(affirming myself in the mirror) if that fictional man was real he would fuck you. He would fuck you. You're his exact type. If he saw you he'd get a boner instantly. He would fuck you he would fu
Warnings: Here be smut! PIV sex, Oral (female receiving), Fingering, Unprotected Sex (wrap it before your tap it y’all)
Summary: Reader is a jedi who worked with the bad batch pre-order 66. You and Hunter always had feelings for each other, but never had the time or the circumstances to act on those feelings. After the events of the Season 1 Finale, the squad returns to Ord Mantell and your’s and Hunter’s feelings for each other finally reach a boiling point.
Tags: Hunter x Female Jedi Reader, Post Bad Batch Season 1 Finale, Love Confessions, Smut, Porn With Feelings, Spoilers for the Season 1 Finale of The Bad Batch
warnings: 18+ NSFW, smut, fluff, light angst, enemies to lovers, bantering, lowk grumpy and man-hater reader, sam playing matchmaker, arguments, bucky has nightmares, semi-public sex, spanking, brat-taming, degradation and praise.
wordcount: 14.9k
main masterlist
a/n: i've never been to louisiana, so i tried my best to do research to keep it as accurate as possible. i apologize for any mistakes.
synopsis:
Sam has been trying to get you and Bucky to get along—or at least tolerate each other—for the longest time. And what better way to do that than by inviting you both back home for a weekend in Louisiana?
It was always hard to decline the Wilsons every time they invited you over to visit them in Delacroix.
They always made sure to show you a fun time, whether it was something as simple as a boat ride on Paul & Darlene’s — God bless them — shooting water guns with the kids, going fishing, or just grabbing some folding chairs to watch the sun set past the lake line with cold Heinekens in hand.
It was AJ’s—Sarah’s son—birthday this weekend, and Sam had invited you to stay over for a full weekend of nonstop partying and celebration.
How could you possibly resist when you have your very best friends waiting for you across the states with good music and food ready at their doorstep?
You showed up at the top of the steps with a heavy weekender bag slung over your shoulder. When you pushed through the front door, which had been left unlocked, the last person you expected to see was standing right in the middle of the room.
Bucky.
He looked like he had just arrived, too. A simple dark backpack sat squared and centered on the couch—as if he were already claiming his spot.
Bucky slowly turned toward you, his eyes widening as if he hadn’t expected you to arrive either.
“What are you doing—”
“What are you doing—”
You both spoke and stopped at the same time, eyes glaring at one another. Bucky’s shoulders were tense, his discomfort obvious, while your own brows were furrowed and lips scrunched in disdain.
Your first impression of Bucky hadn’t been great—and it still wasn’t.
When you first met him, you walked in on him talking to Sam about his flirting with Sarah. Sam had warned Bucky to back off—that typical overprotective brother routine—but Bucky insisted he was “merely joking around” and “wasn’t looking for anything serious.”
The two of them might have found it funny, but Sarah was your best friend, and you were extremely protective over the people you cared about.
While Sam was busy in New York, you had stuck by her side like glue. You were there for her through the divorce, you were there to watch the kids when Sam wasn’t around, and you were there for every single one of her and the boys’ milestones.
Sarah was a woman who deserved to be taken care of, just as she took care of everyone else.
To Bucky, pursuing her and tossing out flirtatious comments was just a joke.
You knew Sarah was strong, and that maybe she wouldn’t let things get too far with Bucky, but the way she’d chuckle and giggle at his words filled you with doubt.
Bucky wasn’t a man who would take care of her or her kids. He was just like Sam—he’d always be away, too occupied with other things across the country to actually show up for her and her needs. You didn’t want her to get hurt and left in the dust again.
Bucky let out a patient exhale, running a hand through his hair. “Sam invited me to stay the weekend for AJ’s birthday.”
You crossed your arms. “That’s funny. Sam invited me over to stay, too.” You glanced at the couch. “They don’t have a spare bedroom—so that couch is going to have to be mine.”
He huffed an incredulous laugh, the corners of his mouth twitching into a disbelieving smile.
The gentleman in him told him to give up the couch and let you have it, even if he had arrived first. But the petty part of him didn’t want to give in that easily—not with how cold you have been towards him.
“What?” Bucky motioned to the sofa. “You don’t think the couch is big enough for the both of us?”
You didn’t laugh, and he let out a frustrated sigh.
“Look, I—”
“Mom! Uncle Bucky and Auntie are here!” Cass’s voice rang from around the corner. His happy brown eyes, so much like Sarah’s, peered between the two of you. “AJ, come here!”
Bucky’s shoulders eased slightly, his expression softening at the sight of Sam’s nephew.
Cass ran to Bucky first since he was closer, throwing his arms around his waist as he knelt to meet the kid halfway.
“Good to see you again, kid,” Bucky murmured.
Then Cass lunged at you for a hug next, nearly sending you stumbling backward from the impact. You laughed, wrapping your arms around him and squeezing tight. “Hey there, Cass!”
AJ rounded the corner next, his footsteps thudding against the floorboards before he collided head first into Bucky, catching him in a bear hug.
Jealousy started to boil in your blood. It was infuriating how much Bucky had these two kids wrapped around his stupid vibranium finger after knowing them for such a short time. Meanwhile, you have been around forever. You might as well have been their biological aunt, for fuck’s sake.
“Uncle Bucky!” AJ beamed.
Bucky laughed, giving his head a playful ruffle. “Well, if it isn’t the birthday boy. Hey, I got you something—”
“Aren’t you going to say hi to your aunt, AJ?” you cut in, catching the boy’s attention.
AJ’s excitement for whatever gift Bucky had for him faded slightly as he turned his attention to you. He smiled, walking—not running—to greet you with a hug. The polite gesture did nothing to soothe your jealousy or your emotional attachment to these kids.
“It’s nice to see you, Auntie,” AJ said politely.
You forced a smile anyway. “Happy early birthday, AJ. Are you excited for the weekend?”
AJ grinned and nodded, but before he could answer, the sound of Sam’s footsteps approached from down the hall.
“Well, well, well,” Sam said, a hand on his hip and a smirk on his face. “If it isn’t my two favorite people in the world—standing in the same room.”
The little boys glanced at each other, already starting their own silent game of tag before they pushed through the front door and disappeared into the yard.
“Sam,” you greeted, finally dropping your heavy duffel bag on the floor. “There isn’t enough space for Bucky and me to stay.”
Bucky was already reaching for his backpack. “I’ll just let her take the couch. I’ll sleep on the floor.”
“What?” Sam huffed, shaking his head. “No, no, no. None of that. I bought an air mattress that we can set up right here.” He motioned to the floor in front of the sofa. “We’ll just move the coffee table. It’s big enough to fit the both of you. No one is sleeping on the floor.”
Big enough to fit the both of you?
“We are not sharing a bed,” you interjected sternly, trying to hide the embarassment on your face.
Bucky glanced at Sam casually. “I’ll just take the couch, then. She’ll take the bed.”
The tension in the room was thicker than the Louisiana humidity. Sam and Bucky traded a knowing look—one that typically meant they were thinking the same thing but didn’t want to say it out loud.
“Where’s Sarah?” you asked suddenly, breaking the silence. There was too much testosterone in this room.
Sam pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “She’s out back.”
You nodded and walked past the two men, heading for the backyard. Sam and Bucky watched you retreat, waiting until the sound of the screen door clicked shut before Bucky finally let out the breath he had been holding.
“She doesn’t like me much, Sam,” Bucky muttered.
“You think?” Sam mused sarcastically, folding his arms over his chest. “Look, man, it’s my nephew’s birthday. Sarah and I want both of you here this weekend, and I’m going to make sure it stays a good weekend.”
Bucky pressed his lips together, his right hand coming up to tug at the stubble on his chin as if he were trying to calculate a solution.
“Alright, well...” He shrugged. “Guess I’ll just make sure to stay on the opposite side of the room—”
“No,” Sam interrupted, stepping closer. “That’s not how we’re doing things. It’s a celebration, man. I’m not having you two avoid each other like the plague the entire time. My nephews and everyone else around us will catch on.”
Bucky made a face. He knew Sam well enough to know he was already plotting something. “What do you propose we do, then?”
“There are plenty of things to do down at the bayou,” Sam explained. “Not even just the bayou—all over the damn state. Activities you two can do together.”
Bucky was terrible at hiding his expressions. He grimaced immediately at the thought—enduring constant nagging, side-eyes, and petty one liners from you while he just had to sit there and take it for Sam’s sake.
This wasn’t a fun vacation at all.
“I don’t know about this, Sam—”
“We’re supposed to be a family, Buck,” Sam cut him off, raising a hand to silence the protest. “You’re going to spend time with her, and you’re going to enjoy every second of it.”
You were down at the docks, the sun beaming down as sweat began to trickle from your temples. The humidity in Louisiana was suffocating, but the occasional lake breeze, the cold beers, and the company were enough to keep the heat at bay.
Paul & Darlene’s was swaying gently against the waves, looking as rusty as ever.
“Is she ready for a ride?” you asked Sarah, who was currently engrossed in a clipboard. “Are you seriously still working on your son’s birthday weekend?”
Sarah didn’t reply, mumbling to herself as her eyes traced the words on the paper. You sighed, your fingers gently nudging the clipboard down.
“Sarah, enough,” you said gently. You glanced over at AJ and Cass, who were sitting on the benches playing with action figures. “Take the weekend off like the rest of us and spend time with the kids. Take them out on the boat.”
Sarah looked at the boys, her brown eyes filling with guilt. “You know I would, but the boat’s still broken—”
“Stop with the sulking,” Sam’s voice shouted from the end of the dock.
He squinted against the sun as he approached, carrying two boat paddles, while Bucky trailed behind him with a third.
“We still have three perfectly good rowboats we can take the kids on,” Sam grinned, handing you one of the paddles. “Ever rowed a boat before?”
“Of course I have,” you said, taking it. “That sounds like fun.” You smiled, turning toward the boys. “Which one of you lucky boys wants to ride with your super cool aunt?”
Bucky lifted his paddle up to Sarah with a small, stupidly charming smile. “Want to ride with me, Sarah?”
You felt your eyebrow twitch.
“AJ, you’re with me,” Sam called out, cutting Bucky off. “Cass, you’re with your mom.”
“What? No fair!” Cass made a face, throwing his hands up. “I want to ride with someone cool!”
“You better watch your mouth, boy,” Sarah warned, completely ignoring Bucky as she snatched a paddle from Sam’s hand, already heading toward the end of the dock where the boats were tied.
Sam didn’t bother hiding his grin. It was wide, unabashed, and entirely too fucking satisfied as he ushered the boys toward the edge of the dock.
“Alright, move it or lose it! First one to the sandbar gets the first slice of cake on Saturday!” Sam shouted. AJ and Cass scrambled past you, their sneakers slapping loudly against the wooden planks as they raced toward the smaller rowboats, leaving giggles in their wake.
You and Bucky stood frozen, paddles in hand like two statues, blinking as the Wilsons walked off without you.
“Wait, what?” you finally managed to choke out, your head whipping between Sam’s retreating back and the boats. “Sam, hold on. There are only three boats.” You stumbled after them, desperately trying to create space between you and Bucky.
“Yep!” Sam called over his shoulder, not slowing down at all. “One for Sarah and Cass, one for me and the birthday boy…”
He paused to hop into a boat, the wood creaking under him. He looked back at you and Bucky, his eyes sparkling mischievously.
“And one for the two of you. Try not to tip it.”
You turned slowly to look at Bucky. He looked just as dumbfounded as you felt, his vibranium hand gripped tight around the handle of his paddle.
“He’s kidding,” you muttered. “He’s definitely kidding.”
Bucky didn’t say anything, mostly because he knew Sam wasn’t kidding at all. He looked at the third rowboat—a small, weathered piece of wood that bobbed innocently at the end of the line.
It looked incredibly small.
It looked too intimate.
It looked like a disaster waiting to happen.
“Sam!” you yelled, taking a step forward. “This is ridiculous! I can just stay back and help Sarah with the—the decorations! Or the food!”
“Decorations are done! Food isn’t being prepped ‘til tomorrow!” Sarah shouted from her own boat, already pushing off from the dock with Cass sitting across from her.
You couldn’t believe it. You were stranded.
You were stranded with Bucky fucking Barnes.
Bucky let out a long, slow breath through his nose. He glanced at you, taking the way your jaw had hung open as you watched Sam and Sarah float away. A fly could’ve flown in at any moment.
Without a word, Bucky started walking toward the last boat, his heavy boots thumping against the dock. He stepped one foot into the boat to steady it and extended a hand toward you.
“Come on,” he muttered. “I’ll help you down.”
You blinked, snapped out of your disbelief as you looked down at Bucky—propped up like a knight in shining armor helping a fair maiden onto his trusty steed.
“I can help myself just fine, thanks,” you scoffed.
You stepped down into the boat, and it tipped slightly under your weight. The both of you quickly got settled, undid the rope, and assembled the paddles at the sides. Without a single word being exchanged, you both reached for the handles at the same time.
Except Bucky’s hands landed first—and your hands landed right on top of his. You both stared at each other, gazes hard and unwavering.
“Let go,” you said.
Bucky didn’t budge at all. “I grabbed them first.”
“Yeah, but you don’t know how to row a boat, do you?” you immediately countered.
He paused. The only sounds were the cicadas buzzing in your ears and the gentle thrashing of water as the rowboat swayed.
“I do know how to row a boat,” Bucky argued back pridefully.
He didn’t.
He probably had during his Winter Soldier days—and maybe the muscle memory would have come back—but definitely not for a teeny, tiny little rowboat like this.
You grinned, a little taunting chuckle escaping your lips as you silently called his bluff. “Oh, yeah?”
You knew that stung his pride. He mumbled incoherent, grumpy words under his breath as he started to paddle away from the docks and toward the center of the lake, trying to follow Sam and Sarah’s lead.
The two of you sat in an awkward, tense silence as he worked the paddles. The sun was beaming in your face, and you lifted your hand to provide shade—but it was also a discreet method to help shield the way you were staring intently at Bucky’s muscles as he pushed the paddles.
Bucky would grunt occasionally as the blades lapped through the water, and you couldn’t help but stare at the way his muscles bulged and flexed through a shirt that looked ridiculously tight on a big guy like him.
His henley was pulled up to his forearms, the vibranium shimmering against the reflections of the lake and the veins in his right arm catching your eyes with every pushing motion of the paddle.
“You, uh… you come to Louisiana often?” Bucky tried for a conversation.
You huffed a laugh that didn’t sound humorous at all. “Way more than you have, that’s for sure.”
Bucky chewed the inside of his cheek to keep from saying something smart. He had to suck it up for Sam’s sake.
“The weather’s nice, isn’t it?”
You couldn’t believe Bucky was trying to talk to you about the weather.
“It’s always hot and swampy in Delacroix,” you said flatly.
You looked around, noticing how the boat was drifting further away from Sam and Sarah. You watched as Cass and AJ shouted to each other from across their boats—how Sarah and Sam were tossing their heads back in laughter.
A frown settled on your lips as you began to feel left out.
“We’re drifting, Bucky,” you said, pointing toward them. “Steer in that direction.”
Bucky adjusted his grip on the paddles and huffed. “Fine.”
He started to dig the right paddle deep into the water while the left one barely grazed the surface. But instead of cutting toward Sam and Sarah, the boat’s nose jerked sharply to the right.
“What are you doing?” you snapped, your patience thinning as the distance between you and the Wilsons grew wider. “We’re not going toward them, Bucky. We’re going…” You frowned. “…nowhere.”
“I’m adjusting,” Bucky said shortly, his vibranium fingers tightening on the paddle. He tried to over-correct, pulling back hard with his left arm, but the only result was the boat beginning to pivot on its axis.
You weren’t moving anywhere. You were spinning.
The same cluster of cypress trees passed by for the third time. Sam and Sarah were becoming distant specks on the horizon, their laughter echoing faintly across the water.
An impatient sigh escaped you as you leaned forward, motioning to the paddles. “Here, move over. Let me take over—”
“I got it,” Bucky insisted, his jaw clenched and shoulders tense in that way that made him look particularly stubborn. “Just give me a second, alright?”
“Bucky, we’ve barely moved from the dock and now you’ve got us—” you motioned to the boat, “—spinning in circles. I’m getting dizzy. Just hand me the damn paddles.”
Your hands found an open space on the handles and you jerked them toward your side of the boat, causing the wood to thrash against the water. Bucky—taken aback by your unexpected strength—was pulled forward. He let out a hiss, immediately yanking the oars back toward him and making you jerk forward instead.
You both glared at each other stubbornly, muttering curses as you continued this back and forth struggle for the paddles.
But unfortunately for you, Bucky was significantly stronger, and every jerk he made sent you nearly flying out of your seat and in his direction.
“Goddammit, Bucky! Just let go!” you hissed, trying to find your balance as the boat thrashed around, water splashing everywhere.
Bucky had told himself he would try to suck up your attitude for Sam—but fuck, you were treading on his nerves every second.
“Christ, woman!” Bucky barked, his fingers tightening on the handles. “Just let me take care of it—alright? I know what I’m doing!”
“Well, clearly you don’t! Because we’re still just spinning in circles!”
The boat rocked violently, tipping precariously every time the two of you fought for the oars. The wood creaked and groaned under the movement, and water began slopping over the gunwales, soaking your sandals.
“Will you stop being such a prideful man and let a woman take over the damn oars already?” you shouted over the splashing water, throwing your entire weight into a massive yank.
The paddles lurched toward you.
“I can’t believe you offered to take Sarah for a ride when you can’t even steer the damn thing!”
Bucky’s brow twitched. He hated feeling incompetent, and every word you hurled was a direct jab to his pride. He had tried so hard to be on his best behavior for you, but his patience had finally worn thin.
“I would’ve done just fine if you hadn’t gotten in the way,” Bucky snapped back in a low growl.
His fingers clamped down so hard on the wood it was a wonder it didn’t snap. Out of sheer, petty spite, he jerked the oars back toward himself.
“Now give me these damn paddles—”
But the force of his movement caught you completely off guard. You let out a sharp yelp as you were catapulted forward, your hands losing their grip on the wood. You had zero time to brace yourself before you collided hard with his chest—it felt like hitting a brick wall wrapped in damp cotton.
With all the weight suddenly slammed onto one side, the boat lurched backward, the stern dipping dangerously low.
Pressed against his chest, you scrambled to get up in a panic. “Jesus, Bucky! Look at what you—”
“Stop squirming! Just… just stay still!”
Bucky’s grip on the oars was long forgotten as his hands found your waist in a desperate attempt to steady you, but it was too late.
With a loud, undignified splash that caught the attention of everyone on the docks, the rowboat flipped.
One moment, the sun was burning your skin, and the next, you were greeted by cold water enveloping you. Everything from above was muffled as you were completely submerged. Keeping your eyes squeezed shut against the murky water, you tried to swim upward, but panic started to flare as your head kept bumping into the underside of the wooden boat.
Suddenly, a strong, vibranium arm wrapped roughly around your waist. He pulled your body tight against his, dragging you toward the surface and back to the shore.
You gasped for air the moment you broke the surface, your skin warming as the sunlight hit your soaked face. People on the docks were smiling and laughing at your predicament, but Bucky paid them no mind. He dragged a hand down his face, wiping away the water.
“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice low.
Sam’s laughter, joined by the kids’ giggles, filled your ears as their boats drew closer.
“Oh no, what happened to you two?” Sam grinned, spinning his boat around to get a better look at you. “Let me guess—was it the wind?” He motioned to the upside down boat.
Rolling your eyes, you pushed through the water until you reached the edge of the docks, with Bucky swimming close behind. You tried to paddle faster to create some distance, but there was no point—he caught up to you in no time.
When you reached the dock, you tried to hoist yourself up, but Bucky’s hands found your waist again, easily hauling you up and over the wooden floorboards.
You sneered at him the second your feet were steady. “I didn’t need your help.”
Bucky ignored you as he hauled himself up onto the dock, his muscles rippling beneath the soaked fabric of his shirt. Water clung to his skin, dripping from the tips of his short, shaggy hair and trailing down the tanned column of his throat.
You were furious—absolutely livid—but as you watched the way his broad shoulders tensed just underneath the thin fabric, you found yourself swallowing hard.
You hated that, even in the middle of a fucking swamp, he still managed to look like that.
Bucky didn’t notice you staring at him. He stood up, shaking his head like a dog to get the water out of his ears.
“I was doing a fine job,” he bit out roughly, “until you had to butt your head in and try to take over. If you had just sat still, we wouldn’t be soaked right now—”
As Bucky finally lifted his head to glare at you, the breath caught in his throat. His eyes widened, his gaze dropping from your drenched head to your chest—and then freezing there.
You were wearing a sheer white blouse—light and airy for the Louisiana heat, of course—but now that it was drenched through, it had turned completely translucent. It clung tight to your skin, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination and revealing the lace of your bra underneath.
Bucky’s jaw went tight, his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. He knew he should look away, but he couldn’t—not even as you continued to yell and point a finger at him.
“What? Are you insinuating that it’s my fault?” you scoffed in disbelief.
Bucky couldn’t concentrate. It felt like his brain had short circuited as he stared shamelessly at the damp lace and the soft curve of your skin.
“And another thing!” you shouted, stepping closer and poking a finger square into the center of his chest. “If you hadn’t been so stubborn about the oars, we would’ve caught up to Sam and Sarah and been having a good time with them!”
Bucky winced, not because of the poke, but because you moving closer only made the view more prominent. He glanced toward the docks, noticing a few of the guys from the neighborhood whistling and laughing at the both of you.
Without thinking, Bucky stepped closer, his large frame shielding you from the view of the men. He reached out, his hands hovering awkwardly near your shoulders as he tried to pull you against him to hide your vulnerable state.
“Hey—? What the hell are you doing?” you snapped, trying to shove him back. “Why are you hugging me? Get off!”
“I’m not hugging you,” Bucky mumbled grumpily as he forced you to stay put, caging you between his big arms.
“It feels a lot like hugging, Barnes! Let go!” You squirmed, but his grip on you was tight. His face flushed as he felt your chest rub up against his.
“Stop moving,” he hissed, his face turning a deep, frustrated red as he looked anywhere but at your chest. He leaned down, his mouth inches away from your ear so only you could hear. “Your damn shirt.”
“My shirt?” You blinked up at him in confusion. “What about my—?”
You looked down, and the realization hit you. Your face got hot with embarrassment once you noticed how the white fabric of your shirt was basically invisible, clinging to every inch of your bra and skin.
Sam and Sarah pulled their boat alongside the dock, the hull bumping gently against the wood. Sam hopped out first, looping the rope around the cleat. He looked up, taking in the sight of the two of you standing so close together.
“Well, would you look at that,” Sam said, a massive grin spreading across his face. “One little dip in the lake and you two finally made up?”
Bucky felt your body tense. Sensing how uncomfortable this was for you, he was just about to step back—until you crossed your arms over your chest and huddled deeper into his shadow.
“You okay?” Bucky murmured quietly, tilting his head down toward you.
After Sarah helped Cass off the boat, she stepped onto the dock and walked straight to you, moving between you and the men. She wrapped an arm around your shoulders and gently pried you away from Bucky, taking over his job of hiding you.
“Come on,” Sarah said softly, her voice full of understanding as she began to lead you away. “Let’s get you fixed up and into some dry clothes.”
You didn’t dare look back at Bucky as you let her lead you away, though you could feel his gaze on your back until you and Sarah rounded the corner, leaving the men out of sight.
Back on the dock, the laughter died down. Bucky stood there dripping wet, looking uncharacteristically flustered.
“I take it the boat ride didn’t go well?” Sam taunted, his eyes still fixed on the corner where you and his sister had disappeared.
Bucky stayed quiet, glaring at Sam as water droplets fell from his hair onto the floorboards of the dock.
“This isn’t going to work, Sam,” Bucky muttered, wringing the hem of his shirt. “She hates me.”
“Don’t be like that, Buck.” Sam patted him on the shoulder. “She doesn’t hate anyone. Besides, we’ve got the whole weekend ahead of us, alright?”
Sam likely said that in hopes of lifting Bucky’s spirits—but it only did the exact opposite.
The sky was dark as you sat on the air mattress, applying lotion to your skin. The thought of sharing a space with Bucky felt daunting.
The rest of the day had been awkward and tense after the disaster on the lake. It didn’t help that Bucky did exactly what Sam told him not to do—which was hovering at the far end of the room, making sure to stand wherever you weren’t.
Bucky was taking his sweet time in the bathroom. As you finished with the lotion, you quickly snuggled into the air mattress, trying to fall asleep before he came back out.
Only a few minutes passed before the light from the bathroom hit your eyes as he pulled the door open. You winced at the sudden brightness but kept your eyes shut, pretending to be asleep.
A small sigh—almost a breath of relief—escaped his lips when he noticed you were out, or at least appeared to be.
You heard his heavy footsteps thud toward the couch. He crouched with his back to you, digging through his backpack for something.
Curiosity got the best of you. You peeked one eye open, and your heart nearly leaped out of your chest.
Bucky was shirtless.
You watched as he balanced on the balls of his feet, rummaging through the bag. The moonlight piercing through the window shadowed the deep lines and muscles of his back. His vibranium arm looked just as beautiful under the moon as it had in the sun.
His hair, no longer damp and scruffy like it was at the docks, was still slightly wet and brushed back neatly.
You could smell him all the way from the air mattress. He smelled soft and clean, with the underlying masculine scent of his deodorant. You knew you should have been asleep by now, but your heart wouldn’t stop racing.
Was he really going to sleep shirtless even though you were here?
Despite your heart thumping loudly in your chest, you kept your back turned to him and tried your best to fall asleep.
Hours later, you eventually drifted off, only to be jolted awake by the sound of shuffling, groaning, and mumbled curses coming from across the room.
Lifting your head, you tiredly rubbed your eyes as you glanced in Bucky’s direction.
“Bucky… can you keep it down?”
But as you focused, you realized that whatever he was doing wasn’t intentional.
Bucky’s eyes were squeezed shut, his face scrunched into a grimace as he panted heavily. A thin sheen of sweat covered the column of his neck and chest, and his fingers were digging deep into the cushions of the couch. He kept mumbling incoherent, unfinished sentences that made your heart sink with worry.
“I’m sorry,” he rasped.
“Bucky? Are you okay?” you asked, your voice rising.
“Don’t do this, please—don’t… mph… don't do this...”
“Bucky, listen to me!”
“Stop, stop!” he choked out, his body jerking against the couch.
You scrambled off the air mattress, tossing the blanket aside as you rushed to Bucky’s side at the couch.
“Bucky!” you whispered urgently, reaching out to grab his shoulders. You shook him, your palms warming from the heat radiating off his damp skin. “Bucky, wake up. You’re having a nightmare!”
When he didn’t wake, you shook him harder until he gasped awake so violently he nearly knocked you backward. His eyes snapped open—wide, unfocused, and… terrified.
He sat up abruptly, his chest heaving as he struggled to fill his lungs with air. His vibranium hand clamped onto the edge of the couch so hard the wood underneath groaned.
“I’m—I…” he stammered, his voice heavy with panic.
“Hey... hey, look at me,” you said softly, your hands finding his wet cheeks and forcing his focus onto you. “I’m here. You’re in Louisiana. You’re at Sarah’s.”
You started saying the first things that came to mind. Surely, reminding someone where they were would help in a situation like this, right?
Bucky’s head whipped toward you, his gaze darting around the dark room until it finally landed on your face again. He was still shaking, the tremors racking his broad shoulders as he tried to calm himself in your touch.
You didn’t say anything else—you didn’t really know what to say in a situation like this. But being there, holding him and simply staying in his space, seemed to be enough for now.
Slowly and quietly, he began to catch his breath, and that’s when you noticed he was trying to match his breathing to yours.
In and out. In and out, slowly, until he finally started to calm down.
“Did…” He swallowed hard, his gaze dropping to your lap—noticing how your oversized shirt hung loosely over your legs. “Did I wake you?”
You nodded gently, deciding to be truthful. “You did.”
Guilt immediately clouded his features. “I’m sorry.”
A solemn frown tugged at your lips as you leaned in closer to get a better look at him. “Are you okay?”
“I’ll be fine,” he muttered, pulling away from your touch so suddenly it made your hands feel cold.
He tried to get comfortable on the couch again, but the tension in his shoulders and the stiff way he moved made it clear that settling back into sleep would be impossible.
Your heart ached for him. You felt terrible.
“You can take the air mattress, Bucky,” you said, already rising to your feet. “Here, I’ll move my things—”
As you stepped away, Bucky’s hand immediately clamped around your wrist. “No, stop. Just—just keep the mattress, okay? I’ll be fine,” he insisted, though the wobble in his voice betrayed how he really felt.
Your frown deepened. Even in this vulnerable state, he held onto that same stubborn pride that had clashed with yours earlier at the docks. Except this time, his attitude didn’t piss you off. Standing before him while he looked so broken and tired only made you feel completely useless.
“Is there anything I can do?” you asked quietly, searching his face. “Anything to help?”
Bucky managed a small smile—a forced, tired expression that didn’t reach his eyes. He let go of your wrist, his hand falling back to the couch.
“Let’s just get some rest. We’ve got a big birthday party tomorrow. I’m sorry for waking you.”
You stood there for a second, looking at the cramped, uncomfortable couch and then back at the oversized air mattress that looked far too big for just one person.
“You’re really pulling at my heartstrings here, old man.” You reached out, grabbing the hem of his blanket. “Come on. There’s plenty of room. Let’s just share the mattress.”
Bucky froze, his eyes widening as he looked from you to the bed. “S-share…?”
You were already getting settled on your side, your back facing him, hoping the distance would help his flustered state.
“You need sleep, and I’m not going to be able to close my eyes knowing you’re over there miserable on a cramped couch,” you huffed. “Now get over here.”
Bucky knew there was no point in arguing with you further. If he had learned anything from the disaster at the docks, it was that once you set your mind on something, he was better off just letting you have your way.
With a reluctant, heavy sigh, he finally stood up and moved toward the air mattress. The mattress dipped significantly under his body as he shuffled around to get comfortable on his side. He kept a respectable amount of space between the both of you, lying stiffly on the very edge.
You both remained back to back, with only the sound of crickets outside filling the silence.
“Do you get nightmares often?” you suddenly asked.
Bucky hesitated. “Not as much as I used to,” he answered in a gravelly rasp. “But they still come and go.”
There was another pause.
This time, Bucky broke it.
“Do you care if I sleep without a shirt on?”
You couldn’t help the snort that escaped your lips. “Don’t worry,” you chuckled. “I’m not looking.”
The sound of your laughter in this awkward, tense space made his shoulders ease slightly and his heart beat a little slower. You two continued to lay quietly like that for a long moment—side by side, back to back.
There were a million thoughts running through Bucky’s head, and he felt particularly restless.
Finally, he decided to ask the very thing that had been occupying his mind since you two first met.
“Why do you dislike me so much?”
Bucky braced himself for the answer, but it didn’t come.
He waited, wondering if you were pretending not to hear him. He called your name softly and turned over his shoulder to look at you, but he stopped short.
You had already fallen asleep.
The morning light pierced through the front windows, hitting you right in the face. The quiet peace of the night before had been replaced by the chaotic, joyful energy of a house in full celebration mode.
From the kitchen, the clattering of pots and pans and the high pitched laughter of AJ and Cass bounced off the walls, forcing you awake.
You blinked, rubbing the grogginess from your eyes as you realized the air mattress felt much, much lighter. Bucky was already gone. His side of the bed was nearly smoothed over, and his blanket was folded neatly back on the couch—as if he hadn’t slept next to you at all.
“Morning, sleepyhead!” Sarah called out from the kitchen. “I’m so sorry for all this ruckus. We were tryin’ our best to stay quiet, but everyone is just so excited since it’s AJ’s big day today.”
A sleepy, lopsided smile pulled at your lips at the sight of Sarah and the kids gathered in the living room.
“It’s okay,” you said groggily, pulling yourself off the air mattress. “Happy Birthday, AJ.”
You started walking toward Sarah, meeting her in the kitchen. You took note of the trays and various types of produce lying around. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
Sarah didn’t glance up from the onions she was laying out on the cutting board.
“Oh no, no,” she clicked her tongue. “It’s a warzone in here that only I can handle. You’d only get in my way, and I don’t need two people trippin’ over each other in this kitchen—I can leave that to my kids.”
You frowned, leaning against the wall. “Are you sure? I feel bad just sitting around while you’re doing all this—”
“I’m positive,” Sarah cut you off, pointing her knife at you and then toward the clock on the wall. “The party doesn’t start ‘til five. So you can get outta here and enjoy New Orleans or somethin’ until everything’s ready.”
“But Sarah, that’s an hour drive—”
“Out!” she laughed, shooing you toward the front door with a wave of her knife. “Go breathe some fresh air. Enjoy yourself and the town. I know you miss it.”
A small smile tugged at your lips, just as the sound of Bucky approaching from the backyard—already dressed for the day—met you and Sarah in the kitchen.
“Morning,” he nodded to you curtly, as if last night hadn’t happened at all.
Then he glanced at Sarah with a smile—that stupidly charming smile. He nodded toward the counter. “Let me help—”
Before he could take a step closer, Sarah pointed the knife at him, too. She looked back at you. “And take hunky robot here with you while you’re at it.”
You had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing at the way she brushed Bucky aside.
Bucky blinked, confused. “Take me where?”
“Sarah, if I’m going out to enjoy the town, I’m doing it by myself—”
You were cut off by the sound of the screen door hitting the wall as Sam hauled a heavy box of supplies into the room. He dropped it onto the floor with a loud thud and wiped the sweat from his forehead, grinning when he saw the three of you standing there.
“Oh, perfect,” Sam panted. “You goin’ to town? Take Bucky with you. Show him around. He’s been following me around like some fly buzzin’ in my ear.”
Bucky’s jaw tightened, and he crossed his arms defensively. “A fly?”
Sam ignored him as he began to unbox. “Seriously, take him. He needs the fresh air, and I need the floor space. Go on, get out of here.”
You were about to protest—to insist on staying and offer your assistance—but Sam and Sarah were already bickering in the kitchen, talking about how Sam had to pick up AJ’s friends and run to the store for last minute groceries.
When you told them that you could be an extra set of hands, they both looked at you and, at the same time, shouted, “Get out!”
Now, you found yourself behind the wheel of Sarah’s run-down but reliable Chevy with Bucky sitting in the passenger seat.
He had offered to drive, but you didn’t allow him to—which, after the incident with the boat, was a smart move on his part.
The radio didn’t work, so you two sat in awkward silence with the windows rolled down, letting the humid breeze pass through as you drove toward New Orleans. Bucky had one arm out the window, his eyes focused on the trees passing by.
“So, where are you taking me?” he suddenly asked, breaking the silence.
“New Orleans,” you answered flatly.
The short burst of warmth that the two of you had shared in the middle of the night seemed to have disappeared completely. Bucky had his body turned slightly away from you, and maybe that was how he wanted it. Perhaps the vulnerability he had shared last night was something he wanted to keep under wraps.
“I know that,” he scoffed. “But what are we going to do there?”
“I’m taking you to my favorite spot,” you said, keeping your eyes on the road. “Monty’s.”
Bucky hummed. “That like a breakfast joint or something?”
“It’s a classic diner. They have the best crawfish and cheesesteaks you’ll ever put in your mouth,” you said, your stomach growling just thinking about it. “But the best part are the beignets. They have the best stuffed beignets I’ve ever had.”
Bucky finally glanced at you, a small grin tugging at his lips. “I’ve never had a beignet.”
Your eyes went wide, and you looked at him in disbelief. “What? You stay with the Wilsons and you’ve never had a beignet?”
He shook his head. “No.”
“Have you ever been to New Orleans?”
He shook his head again. “I’ve only ever stayed in Delacroix with Sam.”
The idea of introducing the city of New Orleans—a place you adored—to someone who had never been filled you with a sudden burst of excitement, even if it was for Bucky.
“Well, we’ve got a lot of time to spare. So we’ll park somewhere and walk to Monty’s, and since the restaurant is near Jackson Square, I’ll show you around.”
While you kept your eyes on the road, Bucky could only stare at you as you went on and on about the beauty of New Orleans.
You explained breathlessly how gorgeous the square was—about how the greenery around the cathedral was breathtaking. You mentioned the French Market a couple of blocks away and went on about the street musicians and talented jazz players on every corner. You told him about the vendors posted all around and how you could even take a trolley around the area.
For the first time since he met you, he had never heard you speak this much in one breath.
For once, you weren’t throwing petty remarks at him. You talked and talked about the things you loved about the city, and Bucky felt like his heart was swelling too large for his chest.
Before long, the two of you made it into the vibrant heart of New Orleans.
The restaurant was already loud—the clinking of silverware, loud laughter, and a jazz band playing down the street hummed in your ears.
Despite the heat, Bucky had kept his jacket on for as long as possible, but eventually, the Louisiana humidity won.
Now, with his sleeves rolled up, the vibranium of his arm caught the light poking through the window with every movement. You saw the way the couple at the table next to you whispered to each other, and how a group of tourists leaned in, pointing in his direction.
Bucky felt it, too. His jaw was clenched, and he kept his left hand tucked partially under the table. He looked like he wanted to disappear. It was no wonder he preferred staying at Sam’s.
Then, the server arrived with a tray that smelled like heaven.
“Here you go,” you said, pushing the plate of powdered goodness toward him. “The legendary stuffed beignets,” you added with a bright smile, hoping to ease his mood.
The pastries were massive, perfectly golden brown and buried under a mountain of powdered sugar. Bucky lifted one and took a careful bite, the crunch of the dough giving way to a rich and creamy center. His eyes widened, and he let out a small, muffled “mm” as he chewed.
“It’s good, right?” you grinned, already halfway through your own beignet.
Bucky nodded, taking an even bigger bite. “Good,” he confirmed mid-chew. “Very fucking good.”
As he pulled the beignet away from his mouth, he was oblivious to the thick coat of white powder smeared across his upper lip like a mustache, with a stray patch sitting right on the tip of his nose. Bucky still had that natural, broody look on his face as he chewed. He reached for his water, and as much as you tried to keep a straight face, you couldn’t help the laugh that escaped.
“Bucky,” you snickered, shielding your mouth with your hand.
He stopped, glass halfway to his mouth, frowning in confusion. “What?”
“You’ve got…” You pointed to your own face, doubling over as another giggle escaped. “Powder all over your face, old man.”
Bucky reached up with his right hand, wiping his lip only to smear the powder further across his cheek. He realized then how ridiculous he must have looked.
“Shut up,” he mumbled, keeping his eyes down as his face flushed with embarrassment. But with the way you were giggling across the table, he couldn’t help but smile, too.
“Here, let me help you.”
To save him from further embarrassment, you reached across the small, wobbly table.
Your thumb brushed the corner of his mouth, sweeping away the stubborn white powder. Any petty remark Bucky had been about to throw at you died in his throat the second your thumb made contact with his skin.
With the sunlight peering through the window and casting a soft glow on you, you looked… soft.
You looked exactly as you had last night, with the moonlight over your face while you comforted him after his nightmare.
Bucky swallowed hard. “I—”
Suddenly, a waiter rushing by with a loaded tray clipped the corner of your table. The wood jolted, the water glasses sloshing dangerously.
“Sorry, folks! Pardon me,” the man mumbled, already halfway to the next table.
You pulled your hand back quickly, clearing your throat. Bucky sat back, his hand dropping to his lap as he looked toward the door.
“Ready?” he asked, his voice a little lower than usual.
“Yeah,” you nodded. “Let’s go.”
The two of you left the restaurant. Stepping out into the warm air, Jackson Square was already vibrant and bustling with a good mix of tourists and locals.
Couples drifted past, fingers intertwined or arms slung over shoulders, soaking in the romance of the city. You and Bucky, however, kept a careful, “friendly” distance, though every time your shoulders brushed in the crowd, you both tensed up.
As you rounded the corner toward the cathedral, the soulful, brass of a trumpet pulled you toward a crowd gathered on the sidewalk.
A jazz quartet was set up near the iron gates. The music was loud and swinging. People were swaying, and some older couples were even dancing in the middle of the pavement, lost in the beat as an elderly man sang, his smooth, gravelly voice beaming through the microphone.
You stopped at the edge of the circle, smiling as you watched a young couple spin each other around.
The music was infectious, and you found yourself tapping your foot against the cobblestones. Bucky stood beside you, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, but his eyes weren’t on the musicians. He was watching the people dancing with a look of quiet, distant longing that made your heart ache just a little.
“Are you okay?” you asked softly, grabbing his attention.
Bucky—as if snapped out of his own thoughts—jumped slightly at your question. He looked down at you, a sheepish smile on his lips.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
You motioned to the other dancers. “Do you want to dance?”
He blinked as your question processed in his mind. You were inviting him to dance?
Were you trying to pull his leg?
Bucky sucked in a deep breath, his face flushing and his eyes going wide. “… Dance?”
Before Bucky could deny your offer, the saxophone player stepped forward and got lost in a wild, trilling solo that made the crowd cheer even louder. The man on the microphone let out a joyful laugh, clapping his hands in time with the beat.
“That’s it! That’s it!” he called out. “Don’t just stand there lookin’ pretty, now! Everyone grab a partner and start dancin’ if you haven’t already—life’s way too short to be standin’ still.”
More people spilled into the center of the circle, bumping into you and Bucky. Total strangers were spinning each other around, and it was as if the old cobblestones started to shake with everyone’s footsteps dancing over them.
You looked up at Bucky—his body was tense with the clear desire to bolt in the opposite direction.
“Do you want to leave—”
“C’mon now, you two!” the singer bellowed over the music, drawing the eyes of everyone in the circle as he pointed directly at the two of you with a big grin on his face. “I see you shy young lovebirds over there. Don’t be shy, big man—take the lady’s hand and show us what you got!”
Bucky looked like he wanted to die.
His face was as red as a tomato, and his body was as stiff as a rock. You wanted to laugh at him being called a ‘young lovebird big man,’ but you knew that would only wound his pride even more.
You grabbed his hand, and his body jolted, not expecting the sudden contact.
“What are you doing?” he hissed.
“Come on,” you said, nodding your head toward the middle of the circle. “We’re going to dance.”
“What? Hey—wait—!”
Bucky let himself be dragged to the center of the circle, his feet dragging against the cobblestones.
He couldn’t believe this was happening.
Just twelve hours ago, he had been waking up from a nightmare in a cold sweat, and now he was standing in the middle of Jackson Square with a hundred sets of eyes on him.
This was worse than any nightmare he ever had, probably.
“I can’t,” he hissed, his voice cracking slightly as he looked at the couples spinning around them. “I haven’t danced since... since…”
The Forties.
“Just don’t think about it,” you said, stepping closer into his arms so he was forced to look at you instead of the crowd.
You took his right hand in yours and placed your other hand on his shoulder. His hand found your waist—respectfully. “Just follow my lead.”
You started moving your body to the swing of the rhythm, pulling him into a simple two step move.
At first, Bucky was like a statue—immovable and completely terrified—but then you caught the beat and spun yourself out. Your hand remained intertwined with his before you stepped back into his arms with a little chuckle.
Everyone around you beamed with glee. As the saxophone solo reached its peak, the notes spiraling higher and higher into the humid Louisiana air, Bucky finally started to follow along. His long legs found the rhythm, and he began moving with you.
The man on the microphone threw his head back, laughing in pure delight as Bucky finally found his feet. He pointed at Bucky with a wink before pulling the mic back to his lips.
“There he is! White boy’s got rhythm!” he cheered—and the crowd joined in—before he sung back into a smooth, jazzy verse.
As Bucky spun you around to the music, everything else became a complete blur.
In this moment, it was just you, Bucky, and the beautiful music of New Orleans.
He would occasionally step on your feet, and you would occasionally step on his. You bumped into other dancing couples now and then, but it didn’t matter. You were both laughing, getting lost in the moment and in each other.
It was the first time either of you had seen the other smile like that—completely genuine and unburdened.
After everything that had happened today, it felt like things between you would be different from here on out. There was a soft, gentle side to Bucky that you were slowly starting to notice—a side that made you realize it wouldn’t be such a bad thing if he were to… pursue Sarah.
As the song came to an end, Bucky dipped you, holding you up with the strength of his arms alone. The two of you looked at each other breathlessly, his face just inches from yours. For a moment, you thought he was going to kiss you—just like the other couples were doing, exchanging sweet, quick pecks as the music faded.
But he swallowed hard, hauling you back up and abruptly pulling his hands away from the closeness of your body.
“We should go… so we can make it back in time for the party,” he said, his voice a little strained.
For some reason, the sudden loss of Bucky’s touch hurt you more than you’d like to admit.
“I… sure,” you nodded, straightening your clothes and avoiding his gaze. “Yeah. It’s a long drive. We should go.”
This time, Bucky insisted on driving back to Sarah’s, his excuse being, “You showed me New Orleans, the least I can do is drive us home.”
With how great the day had been and the good mood you were in because of it, you had no problem letting him take the wheel.
“New Orleans is beautiful,” Bucky said, glancing at you with a small smile. “It’s busy and the crowds are loud, but I had a lot of fun—surprisingly so.”
You chuckled, letting the breeze sweep over your face as you looked out the window. “There’s so much more I have to show you. Like the steamboats—oh! And if we’d gone further downtown French Quarter, I could’ve introduced you to my favorite spot for Cajun gumbo—”
Bucky snickered. Here you were again—rambling on about your favorite things. But to Bucky, listening to you talk was, oddly enough, music to his ears.
“That all sounds great,” he said. “Just no swamp boat tours, please. I’ve had enough of those.”
You threw your head back with a hearty laugh. “Fair enough.”
The truck slowly began to lose its momentum, the engine sputtering and making strange sounds—sounds that indicated it wouldn’t survive the over hour long drive back home.
“Uh… Bucky?” you asked, sitting up straighter as you watched the speedometer needle start to dip. “What’s going on?”
Bucky’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. “I… I don’t know.”
“Well, stop slowing down! We’re in the middle of the road!” Panic started to flare as you glanced at the rearview mirror.
“I’m not slowing down,” Bucky snapped back, his voice rising in panic equal to yours. He pressed his foot harder against the gas pedal, but Sarah’s Chevy only groaned in response. “The truck is doing it on its own.”
“Well, fix it!” you shrieked. “Like… shift gears or something!”
“Fix it?” Bucky scoffed at your expectations.
He groaned, steering the truck toward the grassy shoulder. He peered through the windshield, his expression grim as the truck gave one final lurch before going completely dead. He sighed, reaching for the keys.
“Cut the engine and try again,” you urged.
He gave you a snappy look—mostly because that was exactly what he was about to do.
“No shit,” he mumbled, twisting the key to try the ignition again. He grunted, muttering curses as he tried over and over, but the truck wouldn’t budge.
“Great,” Bucky muttered, leaning his head back against the headrest with a thud. “Just great.”
“Oh my god,” you breathed in disbelief.
You had over an hour’s drive ahead of you, and with it already being four o’clock, you were definitely going to be late for AJ’s birthday party.
“You broke Sarah’s truck.”
Bucky’s eyes flew wide as he turned to you, appalled by your audacity. “I broke Sarah’s truck?”
You crossed your arms and stubbornly glared out the window, refusing to look at him. Deep down, you knew it wasn’t Bucky’s fault—the thing was a relic—but with the panic of missing the party bubbling up, you couldn’t help yourself.
Bucky let out a heavy sigh, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “Look, just stay in the truck, alright? I’ll fix this.”
He pushed the door open and hopped out, but despite his instructions, you were right on his heels.
Bucky popped open the hood, and a fresh cloud of gray smoke billowed out, forcing him to cough and wave his hand to clear the air. He leaned over the engine bay, his vibranium hand resting on the frame as he squinted at the mess of hoses and wires.
“See anything?” you pestered over his shoulder.
“I see a lot of things that shouldn’t be smoking,” he mumbled grumpily.
He reached in, his fingers grazing a radiator hose that looked suspiciously frayed. He tried to tighten a loose bolt, his brow furrowed in deep concentration, but as soon as he touched a connector near the battery, a stray spark flew up.
“It’s the alternator,” he suggested, pulling his hand back and wiping grease onto his jeans. “Or the fuel pump. Or maybe it’s just tired of living.”
“Can you fix it?” you asked, your brows furrowed.
He looked at the smoking engine, then back at the empty road, and finally at you. He let out a long, defeated breath and shook his head.
“There are no tools for me to work with.” He explained, shutting the hood.
“Oh my god,” you repeated, your heart racing. “Oh my god—wait, so what do we do? Do we call someone?”
Bucky already had his phone out—a damned flip phone—and was already dialing Sam’s number.
“What are you doing?” you pestered him, buzzing around him like a fly.
“I’m calling Sam to pick us up,” he answered shortly.
“Oh—okay… good… that’s… good.”
You crossed your arms, your thumb nail caught between your teeth as you started to pace back and forth.
You felt terrible about Sam having to go out of his way to bail you out of this mess on his nephew’s birthday—and you felt even worse about adding a broken truck to the long list of things Sarah already had to take care of.
“Sam, can you hear me? Hello?” Bucky started, raising his voice to be heard over the static. “We’re stranded on—” He looked at you. “Where are we?”
“300 East,” you answered quickly.
“300 East. Sarah’s truck broke down and we need a—hello? Sam, can you hear me?”
Bucky tried again, but the line went dead. He pulled the phone away from his ear and sighed, snapping it shut.
“Wait, what happened? Did he pick up?”
“Line went dead,” Bucky said, staring at the useless piece of plastic in his hand.
“But is he coming?” you pressed, stepping closer. “Does he know where we are? Did he hear you?”
“I don’t know.”
Your patience, already worn thin from the humidity and the stress of the entire situation, finally snapped.
“What do you mean you don’t know?!” You threw your hands up in the air, your frustration taking over. “God, maybe if I had driven, we wouldn’t have gotten into this mess—”
Bucky’s head snapped toward you, a scoff leaving his lips as he glared at you. “Excuse me? Why do you always blame things on me?”
“Because you insisted on driving! And you weren’t just driving—you were speeding! You were pushing the truck to its limits and now look at us!” Your voice rose as you stepped closer, jabbing a finger into his chest. “Look at the mess you got us into!”
Bucky’s face twisted into a sneer so ugly, it nearly made you flinch. He stepped even closer, letting your finger dig into his chest as he loomed over you, as if reminding you of your place.
“You know, I’m starting to get sick and tired of the way you’re treating me,” he growled. “We had a great day—we were finally getting along—and you went and ruined it.”
Your eyes went wide. “I ruined it?”
“Oh, you ruined it the second you opened your mouth!” Bucky barked.
He didn’t even give you a chance to argue back, stepping forward until you were backed up against the hood of the truck.
“I’ve tried my best to be patient with you—goddamnit!” he continued angrily. “I’ve tried to suck up every petty thing you’ve said about me, the way you look at me like I’m nothing but trouble, the way you’ve treated me like a burden on Sarah’s and Sam’s doorstep.”
Bucky ran a hand through his hair, a smile touching his lips—though it wasn’t a smile that held any happiness at all.
“Hell, I thought today I finally got through to that stubborn little head of yours. I thought maybe we actually enjoyed each other’s company for five minutes. But I guess not, because the second something goes wrong, you go right back to the same old script.”
You felt your bottom lip wobble. You kept your eyes down, refusing to look him in the eye.
You knew he was right—he had no idea how he was actually perceived by you, and your treatment of him was starting to feel completely one-sided and unfair.
Unable to take his yelling any longer, you shoved Bucky out of your way. He stumbled back, surprised by the force of your hand. You started walking away from him toward the truck doors without a word, but his voice followed you, sounding exhausted and completely defeated.
“Why do you hate me so much? What did I ever do to you?”
The sound of his boots scraping against the gravel caught up to you. Before you could pull away, he put a hand on your shoulder, his grip firm as he urged you to turn around.
“Look at me—”
You wrenched your shoulder out of his grasp, spinning around to face him.
“You want to know why?” you hissed. “It’s because of what you said the first day I met you. I overheard you talking to Sam—laughing about how you were ‘merely joking around’ with Sarah, and how you weren’t looking for anything serious.”
Bucky flinched, his hands dropping to his sides as the anger that clouded his eyes was replaced by a look of sheer confusion.
“Sarah is my best friend. I was the one who sat with her through the divorce. I’m the one who stays when Sam has to leave for months at a time. I’ve seen her work herself to the bone for those boys and this family, and she deserves someone who actually values her. She deserves a real man who means what he says—not someone who uses her as a punchline for a joke with his buddy.”
You stepped even closer, and Bucky looked more and more blindsided.
“You’re ‘just having fun,’ but people like you don’t realize that when you play around with someone like Sarah, you leave a mess behind for people like me to clean up. So yeah, I’ve been hard on you. Because I’m not going to let you come into her life, charm her every time you’re over, and then leave her wondering what she did wrong when men like you get bored.”
Bucky just stood there, taking in every word as they echoed in his mind.
Was this what you had thought of him all this time?
That he was some playboy with nothing but bad intentions for Sam’s—his best friend’s—sister?
“I don’t know what to say,” Bucky finally breathed out.
You crossed your arms, tilting your chin with that same stubborn scrunch of your face you did every time you were sure you were right.
“Of course you don’t,” you bit out.
Bucky huffed a dry laugh, running his tongue over his front teeth as he looked down at you. Despite everything, there it was again—that familiar, infuriating spark of yours.
Here you were, being a brat again, and as much as you got under his skin, he couldn’t ever look away.
“I’m sorry,” he admitted, his voice sincere and gentle. “I didn’t... I didn’t think it would affect her like that. Or you, especially. If I had known it was getting under your skin, I wouldn’t have kept it up.”
“If you knew you weren’t looking for a relationship, Bucky, then you should’ve known to stop. It’s that simple,” you snapped back, refusing to let the sudden softness in his voice throw you off.
“I get it. I’m sorry, alright?” Bucky said, his voice straining between genuine regret and a growing irritation.
You didn’t give him the satisfaction of an answer. You dismissively rolled your eyes and turned on your heel. Right now, you just needed to get away from him, so you reached for the truck door, intending to climb back into the cab and wait in silence until Sam eventually found you.
But before your hand could even wrap around the handle, Bucky’s vibranium arm shot out, slamming the door shut hard enough to make the Chevy shake.
He didn’t move his hand, pinning you between his body and the truck.
“Jesus Christ,” he growled, leaning down so his face was inches from your ear. “I’m apologizing, and you’re still being a stubborn brat.”
“And you’re being annoying!” you shot back, refusing to shrink away even though you were trapped. Your back pressed against his chest with every shallow breath you took.
“Oh? So not only am I a player, but I’m also annoying?” His eyes darkened as they searched yours, catching your gaze as you tilted your head back to look at him. “I can never win with you, can I?”
Your heart raced as you looked him dead in the eye, trying to ignore the way he loomed over you. “And what exactly are you trying to win out of me, Barnes?” you challenged.
Bucky’s gaze dropped to your mouth, tracing the curve of it before snapping back up. He shifted his stance, his thigh brushing firmly against yours and closing the last bit of air between you.
“Your approval,” he murmured. His voice vibrated so low in his chest that you could feel it against your own body. “I just want you to like me.”
“I… do like you,” you admitted, though your voice came out shaky. “You’re a friend of Sam’s—I respect you enough for that.”
“That’s the problem,” Bucky said, the complaint sounding like a painful corak. “You don’t like me. You tolerate me.”
With his vibranium hand still propped up against the truck near your head, his right hand trailed up to play with the ends of your hair. He twirled the strands between his fingers with a careful, almost yearning touch, his fingertips gentle against the locks.
He kept his head down, but even without looking, you could feel the burn of his gaze on the back of your head.
“I want more.”
A short, sharp breath escaped your lungs at his admission. More?
“Bucky,” you breathed, your voice barely a whisper. “What more could you possibly want from me? If I can tolerate you—isn’t that already enough?”
“No, it’s not,” he groaned. He lowered his head, nuzzling his nose against your hair and breathing you in. “I want the girl who was there for me when I was having a nightmare. I want the girl I was eating beignets with and dancing with in the middle of Jackson Square.”
Your heart was beating so fast you felt like you were running out of air.
He pressed closer, and a small gasp escaped you as you felt his thigh wedge firmly against yours. When your hand scrambled for the side of the truck for support, you gasped as as you felt a twitch coming from between his legs.
“But instead, I’m getting nothing but a real fucking brat,” he hissed into your ear.
He rocked his hips forward, letting you feel his hard erection against your bottom, forcing you to press even deeper against the truck.
You couldn’t believe it—the man you swore you hated was hovering over you, rocking his hips against yours like an animal. You were pinned hard against the truck, helpless to do anything but take it.
The worst part was that even if you tried to protest, you knew he’d see right through you. You were actually enjoying this. You craved the feeling of him, the way Bucky was grinding against you from behind right here on the side of the road, where anyone could drive by and see exactly what he was doing to you.
Despite being caught in such a vulnerable position, you couldn’t help but let that stubborn streak flare up one more time—mostly because you were dying to see how much more you could get out of him.
You tilted your head back until it rested against his shoulder, looking up at him and batting your lashes.
“Is this it then, Barnes?” you teased, rubbing your bottom against his straining, painful bulge. “You think pinning me against a broken truck and acting like a caveman is going to make me like you? You’re even more desperate than I thought.”
A broken, ragged shudder escaped his lips as he watched the curve of you settle perfectly against his cock.
It had been a long time since he had been in contact with a woman like this—much less the one woman who had been driving him absolutely crazy since the moment he stepped foot back in Louisiana.
Bucky’s hands moved from the truck to your waist, giving you a possessive squeeze.
He held you still as he continued to grind into you. A low groan escaped him as the friction of his clothes against his sensitive skin hit just right.
He felt like he was on the verge of losing it. He could have come right there from the dry humping alone.
But he wasn’t about to give in that easily.
“Desperate...” he muttered, breathless, as he continued to hump you like an animal. “Yes—I’m desperate. I’ve been desperate for you this entire fucking time, and you didn’t even know it.”
His fingers tangled into your hair, giving it a sharp tug that forced a gasp from your lips and exposed the long line of your neck to him.
“Every time I come back to Louisiana, I’m always hoping you’d be there—even if your very existence aggravates me.”
He was always looking for you?
Bucky nuzzled his nose against the sensitive skin there, his lips grazing your throat as he continued to talk filth.
“Need to kiss you,” he mumbled against your skin, peppering your neck with sloppy, wet kisses. “Need to stick my tongue down your throat—bet that’ll shut you up for good, won’t it?”
His rough hands roamed relentlessly over your body, bunching the fabric of your top and squeezing your breasts through the thin material. He was possessive, his touch leaving no doubt about who you belonged to in this moment.
You let out a breath as his fingers slid beneath the hem of your shirt, cupping your tits in his palms.
“A lot of talking, but not a lot of action,” you taunted, trying to bite back a moan as he gripped you harder. “Seems very on brand for you, doesn’t it?”
With a snarl, his grip on your hips tightened. He spun you around, nearly slamming your back against the truck. Your yelp of surprise was cut short the second his lips found yours.
The kiss was desperate, almost inexperienced in its hunger, but he moved like a man who had been starving for this very moment with you.
You couldn’t help but lean into him, your hands tangling into his hair with a tug. You moaned into his mouth, and Bucky groaned back, his tongue pushing past your lips to delve deep into the wet warmth of your mouth.
He kept you pinned firmly against the truck, his thigh between yours. You were growing wetter by the second, and you took it upon yourself to start rubbing against him, grinding your dampened cunt against his thick thigh.
Bucky pulled away to rest his forehead against yours, both of you panting for air. He watched, eyes dark and blown out, as you practically fucked yourself against his leg.
A taunting, low laugh left his lips at the filthy sight of it.
“Look at you,” he groaned. “You’re fucking asking for it now.”
Reaching behind you, he yanked the door handle and threw it open.
“Get in the damn truck,” Bucky demanded roughly.
You scrambled inside with a defiant grin, your lips puffy and swollen. You didn’t hesitate to discard your bottoms, leaving yourself in just your panties as you sprawled across the bench seat.
From your spot on the upholstery, you watched with uneven breaths as Bucky began to fumble with his belt.
“Turn around,” Bucky instructed, palming his cock through his jeans as he finally rid himself of the thick fabric. “Face down, ass up.”
Before you could even get into position, Bucky crawled into the truck right after you.
The truck dipped with all the weight shifting to one side, and he slammed the door shut behind him. He didn’t even give you time to adjust before his hands found your hips, spinning you around until you were bent over, ass presented to him with your hands planted firmly on the worn leather of the Chevy’s seats.
“God—eager, are you?” you teased.
“Shut up,” Bucky hissed as his flesh hand found the back of your hair, pinning you down so your cheek squished up against the leather.
His fingers hooked the waistband of your cotton panties, giving them a harsh tug and nearly ripping them.
With your face pressed into the seats, you couldn’t make out what he was doing from behind you—only the sounds coming out of his mouth.
“Fuck—look at you,” Bucky groaned, accompanied by the sounds of his jeans and belt being pushed down. “Dripping and completely bare—all just for me.”
Then, you heard the sounds of skin rubbing against skin.
The truck started to shake as deep, breathy little moans escaped Bucky’s mouth. Craning your head to peek at him, your eyes widened at what you saw.
Bucky was admiring the view from behind, his eyes completely glued to the curve of your ass and your wet, puffy cunt—clenching and begging for him. His bottom lip was caught between his teeth as his cool, vibranium hand spread your ass wide to get a better view, while the other was stroking his cock hard and fast.
Pre-cum already bubbled at the tip as breathy groans kept leaving his mouth. He was so big—so fucking big—and you weren’t sure he was even going to fit.
Trying to tilt your head to get a better look, Bucky’s hand immediately left his cock and went straight back to your head, pinning you in place against the seat.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he growled.
You winced. “What? I can’t even look at you now?”
“You don’t get to make demands of me anymore,” he murmured roughly. He guided his cock up and down against your slit, coating himself and spreading his pre-cum everywhere. “Not when you’re bent over like this. Bent over like a dirty little slut.”
Your pussy immediately pulsed and twitched against Bucky’s tip. He probed and teased the entrance, pushing against the tight heat of your cunt to make you moan, but never quite slipping inside.
It was enough to drive you insane.
Despite everything, you wanted him to fill you right here—right in the truck in the middle of the road, where anyone could see you getting fucked by him.
You started to wiggle your hips, your entrance catching his tip and forcing a broken groan from his throat.
“Still all this talk and no action,” you taunted, wiggling your ass against him. “You just keep proving me more right every day. You’re all talk—”
A yelp broke from your lips as his palm connected with the bare curve of your ass. Your body arched, a sting blooming across your skin and making your toes curl.
“You just don’t know how to keep that mouth shut, do you?” Bucky growled, leaning over you until his breath was hot against your ear.
Without waiting for an answer, he brought his hand down again, forcing another yelp from you as the slap echoed in the small truck.
Your bottom—bare and vulnerable—began to throb with a pulsing heat. Bucky’s right hand smoothed over the warm skin, and he mockingly clicked his tongue when you bucked your hips back for more, seeking friction from his cock despite the pain.
“Christ,” Bucky groaned, his fingers swiping your sensitive slit. “Did you just get wetter?”
“Bucky…” you whined against the leather seat. “... p-please.”
Bucky froze behind you, his eyes widening slightly as the word hung in the air. Then, a devilish little grin tugged at his lips.
Please?
Did you just say ‘please’?
He continued to soothe your burning skin with his palm, his touch gentle and taunting. “Sorry, sweetheart. What was that? I couldn’t quite hear you.”
You groaned, burying your face out of embarrassment. “You know what? Forget it—”
Another gasp escaped you as his hand came down hard against your bottom again, making your body jolt. Before you could pull away, both of his hands clamped down on your hips, dragging you back until you were pushed against him.
You could feel the ridge of his warm, throbbing cock resting right against the curve of your ass.
“Come on, baby. I think this is the first time I’ve ever heard you say ‘please.’ Say it again. I know you’ve got a voice.”
When you continued to remain stubbornly silent, he guided his cock toward your entrance, sinking just the tip in.
You arched your back, a needy sound catching in your throat. Bucky groaned, his eyes fluttering shut at the sensation of your tight hole. He wanted to grab your hips and slam you down on his cock—but he couldn’t. Not yet. He had to make you beg for it.
“Fuck—come on, sweets. Just say please like a good girl,” he coaxed, his own voice breaking. “Come on, I want to hear you say it. Just one more time for me, baby. Say please once and I’ll give it to you good—I promise.”
Just once.
All he needed from you was a simple, breathy little ‘please’— a broken whimper he could hold onto.
He knew he couldn’t make you beg for much longer, mostly because he was just as greedy as you were. He was starving, and he wanted to fuck you right here, right now, until instead of begging him with a ‘please’ you’d be begging with a ‘stop’.
“P-please…”
The word finally broke from your lips—breathless and broken. It was exactly what he wanted to hear.
With his tip buried in your tight entrance, and you pulsing and wet around him, he needed to feel more. That breathy little ‘please’ was the perfect invitation.
“Good girl,” Bucky praised, his grip on your hips tightening as he began to sink into you—slowly, making sure you felt every agonizing inch. “Good fucking girl.”
Your mouth hung wide open, drool surely spilling out and onto the seats as Bucky stretched you wide until you felt completely filled. Your breath hitched, coming in short, panicked bursts.
“God, you’re so small,” Bucky groaned, leaning over you—his chest pressing hard against your back. “Tight enough to break me.”
Even with your lungs feeling squeezed and your head light from the stretch, you couldn’t help the small, muffled huff that left you. You turned your face to glance back at him with a dazed and defiant look.
“Maybe you’re just… hah… out of practice,” you managed to choke out, a weak smirk tugging at your lips. “Forgotten what a real woman feels like?”
Bucky’s eyes went dark, his brow twitching at your words. He didn’t give you the satisfaction of a laugh. His fingers dug into the leather on either side of your head and he began to pull out, agonizingly slow, only to slam back into you completely—filling you in one hard and ruthless thrust. A thrust hard enough to make the truck shake.
“Out of practice?” he hissed. He did it again, a short, hard thrust that knocked the wind out of you. “Since you’ve got such a big mouth, I’ll make sure to fuck that one next.”
Bucky grabbed your hips, his fingers pushing into your flesh and making you gasp as he began to rock his hips back and forth. He withdrew nearly all the way, leaving you cold and aching for a split second, before fucking all the way back into you.
The truck began to rock and creak, the worn leather squeaking beneath your sweaty palms as he fucked you into it.
He made sure you felt every ridge and throb of him, his tip aiming at your softest spots until your vision swam and blurred.
“Still.. got something.. to say?” he grunted between words, his heavy balls slapping against your cunt as he fucked you.
You couldn’t even form a syllable. Your eyes—rolled back—were disoriented as he used your body for his pleasure.
All the noises that filled the small space of the truck were filthy. The wet squelching of your pussy as Bucky’s cock pumped in and out of you. The breathy grunts and groans leaving Bucky’s lips. Your gasps and mewls whimpering in the air.
“I… hah—mph—B-bucky, I—”
“Look at you,” he huffed a deep, condescending laugh. “Can’t even talk now, can you? Just laying there and taking it. God—I’ve dreamed of this so many times, you know? You, pinned underneath me, finally putting this bratty pussy to work. When I fill you up, we’re not nearly done. I’m going to use your mouth next, I’ll make sure of it.”
Every filthy word that left Bucky’s lips only made you clench tighter around him, bringing you closer and closer.
“But fuck, your pussy is so tight—feel like I could be buried here all day,” Bucky groaned.
He reached around, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing with a pressure that sent sparks through your vision. He felt you flutter around him, tightening around his cock almost painfully so.
“Fuck—you gonna cum?” he asked roughly.
“M-mph—mhm—!” you moaned against the leather, nodding your head frantically. “M’gonna cum, Bucky!”
A deep, sexy vibration of a laugh rumbled in Bucky’s chest—and you couldn’t hold back anymore.
Your body shook against the leather as your walls clamped down on him with heavy pulses. A broken, high pitched keen left your throat as you felt yourself come undone all over him, wave after wave of overwhelming pleasure crashing over you while he savored your tightness.
Bucky clenched his teeth, hissing as your pussy—already tight as it was—became restrictive and completely unbearable for him.
But despite the tightness, he didn’t stop—not even for a second.
It was too good not to.
“Shit, I’m gonna cum, baby—” Bucky gasped, his hips moving uncoordinated as his cock pulsed and throbbed. “Fuck, fuck, gonna cum… inside… gonna fill you up—!”
Bucky pushed his hips into yours, bottoming out until there wasn’t a breath of space left between you.
You felt his cock pulse inside you—and then you started to feel even fuller than you already were. His cum began to seep into your tight pussy, pumping into you until you overflowed, the excess dripping out and onto the seats.
He dropped his forehead against the back of your neck, his hot breath tickling your damp skin as he felt himself start to calm down, catching his breath.
His hands roamed over your hips, giving you a gentle rub before he pulled himself out of your abused pussy with a wet squelch. He sat back on the seat, chest heaving as he motioned for you to come closer.
“Come here, baby,” he cooed.
Bucky gently guided you toward his lap, pressing soft, lingering kisses to your sweaty forehead. Then, his vibranium hand found the back of your head, slowly—gently—guiding you down toward his cock, which was still half hard and coated in juices.
“I said I was going to use your mouth next, didn’t I?”
“You’re unbelievable,” you muttered with a shaky laugh.
You were exhausted, your body still trembling from the way he had completely ruined you, yet here he was—demanding more. Bucky didn’t look bothered at all. He just flashed a lopsided, lazy grin.
“Open your mouth,” he commanded softly, his vibranium fingers curling gently into your hair, guiding you back toward his lap.
You rolled your eyes even as you sank down, your tongue slowly dragging up his spent cock. Your tongue danced around the tip—then beneath the head—making him shudder and groan.
He was sensitive, yet he still wanted more. You stretched your mouth open, taking him in as best as you could. He was already thickening back to fullness, responding instantly to the warmth of your throat.
As you bobbed your head lazily on his cock, Bucky tossed his head back against the leather seats with a moan, rutting his hips up gently—just barely—seeking more.
“That’s it,” he groaned. “God—that fucking mouth—”
But the sound of his phone ringing cut through the truck, silencing him instantly. Bucky stiffened, his breath hitching as he felt around the tangled leather seats. He grabbed his phone, glancing at the flip-phone screen with a low curse.
It was Sam.
He answered, pressing the phone to his ear while his other hand stayed tangled in your hair, his thumb stroking your cheek as you continued to work his cock.
“Hey man! I'm halfway there,” Sam’s voice crackled through. “Just hold on for about twenty more minutes, alright?”
Bucky’s head fell back against the headrest, his eyes squeezing shut as you swirled your tongue around the head of his cock. His hips gave a small, involuntary twitch, and he had to clench his jaw to keep from crying out.
“Alright,” Bucky managed to grit out, his voice a strained, gravelly mess. “We’re here… waiting— fuck.”
He cut himself off with a sharp intake of breath as you took him deeper, his fingers tightening in your hair as a warning. There was a moment of silence on the other line.
He was sure the connection had died or Sam might’ve hung up.
“Yo, Buck? You sound hurt,” Sam said, his voice rising with concern. “Y’all good? You two aren’t fighting, are you?”
Fighting was one way to put it.
“We’re perfectly fine,” Bucky huffed, growing impatient. “You said twenty minutes, right? Okay. We’ll wait for you. Bye.”
He flipped the phone shut and tossed it somewhere behind him, his attention snapping back to you. You fluttered your eyes to look up at him, your mouth still stuffed with his cock.
“You heard that, baby? You’ve got twenty minutes to make me cum again,” he said, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous register. “Think that’s enough time for you?”
You popped his cock out of your mouth, wiping at the saliva that spilled onto your chin with a smug, little grin.
“Bet I can do it in two.”
“Oh, here you go again.”
i actually had a lot of fun writing this. now i want to book a trip to new orleans.
if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!
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me talking about horror to normal people: its not torture porn, horror is an incredible medium to explore personal complex emotions and the genre at large can really speak to a society's unspoken fears at a given time in history
me talking about horror to my pervert friends: ranking saw traps by how horny they are
pairing | husband!bucky x wife!reader word count | 4.2k summary | your husband has always been obsessed with you. but he seems extra with all the looks he's been throwing at you feeding your daughter. whatever is on his mind? warnings | smut, 18+, total kinkfest, MDNI, sub!bucky, lactation kink, mommy kink, unprotected pnv (shoutout to lactational amenorrhea!), usage of nicknames (baby, sweetie, babyboy, sweet boy for him. mommy for you), no use of y/n. a/n | i heard there’s enough smut without plot, so i decided to rectify that problem by writing more smut without plot rubs hands like an evil fly. so, this is basically no plot, just vibes. please do not read if this is not your cup of tea (or milk, see what i did there, ehehe) seriously, this is just so much filth, i kinda went overboard. probably be the filthiest thing that ever came out me. tread carefully. based on this ask. hope you like this, anon! d/t | @sheriff-bodecker obviously <3
you’re half-dressed and cradling your daughter against your chest. one of your hand cups her perfect little head while the other strokes her back in a steady rhythm.
her soft, wet suckling fills the quiet, punctuated now and then by that tiny sigh she makes when she pauses for air.
you’re tired now. but in that floaty, dazed way that’s oddly peaceful, like your body knows you’ve just made a whole human and is demanding your stillness.
the robe you’re wearing parts a little, when you shift on the bed, exposing the warm skin to the night air. one breast is out, full heavy and leaking, the other still tucked away. your belly is softer than before. your thighs, too. and yet you’ve never felt more powerful than in this moment: feeding someone that grew inside you.
something moves in your peripheral vision, and you don’t have to take another look to know that it’s your husband.
the wedding band glints at his finger, as he stares at you. again. and he’s not being very subtle about it.
he’s leaning in the doorway like he’s forgotten how to move. like someone pressed pause on his brain and he’s just stuck there.
you don’t look at him for a while. you just let him watch. it’s become a quiet game between you lately. he studies you, drinks you in like he thinks you’ll vanish. and you pretend not to notice until the weight of his hunger becomes impossible to ignore.
you clear your throat softly, but your eyes remain on your daughter. “you’re staring again.”
“i know.” there’s no apology in it. it’s just the truth, like it’s just a fact. his gaze slides down your body and drags its way back up, lingering far too long on the breast not currently occupied, albeit it being covered. “i can’t help it.”
you finally glance at him.
he looks like a man with his hands tied. like he’s trying to be respectful, like he’s trying to wait until you give him permission.
but there’s just something wild just beneath his stillness.
you tilt your head, just a little. “what is it, baby?”
you let your eyes drag down his body now. there’s the evidence of barely-there outline of his cock already thickening beneath the fabric of his pants. your eyes find his face again, he’s red in the cheeks, breathing real slow he’s trying to will himself not to get hard watching you feed your child.
you feel the wicked little grin tug at your lips before you can stop it.
“do you want a taste?”
you ask it so damn lightly. like you’re offering him a sip of your latte.
his mouth actually opens a little. but nothing comes out other than air. his arms uncross and his hands hover at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them anymore.
“what?” his voice is croaky, like he’s forgotten how to speak entirely, and english sounds more like an inconvenience rather than a language he’s fluent in.
“you’ve been staring for twenty minutes like you want to get on your knees and suck it.”
bucky makes a noise in his throat that’s somewhere between a gasp and a groan. his eyes drop again, then snap back up, like he’s afraid he’ll come just from looking too long.
“you’re—you’re not serious.”
“oh, but i am.”
you shift your daughter slightly, stroking her tiny back as she continues to suck lazily in her sleep-heavy rhythm. “you’ve been walking around this house like a kicked puppy for a month. you’re hard every time i take my robe off. flustered every time i bend over. and don’t think i didn’ notice how long you stood outside the door last night just listening to me pump.”
his lips part again. nothing. just breath, yet again.
“fuck.” he finally manages to drag one word out of his throat.
“you want to taste what your daughter gets, don’t you? you want mommy to feed you, too.” you say the latter like it’s a statement, not a question.
you don’t know what came over you when you uttered that word, what spurred you to actually say it. but the way he reacts tells you he’s into it.
in fact, he’s very much into it because he whimpers. actually whimpers.
“say it. say what you want, baby.” your voice is barely a whisper, excited to see what might come out of his mouth. because not everyday does a six foot super soldier look like the ground has been ripped away from him.
his eyes flutter close like he’s in pain. “i want—fuck. i want to suck your tits, mommy.”
you smile like you’ve won something. hearing him call you that is a different type of arousal, one that you hadn’t felt before, but now embraced it fully. he’s exactly where you want him.
“good boy,” the two words leave you way too easily.
your husband moves without thinking. crawls onto the bed like he doesn’t remember how his knees work. when he’s finally kneeling beside you, his hands hover again, like he’s uncertain.
you’re still feeding your daughter. she’s still latched, little sucks slower now, fading more towards sleep.
bucky, on the other hand, is breathing hard.
“you want to wait until she’s done? or do you want the other one now?” you ask sweetly, like you’re not short-circuiting your husband in real time.
his eyes flick down to your boobs, and then back to you, then down again, as though he’s weighing his options. “now.”
you reach up and tug the robe down off your other shoulder, letting the soft fabric fall completely. you’re bare from the waist up now.
you bring your hand to the full breast he’s been staring at and squeeze just slightly. a thin stream of milk beads at the tip.
a moan rips out of him. and you haven’t even touched him, nor has he touched you. yet.
“open,” your voice is way too soft for an order.
his lips part instantly, like he’s waited enough.
you guide his mouth to your nipple, and he latches as though he’s the one who’s starving. his hands go to your waist, gripping you tight like you might float away. the groan he lets out when he tastes the first trickle of milk is obscene.
there’s no hesitation in the way he suckles, it’s just him, his mouth, his tongue and soft suction.
“good boy,” you whisper again. “drink.”
you stroke his hair, like you’re petting something loyal. you can feel the tension leaking out of him with every suck. and the unmistakable strain of his cock against his sweats now that he makes no effort to hide it.
“that’s it,” you coo. “you missed mommy, didn’t you?”
he nods against your skin, mouth never leaving your breast.
“you’ve been so patient and sweet. helping me every day. putting our daughter down. kissing me goodnight and walking away with your cock hard, haven’t you?”
he pulls off for half a second with a gasp, mouth still wet and swollen with saliva and milk. “i tried to be good.”
you smile and guide him back to your nipple.
“you were. that’s why i’m letting you drink.”
his groan vibrates against your skin and your whole body spikes with heat. you’re soaked between your legs now, your thighs clenching every time he pulls more milk from you.
there’s precum leaking through his pants that you can clearly see now.
your daughter unlatches with a little sigh, drunk on milk and sleep, and you shift carefully to lay her in the bassinet beside the bed.
bucky doesn’t stop sucking. he just follows you, stays latched, hands on your hips like he thinks you’ll take it away if he lets go.
you chuckle breathlessly and run your fingers through his hair. “you’re really needy, huh?”
he just nods.
“you wanna make mommy come first?”
he looks up at you, with stark black eyes and lips impossibly pink.
“please.” he pops off your breast to utter the word and goes right back to it, like that’s where he belongs.
you stroke his hair again, watching his eyes flutter. his tongue moves slower as he sucks you, almost softer now, more worship than hunger. his grip on your hips is tight, like you’re his anchor.
“god, you’re a mess. look at you.” your voice is thick with both affection and arousal.
another groan slips past him as he pulls back slightly, tongue dragging along your nipple as he breathes out. your breast is wet with milk and spit, your nipple flushed and shiny and swollen. he looks up at you like he’s drowning in it.
“i c—can’t think when you say it like that,” he stammers, “you say it and my brain just… shuts off.”
you grin down at him. “good. i don’t need you thinking right now. i just need your mouth.”
you lean back against the headboard, spreading your legs slowly, watching the way his eyes drop and his jaw tightens at the sight of your bare cunt.
you’re soaked. well, no surprise there. you’ve been aching since the second he looked at you like that. since you saw his cock twitch behind the fabric of those old sweatpants.
“you still remember what i like?” you spread yourself for him with two fingers. “it’s been a while.”
bucky exhales like he’s about to cry. “i remember everything, mommy.”
the word, even uttered for the hundredth time today, brings a new wave of arousal between your thighs. “then show me.”
there’s no hesitation inn his movements as he crawls between your legs and settles there.
the first touch of his mouth is soft. his lips part and he exhales hot against your folds before dragging his tongue up in a wet line that makes you moan and buck your hips upwards.
“ohhh, fuck—yes, just like that, baby.”
he groans in response as he licks deeper, the tip of his tongue pressing just enough to tease before flicking against your clit.
he’s slower than he used to be. maybe careful is the word. like he knows your body’s changed and he’s not here to rush it. he’s here to worship every inch of you.
he spreads you with his thumbs and sucks your clit into his mouth slowly, and your hand flies to his hair.
“there’s my good boy—ahh—keep going.”
he moans again, hips rocking down into the mattress like he can’t help it, like he’s trying to grind through the fabric just to relieve some of the pressure.
his tongue slides down to your entrance to tease and circle, and then goes right back up to your clit.
“fuck, bucky, don’t stop—don’t you dare stop—”
he mumbles something into your pussy and it takes you a second to realize he said, “won’t stop, mommy.”
you tug his hair harder. “say it again.”
he obeys you in an instant as he looks up with half lidded eyes, “i won’t stop, mommy.”
your cunt clenches around nothing, and you laugh. maybe it’s a little mean what comes out of you next.
“you’re so fucked out and you haven’t even had your cock touched yet.”
he whines. genuinely whines. he actually rocks his hips down again like he’s going to lose it just from licking you. you decide to test that theory.
“you gonna come in your pants like a good little mommy’s boy?”
he lets out a strangled sound and sucks harder, tongue swirling over your clit until your whole body arches off the bed.
“jesus— yes, baby, right there, don’t stop—”
he’s locked in now, moaning into you and grinding down. very desperate and obedient of him.
you just ride his mouth like you own it. because you do. every inch of him. every twitch of his tongue and clench of his jaw belongs to you.
your orgasm hits like a wave. sudden and earth shattering after the abstinence.
you cry out and pull his face into your cunt, grinding down, letting him drink every last second of it from your body.
a moan tears off him like he’s the one coming.
when it finally passes, you loosen your grip on his hair and stroke his scalp gently. breathing hard, he pulls back slowly. his entire face is wrecked.
“did you…?” you raise your eyebrows in question.
he swallows. “i—almost.”
you glance down and see the wet patch on the front of his pants. cupping his face, you lift his jaw up, “you want to come, sweet boy?”
without waiting for his answer, you push his back towards the headboard. he leans back, sweats still on, cock still straining hard against it, like it aches.
“pull down your sweats, baby,” you order him and he obeys without wasting a second. there’s no thoughts behind his eyes, only desperation.
when his pants are discarded to the floor, you gaze over him. his cock stands proud, a little bent towards his abdomen, smearing precum.
the tip is flushed, a delicious shade of pink, begging to be tasted. but you have other plans for him.
you slide up higher to where he is, bracketing his thighs with yours.
he watches the whole thing like he’s watching the moon rise. his hands come up automatically, gripping your hips, trying to hold you steady.
your swollen, aching cunt is hovering over his dick. when you cannot support your body so much, you feel yourself sitting over him, more like, right over his dick.
a hiss leaves his lips as your pussy makes contact with his cock. but he makes no effort to move you, only supporting you by your hips.
“mommy, please i need to be inside you,” his voice is a wreck when it does come out.
you thoroughly ignore his request, as you drag your cunt over his cock once. he whimpers like it actually hurt him, and your hand flies to his cheek.
“are you okay, baby?”
“no—aah, fuck, mommy, i’m gonna cum if you keep—keep doing that.”
you trail your fingers up his abdomen, smearing a bit of cum as you go. his abs clench under your touch. you’re not even trying to be cruel, but the effect is devastating.
the flesh arm leaves your hip to find your tit, and he brings it to his mouth. even wrecked, he needs to be drinking.
you lean forward a bit, making it easy for him to nurse. carding your fingers through his hair, you pull him towards you, and he comes to you without hesitation.
he squirms a little under your touch, and you pull back to see his lips glistening.
“what is it, baby boy?”
“ah—fuck, mommy, it hurts! please— please do somethin’,” his voice is hoarse, and you grind down on him, maybe just to torture him a little more, thus pulling a whimper out of him.
he buries his face in your neck and mumbles, “please, mommy.”
you think he might cry if you keep this up.
“aw, you’re so needy, baby,” you coo and run your hands through his hair. a whine leaves him as he nuzzles closer to you.
you sit back up slowly, watching the way his eyes track your every movement. you reach for his cock and wrap your hands around the base, gently, so gently, that touch equals torture.
he lets out a soft, broken sound in the back of his throat.
“you’re so full, baby,” you marvel at your husband.
you stroke him slowly, barely moving your wrist. the pressure is feather-light, more tease than anything. the tip of his cock is angry-red, veins flushed up along the shaft, pulsing under your hand.
his hips twitch, like he’s trying not to fuck into your fist.
“i’ll come if you do that, mommy, aaah, please.”
“i thought you wanted to cum, sweetie.” your eyes flick up to his face. he’s flushed from the neck to his ears. his head tips back into the headboard, so much so you think it might hurt, but then you remember he’s a super soldier and that he can probably take it.
“i do—i do, i just— i wan’ to cum in you, mommy.”
“you poor thing,” you stroke him slow and steady now, your palm gliding over the slick head with every pass. “did i let it build too long? should i have let you cum sooner?”
“please please let me inside you—nnngh—please mommy.” he’s trembling now. his whole body is reacting, like you’ve bypassed his brain and gone straight to the part of him that just feels.
deciding that you’ve tortured him quite enough, you lift yourself from his thighs and let your cunt hover right over his cock.
his hands grip your hips, in an attempt to push you down, but you hold yourself together as you slide his cock up and down your pussy until it catches your entrance, earning another groan from him.
a broken sigh emerges from him when you finally lower yourself fully on his cock, and you’re seated snug on his lap.
his head slumps towards your body as you start slowly grinding on top of him.
greediness engulfs him as he takes one of your nipples in his mouth, his tongue working circles over it until his lips wrap around it fully, followed by which there’s a soft suckle.
the dual assault on your body is too much, especially since this is the first time you’ve welcomed him inside you after delivering your babygirl.
like he’s read your mind, his metal arm grips your hip tighter, while his flesh arm snakes down between your legs to find your swollen clit.
the sensation of him rubbing slow circles on your aching nub is almost too much, and you feel yourself slipping away, falling into another mind blowing orgasm.
all while, he hasn’t taken his mouth off you, drinking languidly. you feel his cock twitch inside you, and your walls clamp down on him, both of you reaching the sweet release at the same time.
the milk let down increases when his latch doesn’t waver, but only strengthens as he spills hot cum inside you.
breathing grows heavy on both sides, until you cannot do anything. not even move. wrapped up in one another, like there’s no possibility of space between you.
he lifts his face from you, and that’s when you catch sight of him. utterly gone. milk and spit and the remnants of your cum adorn his face, lips flushed pink, and irises completely eclipsing his pupils.
you lean down and kiss him, tongue slipping into his mouth with lazy ease.
“you’re okay, baby,” you whisper. “you did so good.”
he doesn’t even speak. something like a groan comes out of him and you nuzzle against his cheek, still smiling.
“i love you,” he whispers, looking down at your chest, eyes dragging over the shiny, slick skin of your breasts. “you’re still leaking. fuck. mommy, you look edible.”
edible isn’t a word you’d use to describe yourself, but whatever floats his boat. you roll your eyes at him, but your thighs clench.
“wanna suck it again,” he mutters, dragging his thumb across the side of your breast. “lick it up and swallow every drop. god, you taste so good—so warm—”
you press your hand flat against his stomach. “you’re literally trembling.”
“i know.” he laughs breathlessly. “my legs don’t work. my balls are empty. my brain is gone. i’m just a mouth now. just a mouth and a cock actually.”
you snort into his skin.
“god, you’re disgusting,” you whisper, but there’s no heat to it, you punctuate the sentence by placing wet kisses to his collarbone.
he turns his face toward you, brushing his nose against your temple. “i mean it. the second you said i could have a taste—fuck, something in me just broke.”
you could feel his cock slightly harden in you by the second, and he looks at you like he’s just realised that too. but he also knows you don’t have enough in your body to give him another orgasm.
you try to nuzzle close to him, try to grind down on him despite being wrung out, but he gently lifts you off him and you both silently hiss.
"can we just lie down?" to which you reply with a kiss to his lips. he takes that answer eagerly and curls into your side.
he's half on top of you now, one arm slung across your waist like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. his face is pressed against your chest, lips brushing the swell of your breast.
the stillness doesn't last longer as he twitches every now and then, little aftershocks still rippling through him.
you think he’s drifting. until he shifts slightly and murmurs, voice barely above a whisper, “can i…?”
you glance down. he’s looking at you with that dazed expression again. completely blissed out and somehow still wanting. he nuzzles your breast, dragging his mouth lazily over your skin, and repeats it, "mommy… can i just… can i nurse again?”
you smile and kiss the top of his head. “of course, baby.”
shifting slightly, you guide him to the soft weight of your breast, your nipple already stiffening at the feel of his breath. he’s gentle, so damn gentle it almost breaks something in you.
he opens his mouth slowly, presses his lips to you, and latches without a word.
you realise there's no hunger or desperation this time, like earlier when he was moaning and grinding and trying not to come.
this is something else. this is soft. and soothing. and soft.
his tongue drags lazy circles around your nipple. he sucks lightly, rhythmically and his cheek is pressed to the curve of your breast like it’s the only place he ever wants to live.
you wrap your arm around his head, fingers sinking into his hair, just to hold him closer.
you feel the letdown and the warm ache. the subtle sting that comes just before the release.
but you just watch him without a word.
he moans softly, the sound vibrating against your chest.
“tastes so good,” he murmurs, voice muffled. “so fucking warm. feels like you’re feeding me straight from your heart.”
quiet laughter ripples through you. “i might be.”
he sucks again, deeper now, lips sealed around your nipple, his tongue moving with slow precision like he never wants to stop. your other hand finds the back of his neck, rubbing gentle circles there, keeping him grounded. keeping him yours.
“i love this. i’d live here if you let me.”
you smile and tilt your head to kiss his forehead. “you already do.”
his hand slides over your belly, stroking the soft skin, fingers tracing the stretch of you, the weight you still carry.
“i love this body,” he whispers. “you made me everything in it. you feed me from it. you fucking break me with it.”
a slow exhale leaves you, and he just keeps nursing.
you can feel his cock— not hard, but not soft either —resting against your thigh. it twitches every now and then like it’s remembering earlier. like it’s responding just to the taste of you in his mouth.
he shifts a little, pulling your breast deeper into his mouth, moaning as he suckles like he’s trying to coax every last drop from you.
his tongue flicks gently, then presses firm. you can feel the tug low in your belly. your nipple aches, your core pulses, but you stay still and let him take what he wants.
let him keep drinking.
“am i gonna get addicted to this?” he mumbles around your skin.
“you already are, baby.”
“i don’t wanna stop.”
“you don’t have to.”
you look down again. he looks so peaceful. so full of want and contentment at the same time. he shifts his legs a little, then presses closer, curling into you like he’s trying to melt into your skin.
you whisper into his hair, “you want to switch sides, baby?”
he hums. “mmhm.”
you gently ease him off your breast. his lips make a soft, wet pop as he pulls away, and he actually whines. his tongue darts out to lick the corner of his mouth, already chasing the taste again.
you guide his head to the other side, lift your arm so he can tuck beneath it, and he latches just as eagerly as the first time. maybe even more.
this nipple’s still wet from earlier, still sensitive, and the moment his tongue touches it, you shiver.
he groans.
“god, mommy,” he mumbles. “still leaking.”
you run your fingers through his hair, stroke the curve of his jaw.
he keeps sucking. messy now. even drooling a little. he's moaning like it gets better the longer he stays latched. and it might.
you’re not sure where the pleasure ends and the intimacy begins anymore. it’s all blended together—this soft, sticky need that just keeps pulsing between you.
your thighs are slick again. you don't have to voice it out for him to know that.
he pulls off suddenly, just for a second, eyes dazed as he looks up at you. his lips are swollen, and you feel him shaking.
"i love you so much," it's a statement, that holds more love than it could ever express.
"i love you too, baby," you caress his hair and pull him closer to you.
a smile spreads on his lips and he kisses the side of your breast. then latches again, eyes fluttering shut. and drinks.
A/N: I had a dream Sebastian was hitting it from the back and only got hornier as I woke up. I think I'm ovulating. PERPETUALLY.
Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader
Word count: 11.4k
Warnings: established relationship, SMUT!!!! p in v, oral (m&f), fingering, breeding kink, cumplay?, secret relationship, semi-public sex (fingering in a restaurant), overstim mention, free use mention, somnophilia, size kink, drinking mention, mentions of face fucking?, finger sucking, spit kink, so much smut. like... so much. I'm so, so horny.
Summary: Bucky and you have been sneaking around in secret for a while. Not for any particular reason aside from not wanting all of the questions from the team. But now, your schedules haven't been lining up.
After getting drafted, spending 90 years going from fight after fight, and going to therapy, one could say James Barnes was a little uptight. He liked his routine. Some semblance of normalcy in the midst of the whole brainwashed super soldier arc life put on him.
So of course he'd be drawn to you.
Your chaotic personality and dry humor pulled him in like the ocean tide would pull a boat. Almost imperceptible, until you found yourself stranded in the middle of the ocean having sun poisoning-induced hallucinations.
It took him exactly 68 days of maladaptive daydreaming about ruining you in every humanly possible way, and some inhumanly ones, for his restrain to snap like a twig under the sheer strength of your gaze.
That night at the safe house after a particularly gnarly getaway, where you committed 3 traffic felonies and broke a few other trespassing laws, playing some stupid pop song on the radio like you were going to get your ears pierced at Claire's, not evading an actual gang.
When you closed the door behind you at the safe house, you were buzzing. Your pupils were dilated, you were shaking, and you bounced on your feet like Duracell contracted you to be their newest bunny.
"Did you see that, Buck?!" The faint light gleamed off of your eyes, smile so bright it made his chest hurt. "Oh my God, I feel high right now." The little giddiness in your voice made his cock join his heart in its aching for you. "They couldn't even—"
He didn't let you finish.
Well, he did. But not that sentence.
He grabbed your face and kissed you so hard you thought he'd leave fingertip shaped bruises on your cheeks. His tongue exploring the inside of your mouth and hands roaming over you, undressing in hurry and want, relishing in the taste of your moans spilling into his mouth like he'd never have the chance to again.
But he did. About 3 times that night.
You didn't mean for it to stay a secret. It started out that way because neither of you knew exactly what was gonna come out of it, at first it was all sneaking into each other's rooms late at night and leaving in the morning, teasing the hell out of him over the phone when he was away and paying for it when he got back, and defiling every surface of every safe house you stepped foot in.
But a few weeks into it, his heart ached to leave you every morning, and your chest felt hollowed out every time he was away on a mission without you.
“I know we said no labels or whatever, but… I like this.” He gestures between you, the table, this world you only step into once a week. “I like… bein’ here. With you. Not just the hotel. Not just—y’know.”
You know. Oh, you very much know.
“And I hate that I have to wait all goddamn week just to—” He stops, shakes his head. Starts again more carefully. “…Just to sit across from you and watch you steal my fries.”
Your lips part. You didn’t mean for it to hit this deep. You didn’t mean for your chest to ache with it.
“…Buck,” you say quietly.
His eyes flick up to yours, open, vulnerable, still a little scared.
“I just wanted you to know,” he finishes, voice low. “’Cause I think… Thursday’s startin’ to feel like the only time I can breathe.”
Then it stayed a secret because you didn't want prying eyes or nosy questions, you just wanted the weight of his body on top of yours to lull you to sleep every night.
Every Thursday when possible, though, you'd find yourselves in the same sort of situation: a reservation under an alias in an obscure little restaurant that didn't allow pictures, followed by a king-sized bedroom reserved at the nearest fancy hotel.
Your weekly getaway from the madness you liked to call the Avengers compound.
You slid into your usual booth at the back—a deep burgundy semicircle that practically swallows you both into privacy. Candlelight flickered faintly between you, reflecting in Bucky’s eyes as he leaned back, one arm stretched across the back of the booth, watching you like he’s checking in on his favorite sight.
You pretended you didn’t notice how his gaze softened the moment he saw you in something that wasn’t tactical gear. Deep, plunging neckline of your top is accompanied by no sleeves under your coat, a delicate leather belt with gold hardware holding the black miniskirt in place.
“You clean up nice, Sarge.” you murmured, unfolding your napkin over your lap.
He smirked slowly, eyes lingering over you just a second too long. “You say that every Thursday.”
“Yeah, well. I'm pleasantly surprised by the increasing levels of hot every week.”
His lips twitched—and for a moment it’s easy. Familiar. Thursday. It's like you don't have a super security compound to call home, or like aliens weren't the assignment four days ago.
The waiter comes and goes. You order something light. He orders steak, medium rare, because even off-duty he eats like a soldier who might deploy at any moment.
But there was something different that night. Because between bites, he keeps doing it.
Looking at you.
Not in the usual “I’m gonna wreck you the second we leave” way.
In a “I’m thinking about something dangerous” way. Dangerous could mean a lot of things, specially for superheroes. But the softness in his eyes told you that it was dangerous because it was fragile, precious, and way too normal.
You swore the restaurant’s lighting was designed specifically for him—warm and golden, catching on the scruff along his jaw and the silver of his dog tags tucked under an open henley collar. He didn’t even bother with a jacket tonight. Cocky bastard. He knows what he does to you.
Your knee bumped his under the table. Not an accident. Not even close.
The waiter appears just long enough for you to order another whiskey and a glass of red wine, then disappears into the shadows again.
Bucky settled back, one arm along the back of the booth, “New rule,” he said casually.
“Oh? We have rules now?”
“Just one. No teasing me when I’m away on missions unless you’re ready to deal with the consequences when I get back.”
You widen your eyes innocently. “Consequences? Sergeant Barnes, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” You shifted and only slightly sat on your side facing him, one bare leg sliding over the other and crossing, your foot sliding the YSL hardware of your heels up and down his calf.
"I was merely being supportive and making sure a very highly estimated Avenger made it home safely."
He leans in, voice a sinful whisper, “You know what’s not supportive?”
“Mhm?” You bite your lower lip, gaze never straying away from his face.
“When you tell me on comms that you’re wearing those lace panties I like.”
“That was once.”
“Twice.”
“Tomato, tomahto.” You waved a hand in dismissal and grabbed your glass, sipping the wine.
He reaches for his whiskey, takes a slow sip, eyes never leaving you. “Let me guess. You’re wearin’ them now?”
You refuse to respond in words. Only humming in denial behind your glass before clicking your tongue behind your teeth. "None, actually."
He stills and the glass pauses halfway to the table. His gaze dropped—just for a split second—to where your legs met, even though your skirt left barely anything to imagination.
He swallows, thumb tapping once against the glass like he’s recalibrating. “Lemme get this straight,” he says slowly, quietly, eyes darkening, “you’ve been sittin’ across from me for—” he checks his watch, “—twenty-three minutes… with nothing on under that skirt?”
You take another sip, crossing your legs again—slowly, letting your knee brush deliberately higher up his thigh. “Technically it’s been longer. I didn’t wear any in the car either.”
“Jesus Christ…” He was leaning forward now, forearm braced on the table, staring at you like you’re the mission and he’s seconds from breaching.
His metal arm stays stretched along the booth behind you like it has been all night—casual, protective—but now his flesh hand slides under the tablecloth, rests on your knee.
“Thought you’d maintain professionalism, Sergeant,” you teased softly, eyes fluttering when his hand squeezes just slightly.
“Honey, I left professionalism back at the compound the second I smelled your perfume tonight.” His fingers drift higher. Inch by slow, agonizing inch.
You try to take another sip of wine, but your hand trembles just slightly. You hoped he wouldn’t notice.
But it's Bucky, he absolutely notices and hums to himself while you bite your lip with that horny look in your eyes that make your eyelids sit heavy like you could eat him alive. And he'd let you.
You feel his smirk against your ear before you hear it in his voice. “Nervous?”
“Hardly.” But it comes out breathier than intended.
He continues upward. Your pulse spikes. His fingertips stop just under the hem of your skirt, brushing the sensitive inside of your thigh. You grip the edge of the table with your free hand.
“You’re trembling,” he whispers, amused.
“There’s an air vent,” you lie. His fingers slip further beneath the hem, in the direction of where you wanted him the most.
“Oh yeah?” he hums. “Think this vent reaches between your thighs too?”
You nearly choke when his fingertips brush the bare, hot skin there. His breath hitches quietly—barely audible. If you didn’t know every sound he made, you might’ve missed it.
“You’re already so warm,” he notes, turning his head slightly so his lips ghost your cheek without touching. His fingers finally slide up and press gently—right there.
Your breath stops.
He smiles against your skin. “There she is.” Your nails dig into the table. “Think I can make you come before the waiter brings dessert?” he whispers silkily. You smile tightly at him through clenched teeth.
“I think you should try.”
He chuckled, low and almost mean, and pushed two fingers inside the wet slick he had been salivating after every time you were apart. James Buchanan Barnes is a loverboy at his core, and a menace who enjoys the process.
It's not like you could get caught and be arrested for public indecency at any second.
His fingers keep tracing delicate, lazy shapes just inside, making sure to keep his palm or any source of friction away from where you need him most until you’re squirming almost imperceptibly.
“Settle,” he murmurs in your ear, a quiet, firm command.
You freeze, thighs trembling slightly as you force yourself still. He rewards you with one slow, deliberate circle of his thumb right over your clit.
Your breath hitched audibly and he smirked. “Good girl.”
You tried not to whine. If you did, you know he’d make it worse. He’d stop. Or go even slower. You don’t know which was worse and you’re not sure which one you wanted more.
Minutes pass. Agonizing minutes.
Each pass of his fingers is maddeningly controlled—never too fast, never too direct. Each stroke tells you he knows your body better than anyone alive. He avoids giving you the rhythm you want, changing speed just before you can catch it.
You’re flushed now, half from the wine and mostly from him. Your thighs are tense, fighting the urge to grind subtly against his hand.
“Relax,” he murmurs, and his vibranium arm shifts behind your shoulders, holding you back into him protectively as if you’re not on the verge of shaking apart.
The waiter appears to bring your entrees and you hold back a whine when Bucky pulls his hand away from the heat between your legs.
You answer his polite “How are the first couple of bites?” with a steady, “Perfect, thank you.” and he walks away to attend to other tables.
Bucky, however, lets his fork rest steady on his plate, and barely lets you recover from the slick mess you're making on the back of your skirt before his fingers find you again. He chuckles into your hair, voice like hot honey. “You’re fuckin’ incredible.”
“You’re fucking evil,” you breathe, barely moving your lips.
“Maybe.” His pace increases—not by much, but enough that the twisting heat in your belly starts coiling faster.
“Buck—” you whisper, desperate.
“I know, baby.” He murmurs soothingly. “Almost there.”
But when your thighs start to tighten in anticipation—he stops. Completely. Your head snaps toward him in disbelief.
He leans in, lips brushing your ear. “Keep your legs open.”
You do, because if you don’t, he’ll make you.
He clicks his tongue once in mock disappointment. “Oh, sweetheart,” he hums, withdrawing his hand completely and casually lifting it to his mouth. He sucks one glistening finger clean, eyes locked onto yours with sinful delight. “This is gonna be a long dinner for you.”
Your pulse pounds in your ears. Your body aches, throbbing with every second he refuses to touch you again.
“You’re shaking,” he says under his breath, amused.
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
To say you didn't give a fuck about the chocolate lava cake was an understatement. You don’t remember how your back hit the hotel room door—only that Bucky barely got it shut before he had you pinned against it, one hand cupping your jaw and the other sliding under your skirt, shoving it up past your hips like he had something to prove to both of you.
But somewhere between your desperate gasps and his low moans, something shifts.
It happens quietly.
Accidentally.
You moved on top of him, breathless and messy, nails dragging down his chest. The rhythm was hot, frantic—but when he caught your hips and slowed you down, forcing you to roll instead of bounce, the tone shifted.
“Yeah,” he groans, guiding your hips, “ride me nice and slow—like we’ve got nowhere to be tomorrow.”
You blink—because that’s not how this usually goes.
He keeps going.
“Like we’re not being sent on calls at 3 a.m. to save the world,” he breathes, watching your face. “Like it’s a Saturday. Like we sleep in.”
You swallow hard. The thrusts get deeper. Less rushed. More… emotional.
“Maybe we don’t even live in New York,” you whisper, falling into it before you can stop yourself.
His grip tightens.
“Yeah?” he murmurs, voice softer, needier. “Where we livin’, baby?”
“Some small apartment in Chicago,” you gasp, leaning forward so your foreheads touch. “Or maybe a townhouse in Portland.”
He nodded slowly, grinding up into you. “Yeah. I like that. We don’t save the world. I work construction or some shit. Come home covered in sawdust.”
His hands on your hips tighten just a bit more tenderly, like he’s anchoring himself. Your fingers brush his chest and linger too long.
And then in the middle of your hips slapping down against his, his head falls back and he breathes, brokenly, “Fuck—I’d come home to you like this every night if I could.”
So you lean down, lips brushing his for a second before you bit his chin and let it go with a graze of your teeth, breath shaky. “Yeah? You’d come home dirty and throw me on the bed like this?”
He groaned—deep, guttural, hands squeezing your waist as you kept moving, feeling him get even harder inside of you if that was even possible.
His voice gets rougher. “Wouldn’t even make it to the bed. I’d fuck you on the kitchen counter while dinner burns on the stove.”
He thrusts up suddenly, hard. “Fuck—Bucky!”
He grips your jaw and makes you look at him. “You’d leave me little notes on the fridge before you go on early runs. Tellin’ me to eat breakfast. Like a fuckin’ wife.”
Your breath stutters, something sharp and warm in your chest. You whimper, hips stuttering for a second at the idea of wearing a ring that signifies his last name.
He doesn’t miss it.
“Oh, you like that?” he whispers darkly, sitting up so your chests press together, still inside you. “You wanna wear my ring, honey? Want the whole damn world to know you’re mine?”
You shudder, nails clawing his back. “Yes…”
He thrusts up hard. “Say it clearer.”
“I want it,” you breathe, trembling. “Want your ring.”
He kisses you like it hurts. Like he’s drowning and you're the only breath of oxygen his lungs would ever recognize while fully submerged.
Maybe that’s why he suddenly grips your waist and flips you onto your back with a rough, almost desperate exhale—like he needs to bury himself deeper in this illusion before it slips away.
He settles between your legs, pushing back in with a guttural groan, forehead pressed to yours.
“And maybe…” his voice drops further, wrecked and reverent, “…maybe one night I wouldn’t pull out.”
Your breath stutters—eyes fluttering open to meet his. The air crackles. He watches your reaction like a predator watching prey tremble.
“Maybe I’d just stay inside you,” he murmurs against your lips, thrusts deep enough to make the headboard creak softly. “Fill you up… right there in our shitty little apartment.”
A weak sound escapes you.
“You’d yell at me in the morning,” he murmurs, kissing you slow and deep, “say we weren’t trying. That we weren’t ready. But I’d look at you in one of my old shirts, barefoot in the kitchen makin’ pancakes… and I’d want it all over again.”
Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him down as you arch into him.
He groans into your neck. “Wouldn’t let you outta bed that weekend. I’d keep fuckin’ you full of me… hopin’ it’d take. Hopin’ I get to walk by you in the mirror and see your belly round with my kid.”
You gasp his name like wishing on a star.
He thrusts deeper—slower—like he’s savoring the image burned into his mind.
“Imagine it,” he whispers, voice shaking with how bad he wants it—even if he pretends it’s still just talk. “You, pregnant with my baby. Nothin’ else in the world but us. No Hydra. No missions. Just… you carryin’ something I gave you. Somethin’ ours.”
You nearly sob at how intensely it hits you.
His forehead presses to yours as his voice falls to a wrecked whisper. “Tell me you’d want it.”
“I’d want it,” you breathe, almost crying. “Bucky, I want it so bad.”
He groans—filthy, tortured, adoring—as he thrusts harder now, chasing something that feels far bigger than pleasure. And that’s how you fall apart beneath him—his whispered fantasies of a quiet life, a warm bed, and a round belly turning into the dirtiest, most intimate thing anyone has ever given you.
Life, however, doesn’t care about what happened in that hotel bed.
It throws missions at both of you like grenades.
First, he gets deployed with Sam to Europe for weeks, chasing arms dealers who won’t stay in one place. You get stuck in Southeast Asia with Nat and Wanda for a hostage op that turns into a two-week storm of adrenaline and zero sleep.
Time differences ruined your ability to talk. Sometimes you'd send a three-word text. Sometimes he likes it six hours later. Sometimes he sends a picture of a shitty cup of coffee with a single: miss yours.
Back on base, you miss him in hallways by hours. He leaves briefing rooms five minutes before you enter them. If you're off, he's not, and vice versa.
A racy picture here, a breathless phone call there, and neither of you being left alone for the same 10 minutes to do anything about it.
Until it marks almost two months since the night at the hotel.
Your body was sore, all you wanted was to wash your hair, get a face mark on, and sleep in your fuzzy robe until about 11pm when he'd sneak into your room. But as you walked through the compound, your phone pinged.
From: Buck
📍 43.7126° N, 110.6751° W
Your stomach lurched in your tummy, and you felt a surge of warmth spread over you as you bit your lip, grinning at the screen. Your footsteps got quicker on the way to your room, an everything shower and barely any packing in your mind.
Seconds later, your phone buzzes again.
From: Buck
I need you.
On the other side of the compound, Bucky tightens the straps on his duffel slung across his back. There is not a sleeping bag, tent, hiking boot, or single piece of wilderness survival gear in sight. He was wearing jeans and a henley he fucks in—not fishes in.
“Where you off to, Tin Man?” He didn't have to turn around to know it was Sam, accompanied by Steve, approaching his bike.
“Camping. Out of state. Off-grid a couple days.”
Sam raises an eyebrow. “Since when do you camp?”
Bucky smirks. “Since now.”
Steve blinked slowly, knowing there’s more to this but being too emotionally mature or exhausted to pry. “You got gear?”
Bucky slides on his helmet like the question doesn’t exist. “I’ve survived worse without a tent.”
He revs the engine and leaves before anyone can point out that two shirts and a half-empty Dopp kit don’t equal “camping.”
Your hair is styled. You’re moisturizing. Your bag is small enough to pass as a purse. Inside? A toothbrush, skincare, three pairs of lingerie, and zero hoodies, shirt, thermal leggings, hiking socks, or flannel.
You were walking down the hall to the elevator, an SUV with seat warmers waiting for you in the garage when you heard Nat's voice from behind you. "I'd ask you what's all that but its... not much."
"Heading out for the weekend.”
“Where?”
You keep your tone fluffy. “Camping. In Wyoming. With… college friends.”
Nat blinks. Once. Twice.
Her gaze slides from your perfectly blow-dried hair… to your freshly glossed lips… to the very much not outdoorsy clothes you’re wearing and the perfume that would definitely attract bears.
"Camping?"
“Yeah. Gonna… sit by a lake. Look at trees. Bond with nature. Be one with dirt.”
She’s silent for a full ten seconds. Then… she smiles. She lets you go with no fuss, immediately marching towards the kitchen like she's mid op.
“They’re going camping.”
Sam looks up. “Who is?” Nat folds her hands on the table. Smiles like the cat that ate the canary.
“Your favorite brooding senior citizen and our little chaos gremlin.”
“Barnes does not strike me as a s’mores guy unless s’mores is a sex position.” Joaquin piped up from a mouthful of Nerd Clusters.
Steve exhales. “They have been… weird lately.”
Sam leans back, dramatic gasp loading. “They’re sneakin’ off to a love shack.”
“In the woods. They will return pregnant or emotionally damaged.” Yelena seems more excited about the first one.
Joaquin chuckled. “Or both.”
Snow crunched under your tires as you pulled onto the secluded dirt road. Pines rise on either side like silent sentries. The sun is dipping low, staining the Wyoming sky a molten gold that glows against the frost. Your stomach tightens as the cabin comes into view—secluded, quiet, the lake beyond it frozen still as glass.
And then there’s him.
Bucky Barnes stands outside like he’s been waiting forever—leaning casually against his bike parked near the porch, breath fogging the air in slow, steady clouds. His henley stretches obscenely over his chest and arms, leather jacket hanging open like he’s daring the cold to challenge him. His jeans hug his thighs in a way that should be illegal.
He looks like 225 pounds of pure, coiled heat.
You step out of the car, shoes meeting the crunchy top layer of snow. The cold air bites your cheeks, makes your breath visible. He straightens from the bike, eyes fixed on you—calm, certain, but dark with something that’s been starving for weeks.
Every step toward one another is soaked in tension. You meet about halfway.
You drop your bag dramatically at his feet. It’s small. Embarrassingly small. More purse than luggage, really.
His gaze flicks to it, then to you—brow arching, equal parts question and disbelief. “That’s it?” he asks quietly, voice deep and scratchy with restrained amusement.
You meet his eyes head-on and smirk. “That’s all I packed.”
A slow grin curves along his mouth. He nods once—like he’s both amused and dangerously pleased.
Then, before you can blink, he grabs the bag with one hand and hooks the other behind your knees, hauling you clean over his shoulder in one effortless motion.
You squeal his name, half laughing, half breathless.
Your view was upside-down: him holding your bag in his metal hand, your ass supported easily by his other arm, boots swinging as he walks toward the cabin door with confidence that says he already knows exactly what’s about to happen once you’re inside.
The cold air bites at your thighs through the hem of your dress, but his grip is hot enough to make up for it.
Bucky walks into the cabin and your lungs fill with the scent of wood burning, wine, and that amber resin that only comes from blankets that have been stored for a while.
He sets you down with the utmost care in the world, and you take in the effort he put into this weekend already. The fireplace was lit, throw blankets on the fur rug like a love-nest, and next to it, a wooden coffee table with two wine glasses already resting on it.
You raise a brow slowly, smirking. “Wow. This some kind of plan, Bucky? Get me drunk so you can take advantage of me?”
Bucky just snorts, stepping forward with that lazy swagger that says he’s already got you right where he wants you.
“Take advantage of you?” he echoes, amused. “Sweetheart, you climb me like a tree when you’re sober. When you’re drunk, you’re like a damn jaguar in heat.”
You gape, offended and amused at the same time.
He nods once, dead serious. “A horny jaguar that thinks humping me is a personality trait.”
“Excuse me?” you sputter, crossing your arms even as heat crawls up your neck.
His lips twitch. “You know how many times I’ve woken up on a mission night to you half-asleep grinding on my thigh like you were tryin’ to assert dominance?”
You refuse to confirm or deny, rolling your eyes as you mutter, “Maybe you shouldn’t sleep so close.”
He tilted his head in that same infuriating way whenever he was right. “Maybe you shouldn’t sleep so needy.”
“Maybe you should—”
You don’t finish the sentence, because he’s already ducking his head to pepper slow, teasing kisses along the side of your neck. He lingers at that spot just under your ear, humming with satisfaction when your breath hitches.
“C’mere,” he says, voice dropping an octave as he steps backward toward the rug by the fire and lowers himself down, back pressed against the couch. He tugs you gently forward until you’re standing between his legs.
He guides you onto his lap effortlessly, hands sliding to your hips as you straddle him, your knees sinking into the thick fur while your body settles against his chest like it remembers the place.
Bucky pushed a strand of hair behind your ear and held your face in both hands, looking into your eyes like he was deciphering the hieroglyphs needed to read your soul.
Like he hadn't unraveled every secret you had and kept them in a drawer in his room, tucked with changes of underwear and a pair of soft shorts, along with a shirt you definitely stole from him.
He kisses you like you’re a memory he’s been clinging to for eight goddamn weeks—urgent, deep, almost grateful. His hands grip your thighs, anchoring you, as your fingers tangle in his hair and tug.
You press into him instinctively, your hips rolling once out of sheer muscle memory.
He groans into your mouth. “There she is,” he mutters, breath rough, lips brushing yours. “My little jaguar.”
You gasp a breathless laugh, "Shut up." That turns into a quiet moan into his mouth as his hands press your hips forward again, encouraging the friction you didn’t even realize you were fully chasing until now.
The friction starts slow, guided by his grip and your desperation. You’re both still half-dressed, clothes scraping together, breaths getting messier as the pressure builds and the world narrows to heat, motion, and the soft crackle of the fire.
Your hands move slowly to the hem of his shirt, fingers tracing his skin first—softly—before pushing it up. His hands leave your body just long enough to let you pull the fabric over his head, exposing his torso. Warm and taut, all muscle and some scarring, the hair on his chest tickling under your fingertips.
When he pulls your sweater and dress over your head in one motion, he does it carefully— like he’s unwrapping something he missed holding.
You watch him watching you, that intensity making your stomach twist in ways entirely unrelated to the heat between your thighs. You don’t feel bared — you feel seen.
His eyes linger over your white lace lingerie — one of the three you packed just for him. “…You wore this for me?”
You smirk, though your hum comes out softer than planned. Nodding and biting your lip, already leaning in for another kiss. When his hands grip your ass, yours fumble with the button and zipper of his jeans, pushing your hand past the hem of his underwear and stroking his cock inside of his jeans.
“See?” he rasps, voice cracked with need. “Didn’t even take a full minute before you went straight for it.”
You grind down against him deliberately. “You complaining?”
You stroke him again, slow, teasing, just to hear that sound again. His eyes flutter half-lidded as he exhales like he’s been waiting two months just to feel your hand on him again.
“Fuck,” he mutters, jaw tight. “You have any idea how bad I’ve needed this?”
Your pulse kicks at that. “Oh yeah?”
He nods slowly, gaze fixed on your lips. “Been thinkin’ about you touchin’ me like this every damn night. Hands under my clothes, whisperin’ in my ear while you use me how you want.”
You swallow, heat flaring hot in your chest.
You’re stroking him just enough to make him need more, watching his jaw clench like he’s trying not to lose it too fast. His grip on your hips turns almost bruising.
“Fuck—” he mutters, eyes squeezing shut for one second as your thumb drags along his waistband, tempting. “You really think I’m just gonna let you sit here and torture me?”
You raise an eyebrow. “Sounds like you’re handling it just fine.”
His eyes snap open—dark, glassy, amused.
“Sweetheart,” he says, voice low and ruined, “I’ve been handling it for eight goddamn weeks.”
And before you can get another word out, he moves.
His hands lock under your thighs, and in one fast, fluid motion, he shifts up onto his knees and throws you back onto the thick fur rug beneath you with a soft thud and a breathless squeal from your lips.
You blink up at him, caught between laughing and panting.
He hovers over you now, hair falling slightly into his face, breathing heavy, jeans still half open, your dress gone, lace soft against the rug.
His metal hand braced beside your head. His flesh one sliding slowly up your bare thigh, deliberate. He’s looking at you like something he’s been hunting and cherishing in equal measure.
His lips ghost your jaw.
“I pictured your face,” he goes on, slow, steady, voice a hot whisper. “Right when you’re about to get loud. When you’re trying so hard to hold it in for me but you just… can’t.”
You clutch at his henley, pulling him closer.
“You think I didn’t go crazy picturing this lace?” he teases hungrily, gaze dropping to what you’re wearing. “Knew it’d look good stretched over you while you beg me to touch you.”
Your back arches involuntarily.
“I missed you talking like this,” you whisper quickly—too honest, too needy.
He grins against your skin, breathing hard now. You whimper quietly as his fingers trace closer—waiting, teasing.
“And I missed watching you fall apart,” he breathes. “I missed making your eyes roll back. I missed you diggin’ your nails into my shoulders. I missed fuckin’ you so good you forget your own name until all you remember is mine.”
His mouth drags heat along your collarbone, your chest, lower still, as his hands coax your thighs further apart with gentle but unyielding pressure.
He looks up once, taking in your face right before he drives you up the wall, and then he lowers himself fully between your thighs, settling there like he plans to stay until he pulls every remembered sound from your throat—slow, steady, incredibly focused. Lace long forgotten in a pile of clothing that wouldn’t touch your body for 48 hours at least.
Your back arches at the first real contact, breath hitching as your grip in his hair tightens when he licks a strip up your slit and circles your clit with his tongue.
"F-fuck, baby..."
He hummed in quiet satisfaction against you, like he was tasting something he’d been dying without, and nuzzled his face further into you, lapping your juices up and down while his nose bumped your clit.
He breathes out a quiet, low laugh — pleased, intimate. “There we go. Look at you… can’t stay still, can you?” His voice is low, not mocking — proud.
“Bucky—” your voice catches when his tongue finds rhythm again, slow and focused.
“Say my name again,” he murmurs, eyes darting up to catch your expression. His voice is steady, coaxing. “C’mon, doll. Let me hear how bad you missed me.”
And you do. Because there's no nosy super spies listening in the vents, and no training sessions, briefings, or meetings to pull this thirsty man away from the oasis between your legs.
“There you go…” he whispers, closing his eyes for a second like he feels it as deeply as you do. “God, I missed how pretty you sound.”
“Please don’t stop,” you gasp, chest rising and falling faster. “Don’t stop—I’ve needed you so bad.”
His tongue roughens against you, responding to your voice as much as your body.
“You always know exactly how to—” Your breath breaks on a wavering sound when he thrusts his tongue in. “God, Bucky… you’re the only one who knows how to make it feel like this.”
His tongue works faster and his lips wrap around your clit, sucking the nerves and sending you into orbit. Your hips raised off the rug while your legs clamped around his head, big hands holding you down through your orgasm, working you through it.
You’re still shaking slightly, body flushed and oversensitized, yet aching in a new, overwhelming way that has nothing to do with just physical need.
So you reach for him.
You cup his face with both hands and pull him down into a kiss that’s not frantic — but full. Deep. His hand finds your hip, thumb stroking gently as if grounding himself in the reality of you.
When you pull back, you rest your forehead against his, breathing unevenly. “Bucky…” you whisper, voice soft but trembling with urgency.
He hums in response, thumb sweeping slowly along your cheekbone, waiting for whatever you need to say next.
“I need you,” you breathe — and the tone in your voice leaves nothing to interpretation. It comes out broken and wanting. “I need you inside me. Right now.”
Your hand gripped the length of him and lined him up with your pussy, neither of you breaking eye contact as he pushed the thick head in, not rushing but not giving you time to adjust either.
“Holy shit…” he mutters, eyes screwed shut for one second as he breathes through it. “I swear… you get tighter every time I’m away.”
Your lips part on a broken sound, heat flooding your chest. You roll your hips impatiently, needing more. “Bucky—”
“You feel that?” he murmurs against your cheek, voice thick and filthy. “That’s how tight you're choking me right now and I’m not even all the way in. You gonna let me all the way, baby? Gonna take all of me?”
“Y-yes,” you whisper, breath shaking. “Please.”
He laughs low — smug and a little breathless. “Begging already? Didn’t even give you the good part yet.”
“You’re such an ass—”
“Yeah, but you still want it,” he interrupts, kissing you hard — messy, teeth and tongue and desperation — before pulling back just enough to watch your face as he sinks in deeper, slow and deliberate. You gasp, nails digging into his shoulders.
He groans loud, head tipping back as he mutters, “Fuck. That’s it. Take me… just like that. Wanted this so bad it hurt.”
Your fingers scramble at his back, trying to hold onto something solid as your rhythm falls apart under him. “Harder,” you whisper — it sounds more like a plea than a demand.
He exhales sharply through his nose, satisfied. “Fuck, I love when you beg.”
“I’m not—” you try, but the protest cuts off when he does exactly what you asked. Your head tilts back, lips parted as an uncontrolled sound tears free.
“Mhm,” he hums, smug. “Yeah, you are.” He leans in close again, breath hot against your jaw. “Look at me,” he murmurs, voice wrecked.
You force your eyes open — and the second your glazed eyes lock with his, something shifts. You see how undone he is too — chest heaving, jaw slack, pupils blown wide with hunger and love tangled up together.
You feel a tremor ripple through you, and he sees it instantly. “There it is,” he rasps, grin gone now, replaced by raw intensity. “Feel it hittin’ you? Feel how good I’m making you feel?”
You nod, whimpering, fingers clawing at his shoulders.
“That’s right,” he whispers, voice gravel. “Only me. Nobody else gets to pull those sounds out of you.”
“Bucky—” his name leaves you like a prayer and a warning and something close to worship.
He kissed you hard, swallowing your breath. “I got you. Let go.”
His hand finds yours, fingers interlacing against the rug as you move together, breathless, desperate, claimed.
He finds a rhythm that's nothing like before—harder, faster, wrecked—and suddenly you’re not thinking in words or even sounds, just reactions.
“Fuck—”
“Yeah?” he pants, voice nearly a growl now, hips moving rougher, chasing something even he can’t hide from anymore. “Say my name—say it—”
“Bucky—oh God—”
“Louder,” he breathes, losing all rhythm for a second as you clench around him. “Let me fucking hear you—”
“I can’t—I—I—”
“Yes, you can,” he insists, voice wrecked, raw. His hand slides to your jaw, holding your face toward him. His eyes are wild now.
You meet his gaze—and the look on his face destroys you. His jaw is clenched, sweat dampening his temple, lips parted as he gives in to instinct. He looks desperate. Gone. Like if you asked him to die for you right now, he’d say yes.
“I’m close,” you admit in a broken whisper. “Don’t stop—don’t fucking stop—” You choke on a sobbing moan. “Harder—please—”
That word unravels him.
“Fuck—oh my God—you’re killing me,” he curses, slamming his forehead against yours, movements turning almost frantic, chasing the edge with you. “Come on, baby—give it to me—give it—come with me—”
"Bucky— oh God, please, please, please cum in me."
He cums first—just a moment, a hitched breath, a curse hissed against your neck that sounds like your name torn in half—and the heat of him spilling inside of you is all it takes for your world to snap, heat flooding through you like freefall.
He stays inside you. He doesn’t move away. He just breathes there, face buried in your neck as you both try to remember how lungs are supposed to work.
You made it to bed after a couple glasses of wine, a grilled cheese, and teasing him some more, falling asleep on your stomach with him draped over you like the worlds warmest — and oldest — weighted blanket.
Whatever dream you were having, Bucky woke up to your ass rubbing against him like you were short on rent. He was still a little sensitive from the road you just had right before bed, and the clock on the nightstand on your side showed something along the lines of 2:43am.
He felt himself get hard and your body rubbed harder against him if that was even possible. He groaned quietly, and his hand went under the covers to find your bare pussy drooling, absolutely crying for him.
"Bucky..." The little breathless whimper you let out told him you were crying for him too.
He bit his lip and didn't have much ceremony. You were so wet anyway he'd probably slide right in. He pushed his boxers down, and up sprang his leaking cock.
He turned on his side, almost draped all the way over you, aligned himself, and pushed in.
The first thing you become aware of is the weight.
Heavy, solid, familiar — draped over your back like he promised he always would be. Bucky sleeps like a furnace, arm slung around your waist, leg hooked lazily over yours like he’s making sure you can’t vanish in the night.
You were dreaming something warm… fuzzy… something with his voice in your ear.
You breathed his name again, groggy and fluttering, barely louder than when you were fully asleep. “Bucky…?”
His breath catches like a snapped wire, hips momentarily freezing against you. For a second you think he’s going to stop. Then his forehead presses into your shoulder and he lets out a groan that sounds like a confession.
“Fuck—sorry—’m trying—trying to be good,” he mutters, voice thick, wrecked from sleep and need. “Woke up with you grinding against me—couldn’t stop thinking about…” His breath stutters as his hips twitch again helplessly. “...about how wet you get when I wake you like this.”
A memory echoes in your mind—your voice from weeks ago, breathless, whispering in the dark with saliva and cum dripping down your chin after he thoroughly bruised the back of your throat.
If you ever wake up like that again… you don’t have to wait for me to wake up.
“Bucky,” you murmur, fully awake now, voice softer but lower. You shift back into him, deliberately this time. “You’re not doing anything wrong.”
There's a soft schlick schlick schlick of his body driving itself into you that drives you crazy. It's muffled by the comforter like its dirty, naughty, something you shouldn't be doing.
Something hushed and feral and needy that is required to happen, otherwise you feel like you're gonna explode.
“Don’t hold back,” you whisper, voice trembling with something hungry. “Please.”
A low sound escapes him — half relief, half feral praise. “Yeah?” he breathes, moving again, more certain now. “You want it this bad, huh? Needed me even in your sleep?”
You bite back a soft whimper as your body reacts, your thighs pressing together instinctively even though his hand is between them. Every roll of his hips sends heat curling up your spine.
He hears the broken sound you make when you try to steady your breathing.
And that’s it. His restraint snaps.
His mouth crashes against your shoulder, open, desperate, needy, teeth scraping lightly as he moans into your skin.
“That’s it… fuck, that’s it. Push back on me, c’mon,” he urges, tone filthy, forehead pressing to your neck as his rhythm builds. “Grind on me, baby, just like you were when you were out.”
You follow instinct, rocking your hips back into him, dizzy with how much you suddenly need this, need him. The friction is rough and perfect and not nearly enough — but his voice makes it feel like everything.
“That’s my girl,” he growls. “Rubbin’ that perfect little ass on me like you’re starving for it. You tryin’ to make me lose my mind first thing in the morning?”
You gasp into the pillow, fingers gripping the sheet. “I—God—I missed you,” you breathe, shaky. “Missed how you make me feel—needed this—”
“That’s right,” he whispers, voice thick, rhythm steady and possessive, every grind punctuated by a breathy curse.
You’re nearly sobbing now, hips moving helplessly in sync with his. “Bucky… I’m gonna—”
“Do it,” he pants. “Do it for me—come on, pretty girl, let me feel it.”
You break.
The pleasure comes in waves that steal your breath, your sound, everything but his name. You’re trembling, clutching the sheets like they’re the only thing anchoring you. His arm wraps around you, holding you firmly against him as you shake, riding it out. He breathes through a deep groan into your shoulder, almost like your release drags him to the edge too, but he doesn’t let go—he just clings harder.
“Well damn,” he whispers after a few long, quiet seconds, still pressed tight against you. You're pliant and hazy, boneless against him. “That’s my good girl.”
Your breath is still uneven, but your eyes are heavy again. He kisses a slow, almost apologetic line along your shoulder blade.
“You okay?” he asks softly. You hum something that sounds like yes, still catching your breath.
He shifts just enough to pull the blanket up over both of you, but not an inch further. His hold doesn’t loosen, his arm tightens around your waist, like he’s anchoring himself there.
“Gonna stay here,” he mutters into your hair, voice thick and low. “Don’t want to leave you. Not even to move.”
You’re too tired to fully answer, but you thread your fingers through his where his hand rests on your stomach, lacing them together. He lets out a shaky, content exhale.
One last soft kiss to the back of your shoulder.
“Go back to sleep, baby. I’ll be right here.”
And he was.
Pressed close, breathing warm and steady against your neck, wrapped around you like a shield. You fell asleep again with a weak smile and his weight still holding you down in the safest way you’ve ever known.
A few hours later, you woke up sore. The sky was still a deep indigo outside, the sort of dark that doesn't feel terrifying, just comforting. Like the world was standing still just for a few moments, just for you.
You turned, whining at the loss of him, just to be met with the most beautiful sleeping face you've ever seen.
He always sleeps deeper after he’s completely spent. You know that. You also know he fades into that soft, vulnerable state only you get to see—jaw unclenched, lips parted, lashes dark against his cheeks, chest rising steady and warm under your ear.
And you love him so much in this quiet, unguarded moment… you almost want to cry.
Bucky's breaths came out in soft puffs out of his mouth, his conscience somewhere in a dream land far away. Your gaze dropped to his neck, a couple marks on there left by your teeth, but they'd fade before any questioning eyes back at the compound could ask any questions.
His chest was uncovered by the thick blanket, the quilt only covering up to his waist, and the unmistakable tent under it grabbing your attention immediately.
It would be so mean of you to not give him a hand... or a mouth.
Your fingers slide slowly down his stomach, barely brushing along defined muscle. He shifts slightly in his sleep, a soft breath escaping him. The kind that sounds like the beginning of a moan. So you slip under the blankets. Settle between his thighs. And lower your mouth to him.
He stiffens almost immediately, hips twitching subconsciously, a groan rumbling low in his chest as his hand spasms against the sheet. You keep going, slow and controlled, every motion soaked in a mix of reverence and filth.
“Jesus…” His voice is sleep-rough when it finally breaks out of him. His hips jerk once, a shocked gasp leaving him as his hand drops into your hair on instinct. “Oh my—baby—fuck, are you—”
You hummed around him in response, not stopping.
“Holy—shit—” His head falls back on the pillow, voice cracking, breath stuttering as consciousness snaps fully into place. “You—you waking me up like this?”
You squeeze his thigh gently in affirmation.
He lets out a helpless, needy groan, chest heaving as he pushes up on his elbows to watch you under the blanket.
“Look at you,” he pants, voice completely wrecked already. “So hungry you couldn’t even wait for me to wake up properly.”
You don’t stop. You can’t stop. The sounds he’s making are addicting—sharp intakes of air, shaky groans, words turning to curses. He drops one hand over his face like he can’t take it, then moves it to your hair again, fingers curling as his breathing gets frantic.
“Shit—slow down or I’m—I’m not gonna last,” he warns, but his hips are already moving, rolling unconsciously into your rhythm.
You grip his hip to steady him—not to stop him.
He gets the message. “Fuck,” he whispers, voice dropping dangerously low. “You wanna make me lose it in your mouth, huh?”
You hum again, hot and breathy.
He laughs once, broken and disbelieving. “God, I’m so fucked for you.”
His breathing turns ragged. His grip in your hair tightens. His voice goes soft and frantic. “Don’t stop—don’t stop—please, don’t stop—”
You don’t.
He swears louder, hips snapping once as he loses the battle for control entirely. “That’s it—oh God, baby—fuck—“
And then he comes apart with a groan so raw it shoots straight through you, his head tossing back, chest arching, thighs trembling as he curses your name like it breaks him.
You stay with him through it, easing him down gently with soft breath and steady hands until he collapses back onto the mattress, breathing like he ran miles.
“Holy shit,” he exhales shakily, dragging a hand over his face. He sounds totally, helplessly gone.
You crawl up his body, settling on laying completely on top of him with your hands under your chin and on his chest, still warm with aftershocks. He wraps his arms around you immediately, dragging you in and holding you there like you belong pressed against his heart.
When he catches your mouth in a kiss, he groans softly into it.
When you pull away, both of you were smiling like this was it. Like being tangled in a blanket in the middle of nowhere was what you were put on this earth to do.
You got up to make breakfast, or whatever you could call waffles and fruit and a snack here and there. And when Bucky found himself leaning on the doorway, looking at you humming the same tune from that first night he wondered if this was always where he was supposed to be.
If he was meant to fall from that train to do more than assassinations and intel, if he was meant to do more than keep Steve alive long enough to save the world a couple of times.
If he was meant to be tortured and picked apart for 70 years just to find himself wrapped in a sheet watching you steal chocolate chips from the brownie recipe you were making, moving around the kitchen enough that he saw when you winced the slightest bit when you leaned down.
He could accept that, if it meant he could have you.
“Okay, they look like bad cubism work, but i tried to make smiley faces with the chocolate chips and i think it could’ve been way worse.” Yeah, he was never letting you go.
The rest of the day unfolds like time has been loosened around the edges.
It starts with what was supposed to be breakfast dishes. You’re laughing while rinsing out a bowl when Bucky crowds you against the counter, kisses turning needy fast. One moment you’re teasing him for burning waffles, the next you’re bent over the counter with his breath hot against your ear and his hands firm around your hips, both of you too lost in each other to care about anything else.
A couple of hours later, you both manage to put on clothes long enough to walk into the nearby woods. The air is crisp, pine-scented, grounding. Your fingers stay laced with his the entire time. He doesn’t talk much — just keeps looking at you like the sunlight was invented specifically to bounce off your smile.
The shower afterward is meant to be recovery. It isn’t. He pins you lightly against the tiles, kissing the water from your lips and laughing when you nearly melt into the stream just from his hands on your waist.
After dinner, a very nice marry-me chicken recipe Bucky had to watch multiple TikToks of to master, you found yourself in the bedroom, with tear stained cheeks, sticky, marked thighs hanging spread off the bed, with a super soldier standing naked in between them.
The lights were all off aside from the gleaming firelight coming from the living room, barely making through the ajar door, moonlight catching on the wet tears on your cheek and the spit gleaming on your lips from having him in your mouth not too long ago.
Not many people would call Bucky a sap, but if they knew how his heart cracked open every time you looked at him like this, they might.
His hand came to cradle your face, and you nuzzled into it, looking at him with such sheer and unadulterated adoration in your eyes, it felt like you wanted him to pull you apart thread by thread just so he could be the one to stitch you back together.
A thumb traced the wetness on your lips and you engulfed it in between the plush flesh, earning a groan from deep inside of his chest. When you hummed around his digit, the vibration went straight to his cock, twitching in muscle memory.
“M’girl looks like she was made to be fucked open for me.” He moved his hand and grabbed your jaw, still sticky with saliva, a silent demand for you to open your mouth, which you gladly complied, sticking out your tongue.
The hot, wet feeling of his spit landing on your tastebuds came not long after, and you swallowed with a smirk.
Bucky pushed you down the bed with his body, tongue demanding against yours, while his hands gripped your thighs to scoot you up. He ground his hips against yours, coating him in more of your slick, before pushing in.
You gasped against his mouth, and he leaned down just slightly to get his arms under your legs and throw it over his shoulders, leaning in to press your knees out and as close to your chest as physically possible.
"Oh, God, Bucky..." Your eyes rolled back. "Fuck. You’re… you’re so big,” you breathe, voice shaky as your thighs tense reflexively, body already bracing around him even before anything more happens. “Always feels… like too much.”
He gives a quiet, devastatingly confident hum, like your overwhelmed confession is the sweetest thing he’s ever heard.
“Yeah?” His voice is low, warm, full of pride. “That right, baby?” His thumb strokes the inside of your leg in a slow, grounding sweep. “Thought you liked me being too much.”
Your breath catches when he presses his weight down just enough to make you feel it everywhere, the pressure firm and consuming. You whimper and nod, head tipping back against the pillow as your fingers curl around his arm.
“I do,” you whisper, nearly gasping, your voice cracking under the strain of how full his presence makes you feel. “Feels like you’re—stretching me out… every time.”
Your legs tremble in his grasp, but he holds them steady, firm but careful, folding you deeper into the bed, a breathy cry slips out when the pressure increases, not painful—just intense. Deep. Inescapable.
“Bucky—” it spills out in a shaken whisper, your chest rising in quick, unsteady pulls of air. “Feels like you’re… everywhere. I can’t—I can’t breathe when you’re this deep.”
His head dips, eyes locked on yours as his breathing grows heavier. “Yes, you can.” he says gently, firmly, "You love feeling this full. Admit it.”
You’re stuttering, already arching into him even as overwhelmed tears prick at your eyes. “I do,” you gasp. “God, I do—it’s so much—”
And he makes it be even more with a thumb on your clit as he drives into you like he wants the only thing inside of your veins to be him. He feels you clench so tight around him you swear your insides are embossed with the veins of his cock.
You come gasping his name with your bottom lip between his teeth, his cum leaking out of your thoroughly spent cunt.
"Mmm, I love you." It's said in a haze, with the room spinning around your lightheadedness, but he knows it doesn't make it any less true.
You woke up with his arm is still wrapped around your waist, hand spread low over your stomach like a claim he made in his sleep. His chest was pressed against your back, slow breaths brushing the nape of your neck. He didn’t move far — if he moved at all. It’s like even in dreams, he held on.
You shifted slightly and realized your body was sore in a way that felt like remembering. He was already hard against you, silent and steady, like his body woke up wanting before his mind did.
He made a quiet sound in his sleep when you curled back into him instinctively. When you rolled your hips just a little — not even on purpose — his breath stuttered.
“Don’t start somethin’ y'can’t finish,” he murmured, voice deep, rough with sleep.
“I’m not starting anything,” you whispered, but your voice gives you away.
His hand tightened on your waist. “Uh-huh.” Silence stretches — soft, warm, waiting.
“I don't wanna leave today,” you said eventually, voice quiet.
He exhaled slowly into your shoulder, like the thought physically ached. “I know. Let's not move. Not yet.”
He shifted behind you, pressing in closer, and you felt it — the way he wanted you, slow and unhurried, like he had all morning to remind you your body is his favorite place to be in.
When he moved inside of you, it was gentle at first — lazy, testing, his lips brushing your shoulder. You breathed out shakily, already melting, already arching back into him.
“Still sore?” he asked quietly against your skin, smug in a way that only an utterly in love James Barnes could be.
“Yeah,” you breathed. “Still want you.”
He groaned low, like that undoes something in him. He kept you on your side, drawn tight against his chest, his hand guiding your thigh to hook over his. The movement was slow, intimate — more about closeness than urgency. His breathing deepened behind you; you could feel each exhale between your shoulder and your neck.
There wasn't rush, no frantic pace this time. Just heavy warmth, quiet praise, his lips brushing your ear while your fingers clutch at his forearm and soft sounds slip from your throat.
It’s a claiming that feels less like breaking and more like sealing something in place. By the time you both went still again, breath uneven, bodies pressed close under the covers, neither of you spoke. Not right away.
He stays inside the circle of your body like he belongs there — not rushing to pull away, not shifting to leave. Like maybe, just maybe, if he doesn’t move, morning won’t happen.
Eventually, in a low voice that sounded almost reluctant, he murmured, “We should start getting ready in a few.”
You hummed, not agreeing. He pressed one last kiss to your shoulder, lingering there before adding, “Five more minutes.”
You don’t tell him you’re giving him ten.
You don’t make it very far once you’re out of the bedroom.
He had you on the couch next — laughter dissolving into breathy moans as he pulls you onto all fours and sinks into a rhythm that leaves you pressed against worn cushions, his voice low and praising in your ear as the old cabin furniture creaks beneath you, feeling him etch his name in every corner of your soul so good that you had to bite down on the couch cushions to not be too loud, a feat you were much too accustomed to in the confined of both of your rooms.
The drive back was colder than the drive to. Maybe because the heat of anticipation wasn't there anymore, and you were getting back to sneaking around and your sacred Thursdays.
You took a longer route, to pretend you had to wait at the airport. By the time you reached the garage, you saw his bike parked right next to your spot.
The common room was occupied by Nat, Steve, Yelena, and the redhead's eyes traced an invisible string between you and Bucky.
"So.. How was camping?"
"Good." Neither of you meant to respond at the same time.
"Too cold?"
"Warm in the morning, cold at ni-" You glared at him like he was solely to blame for you two absolutely getting caught red handed and sore right then and there.
Natasha smirked. "Welcome back, not-so-stelthy super spies."
At first, no one wants to assume anything when the noise starts. It’s 3:24 A.M. Maybe someone’s just doing an aggressive nighttime workout. Pushing a dresser around. Wrestling a demon. Practicing taekwondo on the wall.
But then the bedframe starts slamming rhythmically against the wall like it’s trying to communicate in Morse code.
And someone gasps way too high-pitched and breathless for this to be cardio-related.
Sam wakes up and pads down to the kitchen to find that he's been the last one to be pulled from his REM sleep by a horny centenarian and his insatiable, inappropriately young girlfriend.
Steve has his head in his hands like he's trying to muffle his ears, forehead resting on the cool table.
THUD. THUD. THUD.
They could hear Bucky's low "Sweetheart, fuck— keep—" followed by a grunt. And what sounded like some hard object dropping to the floor.
Yelena looked at the ceiling in horror when they heard your muffled whines, "Bucky—oh God!" pleading him not to stop.
Sam climbed on a countertop and got his mouth close to the vents. “WE KNOW IT’S BUCKY, WE KNOW, PLEASE.”
And in the symphony of your moans and his grunts, Natasha just piped up from behind her coffee mug. "Does anyone miss when they were sneaking around?"
Every single person in that room raised their hands.
a/n: this was fun to write, can you tell I went home last night and cracked my husband like a woman possessed?
pairing: virgin college student!bucky x sex operator!reader
warnings: 18+MDNI, smut, prompts: phone sex / first time / closet; semi-public sex, mutual masturbation, alcohol, sub!bucky, praise, dirty talking, edging, overstimulation, size kink, corruption kink, f!oral, dry humping, pet names: "good boy" "baby boy" "baby" bucky likes to get called sarge/sergeant here (im sorry he's lame)
word count: 10.2k
bwatober masterlist || masterlist
a/n: my part for the bwa halloween collab! happy (early) halloween! be safe. go to a party. get laid. wrap it before you tap it. and if not, just call a sex operator to help you get off... 🕸️🦇
synopsis:
Bucky Barnes is, in Steve and Sam's words, a “loser virgin with a hopeless crush on a phone sex operator.” When they finally convince him to tag along to the frat's annual Halloween party, they promise him it's the perfect chance to finally lose the precious v-card he's been clinging onto. Everyone else appears to be getting lucky, but for some reason, Bucky can't seem to get fucking laid.
That is, until he hears a voice at the party that sounds strangely familiar.
Bucky’s dorm room was dim, lit only by the warm glow of his desk lamp and the faint blue light of his phone as he pressed it to his ear. He lay sprawled across the narrow twin bed, sweatpants bunched around his ankles, one hand wrapped tightly around his bare shaft.
“Fuck, baby,” he grunted, his hand working faster around his cock. “Let me hear your voice, pretty girl.”
“Pretty girl?” your voice purred through the receiver, sweet as sin. “You don’t even know what I look like, Sergeant.”
A low moan escaped his lips as he pressed his head deeper into the pillow. God, he loved your voice—sultry, husky, and filled with temptation. Hearing you call him “Sergeant” sent a jolt of desire straight to his core. And his dick.
“I know, baby,” he hissed. His thumb circled the slick head of his cock, spreading pre-cum across the swollen tip. “But just from your voice, I already know you’re a pretty girl.”
Your soft giggle on the other end made his dick pulse in his hands.
“Tell me,” you teased, “how hard are you, Sarge?”
He grunted, his breathing heavy. “So fucking hard, baby.”
“You know, it’s kind of pathetic, really…” your voice was breathy, sweet, yet dripping with lust. “Spending Halloween night all by yourself… fucking your own hand. You really have no one else to take care of you, Sergeant?”
His mouth hung open as a low and almost pathetic whimper escaped his lips.
“Fuck… I know it’s pathetic—but I can’t help it, baby. I love your voice so damn much—fuck… I’m sorry…”
Bucky had never thought of himself as the kind of guy who would get off on being degraded. In truth, he didn’t really know what he wanted when it came to sex.
Because he never actually had it.
And it was pathetic—him, a college virgin, lying alone in his dorm bed, jerking off to the intoxicating sound of a phone-sex operator’s voice. Every time he called, it was always you.
Your voice was addicting. You were addicting.
If only there were girls at his school with a voice like yours.
“I have no one else,” he grunted, his hand working faster on his cock. “No one else to take care of me.”
“Yeah?” you drawled out, teasing. “Only me, baby?”
“Only you—fuck…”
He gave his shaft a squeeze, biting down on his lower lip as his hips bucked up desperately to meet his hand. His breathing grew heavier, the dorm room air stifling with heat as his legs trembled with pleasure.
“Oh, Sarge… are you getting close?” you taunted.
He moaned at the sound of your voice. “Shit, yes, baby. I’m getting so close. Fuck, your boy’s getting so close.”
You hummed low and raspy, the sound of it making Bucky’s mind run wild. The sound alone could’ve made him come undone.
“That’s a good boy,” you cooed, saccharine and cruel. “I want to hear you cum for me, baby boy.”
He panted hard, his cock throbbing and pulsing in his fist, pre-cum slicking over his aching tip at your praise. Every fiber in his body screamed for release, but he didn’t want to give in just yet. He wanted to draw this out for as long as possible.
He wanted to hear you unravel too.
“I… can’t—” he gasped, pausing his hand around his shaft to steady himself, yet his hips still jerked up instinctively. “I… I want to hear you come, too. Are you… are you touching yourself?”
Bucky swallowed, anticipation burning in his chest.
He knew what your job was—sex operators weren’t there for their own pleasure. They were there to please the customer. Their sole purpose is to keep the client wanting and to keep them paying. But some small, pathetic part of him hoped you were different. That you weren’t just saying the words for a paycheck.
That… maybe you found him pleasurable, too.
Meanwhile, on the other end of the line, your fingers paused over your keyboard, cursor blinking on the half-finished political science article due tomorrow night.
You blinked at the screen in front of you. Guys on the line rarely asked about you. They wanted to talk about themselves—how hard they were, how good you made them feel, how they were about to cum. It was always about them.
You probably should’ve felt flattered, or even appreciated that someone was looking out for your pleasure.
But to you, it felt like an inconvenience.
You had a paper due tomorrow, for god’s sake. This side job was supposed to be easy money with minimal effort. At the end of the day, guys like him didn’t really care if you felt good. What they wanted was the ego boost of believing they could make you feel good, too.
Rolling your eyes, you cleared your throat and leaned back in your chair, trying to force out that sickly sweet voice that these boys craved.
“Don’t worry about me, baby boy,” you cooed. “I’m here to please you.”
On the other end of the line, there was an awkward pause. You were about to type another sentence on your laptop when his voice cut through, breathy and rough.
“I can’t… I can’t cum unless you do.”
You froze, blinking at the glowing cursor on your screen. A disbelieving and almost annoyed laugh escaped your lips.
“Sarge,” you forced a purr, “don’t be silly. You don’t need to worry about me, just keep stroking yourself like a good boy—”
“No, I mean it,” he groaned, his voice tight with frustration. “I can’t—fuck, I… I don’t wanna finish unless you’re with me. Please.”
You pressed your lips into a thin line as you let out an exasperated sigh. He was persistent and straight up desperate. You glanced at the clock on your laptop, then back at the unfinished article mocking you from the screen.
“If you need it that bad… then just be a good boy and imagine me touching myself right now—just for you. Can you do that for me, Sarge?”
You laid it on thick. Your voice was laced with the kind of sweetness that usually sent men over the edge fast.
Easy, efficient, done.
But instead of falling for it, his breathing only grew heavier.
“N-no, I need more,” he whined, voice cracking with pleas. “I need to hear you. Please, baby—tell me you’re really doing it. I want to hear you touch yourself too…”
“Sergeant…” you sighed, leaning back in your chair, eyes narrowing at your blinking cursor. “Don’t you trust me?”
“I do! I do, it’s just—” his voice broke into a breathless moan. “I can’t… I can’t cum unless you’re with me. Please. I don’t wanna do it alone. I don’t wanna feel alone.”
The pathetic whimper at the end of his sentence made your stomach twist—not just with unwanted sympathy, but, annoyingly, with arousal. Something in that desperate little whine made your pussy clench, against your better judgment.
He sounded like he really needed you.
And God, you really didn’t have time for this. Not with a Halloween party to get ready for in less than an hour.
You pinched the bridge of your nose, the glow of your laptop screen burning into your eyes.
The more you resisted, the more he pushed—meaning the longer the call would drag on. If faking it was the only way to get him to finish and off the line, so be it. You needed a break from sitting down at the desk anyway.
With a tired huff, you shoved your wooden chair back and stood, making sure the sound of your movements were loud enough to catch on the mic. The scrape of the chair legs, the stomp of your steps, before dropping onto your bed with a heavy plop. You wanted to make sure he heard it all.
“Okay, Sarge,” you breathed, putting that sultry voice back on. “Since you’re begging so sweetly… I’ll touch myself for you.”
On the other end, his sharp intake of breath was followed by a choked moan, needy and raw.
“Fuck—yes. Thank you, baby. That… that makes me so happy.”
You stretched out across the bed, phone pressed to your ear, and for a moment there was nothing but silence. The silence stretched on uncomfortably. Were you supposed to… keep leading him? Guiding him on? That’s how it usually went.
Your eyes fluttered shut, already tempted to get a quick nap in before the party. But before you could even fall into slumber, his voice snapped you awake.
“Touch yourself for me,” he whispered, almost like he was afraid you’d say no. “Please… slip your hand down your tummy—slow. I want to hear you.”
Your brows furrowed as your lips parted. “Okay…” you said, despite not even moving an inch.
“Go on,” he urged, “I know you’re not actually doing it.”
You froze, lips parting slightly in surprise. No one had ever called you out like that before. Usually, a fake moan or two was enough to send guys spiraling. And usually, your loyal client always sounded whiny and submissive—not firm and unshaken like he does now, cutting through your act without a single stutter.
“Spread your thighs for me,” he ordered, the rasp in his voice sending a shiver down your spine. “Do it right. I wanna know you’re actually touching yourself.”
You swallowed, pulse quickening. With nothing else to distract you, why not indulge him, and maybe yourself too? Letting out a soft sigh, you parted your thighs and trailed your fingertips down your stomach, slipping beneath the waistband of your sleep shorts.
“Okay,” you spoke softly. “I’m… touching myself.”
“Fuck, baby… just the thought of you touching yourself has me throbbing,” he groaned, voice rough and raspy. “I can see it so clear in my head. Your pretty thighs spread out, your hand moving slow, and your pussy glistening just for me.”
He continued on. “You don’t know what you do to me,” he panted. “I bet you’re so soft, so fucking tight… I’d get on my knees just to taste you. Lick you until you’re begging me to stop… fuck… until—until you’re shaking all over my tongue…”
Your lips parted, a sharp inhale slipping through as your fingers pressed down against your clothed clit without you thinking.
Normally, this kind of dirty talk would slide right past you—you had probably heard every filthy line in the book. But it was something about the way he sounded—utterly desperate, whiny, and raspy—that made your pussy clench around nothing.
“Shit…” you whispered under your breath, rubbing slow and teasing circles over the already damp fabric.
On the other end, his moans grew rougher and more desperate, like he could hear you touch yourself.
“Are you… fuck, are you really touching yourself?” his voice cracked on the other end with excitement. “God, baby, tell me you are. Please… I need to hear it.”
You shuddered at the sound of his voice. His words rambled out so fast and breathless, like he couldn’t hold them back.
“Y-yeah,” you admitted softly, surprising yourself with your own honesty. “I am, Sarge. It… it feels so good…”
The sound he made in response was a groan and whimper—the sound resonating straight in your core. A picture of him spawned in your mind before you could stop it—strung out on his bed, cock in his fist, completely undone with just the thought and sound of you.
“Fuck, that’s—oh God, that’s so hot…” he whined, the desperation in his voice making your clit throb under your fingers. “Wish I could see you—wish I could taste you, baby.”
“Sarge—”
“Baby…” he panted, “you don’t get it. The way I picture you right now—my God—it’s driving me insane.”
You couldn’t understand why he, of all people, was the one making your core flutter with every whimper and whine. You’d been praised plenty of times before, sure. But there was something about him that sounded like borderline obsession, and you craved every ounce of it.
Slowly, you pushed your shorts down along with your panties, your hand sliding through your slick heat as your finger circled your bare clit.
“I bet you’re such a messy little slut when you cum,” he groaned, words coming out fast and unfiltered. “Bet your pussy gets all sloppy, dripping down your thighs… fuck, just begging for me to stuff it full.”
A sharp gasp escaped your lips, your hips jerking at his words as your finger probed at your wet entrance.
“Sergeant…” you breathed, “tell me… what would you do to me if you were here?”
You would’ve thought calling him Sergeant would turn you drier than a desert, but the words that came out of him next were so filthy, so raw, you clenched tight around your finger as you slid it in.
His breath caught on the other end, ragged and needy. “If I was there,” he rasped, voice breaking with hunger, “I’d have you spread out for me. I would get down on my knees and bury my face between your thighs, baby. Lick you until you’re shaking, until you can’t even remember your own name.”
He let out a hiss and a low moan, like he rubbed a sensitive spot with his hand.
“I’d keep going, even if you begged me to stop because of how sensitive you are. I want to hear you crying for me to give you more," another broken moan trembled from his lips, “then… I’d slide into you—slow. So slow just to feel how tight you’d squeeze me. Fuck, I’d ruin you, baby.”
“Fuck,” you moaned as your finger curled inside you. A shiver rippled through your body as his filthy words painted picture after picture in your mind.
You shouldn’t have been curious—or you shouldn’t have even cared to begin with, but the question slipped before you could even stop it.
“H-how… how big are you, Sarge?” you breathed, heart beating in anticipation as you waited for his answer.
On the other end, he let out a ragged laugh—low and dark. You’ve never heard your most loyal client laugh like that, and the sound sent an arousing shiver straight down your spine.
“Big enough to stretch that pretty pussy until you’re crying for me to stop—but you won’t want me to, baby. You’ll beg me to keep going. You’ll take it all.”
A soft whimper escaped your lips as you squeezed your legs together, slipping another finger in and fucking yourself as deep as you could as you pictured him in your mind. “My God, baby…”
“You’d split open so sweet around me, and I’d watch you struggle to take it, watch that greedy little cunt stretch wide and swallow me down.”
Your slick fingers pumped in and out, curling and hitting that sweet spot. The stretch made your back arch, your mouth falling open as you let out a ragged moan. “Y-yes, Sarge… fuck…”
“Bet you’d look so pretty stuffed full,” he went on, voice desperate. “So fucking tight… I’d barely be able to move—and still, I know you’d beg for more. Tell me you’d take it, baby. Tell me you’d let me ruin that pretty pussy with my cock.”
Your breath hitched, fingers plunging faster and deeper as your hips bucked against your hand. You tried to answer, but fuck was it difficult. The words kept breaking apart into mewls and moans.
“I’d take it… take… take all of you—” you whimpered as your fluttering walls squeezed around your fingers.
On the other end of the line, he let out a choked and wrecked sound that made your clit throb. “Oh my God, yes! You’re really doing it—you’re really touching yourself for me.” His voice pitched higher with joy and desperation. “Fuck, baby, you’re making me so happy. Please—please cum with me. Let’s cum together, baby.”
His words became whinier, needier, and each word that came out of his mouth drove you closer over the edge.
“How many fingers, baby?” he panted.
“Two, Sergeant,” you moaned, the wet squelching catching on the mic as you moved your fingers faster. “I feel so full—”
He let out a strangled moan, like he could hear every bit of it. “Yes… two fingers? You’ve got two inside you, baby?” his voice cracked with disbelief and bliss. “Fuck, that’s so hot. If you already feel so full with just two fingers, you might not be able to take me.”
You moaned louder, hips rocking into your hand as your wet slit throbbed under the drag of your knuckles.
“I’m getting close, Sarge. Fuck… feels so good.”
His voice jumped in excitement. “Really? Please—please cum for me! I wanna hear it, I wanna hear you fall apart, all because of me.”
Your fingers pumped harder and faster, two knuckles deep as you curled against the spot that made your vision blur. The wet sounds of your pussy filled the air, mixed with your ragged and breathy moans.
Bucky heard every delicious sound that came from you. Spurred on by the filthy noises, he pumped himself faster, working his sensitive shaft. “Baby, oh fuck,” he moaned. “I’m so close… please cum with me. I need it, need you…”
His begging only pushed you further, your hips bucking against your hand as your walls clenched tight around your fingers.
“S-Sarge, fuck!” you cried out as a jolt of hot pleasure shot through your body. Your orgasm crashed over you, sharp and overwhelming, pulling a desperate sob from your lips as your body shook.
His groans came immediately after. “Fuck—yes, yes, baby! oh my God—” he whimpered into the receiver, the sound of slick strokes and broken cries filling your ear. “Cum with me, cum with me… ohh, fuck!”
You writhed against the sheets, listening to him fall apart right along with you. His panting, his desperate whimpers—all of it blended into your own moans until you both sagged in silence, completely wrecked and breathless.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Your whole body trembled as you came down from the high, chest heaving, and fingers buried inside your slick heat. Your legs were twitching, and your wet folds were pulsing from how hard you had been grinding against your own hand.
And then the thought hit you.
Damn.
This guy actually made you cum.
You stared up at the ceiling, dazed, and almost annoyed at yourself. You have done this job long enough to know better. Most callers barely lasted five minutes, just eager to unload and hang up. But this guy…
He dragged you under with him. Every desperate whine, every filthy word worming its way into your head until you were gasping and shaking like he was actually there with you—like he was actually in your bed, touching you and stuffing you full.
Your fingers slipped out of you with a wet squelch, and you let your phone drop to your pillow as you dragged the back of your hand across your forehead, sweaty and amazed.
You couldn’t help it—your lips twisted into a disbelieving laugh.
Out of all the men who’d ever called, him?
The one who got off on being called “Sergeant,” unironically. The one who sounded so needy, so broken down by his own desperation? He was the one who actually made you cum. It didn’t make sense. You had faked it through entire sessions without breaking a single sweat. But his whines, his begging, his obsession—it all crawled under your skin, bypassed the script, and ignited something inside you.
The thought of getting attached to a caller never crossed your mind. Not even once. And now, as you’re laying here, your pussy still clenching around nothing, you’ve come to realize you hated this feeling. You knew this man was loyal enough to keep coming back for more—but now, a shameful part of you wondered if you’d be the one calling him back, even if you weren’t getting paid.
The silence stretched on, surprisingly comfortable, as you were lost in the haze of what just happened. Your breathing was still uneven, your body warm and limp against the sheets. Finally, you broke it with a soft and almost incredulous laugh.
“That was… amazing,” you admitted genuinely.
Against every rule you lived by on these calls, the words slipped out before you could stop them.
“…Whats your name, Sarge?”
Bucky laid there, chest still heaving, his hands slack around his spent cock. His body felt heavy and boneless. But his chest felt light and warm—like he couldn’t stop the giddy and flustered smile tugging at his lips as he stared up at the ceiling.
You wanted to know his name?
He has called several times before, and not once did you bother asking him for personal details past the typical “Sarge” or “Sergeant.”
It wasn’t supposed to matter—this was just a call line, for fuck’s sake. It was just a fantasy. But the way you said it—soft and breathless—right after you both had come together… it made his heart thump faster in his chest, like he was some lovesick teenager with a stupid high school crush.
He cleared his throat. “My name is—”
But before he could even finish, his door slammed open without a single knock or warning.
“Bucky!” Steve’s voice barked, followed by Sam’s heavy footsteps.
Bucky froze, eyes wide as he scrambled upright. The phone slipped from his shaky hands as he tried to tug his sweatpants back over his hips. “Shit, shit—” he muttered under his breath, his thumb quickly pressing down on the ‘end call’ button on his screen.
Steve stepped inside, brows furrowed. “Why are the lights off in here?”
“Wait—”
Before Bucky could warn them, the small dorm room flooded with a harsh fluorescent light.
He squinted against the sudden brightness, heart lurching in his throat as Steve’s gaze swept over him and the mess of his rumbled sheets. Steve’s eyes narrowed, glancing between Bucky’s flustered face and, mussed hair, and the suspicious way he was clutching at the blanket.
“Real subtle, Buck.”
Sam chuckled. “Don’t tell me you were on the phone again,” he teased, smirk widening. “You callin’ your little make-believe girlfriend?”
Bucky’s throat went dry. “N-no! I wasn’t—shut up, Sam.”
“Does she still call you Sarge?”
Steve blew raspberries as he gave Sam a playful nudge. “Sarge? As in Sergeant—”
“Jesus Christ,” Bucky mumbled as he pressed his face into his hands out of embarrassment. “Would you guys shut the hell up?”
“Man, you make it too easy,” Sam taunted as he wiped a tear. “Does she even know your name, little bro—”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Steve cut him off with a groan, waving a hand. “The Halloween party already started, Buck, and you’re in here jerking off in the dark? Seriously?”
Bucky shrugged, slumping back against the pillows and getting comfortable under the warm blanket. His cheeks still burned, but he forced his voice to sound steady. “I told you, Steve. I’m not going to that party.”
Steve crossed his arms, his expression not moving. “Buck, come on. It’s the annual Halloween party. Everyone’s there. You can’t keep hiding in this room forever.”
“What?” Bucky scoffed, as if he even had the audacity to after being caught in a compromising position. “I’m not hiding. I just don’t feel like going.”
Sam rolled his eyes and stepped forward, grabbing the blanket and yanking it off him.
“Sam—what the hell!”
Sam let out a bark of laughter. “Are you sweating? My God, you were really in here working yourself over!” He pointed at Bucky’s flustered face, doubling over in glee. “Unbelievable. Our boy’s in here giving himself a special Halloween treat.”
“Sam,” Steve warned, though even he couldn’t stop the smile twitching on his lips. “This is exactly what I’m talking about. You’re wasting the night in here when you should be out there. Tonight’s the night, Buck. You need to let loose. Have some fun. Hell, maybe even finally lose your virginity.”
Bucky made a sour face. “Steve—”
Sam clapped a firm hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “Don’t give us that look, man. Tonight’s the perfect chance. Chicks in costumes, booze flowing—you’re not walking back into this room a virgin.”
Bucky swallowed hard, heat creeping up his neck. He wanted to dig his heels in, tell them both to shove it, and stay right here in the safety of his dorm room.
But he knew better.
Steve could be relentless when he thought he was “helping.” And Sam lived for this kind of thing. He’d never let Bucky live it down if he skipped the biggest party of the year. They’d just keep pressing, pushing, and dragging him out the door if they had to.
And every time they said the word “virginity,” his ears burned hot, like the shame was tattooed across his forehead in big bold letters. He hated how flustered it made him. He hated how easy it was for something so little to get under his skin.
He wasn’t proud of being a virgin, but he wasn’t ashamed either.
Not until they reminded him.
He let out a tired sigh, forcing his eyes away from them. If only they knew the truth—that just a few minutes ago, he’d come harder than he ever had in his life. Not to a porn clip or a magazine, but to you. A stranger whose voice can turn his entire world upside down.
And as pathetic as it may sound—part of him didn’t want anyone else to touch him now.
“I don’t even have a costume.” Bucky protested weakly, grasping for anything that might buy him a chance for a way out.
Sam rolled his eyes and hooked an arm through Bucky’s. “Oh, please. You’ve got a handsome face, head full of hair, and broad shoulders. Congratulations, you’re already a chick magnet. Nobody’s gonna care about a costume.”
Steve approached, grabbing his other arm and ignoring Bucky’s half-hearted struggle. “He’s right. Party’s already packed, so no one will care. You’ll be fine, just show up,” he yanked at his arm, “come on, punk.”
“I’m serious,” Bucky dug his heels into the carpet, though it was no use against both of them hauling him towards the door. “I’m not—guys, I don’t wanna go!”
Sam just smirked, tightening his grip. “Yeah, yeah. You can thank us later when you finally stop jerking off alone in the dark and actually get some.”
Bucky’s face flamed so hot, he thought his ears might catch on fire.
And the next thing he knew, his dorm door was swinging shut behind him, and he was being marched down the hall, out the building, and to the chaotic noise of the Halloween party.
The frat house was already alive when they shoved him through the door.
The bass was thumping so hard, it nearly rattled his damn ribs. Obnoxious strobe lights flashed over a sea of costumes and sweaty bodies were pressed too close together. The smell of beer, cheap perfume, and fake fog hit him all at once, and it took everything in Bucky to resist the urge to turn right back around.
Steve gave him a gentle clap on the back, steering him deeper into the crowd. “Buck, just relax. Have a drink, talk to people. It’s Halloween—nobody’s judging.”
Sam walked next to him, scanning the room like a hawk. His grin widened when he spotted a girl in the corner dressed up as a sad excuse of a mouse. All she had on was a short skirt that barely covered her ass and a pair of mouse ears.
How was that a costume, exactly?
Bucky couldn’t understand it.
Sam nodded towards the girl. “There. Exactly your type.”
“My type?” Bucky scoffed. “You don’t even know what my type is.”
“She’s a real, breathing human woman who’s not hiding behind a phone to help boys jerk off,” Sam teased, tilting his head toward him tauntingly.
Bucky’s jaw clenched. He could even hear Steve trying to smother a laugh behind him. His face started to feel warm with a mixture of embarrassment and irritation. And at this point, it was mostly irritation. He was tired of being the punchline.
With a sharp exhale, he stepped away from them, yanking a beer out of the ice-filled tin and popping it open. If they wanted to treat him like some awkward virgin who’d never make a move—fine.
He’d prove them both wrong.
Bucky tipped the beer back, downed a long swallow, and let out a sigh. Tonight, he was finally getting laid. And Steve and Sam were going to shut the fuck up with their relentless teasing and nagging. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, the cool burn of the beer settling in his chest as he turned back to his friends.
“Stop worrying about me,” he said, his voice rough with a forced confidence. “I’m getting laid tonight. You’ll see.”
They both stared at him blankly—as if they hadn’t heard him right.
Then Sam threw his head back once the words registered, letting out a loud laugh. “Oh, this I gotta see.”
Steve, on the other hand, just blinked. He raised a warning hand to Bucky. “Okay, hold on. You can’t just have sex with the first person you see.”
“I know,” Bucky waved him off, taking another swig of beer. “I’m not a complete idiot.”
As Bucky started walking away, eyes narrowed and trying to find his prey, Sam couldn’t help but let out an even louder laugh at how ridiculous he looked. Sam nudged Steve in the shoulder. “Bold of you to assume that the first person he sees will even want to have sex with him.”
And unfortunately for Bucky—Sam was right.
The entire time, he tried to spark up conversations with girls. And by trying, he mostly just stood next to them and asked about their costumes. It was a great icebreaker, he thought—that is, until he went up to one girl with messy, teased hair and a green and white dress with olive hair-clips and asked her, “What are you supposed to be?”
The girl then replied with an enthusiastic smile, “I’m a dirty martini!”
Bucky just eyed her up and down and said, “You just look dirty.”
He had meant for that to be a flirtatious comment—but based on the girl’s scrunched-up face and the way she turned on her heel, it clearly didn’t land. Every girl he talked to after that seemed to trail away from him the minute he opened his mouth. Bucky knew he wasn’t unattractive, but after tonight, he was also realizing that he wasn’t a great talker either.
After several minutes of walking around like a lost puppy, he tried to reconvene with Sam and Steve. Apparently—as told to him by other partygoers—they were somewhere in the corner of the house with a girl on each hip. Getting some.
Getting something that Bucky definitely wasn’t.
He was just about ready to head out on his own, but he needed one more beer for the walk back to his dorm. As he approached the kitchen, muttering a couple of quiet “excuse me’s” and “can I get past you?”, he finally made it to the cooler. There was a couple making out right next to him, and he felt pathetic kneeling down, trying to ignore them as he fetched a bottle of beer.
Tonight was miserable.
Tonight was a humiliation ritual set up by his very own best friends.
If only he had the night to himself—uninterrupted, left completely alone in the comfort of his dark dorm room. Left in the comfort of your sweet, sultry voice. His bed, your voice, a wild imagination, and his hand.
That was all he needed for a perfect night.
He twisted the cap off the beer, the sound barely audible over the thumping bass echoing through the house. He lifted it halfway to his lips—then froze.
A voice floated from somewhere down the hall to his left. It was quiet and soft, but then came a laugh. That raspy, sultry voice that could make his dick hard in a matter of seconds. That laugh that could make his ears perk up and catch, even amidst the loud house music.
Bucky felt his chest tighten. It couldn’t be.
There was no way.
Was the alcohol already getting to him? Was he so down bad that he was starting to imagine your voice? But even muffled under the music and chatter, he’d know that voice anywhere. The same smooth tone that had whispered filth into his ear just an hour ago. The same one that made him come undone in his dark dorm room.
His fingers tightened around the neck of the bottle, heartbeat spiking, though he tried his best to keep his cool. He scanned the area, waiting until you spoke again.
“No way—” that delicious voice rang through his ears, “did he really do that?”
He turned slowly toward the sound, and there you were. Leaning against the wall, laughing with what seemed to be a friend, wearing a little black dress and devil horns. Your voice, his late-night addiction, was coming from the flesh-and-blood woman standing right there.
He didn’t know what came over him—but his feet started moving before he could stop himself. His heart was beating so loud in his chest, it was like the music and all other conversations were completely drowned out by his heartbeat alone. The only thing his ears could focus on was your voice. The more you talked with your friend, the more you laughed—it was like a siren calling for him.
He didn’t even realize he was standing in front of you until you stopped talking, staring blankly at him like he was a lost puppy.
You gave your friend a side-eye, a silent look that clearly asked, “do you know this guy?” to which your friend simply glanced briefly at Bucky—then shrugged.
“I’m sorry,” you chuckled awkwardly. “Can I… help you with something?”
Bucky cleared his throat, wiping his free, clammy hand on his jeans. “I…” he hesitated, swallowing hard. “I… think I know you.”
The strained, politely forced smile slowly faded once the familiar baritone of his voice rang in your ears. Your grip tightened on your solo cup instinctively, almost like a defensive reaction, as you stared at the mysterious man in front of you.
You recognized his voice. Your loyal customer. Sergeant.
But you were in denial. Seriously—what were the odds of being at the same party as one of your callers? And Sergeant, no less?
So, you cleared your throat and shook your head, forcing out an awkward laugh. “No, I don’t think so,” you lifted the cup and mumbled behind the rim, “Must be mistaking me for someone else—”
“No,” he interrupted, his voice suddenly more determined. “I know you.”
Your friend cleared her throat, awkwardly interrupting the already tense conversation. She grabbed your arm gently, pulling you closer. “I think we should go.”
Any other normal person would probably agree. Any other normal person would feel uncomfortable when an unknown man approaches you at a party, claiming he knew you. But as you glanced back at him, he looked completely harmless.
The way he stood there, shoulders slumped and awkwardly holding a beer bottle. The way his brows were furrowed, eyes glued to yours, and his jaw was set in a way that made it seem like he was determined not to let you go even if you walked away.
You couldn’t bring yourself to move. You felt drawn to him.
“Uh—actually, you go on ahead,” you said to your friend, who only gave you a skeptical look in return. “I’ll meet you outside.”
She raised a brow, giving one last side glance to him before pulling you closer and whispering in your ear so he couldn’t hear, “Be careful. Make sure you use protection.” With that, she walked away—leaving you alone with the man standing awkwardly in front of you.
Bucky cleared his throat, watching her go as he swayed stiffly on the soles of his shoes. “So, I—”
“You said you know me?” you crossed your arms, leaning against the wall as you eyed him carefully.
If your hunch was right, if this was really the person you had been phoning with, then a part of you couldn’t help but want to see him stumble and falter underneath your gaze. This was you testing him—because the real Sergeant would be—should be—a babbling mess before you.
And you were right.
“I—um,” he stammered. “I do know you, I think. Well… actually—I’m pretty sure I do know you—”
“Know me from where?” you tilted your head, playing dumb.
He swallowed hard, tearing his gaze away from yours as he looked down at a random spot on the floor. “I…”
“Don’t look away,” you said, your voice soft and sweet as you took a step closer, invading his personal space. You were close enough to hear the breath get stolen from his lungs. “I want to see your face. I want to see if I recognize you from somewhere,” you added with a coy smile.
Bucky looked back up hesitantly, his teeth timidly strumming against his bottom lip. He was clearly nervous, and he couldn’t find the words. He half expected you to be weirded out by him, run off with your friend, and for him to never see you again. But he couldn’t let this chance go. He knew you were his girl.
He just needed to gather the courage to blurt it out.
“You probably haven’t seen my face before—”
“So, then how do you recognize me?” you leaned closer, batting your lashes at him.
You knew the answer, of course. You just wanted to hear it come out of his mouth.
“Is it my voice that you recognize, Sergeant?”
He didn’t need to say anything for you to confirm it. The way his shoulders stiffened after the word ‘Sergeant’, his eyes slightly widened, and the flush creeping up his face told you everything you needed to know. Standing in front of you was him, the man who paid to call you nearly every night, the man who got off on the way your tongue rolled every time you called him a good boy.
If it were any of your other callers, you would have turned on your heel and been long gone. But the man in front of you was the same man who made you cum on the phone for the first time just an hour ago.
So, how could you leave?
And it was clear he didn’t want you to leave either.
“Fuck,” he mumbled to himself, shifting in his stance as he already felt the beginning of an erection creeping on him from just your voice alone. “It is you…”
“Would you look at that,” you said with a breathless laugh. “Who would have thought that my good boy would be here—at the same party?”
His tongue swiped at his bottom lip, eyes flickering all over your face—like he was trying to trace every curve and pattern of you. His reaction was so unbearably cute, you couldn’t help but grin as you pressed a finger against his chest, slowly trailing it up and down teasingly. “You hung up on me earlier, you know.”
He shuddered underneath your touch. The beer bottle damn near slipping in his hands. “I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”
You hummed, tilting your head. “I asked you for your name before you left me hanging.”
“B-bucky…” he mumbled quietly—so quiet you couldn’t hear him over the music.
You laid your hand flat against his surprisingly solid chest, leaning closer to hear him better. “Bugy?” you asked with a frown.
“No,” he shouted a bit louder over the music. “Bucky.”
You met his eyes and flashed him a smile. “Oh, that’s a cute name!”
“Thanks,” he grinned, looking boyish—and the sight made your heart feel warm. You watched as his eyes deliberately took you in, traveling up and down and pausing at the curve of your hip and breasts. He wasn’t even trying to hide it, and he didn’t seem ashamed in the least.
“I… I like your costume.”
The hallway was starting to get packed—bodies pressed everywhere, music blaring, and people shouting over one another. You had to lean closer again just to hear him.
“What did you say?”
“I said I like your costume!” he repeated even louder, his grin widening when you laughed again.
“Oh, thanks.”
The sound made him relax a little… that is, until someone bumped into his back, nearly spilling his drink all over you. You caught his arm on instinct and shouted, “Careful!” to steady him.
His cheek immediately flushed. It was the first time all night that a girl had touched him—much less the literal girl of his dreams. That touch alone was enough to send a jolt of desire straight to his cock, which twitched helplessly against his jeans. He glanced around the room, cheeks still flushing.
“Kind of loud in here, huh?”
“Yeah,” you said, eyes flicking down the rest of the hallway.
The coat closet door was cracked open, a quiet, shadowy corner compared to the chaos that filled the halls. You were also pretty certain a couple had just left that closet.
“We could—uh,” you shouted over the loud music, “talk somewhere else. If you want.”
Bucky’s eyes followed yours, trailing to the same closet you were just looking at. He let out a shaky breath, a bashful finger pointing in that direction. “Over there? In the closet?”
You shrugged, smiling. “Why not?”
Before he could reply, he got bumped into again—hard. He nearly crashed into you, but he held his arm up and planted it firm against the wall, steadying himself before he collided right into you.
“Shit,” he mumbled, flustered over the close proximity. “It’s… it’s so crowded here—”
You chuckled, grabbing his wrist and prying it away from the wall, already leading him toward the closet. “I know, so let’s get out of here before you spill beer all over my dress.”
As you led him, Bucky couldn’t help but stare at the way your dress clung tight to your curves—barely covering your ass. He had made fun of a girl dressed like that just mere minutes ago, but seeing you, dressed like this—like a filthy slut—was the most beautiful and refreshing thing he’d seen all night.
You pushed him in, following soon after and shutting the door—leaving the two of you confined in this tight, dark space. You giggled softly—the kind of giggle that never failed to get Bucky riled up.
“Now you’re trapped with me.”
Bucky wouldn’t have it any other way. “Ha…” he chuckled as he stood awkwardly—good thing you couldn’t see him. “Isn’t that unfortunate?”
You assumed that was him trying to crack a joke. You didn’t laugh because you thought it was funny, but because he sounded so adorable and helpless. You grabbed the bottle out of his hands, setting both your drinks somewhere on the floor and out of the way. You took a step closer to him, closer and closer until he stumbled back against the wall, letting out a startled gasp as his hands found your waist, steadying himself.
“Shit…” he muttered. “You’re so close.”
You didn’t know if it was the alcohol making you bold, or the atmosphere of a party where everyone around you was making out, or if it was simply the boy in front of you making you feel worked-up.
But the heat pooling in your lower belly was undeniable. What you needed was to get fucked—and with your good boy standing in front of you, knowing how much he’d dreamed of this moment, now was the perfect time.
“Oh, Bucky,” you sighed, your hands coming up to caress his large arms. “You’ve been dreaming of this moment, haven’t you? You told me that all the time over the phone…” You grazed your hands down his forearms, feeling his goosebumps. “All the things you wanted to do to me in person… is that still true?”
If Bucky wasn’t hard before, he was straining so hard it might as well be painful. His cock was throbbing—likely already leaking—in his denim. He wanted more of you, but a shameful part of him prayed that you wouldn’t get closer to feel how embarrassingly hard he got just from your voice, just from being so close to you.
But it was too late. You pressed against him until there was no space between you two, and you let out a soft, surprised gasp at the feel of his straining, clothed cock pressed up against your thigh.
You couldn’t help your hand trailing down to his bulge, palming him through his jeans. “Jesus, Sarge. You’re so hard.”
His cock pulsed against your hand. “Fuck, baby…” he groaned. “I—I’ve been dreaming of this… for so long. You have no idea—fuck—wait, what are you d-doing… oh!”
Bucky’s words died in his throat as you swiftly unbuckled his belt, unbuttoned his pants, and freed his cock from his clothes. Your hand wrapped around his achingly erect shaft, giving it a light squeeze as you began to move your hand up and down.
“Oh my god,” his eyes fluttered shut, his head tipping back against the wall as you started pumping him slowly. “Fuck—that feels so good.”
It felt so good he didn’t know if he could last long. Your touch, your soft giggles, the smell of you—it was enough to make him explode all over your fingers right now.
“That’s a good boy,” you cooed, knowing how much he loved the nickname.
“Shit,” he grunted, his legs going stiff as he snapped his eyes open. “Shit, shit, shit…” he repeated, his hands coming up to wrap tightly around your wrist—tight enough to make you gasp. “H-hold on, fuck.” He pried your hands away, catching his breath.
You furrowed your brows. “Did I…? Did I hurt you—”
“No,” he shook his head rapidly. “T-that… that was close. Fuck. Too close.”
Your eyes widened once the realization hit you. It could only mean one thing when a man comes undone in less than five minutes by a girl’s hand.
It meant that Bucky was a virgin.
“Oh, shit,” you gasped, taking a step back. “I’m… I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were a virgin.” The sudden guilt of potentially taking his virginity—something that should be sacred and only shared with a special person—came crashing over you hard. Your face flushed in embarrassment.
“Sorry, I’ll—uh, I’ll go—”
As your hand reached for the closet knob, you felt Bucky’s presence behind you—suddenly large and looming. His breathing was hard and heavy, giving you the kind of presence where you didn’t know if you wanted to turn around or not.
“Don’t go,” he said, his voice suddenly deeper and hungrier. His hand circled behind you, finding your wrist and pulling it away from the knob. He nuzzled his nose into the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent deeply. “Don’t go, please. I need you so fucking bad—you have no idea.”
He slowly, and timidly, rocked his hips from behind, your dress hiking slightly up from the movement. “Please. Don’t leave me here like this. Fuck, baby. I’m so hard… it fucking hurts.”
You shuddered, the feeling of his bare cock poking against you from behind making you clench. You let out a soft gasp that only spurred him on. He rocked his hips again, breathing heavy as his hands started to roam your body—your waist, your thighs, your stomach, to your chest—groping you through your dress and wrinkling it.
“It’s okay if I touch you, right? You’ll let your good boy touch you?”
You let out a shaky breath, legs tightening together just to ease that building ache between your legs. You started moving your hips back, meeting his thrusts with yours. “Fuck, you’re such a dirty boy, huh?” You rocked your hips back again, looking over your shoulder.
Through the light cracked from the closet door, his eyes were already hazy with lust. “Losing your virginity to someone like me—in a filthy closet,” you rocked your hips back again. “You’re just so desperate, aren’t you?”
He whimpered, his hands gripping your hips tightly.
“N-no, I’m not desperate… I’m—fuck,” he grunted, panting near your ear as his nose stayed nestled against your shoulder. “I’m not desperate, baby. I’m a good boy—I just… I want to give you everything.”
“Yeah?” you purred, your hand coming up to tug on his hair as you rocked your ass against his throbbing cock. “Then what are you waiting for, baby?”
“D-do you…” he stiffened slightly, swallowing hard. “Do you want me to take your…” he gulped again, as if the next word was dirtier than what you two were doing, “panties… off?”
You couldn’t help but smile at the innocence in his voice. You turned around slowly. He groaned in frustration at the sudden loss of the curve of your ass that his cock had nestled against. You slowly lifted the hem of your dress up, revealing your lacy underwear to him.
Bucky felt like the wind got knocked out of his throat at the sight of your bare thighs—your sweet pussy barely hidden by the lace.
As if you cast a spell on him, he wrapped one hand around his shaft, giving himself a few pumps as he slowly dropped to his knees. He brought up one shaky hand, his fingertips gentle against your calf and up your leg, as if he were scared to touch you.
“My god,” he rasped, looking up at you lovingly from his knees as he jerked himself and trailed his fingers up to the waistband of your panties. “You look so fucking beautiful. I can’t believe you’re actually real…”
You smiled softly as he stared up at you lovingly—like you were the only thing important in his life, like he needed you to breathe. He swallowed hard, both his hands hooking onto the waistband of your underwear. He looked up at you, puppy-eyed and breathing heavy.
“Can I…?”
“Beg for it, Bucky.”
“Fuck, please let me take them off, baby. I’ll do anything… anything you want—” Before you even gave your approval, he started to tug them down, exposing your mound to him, the slit peeking just slightly.
“No,” you grabbed his wrist, stopping him. “Slow down.”
He let out an agitated groan, but he nodded eagerly. “I will—I’ll slow down, I promise!”
Hesitantly, he started to tug your panties down slower. Not being able to control himself anymore, he began to slowly grind his bare cock against your soft leg, pulling your panties down excruciatingly slow—torturing himself at your command. He dragged them all the way down until they pooled at your ankles. Once you stepped out of them, he couldn’t help but admire you while he was on his knees.
“Please,” he whimpered. “Can I have a taste, please?”
You lifted a leg up, wrapping it around his shoulder and nudging him closer. He nearly stumbled, landing on his hands as his face nuzzled against your wet slit.
“Oh my god,” he shuddered, his eyes fluttering shut at your scent. His tongue dragged along your dripping cunt, letting out a groan that rumbled from his chest and vibrated against you.
Your hands flew down to tug at his hair, pulling him closer. “Fuck, yes, Bucky. Just like that—fuck, you’re such a good boy.”
Spurred on by your praise, one hand slid up your thigh and behind you, giving your ass a firm squeeze as he ate you out. His tongue and mouth started to move sloppily—messy, and desperate to please you. His other hand wrapped around his cock again, pumping himself as he fucked you with his tongue.
“Oh, yes, baby… keep going—” you gasped, legs trembling over his shoulder.
The tip of his tongue flicked up against your clit, and he pulled your ass firmly, holding you close so that you were forced to take his brutal tongue. You threw your head back, moaning through the music as your pussy clenched around nothing—craving to be filled with more than just his tongue.
Bucky pulled away slightly to catch his breath, giving you a boyish grin and puppy eyes, his lips and chin sheen with your arousal and his saliva. “You taste so good, baby. Did you like that?”
“That was good, baby boy,” you let out a shaky breath, dropping your leg from his shoulder. “But I need you inside, baby. I need you to fuck me deep and hard—will you be good and do that for me?”
His eyes lit up and he rose to his feet, nearly stumbling over himself. “Yes, God—I would love to. Fuck, this has been my dream.”
He was on you before you could say anything else, closing the space between you as his hands found your waist, gripping it tightly and spinning you so that your back was facing him. You let out a startled gasp as your cheeks pressed against the door. He bent you over slightly, exposing your bare ass to him.
“Christ, look at you…” every sound or word that left his mouth was whiny and breathy, yet his hands moved eagerly and with a strength that was enough to position you for his pleasure and hold you in place at the same time.
Bucky stepped up behind you, rubbing the tip of his head against your entrance as he tilted his head down, inhaling the scent of your hair again as he probed against you. “Please…” he rasped like a man starved, “can I put it in? I’ve never done this before, but I swear, I’ll be a good boy for you. I’ll fuck you so good—you’ll only want me from now on. So, can I? Please, baby? Will you let me?”
You felt him shudder against you as his tip continued to probe against your entrance, groaning as the slick of your arousal coated his head. You were so unbelievably wet, it would be so easy for him to slip it in—but you could tell it was taking everything in him to hold back.
“You think you—a virgin—can fuck me good?”
He moaned, your taunt only urging him to push his tip past your entry. His grip on your hip tightened, almost painfully, as he slowly sunk into you, rocking his hips slightly so you took more than just his tip. He was big—unbelievably so. You knew he was when you felt him in your hands, but now that he was pushing inside you inch by inch, the delicious stretch was burning you.
“Fuck!” you moaned, pressing your hands against the door to steady yourself. “I didn’t even give you permission to—”
“I know, baby…” he grunted, pushing in even deeper. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I couldn’t help myself. Not when you’re finally here in front of me, looking so pretty—fuck, I knew you were a pretty girl from just your voice alone.”
A small whimper escaped your lips as he filled you, half of his length inside you. He paused his hips, his hands coming up to caress your chest through your dress, giving them a firm and hungry squeeze. “I’m sorry, baby. A-am I hurting you?”
“No,” you let out a shaky breath. “You’re just… big.”
Another moan left his lips, followed by a disbelieving chuckle. “You think so? You think I’m big? Fuck—” He grabbed your hips, holding you still as he completely sheathed his cock inside you. Your tight warmth enveloped him, and he tossed his head back, moaning helplessly behind you as he began rocking his hips. “That makes me so happy.”
Determined to please you, he held your hips tight against him as he started rutting into you. The feel of his cock throbbing inside you as he fucked you hard, the whiny babblings of “thank you,” and “you feel so fucking good,” leaving his lips in a litany was enough to make your head spin with desire.
You guided one of his hands down in front of you, pressing his fingers against your clit and rubbing it in small circles. “Here,” you gasped, hips jerking into his touch. “Rub here—that’s it… just like that. Fuck, you’re doing so good for me, baby boy.”
“Oh my god!” he choked, his cock pulsing at your praise. “It feels so good—being inside you like this. My god, I don’t ever want to fucking stop… shit.”
He continued fucking into you, his hips slapping against yours as you bounced back and forth from his thrusts. Each delicious moan and whimper that left your lips was like music to his ears, only making him rock his hips harder and his fingers rub against your clit faster.
The closet door rattling from his thrusts, the sound of his heavy breathing and moans, the way his fingers moved fiercely against your clit—determined to please you—it was all overwhelming your senses.
Bucky claimed he was a virgin, yet his cock was hitting all the right spots, and his fingers played with your clit like he owned it. You were dripping all over him, feeling yourself getting close. His thrusts started to lose their rhythm—getting sloppy as he felt you clench and flutter around his shaft.
“A-are you getting close, baby?” he moaned into your hair. “Fuck… I’m getting close too—shit, I’ve been n-needing to cum since we started,” he admitted pathetically. “But I’ve been holding out for you… I want to cum together—like we did on the phone. Oh fuck, baby. Please tell me you’re going to cum soon?”
You clenched hard around him, his grumbling and whimpers not helping you in this situation. “I’m gonna cum, Bucky—”
“God, yes,” he whined. “Please, please cum. Fuck—let me fill you up, baby. Don’t you want that? Your good boy’s cum inside you? Stuffing you deep and full?”
You tossed your head back, a loud cry escaping your lips as his relentless fingers, his cock inside you, and his filthy words sent you over the edge. Your warm, velvety walls clamped around him and you were so unbelievably tight—it made Bucky’s hip jerk one last time before he hilted completely inside you, his cock pulsing as he fucked you full of his hot cum.
“Yesss,” he hissed through his teeth, his grip on your waist tight, causing you to wince. He rolled his hips lazily, letting his release seep deep inside you as his grip on you forced you to take it all. “Yes, baby! God, thank you so much—thank you…” he panted, his legs trembling.
His body tired out, slumping behind you as his cock pulsed and began to soften inside you.
Both of you were breathing hard, catching your breath. You and Bucky slid down, tangled together on the floor, breathless and flushed. For a long moment, neither of you spoke—his head resting against your chest as you sat against the door.
Then, you let out a soft laugh, brushing his hair back from his sweaty forehead. “Guess that was not how you expected the night to go, huh, Sergeant?”
Bucky looked up at you, dazed, still trying to catch his breath. “I can’t believe you’re actually real—and I can’t believe you’re here, in front of me.”
You smiled, your heart swelling in your chest at his innocence. You tangled your fingers in his hair, and his eyes fluttered shut, leaning into your touch. Before either of you could say another word, the doorknob rattled.
“Buck? You in there?” Steve’s voice came muffled through the door and the music.
Bucky’s eyes went wide. “Oh, no—”
“Don’t tell me you’re jerking off in the closet of a party, Buck. Jesus—”
“Who the hell is that?” you hissed at Bucky.
“Just ignore them,” he groaned. “I do—”
But before he could finish his sentence, the door swung open. You let out a startled gasp as you stumbled backward, Bucky tumbling down on top of you. From the floor, you looked up to see a tall man filling the doorway, with another standing just behind him.
Sam’s grin froze halfway when he saw the two of you. “Holy—”
“Uh,” Steve cleared his throat awkwardly, hand still gripping the doorknob. “We thought you were… uh—”
Bucky shot them both a look, his face flushed a deep, embarrassing red. He scrambled to his feet, hands slipping around your waist to help you sit up. “Shut the fucking door, Steve!”
“Right—okay—yeah, I’ll do that,” Steve stammered, quickly slamming the door shut before glancing over at Sam.
On the other side of the door, Steve and Sam both stared at each other for a moment, dumbfounded in silence.
Then, slowly, matching grins spread across their faces.
“Damn,” Steve muttered.
Sam let out a low whistle. “Our boy actually got laid.”
guys im so sorry. this fic is not my proudest work (or nut) but of course, i had to lock in for bwa-nation. if you actually stuck through this slop, thank you. and thank you for reading 🥀
dededos
andulkaphoto
turnnoffyourmind
2087
snowghoul
stormborns
