years at that point. It sucked to see them all over each other, and it sucked to know that she was living your dream while you watched by the sidelines like you always did.
But then she left, and you had to watch Jax go through his first heartbreak, just like how he watched you go through yours when you were twelve and lost the family pet your mom had since before you were even born.
They were vastly different scenarios, but you were devastated when Uno, your mom’s first baby, died, just like how Jax was devastated when Tara left to go to Chicago. But he’d been there for you, and you were determined to be there for him.
Throughout your 20’s, you watched Jax go from this scrawny, hot headed guy to the strong, brave and bold man he is today. You watched his bare skin become littered with scars and tattoos, and got to experience him blossom into the leader he is now.
You weren’t all that familiar with Samcro and everything that made it up. Jax had done a hell of a good job at keeping that part of his life away from you, for reasons of which you had no idea. You knew it was a darker part of his life, a more dangerous part of it that had always been there since he was born. He’d been thrown into the biker gang life-style right out of the womb, and you kind of hated that, no matter what he did or what choices he made, he would always be bound to Samcro.
He was just too fucking loyal.
But that was one of the things you loved most about him, and that love only grew as the years went on.
And for the longest time, you were sure it was completely one-sided. You were certain that you were the only one feeling these things out of the two of you. The way your heart skips a beat every time you see him, the way you’re instantly put in a better mood whenever you’re near him, no matter how shit of a day you’ve had, the fact that you’d do anything for him, all he had to do was say the word.
But, as you would discover, Jax was into you.
Like, seriously into you. As into you as you are into him.
It started out with lingering touches, holding your hand for longer than needed or necessary, but then that upgraded to him having his arm around your waist or your shoulder every chance he could.
You didn’t think much of the added affection, simply thinking it was Jax being Jax, but then you realized you hadn’t seen him with a girl or one of the crow eaters in quite a while. In fact, you were the only girl he’d been around for the last couple months.
That had you perking up, and you weren’t about to just brush it off. You reveled in the attention, even though your guard was slightly up since you weren’t entirely sure why he was being so touchy with you now.
It was like that for weeks, and you had kind of gotten used to the extra attention from your best friend, but one night at one of the parties that is constantly being thrown at the clubhouse, you were leaning against the bar and sipping on a beer when everything shifted.
You’d been chatting with a girl Juice had been talking to when Jax walked into the room, and almost instantly your gaze met his. He’d only taken one glance around the crowded room before he located you, then he was making his way over to you. He greeted you with the usual hug, and you were grinning when you returned it, but then he pulled back and looked down at you for a few seconds.
There was something different about the way he looked at you, and you couldn’t figure out what it was before he was leaning in and pressing his lips to yours in a firm kiss. It felt like the kiss itself was inevitable, like both you and he had just been waiting for it to happen.
It wasn’t the first kiss you’d shared with him, though. No, it was the second.
On New Years Eve quite a long time ago, you’d been complaining about never having kissed someone once the clock hit midnight, and how you’d never had a New Years kiss. Jax had been with you, listening to you whine and complain, and with an amused but fed up huff, he leaned over and pressed a quick, chaste kiss to your mouth, then pulled away with that smug smirk of his.
It didn’t mean anything at the time, or so you thought. It was just Jax being your first ever New Years kiss, and you being one of his.
Of course, you thought about that night more often than not for years after, but nothing ever came from it. Right after it was over, he went back to drinking his beer and telling you about what he’d been up to that day, and neither of you ever brought it up again.
While that kiss had been great, amazing even, this one was damn near indescribable. It was like everything, every single thing in yours and his worlds fell into place. It was him solidifying the next stage of yours and his relationship and turning it into just that; a relationship.
You and he weren’t just friends anymore, you were something more.
After that night, that was how Jax greeted you. He’d pull you into his arms or place his hands on your hips, and he’d kiss you. You got butterflies each and every time, and you were sure you’d never get enough of him now that he was finally giving you a taste.
He still kept you separate from the darker parts of his life, but he made up for it every time he was around you. Drinks at your place, dinner in his room at the clubhouse - which was really just takeout, but you loved it -, spontaneous make out sessions on his bed or with him sitting on his bike with you between his legs since neither of you seemed to be able to keep your mouths off each other.
While you and Jax had always been touchy with each other, it was always friendly and platonic. Nowadays, you’d be lucky if you weren’t breathless by the time he drops you back off at your place or takes you to work. You are very happy you aren’t lucky enough for that, since this is what you’d been wanting for pretty much your whole life.
Even though you and he hadn’t put a label on it, you didn’t need to. He spends so much time with you, you knew he wasn’t sleeping around or seeing anyone else, and he knew that you weren’t the type of girl to go searching for a man to spend the night with.
You were exclusive, and that was the only label you needed for now.
There wasn’t a strong enough word to describe just how happy you are at this point in your life. You have a good job, a steady income - so much so you’re even able to help out your mom, which is something you’ve been wanting to do since you were a teenager, and now you were in a stable and committed relationship with the one person who knows you better than anyone else in the entire world.
Your life was pretty much perfect right now, and even though you weren’t superstitious or anything like that, you did wonder if that meant there was a downfall coming soon enough. But you didn’t spend much time dwelling on that or preparing for a potential crash.
You were happy, and Jax was happy, and that was all that really mattered.
You’d been spending so much time with him, and even though you and he had been pretty much inseparable since birth, it was like you simply couldn’t stay away from each other now. Like you’d both finally given in and stopped ignoring the chemistry that had always been there between you.
You and he connected deeply on every level, and nothing had ever felt better than when the two of you were together. Of course, that meant the sex was really, really good. It was better than good, and even though you and he have only done it a handful of times since getting together, he was already the best you’d ever had.
You’d be a liar if you were to say you hadn’t thought about what sex would be like with him before. It was actually something you thought about quite a lot, but nothing you ever imagined came even close to the real thing.
During the first time, he’d told you he was going to ruin you for anyone else, and he stayed true to his words. You didn’t want anyone else after him. You didn’t want anyone else ever again.
And you were certain he didn’t want anyone else either, especially after the things he said to you when he was inside you for the first time, but not everything was as it seems. Or so you’d found out.
You’d called Jax a few times and he hadn’t answered, nor had he replied to your texts. That was fine and wasn’t all that unusual since he was a busy guy, but you were just about to start your long day at work, and you wanted to see him before you were forced to be away from him for twenty four hours since you’d probably just crash as soon as you were home.
It was early in the morning, so you wouldn’t be surprised if he was still sleeping, but you really wanted to see him, even if it was just a quick kiss before work.
Instead of calling him later during the day, you went over to the clubhouse to see if he was up or if he was even there. It was a little nerve-racking since you’d never really been around the guys by yourself before, but you knew Opie, and thankfully he took you under his wing as soon as you got there and guided you away from the rest of the guys.
He told you that he hadn’t seen Jax in a couple of hours, but he was most likely in the chapel with Clay, since the two of them hadn’t been getting along very much lately. That concerned you a bit, because while you’d grown pretty close to Gemma, you had never been close with Clay. All you knew was that he was the closest thing Jax has to a father, and that he was the president of the club and had made Jax his vice-president.
After thanking Ope, he left you alone to wait, and while you didn’t want to hover, your attention was quickly shifting from the dark and rather out there decor of the clubhouse to the muffled voices that were growing louder and louder from behind the chapel doors with each passing second.
You weren’t one to eavesdrop, God knows you’re great at minding your own business, but then you heard what sounded like a muffled exclamation of your name, and your ears perked up, and your head turned in the direction of the doors.
Would it still be considered eavesdropping if you were almost certain you’d heard your name? Jax wasn’t one to talk about you behind your back, so whatever they were talking about had to be serious if you were brought up.
You felt guilty as you stepped towards the doors, your steps slow so you wouldn’t make any noise. You didn’t want to invade their privacy, but you just wanted to listen for a few seconds, and if you had been mistaken and they weren’t talking about you, then you’d step away and let them continue whatever conversation they were having.
“Come on, Jax, get your fuckin’ head out of your ass and focus on what’s really important here,” you heard Clay’s voice from behind the doors. They were open the smallest little bit, and the closer you got, the more clearly you could hear them.
“What are you talking about?” Jax said back, and you could hear how frustrated he was getting. He gets riled up fast, and you’d received that tone from him more times than you could count, for whatever reason that may be. “You know I’m focused on the club. That’s the only fuckin’ thing I’ve ever been focused on.”
“Don’t lie to me, Jax,” Clay’s voice boomed around the room, and while you’d never really had a full conversation with the man, you knew that was the voice he uses when he’s fed up with something. “Don’t you fuckin’ lie to me. I’m talking about that fuckin’ girl you’re always around.”
Your heart skipped a beat at that, and now you were almost positive they were talking about you. As far as you knew, you were the only girl Jax has been around, not only recently, but for most of his life.
You heard the familiar sound of his deep sigh, and you hated how exhausted he sounded. “What girl are you-”
“The one who hangs off your fuckin’ arm like it’s her job,” Clay cut him off, his voice echoing around the small room. It made you jump a bit, your face heating up as your heart pounded loudly in your chest. “The one who can’t spend more than one fuckin’ minute away from you. Hell, I’m surprised she ain’t here right now.”
Your brows furrowed at that, because that wasn’t really fair. Jax had been just as present in your life as you’d been in his, and not once had you ever felt like he was intruding. Why Clay was making it out to be like you were was beyond you.
Moving closer, your eyes swept over the crack in the door, the slit quite small but just open enough so you were able to see Jax’s side profile. At just the sight of him, you felt a smile start to form on your face. He looked good, a simple grey t-shirt on under his kutte, and he was wearing his Reaper Crew hat backwards and faded jeans.
You had always found him undeniably attractive, and you got to see him go through his many hair phases. Right now he had it shorter than normal, and even though you had an unhealthy amount of fondness for his longer hair, you couldn’t deny that the length its at now was really working for you.
You watched as he swallowed harshly, his jaw locking as he stared at his step-father. “What about her?” he asked, and the way he was speaking now had a heavy feeling growing in your chest.
You loved talking about Jax, and not once had you ever spoken about him with that kind of tone. Like he was dreading talking about you, like he was bored or uninterested. Like you weren’t someone he liked talking about.
But you didn’t want to read too much into it. You know Jax better than anyone else does, and you know his body language and can read him like an open book, even when he tries his hardest to hide what he’s feeling.
He looked tired and annoyed and frustrated, and his body was tense, an invisible guard pulled up around his neck that most weren’t ever able to get through.
“Jesus, Jax, don’t act like you don’t know what I’m getting at here. You’re all over her, all the time,” Clay said, his voice unforgiving as you stayed as still as you possibly could. “Your focus needs to be on the club, not some fuckin’ girl you’re sticking your dick in.”
You watched Jax cringe a bit, his hands coming up to run down his face as he shook his head. “Goddamnit, Clay, that’s not what’s happening-”
“What did I say about lyin’ to me? Huh? You wanna keep tryin’ it?” Clay cut him off again, his voice dropping in volume as he stepped closer to Jax and got in his face. “I know what’s happening, I’ve fuckin’ seen it. You’re spending all your time with her, instead of putting that time in with us. You’re letting a fuckin’ girl distract you from what really matters. What will always matter more to you.”
Jax let out a shuddering breath as he dropped his arms to his sides, his gaze cold. “You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,”
“Like hell I don’t. You’re just too whipped for some cheap fuckin’ girl to realize that this is what you’re meant to do. You need to get your priorities straight, Jax,” Clay stated, his own body as tense as Jax’s is. “‘Cause I think you’re becoming confused on where your loyalty lies. And I’d hate for something to happen to your little girlfriend because you failed to remember your place in this world.”
Your eyes were wide now, your lips were parted, and your shoulders were up to your ears as you listened to a conversation you were suddenly wishing you weren’t part of.
Did you actually just hear that right?
Before you could even fully process the fact that Clay had just threatened you, Jax spoke up again. You assumed he’d be defending you, that he wouldn’t let someone, even his own step-dad, talk about you like that, but that wasn’t the case. At all.
“Spare me the dramatics, Clay. She’s just a girl,” Jax said, and you felt your body freeze up. “Just another girl, alright? That’s all she is. She ain’t important. Not like the club is.”
Your eyes were no longer wide, and your lips were pressed together. Your heartbeat was loud in your ears, your face feeling like you had been standing directly in front of the sun for hours on end. Your throat felt tight, like you wouldn’t be able to say a damn thing right now if you tried to.
There was no way he just said that. There was no way he just said that you weren’t important. That you were just another girl.
But then he continued on, and you felt your heart break even more.
“You don’t need to worry about her, okay? She’s nothing,” he stated, and there was no waver in his voice, no indication that he was saying that just to say it. And you felt your eyes burn with incoming tears you knew you’d never be able to hold back if you tried. “I know where my loyalty is. I know what my priorities are.”
You pressed your lips together in an attempt to stop them from quivering, but you weren’t sure you would be able to stop the sobs you felt creeping up your throat. Your heart felt like it was shattered in your chest, and you were having a hard time taking a steady breath.
“Alright,” Clay said as he stepped away from Jax, and his voice sounded content. Like he’d gotten the answer he’d wanted. While your whole entire world just fell apart in front of your very eyes. “Don’t forget that.”
You stepped away from the doors and turned around, heading straight for the exit as you covered your mouth with your hand. Your eyes burned and your cheeks were damp with your tears, and you didn’t trust opening your mouth right now in fear of the sounds that would come out of it.
The grossest, heaviest feeling you’d ever felt in your life weighed in your chest, and your legs felt shaky as you stumbled your way through the clubhouse. You kept your gaze down, refusing to meet the eyes of any of the guys as you pushed open the door and stepped back outside.
It was bright out, but your whole world felt darker than it did before you walked in through that door a few minutes ago. Your mind was full of doubt and your chest felt way too tight and like you couldn’t breathe properly.
For as long as you’ve been alive, you’ve never felt this horrible. This defeated. This led on and let down.
You were stumbling your way down the street, your heart hammering in your chest as an unbearable heat took over your body. Your whole day was ruined beyond repair, and you couldn’t remember the last time you felt this empty.
Used. You felt used.
You’d known Jax your whole entire life, and not once had you ever thought he’d be capable of making you feel this way. You were so sure you knew where you stood with him, that you knew your place in his life, but you were so fucking wrong. You’d been wrong about everything.
Was any of what you’d been feeling from him real? The smiles you thought were only reserved for you, the late nights you spent nestled between his legs as he let you talk about anything and everything, and he’d just listen. Like it was his favorite thing to do. Like he didn’t want to be doing anything but listening to you.
Did any of that mean a fucking thing to him?
Did any of your most cherished memories with him mean fucking anything?
You felt like you were hyperventilating when you got home, and you instantly pulled off your jacket and threw it onto the floor in the front hall. Your breathing was irregular as you slumped back against the door, your eyes squeezing shut as you shook your head.
How long had he been lying to you? Making you think you were the only girl in his life now? Making you think you mattered or were high up on the list of important things in his life?
Your stomach clenched uncomfortably when your phone rang, and you sniffled as you pulled it out of the pocket of your jeans.
It was Jax.
He was calling you, probably to finally return all the ones he missed from you earlier, but the last thing you wanted to do right now was talk to him. You couldn’t stomach hearing his voice right now, and you knew you’d end up exploding on him over the phone, and that was something you didn’t want to do right now either.
So you threw it onto the rug by the door, then let your body sink further and further down the wall until you hit the hardwood floor.
Then you finally just let go.
Sobs of pure agony, pure heartbreak and betrayal left your lips, and your whole body shook with the force of them. Your throat was raw, and your eyes were bloodshot and red, and you had no idea how you could possibly pull yourself together or ever recover from this.
Jax had meant everything to you. He was your whole world, your lifeline, your person, and you’d thought you meant something similar to him. But now you don’t know what to believe.
You were angry, confused, and so fucking hurt, you felt like your heart had been left back at the clubhouse, right outside the doors of the chapel.
You were humiliated, embarrassed, betrayed and so mad at yourself for not being able to see what was really going on. Jax didn’t want you, he just wanted to fuck you and see what it was like. Just to say he did.
It was cruel, and it didn’t sound like something he’d do at all, but seriously, what the fuck did you know?
All you know is what he told you, even indirectly.
You weren’t anything to him. You were just another girl.
HIS AND HIS ONLY... FOR 24 HOURS (18+) — BUCKY BARNES ONE SHOT
SYNOPSIS The last person you would ever consider dating — much less touching with a ten foot pole — is Bucky Barnes. Yet somehow here you are: packing a bag to spend the night of the Fourth of July as his fake girlfriend, all to get his pestering family off his case. But admittedly you can’t help but lean into the bit. Just a tad. Especially when his ex-girlfriend makes it very clear she wants him back.
WORD COUNT 25k. dont. literally dont. im so sorry.
WARNINGS & NOTES contains fluff, angst, smmmut (oral sex- fem receiving, penetrative sex (p-in-v, unprotected oops do not take after them), sprinkles of orgasm denial and a whole lotta fondling). 18+ MDNI. slight friends-to-lovers trope? more so that reader can't stand him and he can't stop riling her up? so actually one-sided-friends-to-lovers, if you will. he fell first, but he fell harder buuuut she definitely is in some sort of internal denial. fake dating tropes will genuinely be the death of me, oops, also not edited.
You never would’ve stopped by Natasha and Steve’s apartment if you had known Bucky was going to be here. Again.
He always loiters whenever he’s bored — which is almost always — because he claims they have better snacks, a better couch, a better aura (whatever that means, you sometimes think he says shit like that just to hear the sound of his own voice). Whenever you stop by, Bucky’s either in the kitchen cooking with food that isn’t his, which is usually what Natasha makes him do since he hangs around so much, or sprawled out audaciously on their love seat couch watching a show you’ve never heard of, or interrupting their movie night by asking too many questions and guessing the ending in the first five minutes.
Granted, you interrupt them too, but that’s because you get invited along with Natasha’s other girlfriends. Bucky just shows up most of the time.
Sometimes you think he has a tracker embedded in your skin somewhere, because he’s always conveniently here whenever you are. Or he has some sort of sixth sense that he can predict when you’re stopping by, and beats you here first.
Your eyes instantly roll when he’s the first person you spot in an apartment that doesn't even belong to him, an autopilot gesture that he’s grown used to seeing. Bucky’s leaning against the kitchen island, phone to his ear and, uncharacteristically, looks agitated. Nervous. Especially as he picks anxiously at his nail beds.
Setting the container full of soup down on the counter (rest in peace to Natasha’s sinuses), you quirk a brow at his stature. Normally Bucky’s all talk, because the first course of action on his agenda whenever he sees you is some lewd comment, a disastrously stupid joke, or anything under the sun to annoy you. It’s almost like bothering you is his day job. Sometimes it's yanking the ends of your hair or throwing a dish towel at you.
Contrary to right now, because he looks like he'd rather be anywhere else right now.
But, of course, that doesn't stop him from giving you a once over, blue eyes raking up and down your body as he takes in your outfit, your pretty shoes up to what hairstyle you've gone with today. Shameless, really, he's not even trying to hide it. Morning, noon, and night he's thinking about getting some, because handling something serious over the phone doesn't mean that he's stopped being a prick. No, that's his default setting.
"Yeah, Ma, I hear ya," he says monotonously into the phone.
You snort. He's lamented before about getting stuck on the phone with his mother more times than you can count, knowing he's probably at a breaking point with his patience. He claims he loves the woman dearly, but sometimes she just doesn't let up about anything, especially about her precious baby boy.
His words, not yours, because precious is not the word you'd use to describe Bucky Barnes.
Faux pouting at him, you saunter into his space as he shoos you away, trying to listen to the half-nonsense his mother is spewing over the phone (but how can he? Especially when you look like this in that godforsaken top that trips him up every time you wear it) and half-trying not to verbally crash out with you. At least you're quiet, but the teasing look on your face and the way your teeth sink into your bottom lip forces him to look away.
When he shakes his head at you, annoyed, you jab a finger into his ribcage upon passing him. Hard.
"Stop it," he mouths low to you, not in the mood for playing.
You respond by doing it again.
"Ow," Bucky hisses as your name falls from his lips, this time audible. Then, his brows pinch as he sighs in irritation. "No, yeah, fine, that's just...uh..."
His mother says something on the other line that makes him freeze, his bright blue eyes slowly morphing from annoyance to indifference.
Bucky stares at you. He really stares at you, as if the gears are turning in his head about something you can't know to be good. And you just... stand there, your next move of attack on hold simply because you're frozen as he looks at you. No smirk. No lewd comment. No cocky expression. Just...Bucky. Thinking. Which is never a good sign, because he never takes the time to simply think of anything. He doesn't even think before he speaks half the time, let alone ponder anything outside of which girl he's going to make a move on at the bar.
Then, his expression turns into something you can't recognize, as if he has a bright idea, a revelation, an epiphany, because a slow grin etches on his pretty lips, showcasing dimples as he shifts his gaze between your eyes. You frown. Immediately. That's not good. Not at all.
All of a sudden, you're squeamish under his stare. Why is he looking at you like that? Smiling like he has something to prove? A grin that should come with a warning?
You tense when he says your name, loud and clear.
"Yeah," he continues slowly, eyes not leaving you. "My girlfriend."
If you eyes haven't popped out of the sockets before, they have now.
Instantly, you're lunging forward, reaching for the phone to end this godforsaken call. But the attempt to end the call is fruitless, because Bucky simply laughs into the ringer as if he has all the time in the world, low and easy and too nonchalant for your rising blood pressure. He defends against your grabby-hands easily, too strong for his own good, pawing your hands away as you frantically try and snatch his phone.
When you get close and your fingers brush the metal, he easily hums and puts the phone on speaker, proceeding to raise his arm as high as he can so that there's no way you're reaching it now with his freakishly tall stature. And, oh, he peers down at you so fucking smug that you want to slap it off. Immediately. Especially when he barely flinches when you shove at his chest, try and hit his armpit to get him to lower his arm (spoiler, he's not ticklish), as you hear his mother's chirpy tone on the other end.
"—nderful, James!" His mother beams through the speaker, unknowing to the way you're practically fighting her son right now. "Please tell me you're bringing her to the lake this weekend."
"N—!"
Bucky immediately covers your mouth with his palm, something that shouldn't have been as easy as he just did so. "She is, she can't stop talking about how excited she is."
When you lick his palm as an attempt to get his hand off, he barely flinches. Instead, he presses harder.
"I can't wait to meet her," she chirps happily. "This is good, James. Very good. It's time for you to show everyone what a respectable young man you are."
"Respectable?" You reiterate incredulously under his palm, but instead it comes out muffled as if you're underwater.
Bucky rolls his eyes, either at the respectable comment or the way you treat that as a joke, or at both. Regardless, you swear you see the tips of his ears burn pink, almost sheepish at his mother's words and how you're witness to it.
She doesn't hear you. Of course.
"When you get in," she adds nonchalantly, bubbling with excitement, "Pa can take you to that jeweler on the other side of the lake. You know the one? Where he got my engagement ring—"
"Okay!" Bucky interrupts hurriedly, wincing when you stomp on his foot. "Ow— Yeah, sure, Ma. Gotta skate, talk later, love you bye!"
Bucky barely lets his mother respond before he's hanging up the phone, tossing it carelessly on the granite counter before removing his hand from your mouth, which is definitely the wrong course of action, because the first thing you do is—
"What the fuck?"
"Okay," Bucky mediates immediately, throwing his hands up in surrender. "Before you freak—"
"I am freaking."
"Hear me out." His tone is calmer than you've ever heard him.
"Absolutely not."
"I didn't even pitch it to you."
"I actually couldn't give less of a fuck."
Bucky sighs your name, as if this whole ordeal that he started is one, big inconvenience.
But you're not letting him off the hook that easy. "Nope. Not doing it."
"You don't even know what it is." His hands flex at his sides.
"I didn't think I needed to?"
Cautiously, he takes a step towards you, eyes low with intent, as he says your name gently. When you don't back up, or when you don't stand down from this discussion, he takes it as a sign to take another step closer, until he's suddenly right in front of you, hands hovering over your biceps with an expression so serious it gives you whiplash, especially when he looks fucking exhausted. No witty comment on the back burner. No bribe that gets you to raise a brow and kick his groin. No nonsense that you're so used to from him.
Just Bucky. Raw. Unfiltered... Nervous?
"It's two days," he says eventually, voice calm even though you swear you can see his heart beating through his t-shirt. "Just one night, really. Forty-eight hours of pretending to like me in front of my family."
You hate how quiet his tone is. How understanding, like he's already preparing for you to say no, to head to his family function empty handed with empty promises so they can uphold their disappointed image of him, as if he's used to it. Another year of being single, another year of refusing to settle down, another year of reaffirming everything his family already thinks of him. Reckless. Unlovable. Difficult.
"Why should I?" You ask equally as quiet.
Bucky thinks for a second, eyes darting to your collarbone for one, two seconds before coming back up to meet yours.
"It could be fun."
"Are you kidding?"
"Easy," he muses, a smile ghosting his lips, but not that lopsided smirk that you absolutely can't stand, a genuine smile, as if he's amused. "I'm standing right here."
"Yeah," you snort. "A little too close, might I add."
This is when he grins, lopsided and easy (and too fucking handsome for you to even comprehend right now) as his palms have gently braced on your shoulders, one hot and the other cool, as if he knows he's overstepping boundaries and figured to get them all out of the way now while your guard is down, while you're allowing him to be this close. Last time he got this close to you — he went in for a hug on New Year's — you panicked and knocked him into the bar.
"Haven't pushed me away yet."
Immediately, your hands are bracing on his chest and shoving him away, ignoring the way your heart races at his low laugh and how you allowed him to even get that close to you without some heinous comment (also avoiding how you never noticed his hands on your shoulder, how natural they felt, and how much you hate your sudden complicity). It's one thing to let your guard down to a guy, but to a guy like Bucky Barnes? Consider yourself a dead woman the day that actually happens.
So, to combat the weird growing feeling bubbling in your gut, you put on a sneer and wear it like a badge of honor.
"How am I supposed to convince anyone I like you?"
Bucky cocks his head to the side, unfazed. "Uh, I dunno, by acting?"
Deadpan stare.
He laughs boyishly, throwing his hands up lazily. "What? Scared you can't handle it?"
Your brows skyrocket, patience wearing thin.
"You don't think I can't handle it?" You reiterate incredulously, offended. "Handle you?"
"No," Bucky says immediately, never sure of anything else in his life. "I know you can. That's why I said your name and no one else's."
The words settle in the air like a thick, suffocating fog, because you hate how certain he sounds, like what he just said isn't making your heart convulse inside your ribcage. Because you know that deep down, he really means that, no matter how much your brain wants you to think otherwise. It's not like you can't trust the guy, for fuck's sake he's been a part of your friend group for years (even though you avoid him as much as you want for reasons you don't want to get into right now), he's going to be Steve's Best Man next fall and Natasha treats him like a big, annoying older brother. They vouch for him. They love him, damn it.
Say what you want about him, but you know for a fact that Bucky Barnes isn't a liar, at least not a very good one. Sure, he's more annoying than a twelve year old school boy and has the emotional capacities of a brick wall, he's always said it as it is. No sugarcoating, no dancing around the subject, just straight forward and to the point. That's the difficult thing that you juggle in this very moment, that no matter how pissed off you are and more revolted by the fact that the Prince Prick of All Pricks is asking — no, begging — for your help, you know it's truthful.
You sigh. Long and deep and guttural.
He literally couldn't have said any other name? Not the girl you saw him flirting with two nights ago at the bar down the street? Not the pretty barista that always writes a heart on his cup and shoots you death glares whenever you go in? Not any other hookup he's had in the past month to give his mom the impression that he's tied down? Did it have to be you? The girl he can never have?
Suddenly, you remember a conversation you accidentally overheard between him and Steve a few months ago. It was right after Christmas, since that's when your friend group celebrates their own version of the holiday, more so as an excuse to get together and drink and hang out. You walked into Steve's bedroom, looking for him to help Nat with the furnace, only to discover the fire escape window open with Bucky and Steve's back to you, sharing a joint in the cold.
"You're not this monster they're making you out to be," Steve said sincerely. "You know that, right?"
It was a tone so low that you froze, knowing you weren't supposed to be hearing this, something so private that you clearly were interrupting. But part of you stayed in curiosity, because Bucky had been uncharacteristically quiet all night and dodging all opportunities to poke fun at your Christmas sweater, so you automatically knew something was wrong. Not that you ever had the heart to ask, because you knew there was no way he'd open up to someone like you, regardless if you actually cared.
And you never forgot Bucky's next words. "They'll never see me as anything worth caring about."
You had left before you could hear anything else, telling Natasha you couldn't find them.
But you sometimes think of that moment, how upset Bucky sounded, as if the opinions of his family — and even his extended family that he says he doesn't care about — really matter to him, make a mark on his soul, make him feel less of an obligation and more of a person who's wanted. Loved. Cared for. Not some mouthy fuck-boy who has nothing more to his name than a reputation. A bad one, at that.
So now, as you look at him, really look at him, you're reminded of the Bucky sitting broken on that fire escape, where all he wants is his family's approval. You can't say you blame him. But you can't let him off that easily.
"What do I get in return?" You say eventually.
Stunned, Bucky blinks at you once, twice stupidly, certainly not expecting that from you.
"If I do this for you," you add pointedly, steadily. "It's not for nothing."
He clears his throat almost immediately, desperately. "Anything you want."
You narrow your eyes at him, studying his expression as you ponder your course of action. Sure, you could make him do your laundry for a month. Or clean your apartment head to toe, yet how much of his cleaning skills are up to par? Where's the fun in that? The sense of desperation? Buy your meals for the next month? Hm, too expensive. Be your personal chauffeur? Bleh, the thought of spending confined time in a car with him, no thanks. Makeshift masseuse? Scratch that, he'd definitely be too into that.
Then you grin. It makes his brows skyrocket.
"I want Alpine."
Bucky rolls his eyes. "Okay, anything besides that."
"You just said whatever I wanted."
His lips twitch. "Sweet girl, that's my cat."
Oh, you hate the way your heart skips at the name. "So? And don't call me that."
"Gotta practice somehow."
"Haven't said yes yet," you snap pointedly.
Yet Bucky just beams. "Yet?"
You groan, feigning annoyance when your blood pressure is skyrocketing to regions so unknown, a primary care doctor would faint at the numbers. How he manages to do this every time you interact with him is beyond you, sending your bodily functions into panic mode as well as kickstarting migraines like a light switch as if he was put on this earth to do so. He knows what he's doing, he knows what buttons to push, how to prolong all of your interactions to get the most reactions out of you. He's relentless.
"Fine, deal's off," you say amidst his laughter, spinning heel and beelining for the door to refrain from actually throwing a pot or something at his head.
But, of course, he's not letting you go that easily.
"Wait!" Bucky pleads behind you, boyish laughter simmering down as he catches your wrist between his fingers, pads of the tips pressing against your raging pulse point as he spins you around to face him. "Just— Fuck— Wait a second."
God, he's so close, smiling so beautiful it makes you reel. No, you think immediately, not beautiful. Not at all. Not his hair threatening to fall over his eyes, those pretty ceruleans and those dimples on a smile that seems to be reserved just for you. It fucking sucks that he's handsome, as it would make this whole turning him down to save my dignity thing much easier than it is now, because you're fucking struggling.
Especially when his hand is warm and he smells intoxicating, like everything you're into trapped in a cologne bottle. You hate how you like him close, close enough to feel like you're the only person in the room (you are) and the only girl he will ever has eyes on (you aren't). It's horrible, feeling like you're wanted by a guy like him, knowing he probably said your name as a matter of convenience, since you walked right into the room as the topic came up. You guarantee if it was any other girl, he would've said her name.
Christ. You can't debate the semantics. You'll go fucking crazy if you do.
"Okay," he bargains slow, unknowing to your internal battle between self pity and self deprecation. "You can have Alpine for a month."
You quirk a brow.
He rolls his eyes. "Fine. Two. And unlimited visitation rights after."
For a second, you actually consider it. Because despite how much you can't stand him nor can stand to be in his apartment because that means he's there, you adore that cat. You love her like she's your own, and it's unfortunate she has such an annoying owner because you'd be over there much more than you already are simply to hang out with her.
The hardest part is that she loves you, too. You watch her when he's away and you take her out in your bag into the city (safely, of course). She lays on your chest and purrs like a motor about to takeoff and head to space. On the off chance he FaceTimes you about something irrelevant or if he's on with Steve and you're in the room, you make him put her on the phone. It's ridiculous, you know, but the fact that she's sweet on you and practically hates his other friends makes you feel special, like you've got a cosmic connection to a damned cat.
You sigh deeply.
"Three," you counter-argue.
"Done," he says easily. "See? Told you we could work it out."
You refrain from head-butting him. "You never said that."
He still hasn't let go of your wrist.
"Must've said it in my head." He shrugs and you roll your eyes. Prick.
And as if life couldn't get any worse, Natasha decides to emerge from her cocoon of a bedroom, sniffling with a red nose and sunken eyes looking like death reincarnated. A blanket is wrapped around her small frame, swallowing her whole, as Steve walks in behind her and nearly running into her back given the way she freezes in the doorway, staring at you and Bucky a little too close for comfort like you've grown three heads. Four. Five. Si—
"Did I...miss something?" She croaks, blinking blearily.
As you open your mouth to respond, Bucky beats you to it, throwing a lanky arm around your shoulders and pulling you taut to his body to which you immediately grimace. His grin is light, easy, so fucking smug and pleased with himself that you wish you could take it alllllll back, wishing you weren't a good friend who drops off soup for your sick friend in the first place.
Christ, you should've laughed in his face for coming up with such a stupid idea. You should've shoved him as hard as humanly possible and slapped him upside the head for even bringing you into this mess. You should've packed and left town before he could drag you into his car and drive you all the way to the (admittedly stunning) lake house in the middle of nowhere.
Because here you are: tucked under his arm like it's your god-given right and forcing a smile so bright it almost hurts.
When the two of you pulled onto the street, you admittedly had no idea what to expect as you'd practically been thrust into this one-sided agreement. But the house sitting before you is no home, more like a mansion with beautiful stone and an exterior build that's something straight out of a magazine. Or an architect's wet dream. It's no doubt the biggest house you've ever seen, a three car garage with plenty of cars parked in the driveway which makes you think they'd need more than three garages, perhaps a dozen.
The front lawn is long and flat, outstretching a perfect green up until a short rock wall that separates the property from the water. Literally right on the water, as gentle waves lap up against the rock wall with a pontoon and speed boat adorning the long L-shaped dock. Right by the shore, there's a fire-pit along with about twelve chairs encompassing around it, along with a cabana next to the dock that looks like there's a bar inside.
Holy fuck. Holy trust fund. Holy Christ.
The words escape you. Truly. You know you're fucked when you had to pause mid-insult to Bucky as soon as you pulled up, too stunned to even speak.
But instead of flaunting or making your reaction the butt of a joke, Bucky simply shrugs, puts the car in park, and pats the back of your hand once, twice, before exiting the car.
Now you're here. Meeting his family whilst simultaneously trying not to catch flies in your mouth.
(And also really, really trying to ignore how good his cologne smells and how he's holding you in a way that makes you think he's enjoying this.)
Especially when his mother stands in front of said-mansion and beams at you, thoroughly pleased at the thought of her son having the capacities to settle down with someone who's remotely normal (loose term, the less she knows, the better). She doesn't even let you get a word in before she's rushing forward, the white wine in her glass sloshing precariously.
"James!" His mother scolds with a look of disbelief. "You didn't mention how beautiful she is!"
Bucky's hand squeezes your waist, whether he means to or not, but it makes you shudder all the same.
Shrugging the feeling off almost immediately, you stick your hand out and muster a smile that hopefully doesn't let her know how much you want to murder her son in sixteen different ways.
"You're too kind, Mrs. Barnes," you greet politely. "It's nice to meet you."
She takes your hand instantly, encasing it gingerly with a warmth that makes Bucky's fingers twitch against your waist. Her nails are filed and freshly manicured, skin smooth as if she just got back from the salon. Makes sense, given the almost perfect shimmer of her nail beds.
"Oh, please, Mrs. Barnes is his grandmother," she says with a playful scoff and a tone that makes it seem like she didn't like said-grandmother very much. "Call me Winnie. None of those formalities around me, honey. James has already told me so much about you, no need to be so proper."
You stifle a snort as you peer up at Bucky in faux-shock, noticing the tips of his ears burning red.
"Oh, did he?"
Winnie drops your hand as she laughs, and two things are obvious by the way her eyes crinkle and her smile widens: she loves her son and she loves her wine.
"Plenty," she muses, lunging forward to place a ginger kiss on Bucky's hot cheek. "Oh, don't give me that look. Everyone is just so excited that you’re becoming a young man."
He shakes off her welcoming gesture, squeezing your waist once more. You can practically feel the heat radiating off his cheeks, flushed with embarrassment that you of all people are hearing this right now. At this point, you think it's a coping mechanism for him.
"Dad didn't want to be a part of the welcoming committee?" He asks coolly, switching the subject as he looks beyond Winnie towards the house, waiting for a person who is probably never going to come greet them.
You shove that assumption way, way, way down.
Whether Winnie can see the nerves coming from her son, she doesn't comment on it, instead ignoring it altogether. "Don't start with that, James. He's grilling in the back with Mr. Townes."
Bucky snaps his gaze to his mother. "What?"
You brows furrow at the sudden tone shift.
His mother doesn't notice, instead moving towards the house. "Come inside, Izzy's making tequila sunrises."
If possible, Bucky stiffens even more. At this point, he could be as rigid as a board.
"Izzy's here?" He asks incredulously, almost...angry?
Not noticing her son's clear apprehension, Winnie nods and takes another hearty sip of her wine, still smiling bright as can be as she ushers the two of you inside. If the moment wasn't so full of tension, you'd take the time to admire the sunset. The smell of a cookout. The sound of the waves lapping against the rocks with the cadence of a lullaby.
"Yes, yes." Winnie interrupts your feel of the senses cheerfully. "She's here for the night to see the fireworks. The Townes are staying at the Clearwater's next door. Now come! Everyone wants to meet your girlfriend, honey.”
Before anyone can elaborate further or escalate the conversation, Winnie is turning tail and waving you two inside once again, this time sauntering back into the mansion as her shoes crunch under the soft gravel of the driveway, humming a common tune to herself and clearly giddy as can be. She’s unknowing to the chaos she just inadvertently caused, unknowing to the way her son practically seized up at the mere mention of someone. You assume it’s detrimental, given the iron grip on your waist and the way he hasn’t breathed in what feels like a minute.
The silence becomes palpable as you can practically see the steam coming out of his ears.
Swallowing thickly, you step away from him to grab your bag (in the process of doing so, his hand leaves your waist and you try to ignore how much you hate not having it there), slinging it over your shoulder as you ponder for a moment, eyeing his duffle. Feeling gracious for a second, you grab his as well and you slam the car door shut.
The sound seems to jolt him from his internal self-inflicted pity party, blinking his blue eyes once, twice, before shaking his head, taking his bag from your extended hand and tightening his grip around the straps and muttering something incoherent under his breath.
"We've been here for two minutes and you're already grumbling," you joke lightly as you try and clear the thick air. "Personally, I would've bet on five."
Bucky takes a long, deep breath. One from the soul. One that is obviously an attempt to avoid a crash-out mere minutes into the weekend. For a moment, you almost want to immediately apologize for the ill-timed comment as you feel your face get hot.
Fucking idiot, you think, who are you to comment on that?
But instead of snapping at you or defaulting to his asshole nature, he simply takes another deep breath.
"Izzy's my ex," he says eventually. Low and calm.
Your heart sinks. Great. Perfect. Another one of Bucky's past flings coming back to haunt you. Again. (Don't ask about the again. You had a pretty black and blue shiner to the cheekbone last Christmas when his winter situationship thought you two were seeing each other when you obviously weren't. You learned very quickly in that moment that these women do not play about Bucky Barnes. Not at all.)
"She's..." Bucky continues steadily, looking up the sky for a mere moment as he tries to find the words. "...territorial."
You roll your eyes. "Great. Am I gonna have to fight this one, too?"
Bucky's lips twitch barely. Just barely. But there. A crack in his horrible mood. It makes your pride swell slightly.
"Careful, baby." He draws out smoothly. "Startin' to sound a little jealous."
Aaaaaand your pride is extinguished. Gone with the wind. Dissipated into thin air. You're halfway to the house after the pet name, hating the way your heart thumps as you hear his jovial laughter behind you as he follows you in the house.
diver
His hand doesn't leave you the entire time you're introduced to his family.
You have every single urge to shove him off, because it seems like the fucker is enjoying this. Enjoying the feel of your smooth skin under his hand, charting territories that have been off limits for the entire duration of your friendship (god, how long has it been now?) and taking full advantage of being able to cart you around and show you off to his family. That's what he wanted, isn't it? To practically flaunt you as living proof he's not what they make him out to be?
Bucky talks about you to his aunts, uncles, cousins, friends and neighbors like you've hung the stars yourself, showcasing your career accomplishments and hobbies that you didn't even know he knew.
When you pulled him aside after the third fun fact, he simply shrugged as he fixed your hair.
"Did my research," is all he says, before putting on that million dollar smirk and moving onto the next introduction.
And he does not leave your side. Not once. Not physically. At all.
Meeting his chirpy aunt with glimmering earrings and a bright red lip? Bucky's fingers are playing with the ends of your hair. Chatting up his second cousin about the nuances of implementing more solar energy? His thumb is rubbing circles on your shoulder. Being introduced to his father and the ring of grown man crowding around the grill as if they're all waiting for their turn to be grill-master? A palm is pressed firmly to the small of your back, grounding and steady almost as a coping mechanism himself because his father does not seem to have an ounce of the warmth his mother does.
Mr. Barnes is stern. Stoic. Giving Bucky a simply once over before politely introducing himself to you. Then returning to his conversation with the rest of the guys at the grill.
Bucky takes that as his cue to steer you away, and you pretend not to notice the way his fingers tremble against your back.
And now here you are: seeking refuge in the (giant) empty kitchen, where the leftover appetizers are sitting idly on the counter while the main course, burgers and hot dogs, are about to be served outside on the back patio. From here, you can hear the faint chatter and laughter, no doubt a rich sound, but from your little corner of solace, the sound acts as a buffer between the two of you and the stuffy atmosphere.
You and Bucky lean on counters opposite each other, sipping on tequila sunrises as you carefully study his body language. Closed off. Quiet. Already in his head. Sometimes you hate being empathetic, because why do you have the urge to cheer him up? To push the hair away from his eyes? To grab his hand and tell him that it'll be alright?
Frankly, you can’t even begin to understand the dynamic Bucky has with his father. He’s never spoken highly of the man, and you’ve only heard few rumblings about him in your years of friendship (if you can call it that) with the man standing in front of you. Yet you’re no idiot, you can assume it’s nothing pleasant or warm given the constant drive Bucky has to please him, whether he outright says it or not, because despite the anger and resentment he has towards his father, you can tell there’s a still a part of him that is a boy simply wanting his father’s approval, his father’s love, his father’s respect. You can’t necessarily blame him for that. You don’t understand it, perhaps you never will, but you still hate the insinuation that he doesn’t feel like he’s enough just because his father thinks so.
"Hey," you say quietly, nudging your foot against his ankle as he peers up at you with distant eyes. "How long you think your cousin's been cheating on that old jizzbag she married last year?"
Bucky's lips twitch just barely.
"Because she's been making fuck-me eyes towards that one guy," you add pointedly. "Quite obviously, might I add, that I'm starting to get a little turned on from it. Fuck, what's his name? I think he's the neighbor, uh..."
"Dan," Bucky responds quietly, but a small smile ghosts his lips. "And at least three months. Since spring break."
You gasp dramatically. "Scandalous. You think he knows?"
"The— Christ, what'd you call him? The old jizzbag?"
Nodding animatedly, Bucky chuckles gently and shakes his head at you, slowly starting to thaw from the slump he'd been in ever since the run in with his father and returning back to the person you know.
"No shot. Or he's pretending not to notice."
"Oh?" You hum curiously. "That adds a twist. I can already smell the headline: Billionaire fossil makes shocking discovery of his lifetime, his trophy wife half his age is getting devious back shots from the stud of a neighbor, doesn't reveal their secret so long as they set up a cuck chair for him in the corner. Got a nice ring to it, no?"
Bucky laughs boyishly, and god if the noise doesn't do something weird to your gut.
(Especially when his smile is so fucking pretty it almost hurts.)
He clutches his abdomen, nudging your ankle to mirror your action from before. "I think you missed your calling. TMZ would kill to have someone like you."
"Someone like me?" You challenge, feigning offense. "You mean someone so creative and talented and—"
"There you are!"
An unknown third voice interrupts you, both you and Bucky whipping your heads to the kitchen entrance to see... probably the most beautiful woman you've ever seen in your life standing there.
Her long blonde hair is braided neatly and folded over her shoulder, accompanied with a silk ribbon tying the pieces together. Bright green eyes blink between the two of you, along with a wide (almost forced) pearly smile as she takes in the scene before her. She's genuinely one of the most stunning people you've ever seen, and with the way her eyes keep lingering on him, your heart stills. Is that..? No, you don't think that's—
"Izzy," Bucky breathes out evenly, almost pained. "Hey."
Izzy steps into the room like she owns it.
"So this is where you've been hiding out? Can't really say I blame you. It's a snooze-fest out there." Suddenly she's right here. In your bubble, sliding next to the counter and bumping your shoulder as if she's been your pal all your life. God, she even smells good. "Seems like way more fun in here."
You hum casually, remembering Bucky's thoughtfully in-depth description of her. Territorial.
Yeah. Sure. You can be territorial, too. You can totally sink your talons into him, stake your claim, assert your dominance. It's not like you're a stranger to people trying to one-up you, you're practically a professional asshole. Hopefully you won't have to use any of that side of you. But. It's there. Even if it's dormant.
"If by fun you mean raiding the liquor cabinet, then sure," you muse.
Izzy chuckles sweetly at you, then lulling her head forward to eye Bucky up and down. "I like her."
"Didn't think I needed your approval," he shoots back jokingly, but half of you thinks he was partially being serious.
Slightly, just slightly, Izzy stiffens next to you. But it lingers for less than a second, because her pretty smile is back up as she brings her cocktail up to her glossy lips.
"Just being friendly, Jamie," she murmurs into her glass, taking a sip before ahhing graciously.
Bucky's brows pinch at the nickname.
Christ, you can feel his irritation from here. He should start calling you a modern day Superman given the way you've been cutting corners at the expense of his well-being (and his blood pressure).
"You're the mixologist of the night, right?" You converse casually, lifting your glass to your lips.
Izzy's gaze lingers on Bucky (or Jamie?) for one, two beats before turning to you, eyes drifting down to your cocktail and then back up to meet yours. Her expression holds no indication of a vendetta, so trying to stay in her good graces couldn't hurt. You hope. Especially when Bucky looks at you incredulously, almost trying to warn you with his eyes not to engage.
After a moment, she nods and flashes that sweet smile once again.
No wonder Bucky fell for her, Christ. She could sway battalions by simply asking nicely.
A faint buzzing gains everyone's attention, filling the gaping silence and nearly making Bucky jump three feet in the air.
"Shit," Bucky curses all of a sudden, digging his phone out of his pocket and wincing at the caller ID. "Uh, it's Sam. He's watching Alpine, probably scratched his eye out or something."
He pauses, gaze darting between you and Izzy with skepticism.
But you're an adult. At least you try to be.
So you nod towards the other room. "We're good. Let me know if his eye's still in tact."
His blue eyes settle on you, a wordless question. And you respond with yours, smiling gently and giving him all the reassurance he needs to leave you here. With his ex. Alone. The supposed territorial girl who broke up with him so detrimentally horrific last year he lost twenty pounds. No biggie. The call can't be too long anyway, right? Sam's probably calling to send a proof of life. Five minutes, tops.
Then, Bucky does something you never expect.
The fucker leans forward, places a chaste kiss on your cheek, and promptly leaves the room.
He just— Okay. Yeah. No, totally. He just kissed you. Literally no big deal. Actually, it can't be a big deal, because you're his girlfriend. Loving, doting, caring girlfriend. Sitting next to his ex-girlfriend, who's no doubt watching your reaction like a hawk, gaging your dynamic, your vibe, your...everything. That's an everyday act for people who are dating. It's actually pretty prude-ish for people who are together. Normally it's the lips. The forehead. The back of the hand. Below the belt—
Christ. Stop. Stop. Stop.
You still have a job to do. A role to play. You can't be hung up on the semantics. You can curse him out later, you pointedly decide. That'll make you feel better. For sure.
You lift your glass in a feeble attempt to regain half your brain back. "Nice work. I'll have to ask for some pointers."
"Trick is a pinch of lemon juice," she whispers playfully. "Not that you really care, anyway."
Any ounce of formalities dissipate into thin air, rising and dying in your throat. Your head snaps up, looking into her green eyes with utter confusion, partially at the sudden tonal shift but also at the fucking audacity. Once you realize that she's not joking around, your heart skips a beat at the anticipation of a confrontation.
You... heard her correct, right? You're not just making things up based on the preconceptions you already have of her, right? She didn't just completely flip a switch and confirm all the previous suspicions you had of her, right? Right?
"Pardon?" You ask calmly.
Izzy smiles again, but this time it's nothing nice. It's calculated. Cold.
"I know what you're doing," she says gently, but the tone carries the backbone. "Trying to be my friend when you're frankly the opposite."
Oh. No mistake here. Your intuition was correct. You weren't hearing things or making scary stories up to tell in the dark. She's being fucking serious, and she's looking at you like you're her next meal, her next target, a canary to a cat. The conversation she struck up wasn't to be friendly, it was to get Bucky's guard down, to let him feel comfortable enough to leave you two in a room together with the naive belief his ex has changed.
Doesn't seem like it, though.
But two can play this game. She wants Bucky back? Too fucking bad, bitch, you think bitterly. If you weren't selling the fuck out of the girlfriend role earlier to his family, you're about to seal the deal right here, right now, starting with her.
"I think the term you're searching for is common decency," you deadpan. "A general misconception, though, so don't feel too bad."
The blonde snorts at that. Fuck, even that's a pretty sound.
"You're witty, I'll give you that. Jamie always liked the mouthy ones," she purrs, practically bleeding green.
"You think that's you?"
Izzy swirls her drink around as if she has all the time in the world to do so, bumping your shoulder with the gesture with little to no regard for your personal space. You're three seconds away from shoving her off, as you've gotten your fair fucking share of being touched tonight.
She sighs dreamily as if the whole conversation is already beneath her. "You know, if you weren't with him, I feel like we could've been friends."
Your response is immediate. "I normally don't pick up hitchhikers."
The deadpan makes her laugh, a genuine laugh, as if she's pleased with the way she's grinding your gears, as if that was the goal all along, as if your words do nothing to pierce her thick skin.
"And Jamie normally doesn't go for..." Izzy pauses, taking a long moment to look you up and down in a way that instantly pisses you off. "...girls like you."
Your brow quirks.
"But I guess it looks like everyone's changing," she adds innocently, clinking your glass with hers in a way that isn't ceremonial in the slightest, pushing herself off the counter and slowly sauntering towards the exit.
Yet you don't falter. You don't let her get to you.
Instead, you send her a warm smile that she definitely doesn't deserve as you tip your glass politely towards her.
"Don't worry," you respond coolly. "You still have time."
Izzy's grin slips, giving you another detrimentally judge-mental once over before turning heel and slipping out of the kitchen without another word, blonde braid swiveling with the abrupt movement as the scent of her pretty perfume slowly wafts out of your sphere.
Once you know she's out of sight and out of mind, you let out a long, deep sigh before downing the rest of your drink.
Conveniently, that's when Bucky decides to return, unknowing to the previous altercation.
"Well, good news is that he has both eyes," he says casually, sliding back in the spot he occupied earlier. "Bad news is that he now has the scratches to prove—"
Bucky trails off immediately when he notices your expression, your body language, how you're just about ready to throw hands at the next person who sparks up a conversation with you, clutching onto the cocktail glass as if it had done something to personally offend you. All conveniently without Izzy in sight, and he's no idiot to put two and two together in an instant.
He bites cautiously. "You alright?"
You quirk a brow. "Peachy."
Bucky carefully plucks the glass out of your hands and sets it on the counter, his hands moving back to encase yours. His fingers are cool against your flaming skin, but admittedly it calms you down in more ways than one — not that you'd ever tell him that. Not even if the world depended on it. Even though he can probably tell from the way your shoulders instantly relax.
"You look like you're seconds from snapping my neck, which is normal for you. But..." He winces, already knowing. "What'd she say?"
"Enough," you say curtly, shaking your head. "She's about to have the worst fucking weekend of her life."
His head tilts in confusion, and you're still pretending not to notice that his hands are still holding yours.
"Christ," he murmurs after a moment, brows pinched in worry. "You're not gonna kill her, are you?"
Sighing, you roll your eyes. "No. But I'm gonna remind her that she's the one who left you. That's all."
God, you hate the way he instantly grins, squeezing your hands as if it's his right to do so in the first place and suddenly occupying the space right in front of you, showing little to no fear of the giant chance you shove him where he stands. He's so close, blue eyes shining with a sense of pride that makes you want to slap the smug expression right off his pretty face.
No. Nope. His normal face. His perfectly adequate and average looking face. Nothing more. Nothing less.
It isn't until he ducks down, faces inches from yours, where your fight or flight instincts both fail you, because you just fucking freeze. Stationary. Still as a board as he holds you here, knowing damn well this is a win for him given how you haven't kneed him in the balls yet. And he grins like he knows it, wears it like a badge of honor, and you're so fucking close, closer than you've ever been. Encompassed by his broad stature and the intoxicating scent of his cologne, with a faint lingering of tequila.
His voice is low, laced with a honey cadence that almost, almost, distracts you from what he actually says.
"You're pretty hot when you're jealous."
Aaaand that's when you shove him off. He doesn't even flinch, not when the base of his spine smacks against the island counter from the force, not from the scowl on your face, not from anything. Because he won.
Bucky rides that high all night.
Especially you two sit thigh to thigh and shoulder to shoulder on an outside patio couch, getting absolutely hounded by a round-up rodeo of tipsy aunts and cousins who have nothing better to do than to learn the nuances of your supposed love life over way-too-strong cocktails and insultingly bland pasta salad.
"She's phenomenal at taking care of people," Bucky beams through a bite of a burger, saying it too nonchalant to be considered casual. This is probably the seventh question they've asked him about keen characteristics of yours, and the one that makes you quirk your brow. "She's got, like, a magic touch or something. Healed Steve when he was sick with a 104 fever."
You snort into your second (third?) cocktail glass. Yeah, you put a cool rag on Steve's forehead when he was enduring the worst hangover of his life after New Year's last year, forced him to pull-trig when he kept pushing it off, made sure he drank water and had small doses of food throughout the day (that he could stomach, which wasn't much). Your friends started coming to you after that when they were facing hangovers worse than death. Not really the same as a fever, but you'll take it.
His aunts eat it up, though, awwing at the anecdote.
"Such a sweet girl," his aunt Margaret coos endearingly.
God, you wish the world would swallow you whole.
Especially when you feel the pad of Bucky's thumb swipe the corner of your mouth with such eased nonchalance that you don't have time to register it, nearly swatting his hand away and cursing his bloodline into next Tuesday, but you remember your audience, and remain still as a statue. Because if you can't use your spitting words or hands to shove him off, then... what else can you do besides sit here like an idiot and take it? And, oh, he knows how badly you want to smack that grin right off his face, and it only spurs him in further.
"Mhm," Bucky hums low, eyes lingering on your bottom lip for a second too long before flashing a charming grin back to his family. "My sweet girl," he repeats low, certain. "But such a messy eater."
The smile on your face probably looks more like a grimace.
But whether his aunt or anyone in this little meet-cute circle notices, no one lets on.
Instead, Aunt Margaret beams as she darts her gaze between the two of you, looking like she’s about to simultaneously combust or erupt in a fit of awws, which you don’t think you can take much more of. She holds onto a printed napkin from some chain department store as if it’s an emotional tether to her soul, manicured nails digging into the soft fabric.
“It’s so nice to see you like this with someone again, James,” she says earnestly. “It’s heartwarming to know she’s making you better.”
Her words make your stomach do a weird flip. They’re simple. Kind. Nothing out of the ordinary. But the kettlebell in your gut would defer otherwise, plagued with a phantom ache that you can quite pinpoint on what emotion you’re feeling. Prideful? Guilty? Fraudulent (if that’s a state of being?) or downright evil for making these people believe something that isn’t true.
He isn’t…being real. He’s being Bucky. Charming. Playful. Playing his strengths to woo a crowd and get them to believe one thing. He’s acting. Being a (fake) doting boyfriend, doing acts that will get the people to get off his back, to believe he’s capable of moving on and functioning like a normal adult. That’s all. Nothing more.
But why’d Margaret say again?
You wonder. What the fuck did Izzy do to him all that time ago to warrant such a sudden character flip? What did she do to his brain to make him the epitome of a womanizer, to make him never trust an emotional connection that crosses the line of friendship? What emotional damage did she do to make his own family lose interest in caring for him? To make them believe he’s this awful person who will never find love again? And if what she did to him was so detrimental to his once-jovial character, why the fuck was she invited here?
You know you’re here to prove that Bucky has the capabilities to move on. You know that. Truly. You’re here as his friend, as a favor, that’s all. There’s nothing more you need to do than what you’ve already been doing.
But just because he has a supposed “girlfriend” doesn’t make him any less of a person, and fuck these people for making him believe that’s the case.
All Bucky does is hum, smile faltering only slightly to which no one notices.
But you do.
Fuck. You notice.
And your heart just… breaks.
How do they not know what a wonderful person he is? How selfless he is? How he constantly puts everyone over himself, catering to the needs of his beloved friends and even strangers before even considering his own well being? How many times have you seen Bucky carry groceries for his elderly neighbor who doesn’t do well with stairs? How many seats has he given up for others on the subway and how many visits did he make when Sam was in the hospital for a week? How many times has he saved you the last (and best) bite of a meal he made you? How can they not know the person he is? How can they only his worth as having a partner?
Don’t say anything to make it worse, you repeat to yourself over and over and over.
“Yes, honey,” his cousin Gemma pipes up. “Having such a wonderful girl is so respectable. She makes you look great.”
Fuck. Don’t say anything. Not your place.
Margaret hums in agreement. “You’re on a good path now. We can already tell. Thanks to this one!”
She nods in your direction, a warm smile adorning her cheeks.
But it only breaks the dam.
God damn it.
“Actually,” you say before you can stop yourself, gentle yet firm. “If anyone should be getting praise, it’s Bucky.”
Bucky says your name softly, almost in warning to not even bother with it.
But you brush him off, because what? You’re not going to sit here and let these people have one misconception about him running amuck in the mud. They don’t even know him, know an ounce of the person he truly is. How can they even think he’s not remotely enough? Physically? Emotionally? As a fucking human being? As someone who’s more than a partner, a boyfriend, a prop?
You know you butt heads with him. You know he drives you up the wall with every opportunity he gets, and you know he knows it makes you crazy. But at the end of the day, he’s your friend. A good one, at that. Contrary to popular belief, he cares a lot and he loves deep and he’s one of the best people on the godforsaken planet to have in your corner. Even though he grinds your gears. Even though he relishes in your irritation. Even though he's chatty and bold and boisterous.
Before the aunts and cousins can protest and stammer to get back in your good graces, you continue.
"He's the one who made me better." Well, there's no stopping it now. "When we met, I was going through a rough patch. Not sleeping, eating, taking care of myself, the whole nine yards." Not partially a lie unless you count meeting him a week within the worst breakup of your life, then yeah. "Bucky's the one who brought me out of that hole. Even though I wanted to smack him upside the head most of the time." Meaning he distracted you from your sorrows with his natural wit and charm so detrimentally that your ex was a lingering forethought in a quick matter of time. Sure, let's go with that.
Bucky's hand somehow finds yours. Aunt Margaret chuckles nervously.
“I’m sure you weren’t implying that he’s less of a person when single,” you add pointedly. Then, “Right?”
The stammering is immediate.
“No!” Margaret defends quickly, eyes wide and panicked. “Of course not. James, that’s not what we meant at all. We just—“
“That’s good,” you interrupt sweetly, frankly not interested in the half-assed apologies but also not trying to get in a tousle with people who you don’t even know like that. “I just wanted to make sure.”
“Of course,” Gemma parrots her aunt, blinking with wide eyes to try and scramble. “We love you, James, we just want you to be happy.”
And Bucky?
His hand is encasing the back of yours, fingers wrapped tight over your knuckles.
"All good," he says smoothly, as if being belittled by his family is a normal instance he's used to at this point. "I'm happy. Very much so. She's protective, 's all."
Gemma takes a particularly large gulp of her drink. "Yes, we see that. You know, James, your cousins started a bonfire by the water, why don't you join them?"
You nearly snort. That's gotta be some polite suburban code for get this girl out of my face before she tries to humiliate me further. Or something like that. Frankly, you definitely could've given them more grief, but with the way everyones faces are burning a bright crimson leads you to think that your words were the beginning of someone standing up for Bucky. Part of you hates that you're probably the first to do so given the panicked response from your defense of him, the other part of you would do it all again in a heartbeat. Regardless of the secondhand embarrassment.
Yet instead of escalating and having more choice words for his so-called family, you smile sweetly, putting the little hiccup behind you as you upturn your palm in Bucky's grasp, lacing your fingers with his so gingerly that you see him whip his head towards yours in your peripheral. He's been the catalyst of touch all night, as you've kept your paws relatively to yourself for the duration of him showing you off. But now... You're reciprocating. Leaning into the bit. Fueling the fire. And with the way he squeezes your hand in return, it's a wordless promise. I got you.
"I could go for a s'more." Your tone is light, sweet. Like a flavored creamer. You turn to Bucky, whose bright blue eyes search yours incredulously. "You?"
He takes a beat. Registering your words.
Then, he nods. "Read my mind."
You're standing before you know it, Bucky in tow, as you toss your empty plate in the trash bag lying underneath the table. Grabbing your drink and throwing one more sweet smile to his bewildered family members, you give a once-over of the mini-crowd before you.
"It was nice meeting you all," is all you simply say, before turning heel and walking towards the water.
Bucky's hand is hot against yours, burning bright and prominent as yours stays cool. You have half a mind to pull away now that you've given some distance between you and the people you're supposed to be convincing, but he doesn't allow that as he falls into step with you, bumping your shoulder in Bucky-like-fashion and giving you a gentle squeeze, a form of a thank you he can't formulate into words. The act makes your heart thrum all the same, and there's this nagging voice in the back of your mind telling you how nice it is to feel his touch, to be in his vicinity without having to worry about the next time you're scheduled to push him away.
It's... achingly comfortable.
God, you shake that thought away. Immediately.
The two of you are halfway to the bonfire when he speaks up.
"You could've gone easy on 'em," Bucky muses low and playfully, avoiding the real reason for your intervention. "You nearly scared them out of their Tory Burch dresses."
You frown instantly. "...That was me going easy on them."
He laughs boyishly, swinging your conjoined hands back and forth, clearly relishing in the way you haven't pushed him off. For once, you don't really see the urge to shove him away just yet, and that revelation nearly stuns you, but it aches in familiarity, as if you could get used to it. Especially when you see a familiar blonde sitting in one of the bonfire chairs up ahead that makes your chest burn with a fire you didn't know ignited.
"Sweet girl," he says in warning. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were seconds from throttling a sixty year old woman. I think that's considered elder abuse."
"I'm just about ready to throttle everyone here."
His hand squeezes yours once, twice. You pretend to ignore the way your heart lurches at the gesture. "Being a knight in shining armor looks hot on you."
"And now I'm seconds away from throttling you."
"Yet you're still holding my hand." You don't have to look at him to know he's grinning. "Christ, you'd be sexy in steel."
"Bucky."
"Like my own personal Joan of Arc. Oh my god."
"Do you ever think before you speak?"
"Never with you, my sweet, sweet girl." His voice is saccharine, almost sounding genuine.
You eyes roll so far back the whites are showing.
But the next quip rises and dies in your throat as you approach the bonfire, an expensive stone pit with burning embers flying high in the air surrounded by all of his cousins and family friends in similar age, who all laugh at a previous anecdote that fills the air with a warm buzz. The sun setting behind the tree-line across the lake is almost picturesque, letting the real glow of the flames cast a shadow over everyone's face, including Izzy roasting a perfect golden marshmallow.
...Sitting next to the only vacant seat.
When you and Bucky emerge to the group, all heads pick up, including the blonde's, who hums innocently inviting with that killer of a smile. But you're not fooled by a second, nor will you ever forget the absolutely audacity she had towards you in the kitchen earlier.
"Hey guys," she says cooly, blowing off the small flame of her marshmallow as she looks you dead in the eye. "Sorry, maybe there's another chair in the garage?"
The group goes quiet for a moment, holding their breaths and waiting. It's no secret Izzy's been attempting to sink her talons into her ex-boyfriend all night, stealing glances across the yard and talking him up to his family behind his back to stay in their good graces. She probably wasn't expecting you to show up this weekend, someone who will definitely put up a fight, a threat, a challenge to her endgame to get her Jamie back once and for all. There's no doubt everyone sitting in this circle knows that, especially when they all look between you and her with the anticipation of something snarky.
But you shrug nonchalantly. "No biggie."
When you peer up at Bucky and nod towards the chair, he blinks at you once, twice, before getting the hint and sitting down without much prompting, manspreading deliciously wide and audacious in a way you'd normally scold him for — as you've done so many times in the past.
This time, however, you simply let him get comfortable before settling in his lap.
...And Bucky fucking freezes.
Thankfully, almost instantly one of his cousins, a shaggy-haired late-teen who definitely shouldn't be nursing a beer, kickstarts the previous conversation with little to no regard for the clear tension between you and the person sitting one chair away, and you nearly sigh in relief at the subject change and let yourself slowly lean back until your back his brushing his broad chest.
He's not breathing. You can feel that he's not breathing because his chest doesn't rise and fall against your body, still as a board as you settle in casually. On his lap. Perched pretty on his lap. Flush to his chest. While sitting on his lap. Practically a second skin to him. Was it mentioned that you're on his lap?
The hands that have been wandering uncharted territories on your body all night are conveniently stiff on the arms of the chair, not sure whether or not they're suppose to stay politely off or if they can heighten the experience all the more. You can practically hear him thinking behind you, and you don't even need to turn around to know that or read his facial expression.
It makes you stifle a grin.
"Someone's a little quiet." You start innocently, practically cheek to cheek with him as you both stare at the burning embers. "What happened to all that sweet talk?"
You hear and feel his breath falter, as if he's just remembered how to breathe.
Bucky lets out a small huff of air, half annoyed and half amused that you're finding his internal crisis entertaining. More importantly still computing the fact that you're sitting in his lap. Willingly. Practically brushing cheeks. No big deal. Not at all. Not in the slightest. Not something he's been dreaming about for what feels like years now. Totally chill. Platonic, one may say.
"You seemed eager," he manages to get out, trying to act normal. "Still denying your feelings for me?"
You scoff. Cute of him to think he's in control here. Two can play that game.
You shift your hips barely. Just barely. A minute sliver to the left.
His hands immediately grip your waist, stilling your movements, both of you inherently shocked at the bold moves on each side but not putting a stop to the escalation, either. It's...thrilling. Especially surrounded by other people, unknowing to your objectively monumental moment. Especially sitting two feet from his raging bitch of an ex-girlfriend, whose eyes have been glued to the two of you finagling the whole time.
There's an odd sense of pride — perhaps dormant cave-woman primal instincts beginning to thaw — that instantly make you lean into the bit in response to seeing Izzy staring at you in your peripheral. You're shifting your body to splay sideways in his lap, as if he's about to pick you up bridal style and march you back into the house, splaying a hand in his hair as one of his palms remains a little too low on the base of your spine and the other resting on your bare thigh, a little too high than what friends would normally do. However, that excuse is completely out the window now, so why not run with it?
And... You're on cloud nine. Even more so when you meet Izzy's envious green eyes, smiling so sweetly it'll make your tooth rot.
Bucky hums at the sensation of your fingers in his hair whether he means to or not. "Remind me why we don't do this often?"
"Uh, probably because I can't stand you," you say as if it's law.
"Debatable."
"Is it?"
"You tell me, sweet girl." Your faces are inches apart. Have his eyes always been this blue? "You're the one sitting pretty in my lap."
"For show," you add pointedly.
Bucky grins boyishly (it's so beautiful). "Nah, I think you're doing it for the love of the game."
"That's presumptuous."
"Is it?" He mirrors your question from earlier.
God, he's so close. "Mhm. I'm simply helping a friend."
Bucky pauses at your words, eyes darting between yours almost in disbelief. The silence only lasts a few seconds, but it's palpable all the same, as those seconds feel like eons as he stares hard and deep into your eyes, practically into your soul. His grin morphs into something smaller, softer, steering away from the jovial playfulness you're familiar with and leaning into something deeper, something more serious. It makes the hair stand up on the back of your neck.
"That's what we're calling this? Friends?" He muses low, dangerous, calculated.
Your brows pinch slightly.
"Because I don't think friends do this," Bucky continues in the same tone, and you almost miss the way his thumb slips under your shirt, tracing over the lower bones of your vertebrae in admiration, curiosity, need. "I don't think friends feel like this."
It takes you a moment to find your words, still trying to hold your ground. "And what kind of feeling is that?"
His lips twitch. "I think you know, sweet girl."
"Do I?"
"Mhm." His response is immediate. "You're smart. Think about it."
...You do.
You think about what it would be like to wake up in the morning next to him, hair tousled and pretty blues bleary with sleep, reaching for you through half-lidded eyes and pulling you taut to him to get an extra few minutes of peace and quiet, or pulling you close for entirely different reasons. Would he fuck you slow and deliberate or fast and rough? Would he roll you onto your side and sink in deep with his chest against your back? Or would he crawl under the covers and bury his head between your thighs until the sun truly rises?
You think about holding his hand in public, dragging him through crowds of farmer's markets or sitting next to him on the subway. Touching him at all possible times. Him touching you at all possible times. Hands together. A hand on your thigh, on the small of your back, on the back of your neck. Endless places. Constantly. Protective. Possessive.
You think about his words. You've grown accustomed to the normal vulgarities that spill from his pretty puffed lips, but what about his true feelings? Is right now — this very moment — a glimpse of that reality? A shroud of seriousness? Would he confess through the implications his actions or would he actually find the words? Would he tell you how much you mean to him or would he show you? Would the flirting cease or tenfold if you truly told him your thoughts and feelings? How would he react to your greatest fears and nightmares, with sweet nothings or a comforting hug? Would he talk you through having sex? Tell you how pretty you are and how well you're taking him?
"You're thinking about it."
Blinking, you snap out of your disassociation to discover him still staring intently, a smile tugging the ends of his lips no matter how hard he tries not to let it slip.
"I wasn't," you defend bitterly, a weak attempt at remaining indifferent.
He truly doesn't buy it. "You totally are. It'd be a nice life, no?"
"Bucky."
"You and me. Me and you. Cooking together. Going out. Christening every room—"
"You're insufferable."
His smile is infectious, voice saccharine. "Yet you're still thinking about it, aren't you?"
Your scowl is prominent, face flushing a temperature comparable to the pits of hell. "Nope."
"Oh, Natasha's gonna love this."
"If you even consider telling Natasha, I'll cut your eyes out."
"Hot."
"Bucky."
"What?" He asks incredulously. "You can't expect me to be chill about this."
You roll your eyes. "I can, and I am. So chill." Can he feel your heart beating?
Probably, given the way his grin hasn't faltered the entire exchange, clearly soaking this up like a greedy sponge. The pads of his fingertips dig into your flesh like a staked claim, a reckless promise that doesn't need words to fill the gaps of what he truly means, what he truly wants. It's obvious, painfully so, and you're starting to slip. You wonder if he knows, if he can see the way you're subtly inching closer, if he can feel the thrum of your heartbeat in anticipation, if he can skim past your dismissive words and look into your eyes to understand your true intentions.
Fuuuuuuuuuck. You're in deep. Shit. God fucking damn it. Has he always been this pretty or is he emitting some toxic scent that makes people's brains all fuzzy and discombobulated? It must be the latter. It has to be the latter. Because absolutely no fucking way you're falling for—
God, you can't even say it. Falling for—
"Bucky!"
The shaggy-haired cousin pipes up from across the bonfire, breaking you both from your little moment and popping the bubble of unrelieved tension and rising blood pressure. Your neck twists to meet the gaze of his cousin, unknowingly continuing without a shroud of concern for interrupting the fact that you almost just kissed Bucky Barnes. On the lips. Willingly. Without a gun to your head or not from a dare. Did you mention willingly?
"Remember that burly dude who stole my skateboard in middle school?" He prompts nasally. "And ya bet him to a halfpipe competition to get it back?"
Bucky's grip on your waist and thigh are iron. "Yeah, man."
"And then he said..." Shaggy trails off, looking up into the air momentarily as if that'll help him remember the rest of the anecdote. "Fuck, I don't remember. Can you tell the story? Jason's never heard it, apparently."
While Bucky — quite reluctantly — recounts the story for the crowd, you sit idly on his lap. Thinking about it. All of it.
And you're absolutely, irrevocably, without a doubt fucked.
When the embers start to die and the people gradually trudge back to the house, you realize how late it's gotten.
Fireworks went off ages ago, illuminating the sky in hues of yellow, orange, red, sprinkles of blue and white to celebrate the holiday. Though your mind is elsewhere the whole time, solely focused on the man beneath you as he pulls you a fraction closer at the light show, cheeks brushing as you try to ignore the rapid thumping of your heart, using the fireworks as an excuse not to turn an inch to look at him. When it’s all done and over, conversations resume around the fire, more s’mores are eaten, more drinks are opened.
The half moon rises high in the sky on a cloudless night, shimmering gently over the waves on the water and pushing and pulling the soft tide. The quiet chatter from the last few people around the fire echos across the lake, the idea of s'mores long forgotten as everyone now takes the remaining sips of their drinks, bids a farewell, and disappears into the house or walks down the street to their respective homes.
Once she realized you weren't moving from his lap, Izzy packed up camp a little while ago, loudly announcing her departure to earn a few polite goodbyes and weaving into the night. It feels like a breath of fresh air when she's no longer watching your every move, but when you also feel no inclination to move off his lap (despite having nothing to prove anymore), your heart settles like a kettlebell in your gut, knowing the reason is deeper than just simply being too lazy to get up and take your own seat.
Bucky's fingers have been tracing up and down your spine for the past twenty minutes, slow and deliberate while he casually converses with his cousin. You sit still as a statue, relishing in the sensation but also not wanting to make it seem like you're enjoying this. But he knows. Because he knows you would've shrugged his touch off if you didn't want it.
It isn't until you're the last two remaining where you rediscover your motor functions.
Carefully slipping off his lap and standing on wobbly legs, your eyes drift down to his sitting figure, still manspreading so godforsaken arrogant as he peers up at you, head cocked to the side and blue eyes twinkling with pride. It's almost criminal how good he looks like this, unguarded and domestic with his hair slightly mussed and his plain white tee sitting snugly across his chest and around his biceps. His demeanor drips in smugness, absolutely eating up the way you're shamelessly staring down at him, and for a moment you brace for one of his incessant flirt tactics or forward one liners.
But it never comes. The silence says everything he wants to tell you.
Bucky simply stares up at you. Calculated. Morphing into something deeper than just lust. Maybe admiration? As one would admire the tedious brushstrokes of an intricate painting. He's thinking intently, raking his eyes over the slope of your nose, the curve of your lips, the dips of your collarbone poking through your tank top, your bare thighs where his hand took solace just moments ago. The once over isn't intimidating or intense, it's comfortable, strangely enough. As if he's taking the permission of being able to to heart, running with the opportunity to do so to the girl who never let him get too close.
"If there's something you want," Bucky says quietly after a moment, low and deliberate, "just ask."
A bratty retort rises and dies in your throat, your default response to whenever he makes a move (or an insinuation to one?), and instead linger in the moment, letting his words hang in the air as an actual testament instead of a joke.
Because the tension between you is shifted, ever since you decided to slide into his lap like you owned him and ever since his hand slipped up your shirt to hold you like he had every right to do so. It's uncharted waters, something you've never experienced with him in all your years of friendship. Sure, you've hugged once or twice and hit him feebly more times than you can count, but this is different. You allowed it, you're still allowing it, and he's taking that opportunity and making the most of it while he can.
A particularly rogue, loud wave drifts you from your thoughts, pulling your attention towards the shore.
You consider it for a moment, turning your head to see if anyone's still outside, and then back to the water, and then finally down at his figure.
"I wanna swim."
Bucky's brows skyrocket, certainly not expecting that. "What?"
Tilting your head to the side in playfulness, your fingers skim the bottom hem of your tank. "You heard me."
His eyes lock onto the sliver of skin that's exposed when you mess with the fabric, mouth agape as if he has an excuse right at the tip of his tongue. As if on autopilot, Bucky sits up, arms reaching up to pull your tank top down to where you bunched it up (or simply to have his hands on you again).
But you swerve his grabby hands, bare feet dipping into the stone patio after kicking off your flip flops, walking backwards towards the dock while still maintaining eye contact with him, challenging him, daring him, keeping him on his toes. Especially when you see him swallow a particularly harsh breath when you push your tank top up and off your body, discarding it carelessly as you're left in your bra and fumbling with the belt of your shorts.
A grin widens on your lips. "Scared?"
Bucky scoffs, the taunt kickstarting his motor functions as he subconsciously stands, flicking off his shoes and shirt in the same motion. He closes the space you created in just a few audacious steps, his broad shoulders shielding the light of the dying fire so that his body backlights the flames, making him look like some sort of angel reincarnated. Well, that comparison also aids to the fact that his shirt is off, and it's definitely a heavenly sight. Objectively speaking.
"I think you're forgetting who you're talking to," he teases low, eyes glued to the way you shimmy out of your shorts.
Yeah, he's seen you in a bikini before plenty of times (each time more enjoyable for him than the last), but this is entirely different. He nearly groans at the sight in front of him, the concept of you standing out here in the open in your matching bra and underwear simply for the love of the game. And you can tell he's tattooing this visual in his brain, the first time ever seeing you in actual undergarments looking like sin.
"No, I remember," you challenge immediately. "Clear as day."
His shorts are pooled around his ankles in a matter of milliseconds, and now you're both here: standing in the middle of a dock in the dead of the night in your underwear, the only light now from the half moon cascading light across the lake. The fire's burned out, the lights in the house are off, only the moon and the lightning bugs flickering shed a glow on the moment. It's dark, but just light enough to see the silhouette of his face, the slope of his nose, the steady rise and fall of his bare chest mere inches away from you.
After a moment of simply standing and staring, you turn towards the open water, walking slowly towards the edge as you fumble with the back clasp of your bra, letting the material fall onto the dock along with pushing your underwear down over the curve of your ass, suppressing a shit eating grin knowing he's watching your every movement behind you, especially when you hear his breath hitch audibly.
You don't turn. You don't say anything. Instead you let your toes curl the edge of the dock for one, two, moments before jumping into the cool water.
The coldness engulfs you immediately, black water surrounding you everywhere. You feel the bottom of the lake briefly, but when you come up to surface you're treading on the waves, the water being just deep enough where you can't touch.
However, your fleeting moment of staying afloat doesn't last too long before you feel the catastrophic splash of him jumping in beside you, shaking his hair out like a dog as soon as he surfaces.
"Agh—"
You groan in annoyance, attempting to shove him away as your default response but he knows you too well, anticipating this move and grabbing your wrists before they can make contact with his chest. Then, his hands immediate find your bare waist under the water and tugs you taut to his just-as-bare body.
Your arms instinctively wrap around his shoulders as the waves lap up to your collarbone, shielding your body under the near-black water. But he can feel you all the same, skin to skin, chest to chest, especially when your legs hook around his waist and his fingers dig a little deeper in the soft skin of your flesh, anchoring himself to the moment, to the feel of your body, to the sensation he's been fantasizing about for what feels like forever. When your pubic bone meets his, you realize he's just as naked as you are.
"You're evil for that."
You feign innocence. "What? I love swimming. Sue a girl for wanting to get some laps in."
Bucky shakes his head, and despite the darkness you can make out the blues of his eyes, how they're focused on nothing but you, you, you.
"Sweet girl, this isn't about the swimming and you know that." His voice is low, deliberate, edging on playfulness and genuine pain.
Still, you lean into the bit, figuratively and literally. "Maybe. But where's the fun in that?"
His lips barely brush yours. "Fun? You think teasing me all night is fun?"
"I'd say so."
"Yeah. For you."
"What would you consider it?"
He grins. "Someone who's dodging her real feelings."
“Oh?”
“Yeah. One may say euro-stepping.”
"Sure," you murmur against his lips. "Because calling it that is much more appropriate."
Then you kiss him.
And the whole world stops spinning. Because you never knew, you never ever would fucking suspect that this is where your dignity goes to die, tangled up in Bucky Barnes' arms and making out with him like your life depends on it. You never knew how nice it could be, taut against his body and tasting the lingering tequila on his lips as he groans into your mouth as if it's been killing him to not know what you feel like for all this time spent as his friend. His pal. His weirdly annoying acquaintance that he can seemingly never get enough of.
Bucky kisses you like a man starved, oxygen escaping his lungs the longer he spends seeking solace in the way you taste, feel, smell. He makes a noise, a sigh of relief and pleasure perhaps, and the sound goes straight to your core as you wrap your legs a fraction tighter around his middle, sending the message loud and clear without actually having to say anything. And he notices. Obviously. Because his cock is hard and throbbing and the mere feel of his size makes you dizzy.
"Oh my god," Bucky mumbles against your lips, drunk off the feeling of you. "Knew you'd taste so sweet."
"Sweeter somewhere else," you say gently, coaxing him.
"Fuck," he curses immediately. "You can't— You can't just say that."
Your hands slide over his cool skin, a palm pressing on his erratic heartbeat and the other seeking solace in the column of his neck, feeling both pulse points and how the rhythm skyrockets at the sensation.
"I can't?"
"No." The response is sharp, pained, as if he's barely holding it together. "Because I'm losing my fucking mind here."
You lean down, brushing your cheek with his as your lips attach to his jaw, to the stubble on his neck, to the soft skin of his earlobe that makes him sigh so gutturally that it sends a shiver down your spine. His hands trail experimentally down over the globes of your ass, breath hitching with the anticipation you’ll shove him off, but you don’t. You fucking don’t. You hum pleasingly so he squeezes, pulling you closer, fingertips digging in your flesh and rocking your hips against his so subtly that you feel the length of his cock pressing against your front.
Now it’s your turn to curse.
“Fuck.” You shift your hips against his once more. “Of course you’d have a big dick.”
Bucky chuckles boyishly, seemingly pleased with your approval. Yet you feel his neck get hot with the compliment, a bit flustered at the sudden remark, and it makes you zoom out for a moment, because behind all the sweet talk and flirting and charming persona, he’s just a guy. Flustered with a bit of flirting back. Folding immediately after a bit of touching and soft words. Not only does it make a nice swell of pride in your chest, it makes your heart flutter. Knowing he’s just a man.
“Makes up for being an asshole,” is all he’s able to get out.
You hum against his vocal cord, purposefully pressing your breasts further into his chest and skimming your palm over his heartbeat.
“You’re not an asshole,” you say genuinely, softly, too kind to be kidding. “Not actually.”
“Careful, baby,” he warns. “It’s starting to sound as if you like me or something.”
“I can totally swim away if you want me to—“
“Nope.” His hands are iron grip. “Not a chance. You’re stuck with me.”
You scoff. “I’m never being nice to you again.”
Bucky kisses your temple, a display of intimate affection that makes your heart thrum with all notes of lust aside. It’s delicate. Simple. Promising. Something you can definitely get used to.
“I can live with that,” he says simply, as if it’s certain as law.
That’s when you pull back to look at him. To truly look at him.
How pretty he looks in the moonlight, skin soft with water droplets cascading down his cheeks from his damp hair. How soft his gaze is as he stares right back at you, reaching a hand up to the crown of your head to wipe away your hair that’s fallen onto your face, tucking it gingerly behind your ear and letting his palm idly lay on your jaw, holding you there as if he has all the time in the world to do so. Deliberate. Meaningful. Purposeful.
It isn’t until a fish swims up against your leg, scaly and slimy and absolutely ruining the moment as you yelp, scrambling in his arms.
“Argh— What the fuck!”
Bucky laughs. Hard. Shoulders shaking and everything, hardly panicked in the slightest as you grimace, practically koala clinging to him and scanning the inky water for any more proof of aquatic life.
“Easy,” he muses gently, beginning to walk towards shore with you still in his arms. “All this big, bad talk and you’re scared of a fish.”
You scoff, cheek to cheek with him as you rest your chin on his shoulder, scanning the ripples of waves forming behind him (and totally not staring at his ass in the act of doing so). Your palms lie on his upper back, feeling the planes and muscles move as he trudges out of the water and not even feeling an ounce of shame about it.
“That wasn’t a fish,” you defend instantly, hating the way he’s still literally laughing at you. “That was… It was a three tailed shark, or something.”
Bucky’s footsteps gradually stop, leaving him in thigh-deep as your naked body is completely out in the open as you still cling to him, suddenly fucking freezing despite the warm air and frustrating that he’s not moving, instead standing audaciously still. In this moment you realize just how incredible naked you are — him, too — hanging onto him like a second skin as he holds you like a lifeline.
His words are slow and calculated. “A three tailed shark?”
You groan, annoyed he’s not moving. “Or something.”
“…Or something. Don’t sharks have fins? Not tails?”
His tone makes it sound like he’s on the verge of barking out laughter.
"Can we go inside and stop lingering in creature infested waters please?"
"Oh, god," Bucky says, feigning horror. "It must've bit and infected you with something. You're saying please."
"Bucky."
"It's worse than I thought."
"I'm going to kill you."
"Just like any other day."
When he (eventually) starts moving again, he sets you down gently on the small shore as you immediately give him a shove which earns a hearty laugh from him, stomping away from the beautiful sound to retrieve your scattered clothes on the dock and bonfire patio. The embers have gone out long ago, leaving the two of you coated in a comfortable darkness illuminated solely from the moonlight.
As you gather his clothing as well — even though you throw it at him as he continues to laugh right in your face — you noticed a dim light flicked on in the house on the first floor. If that isn't motivation to get dressed, then you don't know what is. So you slip your tank top and shorts back on despite your sopping wet figure, noticing Bucky following suit as you're already halfway to the house.
"Wait— fuck," Bucky curses, picking up a light job to fall into stride with you, audaciously bumping your shoulder now that he has the right to do so. "The three tailed fish almost got me, and you weren't there to save me."
Your eye roll kickstarts a migraine.
Shamelessly, he slides his hand in yours, interlacing your fingers. "I could've died," he says incredulously.
Truly you try to ignore how nice it feels to be holding his hand, how is palm encases yours and how his thumb glides over your smooth skin in admiration, such a simple gesture but...sweet in its own. Christ, get it together, you're not in middle school. Even though his incessant teasing makes your face feel hot and even though you try and hide your smile (impossible), you don't dream of pulling away like you normally would. You...let yourself have the moment, even if your dignity is the price.
"I think you're having way too much fun overanalyzing a moment of weakness," you mumble bitterly, walking up the porch stairs and avoiding his gaze.
He hums low. "Am I?"
"Clearly."
"Couldn't you argue I'm on cloud nine because I kissed a pretty girl instead?"
God, your face is burning. How do words come so easy for him? "Do you ever stop talking?"
"Never with you."
He squeezes your hand once, twice in a way that makes you think he probably doesn't even realize he's doing so. When you get to the door, Bucky's quicker than you, reaching his unoccupied hand up to quietly turn the knob and open the door with a gentle creak, gesturing you to enter first like the grandeur gentleman he is (debatable) and hot on your tail so he can close the door behind the two of you (probably making you go in first so he can take a sneak peak at your ass).
Once you're both inside, Bucky stands broad behind you, still gingerly holding your hand as the other one comes to lay refuge on your waist, guiding you towards the grand stairs just on the other side of the dimly lit kitchen. He's right at your back, feeling the rise and fall of his chest against your spine as he pushes you into the next room—
...To where you're not alone.
You freeze when you see a figure standing at the kitchen island, the spot where you stood with Bucky and Izzy a few mere hours ago where you learned her true character, and your heart drops when you realize it's Bucky's dad, nursing a half drank whiskey in his pajamas. He's peering at the two of you intently, and you realize they have the same bright blue eyes, as if you're looking at his carbon copy. You wonder if he's who Bucky sees every time he looks in the mirror.
Mr. Barnes stares at you and his son through tired eyes, almost as if he was expecting this to happen, a little midnight rendevous involving his prone-to-risky-behavior kid. This probably isn't the first time his father has caught him in a predicament like this, unfortunately, given the way Bucky absolutely stills behind you and how his grip becomes iron.
"James," his father says eventually, low and rough around the edges with exhaustion. "It's one in the morning."
Although Bucky doesn't cower. "I'm aware. We were being quiet."
His father does a quick (and rather judge mental) once over of the two of you: hair dripping, bodies sopping wet, water staining through previously dried clothes and probably making a puddle the longer you stand stagnant in one place. You can imagine how this doesn't look great, especially for Bucky whose been trying to render the rebellious image his family has of him.
All of that hard work today is seemingly put down the drain, because you think that — at the end of the day — the only approval your supposed-boyfriend has been seeking is his father's...who doesn't look very happy in this given moment.
The up-curl of his father's lip is nothing nice. "You really thought it'd be a good idea to mess around in the water this late?"
Bucky narrows his eyes. "I'm not a kid."
"You're my kid," he corrects pointedly, not saving room for argument. "Acting like an idiot."
"Can we not— Can we not do this right now? In front of my girlfriend?"
A shiver runs down your spine, both at the incoming confrontation and the forbidden g-word.
But Mr. Barnes doesn't flinch at the attempt to diffuse the escalating situation.
"You're an adult acting like a child." His father's voice is quiet in volume, but laced with venom at the undertones. "So I'm going to speak to you like one."
Before Bucky can say anything else, you unexpectedly clear your throat.
"The swimming was my idea," you defend gently, trying to diffuse the growing tension with an ounce of the sweetness everyone seems to think you have. "Not his. Really. I practically forced him to."
Your name is said softly behind you, defeated and partially in warning to not get involved.
But you are. Oh, you fucking are getting involved. Because Bucky's been subconsciously throwing looks over his shoulder to see if his father was seeking him out for anything special, to see if he was needed for any task whether it be helping man the grill or even take out the trash, for fuck's sake. It's not your place to say you noticed, but you did, and your heart breaks for him, for the small shroud of hope he always holds for the mere possibility he'll be loved. Appreciated. Cared for in a way he yearns to be.
Besides, you're not scared of this man. Granted, you've been wanting to fight him for years given the way Bucky's shoulders always sag without meaning to whenever parents get brought up, but you've always had something personal set out for his father despite wanting to strangle Bucky half the time you've known him. But this is different. This is love, we're talking about. A basic human emotion. Something everyone should have, feel, give out. And his father just...doesn't.
His father's eyes set on you. "That's very chivalrous, honey, but James knows better—"
"I do too," you interrupt firmly, yet gentle enough to not escalate with volume. You need to get out of this kitchen. Stat. Not for your sake but for the man standing behind you, still as a statue. "Definitely irresponsible, but still. I'm sorry for bringing water into the house, where do you keep your towels so I can clean it up?"
"That's not—"
Bucky's father trails off, cutting his sentence in half as he sighs instead, peering at your innocent gaze and pondering for one, two beats before sighing again, ultimately deciding that this little dominance back and forth act is simply not worth the trouble. Nor the headache. Because there's no way you're not taking the blame and there's no way his father wants to pin the blame on anyone other than his son, the easy way out.
"No need for that," Mr. Barnes secedes eventually. "The two of you just... head to bed and we'll forget this happened in the morning."
You furrow your brows, a retort rising in your throat.
But Bucky squeezes your hand, leaning down so his lips ghost the shell of your ear.
"C'mon." His voice is merely a whisper. "Let's go."
Bidding a soft goodnight to his father, you allow Bucky to guide you out of the kitchen, still right behind you but without the same smile from earlier, the same pep in his step. Instead he's quiet — too quiet — as he trails your path up the stairs, down the hallway all the way to the left, and into his childhood bedroom where you brought your bags up to earlier today.
When he shuts the door behind you and flicks on the old Superman lamp he's had since he was a kid, you're engulfed in a gentle light, illuminating the old comic book collection gathering dust in the corner and the old super-hero posters hanging on the wall, edges creased from aging. Most of the recent decor he brought to his apartment, so everything in here are the scraps, the old testaments to his childhood that make your heart swell detrimentally.
"You wanna shower?"
Bucky's voice startles you as you shamelessly study his wall decor, turning your heel to discover him on the other side of the room plugging his phone in.
He can barely look you in the eye as he continues. "Room's on the other side of the house where everyone's sleeping. It won't wake anyone up, if that's what you're thinking."
You frown.
...No. That's not what you're thinking.
You're thinking about him pretending to be fine, pretending not to care about the emotional toll his father has on his life, pretending not to acknowledge the astronomical tonal shift from when you were in the lake to now, two opposite ends of the same stick, planets apart. You're thinking about how he always goes into panic mode whenever his father's around, and you assume it's him bracing for the anticipation of being insulted or belittled or completely ignored all together. You're thinking about the fact that no one's probably defended him in his life. Maybe besides his sister, but she's not here this weekend, so he would've had to muster it alone if you didn't show.
But you can easily tell he doesn't want to talk about it given the way he barely looks in your direction. He probably needs a moment, you think logically, so no big deal. You'll take a quick shower, maybe he'll go after you or he'll fall asleep. The activities from the lake can wait. Truly, they can, because you want him to be in the right headspace.
So you shower. Quickly. Not bothering with half of your normal routine, just a simple body and hair wash before stepping out, and you barely get a word in because he enters the bathroom right after you, following your actions. In the time he takes under the hot water, you slip into your pajamas and slide into his childhood bed, claiming a side you hope isn't his and staring at the ceiling. You count down the minutes until the water shuts off, wringing the thin blanket in your hands as some sort of pathetic coping mechanism to fuel your bubbling nerves.
Bucky emerges from the backroom in basketball shorts, his normal sleeping attire, as he maneuvers swiftly around the room to shut the lights off and eventually slide into the bed next to you.
Your fingers twitch in his direction, aching to hold him.
The silence between you is palpable, and you teeter between wanting to fill the gap or let it coarse you into a deep sleep. However that internal debacle doesn't last very long, because when he adjusts his position and his arm brushes yours, you take a long deep breath. Well, so much for trying to mind your own business.
"Hey." You nudge his arm with yours. "You asleep?"
"It's been thirty seconds since I've laid down."
"...So, no?"
Bucky chuckles softly in the darkness, and you count that as a win in your books. "No, sweet girl."
You hum contently, biting your lip as a million questions rise and die in your throat. How do you...broach it? Do you outright ask if he's alright? Simply reach over and hold him instead of opting for your words? Or do you make him use his words, talk through his bubbling feelings. That will most likely make him feel better (you'd hope) but then again, he most definitely does not want to do that, not with you, especially since he'll probably label is as a serial mood killer.
His voice startles you. "I can hear you thinking."
You blink stupidly.
"Sorry," you say immediately, unsure of why you're apologizing. "I just— I'm sorry. I wanna know if you're alright, but I feel like I know the answer, but I also didn't want to say anything to remind you— I don't even— Sorry. I don't know anymore."
Bucky doesn't say anything, and the silence is almost unbearable. Granted it's only a few seconds between your last breath and the long stretch of quiet elongating between you, but it feels like eons, days stretched into nights, weeks into months and months into years. Your panicked incessant rambling lingers like a cloud in the air, unforgiving and soft but so fucking obvious.
God, why isn't he saying anything?
You only make it worse. "That sucked. Hearing him speak to you like that. I hate that it's normal. It shouldn't be." Fucking christ, stop talking. "Even today with your aunts, I don't understand it. You didn't deserve that. You don't deserve that. That's not... That isn't how you speak to people you love." Shut the fuck up. "I just... I'm sorry. That's all. I'm here if you want to talk. Uhm. Yeah."
Bucky's still quiet for a moment.
Then, "Will you c'mere?"
At his words you blink once, twice, unsure you heard him right, but the longer it lingers in the air, the more certain you are of the request, swallowing the lump in your throat and cautiously shifting towards him, heart racing from your panicked little speech at the fear of crossing boundaries or making him feel like even more shit than he already probably does.
You place a light palm on his bare chest experimentally, and his hand immediately encases over your knuckles, fingers calloused and rough and cool from the water. Cautiously, you rest your cheek on his shoulder as he wraps an arm around your body to splay his hand on your spine, tugging you closer.
And you just... hug him.
Truthfully, you're not really sure why you do so, but you assume it's stemming from the kettlebell settled in your gut from the interaction with his father, how easy it was for him to speak down at his son as if it was any other day. God, it make your chest ache with something you're not necessarily ready to confront and understand, but that feeling lingers and spreads in your body like a wildfire, hot and burning and impossible to ignore.
The whole thing makes Bucky stiffen, not from the act of having you close but from the implication behind it, the way you're trying to comfort him instead of brush it off like everyone else does, caring for him in a way that feels foreign, performative, fake. He's not used to it, used to this, to the simplicity of your rambling words to the warmth of your arms, literally and figuratively.
You swallow thickly and it feels like sandpaper.
The sound makes Bucky snort, chest jerking underneath you. "I'm alright."
"Okay."
"I think you're more upset about it than I am."
You huff, half playful and half in disbelief that he's finding the energy to kid around. "Upset is an understatement. I think I'm ready to take on your whole family, Scott Pilgrim style."
Bucky's thumb smoothes over your knuckles delicately, as if he's skimming the topography of a map. "That fighting technique is for evil exes, sweet girl."
"Still applicable here," you murmur without thinking, flashes of a pretty blonde popping into mind.
All he does is hum teasingly, but it's gentler, as if his eyes are shut and sleep is beginning to overtake. Despite desperately wanting to continue the activities from the lake, you know it's not the time nor place for that kind of mood. And, genuinely, you're fine with that. Because you want that moment, whenever it may come, to be in good graces, to be in the right headspace.
It's quiet again for a while, the two of you basking in the now-comfortable silence as you hold each other as if life itself depends on it. The concept of being here, laid in his arms, seeking his warmth and touching him for longer than ten seconds would've seemed like a fever dream yesterday, but now that it's something that you've experienced, there's little to no possibility of ever returning to what it once was. Not when you know how nice it is to be held by him, touched by him, kissed by him.
You're inches from sleep when his baritone voice lulls you.
"Izzy and I were together when I was in my snowboarding accident."
His voice is all but a whisper, a hushed breath, but you hear him all the same, now wide awake with the anticipation of his anecdote. You've heard about his accident in high school, how his arm was the price of his life. Granted, you've never really asked him about it not knowing if it's a sensitive topic, but he's mentioned it a few times in the duration of your friendship casually. Snowboarding accident, months of trial testing bionic limbs, a whole nightmare for him. Sure, he's infinitely better now, but sometimes you notice the way he rolls out his shoulder where flesh meets metal, never quite comfortable in skin that isn't his.
You feel the cool metal against your back, calming you in more ways than you'd care to admit.
"At first, she was there for me as much as any seventeen year old could." Bucky's fingers trace over your vertebrae, perhaps as a coping mechanism. "Tied my shoes. Fixed my hair. Carried things for me. Drove me to appointments when my mom couldn't. Basic caretaker tasks like that."
Your stomach fills with dread imagining a seventeen year old Bucky faced with such an incomprehensible struggle, a life-changing alteration. Just a kid. Having to re-learn everything he already knew.
Then he pauses for a moment, finding the correct words.
"It got to the point where I was inconsolable. Treatment was rough, the bionic matches kept falling through. I think it got too hard for her because I was so negative all the time," he excuses quietly.
Your defense is immediate. "No shit you were negative, Bucky. You went through something incomprehensible."
"Easy, sweet girl." His voice is saccharine, light and playful at your irritation as if he's finding your rising blood pressure funny. "It was a long time ago. I'm over it. I'm telling you because I want you to know, not because I'm still bitter, okay?"
With a small sigh, you secede, digging your cheek further into his shoulder to prevent a pout. "M'kay."
Bucky hums. "Good girl," he murmurs with certainty.
(Your breath hitches. You disguise it as a yawn.)
He either ignores it and lets you suffer or doesn't notice. "But basically she just slowly pulled away. Stopped checking in, brushed me off at school like she was embarrassed by the whole thing. The amount of times I made Steve and Becca do my hair or get that one itch on my back was concerning. However, I did learn how to chop fruit one handed. Felt a bit like Soul Surfer."
"Bucky."
He chuckles boyishly. "Sorry. But true. It was right before prom when she left me officially when I got a bionic match for a new arm." His fingers wiggle against your spine, making you laugh into his warm skin. "I thought...you know... we'd be good. I was getting better, actually had a working limb," he continues, trailing off because you both know how the story ends.
You ask anyway. "What happened?"
"Her dress was navy," he says simply. "Didn't match with black."
Your filter leaves the room. Immediately.
"Are you fucking kidding me?"
Bucky just laughs. Hard. Honest. As if he was totally expecting the reaction.
"Nope," he says simply, still coming down from his laughter (that is normally such a beautiful noise but you're too busy seeing red to process anything other than how bad you want to fight her right now). "Took Becca as my date and had loads more fun, anyway."
The anecdote still does nothing to soothe your frustration. "How could she—? When you were— Did she even—? And then she has the audacity to try and get you back—"
"Easy." A playful warning.
"No. I'm fighting her in the morning."
He snorts as if this is the most entertaining bit of the day. "You're not fighting anyone. I'm okay, I'm over it." Then he pauses. "But I'm flattered you'd fight someone for me, baby."
The pet name makes your face flush, and instead of commenting on it (because he can probably feel your heat on his skin), all he does is hum with contentment, because you can deny it all you want, but he's right. You will go to bat for him, and you have multiple times in the past twenty four hours, despite how much you love to tell him you won't. It's almost a bit embarrassing how well he can read you, even in the dark, unknowing to the extent of which he knows you, how much he's been paying attention to your mannerisms, demeanor, behavior the last few years of knowing him.
You yawn gently despite your bubbling anger, squeezing him just a fraction tighter as a wordless gesture that you're here, you're not running, and you're in his corner no matter how much he riles you up, makes you want to punch a wall, or smack him upside the head. Preferably in that order.
Then his lips meet your hairline, pressing gently as a show of good faith as your eyes flutter shut, relishing pathetically in the moment.
"Sleep it off, Rocky," Bucky jokes low, voice rough with sleep and admiration. "You'll be back to sweet girl in the morning."
"Wait." You find yourself saying a little more desperate than you hoped. "We're not— Uh— Are we not— Like, you know..."
Bucky pauses, your babble of an incoherent sentence lingering in the air.
"Are we not..?" He asks in clarification, trailing off. “…what?”
But he’s connecting the dots anyway, trying to suppress a grin you can practically hear in the darkness and how deliciously it spreads on his lips. The rapid thumping of your heart is a dead giveaway as to what you’re referring to, and Bucky’s too smart to not know the nuance of your words, too in tune with your semantics and too fucking keen on you as a whole. It sometimes it feels like he knows your reactions and responses before you even know them yourself.
The pause between you is palpable, because he knows what you’re asking for. But he’s never made things easy for you — why would he? Especially when he has the opportunity to hear you use your words, plea for continuing the events from earlier, something he’s been dreaming about for far too long in such a pathetic way that it makes him practically oozing with smugness. He wants to hear you beg for him, to say please like the sweet girl you are, and then he’ll have you every single way you want him.
You groan irritably. “You’re really gonna make me say it?”
“Yup.” Prick.
“This should be considered a form of medieval torture.”
“What’s torture is every second you’re delaying the inevitable.”
You roll your eyes even though you know he can’t see it. “For you.”
The sigh that comes from his mouth is dreamy, almost mockingly as you build up the courage to give him what he wants. “Who knew I’d get cracked in my childhood bedroom.”
“Seriously? Can you not phrase it like that?”
His fingers skim the waistband of your sleep shorts, slow and deliberate and dangerously low on your back. The baritone hum emitting from his throat does nothing to settle the bubbling nerves in your stomach.
“Sorry,” he says, completely unapologetic. “Who knew that you’d get cracked in my childhood bedroom.”
“Bucky.”
He repeats your name back with a mirrored cadence.
You sigh, knowing that you might as well be talking directly to a brick wall.
But it isn’t until he shifts up onto his side, ducking down in the darkness to find the curve of your jaw with his lips. He places one, two chaste kisses on your soft skin, a plea of sorts, and then moves lower to the column of your neck, shamelessly inhaling the faint scent of shampoo as he sucks a sweet spot just below your jaw. When he groans quietly — yet loud to you all the same because he’s right there by your earlobe — your hands immediately seek solace on his broad shoulders, fingers dancing in the ends of his hair as some sort of coping mechanism.
“Tell me to stop,” Bucky mumbles against your pulse point, his hushed whisper sounding pained.
Your response is immediate. “Don’t.”
With one swift guidance, you’re suddenly on your back with your hair splayed against the pillow, and Bucky’s hovering over you, chest to chest, as his lips immediately connect with yours, full of hunger and admiration and straight disbelief that you’re both in this scenario right now. He slots himself between your open legs, barely — just barely — connecting his hips with yours. The faintest brush of his hard cock to your cunt makes you both intake a sharp breath, and it isn’t until you’re ignoring the steps to take it slow and hooking your legs around his waist, tugging him closer by digging your heels in the base of his spine so that you feel him. All of him. Up against you.
Bucky moans into your mouth at the contact, minimal but there and prominent.
It makes you feel dizzy. Buzzed off one drink. Floaty off one hit. Intoxicated and airy and light as if you’re not even on the planet. You kiss him back with fervor as you feel his hands push the hem of your sleep shirt up over your ribs, just stopping shy of the swell of your breasts.
You answer before he can put the request into words. “Off.”
Bucky obeys, but not without him grinning against your lips. “Bossy.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Your shirt is discarded somewhere carelessly in the darkness, leaving your chest bare. “Would you rather me be quiet and complicit?”
His hands waste no time fondling your breast, pushing and pulling the flesh and rolling the pad of his thumb over your pebbled nipple. The act is done in pure admiration, the need to explore and simply feel your body, to learn what makes your toes curl and eyes roll back.
“No,” he says immediately before ducking down to attach his mouth to your chest.
Sighing, your back arches into his mold, one hand fisting the ends of his hair and the other splayed on his broad back. The sensation of his mouth on one breast and the cool metal fingers fondling the other gives you a shock of pleasure that’s almost embarrassing to admit. It’s hot and cold, your body confused with the temperature it’s supposed to be feeling, but it sends a jolt of pleasure down your spine nonetheless.
You think you sigh his name. Maybe you moan it. At this point, you’ve lost control of your motor and speech functions.
Christ, it’s humiliating how wet you are. You can feel it in your sleep shorts, and perhaps you were dripping for him ever since his hand grabbed your ass to initiate this little rendezvous. Regardless of the semantics, he’s bound to discover the remnants of your pleasure sooner or later, probably in seconds given the way his hand slowly skims down your ribcage, over your stomach, eventually settling on the waistband of your sleep shorts and dipping his fingers inside to tug down.
This time, Bucky does ask. He takes. And within seconds, your shorts are added to the discarded pile of scattered clothing.
When his fingers meet the slick wetness between your slit, you sigh unabashedly loud from the mere teasing, not missing the way his breath hitches from where his mouth kisses your breast almost as if it’s stolen from him. Ragged and pained and you swear you feel his cock twitch in his shorts.
“Oh my god.” His fingers spread you open, feeling your obscene wetness. The act is nothing short of slow and deliberate, as if in disbelief. “All this for me, sweet girl?”
Your face flushes. “Bucky.”
Your attempt at a deadpan falls short, and it merely comes out as a breathy sigh that’s music to his ears.
He’s in heaven. He must be, given the dreamy sigh that falls from his lips. “Knew you liked me.”
“Shut up.”
Bucky laughs again at your attempt to stay tough, maneuvering down your torso with kisses peppered to your breasts, ribcage, stomach, hip bone, all the way to your inner thighs where he nestles in between your legs, hooking your thighs over his shoulders with one hand remaining on one of your breasts. He gives it a gentle squeeze, a reaffirmation, as you brush some hair out of his eyes that you can just make out in the moonlight poking through the sliver of the curtain.
“I think you should be a little nicer to the guy who’s about to eat you out.”
You scoff, ignoring the way you twitch when his hot breath fans over your cunt. “I think you should—“
You don’t finish. He doesn’t let you, prick, because his mouth attaches to your core to shut you up immediately.
And it works, because ho— holy fu— fuck—
Bucky hums greedily low into your cunt at the effectiveness of making you speechless, plunging his tongue that’s hot and needy as his nose nudges into your clit every time his jaw tightens. One hand squeezes your breast, rolling his thumb over your nipple, as the other splays on your hipbone to effectively keep your hips tethered to the bed. God, you’re trying to move against his face, writhing with pleasure that he’s too good at giving, and he’s only making it worse by keeping you still. Your thighs shake around his head at the attempts, back arched against the mattress as if it’s done something to personally offend you.
A minute passing feels like eons. He eats you out like a man starved, thoroughly pleased with the way you’re breathily moaning curses and his name as if they’re mantras spilling from your lips. It’s a beautiful sound, one he’s thought about more than once with his hand down his pants picturing it was your hand. Now it only makes his cock throb achingly, and his hips rutting into the mattress somewhat relieves the pressure in his groin.
He shifts his body, freeing a shoulder. When he adds his fingers to the mix after another minute of greedily letting his mouth do all the work, the pad of his thumb searches the darkness for that special sweet spot. Bucky misses once, twice, three times, but when a ragged moan escapes your lips at the fourth attempt, he doesn’t miss again. Instead, he presses harder circles, keeping the same rhythm that makes you squirm and whine and clutch his hair so tight it makes his eyes roll back into his head.
The coil builds in your lower tummy, sparking like a lit match and gradually getting brighter with a sense of euphoria that’s blinding, dismantling all your default settings and making you into a big pile of mush and moans. Your heels dig into his lower back and your thighs clamp against his head, and instead of pulling away or teasing you, it only spurs him on further, as if suffocating is part of his endgame.
“Bucky,” you babble clumsily. “Fuck— Right th— Fuck, I’m close—“
A low hum escapes his throat, vibrating your pleasure to tenfold as it comes crashing over embarrassingly fast, blinking away the blurry spots in your vision as you come hard on his mouth, writhing against his face as his tongue and fingers fuck you through it nice and firm, the sound wet and obscene and straight pornographic. You feel his lower body jerk forward particularly harsh, as he’s been rutting the mattress the whole time, groaning low into your cunt and it’s such a beautiful sound, a practical whine, sounding irrevocably wrecked just from eating you out.
Bucky Barnes. Whining into your cunt. Fucking you with his mouth so good you practically see stars. Definitely did not see that on your radar.
The aftershocks make your back arch off the mattress, thighs trembling achingly so against the sides of his head, especially when he dives into your cunt for more — after you’ve already come — and the overstimulation makes your thighs jerk closed on instinct. But the notion of tightening your hold around his head only makes Bucky pant into your core, out of breath but not detaching his mouth under any circumstance, as if he wants to die between your thighs as if he was put on this earth to do so.
You shake and babble something incoherent, mind fuzzy and still trying to come down from the intensity of the moment, whining as his tongue continues to lap up the remnants of your orgasm with all the time in the world. The concept of him going in for more, not wanting to stop tasting you, only spurs you on further.
It isn’t until his thumb finds your clit again to where you physically jerk, letting out a shameless moan from the overstimulation.
“I need you,” you murmur raggedly, sounding absolutely fucking wrecked. “C’mere.”
“Wanna give you another,” Bucky mumbles, resting his cheek on your inner thigh as he pants from the work, his fingers replacing his tongue as they plunge in and out of your cunt, curling into sweet spots you thought unimaginable.
You paw around clumsily in the darkness to reattach your fingers to his hair. “Wanna feel you.”
“Fuck,” he whines. Whines. “I need a— need a minute.”
“Please,” you plea into the darkness, throwing your dignity out the window given the sheer desperation in your voice. “I want your cock. Please, Bucky.”
His teeth gently bite down on your inner thigh, making you jerk at the sensation as he bites back a moan — literally.
“God, you’re killing me.” Bucky crawls up your body, needy and desperate and clumsy as his lips find the column of your neck. “Want you too, baby. I just— I need— I can’t—“
Your hand reaches down to cup his length, his achingly hard cock straining his shorts. Bucky physically jerks, practically trembling as you feel his cock literally twitch in your grasp. Especially when your fingers smooth down his length over his shirts, your thumb finding his tip and brushing over—
You gasp.
Brushing over the prominent wet spot.
The cool sensation against your thumb makes you both viscerally react, you intaking a sharp breath of disbelief and Bucky moaning into the hot skin of your neck, his hand iron gripping your waist and the other elbow holding up his body so he doesn’t entirely collapse on you, but given the way he’s melting from simply touching his dick over his clothes, you figure that might happen soon.
He came from eating you out. You hadn’t— You didn’t even need to touch him. And he’s still hard.
So you find yourself smiling. No, grinning.
“All this for me, sweet boy?” You murmur back at him, reiterating his words from earlier.
Bucky scoffs against your neck, burying his face in the crook of it as he sucks a sweet spot on your vocal point. But he doesn’t say anything. He can’t. Not when your hand feels like heaven and sin mixed together in the same breath. Unashamed of his clear want and desire and lust, letting you do whatever you want and placing proverbial knife in your hand and hoping you don’t stab him with it.
You let it happen for a minute. Maybe two, while you essentially jerk him off over the shorts as he assaults your neck. But you need more, clearly not done if the night will allow it. Especially when he sounds this hot, this wrecked as if you have his lifeline in the palm of your hand (in some ways, you do).
“Lie back,” you say gently in his ear, finally not panting after the intensity of your orgasm and speaking coherently.
Bucky hums teasingly, but obeys nonetheless, shifting off of you, sliding his shorts off and propping himself up against the headboard.
“You gonna take care of me, baby?” His gravely voice makes you bite your lip.
You clumsily scramble up to perch in his lap, his hands greedily on you before you can even settle in. It’s dark, no doubt, but you can just make out the outline of his cock standing straight against his stomach, hard and leaking and ready for you again. Gently, you reach down and take him in your hand, thumb brushing over the wet tip and slowly — achingly slow — jerk him off as you feel him tense beneath you, especially when you trace over a vein.
God, he’s big. You don’t need the light to know that.
Bucky’s hand grabs your wrist. “I don’t… I don’t have condoms here.”
You continue your movements. “‘M safe. It’s okay.”
You adjust your hips, lifting them on trembling thighs as you guide his dick through your wet folds, keeping him there as you coat him with the remnants of your previous orgasm.
The sensation makes you both moan pathetically. Bucky’s hands are squeezing the flesh of your ass as he shakily aids your movements, and one of your hands braces on his shoulder, the other smoothing over the lines of his abdomen in admiration. And you just…rub on him for a bit. Feeling his length. (Also to partially hear his breathy whines when his tip nearly enters your cunt with every shift of your hips.)
“You feel like a fucking dream,” Bucky sighs. “Taste like one. Smell like one.”
Instinctively, you lean forward and place a chaste kiss on his lips, one that he chases when you pull back, capturing you in another filthy kiss as your hand guides his cock towards your entrance. With the wet slick of both your arousals, his tip slips right in, and Bucky intakes a sharp breath at the sensation, his hands iron and immediately halting your movements.
“Shit,” he curses. “Shit. Give me a second.”
“Gonna come from just the tip?”
“Shit. Maybe.”
You laugh, and the vibration makes him swear again, nearly sounding pained. Bucky says your name low in warning, but you just pepper kisses on his cheek, jaw, neck, as he slowly — at his pace — lowers your body onto him until he’s buried to the hilt, and you’ve never felt so fucking full, stretched, fulfilled.
Adjusting your hips subtly to accommodate all of him, Bucky’s hand comes up to the crook of your jaw.
“Breathe,” he muses gently.
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, so caught up in the mere size of him and how he’s undoubtedly the biggest dick you’ve ever had, stretching you to regions unknown and places you never knew you had. But it’s delectable, delicious, and in this moment in your dazed mind you know that he’s ruined you for anyone else.
His fingers brush hair away from your face. “You okay?”
You nod against his hand. “Feel so full.”
“Do you want me to come immediately?”
His deadpan makes you shakily laugh, now somehow understanding the full effect you have on him, how the mere taste of you made him finish and how he’s still rock hard after doing so, eagerly waiting for me, wanting more, needing more.
“Wanna make you feel good,” you mumble incoherently, blink with pleasure.
But he understands you all the same. “You are. Doing such a great job taking all of me.”
You roll your hips experimentally once, twice, and he doesn’t stop you. Instead, Bucky spurs you on.
“Good girl, that’s it,” he coaxes gently, tone dreamy. “Take what you need.”
So you do.
Well, you try to. Your trembling thighs don’t do much to help you in your movements, but Bucky’s hands planted firmly on the backs of your thighs (practically your ass) aide your bounces, rocking you sensually over his length to take all of him, nearly pull out, just to have you sitting back down on him again, buried to the hilt. Your clit rubs against his pubic bone, nudging every time you sink into him completely. The feel of it makes you whine every time, and he swallows them up when he kisses you, or praises you against your lips.
You’re a pathetic mess, writhing on his lap and taking what you need while you feel him thrust up into you to bury himself that much more. The sensation of his cock reaching spots in your cunt that you’ve never explored before only furthers your arousal, makes you whine into his mouth and dig your fingers into his shoulders to indent crescent moons on his delicate skin.
It isn’t until after a minute or two of his, one of his hands leaves your ass to meet your front, his thumb finding your clit and pressing firm circles on it, making your back arch and your movements jerk, messy, sloppy, lazy, so fucking hot that his hips snap up to meet your discombobulated thrusts. The combination of his cock so fucking deep plus his thumb plus the sound of his breathy moans synonymous to yours makes your head spin, your legs tremble, your heart thump rapidly.
“This what you needed, hm?” Bucky’s voice is absolutely wrecked, a low growl that kickstarts that familiar coil in your lower belly. “Someone to fuck you nice?”
“Wh—Who said you f—fuck me nice?” Your question is humiliatingly answered when his thumb pressed harder onto your clit, eliciting a ragged moan from your pretty lips. “No one s—said that.”
The sound only makes Bucky scoff, or what appears to be one. “Me giving you your second orgasm says otherwise.”
God, how can you read you like a book in the dark? How does he know your body already? Has he felt that way your movements are getting quicker, sloppier, desperate? How your breath is shallow and whiny and wrecked? How the coil building in your gut is already hotter, more blinding, agonizingly more detrimental than the last one? How it’s practically making you see stars already when it hasn’t even climaxed?
“You—You’re not.”
“Oh?” Bucky removes his fingers from your clit and stops thrusting up into you, suddenly still as a statue as a protest immediately rips out of your throat. “I’m not?”
Your desperate is downright humiliating, gasping from being on the brink of an earth shattering orgasm. “Bucky, why’d— Don’t stop— Please— I need—“
“Need what, sweet girl?” Oh, you can hear his fucking grin in the darkness, enjoying this, relishing in your cries as you desperately paw at his shoulders to get him to continue. “I told you to take it, so take it.”
Tears brim your waterline at the denial, god, your orgasm is right there, it’s aching, white hot and searing and almost there, so closed just reachable, but you need his hands, his cock thrusting up into you, his mouth, you can’t do it on your own, your thighs are jelly and you’re hands are shaking.
A ragged breath leaves your mouth and it doesn’t even sound like you, so wrecked. “F—Fuck, baby, I need it, I’m close—“
“Thought you said I wasn’t giving you one?”
Your frustrated groan makes him chuckle meanly.
But he’s not done, cock achingly hard and probably close behind you anyway, so he gives in. Just slightly. With one small, minute, step to be done before he continues anything.
“Just say you need me, sweet girl.” His voice is laced with honey cadence.
You secede. Immediately. Writhing as your orgasm edges you, inhabiting your entire motor and speech functions.
“I need you.” You feel a tear roll down your cheek, desperately trying to find release. “I’m yours.”
That makes Bucky intake a sharp breath, but your request is granted as he thrusts up into you almost without meaning to, thumb clumsily finding your clit again in the dark. And it makes you realize that he’s just as fucking close to finishing as you are, especially with his whimper at your words which is a sound so beautiful it snaps the coil in your lower stomach.
“Fuck—“ Bucky’s voice is desperate. “How are you—? When I—? Holy— Such a— a sweet fuck— fucking—“
You come. Hard. Blinding. It washes over you with a wrecked moan and desperate bounces on his achingly hard cock, as Bucky meets your movements from underneath, rutting and thrusting up into you to chase his own release that comes immediately after, filling you up with hot spurts that make the most obscene noise, his release trickling down your thighs with the combination of yours making a downright filthy mess of sex.
You face buries in the crook of his neck, and you feel him bear-wrap his arms around you to thrust up into you, riding out both of your highs with wrecked moans and a squelching sound straight out of a pornographic film.
Bucky’s movements gradually slow, chests bumping together as you both heave from the intensity of it all, working down to you simply sitting in his lap, still buried to the hilt as the remnants of your shared orgasm dribble down your thighs and onto his, and you make the mistake of twitching (completely out of your control) that shifts your hips, and you let out a soft moan of overstimulation as he softens in you, thighs trembling and hands shaking against his shoulders.
His hands butterfly splay on your spine, tracing soothingly up and down the vertebrae as you catch your breath and blink back your vision. The whole thing is achingly sweet, patient, kind as he waits for you to regain your senses, still buried deep in his neck as you breathe intermittently ragged, wrecked, fucked out.
“You okay?” His voice is gravelly.
You mumble something incoherent, a testament that you hear him but don’t quite have your speech functions back completely yet.
Bucky makes a noise that’s a mix between a laugh and a sigh. “You did so well for me.”
You hum, eyes fluttering shut and your lashes butterfly kiss his soft skin.
“Thank you.”
Did he just—
Steadily, you manage to lift your head, inches from his face. “Did you—“ Your voice is hoarse. “Did you just thank me?”
“Mhm,” he murmurs, completely unashamed. “Had to.”
“For sleeping with you?”
“No. For letting me sleep with you.”
You try to laugh but instead it comes out as a noise of disbelief, skepticism. Because… no. There’s no way he actually— he hasn’t been plotting on you, right? No, there’s genuinely no way. You’ve been friends. Just friends. You’ve never thought about him with his shirt off or what he’s like with other girls or if he’s ever fucked against the wall or in the back of a car—
“Why’re you so surprised?” Bucky says gently, interrupting your thoughts (for the better).
Now you’re sort of regaining your brain as your dizziness fades, the post orgasmic clarity hitting more than ever at the sincerity of his words. He’s being completely serious, and you know that because you feel his fingers drumming on your spine, a nervous tick of his that you’ve seen him do before on countless occasions. It calms him for some reason, as some sort of coping mechanism to stay rooted to the moment.
But you are surprised. You’ve been friends for years, never crossed a boundary further than that and instead used your vernacular as your way of bonding with him. He’s teased, you’ve swore, he’s riled you up, you’ve shoved him, but you’ve always stayed friends, stepping up when it mattered most despite your on and off banter. It’s not— You’ve never considered yourself an actual player on his roster, a forethought, an option as something more than friends to him, because it’s never crossed that line, and frankly you never assumed you were his type. At all.
All this thinking and you realize he’s waiting for an answer.
“Uh,” you say immediately, unsure of where to start. “Well, I don’t know. We’re friends.”
“I’m literally inside you right now.”
You shove gently at his shoulder with what little strength you have. “Idiot. Not counting right now.”
Bucky hums, biding you to continue.
Thank god it’s dark because your face flushes at the sudden flip to something serious, something real and vulnerable that makes your heart lurch in a weird and discomforting way.
“I just—“ You find yourself saying. “I’m not your type.”
“What?” He asks incredulously. “Who told you that?”
You tilt your head to the side, confused. “Uh, every girl I’ve ever seen you with ever?”
“Sweet girl, do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting for you?”
You freeze. “Huh?”
His metal hand comes to cradle your face and it nearly makes you jolt from the sensation. “Why do you think I said your name on the phone, hm?”
Bucky leans forward and places a chaste kiss to your right cheek.
“Why do you think I crash girl’s night and come to your apartment unprompted?”
Your left cheek.
“How come I live to rile you up?”
Your lips. You find yourself chasing him when he pulls away.
His voice is saccharine, yet laced with a twang of disbelief that he actually had to be explaining this to you right now. The feeling of his lips makes you dizzy all over again, but also from the meaning behind his words. All this time… All those nights spent bickering and bantering and cursing his name in your sleep, he’s been… into you? Wanting you? Yet waiting patiently for you to eventually come to him?
Your heart is thumping, can he hear it?
“Uh—“ Your voice is coarse. “Wh— You’re into me?”
“Took you long enough.”
Your head is spinning. “Like, as of recent?”
Bucky snorts. “As of three years ago, more like.”
“You—“ You’re trying to wrap your head around this. “Okay. Three— Okay.”
“Take your time.”
“No, yeah.” You clear your throat. “Totally. Thanks.”
Bucky’s other hand soothingly rubs up and down your back. “Want me to make you a cup of tea while we wait?” His voice is teasing, yet full of admiration as if he’s finding the whole encounter perfectly comical.
“Funny,” you deadpan. “I think you’re wasting your potential by not pursuing stand up comedy.”
His lips find the corner of your mouth, pressing gingerly. “Such a sweet girl.” Another kiss. “Always looking out for my best interests,” he mumbles against your lips.
All this time, all this talk, all come to realize you’re still inside him.
It makes your heart flutter. “Uh—“ Suddenly you’re fumbling, losing that sliver of control that you barely had in the first place as you feel his cock inside you still. He peppers you with kisses, your lips, jaw, cheek, nose, an utter display of intimate affection that makes your chest constrict with something unfamiliar. It’s a phantom ache in your heart, longing for something you can’t quite pinpoint. You’ve never…been treated like this. So delicately and full of appreciation. Adored, even. Who knew that the person to do so would be Bucky Barnes.
Said-guy who is making you feel something unexplainable.
At your silence, he hums. “I know it’s a lot. I’m a lot. But I’m yours. Whenever you want me, I’ll be here.”
Your heart skips. “I think I…”
The words escape you.
Bucky presses a chaste kiss on the corner of your mouth. “You think what, sweet girl?”
“You’re really gonna make me say it?”
“Obviously.”
You groan, but there’s no backbone behind it, no real malice, no irritation that you normally have with his incessant wit. Instead it’s one of admiration, eased affection and something so unfamiliar it makes your heart flutter with uncertainty. But you’re here. With him. And somehow you’ve never felt more reassured.
“I think I’ve been yours,” you say with no shroud of dignity left. “Even though I want to kill you half the time.”
Bucky gingerly hums, so content as his nose nudges your jaw. “I’ll take it.”
It isn’t much later when he eases you up off his lap, slipping his arms around you to guide you towards the en suite bathroom. You mewl quietly from the loss of his stretch, ignoring the cool fluid burning between your thighs as you blink blearily at the light, no doubt looking like a hot wet disaster. You use the restroom and let him wash the sweat off your face, also cleaning up the mess between your thighs with a warm soapy rag. Yeah, he snorts at your wobbly legs as if you’re a baby fawn learning to walk, but holds you steady nonetheless and kisses the crown of your head all in the same breath. He coos and calls you baby when you swipe the hair away from his eyes, and dresses you in one of his overtly big t-shirts with something ridiculous on the front as he slips on a pair of boxers.
Bucky guides you back towards the bed after exiting the bathroom, laying you down gently so your back splays delicately on the mattress. You mewl quietly from the loss of his stretch, ignoring the cool fluid burning between your thighs as your head hits the pillow. Bucky kisses you once, lingering a little longer than he should before pulling back, sliding in next to you and pulling you taut to his chest.
You murmur something incoherent, completely bliss in the warmth of his arms and surrounded in his scent. Territorial. Possessive. Practically claimed by him. Not that you’re complaining. At all.
“Easy,” Bucky hums, tucking his chin at the crown of your head. “Sleep.”
“‘M not tired.” Your eyes are shut and your fingers twitch, moments from sleep.
His hands splay against your back under his shirt. “Sure.”
Your nose nudges his vocal cord. “I think you’re just keen to praying on my downfall,” you say laced with sleep.
“Try reciting the alphabet backwards and maybe I’ll believe you.”
“Shut up,” you mumble, words blending together in exhaustion. “You love me.”
A pause.
Then, quietly. “Yeah.” His voice is certain. “I probably do.”
You’re asleep moments after that, lulled by the deep baritone of his voice and the steady syncopated thumping of his heart. But also from the sincerity of his voice, anchoring you in ways you can’t explain nor want to try to understand. Sure, he’s a royal pain in your ass more than ninety percent of the time he’s in your presence. But he’s real. Genuine. Ready to be the man everyone thinks he isn’t.
And he’s solid, broad against you and holding you with the notion that you’ll float away if he lets go. The sound of your soft snores make him follow suite, calmed in more ways than he can ever imagine, finally able to breathe with a clarity he hasn’t felt in a really long time.
And when you leave the next morning, opting to leave the boating adventures behind the two of you and instead choosing to go home to his real family, his mother protests. His father says nothing. His cousins beg him to stay so they can wake board and drink in the sunshine. Sure he’s inclined to say yes solely to see you in a bathing suit, but he doesn’t have anything to prove anymore, not to these people.
Especially Izzy, when she inserts herself as part of the departing committee and giving you a hug that’s nothing genuine, solely for show in front of everyone else.
“You can’t leave!” She protests innocently, green eyes deceiving everyone as they surround the trunk of Bucky’s car as you throw your bags in the backseat. “Winnie and I wanted your opinion on the foyer decor.”
“Right, honey,” Winnie chimes in, grabbing your hand delicately as Bucky shuts the door, solidifying your decision to leave. “We’re going for a rustic ocean entourage. Silvers, navy, whites, darks. We’d love your input.”
"Well, I think navy and black go pretty well together," you say before you can stop yourself.
Bucky fails to suppress a snort. Izzy's head whips towards you, as the whole ordeal goes over Winnie’s head. Green eyes immediately narrow at you, her pretty tanned skin burning at the memory of her worst decision all those years ago, the whole reason she left him in the first place. But you hold your ground, sending her a sweet smile as you curl a hand over Bucky’s bicep, a wordless claim and reminder of what she lost. Who she lost.
And you leave just like that, with his family gathering dust in the rear view mirror as he drives away. With his hand settled on your bare thigh and the soft music gently caressing your ears, you realize he doesn’t look back. Only onward.
Summary: After seven months apart, Jax is finally back home from prison, and even though you and he would never get that time back, he was determined to make you forget all about it.
Word Count: 2.8k | I do not give consent to having my work republished or posted to any other platform or profile other than my own.
Warnings: smut, unprotected sex, swearing, first jax fic, lets gooo.
Jax had been in prison for the last seven months.
Seven fucking months. Seven months away from you. His person. His whole entire world wrapped up into one, way too good of a person.
He’d got caught up doing some shady shit and had been put away for seven months of his life, and while he knew there would always be a chance of this happening, it could not have happened at a worse time.
Jax had this whole thing planned out before he got locked up, where he’d take you out, get down on one knee and propose to you. He’d ask you to be his forever. And he was certain he knew your answer would be an immediate yes, but he never got to find out for sure since he got arrested before he could follow through with his plans. He had to put them on hold for over half a fucking year.
So he had Opie hide the ring before telling you what was going on, and it was only a day later when you were forcing yourself into the police station and demanding to see him.
That was seven months ago.
He’s out now, and you, of course, waited for him. You picked him up and took him home, and he couldn’t keep his hands off you now if he tried. He’d been deprived of you for far too long, and you were the one and only thing he’d been craving for the last half a year.
Sure, you visited him, but he wasn’t allowed to touch you without having a guard bark in his ear about the strict rules he was required to follow if he wanted to get out of that place. He wasn’t allowed to kiss you, and he certainly wasn’t allowed to fuck you. He needed his fix of you, and he couldn’t get enough of you now that he’s back.
Jax missed you more than anything in the world, and he made a promise to himself that he’d try his fucking hardest to never go back to prison, because he never wanted to spend that long away from you ever again. He’d get a longer sentence if he were to get arrested again, and that just did not work for him.
Those seven months were a waste of his goddamn life, and he was determined to make it up to you and show you how appreciative he is that you waited for him - not that he had a doubt you wouldn’t. He was confident in his relationship with you, and he was certain he knew how deep your feelings for him ran, otherwise he wouldn’t be planning to be with you for the rest of his life.
He’s in the house he had only been sharing with you for two months before he got locked up, laying on his own bed in his own home, and you’re in his arms. He’d been missing having you in his arms like this, and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to let you go again after this.
“Missed you,” he mumbled against your lips. He hadn’t been able to keep his mouth off yours for more than a few seconds since returning home. He wanted to have an hour-long shower and wash away the last seven months of his life, but he physically couldn’t separate himself from you right now. “Fuck, baby, I fuckin’ missed you.”
His hands were all over you, groping your hips, your ass, your breasts, anywhere they could reach. He was starving for you, and luckily you seemed to be feeling the same way he is.
You moaned against his mouth, kissing him back with as much need and passion he poured into it as you tangled your legs with his. “I missed you,” you said back, kissing him a bit harder as you draped your arms around his neck. His lips were already kiss swollen and puffy, as were yours. “So much.”
Your hands slid up the back of his neck, and he felt the way your fingers tried to instinctively tangle in his hair like they normally do, but he’d buzzed off his hair in prison, leaving him with short, prickly strands instead.
“I can’t believe you cut your hair,” you whispered, sticking your lip out in a pout as you held onto his shoulders instead. “What am I supposed to grab onto during sex now?”
Jax let out a deep laugh at your pout, his big hands coming up to frame your face as he looked down at you. “Don’t worry, darlin’,” he murmured, his thumbs running along your lower lip, and his eyes followed the movement. “I’ve got plenty of other places you can grab onto.”
He leaned in and kissed you again, his hands sliding back down your body as he deepened the kiss. He’d almost forgotten how good you tasted, how perfect you felt against his body.
“I meant what I said,” he rasped against your mouth, his lips pulling only centimeters away from yours. “I fuckin’ missed you, more than anything.”
You moaned at his words, your body heating up in a flame that had been steadily burning since the minute you met. Even with all the time you spent away from each other, that flame was still lit, and it was burning fucking hot. “I know, baby,” you mumbled, pulling him on top of you as you rolled onto your back. You wrapped your legs around his waist and your arms around his neck. “I missed you too. So fucking much.”
Leaning up, you kissed him again, your lips meshing together as your tongue slid into his mouth and brushed against his own.
“Did you think about me every day in there? Did you think about all the things you’d do to me once you got out?” you asked in between messy kisses, and Jax tugged on your bottom lip with his teeth.
“Every. Fuckin’. Day,” he answered, pressing a firm kiss to your lips after every word, savoring your taste and your scent and everything you are. He settled between your thighs like he belonged there, his hands fisting the sheets at either side of your head. “Had to jerk off every time I had a shower. Thought about bending you over every surface in this house. Fuckin’ you on the couch, the counter, in the shower. Surprised I made it all the way home without makin’ you pull over.”
You laughed at that, your head tipping back on the bed as you pressed your thighs against his hips, your attempt at relieving some of the ache that was building between your legs. “Jax,” you whined, “You’re making me wet. Seven months without you was one of the hardest things I’ve ever been through.”
Jax’s eyes were hooded as he looked down at you, taking in your puffy lips, the smears of spit on your chin and above your mouth. You looked fucking stunning just like this, needy and desperate for him in the same way he was for you. “Good. ‘Cause I’m rock hard for you already, baby. Haven’t been this turned on in… shit, I can’t even fuckin’ remember how long,”
His hands tugged at the hem of your shirt until it was up and off your body, and he tossed it aside without a care. He immediately began groping your bare breasts, his thumbs and index fingers teasing your nipples until they hardened under his touch, and you were still so responsive for him. His cock twitched in his jeans.
“You have no idea how many times I fantasized about these perfect tits,” he grunted, leaning down to wrap his lips around one of your nipples.
You whined softly, pushing up against his mouth. “Yeah? You missed my tits, baby?” you purred, running your hand over the prickly hairs on his head. “Tell me what you fantasized about. I wanna know everything you imagined when you touched yourself.”
Jax hummed around your nipple before pulling away with a groan. “Missed ‘em so much,” he muttered, switching to your other nipple as his big hands covered your soft mounds. “I thought about doing exactly this, baby. Thought about eating your pretty pussy until you came all over me. About fuckin’ you in every room of this house.”
His hand slowly slid down your stomach to the waistline of your jeans, and he popped the button open before dragging the zipper down. He slipped his hand inside your panties, feeling just how soaked you were for him, and he groaned against your breast.
You whimpered, your own hands sliding down his body until you were tugging weakly at his shirt. “Fuck, I want that so badly,” you moaned, pulling his shirt up and off his body, letting it join your own on the floor. “You can eat me out later, I promise. But I need you inside me. I need you to fuck me. I’ve been aching for you.”
As you ran your hands along his bare skin, your fingers skimming along his tattoos, he heard the sharp inhale you took as you felt the newly developed muscle beneath his skin. He was fit before, but he’d been really pushing himself hard while in prison, and he used exercising as an outlet. The results were evident in every hard plane and defined muscle that had become more visible on his body.
You certainly seemed to appreciate the extra hours he’d been putting into working out since there was fuck else to do there other than miss you every minute. Seeing the effect his more defined body had on you, he was glad for the extra muscle.
When you reached down and unzipped his jeans, he helped you get them, as well as his boxers, off his body, then he pulled your own jeans off as well, along with your panties. “Fuck, baby, you don’t know how badly I’ve needed you. I’ve been dreaming of this tight little pussy for months,” he rasped as he settled back on top of you, his hips slotted between your thighs. His cock brushed along your folds, and he practically melted against you as he pushed forward just a bit.
His forehead dropped to yours, his fingers twisting in the sheets at either side of your head as he pushed forward more until he was halfway inside you. You felt tighter, and he guessed that came with not having anyone inside you for over half a goddamn year.
Still, his hand could never compare to the feeling of you, all of you, around him. Nothing ever would.
“So fuckin’ tight,” he muttered, pushing all the way inside you with a deep grunt.
Your eyes squeezed shut for a few seconds before you slowly opened them again, a crease forming on your forehead as you adjusted to having him back inside you after so long. “Fuck, Jax,” you moaned, arching your back as he bottomed out inside you. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him impossibly closer as you ran your fingers over his prickly hair again. “I missed this. Missed your cock. Missed you.”
He set a hard, deep pace once he felt you clench around him, his hips rocking against yours with every deep thrust. He missed this. Missed fucking his girl in the comfort of his own bed, in his own house. He’d definitely taken this for granted before, because the fact that he’d gone so long without feeling you was fucking insane for him to process now that he was deep within your core.
“Missed this too, baby. Missed feeling your sweet pussy squeezin’ me so fuckin’ tight,” he panted, “Nothing feels as good as you, darlin’. Fuckin’ nothing.”
He hooked one of your legs over his shoulder, giving him better access to you and allowing him to sink even deeper inside you. One of his hands slipped between your bodies to rub quick circles on your clit, your choked whine sounding like music to his ears after going so damn long without hearing it.
“You’re mine, baby,” he murmured, his voice more possessive than it’s ever been. His time away had been a real test for you and him, and it was one you’d both passed with flying colors. He hadn’t thought about anyone but you, and you hadn’t been with anyone but him since the night you met. “This pussy belongs to me. You belong to me, darlin’.”
He watched your eyes roll back into your head, your head falling back as your hands desperately tried to grab onto his hair. Clearly they couldn’t, so you settled on gripping the back of his neck, your nails digging into his skin. “Oh, my fucking God, Jax,” you moaned, your eyes hooded as a fucked out expression formed on your pretty face. “I’m yours. All yours, baby. And you’re mine.”
Jax leaned down and kissed you deeply, your moans being lost to the back of his throat as his hand tangled in your hair. He angled your head so he could have perfect access to your addictive mouth, his tongue meeting yours in a messy embrace. “Fuck yeah, I’m yours,” he confirmed against your mouth, his other hand digging into the soft skin of your thigh as he kept your leg perched over his shoulder.
You sounded so pretty, looked so wrecked and ruined as he fucked you into the bed. He was making up for the lost time - the waste of time that was stolen from you and him. He was making sure you went right back to being his greedy, spoiled girl he was forced to leave behind.
The pressure was building up inside him, the need to just let go increasing with every passing second. He wanted to make this last, to savor every second of being reunited with your perfect and gorgeous body, but it’d been too long. He was too worked up, had been too deprived of you, and he was too desperate to fill you up again.
“Cum for me, baby,” he mumbled, forcing his lips away from yours as he fucked you a little harder, his fingers moving faster on your clit. “Wanna feel this sweet pussy cream all over my cock. Give it to me, darlin’.”
Your sounds were becoming hoarse, the creaking of the bed becoming more obnoxious and loud. Your hands slid down his back, your fingers running along his tattoos and leaving goosebumps in their wake, then gripped his ass. You squeezed it firmly, your back arching off the bed. “Fuck, I’m gonna cum. You feel so good, baby. I missed you so fucking much,”
You were impossibly tight around him, your body arched into his like it belonged there, your nails adding the sting he’d always craved since his first time with you.
A few seconds later, you were there, crying out for him as you came hard, creaming all over him like he told you to. Your body trembled in his arms, his skin burning from where your nails were nearly breaking through the layers, and you felt absolutely fucking perfect.
“Fuck yes, cum on my cock just like that,” he groaned, burying his face against your neck as he let himself go too. He filled you up, his dick twitching inside you as he let out deep grunts against your skin. It felt endless, his body practically crushing yours against the bed as he finally filled up every inch of you again.
And you took it. All of it. All of him.
When he finally stilled on top of you, he was breathing heavily and unevenly, his breath harsh against your skin.
“Jesus, baby, I don’t think I’ve ever cum that hard in my life,” he laughed, pressing a series of softer kisses to your neck and jaw and your lips. “I missed you so goddamn much, darlin’. I’m never leavin’ you again.”
You smiled up at him, keeping your legs wrapped around his waist as if you never wanted to let him go. “Mmm, you better not,” you mumbled, draping your arms loosely around his neck. “I can’t live without you, Jax. I can’t do this again.”
Jax wrapped his arms around you, holding you tight against his body as he rolled onto his side. “I know, baby. I can’t either,” he murmured, running his fingers through your messy hair. “It was pure hell, being without you. I don’t want to put us through that ever again. I love you so fuckin’ much.”
A lazier smile formed on your lips as you tangled your legs with his. “I love you,” you said back, your voice barely above a whisper as he shifted his hips a bit, finally pulling out of you with a wince. “So much. I’ll never stop. I’ll never get over you.”
He smiled back at you, feeling like the weight he’d been carrying since he got locked up was finally off his shoulders.
He was finally back home, where he belonged.
You were finally back in his arms, where you belonged.
Summary: With neither of you prepared for your hookup, Jax takes advantage and can’t resist finishing inside you, fucking you raw and giving in completely.
A/N: I don't have any way to defend myself here 🙈 this idea has been a fantasy of mine for a WHILE and I finally put it into words. A huge thanks to my bestie @puffins-muffins for all her help with this one 💗 Enjoy!
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Jax was King.
The President patch stitched into the worn leather on his chest was just a mere physical indication of his rule, the way he walked into a room and owned everything in it a more subdued sign of his regency.
His kingdom was anything but righteous, full of lies, crime and dirty money, and within it you were a pawn, something for him to toy with when he got bored, but every time his piercing blue eyes landed on you you could've sworn you were his Queen.
You didn't mind being used, not by him, the way his ringed fingers felt on your skin and his lips left their mark on you made it anything but cheap, and you couldn't imagine ever denying him wanting you.
It was usually planned, meeting each other day or night at what usually felt like the snap of his fingers, but even if it was unexpected or last minute, you were always prepared.
Prepared, safe, and right now this was anything but.
He showed up unannounced, the roar of his bike vibrating the blood in your veins that instantly burned hot the moment you heard the familiar rumble, watching through your window as he stormed up to your door and busted right in as if it was his to do so.
Jax was feral, someone or something getting under his skin that was more than likely a result of club business that you had no business asking about, and now he was your problem.
“Fuck, darlin’, I need you,” he hissed against your neck, his teeth scraping over your thrumming pulse.
You cursed yourself for not having gone to the store when you intended to, knowing you and him had used the last condom you had only two days ago, and you swallowed hard as you readied yourself to break the news to him.
“I um, fuck– I don’t have anything,” you breathed, angling your head slightly to see his face.
The disappointment and hint of annoyance couldn’t be disguised on his features, a huff blowing out of his pink lips that were glistening from yours.
“Do you?” you hoped, your fingers gently sliding down the soft leather that covered his heaving chest.
The lift of his eyebrows creased his forehead as he gave you a look that said ‘you’re kidding’ more than speaking the words could, and when he smirked and shook his head slightly, you ached even more for him.
“Sorry,” you whispered, hating that you were letting him down and denying him the one thing he clearly needed.
You could feel his energy coiled up so tightly, practically buzzing through the layers of clothes he wore beneath his kutte, his body heat radiating onto your palms, and his eyes flashed with a hunger and primal need that ran deeper than just letting off some steam.
“Hey, don't worry about it,” he assured, his tone lighter than you expected. “We can just hang out.”
His eyes flickered down to your lips, his thumb reaching up to press against your lower one before leaning in for more, his moan pouring into your mouth that made your knees go weak.
You should've known it was bullshit the second he said it, because the next thing you knew you were naked, sprawled out on your bed where he hovered over you still fully clothed, his fingers hooked inside you where he worked you with expertise.
“Remember my rule, sweetheart,” he drawled, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat as he swallowed hard, your effect on him undisguisable.
When you didn't answer, Jax retreated from you, standing upright where he peered down at you with a cockiness that you loved seeing, and peeled his kutte off his large frame.
You whined, the loss of him touching you turning you pathetic, and he reveled in it.
“What's my rule?” he demanded, his words holding more bite.
“Not to come until you let me,” you breathed, smiling as you warmed at the thought.
“Good girl.”
You watched as he continued to undress, his simple nod at you giving you the go ahead to touch yourself while he did, your promise to listen to his instructions about to be ignored when the sight of his cock bouncing out of his pristinely white boxers had you wrecked already.
Wearing nothing but his rings and the branded black ink that made him who he was as much as blood and breath did, he crawled over you, his eyes holding a softness you mistook as a promise.
“I just wanna feel you against me,” he whispered, his hand smoothing over your head before capturing your lips.
The truth in that remark was severely understated, the desperation both of you showed in being as close as possible to each other without fucking unlike ever before, and you knew part of the thrill of it all was in holding back.
You’d rarely seen him like this, obsessive and indulgent, completely undone as he laid on top of you, his hair hanging in his face as he made what seemed like every part of you from your lips to your chest raw from his beard.
His cock rested against you, tempting to push through, the threat of him being bare inside your cunt an allurement like no other.
You moved your hips, taunting and teasing, making his cock glide through your wetness so much that he almost slipped inside.
He growled something that resembled a curse against the hollow of your neck, pulling himself back just enough to look down at you, his eyes reflecting the torment that plagued him.
“You’re making this fuckin’ impossible, darlin’,” he warned, flopping himself down on the mattress with a huff.
You smiled, amused by his misery brought on by you, and moved to straddle him, your hands planted on his thick chest.
You had never felt more powerful, watching as you dissolved him down to a groping, deprived mess, the satisfaction in denying him what he wanted from you giving you radiance.
Your King, brought down by the sins of your body, bent around your will so effortlessly he turned into nothing but a man under your touch. But lingering just beneath the surface you knew better than to trust this confidence.
“Is it really that bad?” you asked playfully, grinding yourself on his throbbing length until he hissed and dug his head down into the pillow.
“Fuck…” he moaned, grabbing your hips so hard there would be bruises and bucking up against you. “You’re killin’ me.”
You leaned forward, your hands cupping his cheeks as you kissed him, rolling your tongue with his as you rode on his shaft.
His hands moved to your ass, gripping your flesh and spreading your cheeks apart as you continued to use him, the feel of him rubbing through you but not pushing inside almost as good as if he was.
With a slight shift of his hips, his leaking head pressed into you, making you gasp and jolt away like you were burned, his amusement clear on his face.
He bit his bottom lip, looking at you with warning before he spoke.
“You better be careful or you’re gonna get fucked.”
His threat made you shiver, heat crawling down your spine where it coiled deep in your core, and unable to think of a way to respond, you kissed him again, hard and needy while you continued to tease yourself on him.
The thought of him filling you with nothing but himself had you aching more than ever, nothing separating you from him, the intimacy in that danger turning it into something you suddenly wanted more than anything in the world.
You’d let him have it all if he wanted, feeling like you were dangling yourself right in front of him like a sacrifice, but Jax seemed to be loving the game just as much.
He moved his hips at the same time you rolled yours back, his hands locking on you to force you still the second his tip breached your entrance, the cruelness in his laugh reverberating through you as he kept your mouths pressed together.
You fought to lift yourself off, your cunt aching and dripping from that small stretch, wanting to fully sink down onto him and never remove yourself.
Your hands clawed at the side of his face, moaning into him as you deepened your kiss, still rocking along him where every so often he would slip inside, his body instinctively finding where it belonged in yours.
“Jax…” you whined, completely stupid from lust and desperation, your inhibitions shattering the longer this went on.
Again, and only the tip, Jax pressed inside your hole, a low groan coming out of him while a smug smile played on his lips.
“We shouldn’t be doing this,” he said like a joke, letting you pull off of him before he drove in, further this time.
You closed your eyes and sat upright, lifting off of him again, grinding on the golden smattering of pubes that trailed from his navel to where he had been made sticky from you, pretending like you were trying to rescue that last bit of resolve even though you both knew it was futile.
There was no use in denying yourselves any longer, throwing caution out the window as you finally let yourself sit fully on it, his size always a shock, but the feel of him raw inside you was what had you gasping.
Your nails dug into his chest, the half-moon indents carved into his porcelain skin to be seen for days, and you hoped the memory of being buried bare inside you would stay imprinted in his mind for longer.
Jax immediately started thrusting up into you, his pleasured sounds unashamed as he grunted and moaned loudly, his praise something you would wear as proudly as a crown.
“Jesus Christ, you feel so fuckin’ good,” he huffed, propping himself up off the bed enough to watch you move up and down on his naked cock, already knowing from the second he had you like this that he was fucked.
You basked in his worship, his gaze and his words enhancing the feeling of every detail of him being imprinted in you, his veins throbbing against your walls, his velvety skin encased in your warmth.
“Lay down,” he ordered, despite already making quick work of doing it for you, and the second you were splayed out in the sheets, he grabbed your body and flipped you onto your stomach.
Immediately sensing your loss of control in the situation, you turned your face and spoke, your words sounding more panicked than you wanted.
“Make sure you pull out, Jax.”
A wicked smile tugged at his lips, his head giving a cockier than usual nod as he shuffled in behind you on his knees, getting close enough that his cock was wedged between your cheeks.
“Don't worry, darlin’. I will,” he spoke after a huff of a laugh blew past his lips, the malice in his voice dripping off his tongue.
His hand that held the two rings that spelled out SONS spread your ass apart as he lined up, driving his cock in slowly, watching your body accept every inch of his girth and length.
Gritting his teeth together tightly, he bottomed out, loving the way your face screwed up almost in pain and your hands clawed at the bedding, your body shifting away from him as if you could escape.
He let out a cruel laugh, pulling your hips back down on him, his hands staying there to keep you on his dick.
Jax’s pace was deliberate and harsh, thrusting into you like a man possessed, everything that was pent up finally being released as he fucked you with everything he had.
He loved watching you take him on any other occasion, but seeing his unsheathed cock pumping in and out of you brought on a level of insanity he couldn’t compare to anything else. The sight of your cream coating him made his mouth water, and he knew for sure this was the best thing he’d ever laid eyes on, watching your pussy stretch to fit him while your other hole gleamed with your arousal.
Jax licked his thumb and brought it down to press against your ass, rimming it in tantalizing circles as he continued to fuck you ruthlessly, a satisfied laugh ringing out as you whined to this additional pleasure.
“Fuck, Jax,” you cried, squirming more in the sheets. “I’m getting close.”
He relished in knowing what he was doing to you, his head tipping back so his blushed face titled toward the ceiling, his hips continuing to pound against you as his thumb pressed in further.
“Fuck, baby,” he chuckled, “this pussy is the best thing I’ve ever felt.”
You heard the truth in his words, his praise making you soar and reminding you once again of your reign over him, the King, your rightful place at the throne beside him despite being at his total mercy.
You were teetering the line, feeling closer to the edge than ever and you knew if he kept up what he was doing or your thoughts worked to aid your body in getting what it needed, you would be done.
The absence of the smell of latex was making the intoxicating scent of sex more heightened to the point your mouth watered, and remembering once again that he was fucking you raw, you came hard, clenching like a vice around his dick that continued to slam into you fast and brutally.
Your spit stained the sheets, feeling it smear from your open mouth as you struggled for air, your orgasm extended as long as possible by him not letting up even for a second.
Everything was soaked under you, the sound of his hips slapping against you wetter and more obscene than before, his grunting making a shiver crawl down your spine.
“This cunt is mine,” he barked, the words greedy and vicious through his bared teeth.
His hand pushed down between your shoulder blades, pressing you into the bed more, your face smushed into your mess as his other collected both of your wrists and planted them at the small of your back, his rough grip making you wince.
There was no escaping his barrage now even if you wanted to, lifting your hips up as much as you could to give him more which allowed him to fuck you deeper, and he happily took the opportunity.
You knew he wouldn’t be far off from his climax, the thought of him waiting to the last second to pull out and wondering where he was going to aim his load making you shudder, and when he removed his hand from the center of your back and wrapped it around to your clit, you lost all control again.
You would've blacked out had you not wanted to feel every single second of it, crying out a broken scream ripped from you out of pure pleasure, the sound of Jax hammering into you to find his own release distant in your ears.
There was no way he was pulling out. Not with you like this, completely powerless to him and what he could give you. Part of him knew it was wrong but he didn’t fucking care, the grasp that greed had on him too strong to fight anymore.
He looked at you through blurred vision, hazy in his ecstasy, adoring how soft and accepting your body looked even as he treated you so disrespectfully, his heart aching in his chest as all of him succumbed to what it sought.
A slew of broken curses and guttural sounds spilled from his mouth, his hair hanging in his face as sweat dripped off his nose and landed on your back, his cock pulsing as he shot his big load deep inside your cunt.
Jax stayed there as long as he could as you both came down, loving the feel of being buried inside your full pussy, a smirk tugging at his lips as he waited for you to notice.
You whined as you shifted slightly, feeling the unmistakable warmth and thickness leaking out of you, realizing in a mix of fear and something else you couldn't place what he had done.
“Jesus, Jax,” you blurted, but even you were unsure whether you were upset or satisfied, your stomach doing a flip out of both anxiety and excitement.
Pulling out of you, he watched with pride as his milky white cum spilled out of your perfect pussy, your hole stretched and lips swollen from his cock and everything he had done to you.
The distinct smell of his cum hit you as you inhaled deeply, and you closed your eyes and took a second to savour the moment, basking in his act of possession, his selfishness quietly excused.
You rolled over, glaring at him with as much conviction as you could manage, though the way he was looking at you forced you to bite your lip to stop from smiling, and it took everything in you to disguise how much you really loved this.
“Well, what did I say?” he quipped, his expression as smug as his words, his head tilting to the side with amusement.
You sighed, about to retort when you were cut off, your witty words stolen as Jax’s two fingers swiped up his wasted load and pushed it back inside you.
You moaned and grabbed at the sheets beside you, closing your eyes as you relished in the feel of him fingering his seed in deeper, his blatant want for it to stay in you leaving no doubt of his claim over you.
“Good girl,” he drawled roughly, his cock already hard again from how accepting you were of this, the need he felt to keep you full of his cum at all times almost unbearable.
He positioned himself between your spread legs, forcing his cock back in your pussy with a hard push, watching a deranged smile dress your gorgeous lips.
“You’re dreamin’ if you think this is the last time I’m filling you up.”
Falling Apart & Torn at the Seams Series Masterlist
Pairing: Jax Teller x fem!Reader
warnings/tags: 18+; pregnant!Reader, angst with an eventual happy/hopeful ending, emotional hurt, threat to abort (because it's Clay), angry Jax, Clay being Clay
Shortly after you started working as the office manager at Teller-Morrow Automotive, Jax and you had become serious–something Gemma and Clay hated. Afraid you'd take Jax from the Sons, they slowly poisoned him against you. But as Clay continues to pull Jax deeper into the club while the rift between both of you grows, you unexpectedly discover you're pregnant. Desperate to keep the secret hidden from everyone–including Gemma and Jax–Clay threatens you and your unborn baby.
Summary: Bucky was used to being alone - or at least he was before he met you. Once he fell head over heels for you, everything changed, and he suddenly wasn’t alone anymore. But then he messed things up, and then you left him. As Bucky was figuring out a way to live without you again, something happens that leaves both you and him with a clearer perspective than before.
Word Count: 6.5k | I do not give consent to having my work republished or posted to any other platform or profile other than my own.
Warnings: angst, fluff, break-ups, swearing, self-deprecating thoughts, mentions of a bomb, mentions/descriptions of injuries, guilty/devastated bucky, i just need to hug him i think.
Bucky didn’t get tired.
He never really had.
He’d lost count of all the nights he’d lie awake, completely aware and unable to catch even the smallest amount of sleep.
Sleep didn’t come easy for him. It never had.
Instead, he’d lie there and relive some of his worst moments. His biggest regrets. Things he didn’t even remember doing but knows he did. It ate him alive every time and took little bits of him to keep, leaving him as a man who was slowly deteriorating.
That changed when he met you though.
Your entrance into his life was… unexpected to say the least. But it was also exactly what Bucky needed at that point in his life.
He was walking down the street, his sights on the phone store a few doors down since he lost his phone, again. It was his fourth one in the last six months, and he was pretty sure the store he frequents would start asking questions soon enough if he keeps losing them.
It’s not his fault they’re so damn small and easy to misplace.
It was just after nine in the morning, which was earlier than the other times he’s arrived at the store before, and yet it seemed like trouble was already brewing.
As soon as he turned and reached for the door, it flew open and nearly hit Bucky square in the face. He hadn’t even registered what was happening when his metal arm shot out on instinct, and collided with a man’s neck.
The man fell to the ground under him, the wind completely knocked out of his body, and Bucky opened his mouth to apologize to him when he saw the three boxes of brand new phones that had fallen out of his hands and onto the ground as well.
He’d accidentally stopped a shoplifter by clotheslining him.
A few seconds had passed before the door swung open again, and the bottom of it hit the man right in his face and knocked him out. An involuntary laugh escaped Bucky at the sight, and he looked up at who the cause of it was.
Then he suddenly wasn’t laughing.
You were standing there, your hand pressed flat against the door to keep it open, and your eyes were wide as you let out a breath of relief. “Holy shit,” you gasped, looking between Bucky and the man laying on the sidewalk in front of the door. “You just totally stopped this guy from stealing those.”
You pointed down at the phones, but Bucky couldn’t seem to take his eyes off you. “Oh,” he managed to say as he stepped back, acting as if an unconscious man at his feet was a totally normal thing to see at this time of day. “Did I?”
He was having a hard time talking, which wasn’t ideal but also wasn’t rare, but you just let out a breathless laugh and gave him a grateful smile. “You did. And you also just saved my job,” you said, stepping over the guy so you were outside the store, in front of Bucky and under the awning with him. “I was for sure getting fired if he managed to make it outside and run away, so thank you.”
Bucky finally found his voice after that, and now that you were closer to him, he could really see how beautiful you are. Your eyes stood out to him, as did the curve of your lips, and he had to stop looking at you before he blew this and ended up coming off as a total creep. “Oh, well, I wouldn’t say that. You’re the one who actually knocked him out. I just got him on the ground,”
When he gestured to the man, you let out another laugh, and Bucky was right back to inspecting every inch of your face. He liked it. He liked you. “How can I ever repay you?”
Repaying him wasn’t necessary at all, since he only knocked the guy down on pure instinct, but he also had a feeling that this was an opportunity he should take, and one he’d be downright fucking dumb to let pass by. “Well,” he trailed off, shoving his hands into his pockets as he nodded his head toward the door of the store. “I do need a new phone. That’s why I’m here, actually. Though I wasn’t planning on stealing one. Promise.”
You gave him what he was sure was the prettiest smile he’d ever seen, then you were stepping back over the man and opening the door. “I can definitely help you with that,” you told him as the police finally showed up and began cuffing the man. “If you don’t mind waiting a bit…I think I have a few questions I need to answer for them. But stay, please. It won’t take long.”
Bucky was sure he wouldn’t care if it took five hours, he would still wait.
Thankfully, he didn’t say that. He just nodded and returned your smile, then he was also stepping over the man and brushing past you to enter the store.
From then on, he was yours. Entirely. Completely. Utterly yours.
He still very much is, despite the fact that he hadn’t spoken to you in five weeks. That wasn’t without trying, and it was definitely not his idea.
The world was a scary place, and Bucky was one of the people who was actively trying to not make it so scary. He went on missions, some out of the country, some just down the block, and he’d somehow managed to keep it all a secret from you for eight months.
Eight beautiful, life-changing months that were filled with love, laughter and countless date nights.
That was until about seven weeks ago, when you began questioning him on why he was always gone, why he said he’d be home at a certain time, only to show up hours or sometimes even days later.
There was only so much he could say, only so many excuses he could come up with before you found out. And Bucky hated lying to you. You’d never been anything but truthful to him, never been anything but honest and kind and so damn sweet, and yet he couldn’t tell you the truth.
He lied. Once. Twice, and the third time is when you had enough.
You said things to him that he’d never even heard of, let alone know what they meant, but he knew they were hurtful. And he took each and every hurtful word you threw at him, because had hurt you just as bad. If not more.
He knew he deserved it. He knew he was only trying to protect you, to keep you out of harm’s way, but in doing so, he was putting a massive strain on your relationship, and that wasn’t fair to you.
It was so good with you. Bucky had it so good, and then he let you slip through his fingers. The best thing he’d ever had in his life. His only true love - gone. Because really, how much love could a guy with a metal fucking arm deserve?
He hadn’t spoken to you in so long, way too long in his opinion. He missed you terribly, and the lonely nights he spends in his apartment are even worse than they were before. Because he had you. He’d become spoiled by you. And now that he lost you, he was back to the quiet, sleepless nights, and he was back to being alone.
It wasn’t something he welcomed back with open arms, to say the least.
Actually, Bucky was rather fucking sick of being alone, and he wanted you to be the person who made that problem go away permanently. Instead, he just made you go away.
Figures.
Bucky had been trying to keep busy. He’d been trying to throw himself into missions and training and all that oh so fun stuff. He felt stronger, more agile, less achy, and he didn’t allow himself to think about you for more than a minute at a time while doing so. He just thought about you every other minute.
That was progress.
He was so pathetic.
Over the last few days, he’d gotten himself into some hot water with a few people, and since he was heartbroken, Bucky’s temper and sarcasm had only gotten worse. That meant he gained some enemies, despite Yelena’s countless warnings for him to straighten his act up.
But Bucky didn’t care. He’d had enemies in the past, and he’s sure he’ll have more in the future.
What he didn’t think about, however, was that his nonchalant attitude about the whole thing would only make matters worse. If they couldn’t get a reaction out of Bucky, then they would target those he cared about most.
That’s exactly what happened.
Bucky was listening to one of Bob’s rather entertaining rambles when John walked into the room and mentioned the fact that a phone store downtown had been nearly demolished by a bomb earlier today, and almost instantly, Bucky felt his blood go cold.
John never said which store, but he didn’t have to. Bucky knew - he somehow knew that it was the one you’ve been working at for the last two years. He could feel it in his bones, and the way his body physically reacted to the news was enough for him to be getting up from the chair and striding towards the elevators.
He ignored the confused look on Walker’s face and the offended glare he received from Bob as he left the building as fast as he was able to. They knew about you, of course, but they didn’t know where you worked, because Bucky kept his personal life just that. Personal. Private. He didn’t want to expose to you them, and he didn’t want them to expose what the world was truly like to you.
Bucky knew the quickest route to take to the shop. It was one he’d used countless times in those eight months, and as well as the last few weeks he’d stopped by just to make sure you were doing okay. Obviously he didn’t go into the store, but he passed by the window and felt his heart crack a little more each time he caught a glimpse of you.
Within five minutes, Bucky was at the phone shop he had an unwarranted amount of fondness for since the day he met you. He felt his heart jump at the sight of the demolished awning you and he met under, bits and pieces of it littered along the sidewalk and street.
The windows of the store were shattered, leaving gaping holes in the walls instead, and there was smoke coming out of every opening to the shop. A lot of it.
Bucky felt his adrenaline kick into high gear when he saw various victims being attended to, all of which were in bad shape but didn’t seem to have any life threatening injuries.
You were working today. Bucky knew that, because he memorized your schedule. He did that so he could work around it and spend as much time with you as he could between missions.
But there was no sign of you with the other injured victims. There was no sign of you anywhere.
Before he could even blink, Bucky was already across the debris littered street and heading right for the hole in the wall where the door used to be, but before he could step inside the building that was still very much on fire, he was pushed back by a police officer. He didn’t even look at the man as he muttered, “Let go of me,”
He was a lot stronger than the whole police department put together, so he could easily force himself past the outstretched arm of the officer in front of him, but he didn’t want to escalate an already intense situation. He was more than ready to, though. “I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t let you go in there, it’s-”
Bucky wrapped his hand around the man’s wrist, slowly prying his arm away from his chest as he turned to look at him. “I said-”
“Bucky?”
It was as if the sirens that were blaring through the air fell silent. The harsh chatter of the nearby civilians faded into the background. The heat from the fire and the smell of heavy smoke disappeared.
Bucky let go of the officer’s wrist and turned his head, his eyes instantly locking onto yours as you hovered near the back doors of an ambulance. You were wrapped up in an emergency blanket, and your face was covered in grease. Specks of dirt, sweat, and streaks of blood were smeared across your skin, and that was bad enough.
But it was the look on your face that had him turning around fully and beginning the short distance to you.
Your eyes were wide, shock, fear, disbelief and relief evident in your pretty orbs as Bucky reached you. You looked a little banged up, and you were definitely in shock still as he placed his hands on your shoulders, his eyes flickering over every square inch of your face.
Checking. Inspecting. Making damn sure you were okay.
“Doll,” he whispered, his flesh hand coming up to cradle your jaw as he looked down at you. His touch was gentle, more gentle than it had ever been before, and he was barely brushing his thumb along your cheekbone. He was scared to touch you, scared to hurt you more than you already probably were. “Are you okay? Are you… fuck, are you okay?”
You were nodding slowly, sliding one hand up his forearm and wrapping it around his wrist. You leaned into his touch, your breathing a little irregular as the chaos around you began coming back into focus.
As soon as Bucky made sure you were alright, the loud sirens were back, the heat and smoke and smog filled his senses once again.
He took you into his arms and held you against his chest - the last interaction you and he had also the last thing on his mind. He guided you further away from the shop that would definitely need to be rebuilt from the ground up. He didn’t want to think about how you’d be out of a job for God knows how long, and he definitely didn’t want to bring that up right now.
You willingly went along with him as he looked over at the paramedic, and he asked the woman the same question he asked you about five times before she nodded and assured him that, yes, despite having a few scrapes and cuts on your body and face, you were just fine.
Bucky held you close as your body trembled in his arms, and even your voice was shaky as you looked up at him, your fingers curled into his shirt. “How…” you whispered, “How did you…”
You were still so shaken up, and understandably so, and Bucky knew what you were asking without you needing to finish the question.
How did he know something happened?
Bucky threaded his fingers through your messy hair and tilted your face down so he could press his lips to your forehead. “I didn’t,” he answered, not entirely sure if that was completely truthful or not. He made a vow to himself that he’d never lie to you, never make up another excuse, and always be honest with you. He made that vow about three minutes ago, and he would stick to it. “I just had a feeling, I guess. I heard about what happened, and I somehow knew it was you. That you…you were involved.”
Your bottom lip was quivering as you looked up at him, and you sniffled a bit as you moved even closer to him. He could smell the remnants of your vanilla conditioner underneath the smell of smoke, and that was quite literally the only thing keeping him grounded right now.
This was all his fault.
“I’m really happy you’re here,” you confess, your voice no louder than a whisper. “I don’t… I don’t know what happened.”
Bucky’s hand cradled the back of your head, and he leaned in and pressed his lips to your temple. He couldn’t help himself. He couldn’t stop himself if he tried. He’d missed you so much. “It’s okay. You’re okay,” he mumbled, his lips brushing along your skin. “You’re okay.”
At this point he wasn’t sure if he was telling you that or himself.
He pulled back to look at you just as Yelena showed up, her eyes scanning the damage before she locked onto him. And the girl in his arms. “Barnes,” she said, coming over to where he was standing with you. She eyed you for a few seconds before looking up at him. “Can I talk to you?”
Bucky knew that look. He’d known Yelena long enough now to know most of her looks, and that one meant she wanted answers. She wanted to know what happened, how it involved him, and who the girl currently trembling against his chest is. She knew of you, but didn’t know what you looked like, or where you worked. He supposed she does now.
Bucky sighed but nodded, and looked down at you. “Do you need to go talk to the police? Or get checked out?”
You shook your head, your hands loosening their death grip on his shirt. “No, I got checked out. And I already talked to the police. I wasn’t able to tell them much, so they gave me their card in case I remembered anything else,” you said as you pulled your sleeve down to the heel of your hand, then wiped at your dirt smeared cheek. “I was told to go home, but I don’t really want to. I’m… I feel…”
Bucky didn’t need you to say anything else. He could see the fear in your eyes, the way your hands were shaking. He felt a piece of himself break at the sight of you. “Okay,” he said, taking your hands in his. “You could go to my place, if you want to. It’s safe, you know that. And… and I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
He didn’t know if you wanted to be alone right now. He didn’t know if you’re even comfortable at his apartment after what happened between the two of you. But he wanted you there. He knew you’d be safe there.
This was all his fault.
You looked up at him with tired eyes. “I don’t want to be a bother,”
Bucky gave you a look. “Please. Go to my place? I’ll meet you there in an hour, okay?” he nearly begged as he leaned in and kissed your forehead. He couldn’t stay away from you now, not when he knew you were a target. He needed you safe. “Promise me you’ll stay there. That you’ll wait for me.”
You pressed your lips together and nodded slowly as you pulled away and tugged the blanket off of you. “Okay,” you whispered, taking the keys from him when he reached into his pocket and held them out to you. “I promise. I’ll… see you soon.”
Bucky nodded and watched as you gave the blanket back to the paramedic, then you were heading down the street in the direction of his place. When he turned back to Yelena, she had her brows raised and her eyes narrowed. “I have so many questions,” she said. “And you better answer all of them.”
-
After Bucky answered all of Yelena’s questions, she finally saw the worried look in his eyes and the longing on his face, the desperation to get back to you. She waved him off pretty quickly after that.
He’d never gotten home quicker, and when he opened the door and looked around for you, he felt his shoulders deflate at the dark surroundings he was met with.
The living room lights were off, never having been turned back on after he flicked the switch last night before bed. The kitchen lights were off, and the only proof that you were ever here was the single light on in the hallway that leads to his room and the spare room.
So you definitely had been here, but it was so quiet, he wasn’t sure if you still were. Bucky closed the door behind him, and he saw the keys he’d given you on the kitchen counter, but there was no sign of you.
He felt his heart break a bit, because he’d somehow managed to lose you again. Not that he’d even gotten you back.
Bucky braced his elbows on the breakfast bar, his hands covering his face as he let out uneven breaths. He had hoped to convince you to stay here with him, just until he was able to find the person who set off the bomb that nearly… killed you. He’d give you the spare room, of course, and his intentions would be nothing but pure. And maybe, just maybe, he’d be able to win back his place in your heart with time.
But now you were gone again.
“Fuck,” he grunted, his voice muffled by his hands as he shook his head.
He felt like an absolute failure. He felt like he failed you, and he’d never forgive himself for it.
As Bucky was full on moping, he heard the door to his bedroom open. He knew it was his bedroom door because of the obnoxious creaking he’s been saying he’ll fix since even before he met you.
It was almost comical. Bucky had no problem going out into the world and risking his own life, getting roughed up on a regular basis, but fixing the hinges on a door? He’d procrastinate doing that for the rest of his life.
It was more sad, really.
Bucky looked up just as you poked your head around the wall, and he saw the relief flash in your eyes once you saw it was him. Straightening up from the counter, Bucky felt his throat close up as he looked at you. You were no longer wearing your dirty and ripped clothing, instead you had on one of his shirts and his sweats he’d always let you steal when you were together.
He’d missed seeing you in his clothes. He missed having you at his place, and in his space.
“You stayed,” he whispered, placing his hands flat on the surface of the counter.
Your hair was wet, and your face was cleaned of the dirt and dust and sweat that coated it before. There were small cuts on your skin, and a bruise was forming under your right eye. You weren’t shaking anymore, but you still had a scared look in your eyes, and he hated it.
Bucky wanted to find whoever tried to take you away from him permanently, and he wanted to rip them apart.
You nodded slowly, barely meeting his gaze as you bunched up the hem of his shirt in your hands. “I promised you I would,” you said back, shifting from one foot to the other as you looked up at him. “I hope you don’t mind I put this on. I don’t have any clothes here and my old ones were… you know.”
Bucky’s gaze softened just a bit as he took in the sight of you. You looked so small and fragile and vulnerable. Fuck, he wanted to wrap you in his arms and never let you go again. “Of course I don’t mind, you can wear whatever you want,” he said, standing up to his full height and turning to face you. “How are you feeling? Do you need anything?”
You shook your head as you looked down at the floor again. “No, I’m fine,” you mumbled. “Thank you.”
Every mark on your skin filled him with rage and guilt, and his blood boiled. He should’ve been there. He should’ve protected you. He should’ve known the people he pissed off would’ve gone to you. Gone after you.
“God, Y/n, I’m so sorry,”
Your brows furrowed as you stood there, fiddling with his shirt and looking like his whole entire world. “What are you talking about?” you questioned, shaking your head. “How could it be your fault? You didn’t set off the bomb, did you? That’s the only way it would be your fault, Bucky.”
But that wasn’t true, was it?
It was his fault. Sure, he didn’t set off the bomb, but he was the reason for it. It was all his fault.
“No, I didn’t touch the bomb,” he said, his jaw locking at the deadly word that could’ve easily taken you away from him permanently. “But it was set off because of me. You were targeted because of me.”
You narrowed your gaze, your head swaying slightly side to side as you seemed to refuse to believe that could ever be true. That your life could ever be in danger because of him. That he could ever be a threat to you. “What are you talking about?” you repeated, stepping towards him as he stayed completely still.
“I fucked up. I fucked this up. I couldn’t keep you safe, I-” he cut himself off as he turned and braced his hands flat on the surface of the counter again. “This happened because of me. Because of what I’ve done, because of the people I’ve pissed off. I should’ve protected you better. I should’ve… fuck, I should’ve done things so differently from the start.”
He heard your soft footsteps creep closer, felt the warmth radiating off your body and onto his as you stood next to him. Not touching, but connected in every single way. “Bucky,” you murmured, your voice so soft and quiet and innocent, he felt his heart clench painfully his chest. “Talk to me. Please?”
Bucky wasn’t sure he could. He didn’t want to relive what he’s put you through, recall all the times he could’ve told you instead of pushing you away and putting your life in danger.
He didn’t want to look into your eyes and see all the fear and confusion he put in them. But he was done hiding things from you. He was done keeping you out of the loop in fear that you could get hurt if you knew, because you got hurt anyway.
“I want to know everything, please,” you begged him quietly, and he would give you anything you wanted. “I can handle whatever it is, I promise. I just… need to know.”
Bucky turned his head and looked over at you, seeing the exhaustion and barely concealed pain on your face, and all he wanted to do was take you into his arms and never let you go again. Never let anything or anyone hurt you ever again.
He stood up straight, towering over you like he always did, but you didn’t cower away or flinch. You simply looked up at him with your wide, pretty eyes he loves so much. “Okay,” he said, giving in with little hesitation this time. You deserved the truth. You deserved it months ago. “I should’ve told you this so long ago, I… I’ve hurt people. Bad people that deserved it. I’ve… done things, seen things that should scar me, but I’m already scarred. I’ve already seen everything. Nothing surprises me anymore.”
You didn’t step back or give him a look of judgement he was expecting from you. But then again, you were far too sweet for your own good, way too understanding to those who really didn’t deserve it. Like him.
“The people I’ve hurt… they wanted to hurt me back. They wanted to get me back, make me pay for the things I did to them,” he said, looking down since he couldn’t bring himself to look at you anymore. He felt like he didn’t deserve to be in the same room as you anymore. He was ashamed. “But they’re bad people. They’ve done horrible things, and I shut them out. I didn’t care. And they knew that, so they moved onto the people I care about most in my life. You.”
Your fingers bunched up his shirt even more, your lips pressing together as you listened to him. You let him speak without any interruptions, without any accusing or judgmental glares, and even though this wasn’t an easy thing to do in the slightest, it wasn’t forcing you away from him like he feared it would.
You stayed completely still. You weren’t scared. You weren’t fleeing and demanding he stay as far away from you as possible.
He should’ve known you’d be understanding, or at least willing to hear him out until the end before saying anything.
He failed you.
“I should’ve seen it coming. I should’ve protected you from all this. The last thing I wanted was for you to get hurt. That’s the last thing I could ever want. I thought I was protecting you,” he rasped, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. I fucked up. I failed you.”
You looked up at him, your face void of any readable emotion or expression, and he felt his heart crack. This is the end. The real end. You would never talk to him after this, and he’d never see you again. The thought of it made his skin crawl and his hands clench into fists at his sides.
But you just reached for them. Your fingers wrapped delicately around his own, and when he lifted his gaze and looked at you, you casted your own down at his metal hand. “My whole life, I never understood how dangerous the world truly is. How scary it can be. How… how brutal,” you mumbled, then you guided his hand up your body until it was resting on your chest, right over your heart. “You lied to me… to protect me.”
Bucky’s eyes remained fixated on you, his body stiff and still completely at your mercy. He wouldn’t move until you gave him the impression that you wanted him to. You let him talk, let him vent, and he would do the same for you.
“And I never saw that until now. I never understood it or even tried to,” you lifted your head and looked up at him, and he could see the guilt in your eyes. And he hated it. You had nothing to feel guilty about at all. This, all of this, every single thing, was all on him. “Bucky… the things I said to you that night…”
He watched as your eyes filled up with tears, and he shook his head quickly. “Shh, baby, please don’t cry,” he begged, the name slipping from his lips before he could stop it. He was so used to calling you that, especially in your time of need and when he was comforting you.
Every tear that rolled down your face pierced his heart, the physical evidence of how badly he fucked this up feeling like a wound tearing open his body. He never liked seeing you cry, and he hated seeing you hurt, but this was even worse since it was because of him.
You were feeling guilty about the night you walked out and took his heart with you. Sure, you said some… pretty harsh things, but it wasn’t like he didn’t deserve every bit of it. He was a prick. He was selfish and he was scared to lose you.
Then he ended up losing you anyway.
“The things you said? I deserved every word. I betrayed your trust, when all you’d ever been was honest with me. I hid parts of myself from you. I was a coward,” he said, his flesh hand lifting upwards and hovering near your bruised cheek, hesitating and shaking just slightly. “But, Y/n, you have to know I did it to keep you safe. To hide you from all this… darkness I have around me. I never meant to hurt you or do anything that would put you in danger. You’re everything to me.”
The tears fell down your face a little more consistently now, the salt water seeping into the small cuts that lined your skin. “But I was so mean to you,” you whispered, your voice full of shame and regret as you reached up and guided his hand to your face. “I’m sorry. I regretted it the minute I said it, and I still regret it now. I just wanted to hurt you back… but I should’ve never said the things I did. I’m sorry, Bucky.”
His breath got caught in his throat as he caressed your cheek, his hand barely applying any pressure at all. He was terrified to hurt you as he gathered your tears with his thumb.
“You could never hurt me as much as I hurt you. What you said… it stung, yeah. It hurt a lot. But it was nothing compared to losing you,” he murmured, cradling your face like you were a precious treasure he had no right to be touching. “You have nothing to be sorry for, baby. None of this is on you. I’m the one who lied. I’m the one who’s sorry. For lying, for keeping things from you. For not protecting you like I should have.”
You sniffled and let out a quiet laugh, though it lacked any humor. But it was just like you - finding the humor in even the most heartbreaking and darkest situations. “I don’t need you to apologize, Bucky. And even though I don’t fully understand what happened today or why I was targeted. Why I was nearly… killed,” you trailed off as you leaned into his touch. “I don’t need the full story. I just need you to be honest with me. From here on out, okay? Just the truth. Always.”
Bucky felt his heart leap inside his chest as he looked down at you, his thumb stroking your tear-stained cheek. “I promise. Honesty, from now on,” he swore. “No more secrets or lying or hiding. Just the truth.”
You nodded slowly, a sad smile forming on your lips. “Did we totally mess this up?”
His expression softened slightly as he lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Maybe we did,” he answered honestly, because he was done with lying to you. Of sugarcoating things to spare your feelings. You wanted the truth. You deserved the truth. He wouldn’t let you down again. “But, baby, I don’t think it’s too late for us. I’m still in love with you.”
He saw the way your shoulders dropped in relief, the fear and anxiety melting away from your expression as you looked up at him. A crooked smile formed on your face as you let out a soft sigh, your arms coming up to drape around his shoulders. “I never stopped,” you confessed, your nose bumping gently against his as you moved closer to him. “Don’t think I ever will.”
Forget the leap it did earlier, Bucky’s heart soared at your words, and he wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you against his body. “Thank God. I thought I’d lost you forever. That I messed things up for good,” he breathed, nuzzling his nose against yours. One hand rested on your lower back while the other cradled the side of your neck. “I love you so much. More than anything in this world. Please, tell me we still have a chance.”
You smiled up at him, and even with the various cuts and bruises on your face, you are still the prettiest thing he’s ever seen in his entire life. “We have a chance,” you mumbled, your fingers sliding into his hair, and he could’ve groaned at the familiar feeling. “Only if you tell me what’s going on from here on out.”
Bucky did actually groan at that and dipped his head down, brushing his lips against yours in a barely-there kiss. He couldn’t describe the feeling of relief he felt at touching you like this again. It felt like he was dreaming, and he never wanted to wake back up. “I swear, no more secrets. You’ll know everything - the good, the bad, the ugly, all of it,” he vowed against your lips.
You grinned, wincing when it pulled on your sore skin. “I love you,”
He held you tighter. “I love you too, doll. So fucking much,” he muttered, hugging you close to his body as if he never wanted to let you go again. He lifted you up and set you down on the counter, caging you in as he slotted himself between your thighs. “What happened today was because of me. Because of what I’ve done. But I won’t let anyone hurt you ever again. I swear on my life, I’ll keep you safe.”
His thumb brushed along the bruise on your cheek, his touch the most gentle it’s ever been. “So… am I in danger by being with you?” you asked, bracing your hands on his shoulders. “Does us being together… does that mean I’m always going to be a target? Will something like this happen again?”
Bucky winced at that, his jaw clenching a bit as his hands moved to your waist. “No more lies, right?” he mumbled, watching as you nodded slowly. “Being with me does put you at a higher risk. These people… they’re ruthless and they play dirty. But I also won’t let them anywhere near you again. I’ll be there. You’ll be safe with me. I can promise you that.”
He leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead before resting his own against it.
“I know it’s a lot to ask. And I won’t blame you for wanting to run and get as far away from me as possible,” he rasped. “But you can trust me. I’d do anything to protect you.”
A shaky breath left your lips as you nodded again, pressing your lips together. “Okay,” you said quietly, reaching up and wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders. You hugged him close, and he damn near melted against you. “I trust you, Bucky. More than anyone else.”
Bucky wrapped you up in his arms, burying his face in your neck. His hand tangled in your hair as he pressed soft kisses along your neck, your jaw, and your temple, careful of your injuries. “I’ve got you, baby. I’ve got you,” he promised, holding you against his body as he felt you relax in his arms. “You’re so brave… I don’t deserve you, I know that. But I won’t let you go again. From now on, it’s just us. It’s you and me.”
You smiled up at him, your eyes full of exhaustion and love for him, and he loved you more than anything in the world. “Us,” you repeated, and even though Bucky could see how scared you still are, you let yourself find peace and comfort in his arms.
He knew that, with time, this would become easier. He also knew that for as long as he was breathing, nothing and no one else would ever touch you again.
_
Idk if I like this... Hopefully you did | Masterlist
Summary: You can’t stand to watch him get hurt. He can’t stand to watch you risk your life for him. In the end, both of you are right - and both of you are bleeding for it.
Word Count: 7.3k
Warnings: angst; gun violence; gunshot wound (not too graphic, but described); blood loss; angst-heavy relationship conflict (verbal fighting, yelling, unresolved anger); panic; fear of loss; crying; loss of consciousness; medical emergency; Bucky is desperate
Author’s Note: I’m back with some avengers angst y’all!! It’s honestly a pretty classy idea but I just needed to get this out. I hope you enjoy ♡
Masterlist
The metal walls around you are sweating condensation from the cold outside. The air is astringent, reeking faintly of antiseptic, like adrenaline that hasn’t finished leaving the bloodstream.
You feel the constant noise of the quinjet in your teeth more than your ears. You can taste metal on your tongue, like pennies thrown into your mouth, and every inhale chatters against the soreness layering behind your ribs.
Sam is cracking some joke in the corner and Natasha’s smirk is sharp enough to slice the tension in half, but no one laughs too loud. Everyone’s voice is dipped in that tired kind of calm, the one you only wear after the gunfire stops but before the bruises bloom.
You shift in your seat. The fabric of your suit still smells faintly of smoke, of something burnt. There’s a line of fire along your side where the bullet carved skin but not life, a neat little warning branded into you. The medkit says it’s fine. You say it’s fine.
Bucky doesn’t say anything.
He is sitting across from you, three feet away. Or maybe it’s three miles. Hard to tell with the emotional distance between you that just continues to stretch.
He is hunched over with an elbow braced on his knee, flesh hand covering his mouth as if he’s holding his jaw in place. His steely eyes are fixed on the floor as though there are answers written in the rivets. You want to tell him you’re fine, really fine, better than fine because you’re alive and so is he, but the words get blocked in your throat, too clumsy, too simple for what happened.
His head does not once lift off the floor. Not even to glance at you.
And maybe you should be grateful. Because if he looked at you, if he head-on looked at you, you’re not sure if he’d scream or shatter.
Natasha eyes you from across the cabin, quickly, as though she is measuring the damage and cataloguing your foolishness all in one glance. It makes you sit up straighter even when your body tries to collapse in exhaustion. Her gaze snaps once toward the man in front of you, the one who hasn’t said a single thing since you boarded.
He is sitting so still. His jaw is locked, rigid, a muscle ticking like the echo of gunfire he can’t outrun. He doesn’t even move when a turbulence shivers through the jet. He is galaxies away, orbiting his own fury.
Tony tosses a protein bar at you. It lands in your lap. “Eat. You look like a corpse cosplaying as a superhero,” he says.
You roll your eyes, peel back the wrapper. The sugar tastes too sweet. Too human. Your tongue rebels, but you chew anyway.
“It’s just a scratch,” you state, casual, careless.
A chorus of scoffs follows. Familiar. Frustrated. Almost affectionate.
But not him.
Not Bucky.
He is still silent. Still folded into himself, hands clasped tightly, flesh knuckles white. There is a tremor running up his arm. The sound of leather groans under the strain of his grip.
You know he isn’t ignoring you. He is holding himself together with threads that are fraying by the second.
“A scratch is a papercut,” Sam pipes up, scoff in his voice. “That was a bullet, sugar.”
“She’s walking. That’s a win,” Clint muses, throwing you an encouraging smile you try your best to reciprocate. But you can’t force your gaze away from Bucky for too long.
He doesn’t flinch when Sam talks, doesn’t respond to Clint, doesn’t rise to Tony’s jab. He sits there with his hands curled too tight, a silent sermon of outrage and fear. You watch as he presses his trembling fingers hard into his thigh as if to ground himself here, now, instead of where his mind is replaying the scene.
You want to reach for him. You want to link your hand with his, take him into your arms, and tell him that you would do it again, ten times over, a hundred, because the thought of him falling while you stood still is unbearable. But the words feel heavy in your chest, and his silence is heavier still.
Steve’s gaze switches between you and Bucky. It lingers on him a fraction longer. Like he knows. Like he always knows. But he doesn’t say anything either.
You can feel Bucky growing roots in the corner. The air between you is threaded too tight, pulling every breath thinner. He’s trapped inside his head, and you’re the one who put him there.
Not the bullet. Not the shooter. You.
You think about the moment again - how fast you moved, how instinct overtook thought, how your body was already in front of his before you even realized what you were doing. The sting. The heat. His face, right after. The kind of pale dread that makes time stop.
And now this.
Natasha leans back in her seat, eyes half-closed, but she’s watching. Always watching. “The scar will look hot on you,” she says casually, like she’s talking about what food you’re going to order when you’re back.
Someone chuckles. Maybe Clint. Maybe Sam. You don’t catch it.
Because Bucky finally looks up.
Just for a second.
And he is not fixed on the others, but finally, finally on you.
And it’s too much. The devastation. The terror. The rage building dark and boiling behind his pupils.
His eyes are not gentle. They are not soft. They are not melting the way they usually do when he looks at you. They are wild and desperate and hurt. A thousand words bitten down to silence.
And you know.
You know the fight is already waiting for you on the other side of the quinjet door.
Because it‘s all there. The way he is replaying the moment in his mind, the way he saw you step in front of him, the way you flinched when the bullet kissed your side. He is watching it again, again, again. A loop he cannot find his way out of.
And you are left wishing you could reach inside his skull and silence the reel.
But for now, he just sits there, broken and furious and so impossibly quiet.
The quinjet tilts. It lowers almost in a reluctant way, as if it doesn’t want to come back down to earth. There is that gradual drop in your stomach, the kind that says home is near. The kind that says everything dangerous is technically over, but not really.
The engines whine softer, softer still, until the rumble becomes a heartbeat underfoot. The floor vibrates through your boots in a way that feels almost human - like the jet is alive and exhausted and glad the night is nearly over.
The others unbuckle in a choreography you know too well. Tony first, impatient, muttering something about a hot shower and an ice-cold drink. Clint following, stretching like his spine is a bowstring. Sam trailing after him with clipped movements, the kind of gestures people make when they are trying not to look at what actually bothers them. He gives Bucky one last glance, and it’s a glance you feel, something unspoken between them. But Bucky doesn’t even seem to notice. Or care.
Natasha stands too, graceful as always, rolling her shoulders, and she lets her hand brush your shoulder as she passes. You can’t make out the intention behind the move, but you hope it’s meant for comfort, because that’s what you need right now.
Steve lingers. Of course he does. One hand gripping the edge of a seat as though he’s not sure if he should play mediator or ghost. His eyes swap between the two of you again - Bucky’s still form, your restless hands. He looks at you with that kind of concern you never ask for, but he’s been alive long enough to recognize when not to push. So he just sighs, presses his lips together, and finally goes. The sound of his boots fades down the ramp.
And then it’s just you. And him.
The silence with the others gone is too large, a silence with elbows and knees that bruise if you bump into it.
You don’t even hear him breathe, but you see the way his chest heaves unevenly.
He hasn’t moved. Not an inch. He still sits hunched forward, elbows on his thighs, flesh hand dragging across his jaw. His metal hand stays clenched, the dull silver gleaming under the overhead lights. But they are dimmer now.
You swallow against the knot in your throat. Try his name once, softly. “Bucky.”
Nothing.
Not even a twitch. He’s carved himself into stone across from you, shoulders rigid, jaw locked, eyes fixed on the floor like it’s the only thing keeping him from spinning off the planet.
You wait. You give him a moment. Two. A whole eternity stretched wide.
Still nothing.
He doesn’t breathe differently, doesn’t blink in your direction. He is an unmoving photograph, locked in grayscale.
The pain in your chest sharpens. You sigh, a sound heavier than you want it to be, and push yourself upright slowly. The motion makes the cabin shift beneath your feet, your body pulling against gravity like it doesn’t quite know not to fight against it. The wound pulls at your side when you straighten, and you wince, but it’s nothing compared to the way he won’t look at you.
You take a step, just one, because you don’t know where you’re supposed to go when the space between you is so wide and so small all at once.
“What the hell were you thinking?”
His voice. Rough. A scrape of gravel across the floor. The question is a demand, a plea, an accusation. All three at once.
It stops you cold.
You turn, and there he is - finally looking at you. Not blank. Not silent. Alive with fury that isn’t really fury at all, that’s shaking, ripping, cracking open. His hands are fists, his chest is rising too fast.
He’s looking at you and it feels like standing on the edge of a cliff with no railing. His eyes are sharp, wild, too wide, and too wet. And you are the storm he’s trying to survive.
And suddenly the fight you’ve been tiptoeing around is no longer waiting. It’s here.
Bucky leans forward. Blue eyes darker than usual, fractured into pieces you can’t put back together. Not just like that. He stares at you as though you’re both the answer and the problem, as if you have stolen something from him and he doesn’t know how to take it back.
You blink, say his name like it might put the fire out. “Bucky-”
But the match has already struck.
He’s already shaking his head, not giving you room to start, to soften it, to explain. His hand scrapes down his face again, metal fingers clinking against his stubble. He looks wrecked. He looks furious. He looks like someone who just crawled out of a nightmare and hasn’t realized he’s awake.
“No. Don’t” His tone cracks. His voice is hoarse, low and harsh. Ashes in his throat. And he keeps shaking his head as if to shove away the memory. “Don’t even- don’t give me some bullshit answer. Don’t tell me you’re fine. Don’t tell me it doesn’t matter.” His fists are shaking on his thighs. “Do you even get what you did?” His voice is rough, wearing thin. “You just- you jumped in front of me. You took a bullet that was meant for me.” He laughs, but it’s not a sound of joy or anything like it. “Do you even hear how fucking insane that is?”
You straighten your shoulders, though you can feel the sting at your side where the bandage presses too tight. “It barely grazed me.”
He is on his feet before you realize it, breath ragged, chest heaving. The shadows under his eyes are bruised with exhaustion and fear, but his fury is louder than either. “That’s not the point.” His voice cracks, then hardens. “That’s not- Jesus, you don’t get it.”
You cross your arms, defensiveness piercing your chest. Your throat is dry. You try again, softer, but it comes out sharper than you mean. “I didn't think, okay? I-”
“Yeah, that’s the fucking problem.” The snap in his voice is loud enough to echo against the metal walls, then it collapses into something quieter, more vulnerable. “You didn’t think. You didn’t even give me the chance.”
The quinjet might as well be a cathedral now - all cold metal and echoes and saints made of anguish.
Your pulse is in your ears. Your side is throbbing. Your mouth is full of rust. You meet his eyes, and wish you hadn’t.
Because Bucky isn’t just angry. He’s wrecked.
“I was supposed to protect you,” he grounds out. Quiet now. Barely above a whisper. “That’s the deal. That’s always been the deal.”
His voice folds around the words as if they’re used to having a meaning. As if they’re vows etched into his bones.
“You don’t get to just- just take it for me, doll.” The petname is a tremble. Like it hurts to say. He always uses so many pet names when you’re caught in an argument. It’s as if he tries to remind himself every single time that he still gets to call you that. Gets to call you his. That he hasn’t lost you just yet. But a fight between the two of you never escalated the way it seems to be doing now.
And then he moves - too fast - pacing like a storm in a cage.
One hand scrapes through his hair, the other clenches so tight you hear the metal whine.
“You don’t get it,” he says again, voice breaking in the middle. “You don’t get what it did to me- watching you go down. Watching you bleed. Watching you-” He swallows it. Chokes it back. “I couldn’t even move. I couldn’t breathe.”
You’re shaking now. You didn’t mean for this to hurt him. Didn’t mean to tear open every stitch he’s sewn shut. But this fight is different. This one is real. This one cuts somewhere neither of you knows how to bandage.
“You always do this,” he mutters. “You always- throw yourself in front of the fire. God, baby, it drives me up the wall.” His voice climbs higher.
You feel like a child again, being scolded for touching the stove, for chasing puddles, for running into traffic, and saying you were chasing the moon.
You want to be calm. Rational. You want to explain that it wasn’t a choice, that it was instinct. But frustration rises inside you, choking. “What was I supposed to do, Bucky? Just watch you get shot?”
He turns to you, eyes slashed open, burning wild. “Yes! Damn it- yes. You should’ve let me take it. I can take it. I’ve taken worse. A bullet wouldn’t have done a damn thing to me.”
Your throat goes hot. “And if it was worse?” Your words spill too fast, too brittle, louder now. “What if it wasn’t just your arm, or your shoulder, or wherever the hell you think you can take it? What then?”
“You think I can’t handle a gunshot?” His laugh is bitter, hollow, empty. “Do you have any idea how many times- how many times I’ve been shot? I would’ve walked it off. But you-” He gestures at you, wild, helpless. “You can’t. You’re not-”
“I’m not what? Not you? Not indestructible?” You hear the bite in your own voice and hate yourself for it, but you don’t stop. “I know I’m not you. But that doesn’t mean I’m just going to sit back and let you get torn apart in front of me.”
“I can take it,” he snaps, desperate now, his eyes piercing and locking on yours like if he stares hard enough you’ll finally understand. “That’s the difference. I can take it.”
The words hit harder than the bullet did. Heat burns your throat. The anger sparks before the hurt has even settled. “Wow.” Your laugh is bitter, breathless. “So that’s what you think of me? That I’m some fragile little liability on the field?”
He shakes his head instantly, quick, desperate. “That’s not- doll, that’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?” The question tears out of you, hurt and harsh. “Because all I’m hearing is that you’re built to take it and I’m not. That I’m- what- breakable? Fragile? Disposable?”
“No, baby, that’s not-” His voice stumbles, rough edges colliding. “That’s not what I’m saying.” With a groan, he drags his hands down his face, flesh and metal both. “I’m saying I can take it better than you can, and you damn well know it.”
You freeze. The room tilts a little. His words slice in ways he didn’t intend, but the cut is real all the same. You can feel the wound at your side throbbing, sharper under your anger. “Look, I know I’m not some special kind of superhero, okay? I don’t have powers, I don’t have some serum running through my veins, and there is nothing explicitly great about me, but don’t stand there and tell me I can’t handle a goddamn graze, Bucky! I’ve had worse.”
His shoulders tense, his whole frame falling inward.
“God, that’s not-” His voice rasps like something splintering under pressure. Then it hardens again, lashing out in panic disguised as fury. “That’s- I don’t-” It falters mid-breath as though his lungs don’t want to carry the weight of the sentence. He catches himself with a fist clenched too tight and a jaw that looks like it’s been grinding down a scream. When he speaks again, it’s serrated and sharpened anguish. “I know you’re strong, baby.” His voice is worn. Throaty. “Stronger than anyone gives you credit for, hell, stronger than me most days. But this- this isn’t about that.” His breath cuts short, chest shuddering, and he looks at you with eyes that are all storm, no shore. “This is about-” He stops. Stutters. “You could’ve-” The word wilts on his tongue. He swallows profusely, like it burns going down. A tremor rushes through him. He rakes his hand through his hair, breath half-held, whole body trembling like he’s standing barefoot in a blizzard. “You could’ve died, doll.” The words crack like ice. “And you don’t even-”
You step forward, something molten rising up your throat. “But I didn’t.” You throw your arms out, as if to show him the whole inventory of your body, bruises and all. “I’m fine, Bucky. Look at me.”
“Fine?” He spits the word as if it tastes like blood. His voice lifts again, strong with desperation he can’t mask. And then his metal hand slams into the armrest of the seat beside him with a violent clatter, the sound a boom in the belly of the quinjet. The chair jerks sideways, bolts groaning in protest. “You call that fine?” His voice is scraped raw from the inside out. “Sweetheart, you’re bleeding under that damn bandage and you almost didn’t-” His words collapse on themselves. He breathes like he’s chasing oxygen that won’t stay in his lungs. He is visibly fighting the tremor in his throat.
Silence. A silence that isn’t really silence, because his breathing is jagged and your pulse is thunder in your ears.
You want to tell him you acted on instinct. You want to tell him that it wasn’t a decision. That your body just moved when it saw him in danger. That fear has a language all its own and yours always spells save him. That the image of him falling, broken, is worse than any pain you could imagine.
But he’s looking at you like you pulled the trigger yourself. Like you opened your chest and aimed the bullet at your own ribs just to punish him. Just to rip the ground out from under him.
You glance down at the torn fabric, the dried blood that crusts around the bandage. “I’m handling it, okay?” you tell him, and your voice is strained, stretching thin against the silence. “It’s not a big deal.”
The sound he releases is a scar, twisted and hollow and painful to hear. “Not a big deal?” he echoes, voice incredulous and so, so wounded. “You could’ve been dead. Do you get that? Do you understand what that means? One inch deeper, one second slower, and I’m holding your body instead of your hand.”
The silence after that feels too big, too swollen to hold.
Your arms wind around yourself, because his words keep finding the softest parts of you and keep pressing down. You exhale and it hurts to let go of the air.
He looks away, hands on his hips, head bowed as though he’s just emptied himself out. His shoulders rise and fall in numbed, uneven lines.
“Can’t you see what it does to me, Bucky?” you whisper, the words hitching in your throat. Splintering with weariness. “Watching you go headfirst into danger every goddamn time? It kills me, Bucky. It kills me to picture you not coming back.”
He scoffs. Rough. Dismantling. The sound of something breaking. His hand flies out, gesturing wide, as though the whole world is a mess he can’t control and he’s trying to hurl it away. “That’s different!”
“No, it’s not!” you shout, heat boiling in your chest, heart hammering. You step closer, refusing the distance he’s trying to put between you. “Why is it different? Because you’ve been through hell? Because you’ve survived it before? That doesn’t mean it should always be you taking the fall. You can’t expect me to always just stand behind you while you get hit.”
“If it keeps you alive,” he says, voice low and lethal, “then yeah. That’s exactly what I want. That’s exactly what you’re going to do.” The words are a blow. But you don’t flinch. You fire back.
Anger tears through the cracks of your ribs. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”
“I do when your life’s on the line!” His voice booms, ricocheting off the metal walls as though looking for a way out. His body is shaking. He is pacing again, shoulders rigid, breath stormy. His hands are firecrackers, bursting through the air, erratic. “It’s not noble, throwing yourself in front of me like that. It’s not- it’s reckless. It’s fucking reckless. You don’t get to make that call, not when I-” He stops, swallows audibly, shakes his head as though he is choking on the words. His fists are clenched at his sides.
Your side pains, wound burning hotter, but the fury blinds you to it. You throw his words back at him, icy and fast. “Don’t talk to me about reckless,” you snarl. “You’ve thrown yourself into worse for all of us. You don’t hesitate when it’s your body on the line. But the second it’s mine, suddenly it’s a crime?”
He turns so fast it shakes the air. His head snaps toward you, eyes blazing. Searing. Sorrowful. Fury and devastation are wrapped so tight you can’t tell them apart. He takes a step toward you, and then another, until there’s barely air between you.
His voice drops, rough and shaking and dangerous. “You don’t get it. You don’t get what it felt like- seeing you drop, seeing blood on you because of me.” He closes the last distance between you in two quick strides. His eyes are oceans mid-tempest. “You were on the ground, and I swear to God, I stopped breathing. I saw you hit the floor and I thought- this is it. This is the moment I lose her. And if that happens- if you’re gone- if I lose you-” He bites down hard. You see the pain stretch across his face like glass cracking under pressure. “I’m done,” he breathes. “You hear me? Done.” His voice is gravel and grief. “There’s no coming back from that.”
Your chest caves in, slowly, painfully. But your voice rises anyway. “And what if I feel the same?”
He freezes.
“What if I can’t survive watching you die? What if I’d rather take that bullet every time than live in a world without you?”
His face breaks, and for a second you think he’s going to fall apart. Say something raw and unfixable.
But then he turns away. Fast. Hands in his hair. His metal fist curls, clenches, presses against his mouth like he’s trying to stifle the sound coming out of him - a noise you’ve never heard before.
It’s not rage. It’s not grief. It’s terror. Strangled and trembling.
The sound makes your wound flare, a hot, twisting pain, but you bite down on it, refuse to wince. Refuse to show him one ounce of weakness.
“It’s not the same,” he grits out through harshly clenched teeth.
“Yes, it is,“ you shoot back, frustrated.
“Goddammit,” he mutters, voice scraping bottom. “Why don’t you get it?”
You step closer. Close enough to feel the quake in his shoulders. “Why don’t you?” you throw back, chest aching. You’re not yelling anymore. You’re just breaking. “I made a choice, Bucky. My choice. And you don’t get to tell me it was wrong just because it scared you.”
He whirls on you with a snarl of disbelief, eyes wild.
“Scared? You think that’s all it is?” He steps forward, and you swear the jet shrinks around you. “It wasn’t just wrong,” he claims, “it was stupid. Suicidal. You gambled your life like it meant nothing.”
“And I’d do it again.” The words rip from your throat, vehemently, tears stinging behind your eyes. “A thousand fucking times, I’d do it again.”
His face crumples as if he’s folding under the strain of every second that’s passed since the bullet tore through you, heartbreak and grief colliding until he looks almost unrecognizable. His hands fall to his sides. His mouth parts, shaking. Silent. His eyes glisten as if he’s seconds from drowning.
“You’re gonna drive me insane,” he whispers, defeated.
And the silence after that feels like it’s been held in the mouths of stars.
The wound in your side pulses again - no, not a pulse. A bite. Teeth, dragging. Sharp. Cruel. Hungry. You press it down like you’ve been taught to do. Like the pain owes you obedience. But it doesn’t. And he’s looking at you as if you’re a stranger in your own skin.
And God, you’re too deep in the fire to pull back now.
Your voice is soft when it finally comes. Paper-thin. A whisper trying not to tremble. “You’re not the only one afraid of losing someone, Bucky.”
He exhales like he’s coughing up a wound. A sound so raw it cleaves the air between you. His chest stutters. Caves. Fights to lift again.
“Then stop putting me in a position where I almost do.” His words are not loud, but they land.
Your hands curl into fists, your nails digging crescents into your palms. Your side is screaming now. Screaming. Not a throb anymore. Not even a burn. It’s a hurricane. A tidal wave. It climbs your spine, presses sweat through your skin, swirls around your lungs and tightens.
You feel lightheaded, but you dig in. Dig deeper. Because anger is easier than fear. And you’re too stubborn to give the pain permission.
“You don’t get to tell me how to love you,” you say, and your voice has a raspy note. But there is a certain confidence in the way you speak to him. “I won’t apologize for saving you from a bullet wound.”
He flinches.
It’s small - almost nothing.
But you see it. You feel it.
For a moment, it is quiet again. The air between you quivers, explosive and tenuous. Everything but peaceful.
Just two people breathing hard enough to unnerve the walls, hearts banging like warning sirens against ribs too shrill and too bruised to carry them.
You don’t even realize your breathing is too shallow until the world shifts. Just a tilt. Just a smear of light. The overheads cloud, lengthening into halos you can’t quite reach.
You blink. Once. Twice. Mouth pressed tight. Trying to glare at him. But your vision is molasses now, slow and honeyed and dangerous. The wound - your whole side at this point - is a furnace. A pulse that spikes, hot and penetrating. Like someone driving a nail under your skin. At first, you think it’s nothing - just your body’s reminder that adrenaline always runs out. But it is expanding. Deepening. A slow burn blooming into fire.
You tell yourself that this is what a graze feels like. But the air doesn’t enter your lungs the way it should anymore and the lights overhead are suddenly a single sting behind your eyes.
You don’t remember when your knees began to give, only that they did. Just a slight buckle. A warning shot you try to keep to yourself.
Bucky doesn’t miss it. Of course, he doesn’t. His eyes snap down, sharp as knives, then back up to your face. His expression changes, sharpens in a different direction. Like a tide pulling out. Like a cliff eroding in fast-forward.
“What is it?” he asks, voice low, croaky, unstable. It sounds as if his throat is lined with sandpaper.
“Nothing,” you bite out too fast. Too curt. You straighten. Or you try to. “I’m fine.”
But the pain is not fine. It’s surging now, like the wound has been waiting for the argument to end before it demanded center stage. As if summoned by your lie. It grabs hold of you now. All at once.
The bandage feels wet. Your side feels like it’s trying to tear off your body. The edges of your vision grow fuzzy for just a moment longer - enough to make you catch your breath, enough to make your body sway.
“Hey-” Bucky’s voice is urgent now, sharp and thick with alarm. And he is there in an instant, too close, too fast. His hands are on you before you even register him moving, one warm, one metal, both steadying you before the ground has the chance to steal you.
“I said I’m fine-” you grit out, trying to shove him away with hands that don’t quite do what you want them to. Your words are clumsy, just like your movements. You try to straighten, but instead your body sags against his grip. Your body doesn’t cooperate. Your muscles slur. Your spine folds. “It’s nothing,” you gasp, “just-”
“Nothing?” The word snags in his mouth. His eyes flash down and he sees the blood. The bandage soaked through. The way the red spills across your side like it’s writing a warning in ink. His face goes slack with horror. Then it tightens. Hard. Like a door slamming shut behind a scream. “Jesus, Y/n-”
“I can handle it,” you exclaim stubbornly. But your voice trembles, shivers, betrays you. You’re trying to stay upright, trying to fight the proof of your body’s collapse. Trying to win, even now. To prove him wrong, to prove yourself right. “I told you, I can handle it.”
His arms shift again, cradling you like you’re already slipping through his hands. His metal arm hooks under your legs without hesitation. He’s trying to hold you without hurting you, panic in every movement.
“Handle it?” His voice pitches up, hoarse and fierce and broken. “You’re bleeding out on me.” His words are a tremor. A truth too loud to ignore. “You’re white as a sheet, you can barely stand - don’t you dare tell me you can handle it.” His voice is pulled straight from the center of him.
You stumble again, and this time there’s no denying it. Your whole body lurches. The pain spikes - bright and feral - and a gasp slips from your mouth before you can stop it.
Your hand flies to your side. Hot. Wet. Sticky. The bandage is gone. Useless. You’re losing too much, too fast.
Your knees crumple, and your body pulls you down despite your mind’s insistence, but his arms are already catching you with a curse under his breath. His body braces around yours with the force of something terrified. You feel his heart pounding where your head presses into his chest. A thunderous rhythm.
“Shit- shit, hold on, I’ve got you,” His voice has no rhythm now, just pieces - pointed, breathless, all jumbled together like falling debris.
He clamps one hand to your wound, hard and fast, like he’s trying to hold the blood in, like if he just presses hard enough, he can undo it.
His breath is coming in stutters. Not clean. Not measured. Just labored little gasps, broken fragments pulled too fast into his lungs.
His arms - one flesh, one metal - tighten. Not gently. Not delicately. Desperately. Scared you’ll slip away if he loosens his grip even for a second.
You want to tell him to stop. You want to tell him you can walk, that this isn’t necessary, that he’s overreacting and this is excessive. But your tongue feels plushie, your mouth tastes like copper, and the air won’t sit still long enough for your lungs to catch it and shape the words.
He’s moving too fast. Too fast for someone with a heart that’s breaking.
“Hold on,” he utters. Two words. Strained. Snapped in half. Laced with dread and too many maybes.
He shifts you against him, pulls you closer, your weight drawn easily against his chest, one arm under your knees, the other anchoring your back, as though you’re breakable and already broken. His warmth, his solidity - it’s too much. It makes you want to collapse entirely.
You shouldn’t feel this safe. Not when everything hurts. You don’t even notice him taking off, the ramp of the quinjet groaning and moaning under his weight.
Your head lolls against his shoulder as the corridors rush by in a haze. Too heavy. Too hollow. The vibrations of his boots slam into your spine, and travel up, up, up. Too fast, too hard. Each step proof of how close he is to breaking.
You feel him everywhere. The heat of him. The tremor in him. The wild, frantic, unsteady beat of his heart crashing against your ribs, against your ear.
“Bucky-” Your voice is a whisper, a thin wire strung between your teeth.
“Don’t.” One word, but it lands like a plea. Gruff. His breath catches like it's snagged on something sharp. You feel his jaw flex against your temple. Hear the way his voice fractures. “Don’t talk, baby. Don’t waste your strength.”
You almost laugh - because wasting your strength on words is all you know how to do - but pain is a cruel thief, and it steals even the sound of a smile.
You catch the tremor in his hands. Not the metal one. The other one. The human one. The one made of skin and scar tissue. The one that remembers how it felt to hold hope and lose it. Fingers press too tightly at your shoulder.
“I should’ve seen it.” His voice is quieter now, almost to himself. “Should’ve known. I was too- too wrapped up-” The rest dissolves into another language. Russian, maybe. Sharp syllables. Soft fury.
You try again, your voice thinner now. “I told you- it’s not that bad.”
But you’re lying. And he knows it.
He lets out a sound you’ve never heard from him before - something guttural shredded with disbelief. He jerks his head, eyes burning down at you, and the expression on his face is something you’ll never forget. Not anger. Not this time. Just naked fear. “Don’t you dare say that. Not one more time. You’re bleeding through my shirt, baby.” His voice hitches. Shatters in the middle. You feel the break. Taste it. “That’s bad. That’s fucking bad.”
And you realize he’s right. You can feel it now - the consistent warmth soaking through layers of fabric, the pain sharpening into something blinding. Your skin is clammy, your head spins harder, your breaths grow weak. You feel the way the world spins like it’s on the verge of forgetting you.
“Stay with me,” he grates out, the syllables wrecked. He sounds out of breath. He’s never out of breath. “Don’t close your eyes, baby. Look at me.”
You try. You do. But the world is softening and there is nothing you can do about it. Each step he takes sends another sharp pang through your side, the ache sweltering and radiating.
You gasp, eyes fluttering, and the pain sings its jagged lullaby.
He adjusts his grip, faster now, speeding down the corridor. “Why didn’t you say something? Why didn’t you- god- baby-”
You blink, slow and stupid. You swallow as best as you can, words slurring in your mouth. “We were busy.” It sounds like a joke. And maybe it is. A terrible, unforgivable joke.
His face contorts like you’ve struck him. He looks down at you as though you’ve just ripped his heart out. “Busy fighting?” His jaw tightens. His voice drops to a choked whisper. “You should’ve told me. You should’ve told me. I should’ve seen-”
You hum something in return. Maybe agreement, maybe apology. But the world is a merry-go-round now and you’re slipping off the edge. Your eyes close for just a moment. Just one. The dizziness is inviting.
“No. Hey.” His voice spikes, piercing and raw. Loud and terrified. He jostles you lightly, desperate, hysterical. “No, no, no- eyes on me. Look at me, sweetheart. Look at me. Don’t even think about it, baby.”
Your lashes flutter, the hallway tilting again. His grip tightens, trying to hold you inside your own body. His face is a watercolor now, smudged and moving.
“Almost there,” he gasps against your hair, but the earthquake in his voice doesn’t get muffled. “Almost there, baby. Hang on.” He bites down on the next words, his jaw hard enough to crack. “Don’t do this to me. Don’t- please, baby-”
You want to reach for him. To cup his face and tell him he’s being dramatic again because he always gets dramatic when it’s about you and your health. But your hands aren’t working. Your body is sinking. Your bones are tired of holding you up. Your tongue is sluggish and your mouth won’t work the way you want it to.
The med bay doors loom ahead, too far and too close all at once. He shoulders them open without slowing, the slam of metal against metal echoing behind you.
“Somebody-” His voice cracks through the room, loud, panicked. “Somebody get in here!”
You try to tell him to stop yelling. To stop making a scene and that it’s not as bad as it looks and that others might be doing worse. But the ceiling is spinning and your words are gone.
“Stay with me,” he breathes, voice breaking down to almost nothing as he lowers you onto the nearest bed. His hands are everywhere - pressing at your side, brushing hair off your face, shaking, steady, shaking again. “Stay awake,” he pleads again. He’s trying to hold all your pieces together, but they‘re slipping through his fingers. “Stay with me, baby, please. Please, I can’t-”
The fight is gone. The fury is gone.
All that’s left is fear.
Your eyes flutter, heavy, and you whisper his name like it’s the last coin in your pocket.
And the look on his face when you do - the panic engraved so viscerally, the desperation rasping through every line - is enough to keep you tethered, just barely, just enough.
The med bay fills too quickly. Footsteps hammering, voices swinging through the air with urgency. Dr. Cho’s commands come clipped, efficient, the language of someone used to patching up gods and soldiers alike. A tray clatters, gloves snap, lights blaze white above you.
But all you see is him.
Bucky doesn’t move from your side, not even when Cho snaps at him to give space. His hands are sticky with your blood. His eyes are frantic, tearing over your face as though he can will you to stay awake just by looking hard enough. “Easy, doll. I’ve got you. Right here, I’m right here.” His voice is wreckage.
Your fingers twitch, searching. Blind. Weak. They find nothing but air.
Until his hand is there. Big, calloused, trembling. He links your fingers and you grip with what little strength you have, your palm slipping against his. He clutches you with deeply rooted desperation.
His breath catches audibly. He bows his head close, closer, forehead nearly touching yours, his hair falling forward in a curtain that hides you both for a heartbeat.
“I’m here,” he croaks, broken into pieces. “I’m not going anywhere.”
You believe him. You always do. You should. You can.
The medics are talking around you, about pressure and blood loss and IV lines, but their words aren’t registering. You focus only on his voice, the gravel and quake of it, the way it buckles against your skin.
You squeeze his hand. Hardly. “I’m sorry,” you whisper. The words are frail, wobbling things. “Bucky- I’m sorry.”
Bucky’s face crumples. His whole body folds. His reaction is immediate, violent in its tenderness. His hand grips yours tighter. His forehead presses to your temple, his lips moving over your hairline, your cheek, your brow, your knuckles - feverish kisses, despairing, wherever he can reach in the chaos. “No- no, don’t you say that.” His voice shreds as he speaks. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for, baby. It’s okay. It’s all gonna be okay. You don’t get to be sorry. You don’t-”
Another wave of pain sears through you, sharp enough to make your vision go white. You gasp, your body arching, your grip on his hand faltering.
He squeezes tighter. His thumb rubs over your knuckles, rushed and intense. You see the wet shine in his eyes. The tears breaking loose, tracking down his face. And your chest clenches because you’ve seen him bloodied, broken, beaten - but never shattering like this.
“I can’t-” His throat locks, helpless and human. He shakes his head, presses another desperate kiss to your hair. “I can’t lose you. Don’t make me, please- please don’t”
You want to answer. You want to promise him. To tell him again you’re fine, or will be fine, or something that might sew his fear back together. Something that might make him stop crying. But the room is melting into darkness and it is opening its mouth for you. You’re already halfway inside. The sounds around you are dimming into a single hum. Your body feels heavier, every heartbeat slower, slower still. You don’t even know if you’re present anymore.
“Stay awake,” Bucky begs, voice crumbling as his tears hit your skin. He shakes your hand, gentle but miserable. In demise. “Please, sweetheart, stay awake.”
You try to hold on, to give him one more word, one more look. But your body is slipping. Your hand slackens in his.
The last thing you hear is his voice breaking open against your name as your eyes fall shut.
The last thing you feel is the heat of his tears falling into the hollow of your throat as the world disappears.
Synopsis: It was supposed to be an easy mission. In and out. But then communication went out. The intel became useless. The weather turned horrific. Bucky lost his gun. And then, you.
Warnings: Fluff, slow-burn, friends to lovers, horrible weather, blood, injuries, yearning, cursing, Ft. Sam, Steve, and Natasha, SMUT, p in v, oral (f rec.), kissing, praise, MDNI, unprotected sex, brief crying, they’re so in love your honor, down!bad bucky, lmk if I missed any! WC: 12.9k
A/N: First ever Bucky post! It’s been years since I’ve written on this account so have mercy on me. Thank you to all the wonderful writers on here that are so talented and inspiring. As for timeline… I don’t know. Canon? What canon? Comments & Reblogs are appreciated!
The rain had been coming down in sheets for hours. Not the kind that offered relief or clarity—no, this was brutal, heavy rain, the kind that blurred the edges of the world and made the earth itself hostile. It was the kind that soaked you to the bone, made every step a battle, and turned even the most solid ground into something slippery, a trap waiting to swallow you whole.
The terrain had started off rocky, already a pain in the ass. Sharp crags jutted out from the hillsides like broken bones. Narrow passes that barely fit a single person had suddenly become rivers of slick mud and falling debris. Visibility was horrible and comms were patchy at best, and then they were gone entirely—just static and silence, the kind that settled into your chest and made it difficult to think straight.
Bucky’s boots sank with every step, the mud sucking greedily at the soles, threatening to pull him under. His jaw was clenched tight, his vibranium arm flexing and twitching as adrenaline surged through him. He was briefly glad that he had cut his hair and didn’t have to worry about strands on his face. A small feat, but a significant one. The cold bit through his tactical gear, but he barely felt it. All he could focus on was the silence in his ear.
Your voice, gone.
One second, you were right behind him—mud on your face, grinning like an idiot, breathless and half-laughing about the total bullshit of intel you both had been fed. He had grunted and told you to stay close.
Then, the world cracked open.
A landslide tore through the ridge, and before he could grab you, before he could warn you—before he could even think–you were gone in a roar of earth and stone and rain.
He screamed your name. Loud, desperate. Absolutely no care as to who may have heard. He screamed once more, the rain slapping harshly against his skin.
There had been nothing. No response. Just the sound of the storm ripping the world apart.
Now, he was moving blind and completely alone. Mud covered his hands, smeared across his cheek, soaked into his skin and clothes. His rifle had been torn from him earlier and his sidearm was somewhere in a ravine miles back, lost in the chaos. All he had now was a combat knife and fear—chewing through his chest at an incomprehensible rate.
In the distance, he could hear the screams of the Hydra agents. Some had been swept away when you had been and the others were trying to hold on, trying to find him and survive. He silently prayed that another landslide, something horrific, would wipe them out.
He knew that the bunker had been emptied. He stumbled upon it when he began looking for you and had been tempted to go in, try and get some help. But he needed to find you, first. He had turned around and hadn’t looked back.
He tripped over a root, hit the ground hard, and didn’t even flinch. Just pushed himself back up, spit blood, and kept moving. He had to find you.
He had to find you.
“Fuck,” he muttered, voice rough and low, throat raw.
“Focus. Come on.”
Every snapped twig, every distant sound—he turned to it like a live wire. He felt like an animal, something manic, as he listened for any sound of you. Hope and terror felt the same now as his heart beat too fast. He was distantly aware that his hands were shaking, and not from the cold.
You were out there somewhere. For a split second, he let his mind wander. You could have been crushed—dead.
No. No, he couldn’t think like that. He blinked once, harshly, before shoving all those horrible thoughts to the back of his mind, where he kept all the bad.
You were smart. Deadly. He knew that. He knew you were better than most people–most soldiers–he’d ever worked with. But even the best had limits and you were human. Flesh, bleeding, breakable.
He squeezed his eyes shut. You had looked so small as you disappeared into the landslide. He couldn’t get the picture out of his mind, of the way your eyes had briefly widened and your lips had parted. His tortuous mind wondered if you would have called out for him.
It didn’t matter, he decided. He hadn’t acted fast enough, hadn’t caught you. He didn’t even realize he was whispering your name again until it broke in his throat.
“Where the fuck are you?”
Lightning cracked across the sky, illuminating the twisted trees and gnarled terrain. He whipped his head around, trying to look for anything, then, he caught the shimmer of something. He wasn’t sure if it was metal or blood but he moved fast. Slipped once, hard, landed on his knees again but didn’t stop. His hands clawed through the mud, his breathing loud and ragged.
Then—there. In the shadow of a fallen tree, half-covered in mud and leaves and blood, was you.
Your body was twisted awkwardly, like you’d been thrown by the force of the slide. One arm cradled to your chest. Cuts littered your face, lips split, blood soaking into your torn-up gear. There was a deep gash along your side—too deep—and your eyes were half-lidded, fluttering like you were waiting to let go.
Bucky tore through the mud, pulled and stretched his torn muscles and dropped beside you with a choked breath. His hands hovered over your body, not touching yet. Not sure where it was safe. Not sure if he could bear to feel how cold you were.
His fingers twitched, and he bit down roughly on his bottom lip to prevent the wounded sound that almost left his throat at the sight of you. Your eyes fluttered once more before gently shutting. “Hey—hey, no,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “Don’t you fucking dare. Open your eyes, doll.”
His warm breath brushed against your cheek and your lips twitched, a shallow breath escaping. You willed your eyes to open, even if it was just for a moment.
“Barnes…”
He nearly collapsed from the sound of your voice. It was quiet, weaker than he’d ever heard it or wanted too, but it was there.
Relief hit him like a truck and he moved closer to you, but it didn’t fix anything. You were still bleeding, still barely breathing. He could feel the tremble in your body as your fingers brushed against his sleeve like you were checking if he was real. He pressed his arm closer to you, finding brief comfort in the way you squeezed his skin.
It was the first time he had felt warmth in the last three hours.
“Alright, I got you,” he whispered, lips trembling from the cold. “I’ve got you now, okay?” His voice was low, rough, tight with something he couldn’t name. “You’re gonna be fine, Y/n. Just—just stay with me, yeah?’
You tried your best to nod but everything felt too heavy and you were too weak so you simply hummed and he almost choked at the sound. He pushed the tree off of you, murmuring softly when you groaned in pain.
“I know, I know, just a second, doll.”
He breathed in deeply before he crouched down and scooped you up, carefully, like you’d shatter if he breathed wrong. His arms and body were solid beneath you like he hadn’t suffered similarly, like he wasn’t injured. You hissed in pain but your arms naturally curled weakly around his neck. At the moment, you trusted him more than anything. More than the pain, than your own body.
Bucky held his breath and kept his eyes ahead, knowing that if he made eye contact with you like this, all broken and bleeding in his arms, he’d crumble. He tightened his grip on your body when your eyes shut and pressed his chin into your hair.
“Open ‘em, doll,” he muttered. “Come on. Please.”
You tried, but your head felt heavy so you dug your fingernails into his neck instead. His hold on you tightened even further as he ran, rain striking down, harshly and unforgiving. The temperature was dropping rapidly and he knew he had to get you somewhere dry, somewhere he could take a look at all your injuries.
By some miracle, and he would later pray about it, he found shelter not far from the ridge–a cave. He remembered seeing it during the initial scope of the terrain, during the mission brief. You had joked about it, something stupid about him retreating into the cave for a nap. He laughed—or, he thinks he did. He wished he had.
He’d kill a man to hear your laugh right now.
The cave was barely more than a dent in the mountain—narrow and damp, carved into the rock like the earth itself had given up trying to stay solid. The wind howled outside, slicing through the trees and screaming through the cracks in the stone. Rain still battered the world, relentless in its fall.
He had to crawl to get inside with you in his arms.
The stone scraped his knees, his elbows. His back ached from how he curled around your body to shield you from the worst of it. He didn’t stop, barely felt it. All he saw was the blood soaking through your clothes. You were shivering, lips blue, breathing unevenly. A faint wheeze escaped with each breath, and even in sleep, your brows were pinched in pain.
Once he was deep enough, he laid you gently on the stone floor. Bucky knelt beside you, soaked through, hands shaking. His face was drawn tight, teeth clenched so hard his jaw clicked. Rain still dripped from the ends of his hair, trailing down his neck, his face, soaking into his torn shirt. His fingers were red and brown, a deep maroon that he had painted with before.
He blinked down at your unmoving body and clenched his fists. He could barely think straight with his heart beating out of his chest so he breathed in deeply and flipped the switch, the one he hadn’t used in years. The one that turned him into a machine. That buried softness and kindness and everything he didn’t deserve to feel beneath layers of instinct and orders and purpose.
He was a soldier. You needed a soldier. You needed him to be smart, tactful.
He peeled his jacket off and wrung the water out, laying it beside you. He scooped your unconscious body gently and laid you down on his jacket. He cut away the arms with shaking fingers and wrapped them around your side, trying to stop the bleeding.
He looked through his field kit, whatever was left of it, to find something, anything, that he could use to put some part of you back together. He used the wipes to clean the blood and dirt off your face, sanitized your cuts as best as he could before he plastered on the bandaids. His fingers pressed against your skin, once, twice, and then he pulled away like you had burned him.
He pulled his belt free and used it to tighten the splint he’d carved for your arm out of his remaining gear. He moved with precision, detachment—like you were just another asset, but his hands trembled when they brushed your cheek and he hated it. Hated how you made him feel even when you were barely conscious, when he was trying inexplicably hard not too.
“Come on, Y/n,” he breathed out. “Open your eyes.” He curled his hands into your body, trying to stop the tremors. He’s not sure he’d be reacting like this if it were anyone else. He doesn’t even want to entertain the thought, because the conclusion is one he can’t face. You’re his partner, his teammate. You laughed at his terrible jokes sometimes. Shared your food with him when he forgot to eat. You always waited until he got on the jet before calling it in, like you had to make sure he wouldn’t get left behind.
You weren’t his, weren’t anything. He shouldn’t be shaking like this, blinking rapidly like if he focused real hard, this battered version of you would be replaced by the you he knew. But he knew your laugh. The sound of your footsteps. The way your eyes sometimes lingered on him when you thought he wasn’t looking. You mattered to him, which was so much worse.
And now you were bleeding out in a cave that stank of moss and wet rot, and he couldn’t even fucking stop shaking. He didn’t have the right materials or any way to contact Steve or Sam. He felt useless, which is just another thing he hated about himself at the moment.
He stood up slowly, recognizing the familiar aches in his body, already mapping the bruises and new scars he knew littered his body. He had to get a fire started, had to get you and himself warm, so he scanned the area for a completely dry place before he dropped to his knees, fumbling through his kit. The cotton lining of his gloves—dry enough. He tore it out with his teeth, rolling it into a crude nest with shaking hands. He shoved it beneath a wedge of dry bark he’d peeled from the heartwood of a split branch, praying the core was dry enough to catch.
The first strike of flint against steel sparked nothing. The second—nothing. He swore, then coughed, the sound raw. His hands were still trembling.
Third strike. A spark jumped.
It kissed the cotton and died.
He closed his eyes. Again.
Fourth strike. Fifth.
A breath. A tremble. A single ember caught—barely a glow, a flicker like a dying star. He hunkered over it, shielding it from the damp air with his body, and blew—gently, desperately, his breath ragged. The ember pulsed. It grew.
It flared.
Tiny flames licked the shredded cotton, then the bark.
Heat.
He nearly sagged with relief as the fire cracked to life, light dancing against the slick cave walls. His hands hovered over it, aching, blistered with cold. He gave himself a moment, a single moment to enjoy the heat before he crawled to you and gently pulled you closer to the fire, close, but not too close. He didn’t want to risk it.
His fingers moved over your temple, gently checking the wound there. You flinched and Bucky almost sighed in pained relief. At least you weren’t unconscious. Just sleeping. He could deal with that. His fingers scraped gently against ripped skin and you flinched again, a broken sound leaving your throat.
He froze before his thumb brushed your eyebrow. He blinked once at the action before he snapped at himself, standing up so fast he smacked his shoulder against the cave ceiling. Pain rippled through his back and he lurched forward, clutching his left arm.
He fell to his knees, coughing. The sound echoed and for a moment, it truly felt like his own personal hell. He looked down and grimaced at the blood. He had yet to take a moment and analyze his own injuries, but he knew there was no point. Whatever it was, he’d survive, and you…you may not. He had to focus on you.
He wiped his mouth and stripped off what was left of his shirt, wet and freezing, and crouched beside you again, lifting your body into his lap to wrap his arms around you. Your temperature was dropping and there had been pregnant pauses where you had stopped shivering.
He didn’t like what that may mean.
You were limp against him, your face tucked under his chin, breath fanning across his throat. He could feel every line of you—every bruise, every tremble. He murmured a soft apology when his arm accidentally grazed the gash in your side. The fire’s orange hues danced across your skin and he watched carefully, momentarily awed.
You were alive, he had to remember that. He was rocking back and forth like he had forgotten.
“I didn’t mean to lose you,” he whispered, barely audible over the raging storm outside. “I should have kept you in front of me. Watched your back, instead of you watching mine.”
His hold on you tightened and he released a small breath when you pressed your nose into his throat. “I could have grabbed you, kept you from falling…”
His voice cracked and he pressed his mouth to the top of your head, breathing you in like a man starved. All he could do now was wait, wait for your body temperature to rise, wait for you to wake up.
He hated waiting.
The cave was wet, and water dripped steadily from the ceiling into the puddles forming near the entrance. The air smelled like steel and earth and his knees ached from the cold rock floor, his back stiff from how tightly he held you.
All he could do was ignore all the feelings that threatened to crawl through his chest by thinking about next steps. When you were awake, able to move, he knew that getting in contact with Steve or Sam was going to be difficult, but it needed to be done.
Briefly, his mind flashed to the bunker. Hydra had kept it a secret but SHIELD had found out, as it sometimes did. It should have been an easy mission, in-and-out, but as reachable as everything sometimes seemed, the weather had always been untameable, with a mind of its own.
Still, while they had prepared for it, no one had expected it to get this bad. Even now, the storm raged wildly outside. The sound of it was both anxiety-inducing and welcomed, background noise he hadn’t asked for but didn’t mind.
While your breathing slowly evened out, he pressed you closer to his body and angled you closer to the fire and shut his eyes.
You woke to the sound of breathing.
Not yours—his. Measured. Steady. Like he was forcing every inhale calmly, despite its aggression.
Your head was on his shoulder. His hand was on your thigh, warm and still. The cave was still cold and dark but the fire offered welcome heat and glow. Everything inside you ached—bones and skin all stiff and frozen, some cracked and some bruised.
You stirred slightly, a soft movement of your chin. Bucky felt it, he had listened closely as your breathing changed and your muscles shifted.
“Bucky…” Your throat was hoarse, lips dry. You were still pressed against him, his hands warm and solid, holding you together.
He didn’t answer at first. Just a small movement of his shoulder.
Then he exhaled hard. “We’re moving.”
The softness from before—his trembling hands, the whisper of your name, that broken honesty in his words and body—was gone. Replaced by that rigid, sharp-jawed version of him you’d only seen in combat or when he was forced to engage with strangers. He wasn’t looking at you, just staring toward the mouth of the cave like the storm may break in at any second.
You slowly nodded, your nose brushing against the skin of his throat. His throat bobbed before his hold on you loosened just a fraction.
“I can walk,” you rasped, words muffled as you tried to sit up.
Instantly, Bucky’s arms around you tightened. “No, you can’t.”
You tried again, “I can—”
“You can’t.” His voice cut like a blade, a little throaty and gruff. “Your ribs are unstable. Your shoulder’s fucked, and the gash on your side will rip open any second. You’re not getting back up.” He exhaled. “I’m not risking it.”
Instead of answering right away, you slowly wiggled your fingers and toes, trying to get feeling back in them. After a moment, you lifted your head off his shoulder and groaned in pain, wincing when your unused muscles moaned in pain.
“Hey, fuck,” Bucky’s exterior slipped for a second and he looked panicked, one hand on your good shoulder and the other on your arm, trying to offer some support. “Be careful.” He helped you slip off his lap, hand on your back—warm, solid, pulsing.
Once you were sitting up straight, Bucky leaned back on his heels, one hand subtly reached out towards you in case you needed him.
You swallowed hard and blinked away the exhaustion in your eyes. “Where are we going?”
“I’ve got a plan.” His tone was clipped, controlled. Every word chosen to shut you down before you could argue. You could tell by his stiff shoulders and the way he refused to look at you that he wasn't to be reasoned with right now.
Still, you had to try. “Bucky, look at me.”
He froze, kept his eyes on the floor. For a second, you thought he’d listen. You just needed to see him. Needed to hear everything his eyes had to say. Instead, he shook his head.
Bucky stood, already pulling his remaining gear together—knives, makeshift medkit, the remnants of his utility belt. He moved like a machine, like he’d mapped the next twenty steps and was already living in them.
You watched him carefully, watched his body and the stretch of his muscles. By his movements alone, you knew he had injured his leg a bit, perhaps a sprain. His ribs hurt, probably bruised. He hadn’t cleaned himself up, not like he had you. There was still mud and blood on his face but it did little to hide his exhaustion, the frustration that had etched into his skin.
Remnants of his soft whispers, his delicate touch still danced across your skin and you locked them away, kept them close to your heart as you came to terms with this version of him. You wanted him to look at you.
He rolled his shoulders once, picked up his jacket, now warm, and slipped it on before he knelt in front of you.
“This is gonna hurt.” His arms slid under your knees and shoulders, lifting you like it was nothing. But you could see the strain on his muscles. “Try not to pass out.” He slowly maneuvered you until you were draped across his back, legs and arms locked around him to the best of your ability.
You gritted your teeth, breath catching as pain stabbed down your side and back. You didn’t fight him—couldn’t, because his body was warm and solid against yours, still slightly soaked through, even trembling slightly beneath the weight of everything he wasn’t saying.
You wanted to thank him, wanted to tell him to take a moment for himself, knowing he must have spent hours just taking care of you, but you also knew better. Knew that you both had to get out of this storm.
You pressed your face into his neck as he bent to crawl out the cave. His knees and hands scraped against the rough, cold floor and you winced for him. He said nothing as his hold on your waist tightened and he stepped out into the storm.
The cold slapped you both in the face. The wind cut sideways through the trees. The rain had turned the world into a mess of slick rock and rotting leaves and ankle-deep mud. Bucky moved like he had done this a hundred times, like he had spent hours analyzing the terrain and perfected where to step.
You didn’t speak as he carried you down the ridge, every muscle in his body tense with focus. He didn’t look at you once, even when you had hissed in pain. His jaw was locked, veins tight in his neck, eyes scanning every inch of his surroundings. The rain and mixture of leaves slapped against his face. Instinctively, you wiped his cheek clean.
You didn’t recognize the path he was taking. It wasn’t toward the evac point—not unless he’d circled back, which didn’t make sense in this terrain or weather. You stretched your neck, trying not to pay attention to the coldness that seeped into your bones. His fingers tightened under your thighs.
“Where are we going?” You asked, lips brushing against his ear.
He hesitated for just a second. “The bunker.”
You lifted your head weakly, eyes wide. “The Hydra bunker?”
“There’s a comms room. Secure line. I can tap into SHIELD frequencies. Get a ping out.”
He really had thought about this. You frowned, the thought of Bucky holding you in that cave, his mind running rampant as he kept you alive, circled in your mind.
“But it’s full of—”
“It’s empty,” he said, with certainty that chilled you. “I already scoped it. Before I found you.”
“You—” You blinked, once, twice, and then leaned your head over his shoulder, trying to understand him. “What?”
“I saw it when I was looking for you. It was empty. I was going to go call and wait for help, but I turned around.”
You stared at him. Logically, you knew that made sense. If he had called for help, maybe neither of you would be in this situation. But, a small, twisted part of you frowned.
“You were going to leave me,” you whispered, even though you knew it wasn’t true. He had just said that he turned around and he did find you. But he could have taken longer, or not come to find you at all if he had been ordered not to.
Bucky finally turned his head and met your eye. And, there it was—something breaking loose in his face, just for a second, like the very thought you just had, had been eating away at him. “I was going to get help. But I knew I had to find you. So, I did.”
You looked away, chest tight, heart fluttering with something unexplainable.
He didn’t speak again.
It took an hour to reach the edge of the treeline. An hour of silence, mud, and Bucky’s unyielding grip around your trembling body. Every step he took was a choice, to not panic, not spiral, not let himself fall into the noise that threatened to tear his mind and heart apart.
He needed to stay sharp and diligent. You were depending on him.
So, when he saw the crumbling silhouette of the Hydra compound through the trees—half-collapsed, rotting into the ground—he didn’t hesitate, just kept walking.
“We’re close,” he muttered, and set you down gently behind a fallen log, hidden beneath wet pine boughs. His hand gripped your thigh and his finger curled under your chin, tilting your head so you could meet his eyes.
“Stay here. No matter what.”
“Bucky—”
He dropped his hand and pulled his knife from his side holster, checking the edge. “One of them might still be in there. I’ll handle it.” He pointed the knife at the ground. “Do not try and help me.”
You sighed. “You don’t have to—”
“I do.” His voice was rough now. Not angry, but final. An edge to it that resembled the very sharpness of the blade in his hand. “I’ll come back for you.”
He looked at you one more time. Let his eyes meet yours for a moment before they travel the length of your body, pausing at your side.
Then he was gone.
The forest swallowed him whole.
You waited, every breath sharp in your chest. You were drenched, hair sticking to skin. Rain pattered softly on the leaves above you. Your hands trembled in your lap. You hated the way your body felt like a prison—useless, aching, broken. Hated that you couldn’t follow him.
You had been through worse, had survived so much worse. You could have helped him, could have stood on your own if you really had to.
Bucky made it so you didn’t have to. You didn’t know how you felt about that, about him.
Fifteen minutes passed. Then twenty. Or, so you guessed.
Then, you heard it. A single, muffled thud. A body. There had been someone in there.
But then came nothing else. Just silence.
The underbrush shifted and he reappeared, soaked and stone-faced, blood drying on his knife and on his neck. You didn’t ask, didn’t have to. He was breathing more heavily, slowly, and you knew his injuries had worsened.
He was a super soldier, but he wasn’t immortal.
Bucky knelt beside you, eyes meeting yours briefly before scanning the sky through the trees. “I got through. Signal’s weak, but I managed to reach Steve. They’re getting the jet in the air.”
You reached out, fingers grazing his wrist. He didn’t look at you and didn’t pull away either. Your fingers wrapped around the hilt of the knife and you slowly pried it from his hands, tossing it beside you.
“You’re going to be okay,” he said softly. It was so quiet, like you weren’t meant to hear it.
He barely acknowledged what he said and you decided that he didn’t know he had said it, pretended like the words didn’t make you freeze, remind you of him in the cave, feeling and talking to you like he had already lost you.
You sat shoulder-to-shoulder as you both waited for the quinjet.
The warmth of your bodies pressed together reminded you strangely of home.
The extraction was supposed to feel like relief.
But to Bucky, it felt like exposure—too loud, too bright, too late.
The quinjet split the sky open with its roar, cutting through the clouds like a blade. Trees bent under the force of the rotors. Wind tore through the clearing. And all Bucky could do was hold onto you tighter, shielding your body from the chaos and branches like his own didn’t matter.
Sam was the first down the ramp. Steve right behind him. Both armed, both scanning for threats.
Bucky didn’t speak at first, just waited until Sam looked over at him, then stood up, his leg pressed against your back for stability.
“She’s critical,” he yelled, voice flat. “Bruised ribs, busted shoulder, hypothermic, and infection risk.” You looked at him, eyes wide. “She’s lost too much blood.”
Steve’s eyes flicked over both of you—your limp body, Bucky’s slashed and bloodied arm, the bruises blooming across both of your cheeks. He didn’t ask questions, just nodded. “Let’s move.”
A medic stepped forward with a stretcher. Bucky stepped in front of them like a wall. “Be careful.” You almost smiled. The medic—young, wide-eyed—nodded quickly. You slipped your hand into his and fingers curled around your hand.
Bucky helped you onto the stretcher, murmured something soft when you winced in pain. He didn’t let go of your hand until they forced him to.
Sam and Steve watched closely as Bucky followed right beside the stretcher, matching their steps, never more than an inch away. His jaw was locked, eyes burning. You reached out for him again and he took your hand in his.
You turned to the medic and pulled Bucky closer. “He’s injured,” you rushed out. “Badly. His leg, ribs, and arms.” Bucky tried cutting you off but you squeezed his hand. “Shut up, Barnes.”
The medic stared at you both and you blinked slowly. “Treat him, okay? Don’t listen to him. Listen to me.” You smiled softly, trying to ease the tension between the poor, young medic’s shoulders. “Talk to Steve if he complains.”
“Y/n,” Bucky muttered, “I’m fine.”
The quinjet lifted, slicing up through the trees.
You passed out again before they hit altitude.
The world returned slowly.
A dull ache in your side, your chest. The sterile scent of disinfectant. The rhythmic beep of a heart monitor.
And then, warmth.
A heavy hand around yours. Thumb brushing back and forth in a pattern you could feel in your bones, something soft and ingrained.
You recognized the weight, the press of skin. You blinked, the ceiling fuzzy above you, mouth dry.
“Buck?”
His head snapped up from where it had been resting on his forearm. His eyes were bloodshot. His stubble had grown into something darker, rougher. His hair was a mess, and he looked like he hadn’t slept in centuries.
You tried to smile, muscles groaning after minimal use.
“You look like shit.”
For half a second, something cracked—his face shifted like he was going to laugh, maybe even cry. His eyes widened and his lips wobbled. But then he shut it down, wiped the emotion clear.
Slid the mask back into place.
He sat upright, hand still enclosed around yours. “You’re awake. Good.” He kept his voice smooth, monotone. It was killing him, pretending to be indifferent, but he couldn’t express the relief he was feeling. He hadn’t heard your voice in so long, hadn’t seen that smile.
You frowned, eyebrows furrowing. It hurt a bit and you faintly recalled soft fingers brushing against your forehead. “Don’t do that,” you whispered, clearing your throat.
Bucky blinked before he brought a paper cup filled with water to your lips. “I’m fine.”
Eagerly, you pulled the straw into your mouth and sucked, letting the water wash away the dryness. You finished all the water and wiped your chin. “I didn’t ask if you were fine.”
His jaw flexed. He looked away. Hand still around yours, thumb still tracing patterns into your skin.
You tightened your grip on his hand and his eyes met yours briefly before he looked at the monitors as if he couldn’t describe your charts with his eyes closed.
“Thank you,” you said, quietly, a small smile on your lips.
It was silent for a moment, something that could have stretched into something uncomfortable, but then he bowed his head and broke—his shoulders shaking just slightly, his hand gripping yours like he was trying to ground himself.
He didn’t cry, not really. But you could feel it—the sheer weight of everything he hadn’t let himself feel, the weight of your life on him, the heaviness of his guilt.
You stayed silent, held his hand tightly as your thumb drew circles on his skin. You had your own guilt; the weight of what you could have done, how you should have been more diligent, reached out for him, fought for yourself harder and made it to him, been less of a burden.
But this wasn’t about you. This was about him, and how he tried his best, his very hardest to keep you alive. How you made him confront his feelings for the first time, with the threat of loss looming behind him.
“I thought I lost you,” he admitted, hoarsely. “I—fuck. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t breathe. I’ve never been that scared in my life. Not during Hydra, not even when I came back.”
You stared at him, heart tight and eyes shiny. You weren’t usually an emotional person, but these were unusual circumstances. When you had been swept away, as you were thrown around and bruised, all you could think about was him; how he’s your best friend and you never told him, how all you wanted was for him to be more, someone you could love and hold.
“I would never have made it,” he said, eyes bright, “If anything happened to you.”
Your eyes stung and your heart beat faster, the monitor beeped in warning. Neither of you noticed.
You breathed his name and he leaned closer, the heat of his body caressing yours. You brought your joined hands to your lips and kissed the back of his hand, slow and soft, eyes on him.
His breath caught like you’d hit him with a bullet, his entire body stilling. His lips parted in wonder and his eyes widened slowly.
“I’m okay,” you smiled. “Nothing happened. You made sure of that. I’m okay.” You needed him to know, needed him to understand that you wouldn’t have made it if anything happened to him, that you were grateful to him.
Before he could answer, the door slid open and Dr. Bates stepped in, tablet in hand, coat wrinkled like she hadn’t taken it off for weeks.
Her eyes fell on you, Bucky, then your joined hands. She smiled, just a little. “Sorry to interrupt.” Bucky straightened up but didn’t let go of your hand. You turned towards her. “I’m glad you’re awake, Y/n. It’s good to have you back.”
You smiled at her, glancing at the tablet in her hand.
“Thanks, Doc.”
“You’ve been under for two weeks,” she started gently, coming to the edge of your bed. Your eyes widened in surprise and you glanced at Bucky, who stared at you, unblinking.
“We had to keep you sedated—” she explained, “your body was in rough shape when you came in. Ribs deeply bruised, bordering on contusions. Your right shoulder was nearly dislocated, and you had early-stage sepsis. If you hadn’t been found when you were—” she paused, glancing at Bucky—“you wouldn’t have made it.”
You turned your head slowly towards him, lips pulling into a frown.
He looked away.
“You’re lucky,” the doctor continued. “He kept you alive long enough for us to stabilize you. Field-treated half of your injuries himself. Not exactly regulation, but…” she smiled, gently, “it worked.”
You gave Bucky’s hand the faintest squeeze. “So…Am I cleared to go?”
Dr. Bates hesitated, then nodded. “As long as you don’t overdo it. No combat. No gym. No carrying anything heavier than a coffee cup. You’ll need regular check ups—especially to monitor your lungs and immune response. And, you shouldn’t be alone.”
Before you could speak, Bucky’s voice—clear, rough—cut in.
“I’ll be with her.”
The words were simple, but the way he said them—calm, final, almost soft—settled something in your chest and made warmth swim through your body.
Dr. Bates blinked, almost like she’d expected a fight. Then she nodded again. “Good. Then I’ll start the discharge paperwork.”
She turned and left, and the door hissed closed behind her.
Silence fell again, heavy, but not uncomfortable.
You stayed quiet for a beat, still absorbing it all. The ache in your ribs had settled into something manageable, but another kind of ache twisted low in your chest, one you couldn’t ignore.
You turned your head slightly on the pillow, eyes slowly growing heavier. “What about you?”
Bucky looked up from where he was still gripping your hand, a blanket of something softer, something resembling relief had been draped over his shoulders.
“What?”
“Are you okay?” you asked, voice soft. “Your leg…and your arm. Your ribs. You were limping when—when you carried me.”
His brows pinched together like you’d just reminded him of something he’d forgotten and you briefly panicked. Bucky would refuse to get medical attention if it meant he had to leave you, you knew he would. It was just who he was. You loved him so much.
Abruptly, you blinked—eyes wide for a second before you schooled them. You had never let yourself think it, much less admit it so openly.
“I’m fine,” he replied, quickly, trying to brush it under the rug.
You narrowed your eyes and swallowed the lump in your throat. “Don’t give me the bullshit brush-off, Bucky. What did they say?”
Before he could dodge the question again, the door slid open and Dr. Bates reappeared, a different tablet in her hands.
“Something wrong?” She asked, glancing between you.
You nodded gently towards Bucky. “Can you tell me the truth? About him. Did he let you take a look?”
Bucky gave a little sigh, leaning back in the chair. And yet, even then, he didn’t let go of your hand. You briefly wondered if he knew he was still holding it, but the weight of it, the way it felt like his lifeline, made you aware that he did.
Dr. Bates didn’t even hesitate, like she had expected this sooner. “He came in with three fractured ribs, a torn ligament in his left leg, and deep lacerations on his arm. Didn’t want to be checked and told us to prioritize you.” She sounded almost fond.
You blinked at him slowly and he looked away, mouth twisting into a hard line. He didn’t want you to know these things, didn’t think they were relevant. He had half a mind to remind the doctor of patient confidentiality, but then he lifted his eyes and the genuine concern on your face, in the tremble of your fingers, kept him quiet.
She continued, tapping her screen. “The serum accelerated his healing, of course. Most of it was resolved within days. He’s been medically cleared since the first week.” She paused, then added, almost like an afterthought, “He also requested a bed next to yours. Just in case.”
Your heart flipped and your ears felt warm. He was so obvious in his care, it dripped and leaked out of him no matter how hard he tried to keep it locked up and it was so beyond endearing, you almost burst into tears.
Bucky still wouldn’t meet your eyes.
“He said—” she glanced at him, a small curve in her lips “—and I quote, ‘I’ll only sleep if I can hear her breathing.”
Heat bloomed in your cheeks and you blinked hard, trying not to let it show too much but your heart rate had picked up and it was obvious on the monitor. “Oh.”
Dr. Bates softened, just a little. She leaned in, like she was about to tell you a secret. “He hasn’t left your side since the quinjet. If that tells you anything.”
With that, she set the tablet down on the edge of your bed. “Just sign whenever you’re ready and press the red button. It’ll only take an hour or so to get you discharged.” She smiled at you and then turned and left again, door shutting gently behind her.
Silence, familiar, settled between you, thick and humming.
You finally looked at him, a smile on your lips. “You’re an idiot.” It’s all you could stay, your heart on fire and chest bubbling with affection and love.
His mouth twitched and for a second, he looked younger. “Takes one to know one.” It was stupid, something he would have said to Sam, but your eyes were bright and his attention was divided.
You reached up slowly, hand trembling, and brushed your fingers across his knuckles. He didn’t usually let you touch him this easily. It was riveting, freeing. “You should’ve told me.”
“I didn’t want you worrying about me,” he muttered. “Not when you were fighting for your life.”
You stared at him for a long moment. Then, softly, replied. “I’m not fighting anymore.”
He stared at you, deep blue eyes reminding you of the ocean, of the storm you both had survived.
“I’m not fighting anymore so you can stop worrying.” You smiled at him, sweet and soft. “I know you think that it’s your fault but it isn’t. You found me, saved me.”
Bucky cleared his throat and clenched his jaw. He didn’t need you telling him not to worry because it wouldn’t change anything. Wouldn’t change the fact that he stayed awake at night and hovered in the hallways, slipping into your room to make sure you were breathing, keeping an eye on your vitals.
“Bucky,” you said, voice thicker and full of steel. He sighed and slowly nodded. He was many things, filled with guilt, but he wasn’t immune to you, to your wants and needs. And what you needed was him to be honest, to listen.
“I hear you, doll,” he sighed, quietly. “I’m glad you’re okay.” He squeezed your hand once and almost pulled away but your grip tightened and you smiled.
As if you knew what he meant, could see the depth of his care. Like he hadn’t folded and crushed the love he had for you and shoved it in the deepest parts of him, trying to keep it hidden. It was unravelling, fast and without permission.
The door slid open quietly.
Natasha stepped in first, concern in her eyes but a small grin tugging at her lips at the sight before her.
Steve followed behind her. Sam too. They all looked tired, but relieved. The doctor had alerted them when you had woken up an hour ago, wanting to give you time to adjust.
They looked at you and Bucky—still close, your hand in his, his chair pulled right up against your bed—sleeping. Your head rested on the pillow and Bucky’s on his arm.
They didn’t say anything. Couldn’t, really. While they had been in and out of your room, sending flowers and asking for updates, Bucky hadn’t moved. He had only complied with getting medical help because it had been your last demand before passing out. He had stayed by your side for two weeks, unwavering.
Steve hadn’t seen him sleep. Bucky had refused any drugs that may have knocked him out and every time Steve came to check on him, he was up. Usually watching you. This was the first time either of them had seen him at peace, and it was with his hand around yours.
“They’re sweet,” Natasha whispered, her smile growing. She had known, of course she did. She saw the way you both looked at each other when the other wasn’t looking.
“Yeah,” Sam agreed. “About time, too. I almost owed Clint $50.”
Steve frowned, eyes drifting to Sam. “You bet on them?”
Sam shrugged and quietly laid down the flowers he had gotten you on the already full table. “It was Tony’s idea.”
Dr. Bates entered last, holding a juice box. “Oh, visitors.”
“Sorry, Doc,” Steve apologized, moving to the side.
“No worries, Mr. Rogers.” She set the juice box down on the table beside you. You needed the sugar before getting on your feet.
Before Steve or anyone could respond, Bucky shifted and his eyes flew open. His spine snapped up and he blinked at the people in the room, a frown on his lips. He glanced at your sleeping face and momentarily, his eyes softened.
“Shut up,” he grumbled. “She’s sleeping.”
“Hey, you,” Sam cooed, wiggling his eyebrows.
Before Bucky could growl in annoyance, you stretched your arms and yawned, your hand slipping out of his.
“I’m awake.” Then, “Don’t provoke him, Sam.”
Natasha snorted and you opened your eyes, smiling at the people standing in front of you. Sam rolled his eyes before he moved closer and ruffled your hair, his eyes softening.
“Hey, Y/n.” He picked up the juice box and poked the straw through it, handing it to you. “Glad you’re not dead. Don’t do that again.”
You smiled in thanks and squeezed his hand. “Thanks, Sam. Don’t plan on it.”
Steve and Natasha moved closer too, soft smiles and softer words. They asked you how you were feeling, if you needed anything. Bucky stayed beside you, his fingers twitching, now that your hand wasn’t in his. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and leaned back in his chair, head falling back.
He hadn’t slept properly in days. Figures that he’d find a moment of peace beside you.
As you spoke to Natasha, your hand searched for his. You were okay, the pain was dull and the trauma wasn’t at the forefront. But, you still needed his comfort—no, wanted it.
Bucky felt your fingers brush against his and, like it was the most natural thing in the world, he captured your hand in his. His heart fluttered when you squeezed and he looked away. He was in deep.
Dr. Bates cleared her throat and smiled sheepishly when the conversations died out. “Sorry to interrupt, but you’re cleared to go.”
You sat up, eyes wide. “Really?” Steve’s lips quirked upwards at the excitement in your voice. Bucky felt his heart settle at the sound, at the way you had managed to light the room in a soft glow.
The doctor nodded. “All the paperwork is done. I’ve prescribed you some painkillers you can take, as well.”
You sighed in relief and turned to Bucky, eyes bright. You were glowing and he felt like a moth with the way he leaned in.
“Thank you, Dr. Bates. Truly.”
She smiled at you before glancing at Bucky. “Of course, Agent. Take care. I hope I don’t see any of you soon.” With that, she turned and left.
Natasha grinned at you and Bucky before she stepped back. “I’ll get your clothes, Y/n.”
You smiled at her gratefully as she slipped out of the room. Steve and Sam stood by your bed and you looked up at them. “So, what’d I miss?”
Sam clapped his hands together, instantly filling you in on all of the drama you had missed. Steve laughed quietly at his antics and Bucky snorted, the tension in his shoulders slowly fading and a real, genuine ghost of a smile on his lips.
The elevator ride to your floor was quiet.
Not in a cold, distant kind of way—but in the way people are quiet when there’s too much to say and not enough breath to say it. You moved slowly, one foot in front of the other, careful of your ribs and side. Bucky walked beside you, close enough to feel the heat of him, one hand a steady weight at your lower back.
The metal was cold against your thin sweater, but there was still something soft about it. The way he stayed beside you, rubbed his thumb up and down your skin, absentmindedly.
You could feel him watching you.
Not like before. Not scanning like a soldier. Just…watching. Like a man trying to memorize every detail before it’s gone. He was desperate, soaking in all your warmth and all the time he got with you. You could feel it, his earnesty.
Your floor was dim when you entered—peaceful, untouched since the mission. But, not entirely untouched. A folded hoodie on the couch. Your plants watered. A fresh pair of pajamas neatly laid across your bed, one you couldn’t see but knew was there.
You turned to look at him, brows raised and a hint of a knowing smile dancing on your lips.
Bucky’s jaw ticked. For a second, he looked embarrassed, like he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “I, uh, came by a few times. Brought you fresh stuff. Didn’t want your plants dying while you were—” He cleared his throat. “—while you were healing.”
Your insides felt all warm and gooey. He was making it so difficult to stay indifferent, to keep all your feelings and wants and needs hidden, like they weren’t about to bleed out of you.
You took a step closer to him.
“Thank you.”
His eyes flicked to yours, then away, like he couldn’t quite take the weight of your gratitude. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, a rare and endearing nervous habit, eyes scanning your space like it was unfamiliar now. Like he didn’t belong, even though he fit here so perfectly.
You saw it clearly, the way he moved. The way his boots thudded soft against your rug. The way his broad body filled your kitchen doorway. He belonged here, in your space. With you. Not just for now, not suddenly. But always.
You ached for it, for him.
Bucky hesitated near the door, shoulders stiff.
“I’ll head out, let you settle in. Just…yell if you need anything. I’ll be around.”
You knew what that meant. It meant he would wander, hover. He’d be in the shadows, waiting and anxious. He had this habit, when he was worried. You first learned about it when Steve was injured on a mission they both went on. He never said it, but Bucky wanted to be there for Steven in case he wanted anything.
You had run into Bucky late in the night. Steve had missed dinner so you were checking on him, making sure he was pushing fluids, when Bucky’s large frame obscured your path.
Sometimes, and he’d never admit it, but when Bucky had nightmares about you, or anyone else on the team, he’d often seek them out at night. Just a moment, outside the door. All he needed was to hear you breathing, make sure you were okay.
That the Winter Soldier had not gotten to you.
“Stay,” you said softly. “Have a cup of coffee with me.”
He blinked, his hands dropping. “I—yeah. Sure.”
You padded into the kitchen slowly, feeling him trail behind. He sat on the stool at the island while you made two cups. His eyes were heavy on you the whole time, tracing every moment. He watched you carefully as you brewed fresh coffee, getting both of your favourite cups from the cupboard. As you waited, you glanced back at him and to your surprise, he smiled at you; soft, crooked, and quick, but attractive and warm all the same.
He loved you like this. In your space, as you carried yourself with no expectations. When he was new to the tower, years ago, he often found peace in just watching you to the most mundane tasks. It brought him a sense of calm, normalcy. How you moved with grace, carried yourself like you didn’t have skeletons in your closet.
It made him have hope. Like he could one day be okay, or a semblance of it.
When you turned to hand him the mug, his fingers brushed yours, a quiet jolt of warmth passing between you.
“You okay?”
He was quiet, eyes drifting across your face before he nodded. “Yeah. I am now.”
You sat beside him on the stool, legs barely touching, cups between you on the counter. The coffee was simple—black for him, creamy for you—but it felt like a ritual. Something sacred. You couldn’t remember the last time you had shared a mug with anyone else.
“Are you going on your run tomorrow?” Your voice was quiet, like you couldn’t dare to disturb the peace.
Bucky hummed, drinking slowly. “Maybe. Why?” He raised an eyebrow at you, concern creeping in. “Do you need something? Tell me, I’ll get it.”
You laughed, soft and breathy. “No, no. I was just wondering.”
His shoulders sagged and the edge of his lip curled up. “I’ll tell you if I go.” He paused. “I’ll run past that bookstore you like. Get you something so you won’t be bored.”
Your grip on your mug tightened and you lifted your gaze to meet his, warm and heavy. “You don’t have to.” He didn’t like small spaces and you weren’t even sure if he liked the bookstore, even though he always came with you, even when you didn’t ask.
“I know,” he replied, meaning something else. He set the mug down. “That was good. Thanks.”
You thought he might stay. That maybe, just maybe, he’d slide a little closer.
Instead, he stood.
“I should let you rest—”
“Bucky.”
He stopped. In his tracks, and breathing.
You stood too, slow and careful. You stepped towards him, giving him the chance to step back. He didn’t. Just stood still, frozen, like if he didn’t move, this dream might never turn to a nightmare.
You said his name again, like a prayer. He was almost undone. He should have stepped back, should have done something, but he couldn’t. He didn’t want to. He needed this, needed you.
Your fingers curled into his shirt, tugging him towards you. He stumbled slightly, caught off guard—but his hands went to your waist without hesitation.
You kissed him.
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t tentative. It was desperate, full of years of tension—your lips crashed onto his, hands fisting his Henley. He kissed you back just as hard, like he’d been starving. He swallowed your gasp of surprise and kissed you ferociously, pressing his chest against yours, hand cupping your cheek.
You wrapped your arms around his neck and kissed him messily, teeth against teeth. He pulled you unbelievably close, flush against him. He was wrapped around you, or you around him. He slipped his tongue into your mouth and you moaned, your hands sliding up his solid chest and into his hair.
When you pulled back, your chest was heaving, lips plump and bruised, face flushed. Your eyes fluttered open and you almost whimpered at the sight of him, hair tousled, lips plump. He looked completely undone, absolutely perfect.
“Stay,” you whispered, borderline begging. “Please, Buck. I want you. You belong here—with me.”
He kept his eyes closed for a moment longer before the deep blue swept you away. His forehead dropped to yours, nose brushing against your cheek.
“You don’t know what you’re asking,” he rasped, breathless.
“I do.” You pressed your forehead harder against his, kissed the edge of his mouth. “I do.”
You kissed him again. This time, it was slower, sweeter. Your hands moved to cup his jaw, your lips soft against his. He melted into it, groaning low in his throat. HIs hands trembled against your waist. He pressed a sure, hard kiss to your jaw before he pulled away, breathing heavily, gasping.
“Fuck, doll—fuck.” His arms pushed you into him further, his hand cupping your cheek, thumb brushing the skin under your eye. “Are you okay? Does anything hurt?” He glanced down at your side before lifting his eyes. “Are you breathing alright?”
You exhaled through your nose, a quiet laugh. So caring, so obvious in his love. You don’t know how you never saw it before. How it wasn’t painfully obvious to you. He was filled with love, all you had to do was let him feel it.
Gingerly, you moved the hand on your waist to your side, slid it up to your abdomen. Then, up to your heart. It was beating incredibly fast, you wondered if he could hear it. His breath hitched and his eyes flickered to yours.
“I’ve never been better.”
He looked like he was a second from losing his mind. His throat bobbed and he tilted his chin.
“You sure?”
You sighed and fisted his shirt again. Nothing but pure honesty and desire and love in your eyes.
“Just kiss me, Bucky.”
He pressed his thumb into your skin, his pulse in his fingertips. He looked at you again, really looked, trying to search for the answers. You couldn’t tell what he was looking for so you stood still, smiled at him widely.
Whatever it was, he found it.
Bucky surged forward and captured your lips again, his heart beating rapidly against your chest as his arms circled your waist. In a rush of confidence, Bucky slipped his tongue into your mouth, trached the crevices of your teeth and gums before sucking your tongue, guiding your hips into his. You clawed at his back, guiding him blindly through your apartment. His hands never stopped touching—your sides, your arms, your face, reverent and shaking.
You barely made it to your bedroom.
He laid you gently on the bed, like you were something fragile and breakable—but his body trembled with restraint. He hovered over you, breathing hard, his eyes almost black.
“We don’t have to,” he whispered. “We don’t have to do anything. You’re still hurt.”
“I want to,” you whispered back. “I need to feel you. All of you. You’ll take care of me, I know you will.”
He kissed you again, tender and slow. Took his time exploring your mouth. Then, he kissed the edge of your lips, licked and kissed down your throat, nibbling and sucking. His hands brushed against your warm skin, your cheeks and neck and then slipped beneath your sweater. You lifted your arms carefully, letting him peel it off, revealing faintly bruised skin and healing ribs.
He stared for a beat, his expression softening, endearing, filled with affection. You had never really cared about your appearance, but his attention, the heat of his eyes, made you feel wanted.
“Fuck,” he murmured, his fingers ghosting over your scars. “You’re beautiful.”
His lips immediately reattached to your neck, kissing down to your collarbone and your head fell back, trying to pry yourself open for him. “Beautiful,” he whispered against your skin, “So fucking pretty.”
You smiled, pulling his shirt up. He let you strip him bare. His chest was covered in scars, blemishes, burns, healing wounds.
You traced them with your fingers, touch as light as a feather. The lamp beside your bedside cast a low amber glow across the room and painted his skin in warm gold. He looked godly, absolutely stunning above you.
He had one forearm braced by your head, the other cradled your cheek. He watched you as you watched him, anxiety swimming in his eyes. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had touched him this gently.
“Y/n,” he whispered, begging. You smiled at him and tilted your chin up, kissing a scar on his shoulder. He kissed you softly and your hands found home in his hair, fingers sliding through the thick, soft strands, tugging gently just to feel him melt. He made a sound in his chest, low and aching, and deepened the kiss, tongue flicking gently against yours.
His body—muscles, scars, and heat—pressed closely against yours. You could feel it, though, he was holding back. Whether it was because you were injured or he was afraid, you didn’t know. You wanted all of him, his strength and roughness.
He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead before he pulled back, eyes glassy and softer than you’d ever seen them. “This what you want?” His voice cracked a little. “Am I what you want?”
You touched his cheek, feeling the rough edge of stubble and the quiet vulnerability just under his skin. “I want you, Bucky.” He held his breath. “I want the man who waters my plants and dusts my shelves. The man who carried me through a forest and saved my life. The man who learned how to play different card games for me, the one who learned how to make tea the way my mother used to.”
He blinked, lips parting slightly. “Y/n…”
“I notice everything,” you said, voice trembling. “How you always walk on the outside of the sidewalk. How you breathe deeper when you’re trying to stay calm. How you always make sure you’re between me and danger. Regardless of what it is.”
He let out a soft, stunned breath. His hand slid from your cheek, down to your shoulder, then your waist, clutching like he needed to anchor himself.
“I didn’t realize…” His voice cracked and he bit his bottom lip. “Didn’t realize you watched me so closely.” He watched you closely, knew all of your habits and quirks. He hadn’t realized you were watching him just as closely.
“I always have,” you murmured, as if you hadn’t just turned his world upside down.
Something cracked open in him then.
He kissed you hard—like the dam had broken, like every piece of love he’d locked away had finally burst free. His mouth moved with aching reverence across your lips, your jaw, your throat. He kissed down your collarbone, your shoulder.
He pulled back only to help you undress completely. His hands were so gently—touching, peeling away fabric like it was sacred. He unhooked your bra and dropped it somewhere behind him, pausing when you were completely bare beneath him, worshipping.
“You really are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, doll.”
You reached for him in return, pulled at the waistbands of his jeans. He let you, watched with a gaze so soft it made your chest ache. When he was finally bare, you ran your hands over his ribs, his thighs. He shivered under your touch, leaning into it.
He kissed down your body, pressed wet, open-mouthed kisses to the skin between your breasts, licking and sucking, swallowing the taste of your sweet sweat, memorizing it. You were a mess above him, head thrown back and eyes sewn shut, incoherent mumbles and whimpers leaving your lips as you pulled and scraped his hair and the nape of his neck. Your entire body felt like it was on fire.
Under a trance, Bucky pressed a soft kiss on one of your breasts, his fingers brushed the nipple of the other. He kitten-licked your swollen, aching bud before he latched on, circling his tongue as if he could have convinced your body to submit to him completely.
His other hand pinched and squeezed your other nipple, before he released your swollen and wet nipple with a pop, not even breathing as he latched onto the other one. All of your senses were going crazy, overwhelmed to the point of hysteria and tears.
He pushed himself up, rested his forehead against yours as both of your chests heaved. You leaned forward and pressed a swift kiss to his swollen lips, licking his bottom lip. You both breathed in the other, bodies sweaty.
“I’d kill for you,” Bucky admitted in a rush, hoarse. You blinked at him, trying to catch your breath.
“What?”
“I would,” he said. “For you. I think I have, already. But you have to know. I’d kill anyone for hurting you.”
You heard what he was saying—really saying. It was a clear day. His devotion. He was panting, sweat collecting on his forehead. He pressed a soft kiss to your nose.
“I know,” you answered. “I love you, Bucky.”
His arm trembled but he caught himself. He stared down at you for a second before his entire face softened. He brushed his cheek against yours, lips and breath warm, tickling. “I love you, Y/n.” It was soft, like it was still a secret, but it took your breath away all the same.
He went back to kissing you.
Everywhere.
He took his time, dragging his mouth across your stomach, your hips, your thighs, murmuring soft praises into your skin. He kissed along the edges of your scars like they were maps that led him home.
When he finally kissed between your legs, it was with awe.
“Let me taste you,” he begged, voice gravelly.
You nodded, breath catching as he settled between your thighs. He shifted downwards and pressed his nose against your cunt, holding down your hips as your legs twitched. You cried out and pulled at his hair but he was adamant, ignoring the pain and pushed your legs further apart.
You squirmed under him as he stared at your cunt before blowing warm air on it, finding your agony adorable. You knew though, that he’d notice if you were in pain before you did.
He spread your legs even further before he kissed your pussy softly. “Fucking pretty pussy,” he praised. His tongue was slow, teasing, reverent—licking up through your folds, curling just right against your clit. His hands held your hips, thumbs stroking circles into your skin as he worshipped you like you were holy.
“Bucky,” you whispered. “Please.”
“I know, doll,” he nodded, his nose brushed against your slick folds. You grinded your hips against him, trying to get some sort of relief. “You taste like heaven,” he groaned. He licked a harsh stripe of your core. Pressed his face closer to your cunt as his tongue pushed in and out of your sopping hole, licking and sucking as if you were his last meal.
He traced his name, his devotion, into your gummy walls, his nose pressed against your clit. You moaned out a broken, gagged version of his name and arched your back as his nose dug further into your clit, rubbed it until he’s sure you’re all he’ll smell for weeks.
His hand pressed against your cheek and you clutched his hand, brought his metal fingers to your lips and sucked. He groaned into your cunt and the vibrations had you seeing stars.
He curled the tip of his tongue upwards and you almost screamed, tears fell down your cheeks at the pleasure.
“Yes, yes,” you chanted, words muffled by his fingers.
Lifting his eyes, Bucky hummed at the sight of your pleasure, the way tears prettily fell down your cheeks, and lifted his fingers from your tongue. Before he could bring his hand back towards him, you grabbed it and settled it on your chest. His wet, dripping fingers pinched your nipples, teasing the sensitive skin.
“Bucky,” you panted, hips arching. “I’m close, please, baby.”
Despite everything inside him telling him to keep going, he pulled up, releasing your clit with a messy pop. He kissed your folds and cooed as you cried out, licking you clean. “I know, Y/n, I know.” He kissed your inner thigh. “But if you’re gonna cum, I want it to be around my cock, pretty girl.”
You stopped breathing. “Bucky…Oh my gosh.” He kissed up your body, licking the wetness from his lips, grinned like he’d never truly lived before. He hovered above you again and you cupped his face.
“You’re insane,” you laughed, giddy.
“I really like you, doll.” Bucky was grinning, and although his eyes burned into yours, you couldn’t tell if he was speaking to you or your pussy.
You laughed and curled your fingers around his dog tags, pulling him close. “I need you,” you whispered. He pressed his forehead to yours, breath ragged. He kissed you softly before pressing a soft kiss to your jaw.
“I’ll be gentle,” he promised. “I’ll go slow.” He pinched your chin between his thumb and forefinger, lifted your head. He looked between your eyes, trying to find any hesitation before he glanced down at your lips.
Pinching your chin between his thumb and forefinger, Bucky lifted your head, his gaze almost scoldering. He looked between your eyes, trying to find any hesitation, before he glanced down at your lips.
“You’ll tell me if it hurts, right?” Bucky needed you to know that you were safe with him. “I’m serious, Y/n.”
“I know, Bucky.” You traced one of his dog tags. “It won’t. I trust you.”
He wrapped one of his hands around his hard, leaking cock and slid up and down once. “I’ll make it feel good, doll.” Your pussy fluttered at his words and he could feel it against his legs. He almost, almost, lost it right there and then, instead, he brushed the back of his hand against your cheek, looking as sinful as ever.
Slowly, he pushed himself in.
The satisfying tightening and burn of his veins against your gummy walls made you both moan in unison, your body lit up as he sunk in completely, the base of his cock hit your core. The stretch felt amazing, so good, and all you could do was tuck your face into the crook of his neck, biting back a sob.
“Fuck,” he groaned out, knuckles white with how hard he gripped your skin. “Fuck, so fucking tight and warm.” You pressed a soft kiss to his neck and he jerked his hips upwards, filled you to the brim, his tip reached parts of you no one ever had.
When you licked a long stripe of his neck, sucked his adam’s apple until it was red, he collapsed on top of you, his cock leaking in your pussy, veins pulsing.
You welcomed the weight of his body. He felt so warm; so real, so yours, you could feel the weight of his muscles against yours, the weight crushed the lingering loneliness that had crept into your bones over the years.
You wrapped your arms around his body, scratched his back and pulled at his hair as you littered his throat and jaw with kisses.
Desperation clawed at Bucky and his thrusts became erratic as he pushed your body flush against him, forcing your hips to match his bruising pace as more slick poured from your legs and onto the sheets, your needy moans mixed with his broken ones.
“Close–I’m, oh,” you stuttered out, eyes closing when Bucky’s fingers grazed your clit, his own eyes shut for a second when your walls squeezed him impossibly tight as he pressed his fingers against your clit. He could feel it, the dizzying feeling of euphoria building in his chest, the way it was running through his veins. He could tell you felt it too by your breathing, the way your pussy wept for him.
Stars danced around in your vision and he knew his own vision mirrored yours, the tightness in his core was almost unbearable and he tipped his head forward and pressed his lips against yours, smiling briefly when your hold on him tightened. “Go ahead, doll. Cum for me. Cum all over my cock,” his voice was sweet, borderline crazed.
You fell limp in his arms when he thrusted into you once, twice, right against your cervix, and you had come undone for him, release washed over you, body weak as your legs shook under his. His hands were all over your body, caressed your skin to comfort you as your body convulsed for him.
His lips littered soft kisses to any skin he could reach, and when your walls tightened completely, coating his cock in your cum, he softly cried out your name as warm ropes of his cum filled you to the brim.
You could barely blink, senses still overwhelmed as he kept kissing you, kept cumming, filling you up so well, until you could almost taste him. Quiet praises filled with love and encouragement were whispered against your skin as he remained buried up to the hilt in you, his hips still pushing his cum into you, almost as if he had no control over himself.
Your entire body was shaking and he wrapped his arms tightly around you, rubbed your back gently until your whimpers turned into heavy breathing, until all you could mumble was some variation of his name. He forced his hips to still, forced himself to breathe deeply.
“I love you, Y/n,” he said, devout. “You mean so much to me. I’ll protect you, always.”
Bodies sticky and sweaty, he ran his hands up and down your back, nails grazed your skin to ground you. He was sure he was still cumming but if he could distract you, keep your attention on anything other than your overly stimulated, stuffed pussy, he’d do so.
“That’s it, doll,” he cooed lovingly, kissed the shell of your ear. “I got you.” He smiled when he felt you nod in the crook of his neck. “Did so well for me, pretty girl.” You simply hummed in response, unable to form any sentences at the moment. Bucky rested his cheek against your head, fought the urge to grind his hips against yours.
You breathed in Bucky’s scent slowly, head safely tucked in the crook of his neck. The way he held you now, so soft, so lovingly, had your heart settling. You could barely feel your legs, moaning lightly when his cock twitched inside you. Wrapped around his body, you pressed an open mouthed kiss to his neck, sucked softly when he tilted his head to give you more access.
Your fingers tugged at the hair at the nape of his neck and he shuddered. You could have fallen asleep right there and then, with his cock stuffed safely in your pussy, sticky wetness fusing your both together.
Slowly, Buckley lifted himself off your body and you both hissed. He brushed your hair out of your face. You stared at him and his legs wobbled at the look in your eyes. You brought a hand up to his face and traced the length of his eyebrow, brushed your fingers down his nose, and along his cheek.
“Pretty,” you mumbled, and he leaned forward and kissed you softly.
It was different, slower, more intimate as he cupped your cheek and tilted his head, lips plush against yours. You moaned into his mouth at the intimacy of it; the way his cock was still buried inside you, the way your mixed juices still leaked out of you, the gentle caress of his hand as he whispered loving praises into your mouth.
Gently, Bucky pulled out of your sopping cunt, biting back a groan. He shifted his weight and maneuvered your body until you were laying in his arms, your back pressed against his chest. He knew he had much to clean up, but your eyes fluttered shut occasionally so he put it off, knowing you needed him more.
He ran his hands along your arms and then your shoulders, pressing into your skin occasionally to remind you that he was right behind you. You snuggled into him, back pressed flush against his chest and he wrapped an arm around your waist.
“Let me run you a bath,” he whispered, pressed a kiss to your head.
You shook your head and waved him off. “Maybe later. I can’t feel any part of my body.”
Bucky laughed, but he lifted himself a bit, looked down at you. “Do you need anything? Medicine? Water? Does anything hurt?”
You snorted and slowly shifted, chest pressed to his. You wedged your leg between his, ignored the stickiness that coated you. “Only you could fuck me like this and be this worried after. Just hold me, Buck.”
He smiled at the fucked-out look on your face, pride bubbling in his chest before his eyes skirted to the scars on your skin. He kissed your cheek and slowly pulled himself away from you and out of bed.
“I’m going to grab you a glass of water and clean you up. I’ll be right back, doll.”
You hummed and squeezed his bicep. “Okay, baby.”
By the time he came back, you had fallen asleep. He placed the glass of water on your side and sat beside your sleeping body. His hand hovered before he cupped your cheek. “I don’t think I could survive ever losing you, Y/n.”
"I love you," he whispered, the words flowing out easily.
