Bucky, who is OBSESSED with biting the reader when they're having sex😩 like, this man is feral. Also he's never had this urge before, but the reader is chubby and squishy it's physically impossible for him to not dig his teeth into her soft skin. At first he is hesitant, he doesn't wanna scare her, but figures she likes it too after a few trials, and now it's mandatory when they have sex. Like anywhere. They both love it equally.
Bucky Barnes had always prided himself on control.
Even after the serum, after the decades of violence etched into his bones, he kept his edges sharp and leashed. Sex with you had been no different at first—intense, reverent, a careful worship of every curve and dip of your body.
You were soft in all the ways that made his mouth water, your thighs thick enough to bruise his hips when you wrapped them around him, your belly a warm, yielding pillow under his palm. He loved sinking his fingers into you. Loved the way your flesh gave and bounced back.
But biting?
That urge had never been there before.
Until it was.
The first time it happened, you were riding him slowly in the dim lamplight of your shared apartment, your hips rolling in that lazy rhythm that drove him insane. Sweat slicked your skin, making the soft underside of your breast glisten as you arched above him.
Bucky’s metal hand anchored your waist while his flesh fingers dug into the generous swell of your ass, guiding you down onto him again and again. You felt so good—tight, wet, perfect—and when you leaned forward, your breasts swaying heavy and full right in front of his face, something in him snapped.
He latched onto the side of one breast without thinking, teeth sinking into the give of you.
Not hard enough to break skin, but firm.
A low, guttural growl vibrated against your flesh as he bit down.
You gasped, hips stuttering.
For a split second, Bucky froze, horror flooding him.
What the fuck was that?
He pulled back immediately, eyes wide, lips already forming an apology.
“Shit—baby, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
But you were looking down at him with flushed cheeks and parted lips, pupils blown wide. Your hand came up to cradle the back of his head, guiding him right back.
“Do it again,” you whispered.
“Harder.”
That was all it took.
---
Months later, biting wasn’t just a sometimes thing.
It was mandatory.
Foreplay. During. After.
Anywhere his mouth could reach, he marked you.
And you craved it just as fiercely.
Tonight was no exception.
You’d barely made it through the door after a long day before Bucky had you pinned against the hallway wall, his mouth crashing into yours in a messy, desperate kiss. His hands roamed greedily, squeezing the soft rolls at your sides, kneading your hips before sliding beneath your shirt.
“Missed you,” he growled against your lips.
“Missed this.”
He dropped to his knees right there in the entryway, tugging your leggings and underwear down in one rough motion. Your thighs jiggled with the movement, and Bucky groaned like a man starved.
“Can’t help it,” he muttered later, eyes dark and wild as they traveled over you. “You’re so fucking soft.”
By the time he carried you to the bedroom, your skin was already decorated with the evidence of his affection.
The mattress bounced beneath your weight when he set you down, stripping quickly before crawling over you.
He didn't rush.
Not really.
Because as much as Bucky loved having you beneath him, he loved worshipping you even more.
Every inch.
Every curve.
Every soft place he could touch.
Every place he could leave his mark.
“Bucky, please,” you breathed, legs wrapping around his waist.
His answering smile was dark.
“Gonna take care of you, doll.”
The rest of the night blurred into tangled sheets, breathless laughter, desperate kisses, and the familiar ache of being wanted so completely.
Not tolerated.
Not settled for.
Wanted.
Consumed.
Adored.
Bucky always looked at you like you were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, and somehow that feeling never got old.
If anything, it only made you love him more.
---
Afterward, you both collapsed in a sweaty, satisfied heap beneath the blankets.
Bucky pulled you against his chest, his hands gentle now as they traced the constellation of marks scattered across your skin. Some were already darkening into bruises. Others were barely visible.
“Too much?” he asked quietly.
The question always surprised you. Even after all this time, some part of him still worried.
You laughed softly and turned in his arms.
“Never.”
His expression immediately relaxed.
“I love it when you lose control like that,” you admitted, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “Makes me feel wanted.”
His eyes softened.
“You are wanted.”
The words came without hesitation.
“I can’t get enough of you.”
Your heart squeexed because you could see he meant every word.
“Your body,” he murmured, pressing another kiss to your forehead. “Perfect.”
You laughed.
“Perfect?”
“Perfect.”
“Even when I steal all the blankets?”
“Yes.”
“When I leave cups everywhere?”
“Yes.”
“When I—”
“Yes.”
He cut you off with a grin.
“Still perfect.”
You smiled and tucked yourself closer against him.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
The apartment sat quiet around you, safe and warm.
Eventually, Bucky shifted lower against the mattress, burying his face against your chest with a satisfied sigh.
“Comfortable?” you teased.
“Very.”
“You planning on moving?”
“No.”
“Ever?”
“Nope.”
You laughed and ran your fingers through his hair.
Within minutes, his breathing had evened out.
One arm wrapped around your waist. One hand resting possessively against your side.
You watched him for a moment before pressing a kiss to the top of his head.
Bucky Barnes had spent most of his life fighting.
Surviving.
Holding himself together through sheer force of will.
But here? With you?
He could finally let go.
And judging by the way he slept curled around you, he never intended to leave.
Tags/Warning: MDNI 18+, biker Bucky, curvy reader, insecure reader, beefy Bucky because we all need him, coworker are shitheads, drinking, angst if you squint, smut in part 2 (oral!fem receiving, missionary, hair pulling, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, Buckys got a filthy mouth, fingering, he literally eats you out on the bike alright)
Summary: After a shit night out with coworkers, you catch the eye of a mysterious biker who looks every part of a dirty fantasy.
Note: it’s been forever since I wrote literally anything. I’ve decided to crawl out of my hole and share a little something something as I warm my fingies. I have a mild praise kink so reblog, like it, and comment. Thanks!
Dividers by @uzmacchiato
Perhaps it’s the mystery of the unknown. Being able to see what the body looks like, but not being able to see the face, drives something deep inside your bones to sizzle.
You’ve seen the videos — the girl giving her number to a mysterious biker, posing with them for a picture, kissing the helmet before running away. Each one, you whisper I wanna do that.
If ever given the chance.
But Gods work on mysterious ways…
It’s a buzzing Friday night in New York—bars are packed, taxis flying down the side streets, drunken laughter filling the air, and your feet are throbbing from walking the uneven side walks.
Your coworkers wanted to celebrate someone’s promotion, you don’t even know who, but had agreed anyways because everyone deserves a drink.
The night started fine, honestly, but then took a left turn into fuckthisvile when all your coworkers started making odd jokes.
About you.
The first few were harmless, even you giggled at. They gradually grew harsher. Meaner. Personal.
“It must be hard shopping for your style in your size.” Dani had drunkenly mocked.
“Summers have got to be hard on you.” Tiffany chimed in.
“Oh be nice to her. She just has more to love.” Frank laughed.
You felt your skin crawl and all blood rush to your ears. Your eyes stayed glued to your drink, watching the sweat droplets slide down to your fingers.
You felt mildly insecure already, being a woman with curves, but never thought of yourself as ugly.
Slamming the last of your drink, you didn’t even give them the gratification of seeing your hurt, and grabbed your purse to leave. The liquor burned your throat, momentarily taking the focus from your eyes. You glanced at each of their laughing faces, nodded once and walked away.
The humid night air refreshes your lungs, finally pulling in a deep breath since the jokes started.
Your phone sits waiting in your hand as you go to book an Uber, when loud vrooming sounds fill the street.
Lifting your eyes, you watch as three motorcycles pull up along the curb right outside the bar. The first one is hot red with white strips along the body, and the rider in all black leather but the helmet matches the bike.
The second is blue and red, a single white star on their helmet.
But it’s the middle bike that causes your breath to hitch. All black leather, helmet, and bike. A blood red star on the front.
You can’t help but stare as your breathing becomes deeper, inhaling the fumes from their exhaust. The red bike and the white star are yelling over the middle person, who—even through his helmet—looks over the conversation.
Head tilted slightly, nodding gently to whatever song must be playing in the protective gear, and your heart feels it’s going to drop out your pussy.
You take a step forward and then freeze. He’s huge, big shoulders and arms and hands and you thought you could just waltz right up and do what?
Your brain short circuits before starting back up again as one of the bikes revs loudly. Your glossy eyes focus, and the one you were staring at now has his head turned. Looking directly at you.
Your hands clam up, your throat feels tight, and your eyes widen. His head tilts in question before lifting a finger to motion you over.
You’re frozen, ready to vomit, just as the door behinds you burst open. Your eyes close in prayer when Tiffany and Dani stumble beside you.
“You’re still here? We thought you left!” Dani pokes your arm.
You snatch it out of reach, glaring, “I was getting an uber.”
Frank materializes on the other side of you, “why are you leaving? You know we were just joking! Don’t be so sensitive.” He nudges Tiffany. “Right? We weren’t trying to make fun of you.”
The two girls cackle, stumbling into each other, “yeah!”
You shift your gaze back to the man and suddenly the New York life drowns out.
He’s swinging his leg over the seat, pulling the key out of the ignition, all while keeping his head focused on you. As he approaches, your head slowly tilts back to keep your eyes on where you think his eyes are.
The giggling has stopped, Frank has taken a step back, and big mystery man is leaning down to press the helmet to the side of your face, “Need a ride?”
Your tongue feels like sand paper so all you can do is nod.
He straightens, flips his visor up, and stares piercingly blue eyes into your soul.
Your cheeks heat, your thighs twitch, and you would give your left kidney to see the rest of his face. His voice is like smooth honey, slowly dripping down your spine.
His eyes shift to the three people by you, “You know them?” His left index finger wiggles between them.
You go to answer honestly, then freeze. No, you don’t know these people. They’re just coworkers who are treating you like a street dog. Taking a deep breath, “No. I don’t know them.”
They all start to yell at you, voices stumbling over each other, trying to defend themselves.
Big Man nods once, wraps his arm around your shoulders, “She’s with me.”
You hold onto his leather jacket, willing your heart to calm the fuck down when you realize he’s leading you to his bike. The other two riders are leaning back, staring daggers at the three assholes you walked away from.
Mystery Man climbs on the bike, “I don’t have an extra helmet on me. I wasn’t expecting to pick up a beauty tonight. So here,” and his helmet is sliding up and off his head.
You’ve ascended and are now in heaven. Whatever good you’ve done in your life is paying off right now. Gods have answered your prayers.
He’s hot. Not as in oh he’s hot. No, as in he-could-fuck-you-right-there-on-the-street hot.
Salt and peppered beard, cut jaw and cheekbones, and hair you want to feel tangled in your fingers.
When you don’t take the helmet, a sharp smirk grows on his lips, “You can look at me like that all you want, Sweetheart, but i need you to put this on.”
Your limbs are jelly, hands trembling as you slide the gear over your head. You peer at him through the open visor and can’t stop the giggle crawling out your mouth.
He licks his lower lip, “How’s it fit?”
“A bit big, but feels good.” You wink.
The man groans, “Jesus Christ.”
His hand finds yours as he helps you swing your leg over the bike. You giggle again, “Actually, it’s-“ you give your name.
He turns his head to look back at you, a sparkle in his eye, “Bucky. Now hold on, sweetheart.”
Tags/Warning: MDNI 18+, biker Bucky, curvy reader, insecure reader, beefy Bucky because we all need him, coworkers are shitheads, drinking, angst if you squint, smut in part 2 (oral!fem receiving, missionary, hair pulling, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, Buckys got a filthy mouth, fingering, he literally eats you out on the bike alright)
Summary: After a shit night out with coworkers, you catch the eye of a mysterious biker who looks every part of a dirty fantasy.
Note: full disclosure- I blacked out. I’m not sure how the hell I wrote almost 3k words of filth but I do know I hunted my husband down after. Thank you for the love on part 1. You all fueled my praise kink. Do it again, please? Like, reblog, and comment! All the love to you!
Dividers by @uzmacchiato
You’ve never held on to something so tight before.
Not even when you were younger and held your mamas hand.
Not when you tripped and reach out to grab the nearest person.
Not even your phone when the wind almost blew it away.
But Bucky, your fingers are cramping from the force of your grip on his jacket.
The bike bobs and weaves between cars, his chest rumbling from laughter when you squeak and lock your arms harder. His left hand moves to rest on your thigh, fingers drumming softly along the curve of your knee.
Your mouth is dry from panting, and your insides feel like goo. Vibrations from the bike are making it really hard for you not to moan into Bucky’s helmet and press yourself harder against his back.
This is checking off every box on your dirty biker fantasy, and dear Gods above – if he doesn’t bend you over the second the bike stops, you might fall to your knees and beg for every sin available for purchase. Dignity doesn’t exist in your vocabulary when a wall of a man like Bucky has you draped along his back. Let alone on his damn bike.
So, when he leans the bike to follow out of downtown and to the suburbs, you can only hope he’s not a murderer. Honestly, he could choke you out and you’d say thank you.
The other two had given him a thumbs up and stayed on the path in the city. Red Bike had leaned over and fist bumped Bucky, and wiggled his fingers at you before speeding to catch up to Star Spangle Banner Biker.
You take in your surroundings as the bike start to slow.
It’s a relatively quiet sub, most homes are dark – porch lights on, but all windows dark. Save for a few with soft lights in the living room from a TV playing.
The home Bucky pulls into is modest, a sweet brownstone with an already open garage awaiting your arrival.
You slowly flex your fingers, releasing your hold on him when he kicks the stand down.
Bucky gracefully stands, running a hand through his hair, “Hope you don’t mind, but I brought you to mine. I kind of forgot to ask where you wanted to go.” A sheepish grin blooms on his face.
Taking a deep breath, you slide the helmet off, “It’s okay. I wasn’t in the mood to deal with my roommate anyways.” You hand him his gear.
He places it on a shelf besides the bike, taking a moment to remove his protective gloves.
And you take that moment to very openly ogle at him.
His shoulders are wide – you literally had your face between the blades – but theres something comforting about the size of him. Wide. Tall. Arms that look they could crush watermelons. Thighs that look solid enough to hold you there for hours.
A back so muscular the muscles are seen through the thick leather jacket. His hair is on the longer side. Long enough to grab fistfuls of and curl at the nap of his neck.
You’re practically drooling when Bucky looks over his shoulder at you.
“You like what you see, sweetheart?” The fucker smirks.
Licking your bottom lip, “I’m not complaining about the view.”
He faces you fully, one hand going to rest on bike behind your seat, the other on your cheek. “You know, I’m trying very hard to be a gentleman –“
“And how’s that working out for you?” You lean into his touch.
You watch in real time as his pupils dilate, “You’re making it rather hard.”
You let your eyes wander over him. Down his torso to his jeans, “You talking about your restraint or that?”
There, as clear as the moon in the sky, is a bulged in his pants. Your thighs twitch, your fingers raising to find purchase on his waist. When he doesn’t answer, you meet his gaze.
Blue eyes nearly swallowed by black. The hand on your face slowly slides to the back of your head, fingers slightly twisting to grab your hair. Your breath hitches at a soft tug, “Both.”
His eyes track your tongue when it flicks out to lick your lower lip again, “I had a shit night, Bucky. I don’t want restraint.”
Famous last words before his mouth is on yours.
The kiss isn’t soft. It’s not sweet. And it sure has hell is not slow.
Bucky kisses like a man starved. Parched. Lost in the desert and you are the first lick of water he’s tasted in days.
It’s complete of teeth grazing lips, tongues fighting for dominance, and fingers gripping for dear life.
Bucky’s hand from the bike moves to your thigh, finger tips digging into the meaty flesh of you. A groan leaves his mouth and into yours. Your own hands unzip his jacket and shove it off him while still keeping your lips locked. Jacket makes a soft thud when it hits the floor.
His hands go back to you after shaking the gear off, turning your body to sit sideways on the bike. For a moment, you think about jumping off the bike, but then he’s shoving your thighs apart and stepping between them.
He towers over you like this, and your neck starts to hurt from how far back your head is leaning to keep kissing him. You break apart to breathe, but his lips just descend to your neck. You grip the bike for support with one hand — the other finding his hair.
You yank when his teeth find that spot below your ear. And the sound that leaves his throat is enough to send slick drooling out of you.
It’s like you unlocked Bucky because then he drops to his knee, fingers curling into your leggings and pulling them down so fast, you almost fly off the bike. You gasp, “Bucky—”
The look on his face will forever be etched into your frontal lobe. Eyes blown wide, mouth pretty pink and wet, and hair falling on his forehead. He just stares at your bare pussy for a moment before looking up at you with a lopsided grin, “Oh sweetheart. Louder for the neighbors to hear.”
The words barely reach your ears when his mouth meets your wetness. Your hand dashes to his hair as a breathy moan leaves you. And Bucky eats pussy like he’s tasty the sweet nectar of a plum.
It’s loud— his tongue against your clit, flicking and lick quick swipes. His right fingers tracing the opening of you, his left hand holding open your trembling thigh.
You watch him watch you. Your mouth hangs open, brows drawn together, and filth falling from your lips. “Bu-Bucky!” You gasp loudly when a finger sinks in, “The garage is— “, another loud moan, thighs twitching, “Open!”
Bucky has the audacity to roll his eyes and then press another finger in just to curl them.
Your back arches, head thrown back, moaning to the ceiling and praying to God someone doesn’t hear—let alone fucking see—what Bucky is doing to you.
You clench when he curls his fingers harder, pressing that soft spot he seems to have found ungodly fast. His chooses that second to also suck on your clit, harshly.
Stars burst in your eyes, the sound between you legs is sloppy, and all you can do is cry out his name as you come. On his bike.
Your biker fantasy list is headed to being completely filled if he keeps this up.
Bucky doesn’t slow his fingers, only moves his mouth to give kisses to your thighs, “Good girl. Such a good girl for me.”
Heat blooms on your face, you pussy crying around his digits, “Please.”
He licks his lips, “Please what, sweetheart?”
Your eyes start to cross as another orgasm builds embarrassingly fast. You’re not even sure what you’re begging for. Mercy? More? His cock? His mouth again?
His free hand grips yours still holding onto the bike, “Come one, sweet girl. Give me one more and I’ll give you my cock. Think you can do that for me? For yourself?” And then he slips a third in, all the way down and twists them.
For a brief moment, you think you break his hand holding yours and maybe yank a couple strands out of his head. You come again. A high cry echoes in the garage. Clenching so tight around him, he just leaves his fingers buried deep within you. Wiggling the tips to draw out your orgasm.
Tears fall form your eyes when you realize he’s lowering his mouth back down to you. “Bucky, please.” You hiccup, “You – you said – “, and his lips are making out with your clit again.
You sob loudly. Fat tears spill from your face, sweat dripping down your back, and you can’t seem to catch your breath. His mouth feels like sin and heaven and his fingers just keep playing that spot deep inside you. You pussy cries with you. Two orgasms in, a third approaching, and your poor thighs cant close around his big body.
Bucky’s shoulders keep you spread, and his eyes stay locked on your wet face. The evil bastard looks smug. Looks like he could die there and be so thankful.
“I know, sweetheart.” He pulls away, lips wet and smirking, “I promise. One more. Give me one more and I’ll fuck you right.” He licks your shaking thigh, “You look so fucking beautiful on my bike. Letting me eat your pussy.” Bites the juggle of your inner thigh, “I could do this all fucking night. You taste so good. One more, there you go.” And he wraps his lips back around your clit.
You might pass out, you’re not sure, when your third hits. It’s so wet and loud and Bucky just drinks you up. You push on his head, your feet kick at his sides, too overstimulated. Your poor pussy weeps when he pulls away and withdrawals his fingers. Not without keeping them curled the whole way out.
Your lungs aren’t filling with enough air, but your chest feels light and heart feels full. And pussy feels fucking recked and its just from his mouth and hands.
Bucky lifts you off the bike, holding you open and carrying you as if you weigh a sack of potatoes. You cant even find your brain to care, to fight him to put your down. That you’re heavy.
You just get wetter at the idea of him holding you against a wall and fucking you until the wall gives way.
When your mind catches up, he’s dropping you on his bed and his clothes are shedding. Bucky’s mouth finds yours as he climbs over you, hooking your thighs over his.
You cant help put looks down and nearly pass the fuck out because what do you mean he’s hung like a goddamn horse?
You must make a choked sound because Bucky laughs softly, hands moving to remove your shirt and snap your bra off. “It’ll fit, sweet girl. Youre a good girl, right? You can take it.”
You nod along, wide eyes watching the way his cock glides between your wet folds. You whine as the shaft slides over your clit. “I can take it.”
Bucky moans, “Fuck – “, and sinks his cock halfway in you.
You both gasp out, your hands gripping his biceps as his grip the sheets beside your shoulders. “Oh – Bucky – fuck me!” Back arches off the bed as he thrust the rest in.
“Shit, I knew you’d be perfect. Taking me so fucking good. Look at how pretty you’re taking me.” Bucky shoves a hand into your hair and angles your head down.
Your lower lip wobbles at the sight.
Your pussy stretched wide to take his girth, thighs wet from your three orgasms, and your legs spread so fucking wide you can feel a mild pinch in your hips.
Wet eyes meet piercing blue, and you clench around him “Please.” You beg again. And this time, you know what you’re begging for, “Fuck me, Bucky. I can take it.”
Bucky slowly leans back; gaze still locked with yours. He takes one hand and presses it to your thigh, lifting it up to spread you wider. You gasp when he somehow slides in deeper. His other hand moves from your hair to your right breast. “Hold on, sweetheart.”
Your hands grip his arm above your chest just as he drawls out, and slams back in.
The pace he sets is punishing. Headboard shakes against the wall, the bed creaking with each thrust of his hips. His heavy balls smack against you and the squelching between your legs is almost as loud as your sobs.
“Oh my god!” His cock drags along spots inside you never even knew where there. The head hits deep, your walls keep quivering, “Please, Bucky – don’t stop – I can – “, you blabber.
Bucky groans, hips snapping fast and harder, “Jesus Christ,” his eyes watch your breast bounce, the softness of your body jiggling with each pound, “Ima keep you tied here. Keep you all to myself and fuck you whenever you want. That sound good, sweet girl, huh?” He tilts his hips, hitting that spot that makes your toes curl.
You nod because there’s no way you’ll say no to that, “Whenever you want.” You’re crying again.
He licks his lips before lowering himself nose to nose with you. His hips not once faltering, “Yeah, sweetheart? Whenever I want?” You just nod. “Good girl, such a good. Fucking. Girl.”
Each word punctuated with a thrust harder than the last. And that’s what sends you over the edge.
You clench down, hard, and come harder than you’ve ever before. You fly off the bed, wrapping your arms around his neck as you sob his name over and over.
Bucky lets out a deep growl, drilling one last deep thrust in before releasing inside and painting your fluttering walls.
It takes a long moment of gasping, twitching, and sharp sobs before either one of you lets the other go. Bucky slowly lowers your legs onto the bed as he pulls out.
Your eyes slip shut, his cum dribbling out, “Bucky – “, you start.
“Im right here, sweets.” A warm hand finds your cheek, “Ill be right back. Don’t worry.”
You lay there, feeling boneless and thoroughly stretched out. In all parts of your body and soul.
A deep feeling washes over you as you hear him down the hall running water. Is this when he calls you an uber to send you home? Is he just going to come back to clean you up and then go take the couch?
Your spiral pauses when he walks back in, “I hope it’s not too hot.” Bucky’s voice washes over you and he’s gently wiping you clean.
You sigh, keeping your eyes closed. Its stupid. Just met like a few hours ago and he fucked you so good now you’re going to compare everyone after him to him. But you don’t want to go. His bed is warm, his hands are gentle and soft, and he smells like comfort and desire.
Bucky must notice. Of course he does.
“You’re staying.”
Two simple words that cause your eyes to open and widen. Had you said those things out loud? Did he fuck the filter right out of you? Is your brain still on the bike?
“I’d like to take you for breakfast. Maybe get your number and see you again, if you’ll have me.” Bucky looks so open and kind and your eyes start to swell.
“I’d like to stay. And breakfast. And you can have my address and social too if you ask nice enough.”
Bucky laughs, wrapping his big arms around you and pulling you to him. A blanket joins his arms, locking in all warmth.
“Rest, my beautiful girl. I’m nowhere near finished with you yet.”
Pairing: Thunderbolts!Bucky Barnes x Thunderbolts!Female Reader
Summary: Bucky is hot and fucks like a God.
Word Count: Over 1.2k
Warnings: Unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), oral sex (m. and f. receiving), dirty talk, flirting, slight feels, possessive behavior, BDE, aftercare mention, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).
A/N: Based on an anon ask. Happy Moanday. ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
Bucky who is hot and fucks like a God.
Bucky who is confident again, similar to the swagger he had in the 40’s, but a bit more rough around the edges to add to his appeal.
Bucky who knew you were his the second he laid eyes on you and swears the world is a little brighter when you’re nearby, so he gives you a smile instead of his trademark grumpy stare.
Bucky who also gets hard when you’re close to him and has palmed himself under the table because he so desperately wants to be inside you.
Bucky who wants you and only you, wants you on your knees for him, wants to get on his knees for you, wants to split you open on his cock and make you scream his name, but wants to tease you first.
Bucky who will run his fingers through his hair or toussle it when you’re in his line of sight because you once said he looked like a fucking prince. “Every prince needs a princess, right? You wanna be my princess?”
Bucky who, whether he’s in his tactical gear or uniform, sees the way you shamelessly check him out and hides his smirk when he “catches” you looking. “Isn’t polite to stare, sweetheart, but you can look all you want.”
Bucky who will purposely walk around in only a pair of low hanging gray sweatpants when he knows it’s just the two of you, unashamed of his body or scars, especially when your pupils dilate with lust. “You know, I almost went with black, but…” he trailed off, arching his back and thrusting his hips forward so you could see the very clear outline of his cock before he left the room.
Bucky who will keep his eyes on you when he eats, letting you see every drag of his tongue and lick of his lips as he savors the taste of his meal. “Bet your pussy tastes like heaven,” he says so low you swear you imagined it.
Bucky who wrapped a hand around your throat once during sparring to see how you’d respond, and he was pleasantly surprised when he heard you whimper and smelled your arousal. “I have something you can really choke on,” he whispered, letting you go and leaving you hot and bothered on the mat.
Bucky who didn’t think taking a jacket off could be sexy until he heard you whisper, “Fuck me”, to which he responded in a low voice full of promise, “Soon.”
Bucky who likes to think he can dish it as much as he takes it, but nearly busts down your door when he hears you moaning his name and fucking yourself with your fingers. “My dirty girl,” he says fondly, proudly.
Bucky who can’t take it anymore when you’re bent over in front of him, stretching and looking back at him with a smile while his eyes greedily roam your body. “Think you help me stretch, Barnes, or are you all talk?”
Bucky who snapped, tore through your legging and underwear like paper, and put you on all fours. “Oh, I’ll help you stretch,” he promised, breaching your wet heat with a finger and smirking when you tightened around him. “With my tongue and fingers first before you get my cock.”
Bucky who ate you out from behind, his fingers digging into your flesh as you pushed back against his face to feel more of the delicious burn from his salt and pepper scruff. “You really do taste like heaven, sweetheart, but be patient,” he warned, slapping your pussy for good measure. “You’ll get yours and I’ll get mine.”
Bucky who nearly came in his pants when you made a mess all over his face, crying out his name as he kept fucking you with his tongue and fingers and only stopped so he could put you on your back and see your dazed expression. “Good girl screaming my name,” he praised, hearing you whine when he shoved his pants and underwear down. “Do it again when you come on my cock.”
Bucky who let you taste yourself on his tongue before he pushed inside you, both of you moaning at the feeling of being one and him having to stay still for a second at the way you clamp around him like a vice. “Greedy cunt doesn’t want to let me go,” he rasped, and he understood since he didn’t want to leave your body.
Bucky who set a hard, deep pace and alternated between pinning you down and letting you pull his hair and grip his back. “Letting me fuck you bare because you know you’re mine,” he groaned, and he couldn’t wait to paint your walls with his release and really make you his.
Bucky who lightly bit your neck and breasts and touched every inch of you that he could, wanting to leave marks on you, before putting your legs on his shoulders and fucking you like his life depended on it. “Look at me. Keep those pretty eyes on me,” he ordered, wanting to see your face twist in pleasure as you took his cock over and over again.
Bucky who teased your clit and smiled when you keen. “I told you you’ll get yours,” he reminded you when you clenched around him and soaked his cock more. “So scream my name when you come for me.”
Bucky who said your name through his teeth when you screamed his name like a mantra and gushed around him. “Good. Fucking. Girl.” he gritted as he fucked you through it, taking your hand to keep you grounded when he saw the fog in your eyes.
Bucky who couldn’t resist when you begged through your gaze, “Come in me, Bucky.” and roared like an animal with his release, flooding your insides and keeping his hips flush against yours so he didn’t waste a drop.
Bucky who collapsed on top of you to kiss you again and stayed deep inside you as he thought about how he was going to fuck you all over again.
Bucky who knew he had his equal when you smiled against his lips and asked, “Think you can make me choke before you fuck me again?” and was torn between pulling out of you and staying nice and deep where he belonged.
Bucky who grudgingly pulled out because he had to see what you looked like with your lips wrapped around him. “That’s it, sweetheart. Choke on me,” he urged when you cleaned off your mixed release with a happy moan and kept your pretty eyes on him.
Bucky who put you on all fours again because he had to finish inside of your dripping cunt. “We’re just getting started,” he promised.
Bucky who didn’t stop until you were a whimpering, boneless mess and carried you to your bathroom after so he could take care of you. “So beautiful. So good for me,” he whispered, praising you because he’s a gentleman at heart and he will give you the aftercare you deserve.
Bucky who held you like something precious and kissed your forehead. “I’ve got you,” he whispered and smiled when you whispered back, “And I’ve got you.”
Bucky who is insatiable, able to sleep easier because you’re in his arms, and happy.
So... yeah. Happy Moanday. Love and thanks for reading!❤️
Bucky seeing your tumblr fics. then discovering how u like breeding kink. (He has one but is suppressing it for your sake) when he sees your filthy work.
My man would go feral. Absolutely filthy. Everyday, you guys would live/recreate/improve any breeding kink fic that he sees.
18+
OH YES MAM YES YES YES
You write in secret; it’s the best way you can get your filthy ideas out and get rid of some of the sexual tension that builds in your belly. Your ideas are dirty as hell and you don’t want to scare Bucky with the pure filth that runs through your head so you pour yourself into these fics filled with smut, cream pies, pregnancy kinks, breeding kinks, every horny thought imaginable.
You’ve written about it.
Ever since you started, you couldn’t tear yourself away from your laptop. It follows you everywhere; in the living room, bed room, dining table, your typing away like a mad man and Bucky looks at you sideways because why are you suddenly always tapping away at the keys with such vigor.
He’s even asked you about it a few times but you brushed him off saying you were just reading books online; it didn’t explain why you were typing so much but he lets it go. He can’t help but notice the way your brows furrow when you focus on your work, your eyes dating across the screen, and maybe he’s imagining things but you’re always squeezing your thighs together.
He’s out on a mission so you don’t bother locking your laptop, leaving it open while you hop into the shower.
Bucky dropped his bags by the door, toeing his boots off, stretching at his made his way to the bedroom, happy to be home early. He smiles when he hears the water running; he loved how pretty and perfect you looked right after a shower, nothing but a towel covering you up. He flops onto the bed waiting for you, having already cleaned off on the way over.
He notices your laptop open and his curiosity gets the better of him, its not like its a diary so it’s not like he’s going to see anything he’s not supposed to....
His eyes grow wide when he opens a tab and it’s your tumblr page, a draft still opened because you were in the middle of your newest piece. Bucky didn’t know much about tumblr or how the website worked but the more he read, the more clear it was it was 100% your page. 100 % your work.
His heart is beating out of his chest, skimming over the words.
Gonna fill this pretty little pussy up doll, get you nice and full of me
Look at my cum dripping out of you doll, fuck making me so hard again, gonna let me get you pregnant baby? Put a baby in your belly, keep you full of my cum
Take my cum babygirl, wanna give you my kids-fuck-have my babies princess
M’gonna cum so hard in this pussy, keep you nice and pregnant all the time baby,
Before he can stop himself, his hand slips down his sweats, grasping his cock, pulling it out, stroking himself.
You’re mine baby, mine to fuck, mine to cum in, mine to breed
So much cum in my cock baby, m’so full-fuck, wanna just paint this tight little pussy princess
Don’t let it drip out doll, maybe it’ll be twins hm? Wanna see your belly swollen with my babies in you
His breaths grow heavier, he doesn’t know what’s getting him more off, the story itself, the fact that you wrote this or the fact that you hid your dirty fantasies that were as filthy as his. He had the biggest breeding kink, always keeping it to himself because he didn’t want to spring it on you, he couldn’t taint his sweet little doll like that.
You were clearly as desperate as him.
He bit his lip, trying to keep his moans down, one hand tugging his cock, the other holding the band of his sweats down. He could have came on the spot, panting and whimpering as he kept reading, starving off his orgasm because each sentence was filthier than the last.
He hears the water stop, pushing the laptop away and stuffing his hard cock back into his pants. His sweet pretty doll with all these filthy thoughts in her innocent head and he didn’t want to give in just yet. He wanted to pump you full of his cum on the spot but why do that when he could tease it out of you until you were desperate.
You squeaked seeing Bucky laying on your bed, his hands tucked under his head, innocently gazing at you while you clutched your towel, your hair still dripping from the shower. Your laptop was still opened but in the exact place you left it...
“Hey babydoll” He smiled sweetly at you, biting his lip watching your flustered form, getting up and striding to you, his arms wrapping around your waist. “I missed you” Your hands trailed onto his chest, melting into his touch, his lips pressing against yours, nipping them teasingly before pulling away.
“When did you get back?” You looked at him with your doe eyes and he nearly groaned, how did a sweet thing like you be the same one who wrote about wanting to be pumped full of cum until you were bred like a little cock hungry whore.
“Just now” His nose nudged against yours, kissing you again. He could feel your body shake in his hold, your eyes dating to your laptop wondering if he read anything. You wiggled out of his hold, darting to the bed, closing your laptop before giving him grabby hands, hoping he wouldn’t ask any questions.
Bucky smirked at you, poor needy babydoll.
He flopped on top of you, tossing your towel off, spending the next few hours making the sweetest love to you, biting his tongue from telling you how badly he wanted to fill you up, give you all his cum, how badly he wanted you to be his baby mama, his doll carrying his babies.
You came apart for him over and over again as he toyed with your body. You bit down onto his shoulder and begged him to stuff his fingers in your mouth, shutting yourself up before you pleaded with him to spill his load into you, knocking you up. You wanted to feel his warmth paint your walls, feel his cock sweet and throb in you, stuffing your face into your pillow, crying out for him while holding back your needs.
It was a very long night.
A few days later
Bucky wanted to tease you more but he couldn’t take it anymore. Every time you brushed by him, bent over, or cuddled up with him, his mind went back to your filthy salacious words. He’d managed to pull up your page on his phone, smirking every time you posted something new; each fic was dirtier than the last.
The final straw that broke his composure was when he found you splayed on the bed wearing nothing but his Henley, he could smell your arousal as your thighs squeezed together, your eyes so focused on your work you didn’t notice him come in. You laid on your stomach, your shirt ridden up just below your ass, giving him a glimpse of your bare pussy.
“You wanna tell me what’s been keeping you so busy baby” He carefully crawled onto the bed, pinning you under him as you gasped, unable to escape anywhere, his lips by your ear. You felt a shiver feeling his hard length pressed onto you, teasingly rocking his hips onto your ass.
“Nothing” You shook your head, your body heating up, slick further pooling between your legs. “Reading...”
“Sounded like you were working on something y/n” He smirked, pulling your hand away from the keyboard, humming at the words on the screen. “So this is what you’ve been working so hard on?”
He scrolled through your page while you whined and whimpered under him, burying your face against the mattress, your body on fire as he read through your stories.
“Don’t be shy princess, you worked so hard on these, hm? Why did you keep it a secret baby?”
You refused to look up, keeping your face hidden as he closed the laptop, placing it off to the side before crawling off and rolling you over, lying on top of you, his face inches from yours. His thighs parted your legs, letting his erection press against your soaked core, rubbing himself on you while stroking your hair.
“Is this what you want doll? For me to stuff you with my babies?” You bit your lip, silently nodding, not trusting yourself to speak. He loved you like this, flustered, needy, sweet and so slutty, your thighs involuntarily squeezing around his waist.
“Because its what I’ve wanted” He groaned, your eyes growing wide at his confession. “It’s what I’ve been craving baby, from the day you were mine, I wanted to claim you so bad. Pump my load in you, get you pregnant”
“Bucky please” You moaned, your arms desperately clinging onto him as his lips smashed onto yours. You let his tongue tease your mouth, nipping and tasting your lips. He wasted no time ripping you clothes off before tossing his aside, groaning as he rubbed his fingers through your soaked folds, you were dripping onto the sheets.
“You’re so fucking wet baby” He curled his fingers inside you, pumping them in and out of you, the sounds of your slick echoing through room as he moved his hand faster. “Such a needy little pussy”
“Wan more, please Bucky, more” Your eyes were glassy, desperate to be filled by him, you’d gone far too long holding back your needs and you couldn't take any teasing, not tonight.
“You need my cock, huh baby, you need my cum?” You nodded, clawing onto him, spreading your legs further feeling the blunt tip of his cock rub through your folds. He nudged against your entrance, moaning at the way you were already clenching and he hadn’t even filled you yet.
“Fuck-put your cock in me Bucky” Your pleas went right to his dick, spurts of precum decorating your pussy. He let his body drop of you as he pushed his cock in, moaning loudly at the way your body practically sucked in him, your pussy wrapped around him with a vice like grip.
He didn’t give you any time to adjust, pounding you into the mattress, the sweet sounds of your cries making him groan.
“Why-why did you keep this from me baby, fuck- you know how badly I’ve been wanting to fill you up? How long I’ve wanted to cum load after load in you?” He started to fuck you harder, sweat beading at his forehead, his cock throbbing as you fluttered around him.
“B-Bucky!” you couldn’t formulate a full sentence, clawing at his back, your legs wrapped tightly around him, your mind blank, only focused on the feeling of his cock slamming in and out of you. He sucked onto your neck, marking and claiming you, willing himself to keep himself from cumming but you made it so hard.
You had no idea how badly he wanted to breed you but he was desperate to let you know exactly what you did to him.
“You know how often I have to stroke my cock thinking about how pretty you’d look with a nice round belly, so full of me? Do you have any idea how much I cum when I think about that?”
His cum would cover his stomach and chest, dripping down his body, he’d have the biggest loads thinking about getting you pregnant.
“Or how hard it is-shit-how fucking hard it is not to moan? Touching myself in the shower or in a safe house? Have to-have to jerk off so you won’t hear, making a mess on myself when I could make a mess in your cunt instead?”
You clenched around him, the coil in your belly tightening, ready to snap with each of his words, fuck you needed him to fill you.
“You know how hard it makes me when I think about making you a mommy? My cock starts to leak baby-oh god- I get so fucking hard mama, just wanna pump you nice, be your baby daddy so bad”
“Daddy...” You whimpered out, not registering what you just called him. Bucky’s eyes rolled back, his hips snapping against you harder, growling at the name.
“Say it again” He snarled against your neck, his balls getting heavy, his orgasm at the tip of his cock ready to give you his load. “Say it, say it baby”
“Daddy!” You cried out, your falls fluttering around him, your arousal gushing out of you as he pounded you as hard as he could, his forehead resting on yours, lips brushing against you “Daddy daddy daddy!”
“You’re gonna make me a daddy, m’gonna make you a mommy” His balls pulled tight to his body, body pulled taut, both of you panting, desperate for each other. “Take my cum baby, take it, gonna fill you with my babies”
“FUCK Y/N” He spilled his load into you, endless ropes of cum filling you. He moaned, clinging onto your body, his pace sloppy as he thrusted himself into your soaked pussy, his cum dripping out of you. “Fuck its so much baby, I can’t stop”
“Daddyyyy” You nearly sobbed, your puffy abused cunt sensitive as he continued to rut himself into you, his cock still hard.
“Y/n, I can’t stop baby, fuck” He practically whined, his cock still leaking, the tip of his cock swollen and sensitive, “Gonna get you so fucking pregnant baby, gonna put twins in you”
“Please baby” You cupped his face, needy for him, your ankles locked around his waist, keeping him close to you, “Get me pregnant daddy”
“Gonna put all my babies in you sweetheart, never pulling out of you, my pretty baby mama” He pressed sloppy kisses all over your face, giving you slow shallow thrusts, his cock finally softening. You both laid in bed in pure bliss, the smell of sex filling the room. He kept you cuddled against him, peppering you with kisses, his hand coming down to skim over your lower belly, tracing shapes onto your skin.
“Can’t wait for this to grow, see you barefoot and pregnant baby”
You giggled snuggling into him while Bucky rolled over, pulling his phone out, scrolling through it. You looked at him curiously while he smirked.
“What are you looking at Bucky”
“That was just one story baby, you have a whole list we have to recreate”
Bucky seeing your tumblr fics. then discovering how u like breeding kink. (He has one but is suppressing it for your sake) when he sees your filthy work.
My man would go feral. Absolutely filthy. Everyday, you guys would live/recreate/improve any breeding kink fic that he sees.
18+
OH YES MAM YES YES YES
You write in secret; it’s the best way you can get your filthy ideas out and get rid of some of the sexual tension that builds in your belly. Your ideas are dirty as hell and you don’t want to scare Bucky with the pure filth that runs through your head so you pour yourself into these fics filled with smut, cream pies, pregnancy kinks, breeding kinks, every horny thought imaginable.
You’ve written about it.
Ever since you started, you couldn’t tear yourself away from your laptop. It follows you everywhere; in the living room, bed room, dining table, your typing away like a mad man and Bucky looks at you sideways because why are you suddenly always tapping away at the keys with such vigor.
He’s even asked you about it a few times but you brushed him off saying you were just reading books online; it didn’t explain why you were typing so much but he lets it go. He can’t help but notice the way your brows furrow when you focus on your work, your eyes dating across the screen, and maybe he’s imagining things but you’re always squeezing your thighs together.
He’s out on a mission so you don’t bother locking your laptop, leaving it open while you hop into the shower.
Bucky dropped his bags by the door, toeing his boots off, stretching at his made his way to the bedroom, happy to be home early. He smiles when he hears the water running; he loved how pretty and perfect you looked right after a shower, nothing but a towel covering you up. He flops onto the bed waiting for you, having already cleaned off on the way over.
He notices your laptop open and his curiosity gets the better of him, its not like its a diary so it’s not like he’s going to see anything he’s not supposed to....
His eyes grow wide when he opens a tab and it’s your tumblr page, a draft still opened because you were in the middle of your newest piece. Bucky didn’t know much about tumblr or how the website worked but the more he read, the more clear it was it was 100% your page. 100 % your work.
His heart is beating out of his chest, skimming over the words.
Gonna fill this pretty little pussy up doll, get you nice and full of me
Look at my cum dripping out of you doll, fuck making me so hard again, gonna let me get you pregnant baby? Put a baby in your belly, keep you full of my cum
Take my cum babygirl, wanna give you my kids-fuck-have my babies princess
M’gonna cum so hard in this pussy, keep you nice and pregnant all the time baby,
Before he can stop himself, his hand slips down his sweats, grasping his cock, pulling it out, stroking himself.
You’re mine baby, mine to fuck, mine to cum in, mine to breed
So much cum in my cock baby, m’so full-fuck, wanna just paint this tight little pussy princess
Don’t let it drip out doll, maybe it’ll be twins hm? Wanna see your belly swollen with my babies in you
His breaths grow heavier, he doesn’t know what’s getting him more off, the story itself, the fact that you wrote this or the fact that you hid your dirty fantasies that were as filthy as his. He had the biggest breeding kink, always keeping it to himself because he didn’t want to spring it on you, he couldn’t taint his sweet little doll like that.
You were clearly as desperate as him.
He bit his lip, trying to keep his moans down, one hand tugging his cock, the other holding the band of his sweats down. He could have came on the spot, panting and whimpering as he kept reading, starving off his orgasm because each sentence was filthier than the last.
He hears the water stop, pushing the laptop away and stuffing his hard cock back into his pants. His sweet pretty doll with all these filthy thoughts in her innocent head and he didn’t want to give in just yet. He wanted to pump you full of his cum on the spot but why do that when he could tease it out of you until you were desperate.
You squeaked seeing Bucky laying on your bed, his hands tucked under his head, innocently gazing at you while you clutched your towel, your hair still dripping from the shower. Your laptop was still opened but in the exact place you left it...
“Hey babydoll” He smiled sweetly at you, biting his lip watching your flustered form, getting up and striding to you, his arms wrapping around your waist. “I missed you” Your hands trailed onto his chest, melting into his touch, his lips pressing against yours, nipping them teasingly before pulling away.
“When did you get back?” You looked at him with your doe eyes and he nearly groaned, how did a sweet thing like you be the same one who wrote about wanting to be pumped full of cum until you were bred like a little cock hungry whore.
“Just now” His nose nudged against yours, kissing you again. He could feel your body shake in his hold, your eyes dating to your laptop wondering if he read anything. You wiggled out of his hold, darting to the bed, closing your laptop before giving him grabby hands, hoping he wouldn’t ask any questions.
Bucky smirked at you, poor needy babydoll.
He flopped on top of you, tossing your towel off, spending the next few hours making the sweetest love to you, biting his tongue from telling you how badly he wanted to fill you up, give you all his cum, how badly he wanted you to be his baby mama, his doll carrying his babies.
You came apart for him over and over again as he toyed with your body. You bit down onto his shoulder and begged him to stuff his fingers in your mouth, shutting yourself up before you pleaded with him to spill his load into you, knocking you up. You wanted to feel his warmth paint your walls, feel his cock sweet and throb in you, stuffing your face into your pillow, crying out for him while holding back your needs.
It was a very long night.
A few days later
Bucky wanted to tease you more but he couldn’t take it anymore. Every time you brushed by him, bent over, or cuddled up with him, his mind went back to your filthy salacious words. He’d managed to pull up your page on his phone, smirking every time you posted something new; each fic was dirtier than the last.
The final straw that broke his composure was when he found you splayed on the bed wearing nothing but his Henley, he could smell your arousal as your thighs squeezed together, your eyes so focused on your work you didn’t notice him come in. You laid on your stomach, your shirt ridden up just below your ass, giving him a glimpse of your bare pussy.
“You wanna tell me what’s been keeping you so busy baby” He carefully crawled onto the bed, pinning you under him as you gasped, unable to escape anywhere, his lips by your ear. You felt a shiver feeling his hard length pressed onto you, teasingly rocking his hips onto your ass.
“Nothing” You shook your head, your body heating up, slick further pooling between your legs. “Reading...”
“Sounded like you were working on something y/n” He smirked, pulling your hand away from the keyboard, humming at the words on the screen. “So this is what you’ve been working so hard on?”
He scrolled through your page while you whined and whimpered under him, burying your face against the mattress, your body on fire as he read through your stories.
“Don’t be shy princess, you worked so hard on these, hm? Why did you keep it a secret baby?”
You refused to look up, keeping your face hidden as he closed the laptop, placing it off to the side before crawling off and rolling you over, lying on top of you, his face inches from yours. His thighs parted your legs, letting his erection press against your soaked core, rubbing himself on you while stroking your hair.
“Is this what you want doll? For me to stuff you with my babies?” You bit your lip, silently nodding, not trusting yourself to speak. He loved you like this, flustered, needy, sweet and so slutty, your thighs involuntarily squeezing around his waist.
“Because its what I’ve wanted” He groaned, your eyes growing wide at his confession. “It’s what I’ve been craving baby, from the day you were mine, I wanted to claim you so bad. Pump my load in you, get you pregnant”
“Bucky please” You moaned, your arms desperately clinging onto him as his lips smashed onto yours. You let his tongue tease your mouth, nipping and tasting your lips. He wasted no time ripping you clothes off before tossing his aside, groaning as he rubbed his fingers through your soaked folds, you were dripping onto the sheets.
“You’re so fucking wet baby” He curled his fingers inside you, pumping them in and out of you, the sounds of your slick echoing through room as he moved his hand faster. “Such a needy little pussy”
“Wan more, please Bucky, more” Your eyes were glassy, desperate to be filled by him, you’d gone far too long holding back your needs and you couldn't take any teasing, not tonight.
“You need my cock, huh baby, you need my cum?” You nodded, clawing onto him, spreading your legs further feeling the blunt tip of his cock rub through your folds. He nudged against your entrance, moaning at the way you were already clenching and he hadn’t even filled you yet.
“Fuck-put your cock in me Bucky” Your pleas went right to his dick, spurts of precum decorating your pussy. He let his body drop of you as he pushed his cock in, moaning loudly at the way your body practically sucked in him, your pussy wrapped around him with a vice like grip.
He didn’t give you any time to adjust, pounding you into the mattress, the sweet sounds of your cries making him groan.
“Why-why did you keep this from me baby, fuck- you know how badly I’ve been wanting to fill you up? How long I’ve wanted to cum load after load in you?” He started to fuck you harder, sweat beading at his forehead, his cock throbbing as you fluttered around him.
“B-Bucky!” you couldn’t formulate a full sentence, clawing at his back, your legs wrapped tightly around him, your mind blank, only focused on the feeling of his cock slamming in and out of you. He sucked onto your neck, marking and claiming you, willing himself to keep himself from cumming but you made it so hard.
You had no idea how badly he wanted to breed you but he was desperate to let you know exactly what you did to him.
“You know how often I have to stroke my cock thinking about how pretty you’d look with a nice round belly, so full of me? Do you have any idea how much I cum when I think about that?”
His cum would cover his stomach and chest, dripping down his body, he’d have the biggest loads thinking about getting you pregnant.
“Or how hard it is-shit-how fucking hard it is not to moan? Touching myself in the shower or in a safe house? Have to-have to jerk off so you won’t hear, making a mess on myself when I could make a mess in your cunt instead?”
You clenched around him, the coil in your belly tightening, ready to snap with each of his words, fuck you needed him to fill you.
“You know how hard it makes me when I think about making you a mommy? My cock starts to leak baby-oh god- I get so fucking hard mama, just wanna pump you nice, be your baby daddy so bad”
“Daddy...” You whimpered out, not registering what you just called him. Bucky’s eyes rolled back, his hips snapping against you harder, growling at the name.
“Say it again” He snarled against your neck, his balls getting heavy, his orgasm at the tip of his cock ready to give you his load. “Say it, say it baby”
“Daddy!” You cried out, your falls fluttering around him, your arousal gushing out of you as he pounded you as hard as he could, his forehead resting on yours, lips brushing against you “Daddy daddy daddy!”
“You’re gonna make me a daddy, m’gonna make you a mommy” His balls pulled tight to his body, body pulled taut, both of you panting, desperate for each other. “Take my cum baby, take it, gonna fill you with my babies”
“FUCK Y/N” He spilled his load into you, endless ropes of cum filling you. He moaned, clinging onto your body, his pace sloppy as he thrusted himself into your soaked pussy, his cum dripping out of you. “Fuck its so much baby, I can’t stop”
“Daddyyyy” You nearly sobbed, your puffy abused cunt sensitive as he continued to rut himself into you, his cock still hard.
“Y/n, I can’t stop baby, fuck” He practically whined, his cock still leaking, the tip of his cock swollen and sensitive, “Gonna get you so fucking pregnant baby, gonna put twins in you”
“Please baby” You cupped his face, needy for him, your ankles locked around his waist, keeping him close to you, “Get me pregnant daddy”
“Gonna put all my babies in you sweetheart, never pulling out of you, my pretty baby mama” He pressed sloppy kisses all over your face, giving you slow shallow thrusts, his cock finally softening. You both laid in bed in pure bliss, the smell of sex filling the room. He kept you cuddled against him, peppering you with kisses, his hand coming down to skim over your lower belly, tracing shapes onto your skin.
“Can’t wait for this to grow, see you barefoot and pregnant baby”
You giggled snuggling into him while Bucky rolled over, pulling his phone out, scrolling through it. You looked at him curiously while he smirked.
“What are you looking at Bucky”
“That was just one story baby, you have a whole list we have to recreate”
warnings ۶ৎ 18+ mdni. modern au. explicit smut, body insecurity/body image thoughts, jealousy, miscommunication, pool party tension, wet swimsuit, oral sex, fingering, multiple orgasms, protected piv, dirty talk, praise, possessive bucky, semi-public tension, soft aftercare.
synopsis ۶ৎ bucky spends the whole pool party trying not to stare. you spend the whole pool party thinking he can barely stand to look at you.
a slippery pool step, one bitter comment, and tony stark’s guest room fix that problem rather loudly.
evie’s input ۶ৎ not beta read. tumblr is a bitch for making my format go to shit. but please enjoy folks. dividers by @/cursed-carmine
you bought the swimsuit out of pure delusion. pure, bright, sun-drunk delusion, the sort that made sense at two in the morning with your laptop glowing against your face and natasha sitting beside you on the bed, eating chips directly from the bag while telling you that black one-pieces were for women hiding from federal charges or their own thighs. she had said that with such calm authority, such casual violence, that you had clicked away from the perfectly safe black one-piece and ended up on a page full of colors that made you feel personally attacked. cherry red. powder blue. white, which felt like an invitation for god to humiliate you. green, which nat said would look pretty on your skin and you said would make you look like a decorative salad, and then she had hit you with a pillow hard enough to send two chips flying into your blanket.
so you picked the dark blue one.
dark blue seemed mature. forgiving. almost responsible, if swimwear could be responsible. it had a low back that made you sit up straighter just looking at the model, and the top had little gold rings at the straps, small enough to pretend they were classy instead of slutty. the bottoms sat high on the hips, which nat called flattering and you called invasive. still, you ordered it. you even paid for express shipping, which felt like signing a contract with your own downfall.
now, standing in tony stark’s guest bathroom with the swimsuit cutting into places you had never invited fabric to develop an opinion about, the delusion had fully left your body. “this is a hate crime,” you mutter at your reflection, tugging the side higher, then lower, then higher again, like one of those positions will suddenly unlock a new body. “against me, specifically.”
the mirror gives you no sympathy. it just shows you exactly what you are trying very hard to survive. thighs. hips. stomach. skin. actual human flesh, very rude of it. you turn slightly, regret it, turn back, regret that too. the swimsuit is pretty. that may be the worst part. if it were ugly, you could blame the swimsuit. but it is pretty and soft and fitted, which means the problem is clearly you, and that feels legally actionable.
natasha knocks twice, then opens the door like locks are a decorative suggestion. she is wearing a black bikini and a loose white shirt, hair braided back, sunglasses resting on her head. she looks like she has never feared a changing room mirror in her life. maybe she killed that fear at sixteen and buried it in a forest. “if you’re dead in there, say something,” she says, leaning against the doorframe with a drink already in hand.
you glare at her through the mirror. “i’m suing you.”
“for making you look hot?”
“for elder abuse.”
“you’re younger than me.”
“for emotional elder abuse.”
her mouth twitches. she steps inside, closes the door with her heel, and turns you by the shoulders before you can protest. the inspection is quick and blunt, clinical in the scariest possible way, then her brows lift. “yeah. you’re wearing it.”
“you didn’t even pretend to think.”
“i did think. silently. very sexy of me.”
you pull at the bottom again, mostly so your hands have a job. it feels safer when your hands have a job. otherwise they might wander up and cover your stomach or your chest or your face, and then nat would make one of those sounds. a small sound, barely a sound, the kind that says she loves you and also wants to shake you until your bones make music. “it’s too much,” you say, quieter.
“it’s a pool party.”
“exactly. people will be near pools. with eyes.”
“tragic.” nat takes another sip. “people might also have necks. horrifying world.”
you make a face at her, but your fingers have started twisting the hem of the towel around your shoulders. the towel is the only thing keeping you from turning around, putting your shorts back on, and telling everyone you’ve developed a sudden aquatic allergy. chlorine intolerance. water-related moral conflict. any excuse with a medical-sounding word might work on steve. sam would ask questions. tony would ask if the water offended you personally, then offer to replace it with imported glacier melt.
bucky would look at you. that thought is the whole disease. bucky barnes looking at you in this swimsuit is either going to kill you outright or make you wish it had. he is already too much in normal clothes. jeans, shirts, those stupid henleys that cling to his shoulders with religious devotion. shirts in general seem desperate around him. fabric has never looked more underpaid. and now there is a very real chance that you will walk outside and find him shirtless by the pool, all broad chest and sun-warmed skin and dark hair falling around his face, and you’ll have to behave like someone who pays taxes and owns a toothbrush. impossible.
even worse, he may look at you and then look away. the thought is small. mean. familiar. he does that sometimes. looks away when you enter the room like your presence is a lamp turned directly into his eyes. you’ve built a whole religion around it. bucky finds you irritating. bucky tolerates you for nat’s sake. bucky can flirt with cashiers, grandmothers, dogs, possibly dangerous machinery, but when it comes to you, he either teases until you want to bite him or turns cold like you spilled something on his favorite memory.
“he’s already here,” nat says.
you blink at her. horrible woman. witch. spy. roommate. “who?”
“the pool boy.”
“tony has a pool boy?”
“no, but if he did, i’d respect his commitment to the theme.” nat watches you through the mirror. “barnes. he’s outside with steve and sam.”
your mouth goes dry. very mature reaction. very dignified. you deserve an award for remaining upright. “thrilling.”
“he asked where you were.”
“to insult me?”
“probably to write a poem.”
you snort despite yourself, then hate the sound for being too fond. bucky inspires many feelings in you, most of them medically confusing. rage, attraction, pettiness, fondness, the strange urge to press your face into his chest and stand there until society collapses. you used to think crushes were supposed to be fun. light. giggly. yours feels like chewing glass while a beautiful man laughs in another room. “i’m putting clothes on,” you announce, turning toward the pile you abandoned on the sink.
natasha catches the towel before you can turn it into armor. her face softens, which is alarming. she is much easier to handle when she is threatening people or calling men idiots. tenderness from nat tends to make you confess things. “you can wear whatever you want. but if you’re changing because barnes might see you, i’m going to be annoying.”
“you’re already annoying.”
“i have levels.” her hand squeezes your shoulder once. “he’s one guy.”
“he’s a large guy.”
“still one.”
“that’s debatable. he has the surface area of three men.”
she smiles into her glass. “come outside.”
you stare at yourself again. the gold rings at your shoulders glint under the bathroom lights. a soft breath leaves you, slow and unwilling. the girl in the mirror looks terrified, which is rude, because you were aiming for bored. maybe indifferent. possibly mysterious. something with less of a wet-cat energy.
bucky is one guy. one guy with eyes. one guy who probably won’t even look long enough to form an opinion. that is worse. “fine,” you say, grabbing the towel and wrapping it around your shoulders instead of your body. “but if i cry, i’m pushing you into the pool.”
nat opens the door, smug and fond. “deal. i swim beautifully.” you hate her. you follow her anyway.
sunlight hits you like a personal accusation. tony’s summer house is all glass, white stone, obnoxious wealth, and views so good they make you suspicious. the pool stretches across the back patio in a ridiculous blue sheet, bright enough to look fake, with lounge chairs lined along one side and a shaded outdoor kitchen on the other. music plays from speakers hidden somewhere in the landscaping, low and expensive. the air smells like sunscreen, grilled pineapple, chlorine, and the rosemary bushes tony probably paid someone to make look effortless.
everyone is already there. wanda is stretched on a lounger with sunglasses over her eyes, red hair spilling over one shoulder. vision sits beside her reading a book in the sun like a man who has never sweated once in his life. steve is by the grill, wearing swim trunks and a white shirt he left open, looking like a recruitment poster for sunscreen safety. sam is in the pool, arguing with clint over a foam football. tony is wearing sunglasses indoors, technically outdoors, but under the shaded bar, so spiritually indoors. bruce is speaking to pepper near a bowl of fruit like he has been assigned fruit diplomacy.
and bucky. bucky is near the far side of the pool, one foot up on the lower rung of a lounger, laughing at something steve says across the patio. shirtless, obviously. cruelly. swim trunks low on his hips, hair tied back in a loose half-bun, a pair of sunglasses hanging from the collar of the shirt he has abandoned on a chair. his skin is already touched by sun, golden at the shoulders, marked with faint scars and old history, and your brain takes one look at him and files for retirement.
of course. of course he gets to look like that near water. like some mythological punishment. like a sailor’s bad decision. like if marble got warm and developed a bad personality.
you stop near the sliding door. nat keeps walking. traitor. sam sees you first. “hey, finally! we were about to send a search party.”
“i was in the bathroom for seven minutes,” you call back, which is mostly true if you ignore the years spent negotiating with your own reflection.
“seven minutes in woman time,” tony says, lifting his drink. “so either twelve seconds or a fiscal quarter.”
“rich men shouldn’t speak,” you say, and tony points at you like you’ve wounded him.
“see, this is why i invite you. keeps the ego limber.”
that gets a few laughs, easy and warm. you can handle them. most of them. everyone here has seen you in pajamas, sick, angry, half asleep, and once crying over a video of a dog getting prosthetic legs. skin should be nothing. thighs should be nothing. a stomach should be nothing. human bodies have been happening for ages. terribly common things.
then bucky turns. it is fast. too fast. his smile is still there from whatever steve said, wide and relaxed, and then his eyes find you and the smile fades in pieces.
you go so still the towel slips down one shoulder.
he looks at your face first, then lower. hardly a second, maybe less, barely enough to count, but your body counts it. the line of his gaze touches your swimsuit, the bare places around it, the curve you have spent twenty minutes trying to negotiate with, and then he looks away.
just like that. his jaw tightens. his hand curls around the back of the lounger. his attention swings back to steve with such sudden force that you almost laugh. there it is. there it fucking is.
you knew this would happen. stupid, stupid girl. standing in a bathroom telling yourself he was only one guy when that one guy apparently needs to look anywhere else the second you show too much skin. amazing. beautiful. maybe you can walk straight into the pool and keep going until you reach a new continent. the patio sounds louder now. sam’s laughter, clint yelling about cheating, ice clinking in tony’s glass. everything keeps moving around you with obscene casualness. no one else saw it. no one else felt the tiny, sharp slice of it. bucky looked at you and looked away, and everyone else gets to continue eating fruit.
natasha glances back. you arrange your face into something flat and vaguely hostile. a familiar costume. better than the swimsuit.“drink?” she asks.
“yes.”
“alcoholic?”
“aggressively.”
tony hears that and brightens. “finally, someone with taste.”
you make your way toward the bar, aware of every step. the swimsuit feels too tight and too revealing and somehow too loud. bucky is across the patio, speaking to steve. he does not look again. that is fine. excellent. merciful, even. you hope he develops hiccups. tony slides a drink toward you. “for the lady with the aggressive liver.”
“thank you. sorry about your personality.”
“accepted. i bought another one.”
sam hoists himself out of the pool with a dramatic groan, water streaming down his shoulders. He grabs a towel, wiping his face, and his gaze flicks over your swimsuit without the weirdness men can sometimes bring to it. Just appreciative, warm, and easy. “Damn. Look at you.”
your fingers tighten around the glass. for one stupid second, praise lands in a place that has been sitting empty for too long. you lift your brows, aiming for casual. “is that surprise?”
“that’s respect,” sam says, pointing at the gold ring on your strap. “little fancy thing going on. i see you.”
“it’s swimsuit technology.”
“no, that’s a whole look. hey, buck.” sam turns his head before you can stop him. “you seeing this?”
murder becomes briefly understandable.
bucky’s shoulders go rigid. Steve looks between sam and bucky with the pained expression of a man witnessing a grenade roll under a picnic table. the second stretches. maybe two. your drink sweats against your palm. bucky does turn, but his eyes barely make it to your shoulder before skating away again. “yeah,” he says, voice rough enough that it sounds dragged from his throat. “i see it.”
that is worse than silence. you swallow. “fantastic. all votes counted.”
sam squints, sensing something in the air with the survival instincts of a man who has chosen chaos as a hobby. “you okay over there, terminator?”
bucky’s mouth moves into something that could pass for a smile in poor lighting. “fine.”
“sounds painful.”
“sam.”
“what? i’m checking on my friend.”
“check quieter.”
you take a long sip. It is sweet, cold, and strong enough to make your teeth feel clean. Wonderful. Tony Stark may be a public hazard, but the man stocks good alcohol. You let the burn settle on your tongue and decide, with the private little click of a door closing, that this is fine. Bucky can avoid looking at you. Great. Wonderful. Plenty of people have eyes.
Sam, for instance. Sam is grinning at you, towel around his neck, eyebrows lifted. He is handsome and safe and not Bucky, which immediately lowers his value in the ugliest part of your brain. But he complimented you. He looked at you without flinching. That counts for something. “you getting in?” sam asks, jerking his chin toward the pool. “or did you dress up to intimidate the tiles?”
“both can be true.”
“come on. clint’s cheating and i need a witness.”
you glance toward the water, then toward nat, who has settled beside wanda. Then, against all better judgment, toward bucky. He is looking at his drink. Very invested in it. Possibly falling in love with it. Good for them. your drink goes onto the counter. the towel slides off your shoulders and onto a chair before you can give yourself time to become normal again. Cool air brushes over your bare back. Too many places. Too much skin. Your arms fight the urge to cross over your middle.
Bucky’s head turns a fraction. You see it. You hate that you see it. The movement is so tiny anyone else would miss it, but you have a tragic little doctorate in James Barnes pretending indifference. His eyes make it to your legs this time. Then his mouth presses flat, and he turns away again.
Fine. Your chin lifts. “i’m a terrible witness,” you tell sam, stepping toward the pool. “i lie under pressure.”
Sam laughs and offers his hand from the water like he is helping royalty down from a carriage. “perfect. we’ll frame clint together.”
The pool is cold at first, a shock around your calves as you sit on the edge and lower yourself in. You bite back the sound that tries to escape, mostly out of pride. The water closes around your waist, then your ribs, and for a second the swimsuit stops feeling like a spotlight. Underwater, everything blurs kinder. Your hips, stomach, thighs. The body becomes a body again. Less evidence. Less argument. Sam tosses you the foam football. You catch it against your chest with both hands, splashing yourself in the face. “very athletic,” clint calls.
you wipe water from your eyes. “i’m preserving my mystery.”
“your mystery is that you suck at catch.”
“my mystery is that i haven’t drowned you.”
That gets a laugh from wanda. Nat smiles behind her sunglasses, proud and terrible. You start to loosen after that. The water helps. The drink helps. Sam helps too, in his loud, easy way, making you feel included without making you feel studied. He shouts fake strategies, accuses clint of crimes against recreational sport, and once spins you by the shoulders to aim your throw while you laugh so hard pool water gets in your mouth.
It should be enough. It almost is. Then you glance over and see Bucky watching. He is no longer pretending to listen to Steve. His sunglasses are on now, hiding his eyes, but his head is angled toward you. His arms are crossed over his chest, one shoulder leaning against a patio pillar, sun catching along the metal of his left hand where it grips his own bicep. There is nothing soft in his posture. Nothing open. He looks carved into place.
Caught, he turns his head slightly. Of course. Your laugh thins. Sam says something, but you miss it. Maybe your name. Maybe a joke. The pool sounds muffle, slipping in and out around your ears. Bucky can look from far away, apparently. From behind sunglasses. From a place where you cannot look back properly. The second you are close enough for him to have to acknowledge you as a body with feelings, he finds the nearest wall or drink or horizon.
There’s a special sort of humiliation in wanting someone who seems vaguely offended by the evidence of you. “you alive?” sam asks, splashing water near your arm.
You blink back to him. “unfortunately.”
“you looked like you were plotting.”
“I plot as cardio.”
“that explains the stamina.”
Bucky’s jaw moves across the patio. You see that too. Tiny. Annoying. Delicious, if you were a healthier person. A reckless little thing uncurls in your chest. It is petty and hot and stupid, so naturally it feels almost holy. You turn back to sam with a brighter smile, the sort that probably looks normal to everyone else and insane to Nat. Sam raises his eyebrows. Brave man. “teach me to throw better,” you say.
He narrows his eyes. “this a trick?”
“i’m asking for athletic help. cherish the moment.”
Sam laughs, then shifts behind you in the water, hands hovering over your elbows before settling lightly when you nod. It is friendly. It is nothing. It is two people in a pool with a foam football and a crowd of friends around them. But you feel Bucky before you see him. His attention has weight. A dark little weather system rolling over the patio. Sam adjusts your arm. “okay, elbow up. no, less like you’re threatening the ball’s family.”
“I am threatening its family.”
“gentle. release here.” His hand taps your wrist.
Across the patio, Steve says something to Bucky. Bucky does not answer. You throw. The ball arcs beautifully for half a second, then smacks clint square in the forehead. The silence is immediate. Then clint sinks under the water like a betrayed submarine. You clap both hands over your mouth. Sam loses his mind laughing, one hand braced on your shoulder as he folds forward. Wanda sits up. Tony lowers his sunglasses. Steve looks concerned. Nat looks delighted. Clint resurfaces, hair plastered over his face. “attempted murder.”
“self-defense,” you gasp, still half laughing, half horrified. “you had criminal energy.”
“You hit me in my innocent head.”
“no jury would convict her,” sam says, wiping his eyes. “that was art.”
A sound comes from the patio. Low. Short. You look before you can stop yourself.
Bucky is laughing. Not loud. Not like sam. Barely more than a breath, but his mouth has curved despite whatever terrible thing he has been doing with his face all afternoon. He is looking at you now. Fully. Sunglasses pushed up into his hair, blue eyes narrowed against the sun, and for one ridiculous moment, all the air in the day seems to gather in your throat.
Then he catches himself. The smile fades. His gaze drops to the water near your waist, moves away, and he reaches for his drink. It is a slap with no hand.
Your smile goes with it. The water suddenly feels too cold. “i need another drink,” you announce, heading for the stairs before anyone can see your face arrange itself badly.
Sam calls after you, still laughing about clint’s tragic head injury. Nat’s sunglasses follow you from the lounger. Bucky stays by the pillar, but the closer you get to the edge, the more you feel him there. A terrible awareness. Like walking past a stove you know is on. Your hands grip the metal rail as you climb the pool steps. Water streams down your body, cooler where the breeze hits. The swimsuit clings hard now, slick to your skin, making every curve more obvious instead of less. Wonderful design choice. Truly innovative cruelty. You reach for the towel on the chair, but it is farther than you thought, and the stone under your wet feet is slippery.
Your heel slides. For one bright, stupid second, you are suspended in pure indignity. Then a hand clamps around your upper arm. Not sam. Not nat. Not anyone safe enough to survive.
Bucky. His other hand catches your waist, broad palm spreading over wet skin, fingers pressing into the soft give above your hip. The contact goes straight through you with such force that your brain empties. Chlorine, sun, his skin, the faint spice of whatever soap he uses, all of it crowds too close. Your hand lands on his chest to steady yourself, and he is warm. Warm and solid and right there, which is deeply unfair for a man who has spent the afternoon treating eye contact like a hostage negotiation.
“careful,” he says.
One word. Low. Rough. Stupid. Your embarrassment catches fire. You laugh. It comes out bitter, thin at the edges, nothing like the easy laugh you gave sam. Bucky’s fingers tighten once at your waist, and that little pressure makes the whole thing worse. “relax, barnes.” You pull your hand from his chest, hating the wet print your palm leaves behind. “you don’t have to touch me longer than necessary.”
The whole patio seems to keep making noise, but in your little corner, the sentence has teeth. Bucky goes still. His hand stays on your waist for half a second too long, then leaves like he has been burned. The absence is immediate and awful. You hate him for touching you. You hate him more for stopping. His face has changed, though you refuse to name the change. His brows draw together, mouth parting slightly as if he has lost the next line. Good. Let him lose something. “What?” he says, quiet.
You grab the towel and pull it around yourself, too late to feel covered. “Nothing.”
His eyes narrow at that, and for once he does not look away. “That didn’t sound like nothing.”
“You’re very observant.”
“Don’t do that.”
A laugh tries to crawl out of you and dies ugly. “Do what?”
“Act like I did something to you when all I did was catch you.”
You look at him then. Really, probably too much. Big mistake. His skin is still damp at the temples from sweat or the pool water someone splashed earlier, and the sun catches the blue of his eyes so sharply you want to be mad at nature. His chest rises under your gaze. Your palm still remembers him, every warm inch. A handprint in reverse. “you looked away,” you say, and the words escape before pride can shoot them down.
Bucky’s face tightens. “When?”
You hate him. You hate him so much you could kiss him until both of you forget language. “Forget it.”
You turn away, but he catches the edge of the towel. Not enough to pull you back, only enough to stop the escape from being clean. “When?” he repeats, and the softness in his voice is so much worse than anger.
You should have kept your mouth shut. You should have stayed in the bathroom and sued Natasha from there. Instead you’re wet, half naked, humiliated, and Bucky Barnes is holding your towel like it matters. “When I came out,” you say, staring hard at the bar instead of him. “When sam called you. When I got in the pool. Pick one, you’ve been consistent.”
His grip loosens. For a second you think he will explain. He might laugh. He might say you’re imagining things. He might finally cut the whole sickness open and tell you he does not want to look, and then maybe you can be free through the healing power of public devastation. But he says nothing. Of course he says nothing.
Your eyes sting, which is unacceptable. Chlorine. Obviously chlorine. You pull the towel free and walk toward the bar with as much dignity as a woman can manage while dripping on expensive stone. Behind you, Steve says Bucky’s name. Low. Warning. Or concerned. You do not turn around. Tony is pretending very hard to examine a lime. “Drink,” you say, dropping onto a stool.
He pushes one over without commentary for maybe the first time in his life. “Hydration adjacent.”
“your discretion is unsettling.”
“i’m multifaceted.”
You take the glass. Your hand shakes once, barely. You curl it tighter until it stops.
Across the patio, Bucky remains near the pool steps, one hand low on his hip, the other rubbing over his mouth. Steve stands near him now, speaking quietly. Bucky shakes his head. His eyes cut toward you. This time, you look away first.
Pool parties become less fun once you have emotionally exposed yourself near a wet staircase. A tragic discovery. Someone should tell the youth. The afternoon drags onward with the mean persistence of a song you cannot skip. People eat. People drink. Sam retells the clint football incident with increasing betrayal of facts, making himself sound like a coach and you sound like a trained assassin. Clint claims he can see sounds now. Wanda orders him to stop making it tempting to hit him again. Tony brings out enough food for a wedding and calls it “light snacks,” which makes you wonder if billionaires understand hunger as a concept or merely as a branding opportunity. You sit with nat under the shade, towel around your shoulders, swimsuit drying tight against your skin. The drink has made you warmer, loose at the edges, but not enough to soften the place Bucky opened and then abandoned. He has stayed away. Not dramatically. Not in a way anyone could call obvious. He helps Steve with the grill, talks to Sam, lets Tony make jokes at his expense. He is normal.
That might be the ugliest part. You are sitting here with your nerves scraped raw, and he gets to hold a plate of grilled chicken. Do you want to talk about it?” nat asks.
“No.”
She hums, sipping from her straw. “Do you want to lie about it?”
“Desperately.”
“Go ahead.”
You stare at the water. Sam is trying to shove clint off a float. Clint has accepted death with more grace than expected. “I’m having a nice time.”
“Terrible lie. Try again.”
“I enjoy sunlight.”
“Worse.”
“Bucky Barnes is a normal man whose opinion does nothing to my blood pressure.”
Natasha’s mouth curves. “Almost funny enough to pass.”
You pick at a loose thread on the towel. The fibers are soft, expensive, probably worth more than half your closet. Tony’s towels have better career prospects than you. “He looked at me like he wished I’d worn a tarp.”
Nat says nothing for a second. Her silence is rarely empty. It moves around, checks exits, evaluates weak spots. “That’s what you saw?”
You glance at her, defensive already. “I have eyes.”
“Unfortunately, yes. Dramatic ones.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.” She turns her head a little, and you follow her gaze against your will.
Bucky is standing at the grill beside Steve. His posture is casual enough for a stranger. Not for you. You know his casual. This is held too tight at the edges. His shoulders are set, left hand curled around a bottle of beer he has barely touched, eyes trained on the pool with such grim commitment that the pool may owe him money. “He’s been weird all day,” nat says.
“He’s always weird.”
“With you, yes.”
“That’s very comforting.”
She nudges your knee with hers. “You two are exhausting.”
“There is no two. There’s me, suffering heroically, and him, being confusing and broad.”
“Broad?”
“Don’t make me defend my vocabulary. I’m injured.”
“You slipped.”
“Emotionally.”
Natasha laughs softly, then reaches over and plucks the drink from your hand. “Slow down.”
You glare. “This is theft.”
“This is friendship.”
“Friendship would let me make poor choices.”
“I let you buy the swimsuit.”
“That was attempted murder.”
Her hand squeezes your knee once. “He’s looking again.”
Your entire body betrays you. It wants to turn. It wants to pretend it has not been starving for that exact sentence. You hold still with the grim focus of someone defusing a bomb under poor lighting. “Good for him,” you say.
Nat’s smile turns small and unbearable. “You’re allowed to like being looked at.”
“By normal people, maybe.”
“Barnes is many things.”
“Normal does seem optimistic.” The words come out light enough. The thought under them sits heavy. Bucky looking at you feels dangerous because you cannot tell what he sees. All day, you have been trapped between wanting his attention and being wounded by how he spends it. Too quick, too hidden, too late. You want him to look in a way that lets you rest, which is insane. A person should not need another person’s eyes to feel real in their own skin. There are self-help books about that, probably. You have not read them because they would tell you to journal and you would rather eat sand.
Tony calls everyone for food, and the shift saves you from Nat’s terrifying accuracy. Chairs scrape. People gather around the long outdoor table. You end up between wanda and sam, safe enough, with nat across from you and Bucky diagonally down the table beside Steve. Diagonally is awful. Diagonally means accidental glances. Diagonally means you can pretend to look at the salad and still see his hands. Diagonally means his knee might bump yours if the table were smaller, which it is not, thank God, or no thanks to God, depending on where you are in your moral development.
Food helps. A little. Grilled corn, charred sweet at the edges. Watermelon with feta. Skewers. Tony’s obscene little sliders made with buns so soft you briefly understand wealth. You eat more than you expected, mostly to give your mouth a reason to stay busy. Sam leans closer while reaching for the corn. “You ever think about joining a league?”
You stare at him. “For what, pool homicide?”
“Foam football. You’ve got raw talent.”
“I injured one man.”
“That’s how legends start.”
You laugh, easier this time. Sam is lovely. Sam is safe. Sam has never once made you feel like a bug under glass or a prayer no one taught you how to say. His attention is warm and uncomplicated, and maybe that is why it fails to do the thing you wish it would. You want it to. That would be convenient. You could turn your head and smile at the man making you laugh, and your body could decide to be sensible for once. Across the table, Bucky’s fork scrapes softly against his plate.
You glance up. His eyes are on Sam’s shoulder, where it nearly touches yours. His mouth has gone flat again. When his gaze shifts to yours, it stays. No sunglasses now. No immediate retreat. You should feel triumphant. You feel pinned and furious and too warm under the towel.
Sam keeps talking. You answer. Probably. Words happen from your side of the table. Bucky looks away first, but slower this time, and that almost makes you angrier.
After food, Tony declares a mandatory sunset swim like a man whose money has left him unfamiliar with the word optional. Wanda declines by pretending to sleep. Vision declines with such politeness that Tony thanks him. Steve gets dragged in by Sam. Clint goes willingly after shouting that the water may heal his head trauma. Natasha sheds her shirt and dives so cleanly that half the patio claps.
You mean to stay on the lounger. You really do. Then Bucky sits on the chair two spaces away with a beer and no intention of swimming.
You stand.
“Coming in?” sam calls from the pool.
“Apparently.”
Bucky’s head lifts. There. There it is again. That first startled drag of his eyes as your towel drops onto the lounger. This time you catch all of it. He looks at your shoulders, your chest, your waist, the high cut at your hips, the damp lines where the swimsuit still clings from earlier. His throat moves. His fingers tighten around the beer bottle.
Then he looks away. Again. The hurt comes faster now, less sharp and more tired. You have run out of ways to be surprised by it. “You coming?” you ask before you can stop yourself.
Bucky looks back. “What?”
“In the pool.” You gesture toward everyone else, voice mild enough to deserve applause. “That large wet rectangle behind you.”
Sam laughs from the water. Steve watches Bucky with the concerned patience of someone looking at a friend about to step on a rake. Bucky’s eyes flick toward the pool, then to you. “I’m fine here.”
“Tragic. We’ll notify the rectangle.”
That gets a laugh from Tony. Even Bucky’s mouth twitches, but it dies before it becomes anything useful. “You scared?” you ask.
The words are easy. The ache under them is less so. You want him to rise. You want him to refuse. You want him to look. You want him to leave. You want so many impossible things at once that your own skin feels crowded. Bucky leans back in the chair, jaw set. “Of you?”
“Of fun.”
“Terrified.”
“Figures.” You turn before he can answer, stepping into the pool with all the dignity you can scrape together. The water feels warmer now after the heat of the day, soft around your knees, your waist, your ribs. Sam splashes near you, and you splash him back half-heartedly. The game restarts in some altered form. Someone throws a beach ball. Tony judges from the side with a drink, claiming he is “morally participating.” The sky slowly bruises pink and gold over the trees.
You laugh again. You even mean some of it. But Bucky stays on the chair. He stays dry and distant, one elbow on the armrest, beer untouched, gaze roaming everywhere except you until it does not. Then you feel it between your shoulder blades, across the back of your neck, sliding down where the swimsuit reveals more than it hides. If he is disgusted, he has a strange way of torturing himself with it.
Maybe he is bored. Maybe he is judging. Maybe he is thinking about someone else. Maybe you are pathetic. That last thought arrives with such calm familiarity that you almost miss the ball flying toward your face.
“Duck!” Sam shouts.
You duck too late. The beach ball clips the side of your head, harmless but startling, and you stumble back with a laugh that turns into a yelp when your foot misses the pool step under the water. This time, you do not fall. This time, Bucky is already there.
The splash of him entering the pool sends water up over your arms. You barely process the movement before his hand catches your waist under the water, bare palm meeting bare skin, fingers firm enough to halt every thought you were trying to have. His other hand closes around your wrist, anchoring you while your toes find the step.
The whole pool erupts around you. Sam says something. Tony whistles. Clint declares another murder attempt. None of it matters.
Bucky is in the water. Bucky is touching you.
Bucky’s hair is wet now, loose strands clinging near his jaw. His chest is inches from yours, water beading on his collarbones, eyes fixed on your face with the sort of focus that makes you feel both held and dissected. The metal hand around your wrist is cool. The flesh hand at your waist is warm even underwater. Your body, treacherous little idiot, forgets every insult it has been rehearsing and leans a fraction closer. “Careful,” he says again.
The same word. Same roughness. Less distance. Your laugh barely works this time. It leaves your mouth thin and tired. “You need a new line.”
His eyes drop to your mouth. Stay there. Move back up. “You need to stop slipping.”
“I’m sure the tiles are honored you blame me.”
“Wasn’t blaming you.”
“No, you’re just leaping into pools now. Very casual.”
His hand slides half an inch on your waist as someone’s wave rolls against you both. The movement is tiny and devastating. Your stomach pulls in under his palm before you can control it, and his fingers flex like he felt the reaction and had to restrain his own. Sam clears his throat loudly. “Everybody alive?”
Bucky does not look away from you. “Yeah.”
“You sure? That looked like a rescue.”
“Wilson,” Steve says, warning plain in his voice.
“What? I’m just asking. Man moved like a torpedo.”
Your face heats, and that saves you. Embarrassment brings language back. “I’m fine,” you say, trying to step back.
Bucky lets go of your wrist. His hand at your waist lingers. You glance down at it. He follows your gaze and releases you, slow enough to feel intentional, quick enough to hurt. “Fine,” he repeats, almost to himself.
You step away, wrapping your arms around your middle under the water. The swimsuit feels nonexistent now, yet somehow everyone can see the exact place his hand had been. Maybe there is a mark. Maybe your skin has announced it to the patio in bright letters. “I’m getting out,” you say, mostly to the water.
Bucky’s brows pull together. “Again?”
“Try to survive it.”
Sam says your name softly as you pass him, but you keep moving. The pool steps are kinder this time. You grip the rail, climb carefully, and grab your towel with wet hands. The sky has gone warmer, streaked with orange, and the air makes goosebumps rise along your arms. You head toward the house before anyone can ask.
The sliding door is blessedly close. The kitchen inside is cooler, dimmer, quiet except for the hum of Tony’s expensive refrigerator and the muted thump of music through glass. You leave wet footprints across the tile and feel guilty for half a second before remembering Tony could probably buy new tile by blinking. The towel goes tighter around you. Your face feels too hot. Your chest feels worse. Everything is tangled. Bucky looked away. Bucky watched. Bucky refused to get in. Bucky jumped in without thinking. Bucky touched you like instinct. Bucky let go like regret.
A normal person would accept complexity. You prefer suffering. The kitchen island has a bowl of cut limes, a bottle of tequila, and a tray of tiny desserts covered in plastic wrap. You peel one back and take a mini tart just to have something to destroy. It tastes like lemon and butter and wealth. You chew angrily. “stealing dessert before dinner’s fully over?”
You close your eyes. No. Absolutely no. The universe can go bother someone else.
Bucky’s voice comes from the doorway behind you, lower after the pool, rougher around the edges. You keep chewing. Swallow. Pick up another tart because dignity left hours ago and dessert is here now.
“Tell tony,” you say. “He’ll have me arrested by the pastry police.”
Wet footsteps cross the tile. He has followed you in dripping too, which should make him less intimidating. It does not. The room fills with him, chlorine and sun and that clean masculine smell under it, the one that has ruined many evenings and one perfectly decent pillow you once pressed your face into after he left it on your couch. He stops on the other side of the island. You look at the tart tray instead of him.
“I was checking on you.”
“Very heroic. I’m eating a tart.”
“So I see.”
“Then your work here is done.”
The old rhythm tries to come back. Snap, deflect, survive. Usually he takes the bait. Usually he smiles or scoffs or says something that makes you want to throw a household object. This time he stays quiet, and the quiet crawls right under your towel. You reach for a third tart. His hand covers the tray.
You stare at his fingers. Human hand. Calloused. Thick. The same hand that had been on your waist in the pool, warm through the water, possessive for one second before he remembered he did not want to be. Your own hand hovers uselessly near his. Lemon sugar sticks to your thumb. “Move,” you say.
“Talk to me.”
Your laugh is small and mean. “About dessert?”
“About what you said outside.”
“I’ve said many beautiful things today.”
His fingers press lightly against the plastic wrap, making it crinkle. “At the pool steps.”
The room cools further. Somewhere outside, Sam laughs. The sound reaches the kitchen thin and far away, like it belongs to another life where people can swim and flirt and enjoy fruit without turning into an open wound near a marble island. “I said you didn’t have to touch me.” You lift one shoulder. The towel slips a little. His eyes move to fix on your face with almost painful discipline. “Seems clear.”
“No.” His jaw tightens around the word. “It doesn’t.”
“It really does.”
“Is that what you think I’m doing?”
There it is. Softer than you expected. Worse, somehow. He sounds angry, but the anger has nowhere clean to go. It sits between you, wet-haired and broad-shouldered and too close. You pick at the sugar on your thumb. “Standing in a kitchen?”
“Trying to stop touching you.”
A humorless sound leaves you. “Aren’t you?”
Bucky’s hand slowly leaves the tray. He comes around the island, and you hate yourself for how fast your body registers each step. Wet tile under his bare feet. The shift of muscle in his thighs. Water slipping from his hair to his neck. He stops beside you, close enough that you can see tiny droplets on his lashes. “You think that’s why I looked away?”
Your fingers curl into the towel at your chest. “I’m very tired of talking about where your eyes go.”
“I’m not.”
“Congratulations.”
His voice lowers. “Look at me.”
“No.”
He breathes out through his nose. A patient sound. Not gentle. Not quite. “Please.”
That word does the damage anger could never do. You look up, furious with him for asking nicely. His face is tense, mouth set, eyes darker in the dim kitchen. He looks too serious for a pool party. Too serious for you standing here in a damp swimsuit and a towel, lemon sugar on your thumb, embarrassment turning your throat tight. “Happy?” you ask.
His gaze moves over your face like he is trying to read something written under your skin. “No.”
That almost gets you. Simple answer. No joke. No little smirk to save either of you. Your own mouth opens, then closes again.
Bucky glances toward the patio doors. Outside, the others are loud and bright and drunk on summer. In here, the air holds still around the refrigerator hum and your wet footprints. “I looked away,” he says, each word measured like it costs him, “because if I kept looking, everybody out there was gonna know.”
You stare at him. It takes a second. Maybe more. Your brain receives the sentence, turns it over, rejects it, picks it up again, then shakes it until meaning falls out. “Know what?”
His laugh is almost silent, rough at the bottom. “Don’t do that.”
“I’m asking.”
“You know what.”
“I really don’t.”
His hand lifts, then stops before touching you. That restraint again. Always that. A hand held back like your skin has rules written over it. You hate it more than anything, and maybe you have loved it too, which is inconvenient and humiliating. His fingers curl into his palm. “That I wanted you.”
The fridge hums. Music thuds through glass. Someone outside yells for Tony to stop cheating at whatever stupid rich-man game he has invented. Your towel slips another inch down your shoulder. Bucky notices. This time, he does not look away fast enough.
Wanted. Past tense? Present tense? A cruel grammar question at the worst possible time.
“You’ve been acting like looking at me causes physical pain,” you say, and it comes out less sharp than you need. More wounded. Awful.
His eyes cut back to yours. “It does.”
You blink. Bucky looks almost mad at himself now, which is satisfying for one brief second before it becomes sad. “You walked out in that thing and I had two choices. Look away, or sit there with everyone watching me stare at you like I’d lost my damn mind.”
“That thing?”
His gaze dips. Brief. Hungry. No disgust in it. None. The realization makes your stomach hollow out and fill at once. “The swimsuit.”
“You hate it.”
His mouth parts, then closes. His brows draw down. “I hate that Sam got to tell you first.”
That sentence finds a deep, stupid place in you and presses there. You hate that place. It has no pride. “He was being nice,” you say.
“I know.” in his mouth, right now, it is not reassurance. It is surrender. It is a man admitting something he does not want to resent and resenting it anyway.
“He looked at you like a friend,” Bucky says. “That made it worse.”
You set the tart down slowly, afraid any sudden movement might shatter the room. “Why?”
His eyes come back to yours. “Because I didn’t.”
The answer moves through you like a slow spill. Outside, someone opens the patio door. You both turn your heads at once. Tony leans in halfway, sunglasses still on though the sun is dying. His gaze takes in the water on the floor, your towel, Bucky’s expression, the tray of tarts, and he immediately lifts both hands.
“Fantastic. Haunted kitchen. Love that for us.” He reaches blindly for a bottle near the door. “Pretend I’m rich furniture.”
“Tony,” Bucky says, voice tight.
“Gone. Emotionally, spiritually, legally.” Tony backs out with the bottle and slides the door shut.
The interruption should break the tension. It does not. It makes it worse. Now the world has peeked in and retreated. Now privacy feels chosen. You wipe your sticky thumb against the towel, then regret it. “People are going to come looking.”
“Let them.”
Your eyes flick to his. “That’s a bad idea.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re agreeing?”
“Trying something new.”
Despite everything, a tiny laugh escapes you. Bucky’s face shifts at the sound. Not a smile, exactly. More dangerous than that. Like the laugh handed him proof he had been starving for and now he is trying to keep from grabbing.
“I thought you were embarrassed,” you say, quieter. The words scrape more than they should. “Of looking. Of me.”
His whole body seems to pull toward you without moving. “Jesus.”
You flinch at the roughness, and he sees it.
“Hey.” His hand finally touches your arm, just above the towel’s edge. Warm, careful, barely there. Still enough to ruin you. “No. I’m angry at myself. Not you.”
“You keep looking away.”
“I was trying to be decent.”
“That felt awful.”
His thumb moves once over your damp skin. You wish it did less. You wish it did more. “I see that now.”
“Great. Character development.”
He huffs, but there’s no real humor in it. His eyes have gone to the place his thumb touches your arm. “I’m sorry.”
You blink again. Bucky apologizes sometimes. To other people. Usually with grumbles and half-smiles and enough charm to make forgiveness feel inevitable. With you, apologies are rarer. Maybe because both of you prefer biting to bleeding. Maybe because he never seems to understand where the wound is.
This one is plain. You have no idea what to do with it. “I don’t want your pity apology,” you say.
His thumb stops. “Pity?”
“Yes.”
“You think I’m standing here half naked in Stark’s kitchen, dripping on a floor that costs more than my first apartment, apologizing out of pity?”
“When you put it like that, it sounds stupid.”
“It sounded stupid before.”
You glare up at him, relieved by the spark of irritation because anger is easier to hold. “Careful.”
That word. His word. It changes something in his face, turns his attention heavier. Your mouth goes dry. Bucky’s hand slides down your arm, slow enough that you could move away. You do not. His fingers find your wrist, then your hand, lifting it between you. Lemon sugar still clings faintly near your thumb. His eyes meet yours, asking nothing aloud, and maybe you nod. Maybe your hand simply gives up and lets him.
He brings your thumb to his mouth. The first touch of his tongue is warm and wet and obscene in its quietness. He licks the sugar from your skin like he has all the time in the world, lips closing around the tip of your thumb for half a second before he lets it go. Your knees forget their duties. The island is behind you, so you lean back against it before your body can embarrass you further.
Bucky watches the movement. “There,” he says, voice rougher. “No pity.”
You breathe through your nose, which is impressive since your lungs appear to have resigned. “That was unsanitary.”
“Pool water’s worse.”
“Comforting.”
His hand stays around yours. “You always do that.”
“What?”
“Make a joke when you’re shaking.”
You glance down. Your fingers are trembling in his grip. Treacherous little things. You consider cutting them off. Too messy for tony’s floor.
“I’m cold,” you say.
Bucky’s eyes drop to the towel, the damp swimsuit, the little bumps risen along your arms. “Yeah?”
“Yes.”
“Want me to get you dry?”
There is nothing clean in that question. Maybe there could have been, from someone else. From him, with his mouth still wet from your thumb and his hand around yours, the words turn thick. You pull your hand back, mostly so you can breathe. “I can manage a towel.”
“I saw.”
“You saw me almost fall.”
“I saw a lot today.”
A pulse starts low in your body, slow and hot and deeply inconvenient. “You looked away for most of it.”
“I looked back.”
That shuts you up. His hand goes to the edge of the towel. He does not pull. Just touches the cotton near your collarbone, where it has started to sag from water and poor decision-making. “I looked back all damn day.”
You try to swallow. It takes effort. “Bucky…”
The patio door opens again. This time it is Nat. She takes one look at you, one look at Bucky, then at the wet floor. Her face gives away nothing, which means she has figured out everything.
“People are asking about dessert,” she says.
You stare at her helplessly. Bucky’s hand drops from the towel. He turns his head, expression suddenly murderous in a very contained, socially inconvenient way. “They can wait.”
Natasha’s brows rise. “Can they?”
“Yes,” he says.
Something about that single word, the calm certainty of it, makes your thighs press together under the towel. Nat’s eyes flick down for barely a second, then back up. You want the tile to open and swallow you. Preferably gently. With snacks. “Right,” she says. “I’ll tell them the kitchen is occupied.”
“Nat,” you hiss.
Her mouth curves. “What? By wet people.”
Bucky sighs like he is in physical pain. “Romanoff.”
“Relax, Barnes. I’m leaving.” She reaches for the tray of tarts, slides it away from you both, and pauses at the door. “Use one of the guest rooms. Tony has cameras in weird places.”
Your soul leaves your body. “What?” you choke.
Tony’s voice carries from outside. “I do not have cameras in weird places. I have cameras in strategic places.”
Natasha closes the door again. The silence after that is different. Less fragile. More aware of its own stupidity. You cover your face with one hand. “I’m moving.”
Bucky makes a sound that might be a laugh if he were less ruined. “Where?”
“Into the ocean.”
“Pool’s closer.”
“Too many witnesses.”
His hand returns to your waist, over the towel this time, and the casual possession of it melts the last few scraps of your brain. “Guest room’s closer too.”
You lower your hand. He is looking at you now. No retreat. No disgust. No careful sideways glance. He looks exactly how you had feared wishing for. Hungry and unsure and trying to make himself stand still. “This is a terrible idea,” you whisper.
“Probably.”
“People are outside.”
“Yep.”
“You were ignoring me two hours ago.”
His mouth tightens. “I was trying to keep my hands off you two hours ago.”
“And now?”
His fingers press into your waist, pulling you one inch closer. Not enough. Enough to make you greedy. “Now I heard what you thought.”
Your chest aches. “And?”
He leans in, slow. Gives you time. Too much time. Your eyes dip to his mouth, and he sees that too. Of course he sees that, the bastard. His lips brush the corner of yours, barely a touch, more breath than kiss, and your entire body answers like it has been waiting years for a command. “And I’m done letting you think it.”
The first kiss is almost gentle. Almost. That is what ruins it. Bucky’s mouth touches yours with restraint at first, warm and careful, and you stand there stupidly with your hand hovering near his chest. It has taken so long to get here that your body does not trust it. He kisses you once, then draws back just enough to look at your face, and something in that tiny pause makes you angry. “No,” you breathe, grabbing the wet hair at the nape of his neck.
His eyes darken. “No?”
“You don’t get to kiss me like I’m fragile after making me feel insane all day.”
The words are barely out before his hand slides behind your head and his mouth comes back harder. This kiss has teeth in it. Not cruel, not careless, but hungry enough to make your fingers tighten in his hair. He tastes like beer and lemon sugar from your skin. His other arm wraps around your waist, pulling you in until the towel is crushed between you and his damp chest, and you make a sound into his mouth that you would deny in court. Bucky answers with a low groan, and the sound breaks something open. The kiss turns messy fast. Your feet slip a little on the wet tile, and he catches you without breaking away, almost lifting you onto your toes. The island edge presses into your back. His hand spreads wide between your shoulder blades, then drags down over the towel, as if he hates every layer between his palm and the body he kept refusing to look at.
Outside, laughter rises. You jerk back. “Guest room.”
Bucky’s forehead touches yours for one second. His breathing is rough, uneven, gratifyingly ruined. “Yeah.”
He takes your hand. That simple thing nearly undoes you. His fingers lace through yours, warm and firm, and he leads you through Tony’s absurd house with far more purpose than a man dripping pool water should have. The hallway is cool and dim, lined with art that probably costs enough to rescue a small nation. You barely see it. You see his back, the muscles shifting under wet skin, the dark hair curling at his neck, your hand held in his like something he does not plan to misplace. A laugh bursts from the patio behind you, then the sound dulls as the hallway turns. Your pulse beats everywhere. Mouth, wrists, thighs, the places the swimsuit rubs too tight. You have spent hours wishing he would look, and now he is taking you somewhere private to do more than that, which means panic arrives right on schedule, prim little nightmare clipboard in hand.
What if he changes his mind when the door closes? What if this is heat and misunderstanding and chlorine? What if he touches you and finds every soft place you spent the day trying to hide? Bucky stops at the first guest room and opens the door. The room is airy, pale, ridiculous, with a king bed dressed in white and a view of the trees beyond the windows. Too pretty. Too clean. A room for people who have sex beautifully, probably, with matching underwear and no body anxiety.
You hover at the threshold. Bucky turns. His gaze drops to your face, then your hand still in his. “What?”
You hate the gentleness. You might start wanting it everywhere. “Nothing.”
He steps closer, slowly enough to make the hallway feel narrower. “Try again.”
Your fingers tighten around his. “I’m wet.”
His brows lift a fraction. “From the pool,” you snap, heat flooding your face. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face did.”
“My face is having a day.”
Despite yourself, a laugh slips out, small and anxious. His thumb strokes over your knuckles, and the laugh fades into something softer. God, this is bad. This is tender now, and tender is much more dangerous than horny. Horny you understand. Horny has a beginning and an end and terrible decision-making in the middle. Tender grows roots. Bucky steps into the room and draws you with him.
The door closes behind you with a quiet click. For one second, neither of you speaks. The silence fills with water dripping from both of you onto the floor, distant music, your own uneven breathing. His hand leaves yours. You miss it immediately, which is humiliating.
Then he reaches for the towel. “Can I?”
You want to say something sharp. Something clever. Something that protects the swollen, nervous thing in your chest. Instead, you nod.
He unwraps you slowly. Not theatrically. Not like some polished movie scene. His fingers fumble once at the tucked corner, and that fumble does more to you than smooth confidence ever could. The towel loosens, slipping from your shoulders, down your arms, catching at your elbows before he pulls it free and drops it onto a chair.
Cool air touches your damp skin. Your hands twitch toward your stomach. Bucky catches them. The movement is fast, but his hold is gentle. Both wrists in his hands, lifted slightly away from your body. His eyes stay on yours. “Don’t hide from me.” The words are low, quiet, and absolutely devastating.
You try to laugh. It barely forms. “That’s ambitious.”
“I can be patient.”
“You? Since when?”
His mouth twitches. “Since about three seconds ago.”
You breathe out, shaky but almost amused. He lifts your hands and kisses the inside of one wrist. Then the other. Your throat tightens. It is so stupid, how much that gets to you. A kiss there. Not your mouth. Not your chest. Just the soft skin where your pulse is making an idiot of itself. “I’m going to look at you,” he says.
Your face burns. “That sounds like a threat.”
“It’s a warning.” His thumb moves over your wrist. “A fair one.”
“Very gentlemanly.”
“Trying.”
You swallow. “Don’t try too hard.”
His eyes darken. The shift is immediate, and you feel it under your skin. The little softness remains, but something hotter moves through it, something less careful. His hands lower yours to your sides. He waits. Gives you the chance to lift them again.
You don’t. Bucky looks. This time, he lets himself. His gaze starts at your face, maybe for mercy, then slips down your throat, over the thin straps, the gold rings, the wet fabric clinging to your breasts. You feel each inch like touch. He looks at the curve of your waist, the high cut at your hips, the soft places you wanted to fold away. His jaw sets hard. A slow breath leaves him, and the sound is not disgust. Not even close. It is almost anger, but turned inward, like he cannot believe he denied himself this all afternoon.
Your eyes sting again. “Oh,” you whisper, then immediately want to slap a hand over your mouth. Not a standalone reaction, you tell yourself absurdly. Put it in a sentence, idiot. “You actually…”
Bucky’s gaze snaps back to your face. “Yeah.”
“You looked away.”
“I was an idiot.”
“That’s established.”
His smile is brief and strained. “Fair.”
His hands come to your hips, bare now, no towel, no water softening the contact. Skin to skin. You inhale too sharply and his grip steadies, thumbs pressing near the swimsuit’s edge. “You thought I didn’t like this?” he asks, voice dragging lower.
Your eyes drop to his chest, safer than his face by maybe half a degree. “You looked like you were suffering.”
“I was.” His fingers slide along the high curve of your hip, then stop there, squeezing once. “Sweetheart, I saw you come out in this and forgot what language I spoke.”
That sounds impossible. It also sounds like him. Rough, a little annoyed, painfully sincere under all that heat. “You recovered fast.”
“I didn’t recover. I panicked.”
The laugh that leaves you is shaky and wet at the edges. “That was panic?”
“Steve asked if I was having a stroke.”
Your mouth opens. “He did not.”
“He did.”
“Was he concerned?”
“Very.”
You laugh fully this time, and Bucky’s hands tighten like he wants to hold the sound against you. The laugh fades when he steps closer. His wet chest brushes the front of your swimsuit. Barely. Your nipples tighten under the damp fabric, and his eyes drop just long enough to notice before returning to your face. The restraint almost kills you. “Sam complimented you,” he says.
You blink, following the turn. “Yes.”
“You smiled.”
“He was nice.”
“I know.”
There it is again. Acknowledgment. His thumbs move, small circles over your hips that turn thought into warm static. “You hated that?”
“I hated how easy it was for him.” Bucky’s voice goes rougher. “He could just say it. Stand there in front of everyone and tell you that you looked good. I stood ten feet away acting like looking at you too long was gonna put me in the ground.”
You study him, the damp hair, the tense mouth, the eyes that keep trying to fall and climb back up. “Would it?”
“Yeah,” he says, and this time he does smile. Small, wrecked, honest enough to hurt. “Maybe.”
That does something worse than praise. Makes you ache. Makes you stupid. Makes you lift your hand to his chest, pressing your fingers over the warm skin where your palm had landed earlier. He looks down at your hand like he wants to thank it. “You could’ve said something,” you murmur.
“I thought I had time to figure out how.”
“Figure out how to say you liked a swimsuit?”
“How to say I wanted to peel it off with my teeth without getting slapped in front of Steve.”
Your fingers curl against his chest. He watches your face. “Too much?”
The question is sincere, but barely. Mostly he is reading you now, and whatever he sees in your expression pulls his mouth into something darker. “No,” you say, and your voice sounds smaller than you want. “Continue.”
His laugh is quiet. “Continue?”
“You heard me.”
“I did.” One hand leaves your hip and comes up to your jaw, thumb brushing near the corner of your mouth. “Trying to decide if I wanna continue with my mouth or my hands.”
Your knees feel untrustworthy. “You’re taking suggestions?”
“From you?” He leans in, lips grazing your cheek, not quite kissing. “Always.”
The word slides down your body and settles low, hot, awful. You press your thighs together, barely, but he is too close to miss it. “Yeah?” His lips brush your ear now. “That where it goes when I say that?”
“Shut up.”
“Been trying all day.”
“To shut up?”
“To keep from saying worse.”
His mouth touches your neck. Your eyes close before you can pretend dignity. It is only one kiss at first, warm and damp from pool water, placed under your jaw with almost unbearable care. Then another, lower. His fingers at your jaw angle your face up, and the little stretch of your throat makes the room tilt through your body without the phrase in your head. You grip his shoulder, nails pressing into skin.
“Bucky,” you whisper.
He hums against your neck. “That sounded nice.”
“Don’t get smug.”
“Too late.”
You would scold him, but his teeth scrape lightly over your pulse and the scolding falls apart into a weak sound. He hears it. Of course he hears it. His hand on your hip slides around to the small of your back, pressing you closer, and the hard line of him through his swim trunks meets your lower stomach.
Your entire body pauses.
Bucky goes still too, but only to let you register it.
“Oh,” you breathe, then rush to fix it, face flaming. “That’s, um. That’s there.”
He pulls back enough to look at you. His eyes are nearly black. “Yeah. It’s been there.”
Your mouth parts.
“All day,” he adds, almost cruel now, and the hand at your jaw keeps your face tipped up. “You want the truth? I had to sit down after you got in the pool.”
A tiny, helpless sound leaves you.
His thumb strokes your cheek. “No. Look at me.”
You do, barely.
“I’m gonna say things,” he says, voice softer but dirtier somehow, stripped of performance. “And you’re gonna believe me this time.”
Your throat works around nothing. “That’s demanding.”
“Yeah.”
“Usually people ask.”
“I spent all day asking myself if I was allowed to want you.” His hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers sinking into damp hair. “I’m done asking me.”
That should terrify you. It does, maybe. But it terrifies the part of you that has been begging for exactly this.
His mouth comes back to yours, and this time neither of you pretend at gentleness for long. You open for him almost immediately, and he groans into the kiss, the sound vibrating through his chest under your hand. His tongue slides against yours, slow at first, then deeper when your fingers dig into his shoulders. The kiss turns wet, hungry, breathing ruined between mouths. He walks you backward without breaking it, guiding rather than pushing, until your calves hit the bed.
The bed. White sheets. Guest room. Pool party outside. Bucky’s hands on you.
Your brain tries one last heroic effort at thought.
What if someone comes in?
Bucky’s hands move to your hips.
What if the door isn’t locked?
He turns you, sits on the edge of the bed, and pulls you between his thighs.
What if this changes everything?
His mouth leaves yours and moves down your throat, and your remaining thoughts scatter like birds.
He is sitting now, which makes him lower, makes your body the thing above him for once. It should help. It does not. His hands spread over your thighs, thumbs running along the place where the swimsuit cuts high, and he looks up at you with damp hair falling around his face. He looks wrecked. Actually wrecked. Like the sight of you standing between his legs has finished what the swimsuit started.
“You were hiding under that towel,” he murmurs, tracing the edge of the fabric at your hip.
You swallow. “It was cold.”
“Liar.”
Your face heats, but his mouth presses to your stomach before you can answer. Right over the swimsuit. Soft. Deliberate. You freeze.
He does it again.
Lower this time.
Your hands hover over his shoulders. You do not know what to do with them. Push him away? Pull him closer? Applaud? Cry? Move to Romania?
“Bucky…”
His eyes lift. His lips remain near your stomach. “Yeah?”
You hate the question. Hate how much room it gives you to stop him. Hate how badly you want him to keep going without making you beg for it. “That’s…”
“What?”
You glance away. “You don’t have to…”
He sits back so fast you regret speaking. His hands remain on your thighs, but the warmth of his mouth is gone. “Don’t.”
The single word is sharp enough to bring your eyes back.
His expression is serious again. “Don’t say I don’t have to. I know I don’t have to.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“I want to.” His fingers press into your thighs, almost too tight, then ease as he notices. “I have wanted to put my mouth on you since you walked outside.”
Your body responds so hard it feels unfair.
His eyes lower, following the tiny shift of your thighs. His jaw tightens. “Since before that.”
The room has become too warm. Your swimsuit is drying in patches, damp fabric clinging between your legs, and every tiny movement makes you aware of how wet you are under the pool water. Not just pool water anymore. Maybe not for a while. Horrible. Amazing. You may need medical attention. Or less medical attention and more of his mouth.
Bucky’s thumb slides along your inner thigh.
“You thought I didn’t wanna look.” He says it quietly, but the words carry a rough little bite. “You thought I looked away because I didn’t like your body.”
Your fingers curl into his hair. You do not answer.
He leans forward and kisses the inside of your thigh, just below the swimsuit’s edge.
Your breath leaves in a broken little rush.
His mouth lingers there. “I looked away because I wanted to do this in front of everybody.”
“Bucky,” you whisper, scandalized and so turned on you can barely feel your feet.
His lips move higher, still over skin, slow and warm. “Wanted to drag you out of that pool when Wilson had his hands on you.”
“He was helping.”
“I know.” His teeth graze your thigh. “Still wanted to.”
“You’re terrible.”
“Today?” His eyes flick up. “Yeah.”
His fingers hook under the swimsuit at your hips, then stop. The pause makes your skin prickle. He is waiting. Again. That careful, maddening decency under all the dirty want.
You nod, too fast.
His mouth curves, but it is not teasing. More relief than anything. “Words, baby.”
That name hits deep. Worse after the whole day of being looked away from. Baby means wanted. Baby means chosen. Baby means the towel can stay on the chair and the body you were trying to hide is now the only thing he seems able to focus on.
“Take it off,” you say.
Bucky closes his eyes for a second.
You almost laugh. Almost. Instead your fingers tighten in his hair, and that ruins him faster. His eyes open, and the polite thread in him snaps.
The swimsuit comes down slowly at first, peeled over your hips with such careful attention that you want to crawl out of your skin. The damp fabric resists, clinging where it can, and Bucky seems almost personally offended by it. He leans forward, mouth brushing your hip as he works it lower, then your lower stomach, then the soft skin above your mound. Every kiss makes the wait worse. Every inch exposed feels like a confession.
You expect him to look up at your face once you are bare.
He does not.
His gaze fixes between your thighs, and the sound he makes is quiet, dragged deep from his chest, almost pained. You try to close your legs on instinct, but his hands are already there, spreading warm over your thighs.
“Don’t hide,” he says again, rougher now.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“You’re staring.”
“Yeah.” His thumbs slide higher. “I missed a lot today.”
Your face burns so hot it almost hurts. “You can’t just say that.”
“I can.” He kisses the crease of your thigh, eyes still on you. “I am.”
The swimsuit slips lower, down your thighs, then to your knees. You lift one foot, then the other, and he drops the ruined damp thing somewhere on the floor. A wildly expensive room, white sheets, your swimsuit abandoned in a wet little heap. It should feel humiliating.
It does.
It also makes you throb.
Bucky’s hands return to your thighs. He sits there on the bed, still in his wet trunks, and looks at you like this is the first quiet moment he has had all day and he plans to spend it badly. Your arms cross over your chest, but he catches the movement at once.
“Hey.”
You glare, but there is no force behind it. “What?”
His hands slide around to the backs of your thighs. “Come here.”
“I am here.”
“Closer.”
“There is physically no closer unless I climb you.”
His expression changes.
Ah. Idiot mouth. Treacherous mouth. Mouth with no survival instincts.
Bucky leans back slightly, spreading his thighs more. “Then climb.”
Your body gives an almost embarrassing pulse at the command. “You’re very comfortable giving orders for someone who spent half the day staring at landscaping.”
“I had a hard day.”
“You had a chair.”
“I had you in that swimsuit ten feet away from me.”
“That must have been so difficult.”
He pulls you forward by the backs of your thighs, and the sudden movement makes your hands land on his shoulders. “It was.”
There is no joke in his voice now.
Your knees go onto the mattress on either side of him before you fully decide to move. Straddling his lap like this, bare while he is still partly clothed, feels obscene in a way full nudity might not have. His trunks are wet beneath you. The hard length of him presses up between your thighs, thick and hot even through fabric. Your hips jerk before you can stop them, and his hands clamp around you with a groan.
“Shit.” His forehead drops to your collarbone. “Do that again and I’m gonna embarrass myself.”
That should make you smug. Powerful. Instead it makes you needy in a way you did not agree to. You roll your hips again, smaller this time, dragging your bare pussy over the soaked fabric of his trunks. The friction is rough enough to make your mouth fall open. His hands grip your ass, helping and stopping at once, torn between instincts.
“Baby,” he says, warning and pleading in the same breath.
The word feeds something awful in you. You do it again.
Bucky’s head tips back, throat working, eyes squeezed shut for half a second. This beautiful, irritating man who looked away all day now looks as if your body might actually kill him. Good. Maybe balance exists.
“You like this?” you ask, and your voice is shaky, but the question still has a little bite. “Or are you going to look at the curtains?”
His eyes open.
You may have gone too far.
His hand comes up and catches your jaw, not hard, but certain enough that your hips still. “Say it again.”
Your lips part. “What?”
“What you said outside.”
The pool steps return all at once. Wet stone. His hand at your waist. Your own stupid voice, bitter and wounded.
“You don’t have to touch me longer than necessary,” you murmur, quieter now.
Bucky’s jaw flexes. His thumb strokes once along your lower lip, and the tenderness of it makes the shame worse somehow. “That.” His other hand presses at your lower back, bringing you down against him again. “Every time you thought that today, I want it back.”
You have no idea what that means until he kisses you.
It is not careful now. It is deep, claiming, his tongue sliding into your mouth as his hand guides your hips over him. The wet fabric drags against your clit, and you whimper into the kiss, the sound swallowed by him immediately. He does it again, rolls you down, grinds you over the hard shape of his cock, and the pleasure is dirty and sharp, mixed with the faint scratch of his trunks and the slickness between your thighs.
“Long enough?” he mutters against your mouth.
You clutch at him, face burning. “Shut up.”
His hand slips between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with such sudden precision that your whole body jerks. He rubs slow, tight circles, using your wetness and the water still on your skin, watching your face from inches away.
“Answer me.”
You shake your head, pride making a brave final appearance before dying in combat. “No.”
“No?” His mouth brushes yours, and his fingers press a little harder. Your hips chase the touch, humiliating you on contact. “Still not long enough?”
You hate him. You love him. You want to bite his shoulder until he says your name wrong. “Bucky…”
“That’s not an answer.”
His fingers dip lower, sliding through your folds, and his eyes go heavy at what he finds. “Fuck, sweetheart.” His voice drops into something rough and almost disbelieving. “You’re soaked.”
“Pool,” you manage, immediately ashamed of yourself.
He laughs then, a low sound against your mouth. “Yeah? Pool did this?”
His fingers push inside you, two at once, thick enough that your head drops forward to his shoulder. The stretch steals whatever joke you had left. Your hands claw at his back, and he groans like that hurts in the best possible way.
“Guess I owe the pool an apology,” he murmurs, pumping his fingers slowly. “Been mad at it all day for touching you more than I got to.”
Your laugh breaks into a moan. The sound is embarrassing, open, too needy, and he reacts to it with a thrust of his hips up against your bare thigh, his cock hard and trapped in wet fabric.
“Bucky,” you whimper, turning your face into his neck.
His fingers curl.
Your body goes liquid.
“There,” he breathes, and then seems to remember himself. “Yeah, right there?”
You nod into his skin, too far gone to be difficult.
“Use words.”
A sharp little pulse goes through you. He feels it. His laugh is quieter this time, almost awed.
“Oh, you like that.” His fingers press the same spot again, slow and deliberate, and his thumb finds your clit. “All that mouth at the pool, and now look at you.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.” His mouth moves to your ear, breath hot over wet skin. “You hated thinking I didn’t want you.”
That one splits you open more than his fingers.
You try to lift your head, but he holds you where you are, face tucked into his neck, body in his lap, nowhere to go but the truth.
“You hated me looking away,” he continues, quieter, filthy and tender in equal measure. “Hated Wilson saying you looked good because you wanted it from me. Hated that I sat there like an idiot when all you wanted was for me to come over and put my hands on you.”
Your thighs shake around his. The pleasure is building faster than you expected, pulled tighter by every word. He is too accurate. Too close. Too deep, and it is only his fingers, which makes you dizzy with terror over what the rest of him will do.
“I didn’t…” You try. Fail. “I didn’t want…”
He kisses under your ear. “Liar.”
“Bucky.”
“You did.” His hand around your waist slides up your back, holding you as his fingers fuck into you a little harder. “You wanted me jealous. You wanted me to see you. You wanted me to stop acting like a saint and do something about it.”
Your nails dig into him.
“There,” he says, sounding pleased and ruined all at once. “That one.”
You are close. Horribly close. Hips rocking into his hand now, your body making choices your pride would never sign off on. His thumb rubs your clit steadily, and his fingers hit that same spot until your vision goes soft at the edges. You bite down on his shoulder to keep from being too loud, and he makes a strangled sound, hips bucking under you.
“God, do that again.”
You do. Harder.
His fingers slip out of rhythm for one second, and that small loss almost makes you sob. “No, no, no, don’t stop.”
Bucky’s hand tightens at your back. “I’ve got you.”
“You keep saying things like that,” you gasp, words breaking as he finds the rhythm again.
“Yeah?”
“It’s annoying.”
He kisses your temple, and the sweetness of it almost tips you over. “Cum, then complain.”
That should not work.
It works.
The orgasm rolls through you hard enough to make your mouth open against his shoulder without sound at first. Then the sound comes, muffled into his skin, high and wrecked. Your hips grind down on his fingers, chasing every last pull of it, and Bucky talks you through it in a rough whisper that barely sounds like him anymore.
“That’s it, baby. Fuck, there you go. Just needed someone to touch you right, huh? Needed me to stop being stupid and put my hands on you.”
Your body shakes in his lap, every muscle loose and trembling. His fingers slow but do not leave right away. He lets you ride the last of it, forehead pressed to the side of your head, breath rough in your ear. The patio music is still going somewhere far away. Someone outside cheers. Maybe a game. Maybe a toast. The world is criminally unaware that you have just collapsed into a man you were pretending to hate this morning.
Then Bucky starts to pull his fingers free.
You whine.
The sound is pathetic. Immediate. You wish to file a complaint against yourself.
Bucky freezes, then laughs under his breath. “Greedy.”
“Shut up.”
His fingers slide out fully, wet and obscene between you. You mean to look away. You fail. He watches your face as he brings them to his mouth, licking them clean with a slow, dirty satisfaction that makes your cunt clench around nothing.
His eyes darken. “Saw that.”
“You see too much.”
“Not enough.” His hands go to your hips again, turning you carefully and laying you back on the bed before you can protest. The white sheets are instantly doomed, damp under your body, but Tony’s laundry issues are not your ministry. Bucky kneels between your thighs, still in his trunks, cock straining hard beneath the clinging fabric. “I’m making up for it.”
A nervous laugh leaves you as your head sinks into the pillows. “By staring at my vagina?”
His brows lift.
Your face burns. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face again.”
“My face likes you.”
“Your face is an idiot.”
“Yeah.” He presses a kiss to your knee, then lower, then lower again, hands sliding under your thighs to open you wider. “It’s got company.”
The first touch of his mouth between your legs almost makes you levitate.
He does not ease in. Not really. Maybe he means to, maybe he has some beautiful plan involving patience, but the second his tongue parts you, his control seems to go with it. His hands hook around your thighs, dragging you closer to his mouth, and the sound he makes against your pussy is so filthy you cover your mouth with one hand.
Bucky stops.
Your eyes fly open.
He lifts his head, mouth wet, eyes furious in the best way. “Move your hand.”
Your fingers loosen over your lips. “They’ll hear.”
“Let them hear the pool wasn’t the reason you left.”
Your whole body clenches. He sees that too. Obviously. Curse him and his newly unleashed observational skills.
“Bucky,” you whisper, scandalized.
He kisses your inner thigh, close enough to make you twitch. “Move it, baby.”
Slowly, your hand drops to the sheets.
He smiles against your skin. “Thank you.”
Then his mouth is back on you, and gratitude becomes a weapon. He licks into you with slow, messy strokes at first, tasting you like he has been denied water and blames you personally. His tongue drags from your entrance to your clit, lingering there until your thighs tense around his head. Then he does it again. Again. Learning with horrifying speed what makes your hips jerk, what makes your fingers twist in the sheets, what makes your mouth form his name without quite saying it.
You understand, distantly, that he is good at this.
Of course he is. Of course Bucky Barnes eats pussy like he has a vendetta against sanity. Of course the man who looked away all afternoon now has his face buried between your thighs with a concentration that feels almost insulting. Like he is determined to win an argument you did not realize your body had started.
His metal hand slides up your stomach, cool against heated skin, holding you down when your hips lift. The contrast makes you moan. His eyes flick up. He does it again, palm pressing lightly between your ribs as his tongue circles your clit.
“Please,” you breathe, though you have no idea what you are asking for.
Bucky hums into you.
Your back arches. The hum vibrates through every over-sensitive nerve he has already ruined, and your hands shoot to his hair. He lets you pull. Encourages it, maybe, with another wet, open-mouthed suck that makes your thighs clamp around his ears.
“Sorry,” you gasp, trying to loosen your grip.
He pulls back just enough to speak, lips shining. “Do it again.”
“What?”
His teeth scrape your thigh. “Pull my hair again.”
You stare at him, then obey with trembling fingers.
His eyes close for a second, and the expression on his face is so openly pleased that something inside you folds. This is him. Not the cold look-away version from the patio. Not the teasing version with everyone watching. This man, wet-haired and greedy, kneeling between your legs like he has found religion and plans to be terrible about it.
He lowers his mouth again, and this time you pull when his tongue presses inside you.
Bucky groans into your cunt.
The sound is enough to make your hips jerk up against his mouth. He holds you down, but barely. Like he wants the fight. Like every needy movement makes him worse. His tongue fucks into you, then slips back to your clit, alternating until you cannot predict anything except pleasure. It grows too quickly. Your last orgasm has left you sensitive, swollen, every touch brighter than it should be.
“Bucky, I can’t,” you gasp, then hate yourself because you absolutely can and probably will.
He lifts his head, but keeps his thumb moving over your clit in lazy, devastating circles. “Can’t what?”
“Again. I can’t…”
His mouth curves, wet and wicked. “You can.”
“You have too much confidence.”
“I have evidence.” His thumb presses a little harder, and your legs shake. “Look at you.”
“No.”
“Yeah.” He leans up over you, thumb still moving, mouth hovering above yours. You can smell yourself on him. The realization makes you clench so hard his eyes drop. “You gonna get shy now? After soaking my fingers? After grinding all over me like you were trying to ruin my life?”
“I was making a point.”
“You made it.” His lips brush yours. “Very persuasive.”
You mean to roll your eyes. He kisses you before you can, pushing the taste of yourself into your mouth while his thumb keeps working your clit. The kiss makes it dirtier. More intimate. Your hand wraps around his wrist, but you don’t pull him away. You hold him there, grinding up in tiny helpless motions as the pressure builds again.
Bucky’s mouth leaves yours only to speak against it. “You’re gonna cum on my hand, then I’m gonna fuck you. If that’s what you want.”
If. Somehow that word remains. A door, not a trap. It makes your eyes sting again, which is so deeply inconvenient while naked with a man’s hand between your legs.
“I want it,” you say, voice shaking.
His forehead touches yours. “Yeah?”
“Yes.” Your grip tightens around his wrist. “I want you. I wanted you all day. I wanted you before today, and you were horrible and confusing and shirtless, which was unnecessary, and I hate that you looked away, and I hate that I cared, and I want you to fuck me so badly I can’t think about any of it.”
Bucky stares at you.
For a moment you regret speaking. Then his mouth crashes into yours, and regret becomes impractical.
His fingers replace his thumb, sliding down and pushing into you again, three this time, the stretch sharper after his mouth. You gasp into the kiss. He swallows it, pumps his fingers deep, heel of his hand grinding against your clit. The pleasure turns immediate and rough, your body already primed by his mouth and his words and the unbearable fact of being wanted after hours of believing the opposite.
“That’s it,” he mutters against your cheek. “There’s my mean girl. Thought I lost you under all that pouting.”
You whimper and slap weakly at his shoulder. “I was wounded.”
“You were jealous.”
“You were avoidant.”
“I was hard enough to see God.”
A shocked laugh bursts out of you, then breaks as his fingers curl. “That’s vulgar.”
“You asked for honesty.”
“I did not ask for theology.”
He laughs into your neck, and somehow the warm sound mixed with the filthy rhythm of his hand tips you closer. You clutch at his shoulders, then his hair, then the sheets. Nothing helps. The orgasm comes slower this time, dragged out of you with cruel patience. Your thighs tense, stomach pulling tight, and Bucky feels the change before you can warn him.
“Yeah, baby. Give me that one too.” His mouth presses near your ear, voice a wrecked whisper. “Need it. Need to feel you cum before I get inside you.”
Need. From him. Bucky Barnes needing anything from you.
Your body gives in.
The second orgasm is messier, wetter, less contained. You cry out before you can bite it back, hips bucking into his hand, and Bucky groans like the sound goes straight through him. His fingers keep moving, slower but deep, dragging the pleasure until you are shaking and trying to push at his wrist.
“Too much,” you gasp.
He stops at once.
The loss makes you whine again, and he laughs softly, kissing your cheek, then your jaw, then your mouth with absurd sweetness for someone who just fingered you into temporary stupidity.
“You’re impossible,” he murmurs.
“Your fault.”
“Yeah.” His hand smooths over your thigh, gentle now. “I’m starting to like that answer.”
You open your eyes. He is above you, wet hair falling forward, mouth swollen from kissing and eating you, eyes on your face with such naked affection that it scares you more than the hunger did.
Affection is hard. Desire has a script. Affection looks at you afterward.
Your hand lifts before you can stop it, touching his cheek. He turns slightly into your palm. That tiny movement ruins you.
“You really wanted me?” you ask, hating the softness in your voice.
His expression tightens. “All day.”
“Before today?”
He presses a kiss to your palm. “Yeah.”
“How long?”
A pause.
The room becomes too quiet again, but this silence is not empty. It is full of him deciding whether to lie. He does not.
“Long enough to act stupid about it.”
“That could be any amount of time.”
“Months.”
Your chest squeezes. “Months?”
“Maybe longer.”
“You’re terrible at flirting.”
“I panicked,” he says again, like that explains the whole tragedy of him. Maybe it does.
You laugh softly. He smiles this time, real and quick, then kisses you. The kiss starts gentle, then deepens when your legs wrap around his waist. His cock presses against you through his trunks, and the teasing drag makes both of you go still.
He looks down between your bodies. “I need these off.”
“Finally, a smart idea.”
His hands go to the waistband, then pause. “Condom?”
Reality returns in a less catastrophic way. Important. Practical. You gesture vaguely toward the side table, then remember this is Tony’s guest room, not a hotel minibar for sex supplies. “Unless Tony keeps them next to the complimentary existential dread, I don’t…”
Bucky drops his forehead to your shoulder with a pained groan.
A laugh bubbles out of you, helpless and mean. “Very prepared seduction, Barnes.”
“I was supposed to be ignoring you by the pool.”
“You did great.”
He bites your shoulder lightly. You yelp, then laugh harder. His own laugh shakes against you, warm and frustrated, and the absurdity of it makes the room feel human again.
Then he lifts his head. “I have one in my wallet.”
You stop laughing.
His brows draw together. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re judging.”
“I am judging.”
“I’m a grown man.”
“With pool-party condoms?”
“One condom. Singular. Emergency.”
“What emergency did you anticipate?”
He gives you a look. “Apparently this one.”
You should make another joke. You truly should. But the thought of him having one, of this actually happening, drains humor out of you and leaves want in its place. “Wallet,” you say.
Bucky’s eyes darken again.
He climbs off the bed, and the loss of his body makes you cold for exactly three seconds before he turns toward the chair where his discarded shirt must be absent, then remembers his wallet is out by the pool with his things. His face changes into genuine despair.
You clap a hand over your mouth.
“Don’t,” he warns.
“You left your emergency outside?”
“I didn’t plan to need it indoors.”
You dissolve into laughter. It is quiet, desperate, half muffled, but laughter all the same. Bucky stares at you, then shakes his head, smiling despite himself. He looks younger like this. Less impossible. Still shirtless and wet and hard in his swim trunks, which does complicate the innocence.
“I’ll go,” he says.
“You are not going outside like that.”
His gaze drops to the obvious tent in his trunks. “Fair.”
You look around the room and spot a folded robe near the bathroom door, white and plush. Perfectly Tony. “Robe.”
“I’m not wearing Stark’s sex robe.”
“Guest robe.”
“Same thing.”
“You want the condom or a philosophical debate?”
Bucky points at you. “Stay there.”
You sink back into the pillows, naked and grinning like an idiot. “Where would I go?”
“Knowing you? Window.”
“Only if things get worse.”
He grabs the robe, pulls it on with visible resentment, and the sight of Bucky Barnes in a plush white guest robe with wet hair and a furious erection is so absurdly beautiful that you almost cry. He catches your face and pauses at the door.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
He narrows his eyes. “That smile says something.”
“It says hurry.”
That works. He leaves, closing the door behind him.
The second he is gone, you become aware of yourself again. Naked on white sheets. Swimsuit on the floor. Body cooling, thighs damp, mouth swollen. The laughter fades slowly, leaving a trembling little silence behind it.
This is real.
Bucky wanted you. Bucky is coming back. Bucky went to fetch a condom wearing Tony’s guest robe like some obscene, damp ghost of poor planning.
Your hand presses over your stomach. Not hiding now. Just grounding. It feels different under your own palm after his mouth, his hands, his eyes. Still yours. Still soft in places. Still carrying every insecurity from the bathroom mirror. But his wanting has touched it now, and you hate how much that helps. Hate how badly you needed someone else’s hunger to quiet the awful little voice in your head. Maybe you can work on that later. Maybe growth can wait until after orgasms.
Voices rise in the hall.
You freeze.
Sam: “Barnes, why the hell are you wearing a robe?”
Bucky, low and deadly: “Move.”
Tony, delighted somewhere farther away: “That is Egyptian cotton, by the way.”
Natasha laughs. “Let him live.”
Sam again, audibly grinning: “Is there a fire?”
Bucky says something too low to hear.
A beat of silence.
Then Sam barks out, “Oh my god.”
Your soul exits again, does a lap, returns out of morbid curiosity.
The door opens. Bucky steps in, face red, jaw tight, wallet in hand, robe still tied around him. He closes the door and locks it this time.
You stare.
He points at you again. “Don’t.”
“I said nothing.”
“You’re laughing with your whole face.”
“I would never.”
He stalks back toward the bed, tugging at the robe tie with enough aggression to threaten the cotton’s lineage. “Wilson knows.”
“Oh no.”
“Tony knows.”
“Tony knew before we did.”
“Steve looked proud.”
That breaks you. You roll onto your side, laughing into the pillow. Bucky tosses the wallet onto the bed and grabs your ankle, pulling you back toward him. The movement turns your laughter into a gasp. The robe falls open as he kneels on the mattress, and there he is, absurdity gone in a single second, his body over yours again, desire returning like a hand around your throat.
“Laughing at me?” he asks.
“Yes.”
His hand slides up your calf, over your knee, spreading your leg aside. “That’s brave.”
“I’m very brave.”
“You slipped twice today.”
“Physically brave and spatially cursed.”
His mouth twitches. He bends down and kisses the inside of your knee, then the thigh, and the laughter fades into a softer sound. “You okay?”
The question is quiet. It stops the teasing better than any command could. You look down at him, fingers resting in his wet hair.
“Yes,” you say. Then, more honest, “Nervous.”
His hand stills on your thigh. “About me?”
“About you seeing me.”
His face changes again, but he does not use any of the easy lines. No polished praise. No smooth answer. He moves up your body instead, covering you with his warmth, bracing one arm beside your head. His other hand cups your cheek, thumb damp against your skin.
“I see you,” he says. “I want you. Same sentence.”
Your throat tightens. “That’s unfairly effective.”
“Trying to be clear.”
“Terrible habit.”
His mouth brushes yours. “Can I keep seeing you?”
You nod. “Yeah.”
His lips press to your cheek, your jaw, your neck. “Can I keep touching you?”
Your legs part wider around him. “Yeah.”
His hand slides down between your bodies, and your hips lift when his fingers stroke through your folds again, gentle now, checking. Teasing. Both. “Can I fuck you?”
The bluntness sends a hot pulse through you. Your fingers tighten on his shoulders.
“Yes,” you breathe. “Please.”
Bucky’s eyes close for a beat, and when they open, patience is hanging by a thread.
The robe is shoved away. His trunks follow, dragged down his hips with a wet, clinging sound that would be funny if you had enough brain left. You do not. You are too busy staring. He is thick, heavy in his hand, flushed at the tip, and your mouth goes dry so fast it is almost comic.
Bucky notices. Naturally.
“Still judging my emergency condom?” he asks, tearing the foil with his teeth.
You look up at him. “Less now.”
“Thought so.”
The condom rolls on. His hand pumps once, twice, and your thighs press together around empty air. He sees that too, then settles between your legs and guides them open again. The head of his cock drags through your wetness, and both of you go quiet.
The first press against your entrance is almost too much.
He pauses there, forehead lowering to yours. “Tell me if you need slow.”
You hate that. You love that. You want to ruin him for it.
“I need you to stop talking like a responsible adult,” you whisper.
A short laugh leaves him, strained. “Sweetheart, I am hanging on by a thread.”
“Then stop hanging.”
His hips push forward.
The stretch is slow and full and immediate enough to make your mouth fall open. Bucky watches your face as he enters you, jaw clenched, breath breaking through his nose. He gives you the first inch, then another, then stops when your nails dig into his arms.
“Okay?”
You nod too quickly, body caught between ache and hunger. “More.”
His control slips for half a second. His hips roll deeper, and the sound that leaves both of you is ugly and perfect. He is bigger than his fingers, thicker than your imagination had kindly prepared you for, filling you in a way that makes thought stagger. Your legs wrap around his waist. His hand grips the sheet beside your head.
“Fuck,” he breathes, almost helpless. “You feel…”
You wait for the line. Pretty. Tight. Perfect. Something dirty and easy.
He lowers his face to your neck. “I’m gonna lose my mind.”
That is better.
You clench around him, and his hips jerk. His teeth press into your shoulder. “Do that again and this ends fast.”
“Maybe I want that.”
He lifts his head, eyes dark. “No, you don’t.”
Your body gives you away, warmth spreading under your skin. “Annoying.”
“You want me to take my time now.” He pulls out slightly, then pushes back in, slow enough that you feel every inch. “You wanted me to look, right? Wanted me to stop looking away?”
Your hands twist in the sheets.
He does it again, dragging the pleasure into something deep and almost unbearable. “I’m looking.”
You cannot answer. There is no room. He fills too much of you, his body heavy over yours, wet hair brushing your cheek, the scent of chlorine and him wrapped around every breath. His eyes hold your face as he starts a slow rhythm, each thrust smooth and deep, his mouth parting when you tighten around him.
“Bucky,” you moan, and his name sounds ruined.
His hand slips under your knee, hitching your leg higher. The angle changes, and his next thrust hits so deep your back bows off the bed. He groans, dropping his head to your shoulder.
“There?” he asks, already doing it again.
You nod, frantic. “There, please, there.”
“Yeah, baby.” His pace picks up, still controlled but rougher now, bed shifting under both of you. “Knew you’d sound pretty begging.”
Your face burns. “I’m not begging.”
He thrusts harder.
The words vanish.
“That sounded like begging.” His mouth presses to your cheek, deceptively sweet while his hips drive into you with enough force to make your fingers claw at his back. “Pool made you mouthy. My cock’s fixing it.”
The filth of it makes you clench.
Bucky laughs, but it breaks halfway into a groan. “Shit, you like that.”
“You’re so smug.”
“I’m inside you,” he says, breath hot against your mouth. “I earned a little.”
You would argue, but his hand slides between you and finds your clit. The first touch makes you jolt. After his mouth and his fingers, you are too sensitive, every nerve overfed and greedy. He rubs tight circles as he fucks you, watching your expression collapse.
“Oh, that’s it.” His voice turns thick, affectionate in the dirtiest possible way. “There’s my girl.”
My girl.
You fall apart a little just hearing it.
His eyes sharpen. “Yeah? That one?”
“Bucky…”
“My girl,” he repeats, and his hips hit deeper, harder. “Mine to look at. Mine to touch. Mine to pull out of the pool when she’s trying to make me jealous.”
You shake your head, but your body is a liar and both of you know it.
“No?” His thumb presses harder on your clit. “You didn’t like me jumping in after you?”
“You looked ridiculous,” you gasp.
“Yeah, well. You looked wet and half naked and mad at me. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
A laugh escapes you, then turns into a moan when he rolls his hips. He smiles against your mouth, kissing the sound away, and for a few seconds the rhythm becomes messy. Kissing, thrusting, breathing into each other, his hand working between you, your nails leaving half-moon marks in his shoulders. No clean choreography. No grace. Just damp skin, white sheets, the slap of his hips against yours growing louder, the ridiculous fear that someone outside might hear and the worse realization that you want them to know he came after you.
You turn your face into the pillow to muffle yourself.
Bucky catches your jaw and pulls you back. “No.”
“They’ll hear.”
“Good.”
“Bucky.”
His eyes are dark, almost feverish. “Spent all day watching you think I didn’t want you. Let them hear me prove it.”
Your orgasm rises so fast it scares you. It starts low, tightening through your stomach, then spreads until your thighs tremble around his waist. He feels it. His thrusts lose some smoothness, turning heavier, more desperate.
“You close?”
You nod, helpless.
“Say it.”
“I’m close.”
His mouth brushes yours. “Ask me.”
Your eyes open. “What?”
“Ask me to make you cum.”
The request should annoy you. It does. It also sends pleasure twisting sharply through your body, so your irritation lacks credibility.
“You’re impossible,” you whimper.
“Ask.”
His hips slow.
That is evil.
You grab at his shoulders. “Don’t slow down.”
“Ask me, baby.”
A second passes, filled with the obscene pressure of him buried deep and almost still, his thumb barely moving over your clit. You glare at him with whatever strength remains.
“Please,” you say, hating how breathless it is. Loving how his face changes. “Please make me cum.”
Bucky groans, and the restraint goes.
His hips drive into you hard enough to shove you up the bed, one arm hooking under your back to keep you close. His thumb works your clit faster, and his mouth moves over your jaw, your cheek, your lips, wherever he can reach while he fucks you. He is talking now, rough and uneven, less like performance and more like words escaping under pressure.
“Wanted this so bad. Wanted you so bad, sweetheart. Sitting out there in that fucking swimsuit, looking at me like you wanted to scratch my eyes out. Thought I was gonna snap when you smiled at Sam. Thought I was gonna drag you inside when you said I didn’t have to touch you. Stupid thing to say to me. Like I haven’t been thinking about putting my hands on you for months.”
Months. Again. The word breaks over you with the thrusts, with the pressure, with the hard heat of him inside you.
Your orgasm hits with his name in your mouth.
It is bigger this time, deeper, pulled from every place he touched and every place he looked. You cry out, hips lifting into him, cunt clenching around his cock so hard his rhythm stutters. Bucky curses against your throat, fucking you through it with short, rough thrusts that make the pleasure keep sparking long after the first wave should have ended.
“That’s it,” he groans. “That’s it, baby. Fuck, you feel so good when you cum.”
You cannot answer. Your body is trembling too hard, arms wrapped around him, face pressed into his neck as he loses the last of his rhythm. His thrusts turn desperate, deeper and less controlled, and something about that undoes you almost as much as your own release. Bucky, who spent all day looking away, is now buried inside you and shaking apart over it.
“Where?” he rasps.
The condom. Practicality. Again, somehow.
“Inside,” you breathe. “You have the condom, inside, please.”
He makes a sound against your skin, broken and almost grateful. His hips slam once, twice, then bury deep as he comes. His whole body tenses over yours, breath caught against your shoulder, hands gripping you like he needs somewhere to put the force of it. You feel the pulse of him through the condom, feel the weight of him, the shudder that runs across his back under your hands.
Then he softens by degrees.
His forehead rests against your shoulder. His breathing is rough, warm, damp over your skin. Your own body feels boneless, wrung out and too sensitive, thighs still locked around his waist like they have not received news of the ending.
Outside, someone cheers again.
Bucky huffs a laugh into your neck. “If that’s about us, I’m moving to Siberia.”
You laugh weakly, fingers combing through the wet hair at his nape. “That was my plan.”
“We can carpool.”
“After you get off me. You’re heavy.”
He lifts his head, affronted and beautiful. “You wound me.”
“You crushed me.”
“You wrapped around me.”
“You were available.”
His smile comes slowly this time, soft and disbelieving, and the sight hurts in a new way. Not bad. Just big. Too big for a guest room during a pool party. Too big for a body still buzzing from sex.
He kisses you once, gentle and quick. “I’m gonna move.”
You make a deeply embarrassing sound of protest before you can stop it.
Bucky pauses. The smugness returns in miniature. “Yeah?”
“Don’t start.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face is speaking.”
“My face has been through a lot today.”
He eases out carefully, and even that makes you wince. His hand strokes your thigh in apology, and the tenderness of it makes you look away. He handles the condom, ties it off, finds a trash bin in the bathroom, washes his hands. Normal things. Human things. Meanwhile you lie in Tony Stark’s guest bed naked, damp, and fucked so thoroughly that your bones feel rearranged.
When Bucky returns, he grabs the towel from the chair and wipes gently at the wetness on your thighs. The care makes your throat tighten.
“You don’t have to do that,” you murmur, then immediately regret the phrasing.
His eyes lift.
Right.
You both hear the echo.
This time, he does not get angry. He leans down and kisses the inside of your knee. “I want to.”
The answer settles over the old wound quietly.
You nod, unable to make a joke fast enough.
He cleans you with warm water from the bathroom after that, careful between your legs while you try not to squirm from sensitivity. Then he finds another towel, pats the sheets around you with the resigned air of a man who knows Tony will make comments for the rest of his life. Your swimsuit remains on the floor. He picks it up, holds it between two fingers, and gives it an unreadable look.
You lift your head. “Don’t insult it. We’ve all grown.”
Bucky’s mouth twitches. “I owe it an apology.”
“You owe me an apology.”
“I gave you one.”
“I want another.”
He climbs back onto the bed beside you, still naked, shameless in a way that should be illegal. The mattress dips under his weight. “For what?”
“For being weird at the pool.”
“I’m sorry.”
“For looking away.”
“I’m sorry.”
“For making me think you hated it.”
His face softens in that unbearable way again. He reaches for you, then pauses until you shift closer yourself. Once you do, his arm slides around you, pulling you against his chest. His skin is warm now, less wet, still smelling faintly of chlorine. “I’m sorry.”
You rest your cheek against him, listening to his heart. It is beating fast. Not hammering. You refuse to give it dramatic language. Just fast enough to comfort you.
“And for making me feel like I needed sam to tell me I looked nice,” you add, quieter.
His arm tightens.
A few seconds pass. Not empty. Not awkward. Full of that sentence sitting between you and breathing.
“You looked beautiful,” he says, voice low. “You looked so good I forgot how to act like a person. And that’s on me, not you.”
Your eyes sting again, which is becoming repetitive and rude. “You need to stop saying decent things after sex. It’s confusing.”
His lips press to your hair. “Would it help if I said something indecent?”
“Yes.”
“Your thighs almost killed me.”
A laugh bursts out of you, wet and startled. “Bucky.”
“I’m serious. National threat.”
“You’re so stupid.”
He kisses your forehead, smiling against your skin. “Yeah, but you like me.”
You go still for half a second.
He feels it.
The words sit there, too close to another word neither of you has touched yet. Like. Want. Months. My girl. All safer than the one with teeth. Bucky’s hand moves slowly over your back, giving you somewhere to put the panic.
“You like me too,” he says, softer, almost cautious beneath the tease.
You close your eyes. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“Don’t get greedy.”
His chest moves under your cheek with a quiet laugh. “Too late.”
A knock hits the door.
Both of you freeze.
Tony’s voice comes through the wood, bright with theatrical politeness. “As the owner of this house, its Egyptian cotton robe, and several traumatized guests, I would like to announce that dinner part two is happening in twenty minutes. Clothing encouraged. Applause optional.”
You bury your face in Bucky’s chest.
Bucky sighs. “Go away, Stark.”
“Gladly. Also, Wilson owes me fifty dollars. Carry on.”
Footsteps retreat.
Your face is burning so badly it may light the bed on fire. “I hate everyone.”
Bucky’s hand slides possessively over your hip. “Want me to get your clothes?”
The thought of walking back outside in the swimsuit after everything makes you want to dissolve. But then again, the old shame does not bite quite the same now. The swimsuit is still a damp heap on the floor. Your body is still your body. Your friends are still awful. Bucky is still a confusing, broad disaster.
Only now he has seen you. Touched you. Wanted you. Said it clearly enough that even your mean little brain has to work harder to ruin it.
“Eventually,” you say.
He hums. “Eventually sounds good.”
“You can’t keep me in Tony’s guest room forever.”
“No,” he agrees, hand moving lazily over your side. “But I can try for another ten minutes.”
“That’s ambitious.”
His mouth finds your neck, and the smile against your skin is warm enough to melt whatever was left of you. “I can be patient.”
“You said that before.”
“I lied.”
You laugh, and he kisses the sound before it can get away.
summary: (12.7k - yes, i know - it really got away from me lol) roommate!bucky x confident plus-size reader - standalone follow-up fic to this drabble - after a mail mishap and some light eavesdropping, you finally cross the line you’ve both been secretly staring at for months
tw: fluff, confession of feelings, mention of Bucky's past, sweet and soft Bucky, dual POV (internal thoughts), brief mention of masturbation and sex toys, brief alluding to reader's failed relationships, a bit of awkwardness and humor during intimacy, Bucky's all about consent, a brief shower, oral (f! receiving), fingering, very brief description of pubic hair, multiple orgasms, unprotected piv (reader is on birth control), aftercare
a/n: this started with the intention of a quick smutty oneshot and somehow turned into a sorta slow(ish)burn of character development and a bit of backstory and worldbuilding - with some spice/smut sprinkled in - I hope you love it as much as I do! more to come for these two 🩶
You didn't mean to open Bucky's mail. As soon as you realized your mistake, you tried to fix it. Carefully put the sex toy back in its box, taped it up, strategically placed it on the kitchen table with some of his other things.
You really did have every intention of leaving your roommate clueless. Even acted completely normal when he came home. Watched him hastily grab his mail, cheeks turning pink, and flee to his room like it was any other day. Like you hadn't spent the last 24 hours imagining him using the damn thing.
But when his door stays shut, when he doesn't immerge after several long minutes, your curiosity gets the better of you and you start finding one ridiculous excuse after another to inch closer and closer to his room.
The plants in the living room window could use some watering.
Books on the coffee table needed straightening.
A slightly (by millimeters) crooked picture near his door calling for adjustment.
At least it finally puts you close enough to hear something other than your own breathing. And the moment you do, your fingers freeze on the frame - an abstract painting of the Brooklyn Bridge you found at a flea market that Bucky went back to buy for you.
The memory of him handing it to you - blushing and rubbing the back of his neck - now superimposed with the slick noises coming from his room. Filthy, muffled groans sending waves of arousal flooding your core, thighs tensing, throat going dry.
Because you're standing there like a fucking idiot, mouth agape, wondering what exactly he's doing in there. Other than obviously fucking a pocket pussy.
And while you try to decipher any of the words filtering through the thin wood, your brain helps by supplying one image after another:
Bucky sitting on the edge of the bed, pumping his cock with the toy, probably pretending some woman is riding him. Bouncing on his lap while he talks dirty to her.
Him standing, one hand flexing against the wall, vibranium holding the toy steady while he fucks it. Panting about how good it feels.
Muscled back rippling as he kneels on the bed, hips thrusting-
The present suddenly rushes in when you hear your name. Broken and desperate. Heated words about your pussy growing louder. Soaking the fabric between your thighs and urging you closer until you're standing right against his door, hand hovering over the knob. Heart pounding in your chest.
You're tempted to just walk in, but you do actually have some decency - despite the current situation you've found yourself in. So you knock. Loud enough that it silences everything. His rough groans, the simulated sounds of sex, your own breathing. Even the relentless hum from the fridge seems muted.
As if the whole world is waiting.
"Bucky?" Soft. Throat working around subtle nerves. And, anticipation. Excitement.
Because you've been waiting for this. For some sort of sign to stop pretending you don't want him. That you haven't spent the last several months fantasizing about him every chance you could.
Not just because he's pretty and could throw you around like a ragdoll. Because you know him. Actually trust him. Somehow immediately felt safe living with him even with your experience of moving through this world as a woman.
Which is why it doesn't surprise you when there's no answer. Even when you wrap your fingers around the doorknob and throw out a warning that you're coming in, he stays quiet. Either completely frozen in fear. Terrified that you've caught him in the act.
Or.
He knows that you opened his mail. Knows you're still home. Knows that you could probably - definitely - overhear him. And now, he's letting you decide what you want to do. If you want to cross that line. Risk ruining the friendship, only half-way into the lease.
Considering you've accidentally interrupted him before - and had to listen to him panic and pretend he was just working out - it's safe to assume Bucky wants you to open the door. Maybe he even-
Finding it unlocked triggers an exhilarated rush that has you giggling and finally turning the knob. The slight creak of the hinges the only sound as you open it to reveal him kneeling at the foot of the bed. His side profile dimly lit by the bedside lamp - and the light now streaming in through his doorway.
His hair in disarray. Shirt wrinkled, jeans open and pushed down. Wide shoulders hiding the toy from view. Body slightly angled like he's worried about exposing himself.
You pause in the doorway, metal knob warming under your touch, your other fingers wrapped around the wood of the doorframe. Watching the tension build in his shoulders. Jaw clenching. Chest rising and falling with each unsteady breath.
"Hi," you whisper, silencing the doubt you know is forming, nipples tightening at the way his muscles instantly relax.
"Hey." Voice wrecked, sending another wave of heat straight to your core. Leaving you mess before anything's even happened.
"Didn't even think you knew about sex toys."
"Jesus." He drops to his forearms, chest covering the evidence on the bed. The blush along the back of his neck darkening.
"Sorry," you breathe, trying to reign in the familiar urge to tease him, unable to entirely wipe the grin from your face. "If it helps, it sounded really hot."
Muffled laughter fills the quiet space, his face pressed against the mattress, balled fists slowly relaxing.
"Yeah. Definitely helps."
"Was actually kinda hopin' for the visual experience, if we're bein' honest."
An actual shudder seems to run through him, the groan of your name urging you forward. Away from the doorway and closer to where he's leaning over the bed. As if seeking salvation.
Or maybe just the confidence to admit what he wants.
"You were thinkin' about me."
"Yeah." A barely audible grunt that makes your smile soften, and your stomach flutter.
"About fucking me."
His sharp inhale has you pausing near his trembling body. Vibranium slightly whirring when his fingers unfurl, both palms flattening against the covers. Creating divots where he slowly pushes himself up to reveal the toy, silicone glistening and -
Is that my shirt?
Bucky's interrupting your train of thought with a quick glance up at you. His nostrils flaring, mouth and chin wet. Answering for him before he has to utter a word.
"Wasn't-," he pauses, swallowing roughly and snatching the fake pussy off the bed. Shame creeping up uninvited.
"But you do," you offer gently, trying to catch his gaze. "Wanna fuck me."
"Wanna date you," he corrects, resting back on his heels, underwear adjusted, shirt pulled taut to cover himself. Toy shoved underneath his bed out of sight. "Wanna hold your hand. Kiss you. And yeah..." He finally tilts his head to meet your gaze. "Wanna fuck you."
A quick breath to try to steady yourself, his half-lidded stare and peek of wet tongue making it nearly impossible. Your thighs pressed together in search of friction as your walls pulse around nothing, forcing you to bite back a moan.
His infuriating grin tells you he knows exactly what he's doing to you. As does the obvious flare of his nostrils. Lashes fluttering as he breathes you in, bottom lip pulled between his teeth. A satisfied groan that almost has you breaking the distance. Ready to kiss him. Pounce on him.
Except he suddenly grunts something unintelligible. Eyes snapping open as he swipes the back of his hand across his mouth. His chin. Fingers becoming slick with what you now realize is lube as it leaves a shiny smear across his stubble.
"Shit," he hisses, reaching for the comforter to wipe himself clean. Movements jerky, embarrassed.
"Bucky."
The gentle way you assure him with just his name eases some of the worry and shame trying to encourage him to hide. His forehead finding purchase against the edge of the bed, fingers painfully twisting in the blanket to ground himself.
"I'm a mess," he mutters, desperate and hopeful that you'll keep showing him the way through. Like you always seem to.
"Me too," you promise, a little more breathless than you intend. "We can be a mess together."
A beat as you watch him come back to himself. Shoulders dropping. Soft laughter as he looks back at you, his grin matching yours.
"Could start with a shower," you suggest, playfully raising your eyebrows. Offering him a chance to clean up without making it into a big deal. Determined to show him he has nothing to be ashamed of. That you want this just as much as does.
"Yeah," he nods, taking advantage of the moment to blatantly check you out. Eyes slowly roaming down your collarbone, over your erect nipples visible through your thin shirt, the small sliver of soft skin peeking out above your leggings, all the way down to your aching thighs now nearly crossed.
Not moving an inch until he meets your gaze again, smirking when you roll your eyes and shake your head. Your hands resting on your hips turning him on even more. Intense stare darkening as he finally stands, pants resecured as if he's not about to strip naked.
A subtle show of dominance that catches you off guard and sends a thrill of excitement straight to your clit. Legs threatening to give out simply so you can kneel in front of him. Watch his expression change when you -
"After you," he grins, flesh hand gesturing towards his open door, the short walk through the apartment suddenly feeling like miles. Each step carrying you closer to the point of no return, passing all the spots you've only ever shared as roommates. As friends.
Debates on the couch over classic movies and reruns of your favorite shows.
Dinner in the kitchen while you pitted 1930's music against more modern songs.
Laughter filling the hallway when Bucky couldn't get the smoke detector to stop chirping.
And those initial moments of surprise when you realized he was keeping the bathroom stocked. Replacing items he didn't even use simply because he noticed you were running low.
Always finding ways to take care of you without expecting anything in return.
When your bare feet reach tile, you turn towards him, heart pounding, throat gone dry. A million thoughts rushing to one single focus. How wrung out he still looks. Wild and passionate. Like a loaded spring ready to break loose.
"You're gonna make me wait until -."
Bucky carefully pivots around you, interrupting you to do exactly what you're about to tease him over. Quick hands reaching for his toothbrush, digging through the cabinet for his toothpaste. A man on a mission if you've ever seen one, his efficient teeth-brushing encouraging you to start the shower, the spray covering your uncontrolled giggle.
You're so focused on getting everything ready - and thinking about what's about to happen - you miss the entire skincare routine he's performing at the sink. Scrubbing away all the evidence that he was getting off to the fantasy of eating you out.
Leaving him ready to make all of it a reality - starting with finding out what you really taste like.
The first brush of his hand across your back has you melting, fresh towels haphazardly hung so you can turn quicker, finding him smiling down at you. Looking at you like you've imagined a thousand different ways. Pulse stuttering when he cups your jaw, thumb memorizing the corner of your parted lips.
"Never thought I'd actually get a chance at this," he confesses, gaze flickering between your wide eyes and tempting mouth.
"Yeah?" Voice thick with desire. And a hint of teasing. "Well lucky for you, I'm willing to offer you multiple." Mouth upturned when you add, "ya know, in case you're rusty."
"Mmm," he growls with a grin of his own, leaning down until his minty breath ghosts across your lips, "'preciate that, doll. Don't think that's gonna be a problem, though."
His eyes flick back up to meet yours, radiating a bit of that Brooklyn confidence that never quite left him, even after all these years. Living with you drawing it out of him more than anything else ever could - reminding him of who he used to be. Who he could still be.
"Gonna kiss you now," he whispers, searching one last time for any trace of reluctance. Hesitation. Possible regret.
All Bucky finds is his same longing mirrored back, your chin lifting, body closing the last few inches of distance. Inviting him in to prove how much he wants you, sealing it with a confident, "You better."
A sinful lick of his lips and he meets you halfway, mouths fusing in a heated slow dance. Gentle, chaste kisses naturally melting into more the moment electricity arcs between you. Tongues exploring, teeth momentarily clashing as you find the right angle, hands roaming with more urgency.
His large palm cups your cheek, vibranium arm wrapped around you, clinging to you like you might disappear. Your own fingers grasping at his shirt, one hand combing through his damp strands, tugging a fistful and moaning into his mouth when he presses you up against the wall.
The door swings closed with a nudge of his foot, the hot spray of the shower creating a humid cocoon that leaves you dizzy. Aching. Desperate for more than just this incredibly perfect makeout session in your shared, cramped bathroom. Even if it is better than anything you could have ever imagined.
Your gasp of his name only spurs him on, flesh and metal cradling your face, tongue licking into your mouth. The bulk of him holding you hostage, tasting you with renewed purpose. Overwriting the last hour so all he can remember is you.
Soft curves molding against solid muscle, sweet little moans that he swallows down, your hypnotic smell unlocking something inside of him. Giving him permission to be something other than a man trying to atone for his past.
A man who gets to just be here with you. Focus on nothing but how warm you are. Plush hips calling for his hands. The arch of your back drawing his lips down. Peppering kisses along your jaw, teeth sucking a welcome bruise on your throat, your tight grip in his hair sending a shock of pleasure straight to his dick.
"Want you," he groans, nose nudging your ear. "'ve wanted you for so damn long."
"Me too," you confess, breath clawing its way out. A visible shudder rolling over him when your nails scrape bare skin, your free hand sneaking under the back of his shirt, pulling him against you, bodies rocking in time with heavy pants for more oxygen.
"Really wanted to do this right," he admits, kissing his way back to your mouth. Three innocent pecks before reluctantly pulling away so he can see you again. Intently watch you as he tells you, "You deserve romance, sweetheart. Deserve to be swept off your feet. Don't want you think this is just some..."
Brow furrows as he searches for the right word, his thumb caressing the apple of our cheek, gaze flitting to your kissable lips before he catches himself. Grinning like a boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
"Tryin' to tell you I like you." A heartbeat to gather the courage. "More'n like you, but don't wanna risk scarin' you off."
"Think we're way past that now," you laugh, running your fingertips along his stubble. Gaze following the trail towards his mouth, lips shiny with your saliva. Calling you forward into another kiss. Twin moans barely audible over the shower wasting away, reminding you of all the possibilities.
You could keep making out right here, maybe end up on the floor with you straddling him. Watch his eyes rolls back as you sink down all the way.
Or you could shut off the shower and return to his room. Or yours. Take advantage of the bed. Or desk. Or any number of available surfaces.
But something about the water calls to you. Offers a neutral place - a sanctuary where only the two of you exist, learning how to take this leap together. Because as much as you want to just skip to the part where you're swallowing him down, he deserves romance just as much as you do.
"I like you too, ya know," you whisper in between kisses, fingers slowly guiding his shirt up. "More than like you."
Bucky swears his heart stops beating, trembling hands holding you like porcelain. Suddenly terrified of screwing this all up. Disappointing you somehow.
"Been a while," you confess with a soft laugh, cutting through the noise. "Not as long as you of course," you grin, lifting his shirt, encouraging him to raise his arms. Leaving him more exposed than he's ever felt. "But, long enough that I've had to replace a toy or two."
His huff of laughter fans across your face, strong hands pulling you flush against him, his strained erection digging into your belly. Forehead dropping to yours when your fingers map along his jaw. Down his bobbing throat. Fingertips ghosting over the chain of his dogtags, following the trail of his collarbones, dangerously close to wear flesh meets metal.
"Sweetheart."
An overwhelming ache for more leaves him breathless. Eyelids fluttering closed, tension building along nerves - vibranium plates subtly shifting, as if preparing for battle.
"It's okay," you breathe, left hand sliding along warm skin, up along his right shoulder, following the defined muscles down his arm. His lashes open to reveal twinkling blues when he flexes his bicep under your palm, showing off just to watch you giggle.
Because it helps him feel normal. Makes him feel safe enough to let you mirror your actions on his left side. Tears burning his eyes when you handle him with such care. Gentle touches over scar tissue, soft gaze watching for any sign that you might need to slow down. Like he's owed compassion.
"Didn't-," he pauses to swallow, eyes nearly rolling back, your thumb caressing a sensitive spot near his collarbone. "Feels good." More than he thought it ever could. More than he thought he deserved.
"Good," you exhale, carefully tracing the edges of his rough scars. Wishing you could change the horrors that created them, in complete awe of the strength it took for him to survive. "That's all I want - to make you feel good."
Bucky's grip on your waist tightens, fingers digging into supple flesh, an unexpected whimper tearing out of him before he can swallow it down. The rough groan of your name interrupting you before you can offer reassurance, his head dropping in shame, muscles rippling under your delicate touch.
But then he's surprising you all over again, laughter filling the scant space between you as he leans in, stubble grazing your cheek. "Didn't realize words could make me almost..."
Another breathless chuckle and he's kissing you again. Groaning against your mouth when your confident hands keep exploring him, leaving no part of him untouched. Warm fingertips skating down his chest. A sure palm learning the smooth metal of his arm. Treating every inch of him like he's sacred.
As much as he wants to just kneel at your alter and worship you in return, he can't seem to break away. Foreign selfishness wraps around him, amplifying his need to be seen, muting the guilt that usually eats away at him. Giving way for him to lean into you. Bask in your touch. Practically beg for time to stand still so he can't risk losing this.
As if reading his mind - or just reminding him how much he's let you in over the past six months - your hands slow. Taking even more time to map his skin. Find all the sensitive spots that have him shivering against you. Moaning. The heat building towards an inescapable inferno.
The catalyst comes in the form of your fingers dipping below his belly button, abs constricting at your feather-light touch. Throwing him off balance and helping him find his footing all in the same breath. One last filthy kiss and he's refocusing, hands reaching for the edge of your shirt.
"You are way too overdressed, sweetheart."
A small, appreciative laugh and you're raising your brow in a playful challenge, "Then you should probably do something about that."
His lingering grin adds fuel to the fire raging inside of you and he's lifting the soft cotton, obscuring your vision for one fleeting second before the fabric falls in a fell swoop. Joining Bucky's shirt on the bathroom rug while he never takes his eyes off you. Nipples immediately pebbling under his stare.
"God, you're gorgeous."
His quiet, reverent groan is enough to make you lose your mind. A sharp exhale and your eyes drift closed, head tilting back to thud against the cool wall. Hands dropping in surrender, back arching at his simple praise flooding your senses.
"Knew you were, but jesus, doll. Didn't-" his words halt, hands hovering over tempting flesh, fingers itching to peel the rest of your clothes off. But he makes you wait, warm breath fanning across your parted lips as he whispers, "Open your eyes for me, pretty girl."
That stubborn streak in you is nowhere to be found. His request eagerly met with obedience, goosebumps blooming across your skin as you meet his gaze. Your nerves humming, ready for him to lead. Craving this side of him.
"Need to see you," he explains, lips curving, reading you so easily that it stills leaves you breathless sometimes. And scares you a little - but he's cupping your jaw again, anchoring you right here with him. Refusing to let you hide behind quick wit and endless teasing.
"Can you do that for me? Keep lookin' at me while I touch you?" Bucky asks, voice barely audible over the shower still calling your name. Trapping you between speeding this up and letting him take all the fucking time he wants.
Your response gets lost in the haze of sensations. The cool metal cradling your chin deliciously contrasting with his warm fingers stroking an enticing trail between your bare breasts. His intense stare triggering the sudden realization that despite all your late-night fantasies, you are utterly unprepared for how thoroughly he's about to take you apart.
"Thought about this - about you - every single night," he admits, inhaling sharply when you tremble for him. Palm sliding up your waist, brushing the underside of your breast. "How you'd feel. What you'd sound like." Another shudder and he's cupping the heavy weight of you, thumb circling your nipple, watching the unexpected pleasure play out across your features. "None of it even compares to the real thing. My god."
That's it - he's hardly touched you and it's too much. Knees threatening to buckle. Hands reaching out to grab hold of him in hopes of steadying yourself. And yet your rushed exhale of words beg for more. The whine of his name, a whimpering please that he better not tease you over later.
Bucky wouldn't dare. Not when you're looking at him like that. All desperate and needy, like he's the only one that can soothe that ache building inside of you. A heavy breath, a quick glance at the shower, and he's dropping to a crouch, fingers hooking in the waistband of your leggings to help rid you of one last barrier.
All it takes is a subtle nod and he's helping you wiggle free, the material snagging around your ankle before he tugs it loose. Leaving you completely bare. Naked and vulnerable. Lungs barely moving oxygen, heart caught in your throat, tracking the way he's studying you.
Gentle fingertips following the curve of your calf, dancing along the back of your knee until your breath stutters and your fingers dig into his shoulder. Thighs instinctively parting when he glances up at you, his touch growing dangerously close to where you're dripping for him.
He almost gives in. Mouth watering as he skirts the edge of asking if he can taste you. Prop your leg over his shoulder and dive in. Drown in you like he's been dying to for months.
But, he's a man of his word, so he resists.
Barely.
Secure hands land on your hips, a lingering kiss placed on your soft belly, and he's standing to full height. Heart skipping a beat when you offer to help him with his pants, your fingers tangling with his in a messy dance that has you both laughing.
Lips meeting in a series of uncoordinated attempts to makeout while Bucky works to kick off his underwear and jeans. Nearly tripping over them in the process, pushing you up against the wall again, his freed erection leaving a wet trail across your skin.
He'd apologize if he weren't so focused on getting you in the shower before the hot water runs out, his vibranium arm - now warm against your back - pivots you towards the tub, his free hand pulling the curtain back. Providing just enough space for you to step in, his hands never leaving you. Ensuring you don't slip while he joins you.
The hot spray hitting your back elicits a satisfied sigh that has him twitching against your stomach, his arms banding around you to hold you closer. Noses bumping when he leans in for a kiss. Mouth hovering over yours for just a second when the temperature of the water registers, fingers flexing against your warm, wet skin.
"Jesus, doll," laughter exhaling against your lips, "That ain't too hot for you?"
A breathless giggle and you're kissing him properly, mumbling, "actually like it hotter than this." One hand tangled in his hair, the other toying with this dogtags, the clink of metal barely heard over the spray - and his groans. Teasing mutterings about enduring scalding showers for you.
"Showering alone will still be an option, ya know."
"No, no," he concedes, kissing the corner of your mouth. "Burning slowly is a price I'm willing to pay," a soft press of his lips to your jaw. "Especially if it means I get to see you like this." A kiss right below your ear. "Gettin' all wet for me."
"You shouldn't be so good at this," you whisper, trying - and failing - to bite back a whimper.
"Had a lot of practice," he reminds you, carefully turning you until your back hits the wall, the cool tile making you gasp. "Lotta nights imagining what I'd say to you." Metal fingers wrap around your hip, holding you still as he resists the urge to grind against you. "How you might let me touch you."
"What about how I might touch you?" you ask, palm flush against his chest, right over his heart, fingers covering his dogtags.
"Yeah," he smiles, lips curving along your throat, "thought about that too." A beat of vulnerability when he pulls back to see you, wet fingers leaving a trail of droplets along your jaw, bypassing your throat to rest between your breasts. Counting your heartbeats.
"Took me a while though," he confesses, eyes drifting down, watching the slow rise and fall of his hand with your deeper breath. "To let myself want... anything, really." Hesitant gaze meets yours before he melts against you, your fingers massaging the nape of his neck. "But that doesn't mean- you don't owe me anything, sweetheart."
His hands cradle your face, in awe at the glaring trust radiating back. Desire rolling off you in waves. "Not ever." His forehead drops to yours, gentle as snowfall. "Could spend the rest of my life just makin' you feel good - however you want - and I'd die a happy man."
Your inhales grow sharper, lashes blinking back the tears threatening to form. All because he's treating you like you deserve. Easily clearing the bar you were convinced you set way too high. Having long assumed all the good guys were either taken, or simply too good to be true.
It'd be easy to believe the latter about Bucky - at first glance he seemed like the conventional player. A heartbreaker. Someone who'd ghost you after you showed just a little too much interest.
You'd never been happier to be proven wrong. Even if you had no idea it'd end up here.
"I think about making you feel good all the time," you whisper, cupping his jaw, thumb stroking his stubble. Helping ease the tension starting to gather there. "Think about... touching you." Your free hand starts a slow trek down his chest, fingers teasing over his nipple.
A gasp tears out of him, long fingers encircling your wrist. Not stopping you. Or guiding. Just holding. Grounding himself against the sudden rush of need. Of longing. And the ever present anxiety starting to creep back up.
"Think about wrapping my hand around you," you whisper, your touch dipping lower, taking your time, patiently letting him adjust. Deciding to keep the surprises strictly verbal right now. "Stroking you. Taking you in my mouth."
"Oh god," he shudders, grip tightening around delicate bones, vibranium digging into your hip before he catches himself. "Need-," he shakes his head, nosing along your jaw, breathing you in. Cursing when he smells the earlier lube still matting his pubic hair. "Lemme... I gotta-."
"It's okay," you assure him, your hand never making contact. There's no disappointment though. You just smile, watch him step backwards into the spray, putting needed distance between you.
For a split second anyway - then he's lunging forward to kiss you. Smooch you loudly. Making you laugh and leaving you breathless all at once. Skin prickling with renewed want. But also an exhilarated sense of safety. Because even though this is the beginning of something incredibly scary and life-changing and exciting, you still get to have fun and play around in the inevitable awkwardness.
It's a breath of fresh air after - well, after experiences you'd much rather erase from your mind. Especially since you're getting to watch Bucky shower. Hands scrubbing soap-slick skin. Back rippling like he's giving you a visual performance to match the audio-only memory from his bedroom door.
"Did you plan to let me hear you?"
Your sudden question has his actions pausing, hands stilling in their efforts to rinse away any remaining soap.
"No," the sharp sound almost drowned out by the shower beating against skin. "Didn't- didn't have a plan, really." Routine movements resume, head turning slightly when he continues, "Was just gonna put it away, use it later... and then I realized that you had..."
"Potentially committed a felony?" you cheekily suggest.
Bucky laughs and turns around, now squeaky clean as he reaches for you to close the minimal distance once again. Bodies fitting together perfectly.
"It's only a felony if you meant to open my mail," he tells you, wet hands slipping around your waist like they've always belonged there. His lips hovering just out of reach while he asks, "You tryin' to tell me somethin', pretty girl?"
"No," you breathe, the nickname causing butterflies to take up permanent residence in your belly. "Definitely wouldn't have been mad if you had planned it, though."
He shakes his head, ocean blue eyes searching your fluttering gaze, "wouldn't'a done that. Not on purpose, anyway." A rueful chuckle and he's adding, "But, haven't exactly thought clearly since I met you, so maybe - yeah - it's possible - some part of me..." Your wide, hopeful eyes encourage him to finish the confession - the truth shall set you free, as they say. "Was hopin' you'd... want to hear me."
Your smile grows until you're laughing against his lips, your own secrets ready to spill out. The words get lost, his tongue coaxing yours into his mouth. The kiss turning hungry, more desperate. His already heavy cock growing harder against your stomach as you clutch at his shoulders.
"Can I- can I touch you?" He's panting against your lips, kisses turning sloppy. Water droplets dripping down to mix with his pre-cum smeared across your skin.
"Yeah." A heavy breath and quick nod that leaves you dizzy. "Yeah, please."
Bucky tamps down your greedy gasps, kissing you slow and sweet, fingers tracing your jaw. Eyes locking when he starts a slow path down your throat, the back of his fingers making you shiver.
"Wanna take my time," he whispers, licking his lips as you lean into him, drawing his touch lower. "Love watchin' you like this."
The first deliberate pass over your nipple has your back arching, his lips parting in awe at how responsive you are. Your reaction stealing his breath, carving out the last doubt that his hands couldn't cause someone else pleasure. Couldn't be used for good. Or selfish reasons.
Because fuck, you feel incredible. The weight of your breasts fitting perfectly in his palms, his cock twitching with each shuddering inhale you manage. Your eyes trying to close as he plays with your nipples, fingers gently pinching the buds to stiffer peaks that call for his mouth.
He's too busy watching you right now. Mesmerized by how hard you're fighting the pleasure pulling you under. Giving him the eye contact he was terrified of asking for. Because he needs the reminder that this is real. That he's not lost in some fantasy in the dark, taking something he doesn't deserve.
You're actually here. Begging for his touch. Begging for his hand to slip between your thighs, find you dripping for him, soft skin slick with need.
You moan his name, arms banding around his neck, clinging to him. Legs parting to give him better access. The cramped space making it nearly impossible. You start to lift your foot, aiming for the edge of the wet tub when Bucky steadies you. Vibranium arm slipping behind your back, his right hand leaving your inner thighs to secure your leg.
"Careful," he murmurs, refusing to risk letting you fall. Even if he's aching to feel you wrapped around him. Tight wet heat welcoming his fingers. His tongue. Eventually his cock, if he doesn't combust before then.
But none of that is possible like this. One wrong move and you could slip. Hurt yourself because of his impatience. He'd never forgive himself if that happened.
"Can I take you to bed?" he asks, kissing your forehead, stubble grazing your nose. "Lay you out. Get you comfortable." His thigh slips between yours, just shy of giving you the pressure you're craving. "Watch you come all over my fingers?"
A euphoric rush washes over you, core clenching, nipples aching. Fingers accidentally grabbing the chain around his neck before you're giggling. Apologizing. Nodding your head and kissing him. Once. Twice. Tongue teasing over the seam of his lips while you push him backwards.
Putting distance between you so you don't sink to your knees and show your appreciation. For caring about you. For proving you wrong once again - the myth of a good man turning out to be real.
Not that you had any doubts. But it's nice to have the proof.
To have a someone resist the urge to take advantage of the obvious green light simply to keep you safe. To take the time to help you out of the tub, methodically dry you off, map your skin with innocent kisses. Murmur adoring praise while he guides you out of the steamy bathroom and into the cool air of the apartment.
His growly whispers of, "God, you're so soft, sweetheart," and "everything about you is perfect," and, fuck, "you smell so good," spreading goosebumps across your heated flesh, eliciting noises you've only ever made on your own. Knees buckling, almost giving out over the short distance to your bedroom.
Not that he'd ever let that happen. Confident hands helping you towards your bed, the towel slung around his hips pressing against your ass. He doesn't dare push you down - he simply holds you, smiles against your shoulder when his stubble makes you shiver.
"This still okay?" he asks, kissing the back of your neck, lips lingering for a heartbeat.
"Mmhmm," you assure him, leaning back in the safety of his arms. Your towel coming loose, neither of you moving to stop it. "More than okay."
"You'll tell me if it's not?" Despite knowing you - knowing how hard you've worked to never put up with shit from anyone - he still has to ask. Has to know you won't feel obligated to keep going - or god forbid, scared to stop - just to spare his feelings.
You turn in his arms, damp towel falling to the floor, your hands reaching up to cradle his face. Providing absolution he didn't know he was seeking.
"I'll definitely tell you," you promise, holding his gaze. Chest rapidly rising and falling against his, bodies flush, his towel the only barrier separating you. "Even if my mouth's full, I'll figure out a way to let you know."
He loves the way catch him off guard. Help him navigate the modern world with humor. Illuminating the path that once felt too daunting. Just like you have since the beginning. Pushing him to go out. Experience things. Always offering to go with him, found ways to ground him when the chaos got too loud.
Of course it translates to this too. Your playful tug of his dogtags and he's following you down onto the bed, pressing you deeper into the soft covers, his towel getting trapped. Shared laughter following when it snags around his thigh, refusing to come loose until he pulls away from you.
Putting precious distance that feels like a chasm. Skin prickling to feel you under him again. Watch your eyes rolls back when the pleasure crests.
The thought of rushing this screams sacrilege to Bucky though. He spent so long believing he'd never have a chance at this - at happiness. At meeting a beautiful, intelligent woman who makes life worth living again. Makes it possible to wake up smiling. He'll be damned if he doesn't take his time.
Propped on an elbow to take in his favorite view, he relearns you all over again, free hand exploring every inch of you he can reach. Retracing spots that have you writhing and gasping. Whining his name like it belongs on your lips. Begging him to take pity on you.
Breathlessly reminding him of his promise to make you come. Enticing him with your thighs splayed wide, hips rolling, heels digging into the mattress. Shedding every last inhibition. Greedy little gasps spilling out unchecked, head lolling to find him watching you.
His hungry gaze tracking your tells, paying attention to what it takes to have you clutching at him. Nails digging into his skin when he alternates soft, teasing strokes along your inner thighs, dancing closer and closer to where you're dripping. Already leaving a mess on the towel he thought to place under you.
He whispers your name like a secret, asking how you like to be touched, refusing to assume. "Should I keep going slow?" he murmurs, dragging his fingers along the abundant wetness coating your thighs. "Tease you a little?" A quiet groan he makes no effort to hide. "Or are you tired of waiting, pretty girl? Need me to stretch you open with my fingers until you come?"
At some point you're going to ask him how he learned how to do this. How to know what to say without sounding like he took lessons from porn. All you care about right now though is telling him what you need. An unfamiliar tremble lacing your words as you teach him how to touch you.
His palm cupping your slick pussy, fingertips teasing your entrance, the heel of his hand grinding against your swollen clit. Slick noises quickly filling the air as Bucky eagerly follows your lead, using your cries and shuddering sighs to find the perfect pace.
Find that consistent rhythm to build you higher and higher - sharp, electric pulses that make your toes curl and your thighs shake. Supple flesh quivering when he leans closer, demanding nothing from you other than taking whatever you need from him.
"You're so wet, sweetheart," he groans, untouched cock leaking a steady flow of pre-cum. "Feel s'good like this. Soakin' me, pussy tryin' to swallow my fingers."
You cry out, grabbing hold of his waist, nails leaving crescent shapes, the pleasure spiking to new heights. Pushing you towards the edge - leaving you suspended, teetering for several long seconds until the crescendo suddenly peaks.
Triggered by his rough growl, "that's it. Let me see what you look like, comin' so pretty all over my hand."
Bucky's never seen anything so breathtaking. Nothing in his long life has ever, or will ever compare to the beautiful agony stealing your composure. Your head thrown back, mouth agape in a scream that fades to a squeak, strong thighs trying to clamp around his hand.
He nearly comes at the sight, cock throbbing, tears pricking his eyes, pleasure shooting up his spine. Leaving him trembling and having to fight through the overwhelming sensations so he can tend to you. Pull you back down to earth. Aftershocks rocking your body as he scoops you up.
Taking the cue when your limbs wrap around him, bodies becoming entangled as he peppers your dewy skin with lazy kisses. Lips lingering so you can catch your breath. Halfheartedly bat at his face. Pretend to complain about his hidden talents.
"Got plenty more where that came from," he teases, another kiss against your sweaty throat. Your chin. Landing at the perfect curve of your nose. "I took my research seriously."
"What if I just want you?" you whisper, hips tilting, his thick shaft trapped against your slick, swollen folds.
"God," he shudders, ignoring the sudden urge to sink into you. Fill you up in just a handful of strokes. Ending this before he even gets a chance to taste you. "Want that," he pants against your mouth. "Wanna feel you." A slow grind to watch your eyes roll back. "Promise I'll fuck you, sweetheart - however you want. Wherever. Whenever."
Bucky's forehead lands on yours, his hips having a mind of their own, setting a quicker pace that has his dogtags clinking against your chest, the head of his cock nudging your sensitive clit. "Can I taste you, first? Don't even gotta make you come again, just wanna-."
"Yeah," you laugh, grabbing his face, kissing him hard, sucking his tongue into your mouth. "Yeah - yes, definitely, absolutely." Your hands in his hair guide him down, letting him take the scenic route, teeth grazing your nipples, lips closing around each bud. Lavishing attention before finally diverting his path down.
Open wet kisses over your soft rolls, tickling the dip of your belly button, strong hands spreading your thighs wide in preparation. Blue eyes peek up to briefly check-in, one last glance so he can dive in without restraint. Inhaling lungfuls of your heady scent, leaving no room for anything but you. All his countless fantasies shredded to pieces to make way for something infinitely better.
Nose brushing the short, damp curls covering your mound, each glorious breath going straight to his dick, his shins hitting the floor so he can pull you to the edge of the bed. Push your knees back. Nearly lose his mind at your gorgeous, glistening pussy calling him forward to devour you. Lap at your folds, his eyes rolling back when the first taste of you explodes on his tongue.
Sweet and musky and something uniquely you that he's already addicted to. Igniting filthy groans against swollen flesh, tongue spearing deeper, drinking you down like a man stumbling upon an oasis. Your tightening grip of his hair showing him exactly how to lick you. His slick fingers spreading you wide, exposing your clit to his hungry mouth.
"Taste so fucking good, holy shit."
Slow, wet swirls of his tongue. Delicious, vibrating moans. Unrelenting firm circles that have you seeing stars. Walls pulsing, drenching his beard, your cries for more met with questioning suction around your clit. Finding the devastating pressure within seconds, another orgasm barreling down on you with lightning speed.
It's never been this easy for you. Sure, your own hands are more than capable of getting you off until you lose count - but you can't remember the last time you were able to just lay back and let it happen. Your incoherent pleas growing louder, fingers combing through his tangled strands, pussy growing wetter by the second.
"Please," you gasp, back arching. "I- oh my god, feels - I don't-." Harder suction and you're crying out, your quick, encouraging nods morphing into a lazy shake of your head. Body craving more, walls pulsing around nothing, aching to be filled. "Fuck... fuck- oh god, fuck me, please, need-"
Bucky almost loses control, hips twitching, balls drawing up tight. Nearly coming at how pretty you're begging for him. His muffled moans only making it worse - your sudden, fervent chant of his name forcing him to grab hold of his throbbing dick. Metal wrapping around the base, staving off his orgasm as he sinks a single finger inside of you.
Silky walls welcoming him home, digit curling like all the advice columns suggested. Brow furrowing as he searches for that spot that's guaranteed to make you soar. Tongue flicking across your clit, his greedy mouth following the quicker pace of your hips.
It takes everything in him not to start fucking his own fist, muscles locked, years of forced discipline his only saving grace right now. Because soon you're demanding more. Another finger stretching you open, slick sounds punctuating your breathless cries. An exquisite symphony of pleasure only he could orchestrate.
You open your mouth to warn him that you're close - to beg him not to stop, hope he doesn't suddenly switch up - but there's no point. He already knows. Anticipates every roll of your hips, uses his arsenal of skills to give you what you need. Fingers fucking you deep and hard, stroking your g-spot in tandem with his relentless mouth.
When your hips start to buck, his only option is to hold you down. Vibranium forearm pressing into your belly, metal palm cupping your mound, warm fingers spreading your folds so you don't lose the suction about to make you come.
The fleeting worry of hurting you with his left arm drowned out by a sudden gush of wetness. Your hand leaving his head to blindly grab at the blanket, knuckles trembling as you find the leverage you need to grind against him. Chase the heat sparking between your thighs.
It hits you harder than you expect. Sudden and hot. Intense pleasure radiating outwards, curling your toes, muscles constricting, his name getting lost along with all your senses. Eternity passing before the tension finally snaps. Your limbs giving out with a sobbing breath of relief.
"Oh fuck, sweetheart," Bucky curses, swiftly moving to his feet to check on you, gentle hands easing your thighs into a more comfortable position. "Are you okay?"
"No," you pant, arm thrown over your eyes, nearly giving him a heart attack before your laugh brings him back to life. "You definitely-"
"Jesus, don't do that," he growls, mouth curving despite himself.
"What?" you tease, your seemingly too-heavy limbs attempting to wiggle yourself further back onto your bed. "No crying during sex?"
His strong hands effortlessly take over, resettling you onto the pillows while you try to remember how to breathe.
"No," he chuckles, taking up root next to you, elbow propped to support his head, lips brushing yours in a sweet kiss. "Cryin' I can handle - maybe let's refrain from jokes about not being okay. 'Specially after-."
"Making me see god?" you finish for him, turning to rest a hand over his heart. "Ruining all other men for me?"
"Was gonna say after making you scream my name, but yeah - that works."
"Definitely did that too," you agree with a wag of your eyebrows, tangling your legs with his, lungs still searching for more oxygen. "More than once, if I remember correctly."
"Several times," he confirms, sliding his hand along the curve of your hip. "Committed 'em all to memory." His firm grip pulls you closer, evidence of his arousal trapped between you, neglected and angry. "Along with everything else about you."
There's no teasing quip this time. No joke about him learning you in order to seduce you. It dies before it can even form with the way he's staring at you. All tender-gazed and adoring. Taking you apart all over again. Body reacting as if he's still between your thighs.
"I like the way you talk." The vulnerable confession whispered against his stubble, fingers curling around his dogtags. Grounding yourself in the cool metal.
"Yeah?" Warm breath ghosts over your lips, his fingertips stroking along your arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake. "I like the way you talk... I like everything about you." He doesn't close the distance yet, mouth teasing over yours, breathing in your exhales. "Even the parts you think bother me."
Your lashes flutter, words failing you, craving his praise more than you care to admit.
"Like when you talk my ear off at midnight," he tells you, noses bumping. Twin smiles nearly colliding. "And when you ask for space." He doesn't provide any this time, planning to close the distance after the necessary addition of, "And I really like when you get all grumpy."
Bucky quiets your expected retort with a press of his lips, several playful pecks that have you laughing. His cock jumping in response, making him forget himself. Groaning as he deepens the kiss. His shoulder nudging you back, helping you reclaim your spot against the pillows.
Somehow he resists the urge to settle between your parting thighs. Even when you arch up into him. Moan around his tongue. Drag your nails down his back until he's gasping for you. He uses it to force himself to relax. To remember what this is really about.
"I like that you feel safe enough to be yourself," he explains, adorning your throat with well placed kisses. "Loud and messy... Quiet and moody... Everything in between." A trail of kisses that has you sighing against his lips, hands flush against his lower back, a tempting thigh hooked over his hip. "Like that you ain't scared of me, pretty girl."
Emotion tightens your throat and tears prick your eyes when you look up at him. Shaking your head to loosen the words. "I could never be scared of you."
No buildup. No placating. Just a factual statement that begs to be sealed with a kiss. And another. Your hand working it's way to slip between your writhing bodies. Mouths parting long enough for you to ask, "this okay? Can I touch you?"
"Yeah." Rough. Desperate. "Yeah, s'okay." His hand grasps at the pillow near your head, vibranium elbow digging into the mattress, holding himself back so he doesn't rut against you. Cock growing painfully hard the closer you get.
In all the countless hours Bucky spent fantasizing about you, he unfortunately forgot to account for one minor issue.
He's a hundred-year-old touched-starved super-soldier.
Enhanced senses zone in on the back of your fingers teasing over his constricting abs, inches away from his steel-hard cock. Throbbing and begging for release. Just a little closer and you'll take him in your hand. Wrap your fingers around him. Stroke him-
"Wait." A pathetic groan and he's collapsing against you, heated face buried in the crook of your neck. An undignified shiver giving away how thoroughly wrecked he is. "Sorry, didn't-."
"It's okay," you instantly soothe. Understanding passing between you. Your shared history helping you see what this is doing to him - letting someone this close, after so long. "Got plenty of time to figure it out." Your teasing lilt unlocking his muscles. "Unless you decide this is one and done kinda deal."
"Oh." His incensed growl curls your toes, hips tilting in search of friction you're hopefully on the path of enticing. "You're really-." A heavy sigh and a slow shake of his head, strands of hair curtaining his intense stare. "I should make you wait. Wine and dine you first. Romance the hell outta ya-."
"What do you think you've been doing this whole time?" Cocked eyebrow driving home your point.
"The bare minimum."
Your sharp exhale is the only sound in the sudden quiet of the room. His response landing as a joke before you realize he's serious. Your furrowed brow being kissed away as you reach up to cradle his face. Gently demand the same eye contact he needed earlier.
"I'm not just talking about today."
You're talking about all the ways he's taken care of you since he moved in.
Pitching in on extra chores. Switching over your laundry when you forgot. Washing and refilling your water bottle every damn night.
Confusion wrinkles his forehead, "I wasn't - none o'that was about romance."
"No, I know-."
"Do it 'cause I want to. 'Cause it's the right thing to do. 'Cause-."
"I know," you smile, thumb tracing his lips. "You've been teachin' me what to expect for when you do 'romance the hell outta me.'" A kiss that he meets with a huff of laughter. "Even if you didn't know it."
"Oh, I've been holding back, sweetheart," he warns, kissing right below your jaw to dampen your amusement. "I'm serious." Lips and teeth suck a fresh mark, a possessive thrill shooting through him when you tug at his hair. "Gonna treat you like the queen you are."
Ignoring the roaring primal need to be inside you, his mouth follows a lazy trail back to your ear. "Maybe start with eating you out again." Cock twitching at the thought of having you ride his face. "Make you come on my tongue."
As much as you love seeing this wild and free side of Bucky, it only adds to the unbearable ache burning you from the inside. Needy, subtle rolls of your hips sending mixed signals when you shake your head. Whimpers turning frustrated, "No. Fuck, you're killin' me. I can't - how are you not dying to fuck me right now?"
He actually laughs. Locks eyes with you and scoffs. Completely offended and entirely confused. The evidence of how fucking badly he wants you twitching against your belly.
"I don't want this to be over."
It's your turn to be confused. "Why would it be over?"
He studies you for a long moment. Hopeful eyes searching yours. The world standing still long enough to give him time to shed this last bit of armor.
"'Cause I'm gonna come way too fast."
"Oh." You breathe through the sudden wave of arousal. Your nipples tightening. Walls pulsing. His deliberate inhale making things worse. "Stop smelling me like that."
"No."
You narrow your eyes at him, mouth twitching when he grins at you. Another deep lungful that ends with him letting you roll him over. Head hitting the pillows to take in his new favorite view of you kneeling next to him, curves on full display. Radiating an intoxicating blend of confidence and vulnerability.
"We don't have to stop just because you come."
Bucky blinks up at you, his large hand squeezing your thigh before reality crashes in. Thumb caressing your soft skin as his male-conditioning catches up to modern times. To you. This devastating woman who has far more patience than he'll ever deserve.
"I'm an idiot."
"Just means I get to help you learn," you grin, palms flush against his chest so you can lean down to kiss him. Break his brain all over again. His touch turning possessive, fingers gripping your ass.
"What'cha wanna tutor me in right now, pretty girl?"
"How wet I get when you call me that."
Vibranium curves around the nape of your neck, holding you steady while he deepens the kiss, devouring you, warm fingers slipping between your thighs to find you slick and hot. Dripping all over his hand, inviting him to fill you with two thick digits.
You cry out at the delicious stretch, nails biting into his chest, body wracked by a violent shudder.
"God," he groans, "you're perfect, ya know that?"
Maybe you respond. It's hard to tell - he feels too good. Fingers curling just right to make you sob. Head hung, hips shamelessly humping his hand.
"Yeah, that's it - show me what you like... show me how you like to be fucked, pretty girl."
Bucky feels it. Greedy walls milking his fingers, juices dripping down his wrist. His heart nearly seizing from the effect he has on you. It's dangerous and magnetic and he swears he'll never take advantage of it. Never use it for anything other than good. To bring you pleasure.
Watch your eyes roll back. Feel your thighs start to shake. Listen to you pant his name like he's the answer to all your prayers.
"You wanna come for me?" Always giving you the choice even when every gorgeous inch of you is screaming yes.
You do. You can feel the pressure building all over again. Promising relief that'll have you collapsing. Exhausted and barely coherent - not exactly the state you want to be in your first time with him.
"I want - oh god, I want your cock."
He almost comes untouched. Compartmentalization taking over to ignore the way he throbs, harder than he's ever been.
"Yeah?" Warm metal cupping your jaw, his fingers between your thighs slowing to a toe-curling grind. "You wanna ride me, doll?" Satisfaction blooming when you whine his name. "That's it, tell me what you need."
"Oh god," you laugh, overwhelmed and losing focus again. "You feel so good... fuck."
"I know," he pants, muscles tensing under your palms, "can feel you gettin' close." His free hand drifts down, vibranium skating over heated flesh to cup one of your swaying tits. Fingers seeking out your nipple. Sending sparks of pleasure straight to your clit. "Ya gotta tell me what you want... Please..."
The desperate way your name falls from his lips is what pulls you back. Helps you land on solid ground long enough to show him what you need. His fingers leaving you empty to help you straddle him, your whine from the loss rolling into a shuddering moan when your pussy traps his thick cock against his stomach.
"Holy shit," Bucky gasps, gripping your thighs hard enough to leave marks. His hips nearly bucking you off of him. "Shit - sorry - I didn't-."
"It's okay," you smile, stilling above him, letting him adjust. Nearly apologizing yourself when your body pulses, more wetness leaking out to coat his shaft and make him groan. All because of the way he's looking up at you. Like he can't believe you're here. Like you're some miracle - some dream come to life.
"Feel so good like this," he whispers, half-lidded gaze taking you in. Lingering where your soft thighs pillow his sides. Drawn to the way your breasts rise and fall quicker with each breath. Finally landing at his favorite destination to find you staring at him, your bottom lip pulled between your teeth. "God... can't believe this is - you're so beautiful, sweetheart."
Your skin instantly prickles, nipples pebbling under his praise, your core clenching as your back arches and you try so damn hard not to move. Because the last thing you want to do is rush him. Make him feel like he's doing anything wrong.
The only thing Bucky feels right now is gratitude. And an incessant pull to be connected with you in every way possible. His thumbs dipping into the crease where your belly meets your thighs, intent on worshiping every part of you he can touch.
"Should we - Do you -," he swallows, fingers flexing against supple flesh, tempting him to rock against you. "Do you have a condom?"
"Yeah - I can - do you want me to-," you gesture towards your nightstand, mentioning your birth control. "Not that I've been with anyone recently," you needlessly remind him. "But, we can still-."
"I'm not worried about any o'that," he murmurs, encouraging you to lift up for him. Give him just enough space so he reach between you and guide his cock to where you both need him. "Want you however you'll let me, okay?"
"Want you like this." Your breath hitching when his engorged head nudges your entrance, walls fluttering in anticipation.
"Want you like this too."
He still makes you wait. Gathers your wetness with the head of his cock, spreads it along your swollen folds until you relax, until your muscles ease and he can push in. Thick ridge catching before your body yields to allow silk heat to engulf him. Tighter and hotter and more overwhelming than he remembers. Than he thought was possible.
"Holy sh- f-feels-."
His guttural groan cuts out when you whine about how big he is, his hips already preparing to pull back - except then you're begging him not to stop. Moaning about how good he feels. Your hips tilting to take him deeper. Swallowing him a torturous inch at a time, crying out as he slowly stretches you open on his cock.
By the time you're seated, he's nearly lost the battle. Your pussy strangling him, all the blood rushing to where you're connected. Leaving him unable to focus on anything except how good you feel. How perfect you take him. The way your hands grasp at him, clinging to him so he can start to fuck you harder. Faster. Slick sounds filling the room along with incoherent exchanges passing between you.
He tries to praise you. Tell you all the things he loves about you. How good you feel. How he can't wait to prove to you just how much you mean to him.
But it becomes impossible. All he can do is grip your hips and hold you down, provide the pressure against your clit he quickly learned you need. His heels digging into the mattress so he can thrust up harder, listen to you sob his name and watch your body start to quake. Little tremors that leave you shaking. Gasping. Chasing the friction.
"Oh - oh, sweetheart, you're gonna-." His thighs tense, hips bucking up, balls drawing up tight. Signaling his doom before he can voice it allowed. "Oh, please - please, come for me, pretty girl, let me feel you - need - oh god-."
Intense heat builds at the base of his spine, his hands moving you faster, desperate to find the angle to get you there first. Watch the furrow of your brow deepen, your skin glistening with sweat, your lips parted in a permanent O, eyelids growing heavier with every second.
But it's too much. He can't hold back anymore. The endless hours spent imagining how this would go meaningless because nothing could have prepared him for this. For you. Writhing on top of him. The weight of you bouncing him, pressing him harder into the bed, hurling him past the edge of sanity.
If it wasn't for your sinful pleas telling him to let go, he might actually have a chance. But the moment you lean forward to kiss him and tell him it's okay - that you want him to come - feel him fill you up - the dam bursts.
Blinding. Deafening. Every nerve-ending alight with pleasure so profound that he sobs your name. Arms banded around you, holding onto you while his thrusts turn sloppy, his cum leaking out around his still hard cock. Catching you both off guard when he keeps fucking you.
"Oh god - don't wanna - you feel so good - can I-" He grunts harshly, teeth clashing when he starts to pick up speed again, metal hand coming up to cradle the back of your skull. Asking for permission to keep going. To hug you, hold you against him so he can fuck you harder. Deeper. Hitting all those spots inside of you that promise to shatter you.
Leaving you crying out again, chanting yes. His name. Whatever coherent word you can manage to beg him to keep going. Your sweaty face pressed into a pillow, fingers curling around the fabric, knuckles trembling from exertion.
You swear you can feel every vein, every ridge, every inch of his perfect cock splitting you apart. His cum letting him bottom out over and over, mixing with your own arousal, creating a lewd slap of skin that curls the spring tighter in your belly.
And then he starts fucking talking to you again.
"Oh there we go... gettin' so wet for me... takin' me so good... perfect pussy tryin' to me make me come again, huh?... squeezin' me like you - oh my god - don't wanna let go... feel like heaven, pretty girl, like you were made for me."
A couple more well-aimed thrusts and you fall apart. Walls tightening, nearly pushing him out as he fucks you through it. Prolonging the thundering waves until you collapse against him. Crying and laughing. Blissed out and utterly ruined by him.
By the only man you've ever truly felt safe with. A sense of peace washing over you as he helps you come back. Soothing praise, tender caresses, linger kisses everywhere he can reach.
Your ear. Your temple. Your cheek when you turn towards him, nose scrunching at the feeling returning to your limbs. Your sore muscles. Joints protesting the position. That he quickly rolls you out of, his softening cock slipping out in the process, his forehead bumping yours in hopes of mimicking the interrupted closeness.
"You okay?" Eyes searching yours, metal fingers soothing the furrow in your brow as you stretch out. His dogtags dragging across your sweaty chest when he reaches to massage your limbs, despite your assurance that you're fine.
"Better than," you promise, tongue slipping out to wet your dry lips. Most words still alluding you at the moment. But more than present enough to ask, "Are you?"
"Yeah," he breathes, lips brushing yours in a sweet kiss. "Better than." Smiling when you stroke his beard, lashes fluttering from the deepened intimacy. Cracking his chest wide open to make room for all the ways he's prepared to let you love him.
Because he's already learned how to love you. And now he gets to spend the rest of his life figuring out new ways. His heart skipping a beat at the thought. Lips curving against yours when he closes the distance. Kissing you slow and syrupy, committing every detail to memory in order to recall them later when he inevitably has to be away from you.
It's not something he has to worry about right now. Not with the way you wrap him in your arms and lay his head on your chest. Your fingers combing through his tangled strands, nails occasionally scratching his scalp, tethering him to the present.
"Feel like I should thank you," he murmurs, words slurred where he's pressed against your warm skin. His hand resting on the soft curve of your belly.
"Pretty sure that's my line," you half-tease. And deadly serious. Your body still buzzing.
Bucky laughs gently, chest rocking your side as he picks his head up. Eyelids fluttering when he presses back into your touch anchored in his hair. The image of him openly seeking out more affection turning your eyes glassy.
The tears on the verge of spilling when he tells you, "'m serious, sweetheart." His thumb reverently tracing the ridge of your brow. "Didn't think I'd ever get a chance at this again." A twinkling smile that reawakens those damn butterflies. "'Specially not with you."
"I know," you whisper, his solid weight pressing you deeper into the mountain of pillows he insisted on fluffing. "Can I tell you a secret?"
"Always."
His intensity makes you laugh - a soft exhale really, but it still makes him smile. Gives you the courage to tell him, "I didn't think I would either... have this." Your eyes flicker to the furrow in his brow that you're tempted to kiss away like he did for you earlier.
You sigh instead, happy to continue playing with his hair, and offer the simple explanation of, "Haven't exactly had the best o' luck in that department." It's as much vulnerability you're willing to offer right now. On this subject anyway - not while you're still blissfully basking in the aftermath of having your brain rewired.
Bucky doesn't pry. Just like he never did when you'd make a passing comment or two during those nights when the conversations would border on too personal. Reading your body likes it's a second language.
"Well, then I should really be thanking you," he nods, each dip of his head bringing him closer. "For takin' a chance on a guy like me."
"Old?"
"Ohhh," he laughs, loud and addictive, mouth teasingly hovering to distract you. His fingers honing in on one of your most ticklish spots. Leaving you gasping and squirming.
The torture last a second or two - a warning, mostly - then he's kissing you. Mumbling something about your mouth being trouble. And giving you absolutely no chance at all to make the obvious joke. His strong arms roll you both over, pulling you halfway across his torso, your thigh instinctively curling over his. Careful to avoid anything sensitive.
Not that it matters, Bucky's body still responds. How could it not? You're so warm and soft, curling up against him. Toying with his dogtags, igniting a familiar fantasy of you wearing 'em while he fucks you nice and slow.
He lets it fade - focusing instead on learning the curve of your spine, fingers stroking a lazy pattern. A sense of peace threatening to pull him under - if he weren't so keen on making sure you never want for anything.
"How do you like to be taken care of, sweetheart?" His fingers dip lower, skirting the tempting globes of your ass. "You need space? Trip to the bathroom by yourself?" His touch travels back up to massage your shoulder, his lips brushing the top of your head as he asks, "Or you gonna let me help?"
The way Bucky asks makes it clear what he's hoping for. You're already imagining him cleaning you up after he fucks your brains out, giving you more time to lay there, maybe keep cuddling without his cum leaking out of you. Unfortunately, that ship has already sailed, your thighs slick and growing wetter by the second.
You opt for a shower - promising to take full advantage of his services next time. Your cheeky comment earning you a tickling pinch to your waist. And another kiss that melts you. Your shaky limbs grateful when he scoops you up, effortlessly carries you the few feet to the bathroom.
Refusing to set you down until he's sure you can stand on your own. Leaving you so he can start the shower, and give you a bit of privacy to help you avoid any UTIs - the spray drowning out any sounds you're not quite ready for him to overhear. As if his enhanced senses haven't given away most of your secrets anyway.
"Hey," you casually call out from your perch on the toilet, "you ever hear me masturbate before?"
"No," he calls back, "definitely want to, though."
You laugh and finish up your business, eager to join him. His hand engulfing yours as soon as you start to step in, holding you steady until he can pull you close. Kiss you hello. Turn you into the hot spray that makes your skin tingle.
Or maybe it's the way he's looking at you right now. Awe-struck and a bit possessive - with an overabundance of that Bucky protectiveness.
"Stop that," you tease with a pointed raise of your brow. "I told you, if you had done anything wrong-."
He melts a bit at the reminder, lips curving against your forehead, "I know. But... you weren't exactly capable of tellin' me much of anything at some points there."
Bright laughter bubbles out of you, pulling him in like a magnet, lips meeting in a playful kiss, "That's 'cause you weren't doing anything wrong."
"Fair enough," he grins, encouraging you to turn around, determined to get you cleaned up before the hot water runs out. "Maybe we can come up with a signal anyway."
"Like if my mouth is full?"
Bucky huffs against your shoulder, reaching for your body wash that he definitely hasn't smelled during lonely showers.
"Yeah, pretty girl, like if your mouth is full." His hand playfully squeezes your waist, holding back the tickling so you don't fall. And so you can hear his growl of, "Or like when I'm makin' you feel so good you can barely breathe. Let alone talk."
Your sharp inhale gives you away, despite your casual, "Mmm. Yeah. Good point."
Joint laughter fills the space seconds later, your hands working the soapy washcloth along your skin, ignoring the fresh wave of arousal settling low in your belly.
"I think a few taps would work, yeah?" he asks, fingers gently drumming against your back.
"What if I can't reach you?"
"Don't know of any position where you couldn't reach me, sweetheart."
"I mean," you chuckle softly, "my hands could be tied-."
The moment the words leave your mouth, the atmosphere in the shower shifts. Steam swirls around you, the spray rinsing away the last bit of the soap on your thighs. Right along with your easy confidence.
"Bucky - fuck, I'm sorry," you're turning before you even finish the sentence, the playful spark in your eyes replaced by a frantic sort of guilt. "I didn't-."
"It's okay," his firm hold on you tightens, ensuring you don't slip. "I-."
"It just came out, I wasn't-."
"It's okay," he urgently promises you, showing you the same grace you would him, his trembling hand smearing stray water droplets across your cheek. "I'm not upset, I get it." His lungs fully expand, helping to ease some of the tension radiating off you. "I might be old, doll, but I'm well-versed in fantasies."
A wet laugh escapes you and you bury your face against his chest, clinging to him in silent apology.
"Might not be something I can give you," he murmurs, long strokes down your spine to soothe away your guilt. "But I sure as hell don't want you to hide anything from me."
"I just don't want you to feel pressured," you whisper, words slightly muffled so you can keep breathing him in.
"I won't." Quick conviction that has you smiling. "Might use 'em to talk dirty to you though. That be okay?"
"Definitely." It comes out broken, emotional. Tears prick your eyes, but you still push through. Tilt your head to look up at him, find him giving you that irresistible grin you've always loved.
"Good." His lips land on yours for a lingering kiss. "Now let's get outta here before I break my own rule about no shower sex."
You don't fight him on it - other than a wag of your eyebrows that he lets slide this time. Fingers bypassing any ticklish spots to help you out, his heart near bursting at being the reason you're all relaxed and giggly again.
History happily repeats itself - Bucky kneeling to towel off any drops of water he finds on your skin. Taking extra time to worship you just because you're letting him. Repeatedly going out of his way to prove he's not like most guys.
"Such an overachiever." Your sincere compliment wrapped in a playful smile.
"For drying you off?" he laughs, unconvinced.
"And the three orgasms," you grin, watching him stand to full height. "Not to mention the fact that you kept going after you-."
"You told me it didn't have to be over."
"I meant you could use your fingers!" More giddy laughter follows when he wraps you in his embrace, spinning you in the small bathroom. "Maybe one of my toys."
"Definitely gonna remember that for next time," he states matter-of-factly, leading you out of the cramped space with a sure hand - and feet that almost falter.
Because Bucky realizes something. That these sudden bursts of confidence about his future with you no longer feel foreign. Or fleeting. Or like he's playing pretend.
He might never truly believe he deserves this, but at least he knows he can measure up and give you what you deserve. And that gives him all the peace he'll ever need.
You should let all your stories 'get away from you' if the end product is 12.7k of fabulously written feral Bucky. That was a phenomenal read. My favorite part - his mouth. 😉🤤 Thank you for writing and posting, I'll definitely be reading this again. And again.
18+ only / all characters are 18+. corruption kink. tummy bulge. squirting.
Simon Riley who says 'sorry' over and over while fucking innocent!reader, as though a crime were taking place as he hovers over your body.
It certainly feels like one: his big, bearish hands pinning your knees open while he carves inside of you with his mean, girthy dick, and a pair of adoring, wet eyes staring back at him making his chest pinch with guilt—and yet, makes his cockhead leak precum. This is an atrocity. Milky moonlit rays cloak the bedroom in a weak glow that don't quite reach his hulking, shadowy silhouette atop of you; a beast poised to strike. I'm sorry, he says at the ladylike bashfulness written across your face, at the panic that slowly but surely descends upon it when you realize that the danger your family tells you to steer clear of has already made its way to you, your breath growing short as you tussle with him shyly. Fruitlessly. You're powerless to stop him, and you think blissfully that that absolves you of responsibility for breaking your parents' rules.
'Sorry, sweetheart, I couldn't help myself,' he breathes out shakily, hardly able to look—at the naked expanse of your skin right beneath his fingertips, far too pristine for the likes of him. But he does look. He looks, morals be damned, with the hunger of a starved man. Nothing more, nothing less, because flowery words or elaborate metaphors aren't quite apt for a feeling so simple-minded and unembellished—so base as the appetite you stir within him.
He feels the bulge rise under his palm as he bottoms out, watching the outline of his dick through your soft belly in twisted fascination. It feels like going to the moon and staking a flag. It feels like he's taken estate over you, within you, squeezing his body into the tight space. Forcing it to fit. He wants to make a home right here, where his palm presses down upon, making your shaky thighs squeeze around him. Quivers going through your legs like a bowstring—the tension snapping in a messy release that sprays the sheets under your hips, trickling down your inner thighs. The embarrassment in your cherubic face does little to deter him, his palm steady in place as you feel his shaft sawing inside you, curved and thick. It feels like he's molding you to his cock; he feels like you're milking him.
Apologizing doesn't make him a better man by any means. It speaks less of a moral man than of a sick pervert who merely can't control himself. (A victim of his own desires, that’s all. There’s even a kind of indulgence in the effort—like a masturbatory pat on the back, that he tried and failed, sadly, to stay away from the pretty little thing—her, sweet and ruinous—)
He's sorry, he says, and the wrongness of it makes his dick even harder. If he had nothing to be sorry for, perhaps it wouldn't feel quite as transfixing.
𖧁୧ hi there ! gentle reminder that likes & reblogs are some of the best ways to support authors here, they make a huge difference! ♡
Bucky Barnes is nothing if not a considerate boyfriend.
Always going out of his way to make sure you have everything you could possibly need. Including an exact replica of his own cock to keep you warm on lonely nights.
And afternoons, apparently.
The noises register first. Your needy gasps and quiet moans going straight to his dick - the slick sound of you fucking yourself making him palm his straining erection before he's even laid eyes on you.
You're not expecting him for at least another couple hours. Your naked body sprawled across the unmade bed. Eyes shut tight. Head thrown back. Thick thighs trembling as you work yourself towards another orgasm.
Bucky stays rooted to the spot outside the bedroom, gaze flickering over all the sinful sights trying to draw his attention. Perfect tits swaying in time with your thrusts. Soft belly quivering as the pleasure starts to crest. The vibrator pressed to your clit, drawing out more of those punched out gasps that have pre-cum soaking his underwear.
And - fuck - your gorgeous, puffy cunt stretched around the thick toy, pussy making a mess that he's desperate to get lost in.
"My dirty girl."
The words spill out unchecked, toe nudging the door open the rest of the way, clearing the path to his favorite view. His approving growl catches you off guard, hands freezing in place, your wide eyes and startled gasp doing unholy things to him.
"Just couldn't wait for me to get home, huh?" he continues, the clink of his belt unbuckling easing you back against the pillows, shaky grip almost dropping the toys. "Poor pussy was just aching for me, wasn't she?"
He watches the sharp rise and fall of your breasts, nipples pebbled to tempting peaks, uneven breaths heavy with restraint. A heady combination that's impossible to ignore.
"Well, don't stop now, sweetheart. Show me how much you love my cock."
The goading punctuated by the echoing zip of his fly coming open.
Pairing: Husband!Bucky Barnes x Pregnant!Female Reader
Summary: You are tired, which is the norm for you nowadays, and share a sweet moment with Bucky.
Word Count: Over 1.8k
Warnings: Established relationship, pregnancy, pet name (sweetheart for you, baby nicknamed Sprout), stretch marks (they are beautiful), mention of serum, tiredness, fluff, feels, domestic life, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).
A/N: Lovelies, I have been exhausted for some time now and this popped into my head for Soft Echoes, Strong Roots AU. ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Divided by the talented @saradika-graphics . Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
You stretched out on the bed with a small sigh, ready to put the day to rest. It was peaceful in your room with no appointments or demands to take up your time. Bucky would join you once he shut everything off and double checked the locks. It was such a small domestic and protective thing and it brought a soft smile to your face.
This was your life. Your home. Your family.
You were already half asleep when Bucky settled behind you, the mattress dipping under his weight. You were surprised you weren’t out the moment your head hit the pillow. His arm slid around your waist automatically, his palm resting on your stomach protectively. He exhaled against your neck, his chest solid and warm against your back.
Everything felt right when he held you like that, his presence wrapping around you as naturally as the blanket keeping you warm.
“You feeling okay, sweetheart?” he asked, his thumb brushing the curve of your belly like he was trying to memorize the feeling.
You hummed in response, not quite opening your eyes. “Hmm. Just fine.”
The room felt more calm and quiet, like the world and time itself slowed down for the two of you.
Well, three of you.
“Not hungry?”
“You made sure we ate plenty,” you answered.
“Good.” Bucky nuzzled your skin, drawing a small laugh from you when his stubble tickled you. “And now you need rest.”
“That’s why I’m already in bed,” you teased.
“Good,” he said again.
The last few weeks had been chaotic. Not bad, thankfully, but busy in a relentless way. Appointments and every day life stacked on top of you until you felt stretched thin. Your energy seemed to go just as quickly as it came. Some days you felt like you were chasing the clock, always a step behind when your body was working overtime to accomplish everything. You just couldn’t seem to keep up.
Bucky noticed.
Of course, he did.
It was in the way his brows pinched when he looked at you, cataloguing every yawn and when your shoulders slumped. His voice softened whenever he said your name, the sound soothing when exhaustion seeped in. He began to carry you around without you asking, leaving no room for argument. He tried to take things off your plate, too, even when he had his own things to do.
“You’re gonna run yourself into the ground at this level, sweetheart.”
“Bucky, I’m pregnant. Being tired comes with the territory. That’s just how it is.”
You said that because you believed it. Because you had to be strong and prove you could handle it. Life wasn’t about to give you a pass because you two decided to have a baby.
But Bucky saw through that.
“I’m your husband and the father of our child. You can lean on me instead of trying to do it all by yourself. Just like I lean on you some days.”
The words carved their way into your heart and didn’t leave.
Because he was right. Some days when the world felt too heavy, he looked to you for support. You were there for him without question. And he was there for you, too.
It wasn’t out of obligation to give and take nor was it the kind of thing where you kept score. It was out of love and devotion, something that made you both stronger. Neither of you had to carry anything alone anymore.
The truth of that eased something in your chest you hadn't realized was there until you exhaled.
“Guess what?” he asked, his voice light and breaking through your thoughts.
“I thought I was supposed to be resting, not talking,” you replied, giggling again when his teeth nipped your skin. “Okay, okay. What?”
“We should be getting the pictures tomorrow.”
You smiled happily. “Really? That’s great!” you replied, your baby moving around as if they felt how excited you were.
A bright light within the business was the recent maternity photoshoot. The weather had been perfect, you wore a beautiful dress, and Bucky smiled so much in and out of the photos you were certain his cheeks ached. He already picked out the space on the wall where he wanted them hung up and there was an empty frame on his desk waiting for the right picture. He was so happy.
You both were.
“I know they’re going to be perfect,” he said quietly, chuckling under his breath. “And Sprout’s been busy today. Kicking like they’ve got somewhere to be.”
Your smile widened and you shifted just enough to press back against him. “I think they get that from you.”
Your baby must’ve picked up his old dancing skills because they did a fantastic number on your bladder earlier in the day.
At least you made it to the bathroom in time.
He huffed under his breath. “Hey. I was a perfectly calm kid.”
You opened your eyes and turned your head just enough to give him a look over your shoulder. He smiled and your heart beat faster. His blue eyes softened when his fingers traced your belly again, touching one of your stretch marks through your shirt. He traced it like it was something sacred.
You both bore life-changing marks on your skin, your bodies telling stories that only the two of you would ever fully read.
“You keep touching them,” you whispered, not accusingly. More like awe.
“I do,” he agreed, pressing a kiss to your neck and shifting your body so you didn’t have to keep looking over your shoulder. “I know you don’t think they’re pretty, but they’re one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.”
You blinked, only semi-surprised. “Really?”
Bucky always found a way to make you feel beautiful and desired. Whether it was through his actions or words, he never wanted you to doubt yourself or how much he craved you. You were certain he would do that for the rest of your lives. But since you got pregnant, he took it to another level of worship.
Not that you would ever complain about having his attention and focus.
“I mean it. Your body is changing because our baby is growing and it’s so beautiful. We made this. You and me.” His fingers moved again, tracing each mark with intention. “I’ve seen a lot of things. Stuff I wish I could forget. But this?” He let out a shaky breath, his hand pausing to cradle your stomach tenderly. “This is the best thing I’ve ever been part of.”
Your throat tightened. Your eyes watered. Damn hormones kept making you emotional. Except it wasn’t the hormones at all. It was just you in love with this man.
A man who loved you and your baby with his entire being.
“How are you so perfect?” you asked.
His nose scrunched when he laughed, the sound making your heart feel full. “Sweetheart, I’m so fucking far from perfect.”
You took his face in your hands, refusing to let him think of himself as anything less . “Bucky Barnes, listen to me.”
“I always listen,” he swore, solely focused on you. “Talk to me, sweetheart.”
It took you a second to speak since having his full attention was overwhelming in the best way. “You are the best husband and provider. And not just because you fix the sink and bring me ice cream and validate my feelings when I’m insecure. You love, take care of, and respect me. You remind me that I don’t have to go it alone,” you said, your gaze affectionate when he leaned into your touch. “And I know you’ll be the perfect father.”
“You think so?” he asked after a moment, his voice thick.
“I know so,” you said.
He quickly closed the small gap between you, kissing you so deeply that it stole the breath from your lungs. “Thank you.”
Your heart beat wildly. “You have nothing to thank me for,” you said, your face twisting at the particularly hard kick in your stomach and making Bucky frown slightly. “Our baby really is a mover.”
Along with his dancing skills, you guessed your baby would have his agility and strength. You were thankful they hadn’t kicked through your stomach. Your husband may have gone off on someone who suggested it could be a possibility thanks to the serum. They hadn’t looked you in the eye since, much to your better half’s satisfaction.
No one would ever look out for you more than him.
“Hey, Sprout. Your Mama’s been working extra hard lately. Growing you takes a lot out of her.” The fondness in his voice was enough to make a tear fall. “She’s magical and stronger than I’ll ever be, but we need to make sure she gets enough rest for both of you. Maybe we can start with gentler kicks? Can you do that?”
The kick under his palm was much softer, like they understood.
His eyes lit up and your chin wobbled. He looked so happy. You knew some days he still couldn’t believe he got to have this, but no one deserved it more.
“They really can understand me,” he said in awe.
“Of course, they do.”
They loved the sound of his voice.
“Thank you, Sprout,” he whispered, sliding down the bed enough to kiss your stomach. “You get some rest, okay? We love you.”
You sniffled when he moved back up to hold you again, his lips finding yours in a soft kiss. “And did you, a super soldier, seriously call me strong? And magical?” you asked so you wouldn’t ugly sob from how sweet he was being.
“You are strong and magical. Sprout agrees,” he said gently but firmly before he kissed your tear away. “But even the strong and magical need rest.”
You stifled a yawn, your eyes slipping shut. You did need the rest. “Will you be here when I wake up?”
“I wouldn’t be anywhere else.” He nuzzled your neck again and kept you close. “I love you both so much.”
Your heart skipped a beat. “We love you, too.”
“And I’m gonna spend the rest of my life trying to deserve this,” he admitted quietly. “You. Sprout. All of it.”
Your hand covered his and your baby rolled beneath his palm, both of you leaning into him and seeking to comfort him before his thoughts spiraled. “You already have,” you assured him. “Trust us.”
You and Bucky built a life and home together, one that he more than deserved. You were partners in life and love. That love extended to your baby and would only continue to grow.
Tonight you didn’t have to think of anything beyond the walls of your bedroom. You could simply rest in his arms and let everything else be. And he’d watch over you while you slept like the hero he was.
And a man in love.
I hope you lovelies all have enough spoons, get the rest you need, and have someone to lean on. Love and thanks for reading! ❤️
i was inspired by the bunnygirl sketch i reblogged yesterday, and i reeeeeally wanted to do something with bunnygirl!reader and wolfman!Bucky for easter, but i didn't have time. (it's my own fault. i decided i wanted to bake lemon sugar cookies AND lime sugar cookies—but they came out good though!)
so anyway have this little something i wrote in between baking 🐰🐺 this is a new kind of au for me, but if there's interest, i'll try to revisit this premise in a fully fleshed out fic (or maybe i'll finish the fic i started writing on the train yesterday about bunnygirl!reader walking into a dirty dive bar and finding wolfman!Bucky......)
warnings: about 1.8k words of 18+ content ahead (minors dni!!!). includes animal/human hybrids having sex + forest sex, knotting, breeding—these warnings are not complete!
bunnygirl!reader who ventures soooo deep into the woods because spring has sprung and you’re restless. you’re searching for something, but you don’t know what.
bunnygirl!reader who gets overheated because the leaves haven't fully come in yet and you’re so hot in the sun. so you strip down until you’re naked—sure that you’ve wandered so far into the forest no one else will be around—to take a nice refreshing dip in the stream.
bunnygirl!reader who stretches out in a patch of grass, letting the sun dry your skin so you don’t get your clothes wet. you start feeling warm again—but this is a different kind of warm—and you find your fingers wandering down between your thighs, where you’re wet and sticky and so sensitive. you’re aching and empty. you need to be fucked, you need to be pumped full of come like the good little breeding bunny you crave to be.
wolfman!Bucky who stumbles onto your clearing and stops in the shadow of the brush when he sees you, a delectable little bunnygirl making soft, needy sounds that are like music to his pointed ears. it only takes one whiff of your scent, carried on the gentle spring breeze, to make the blood rush to his cock, until he's straining against his jeans and pawing at the bulge for any kind of relief. he knows what you need and he’s more than willing to give you the rough pounding and the thorough breeding that your plump bunny body is yearning for.
wolfman!Bucky who can't take the torture of watching you for long. he's loathe to scare you, but he's not sure how much longer his cock will let his brain win out. he manages until your needy whimpers turn from something sweet to desperate. he watches while you flip over onto your belly, pushing up onto your knees, your cheek still pressed in the thick grass as you get into the new position. your fluffy, puffball tail wiggles and your ass sways invitingly as you finger your dripping hole, keening whines spilling from your perfect lips.
wolfman!Bucky who tears his clothes off as he emerges from the shadows of the forest, following his cock straight to you. he knows the moment you realize he's there because your long ears twitch toward his footsteps and you train hazy eyes on his big, broad form. he sinks down to his knees in the grass beside you, not touching you but pumping away at his cock as he coos at you, "poor little bun, d'you need some help?” his voice is a low rumble, nearly a purr and he watches as some of the tension drains from your body. “my name's Bucky, and I'd love to take care of you, if you'll let me."
bunnygirl!reader who was always warned away from big, bad wolves in the deep, dark forest… but Bucky looks nice, with his lowered ears and his fluffy, flicking tail. and his cock looks even nicer—so thick and long you know it will fill you up so much better than your fingers. he’s so handsome and he’s so hard, and you’re so, so needy. your body moves before your fuzzy mind has even realized you made your decision, your ears lowering in a sign of submission and your spine arching deeper, presenting your ass and dripping pussy to the wolfman with the pretty blue eyes.
bunnygirl!reader who whimpers a soft, plaintive, "please," and it's all Bucky needs to prowl around your body, grab you by your plush hips, and bury his face in your slick, swollen cunt. you cry out, your fingers tangling in the lush, spring grass of the forest as he begins to devour your whole. your hips thrust back against Bucky's face while the wolfman eats you out like he's starving, his greedy mouth drinking your nectar straight from the source while his tongue and teeth worship your plump pussy. he’s voracious, and it’s all you can do to keep your trembling thighs under you while you endure his hunger.
bunnygirl!reader who's so lost in pleasure, you don't even flinch when the wolf's sharp canine teeth graze your clit. instead, a full-body shiver races down your spine and you let out a loud, wailing moan as tension coils tighter in your center. you still feel helplessly empty, your pussy clenching pitifully around nothing—except when Bucky slips his tongue into your pulsing hole—but you're too far gone to care. you're humping your hips, rubbing your pussy shamelessly on the wolfman's face, greedily riding Bucky's wickedly eager tongue. it’s enough to take the edge off your need, and you chase the pleasure relentlessly, eager for everything the wolfman has to offer.
wolfman!Bucky who's determined to make you come before he shoves you full of his cock, but you taste so sweet on his tongue, he's in danger of spilling into the grass. so he works you harder and harder, desperate for your release, sucking on your clit and fucking your tight hole with his tongue, dragging his sharp teeth against your plump flush, learning what you like. it's when he gets rougher, nipping your little pearl hard with his blunt teeth, that you finally come apart. as soon as he feels the telltale squeeze of your cunt, Bucky straightens, lines up the angry red tip of his cock with your pussy and shoves deep with one, savage thrust.
bunnygirl!reader who was already moaning through an overwhelming release, but at the sudden intrusion of Bucky's cock—the thick, hard length of him filling up your clenching cunt so perfectly—your cries ratchet higher, becoming screams of ecstasy. pleasure washes through your body in brutal, devastating waves, one release cresting into a second, your pussy pulsing steadily around the wolfman's cock and sucking him deeper, gripping the base of him, where you can already feel his knot beginning to expand. the thought of him filling you with his come and plugging you full of his knot sends you careening into a new wave of need, your mindless cries of pleasure becoming desperate whines all over again.
wolfman!Bucky who barely stops himself from coming as soon as he's buried knot-deep in your hot, sticky pussy. his entire being—mind, body and soul—narrows down to the point where you're clutching him like your cunt will never let him go. to distract himself, he runs his hands over your ass and hips, thumb flicking the cute little cottontail nestled just above the rosebud of your other hole, enjoying the blissed out whimpers that slip from your lips when he does. when the tenor of your voice changes and your ass begins to wiggle impatiently, Bucky curls his bigger body around your smaller form, his hands groping your tits roughly while his mouth finds your ear. "ready for the real fun to begin, little bun?" he growls, "gonna pound this tight, warm bunny cunt with my big, fat wolf cock and fill you up. gonna knot you—gonna breed you, lil bun."
bunnygirl!reader who goes completely mindless at those words, bouncing your ass against Bucky's lap and urging him on. the wolfman doesn't need any more incentive, setting a merciless pace, his hips snapping hard against your ass, his cock barreling deep into your pussy with rough thrusts. you cream all over his thick length, screaming your pleasure into the grass while you take the wolfman's pounding, so blissed out, so unbelievably full, that you hope it lasts forever. you want to be impaled on Bucky's cock for the rest of your life, a blissed out little bunny with a pussy eager for breeding.
wolfman!Bucky who ravages you tenderly, his hands groping and gripping all the plush softness of your body he can reach—pinching and plucking at your nipples, kneading your tits, squeezing your hips and thighs and pulling you harder and faster onto his cock. his knot is already beginning to inflate, catching at the edge of your hole and making you whimper deliciously beneath his bigger body. Bucky knows he's close, and he wants you there with him, so his hand slips between your thighs, rubbing meanly at your sticky, swollen clit until your breath hitches and your cunt clenches hard around his cock.
bunnygirl!reader who nearly blacks out from the pleasure, your breath caught in your lungs and your whole body strung tight. when Bucky bullies your clit, everything in your body snaps and you scream your release for all the trees of the deep, dark forest to hear. you scream so long and so loud, your throat goes raw, and you're distantly aware of the wolfman rutting into your body, chasing his own release while you're swept away in yours. finally, he shoves his cock deep in your cunt and his knot inflates, stretching you so full, your pussy shudders with another wave of pleasure that steals your breath, all while Bucky spills his hot, potent seed into you. "breed me, Bucky," you rasp sweetly, a dazed smile curling your lips, your cunt milking him dry.
wolfman!Bucky who goes feral at your husky, honeyed words, hips grinding his knot deep into your cunt until his cock is pressed right against your cervix, giving you exactly what you want and filling you with every drop of come from his balls. he presses one hand to your lower belly, where he's throbbing inside you, and uses his other hand to turn your face toward him, growling against the corner of your mouth, "gonna breed you so good, baby. my lil bun's gonna be knocked up before spring's over.” he can feel your smile against his mouth, and it makes him groan his pleasure. “you’re gonna gimme a whole litter of pups before i'm done with you, isn't that right, my sweet girl?"
bunnygirl!reader who hums in agreement, smiling as you turn your head just a fraction of an inch more, pouting your lips until Bucky's capturing them in a devouring kiss. your wolfman cups your head gently and kisses you fiercely while you both come down from your releases. when he finally breaks the kiss, he eases you down onto your side into a more comfortable position. your smaller body fits perfectly into the cradle of his, his knot keeping the two of you tied together while Bucky lavishes your cheeks and neck and shoulders with kisses.
wolfman!Bucky who can't believe his luck. he's holding you in his arms, one hand idly stroking your belly while he brushes butterfly kisses to your cheeks. you're using his bicep like a pillow and smiling so sweetly, giggling so delightedly at the feel of his scruff against your cheeks, that it makes his heart clench in his chest. he knows, on all his honor as a wolf, that he'll take care of you for the rest of his days. he'll kiss you and knot you and breed you. he'll make a home for you and provide for you and raise your kids together. he'll be yours for as long as you'll have him, his sweet little bunnygirl.
thanks for reading! reblogs and comments are appreciated ♡
Warnings: Injured reader, fluff, angst, kissing, and mentions of blood, broken bones, surgery, and the Blip
Summary: Y/N is an analyst at the compound, but there’s something about her that Bucky can’t quite place. After an attack, he finds out that her secret involves more than just herself.
A/N: This takes place after Endgame, but everybody lives! This fic is probably a little more niche, but I hope you all enjoy it anyway. As always, thank you for reading and supporting me in all the ways you do. Dividers by @firefly-graphics
His new therapist has instilled it in him to look for constants to ground himself, things in his life that he can always count on, though Bucky is fairly certain that that instinct has been there long before the doctor put words to it. He’s always thrived on consistency, even before the war.
By far, his favorite constant is the playlist that Y/N plays every night as she readies for bed. Their bedrooms share a wall. He can vaguely place the instrument as a violin, or maybe a cello, but he’s never had the nerve to ask her which. He hadn’t been allowed to listen to music during his imprisonment, and before he fell off the train, he was always more focused on the company than the background music. He didn’t—and still doesn’t—go to a lot of concerts, either, which leaves him in the lurch when it comes to identifying instruments.
The faint strains wind their way from the speaker in her room to Bucky’s apartment. Every night he listens for it. When the music finally arrives, he closes his eyes and lets it carry him to sleep. On the nights when the nightmares plague him and keep him from fully drifting off, Bucky listens all the way through her playlist. Though he doesn’t know any of their names, he can recognize most of the songs by now, even when she stops them partway through or listens to the same few sections over and over again. The constant rewinding is an odd habit, that much he could admit, but her music has become a source of comfort for him. She rarely adds new songs, too, which he appreciates.
Bucky never mentions to anyone how much he enjoys listening to Y/N’s music. His interactions with her are few and far between, and he knows the team would give him hell if he admitted any kind of link with her. She’d joined the team as an analyst during the last year of the Blip, and she’d moved into the compound when it became clear that she could do her job more efficiently if she was nearby. Originally, she’d had the whole hallway to herself, but once Bucky and the rest of the population returned and the compound had been rebuilt, Bucky took an apartment next door to hers. He hadn’t initially wanted to have a direct neighbor, but Fury had insisted that the units be given out sequentially, and Bucky hadn’t wanted to start a fight. Either way, that part of the residential wing now holds two occupants, both of which keep to themselves. He’s perfectly happy with the arrangement.
“You were up late last night,” Sam says, and Bucky grunts as he pours himself a cup of coffee. It’s thick and dark, which means that he’ll have to add more sugar than usual. Whoever made the pot clearly doesn’t know the value of good coffee in the morning, or maybe they just don’t care.
“Aren’t you gonna ask me how I know that?” Sam presses after a few moments.
Bucky can feel him staring and he sighs, reaching for the glass sugar container pushed up against the wall. Sam takes a sip of his own coffee.
“Did you get your little bird to follow me around?”
Sam scowls, almost a perfect mirror of Bucky’s own expression. “His name is Redwing, and no. I was in Y/N’s room last night. It was pretty late when I left and I could hear you moving around in your room.”
“Oh, that’s not creepy at all,” Bucky remarks. Sam narrows his eyes, which Bucky ignores as he spoons sugar into his mug and then pushes the container back into place. “I didn’t know you and Y/N were friends.”
Shrugging, Sam shifts his mug to the other hand and grabs one of the muffins Wanda had left out for the team. She’s been on a baking kick lately, not that Bucky’s complaining.
“We’re friendly enough. Are you?”
“Am I what?”
“Friends with Y/N,” Sam replies.
Bucky glances over at him, suspicious. “No. We only talk when she’s helping on missions. Why?”
Sam only hums in response and takes a bite of the muffin. He’s being obnoxious on purpose, but Bucky doesn’t have the energy to take the bait and fight back. He had been up late the night before. Y/N’s music hadn’t helped like it normally did, so Bucky had worked out on the floor, forced himself to journal for his therapy appointment, and paced the perimeter of his room. By the time he finally wore himself out, the sun was about to rise. He’d only slept maybe an hour before his alarm had gone off.
“She plays louder for you, you know,” Sam says, shouting after Bucky as he leaves the kitchen.
The hallways of the compound are blissfully empty, which allows Bucky to relax a little as he walks back to his room. His temple throbs and he ignores it, taking a sip from his mug. The coffee scalds his throat on the way down. It doesn’t matter—the serum never lets his tongue or fingers be burned any longer than an hour unless it’s major.
Turning down the hallway of his apartment, Bucky pauses for a split-second at the sight of Y/N backing out of her room.
“Good morning, Sergeant Barnes,” she says, shooting him a quick smile.
He returns it, though from the worried look she gives him in response, he can only assume that his expression held more of a grimace than anything.
Y/N turns her attention back to her doorway as Bucky passes by, and he catches a glimpse of a black wheeled case. It just barely fits through the door. She pulls it out of her room and steadies it with one hand when it rocks as it rolls over the vinyl divider separating her apartment carpet from the concrete hallway.
“I’ll see you around!” she calls after him.
Bucky glances back over his shoulder, surprised that she even thought to say goodbye after his initial response, and he lifts his mug in farewell. Y/N smiles again—a warm, devastatingly genuine smile that makes Bucky’s stomach flip and his throat tighten—then turns forward and keeps walking.
Her black case trails steadily behind her. Bucky stares after her for a moment, watching as she turns the corner towards the elevators. He feels like he should know what’s inside of it, but he can’t quite put his finger on whatever it is. The case definitely doesn’t hold weapons, at least not any that he’s seen before, though it’s very possible Stark created new tech without telling him. Then again, Y/N isn't the person to be testing new tech anyway. She has minimal field training; all employees in the compound have to master a list of basic defense skills and she’s no exception. Bucky’s seen her in action. She can hold her own, but she isn’t one to go out of the way to try a new tactic or do something fancy. That means it probably isn't new tech, and that irritates him more. His temple throbs again.
Why can’t I figure this out? What the hell is it?
Shaking his head, Bucky keeps walking and heads into his apartment. The door slams behind him, muffling FRIDAY’s automatic greeting.
“Dim the lights,” Bucky grumbles, and the room immediately gets darker. “Mission status report?”
“Captain Rogers and Agent Romanoff are scheduled to return at 0800 hours. The mission was successful and there were no injuries. Would you like me to contact them?”
Bucky lets out a sigh of relief. “No, thank you.” He pauses, sipping his coffee and staring out at the forest that lines the property. Sam is headed across the lawn towards the tree line, no doubt to test the new Redwing tech he’s been working on with Torres. The soldier had been here earlier in the week. Bucky had hid in his apartment.
“Do I have anything I have to go to today?”
“Your schedule is clear, Sergeant Barnes. Would you like me to add something?” FRIDAY asks.
“No,” he answers, maybe a little too quickly. Then again, FRIDAY won’t judge him, at least not to his face.
The carved wooden coaster Y/N had bought him on the only vacation she’d taken since before the Blip has gotten lost somewhere under the bed. He’d probably knocked it down during a nightmare. Silently, he takes another sip from his mug and then sets it down in the bare spot on the nightstand where the coaster should be before dropping himself onto the edge of the bed. He can feel bad about the water rings on the wood later.
“Is Y/N scheduled to work on any missions this afternoon?” The question escapes before Bucky can even process what he’s thinking, let alone saying.
“Today is Miss Y/L/N’s day off,” FRIDAY reports.
Is it Tuesday already?
Rubbing his eyes with his right hand, Bucky tries to focus. He’s gotten by on less sleep than this before. What’s gotten into him? Why did seeing her in the hallway leave him so rattled?
His phone chimes with a text alert and he drops his hand back down, sighing, then reaches for the device. It’s Steve—they’re on their way back and he’s sent a special report back to Y/N. Though it’s her day off, it’s urgent. Steve asks if Bucky can check in with her to make sure she’s gotten it.
“Why’re you always asking me to ask her this stuff, punk?” Bucky grumbles. He texts that to Steve, then sends another message affirming that he’ll check in with Y/N, regardless of whose job it should be. Steve doesn’t answer.
"FRIDAY, has Y/N left yet?”
“Miss Y/L/N just got off the elevator on the second floor.”
With a groan, Bucky pushes himself up from the mattress and downs the rest of his coffee. He leaves the mug on the nightstand to be cleaned up later, then heads out of his room toward the elevator.
The analysts’ room is only one floor down, but it’s secure and requires a retinal scan or an intense series of passwords. It takes up most of the level, with the exception of a meeting room, the break room, and a small lab where Tony tests his non-lethal designs. There are no windows, mostly due to the confidential nature of the missions, but there is a small one in the break room that Y/N had outfitted with a Roman shade shortly after the new compound had opened. She’d added plants too, claiming that looking at greenery when you’re stressed will help to calm you down. Bucky isn’t sure if he believes her, but when he stays back to help with longer missions, he takes advantage of the window in the break room if the analysts’ room starts to feel claustrophobic.
Y/N’s desk sits against the largest wall of the room so she can have plenty of room for screens, and there’s a glass wall separating her set up from the others. It turns opaque and soundproof at the touch of the button, providing even more confidentiality for important missions. Since joining the team, she’s quickly proven herself to be a vital asset and a good friend to the group. Bucky can easily admit that his job would be a lot harder without her, as would his life. Every mission that she works goes smoother, leaving him with less stress before and after. Between that and the music, life is infinitely better with Y/N as part of the team. Not that he’ll admit it aloud to anyone.
Y/N is now the main analyst at the compound, hence Steve pulling her in on her day off. She won’t complain. She never does. It’s part of what sets her apart from the rest; she, like Steve, never takes a break.
When the elevator doors open, Bucky’s first thought is that the lights shouldn’t be off. Even the emergency panels are dark. His stomach twists in warning, he wishes he’d brought a gun. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Something is definitely wrong. His second thought is that Y/N can’t be here like FRIDAY had told him. If she had come down to the analysts’ room, she would’ve told someone about the lights being off right away.
“Hello? Is somebody there? I need help!”
Y/N’s voice echoes through the dark hallways and spurs him to action. Bucky draws back his left fist and smashes the glass protecting the fire emergency kit built into the wall. He grabs the ax and stalks down the hall on high alert. There are no signs of an intruder, but he grips the handle in his right hand and clenches his other into a fist.
“Y/N?” he calls. “Where are you?”
The relief in her voice makes Bucky’s heart clench. “Bucky! I’m at my desk! I’m— I’m stuck, I can’t get out!”
He practically runs to her desk. The serum sharpens his vision enough that he’s able to see the damaged desks strewn in his path despite the blackout, and he climbs over them or pushes them out of the way with ease.
When he gets to her, Bucky sets the ax within arm’s reach and crouches beside Y/N. His brain quickly catalogues the scene, creating a mental list of all the hazards and threats. With no imminent danger from an assailant, the only threat is to Y/N’s health.
The desk has been flipped and she’s pinned underneath it. Most of the weight is on her limbs, but she’s laying on her back and a spike of panic goes through him when he realizes that she could have spinal damage or internal bleeding.
Several of the screens have fallen from the wall onto one of her legs, and shattered glass litters the floor. The glass wall between her desk and the others has been completely destroyed as well. A loose wire lays nearby and the sharp smell of gasoline burns his nostrils the longer he stays beside her.
“FRIDAY?” Bucky called. When there’s no response, he pulls out his phone and orders it to call Tony. He puts the phone on speaker, sets it in a relatively clear spot on the floor, and turns on the flashlight while the call connects.
“Tony, the second floor’s been compromised. Y/N’s trapped and I’m getting her out now. Have Cho prep the medbay for her.”
Tony’s response is just as urgent as he predicted it would be, and almost immediately, Bucky hears the alarms going off on the other floors. No doubt Sam is running in from the forest now, and Steve and Natasha will be alerted that the compound's been compromised. The call ends and he turns his attention back to Y/N.
She shifts slightly, then lets out a sharp cry of pain and a sob. It rips his heart in two.
Focus, he reminds himself. The longer she’s stuck, the greater the damage could be.
“I’ve got you, sweetheart, I’ve got you,” Bucky soothes. “Stay still for me, okay?"
She inhales sharply and nods. “I’m sorry, Sergeant Barnes.”
“It’s not your fault. I need you to stay still so I can get this off of you, alright?”
She nods again, and Bucky gets to work inspecting the desk and screens. Once he’s sure that moving them won’t endanger her any further, he carefully lifts them up, then away. He moves everything closer to where it belongs and then comes back to where she’s still laying on the floor. She hasn’t attempt to move, though he’s not sure if that’s due to her training or if she’s simply unable to.
“Okay, Y/N. You think you can move?” he asks. “Start small.”
“I think so,” she says, though her voice sounds less than confident. She starts to roll over onto her side, but she jerks back in pain and lets out a shout as soon as she puts weight on her arm. The sound of her crying will echo forever in Bucky’s head, he’s sure of it.
“I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “Hold still.”
He looks her over, searching for blood or exposed bones. There’s nothing that seems extremely dangerous for her, though she’s clearly broken at least one bone in her arm and her pants are dotted with splotches of blood from where the glass has cut through the fabric.
Bucky sits up and looks back toward the elevator, listening for any sign that Stark or the others are on their way. All he can hear is the wail of the sirens reverberating down the elevator shaft. He clenches his teeth.
If they don’t get here soon…
Her voices breaks when she pleads, “Stay.”
Y/N shivers as shock sets in, and he can tell after only a few seconds that she’s clinging to consciousness. Her eyes are unfocused, though her gaze is directed toward him. After a moment more, he resolves himself to get her to the medbay on his own.
“I’m stayin',” he promises. With great care, and slower than he’d like given that he isn’t sure where the intruders went, Bucky shifts her legs so that he can slip his arm underneath the backs of her knees. He wants to adjust her hands so that her wrists are crossed over her chest, but his hands hover over her long enough that she realizes his intentions.
“My wrists…. Bucky…”
She’s never called him solely by his first name. His heart squeezes inside his chest, and for a second he thinks he’s having a heart attack. “I know, sweetheart, I know. I’m gonna get you out of here. I’m gonna carry you up to medbay.”
“What?” Panic fills her expression. His breath catches in his throat. “What? No, Bucky, it hurts! Please don’t—”
She lets out a shout when Bucky lifts her up, cradling her against his chest with his right arm behind her knees and the vibranium one supporting her back. Her wrists rest loosely over her abdomen. Y/N continues to shake, both from the shock and the pain, but also from her continued sobs. Her throat sounds raw and Bucky grits his teeth, his own eyes filling with tears.
As he climbs back over the rubble of the analysts’ room, Bucky tries to keep from jostling her as much as possible, but by the time they reach the elevator, she’s passed out with her head slumped against his chest.
He bends at the knees, squatting down just enough to press the button to call the elevator with one finger. When it doesn't light up, he mutters a curse and turns towards the stairwell door behind him. There’s a noise from the other side of the door, and then it flies off the hinges and he finds himself staring into Tony’s palm. It’s already alight with bright white energy and Bucky instinctively backs away.
“Well, don’t stand in front of doors if you don’t want ‘em shoved open! What do we got?” Tony replies. He drops his hand back down to his side, his head turning as he scans the dark analysts’ room behind Bucky for signs of danger or an intruder.
“Power’s out, including FRIDAY and the elevator. I haven’t seen or heard anything since I got down here, but everything’s destroyed and it smells like gas. Not sure if it’s a leak or if they tried to light the place before I got here, but she seems to be breathing fine.”
Tony steps closer. His mask lifts, revealing his face. Bucky doesn’t need any light to see the concern and fear in Stark’s eyes. He’s clearly not the only one affected by Y/N’s state.
“What happened?” Tony asks, glancing down at Y/N.
“I don’t know if they attacked her or if she was trying to keep the information on the computer safe, but I found her pinned underneath her desk. The screens fell, too, but mostly on her legs.”
Tony nods. “Sam’s checking the other floors, but we haven’t found anything. We’ll take it from here. You get her up to see Cho.”
Nodding, Bucky climbs the three flights of stairs to the fifth floor, leaving Tony to search the analysts’ floor for any information on the intruders and their motives.
The medbay is tucked in between the two main labs, where the different researchers have easy access to doctors. They need them more often than they’d like to admit, but thankfully, any researchers in the vicinity evacuated when the alarms went off, leaving the medley clear and the staff free to take care of Y/N.
As soon as the stairwell door opens, Helen is waiting for him. Tony must have relayed that he was on his way up with Y/N, because even when the medical team is ready to stitch people up after missions, they only come running if they knew there’s an emergency. Two medical assistants rush over with a gurney.
“What happened?” Helen asks.
Bucky follows their lead and carefully lays Y/N on the bed as he replies, “She was trapped underneath two smashed screens and a desk. I don’t know what else happened, but she’s definitely injured her arms, wrists, or hands. The cuts on her legs are from the shattered glass. She passed out about two minutes ago, most likely from the pain.”
Helen nods and starts walking behind the gurney as they wheel her away. “We’ll take it from here, Sergeant. We’ll let the team know if there are any significant updates.”
Though he should be relieved that Y/N is in good hands, Bucky’s stomach still twists as he watches the medical team disappear through the double doors and into the medbay. He’s frozen in place as he watches the access light beside the doors turn red, locking out any unwelcome visitors.
A hand on his arm makes him flinch, and he turns, already pushing the person away. Steve immediately backs up to give him space, both hands in the air.
“Whoa, hey. It’s just me, man,” he soothes. “Is Y/N in there?” He nods at the medbay doors, still keeping his distance. He slowly lowers his hands. “Tony told me what happened.”
“The whole floor was destroyed, Steve.”
“Did they hurt her?” Steve asks, a hint of iron in his voice. He clearly doesn’t like the thought of Y/N facing danger alone, either. The entire team loves her. If someone hurt her, they’d pay.
I’d make them pay, Bucky thinks.
“I don’t know.” He clenches his jaw and his fists follow suit. “She was trapped under her desk and two screens, but I swear, if we find out they did something—”
Steve places a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll find them, Buck. Don’t worry.”
Bucky shrugs him off and goes to stare out the windows. As much as he hates to admit it, the sight of all the greenery surrounding the compound helps calm his racing heart, just like Y/N always says it will. For a second, his mind wanders, wondering if he should get a plant for his apartment.
Does she have plants? As soon as the thought crosses his mind, he frowns at himself. Don’t be a creep.
The elevator down the hall chimes, and Bucky doesn’t have to look away from the windows to know that Tony has arrived, along with Sam and Natasha.
“How is she?” Nat asks. Steve answers, and Bucky tunes them out, focusing instead on the tree line and the tangled thread of thoughts going through his head over and over again.
If I’d only gotten there sooner, this wouldn’t have happened.
If I hadn’t gone back to my room to avoid Sam, maybe I would’ve been able to stop whoever it was.
If I’d stopped to ask what was in her case—
Bucky straightens. It’s as if someone has poured ice water over his head. Y/N’s case, he remembers. The strangely shaped black case hadn’t been anywhere near her desk, at least not that he’d seen, but he hadn’t been looking for it at the time. He’d been so focused on helping her that he’d forgotten all about it. If the case holds weapons or Stark tech of some kind, he needs to find it.
“I’ll be back,” Bucky says, already marching past the rest of the group towards the stairwell. “Is the power back on the second floor?”
“Yes, but—”
He ignores the rest of Steve’s response, already flinging open the door and taking the stairs in twos. It only takes him forty-five seconds to get back to the analysts’ room.
With the power back on, Bucky can truly see the damage, and he has to stop in the doorway to catch his breath. There isn’t a single desk, chair, or computer setup in the room that hasn’t been destroyed. From the doorway, he can even see that the lab has been raided, and several people have already begun the clean-up process on that end of the floor. His train of thought sticks for a second, providing him image after image of the horrible things that could have happened to Y/N if he hadn’t gotten there in time or if the assailants hadn’t fled. He pushes them away, focusing on the task at hand.
It takes almost a half hour of searching, but Bucky finally find Y/N’s discarded case wedged upright against a wall by a desk strewn lengthwise on its side. He tips the desk off the case, then lowers it back to the floor with his left hand while he holds the case against the wall with the other.
Unsure of what he’ll find, Bucky lowers the case to the floor and exhales sharply. He kneels down beside it. His hands hover over the strange, curved top for a second while his heart pounds in his chest. If this is a weapon, there’s no telling what might happen when he opens it up. He still has the strange feeling that he should know what’s inside of it, but it’s like his brain won’t focus. He’s used to missing pieces of his memory, especially things he would’ve known before HYDRA. His therapist would be telling him to talk it out and try to make connections between what he knows now and his memories from back then, but there’s no time for that. The only logical thing a case like this could be in the Avengers compound is a weapon, and if it’s been damaged or armed, he can’t risk it.
He pulls out his phone and dials on autopilot. The line connects almost immediately.
“Where did you go?” Steve asks.
“Second floor. Listen, Y/N had some kind of case with her when she was attacked. I’m not sure what’s in it, and if whoever trashed the place tampered with it—”
There’s no cordiality in Steve’s voice when he answers, “I’m on my way.” The call ends a second later.
Steve appears within a minute, walking with purpose across the room. He’s still in his gear from the mission. Behind him, Sam enters in full gear as well, his shoulders tense and his vision focused forward.
“What do we know about the case?” Steve asks as he approaches.
“Nothing, but I feel like I should. Maybe it’s one of those weapons that Stark was talking about last week in the conference room?” Bucky never pays attention during the bi-weekly and post-mission debriefs, and everyone knows. Nobody dares correct him.
Once the two men are close enough to see the case laid out on the floor, Sam lets out a relieved chuckle. “Oh, man,” he says, and he stops a dozen feet away.
Steve stops too, his hands on his hips as he sighs and tilts his head back, closing his eyes. He turns to the side after a second, just enough that Bucky can’t tell his expression, but his posture is infinitely more relaxed.
“What?” Bucky asks, sitting up a little straighter. He hates feeling like everyone knows something that he doesn’t, especially when he already feels like he should. “What is it?”
Sam grins down at him. Bucky has the sudden urge to deck him.
“That’s her cello,” Sam explains, continuing when he narrows his eyes at him, “She must’ve been on the way to her lesson.”
Bucky blinks, and suddenly, everything makes sense. It’s like he’s walked into a brick wall that knocked something into place, and now all the pieces of the story are connecting, one by one. The instrumental music, the way it repeats over and over again, the way the case looks oddly familiar… Everything makes sense.
“She plays the cello,” Bucky murmurs. He stares at the rubble around them, his mind spinning as he uses that information to make sense of so many other interactions he’s had with Y/N, including the one from this morning.
Steve drops his hands back down to his sides. “You didn’t know?”
“No, I—” Bucky clears his throat and glances up at him, then looks away. He turns back to the case on the floor and hastily unzips it. Inside, laying carefully cushioned by black velvet, is a cello. The overhead light reflects off the red wood, showing off the grain, and though a small part of Bucky desperately wants to run his fingers over it—his real fingers, so he can feel the smoothness of the wood and the tension in the strings—he restrains himself. He knows better than that.
“I knew,” he says, quieter than before.
The room falls silent for a few moments before Steve rests his fingertips on Bucky’s shoulder, just for a second, then walks away. Sam follows him, but Bucky doesn’t turn to watch them leave. He sits on the floor beside the cello, just looking at it. He listens to the chatter and the noise coming from the lab clean-up, but mostly, he looks at Y/N’s cello. It’s beautiful, and well taken care of. It’s a miracle that the case protected it from the attack. The case itself doesn’t even look scuffed.
Sam had said she was on her way to a lesson. Bucky hadn’t even known that she played the cello, let alone that she took lessons, though in retrospect, he should’ve figured it out. She’s been playing for him every night for months now. How had he been so blind?
Finally, after the stairwell door slams again and several more moments have passed, he zips up the case. Then, carefully, he lifts it up by the handle at the top, tilting it so the wheels stay solidly on the floor. It takes some maneuvering to get it through the analysts’ room to the now-working elevator. He has to keep stopping to move desks, screens, and toppled chairs out of the way, and each time, Bucky stands the cello case upright, gently supporting it with both hands until he’s sure it’s stable.
After what Y/N’s been through, he tells himself, she doesn’t deserve to have something so important to her destroyed.
He makes it to the elevator and heaves a sigh, but he keeps the cello close until he’s back outside his apartment. He only lets go of it just long enough to get the door open. Bucky stores it on the floor of his empty closet, where he can lay it down with nothing around it. His clothes are all in the dresser anyway, and he promises himself it will only be there until Y/N is safely back in her room, rather than in the medbay.
“Sergeant Barnes,” FRIDAY says, and Bucky flinches. He closes his eyes and takes a steadying breath.
“What?”
“Captain Rogers is requesting your presence in the medbay. He says to tell you that it’s urgent, but that Y/N is fine.”
It feels as if all the tension in Bucky’s body has drained been out through his feet. He hangs his head, his hand on the wall beside the closet door, and nods.
“Okay.” Sighing, he runs a hand over his face and inhales deeply, then closes the door the rest of the way. “Okay. Tell him I’ll be right there.”
FRIDAY doesn’t answer, as usual, so Bucky heads up one floor to the medbay. The rest of the team has dispersed, but Steve remains standing outside the double doors. The light beside them is green. He looks up when the elevator chimes. He still hasn’t changed out of his gear.
“She’s okay,” Steve reassures.
Bucky nods. “I got your message.” He doesn’t have to say it, but they both know that he’s grateful Steve repeated it anyway.
“The doctor says she’ll make a full recovery.”
“Why does it sound like there’s something more?” Bucky asks. Sighing, Steve glances back at the doors.
“Her right wrist is broken and she’s got three broken fingers on her left hand.”
“So she’s out of commission for a while.”
“At least twelve weeks, maybe more, depending on how the recovery goes. She had to have surgery.”
“We’ll have to find someone to help out on missions when she can’t,” Bucky says. “I’m sure that Fury has some kind of hierarchy we can use.”
Steve shakes his head. “Buck, she won’t be able to play cello that whole time. That’s— That’s gonna feel like a death sentence to her. To you.”
Bucky turns and stares out the windows again. A crow flies by, cawing loud enough that he can hear it through the glass.
After a moment, he asks, “Did everyone know that she played cello except me?”
“It was never a secret. It’s in her personnel file,” Steve tells him.
Bucky sighs again. He’s never read anyone’s files. It feels like an invasion of privacy. He’s gone most of his life without privacy, and he hates the fact that anyone can know whatever they want about people in the compound. He refuses to betray anyone else that way if he can help it.
“Listen,” Steve begins, and Bucky turns to face him. “She asked for you.”
“Me?”
He smiles a little, clearly amused, though there are bags under his eyes. He still hasn’t slept since returning from his two-week mission somewhere in the Arctic. “You rescued her.”
As much as Bucky wants to scoff at his friend’s expression, he can’t argue when it comes to Y/N. He just can’t. “Right.”
“Just… Get in there. Tell her to let us know if she needs anything.”
“Will do, pal.” Bucky stays put until the elevator doors close behind Steve and the numbers above them start to descend. He goes into the medbay then, quietly, just in case Y/N is asleep.
“Sergeant Barnes.”
Helen steps into view with a tablet in hand and Bucky straightens. Her presence always sets him on edge, though he knows she’s part of the team.
“Doctor. How’s she doing?”
She gives him a tight, polite smile. “She’s recovering. She’s already awake, and she’s asking for you. I assume that’s why you’re here?”
Bucky nods, then hesitates. “With her injuries… She plays the cello.”
The polite smile turns into a pitying grimace. “It’ll be quite the recovery for her, but Tony has already told us he’s on the lookout for the best physical therapist he can find.”
Already nodding again, Bucky turns towards the doors to the surgical recovery room. He’s been here before, once for himself and once for Steve, and he knows the layout like the back of his hand. He doesn’t need to, however, because Y/N is blinking at him from her bed, her expression soft and sleep-addled.
“Bucky,” she murmurs, and she squints a little. Her speech isn’t quite slurred, but she’s less clear than normal. It makes his heart clench to see her like this. “The light’s are bright.”
“I’ve got it.” He dims them with the switch on the wall before taking the chair beside her bed.
She’s laying on her back with her right wrist on the bed beside her. It’s heavily bandaged. Her left hand is on top of her stomach, also wrapped in clean bandages.
“Thank you.” She closes her eyes and he wonders after a minute if she’s gone to sleep, but then opens them and looks at him intensely.
“You should rest,” Bucky says, and she hums in response.
“Probably. Thank you for saving me. If you hadn’t shown up…” He shakes his head and scoots forward in his seat, putting a hand on her shoulder.
“Someone would have found you if I hadn’t.”
Y/N shakes her head back at him, frowning. He can see the panic forming, an after-thought clouded by the pain medication. “My cello…”
“I’ve got it. It’s in my room.”
“Your room?” She scrunches up her nose at him. “Why?”
He can’t help but chuckle at her. Bucky knows it’s the anesthesia and the drugs, but her expression is far from the ordinary.
“I can’t access your room, Y/N.”
“Oh.”
The recovery room lapses into silence, except for the monitors beside him, but then Y/N says, “I’m sorry I won’t be able to play for a while.”
“You don’t need to apologize. This isn’t your fault.”
“I know. I’m still sorry.”
He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to make her feel better, so he stays silent. She watches him from the bed, her eyes closing further and further between each blink until finally, she just keeps them closed.
Bucky sighs and sits back in the chair. He pulls his hand away when he realizes it’s still touching her shoulder. The sliding doors open behind him.
“She needs to rest,” Helen says. It’s not a statement; it’s an order, and Bucky’s heard enough of those to know which ones are worth following. He stands and nods politely at her, then leaves without another word.
Two weeks later, FRIDAY alerts Bucky to Y/N’s presence at his door. He opens it to find her standing there, her tablet held against her chest with her good wrist.
“Bucky,” she greets, though she’s not smiling.
The fact that she’s still calling him by his first name still makes his breath catch in his throat. “Everything okay?”
“Can you help me with something?”
He nods and steps aside, making space for her in the doorway. She steps inside his apartment, silently taking it in before she takes a seat on one end of his couch. She pulls her arm away from her chest and allows the tablet to clumsily fall to her lap.
“I’m making a playlist,” she explains, “of all the music I normally play.”
“I’m not sure how I can help with that,” Bucky replies, closing the door. He stands near the wall until she glances at the empty end of the couch and gestures with her bandaged hand.
“FRIDAY is great, but sometimes things need a human touch, you know?”
He can’t argue with that, so he nods and sits opposite her. He’s very aware that they’re alone in his apartment for the first time.
How is she so casual about this?
She’s talking to her tablet and he realizes that he’s zoned out on her. Embarrassed, he gets up from the couch and takes the few steps to his bedside, where he’d set down his morning cup of coffee. It’s room temperature now, but the bitter taste is sharp in his mouth and makes him focus on the present.
“See? I really just need help putting them in order,” she’s saying. “FRIDAY put them all on the playlist, but no matter how I phrase it, I can’t get her to put them in the order I want.”
“You’ll have to show me how to do it.”
Y/N looks up at him, as if she’s surprised he’s responded to her. “Really? You’ll help?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
I’d do anything for you.
Seemingly at a loss for words, she shrugs and glances back down at the tablet, then at him again. Then, she says, “It’s easy. Come sit with me and I’ll show you.”
The invitation is simple, and he’s helpless. He sits beside her, closer this time, and takes the tablet from her lap. She explains how to move the tracks around on the playlist—he understands after only a few seconds that she needs help because she physically can’t move them around without the use of her fingers—and he obediently moves them around. Sometimes she stops to ask his opinion on where to place something on the playlist. She hums the main melody when she can, or she’ll have him play part of the track until he recognizes the tune. Much to his surprise, Bucky recognizes all of them.
“I think that’s good,” Y/N finally says, and he locks the screen. It goes dark in his lap. “Thank you. I feel like anyone else would’ve thought this was stupid and tedious, but I like them in a certain order, you know?”
Bucky nods. “I do.” He hesitates, then asks, “Did Helen tell you when you’ll be able to play again?”
She shakes her head and the light in her eyes dims. “No. It’ll be a couple months at least, I’m sure.”
“Oh.”
What am I supposed to say to that?
“I’m sorry,” he tries again.
Y/N forces a closed-lipped smile. It’s half-hearted and she looks down at her lap, where her bandaged hands are resting.
“It’s strange, you know?” she asks after a moment, still not looking at him. He doesn’t respond, hoping she’ll clarify. “Not playing, I mean.”
“You usually play every day.”
“I have for years. The only time I didn’t was right after the—” She falls silent again, and he knows what she means.
The Blip.
“You didn’t disappear.”
“No. But I wished I had.”
“Where were you?”
She inhales deeply, sitting up taller. Nobody likes reliving painful memories, Bucky knows this from experience, but he couldn’t help but ask.
“Playing. I was the principal cellist at the New York Philharmonic. We were in the middle of a concerto, and I was playing the solo when my stand partner just… dissolved. Sometimes I can still feel her ashes on my hands.” Y/N’s voice trembles, but she continues, “There was screaming. My friends and co-workers were disappearing all around me, and even our conductor… He was there one moment and gone the next. I could hear the audience screaming, instruments hitting the floor…”
Bucky wraps an arm around her shoulders, pulling her in close as she begins to cry. He hates himself for dredging up such a painful memory for her.
Idiot, he thinks, as he soothes her with soft noises and murmurs of reassurance. Why didn’t you stop her?
After several minutes, she sits up and he pulls his arm back. Y/N reaches for a box of tissues on the small table beside the couch, but when she’s unable to pull one out without the box sliding out of reach, Bucky stands to get it for her. He holds onto the box and stands off to the side in case she needs another.
“I’m sorry,” Y/N finally says, pinching the tissue with the fingers on her right hand. “I’m a mess.”
“I’m the one that brought it up, I should be the one apologizing to you.”
She shakes her head and looks up at him, her eyes puffy and red from crying. “You have nothing to apologize for, Bucky.”
He nods and sits back down beside her. They sit in silence for several moments before he asks, “Why did you become an analyst? A lot of orchestras kept going.”
Y/N sighs and leans back against the couch. He turns so he can see her better. Her fingers fidget with a hole in her jeans. The tissue she’d used has fallen onto the floor beside her feet.
“It was too hard to be on the stage after what happened, and I didn’t feel… useful.” She lets out a rueful laugh. “It feels awful to say that aloud. I’m a big proponent that music is one of the few things in life that doesn’t need a “use”. It does so much for people, even stuff that we don’t realize.”
“So you went back to school?”
She looks over at him, curious. “I have two degrees. You didn’t know that?”
Bucky shakes his head. “I’ve never read your file.”
“Oh.” Y/N pauses. “I haven’t read yours either, for what it’s worth.”
He’s filled with a sudden gratitude for that and his shoulders drop a little. He hadn’t even realized they’d been tense.
“Anyway, I found any entry level position and then got promoted a few times. I didn’t play for over a year, and then when I finally decided I could handle it, it became more of an escape than anything. I tried to audition for a few things on the side, but every time I felt any kind of pressure to perform, I’d totally break down. It was awful. There was one time that I had a flashback as I was playing. When I finally calmed down, one of the panelists told me that I’d only played two notes before I started hyperventilating. She said I played the whole piece in its entirety before I passed out.”
“I’m sorry.”
Y/N shrugs and glances at him. “It is what it is. I stopped auditioning after that, and it honestly didn’t feel like my life was lacking anything. I was still playing, just in a different capacity. And when Fury hired me and I got to move here, I had more time to play. I wasn’t commuting an hour to my job every day, which was nice. Fury made sure I had access to whatever sheet music I want, and Tony’s continued that.” She smiles a little.
Bucky hesitates for a moment before asking, “Why did you stop calling me Sergeant Barnes?” He’s been wondering for so long that it feels like he might never figure it out if he doesn’t ask.
Why did you say it like that? Idiot, she’s going to think that you don’t want her to call you that!
Her smile falters at the sudden change in conversation. “What?”
“You started calling me Bucky after the attack. You didn’t before.”
“Do you not want me to call you that?” She stands, frowning at him.
Frantically, Bucky stands and scrambles to fix things. It feels like his stomach is eating itself from the inside out. “No, it’s fine.” It’s more than fine. “You just used to be so formal.” I hated it. “And now you’re more…”
“Informal,” she concludes. He nods and she glances at his half-made bed. He’d been in the middle of making it when she came to the door. “Well… you called me sweetheart.”
“I did?” Bucky frowns, his eyebrows furrowing as he wracks his brain for a memory of the phrase. “When?”
“When you were digging me out of my office.”
“I don’t… remember that. I’m sorry,” he offers. He’s always been so careful not to cross any boundaries. Her formality had always been a boundary he’s assumed was purposeful on her part. He’d respected it at every turn, but if he was the one to cross it first, without her permission…
She shakes her head with a small, surprisingly shy smile. “Don’t be. I don’t mind.”
Bucky’s heart skips a beat. His stomach pauses mid-twist. “You don’t?”
“No.” She pauses. “I’ve wanted to call you Bucky for a long time. It felt strange calling you Sergeant Barnes when everyone else just called you by your nickname. Especially since…” Y/N trails off, then reaches down to gather up her tablet. “I should get going. Thanks for your help with the playlist.”
“Since what?”
“Never mind.” She goes to step around him and Bucky panics. He reaches out and grabs her arm, just above her elbow. Y/N pauses and looks up at him. Her jerks his hand away as if it’s been scalded, despite the fact that it’s his vibranium one.
“I’m sorry.”
“I play for you,” says Y/N, plainly. She pauses, then corrects, “I used to play for you.”
“What?” The floor might as well have dropped out from beneath his feet. He can’t quite catches breath. “When?”
“Every night, when you weren’t out on missions. I have since the compound was rebuilt, for months now.”
Y/N steps back over to the couch and bends down so she can gently drop the tablet onto the cushion. She straightens up and looks at him. In the hallway, Bucky hears two of the maintenance personnel walk past, talking to each other softly. He doesn’t place the language, which is a first for him. He’s so used to listening in on other’s conversations, scrambling for every piece of intel he can get about his surroundings, but suddenly, all he can think about is her. It’s the same feeling he’d had when he found her pinned to the floor by the desk, but with less terror involved. His mind is singularly focused on her.
She plays louder for you, you know. Sam’s words from the morning of the attack ring in Bucky’s ears.
“Why?” His voice feels stuck in his throat and he swallows. “Why would you do that?”
Moving closer to him, Y/N reaches up with her right hand. The neon cast has been signed by the rest of the team. Someone’s even drawn a cello near the top, albeit a poor attempt at one. She hovers near his arm before gently placing her hand there. He doesn’t pull away, though he knows she’s moving slow enough so that he has plenty of time to.
She’s smiling. “Because you appreciate it, Bucky. From what I can tell, you love it, for some of the same reasons that I do. When I play…” Y/N inhales deeply and then shakes her head. “It’s peaceful. It helps me calm down when I’m stressed. It reminds me that there’s beautiful things in the world. After some of the missions we’ve done—”
“—it’s hard to remember that not everything’s bad,” Bucky finishes.
“Exactly.” She shifts her hand, moving it up his arm and onto his shoulder. Her cast is bulky and the hardened fiberglass is rough even through his shirt.
“I like you a lot,” she murmurs. “I’ve been scared to tell you until now. Hell, I’m still scared. I think… I think that every time I played for you, I was trying to tell you, but I just didn’t know how to put it into words.”
“I like you too,” he says. The tightness in his chest loosens at the confession. “Will you still play for me when you’re able? Now that I know it’s you and not just a recording?”
She nods, her face breaking into a full, bright smile. “I’ll play for you especially now that you know."
Months later, Bucky finds himself outside Y/N’s door. He fidgets for a second with the flowers in his hands, wondering if he should’ve even brought them in the first place. He takes a step back with the intent to head back to his apartment and leave them there before coming back, but he freezes when the door opens and Y/N meets his eyes.
She’s changed since dinner. Instead of her normal work clothes—black pants and an Avengers-branded shirt—she’s wearing sweatpants and a shirt with the letters “NEC” emblazoned on the front.
Y/N smiles at him, and then her eyes fall to the flowers in his hands and she smiles wider. “Are those for me?” she asks.
“Yeah. I don’t”—Bucky clears his throat—“I don’t know if it’s still the tradition to bring flowers to someone’s performance…”
She reaches out and takes them. She brushes her fingers over the petals and Bucky watches in silence. The scars from the pins in her fingers have healed, though he knows that her hands and her wrist ache when the weather changes, just like his shoulder.
“They’re beautiful. Thank you. But this isn’t a performance, not really. It’s just for you.”
His heart thumps in his chest when she steps out of the way to allow him into her apartment. He’s been here a few times, but not at night. His nightly routine has never included her, not until now.
Her apartment didn’t look much different in the evening than it did during the day. The sun hasn’t set yet, but her blinds are closed, letting in only a little bit of light. The overhead lighting is dimmer as well, and Bucky notices that in the corner where her cello normally sits on its stand, a light has been clipped onto the music stand and the cello is laying on its side beside the chair.
Though he also has a studio, hers is larger, presumably because she’d moved into the compound first. Her bed takes up most of one side, and plants mark every foot or so across the long windowsill. A large one with dinner plate-sized leaves stands guard in the far corner of the room, opposite her cello. The TV on the wall facing the bed is playing something on mute and she grabs the remote from the dresser as she passes by. Y/N turns off the show and tosses the remote onto the bed.
“These really are beautiful,” she says as she grabs a water glass from her bedside table. It’s only half full of water, but she carefully fits the ends of the bouquet into the glass and leans it precariously against the wall. “Where did you even get them? You’ve been here all day.”
“Do you want me to get you a vase? Pepper probably has one somewhere…”
She shakes her head, smiling as she walks back to him. “No. I want you to sit so I can play for you.”
Y/N holds out a hand and Bucky meets her halfway. She grabs his vibranium hand and then leads him to the end of the bed, where he obediently sits. Still smiling, she sits in the chair behind her music stand and picks up the cello.
His breath catches in his throat as he watches her adjust her posture. The bow hovers above the strings for just a moment before she moves it smoothly from one side of her body to the other. The sound is much louder than when he’s listened to her play through the walls and tears well up his eyes immediately.
“What do you want to hear?” she asks, looking up at him.
Bucky can’t tear his eyes away from her cello. He shakes his head, swallowing thickly. “Whatever— Whatever you want to play. I want to hear it all, darling.”
Her smile softens before she closes her eyes and touches the bow to the string. She plays piece after piece, song after song, until Bucky has tears running down his cheeks. He wipes them away so he can watch her clearly.
Y/N sways as she plays, moving with the music in a way that makes him never want to look away from her. She smiles too, and when it turns sad, she frowns a little, her eyebrows furrowing as she attunes her whole body to the music.
The room is barely lit by the time she finishes. He knows it’s late. The rest of the team will have gone to bed already, making him and Y/N the only two still awake. The sky outside Y/N’s windows are dark.
“Bucky?” She sets her bow down and meets his eyes. Her expression flickers when she sees the dried tear tracks on his face. “Are you alright?”
He nods. “Yeah. I’m alright.”
She carefully shifts the cello back onto its side beside the chair, then comes over to sit beside him on the bed. She slips her hand into his. “Whatcha thinking about?”
He looks down at where their joined hands sit between them on the mattress. “I don’t know what to say. It’s even more beautiful now that I know it’s you. Now that I can see you playing. You’re amazing, sweetheart.”
“Thank you,” she says, and he can tell even without looking up right away that she’s a little flustered by the compliment.
“I mean it.” Bucky looks up at her, then takes his free hand and reaches over to curl a finger underneath her chin. He holds her gaze for a moment. “You played beautifully, baby.”
She ducks her head, smiling wide. It’s pure joy, radiating out of her, and it makes Bucky’s chest feel tight.
No longer able to stop himself, he guides her face back to his. When he leans in and kisses her, and she practically melts into him. The mattress dips when she moves toward him, making her slide even further until their hips touch and he’s forced to let go of her hand.
“Stay the night,” she murmurs. She brushes her fingers over his face, trailing them from his temple to his jaw, and he shivers. Her breath is warm and he closes his eyes, just breathing her in.
“I shouldn’t.”
What if I have a nightmare?
The words are unspoken, he’s sure of it, but then she says, “I’ll play for you again if you wake up, if you can’t fall asleep. I’ll play all night for you if I have to, James Buchanan Barnes, I just want you to stay.”
He shudders under the weight of her words. He wraps his arms around her, pulling her into his lap and holding her close, and he buries his face against her shoulder.
“Y/N…”
"Stay.”
“Okay.” He kisses the place where her shirt ends and her skin begins. She brings a hand up to caress his spine in long, smooth motions.
“I’ll stay,” he tells her, and he says it like a promise, one that he intends to keep.
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summary: (5k - it got away from me, ok? lol) insecure reader x Bucky who's fucking feral for her (thank you to the lovely anon who requested this 🩶)
tw: fluff, enthusiastic consent, a lot of smut and Bucky talking you through it
Bucky had spent most of his life under darkness. Kept in the shadows like a secret.
So when he realized that's where you preferred to hide - in the same place that nearly destroyed him - he did the only thing he could.
He reached in and pulled you out. Used his skills to stoke confidence instead of fear.
Intimacy had always felt like a stranger to you. Something you couldn't quite grasp, even alone, no matter how hard you tried. Lights off and under covers not nearly enough to quiet your mind and just feel. To stop thinking about all the ways you might be too much. Or, not enough.
By the time you met Bucky, you were already convinced it just wasn't in the cards for you. Destined to spend the rest of your life always wondering 'what if.' Constantly reviewing the endless list of things you probably needed change about yourself.
And then he walked into your life and had the nerve to offer you the most dangerous thing of all.
Hope.
It started small. Slow. Two people learning how to trust again. How to be present. How to want without worrying about doing the wrong thing.
Bucky seemed to catch on much quicker. Kisses growing confident, words spilling out unchecked during heated moments. But never pushing. Always content with whatever pace you seemed comfortable with.
Inside you've been dying for more. More than just the heavy make-out sessions you'd find yourselves in. His body pressing you into the couch cushions, thigh slotted between yours, careful hands roaming over frustrating layers of clothing.
The words always seemed to die before they could ever fully form. Pleas for more getting lost in the ruminating thoughts that would inevitably take root. A constant battle of being silenced by your own insecurities until one day - suddenly - Bucky manages to coax it out of you.
"God, sweetheart," he groans against your neck, hips rocking gently. "Feel so good." One hand grips your thigh, squeezing the generous give of it. "So soft."
Your shuddering moan only seems to set him off more. Fingers readjusting, sliding higher, easily finding that spot on the back of your thigh that elicits some of the most needy noises you've ever made.
"Yeah?" he pants, kisses following a trail back to your lips, tongue delving deep. Teeth clashing in a frenzy that leaves you dizzy. Grasping at him, shirt bunched between your fingers, body seeking more friction.
It's the harsh gasp of his name that breaks the spell. Mouths reluctantly separating so he can check in. Gaze sweeping over your fluttering lashes, the heat radiating off your skin, your perfect, swollen lips parted in an effort to take in more oxygen.
"Doin' so good for me," he murmurs, pulse stuttering at the effect the simple praise has on you. Thighs tensing. Back arching. Another shuddering gasp that almost makes him forget he's a gentleman.
Dropping his head again, he noses along your jaw to breathe you in. His firm grip on your thigh encouraging you to keep moving. To keep taking. To stop worrying that he's thinking about anything other than how perfect you fit against him.
"Swear you were made just for me."
He says it with such conviction - such awe - that it's impossible not to believe it. To not let it sink deep and twist around all the ugly fears usually holding you back. Making room for one single thought.
"Please."
Such a simple word.
And yet, it has Bucky's brain short-circuiting. Cock twitching, his strained erection digging into your thigh. Leaving no doubt what you're doing to him.
"Please what, sweet girl?" he breathes, restraint warring with desire.
A pathetic whimper bubbles up, hands dropping to the cushions. Just long enough for him to start suckling a bruise over your pulse, wet tongue pulling your focus. Your grip immediately returns to his waist, nails digging in through the cotton. Eliciting a growl that has you once again forgetting about everything but him.
"What do you need, hmm?" Soft words muttered against your throat, his sure hand hitching a millimeter higher. Testing the waters without throwing you off balance. "Need me to touch more of you? Make you feel good?"
Heavy panting answers him. Your thigh inching up his side, letting him settle deeper against you. Letting him feel how fucking warm you already are.
"Christ."
His sharp inhale unlocks something inside of you. Giving way to a newfound confidence that has you taking a step all on your own, fingers dipping underneath the hem of his shirt, seeking out his feverish skin.
"Shit," he hisses, body locking up, weight dropping to his vibranium forearm, resisting the urge to rut against you like some animal in heat. Muffled laughter follows, his face buried in the crook of your neck as he apologizes, "was almost over before we even got started."
Warmth settles low in your belly, electricity radiating out from where he's grinding against you. Your hips setting the pace without you even realizing it.
It's never been like this for you. Not just the bursts of pleasure, but how he's able to get you to relax. To breathe. To just fucking feel for once in your life.
"Yes." It almost comes out as a sob. Your palms sliding over the strong muscles of his back, each flex grounding you deeper in the moment. "Please."
A slow shift and he's suddenly there. Flush against you. The fly of his jeans providing exquisite friction that has your legs squeezing his hips.
"Oh god," you gasp, a tremor running through you, limbs clinging to him like you're on the verge of losing yourself.
"Shhh," Bucky soothes, wasting no time in pulling you back from the brink, "open those pretty eyes for me."
The moment you do, he's leaning over you, intense gaze holding you hostage, taking you in like you're a work of art.
"There you are," he smiles, drawing out more needy gasps, your hips starting to find a quicker rhythm. "Love watching you... this little scrunch right here -" a kiss to the bridge of your nose, "when it starts to feel really good."
A deliberate roll of his hips and he kisses the spot again, grinning against your skin. Beard tickling your nose, a soft giggle pouring out of you like it's second nature.
"Already addicted to you, sweetheart, ya know that?"
Your answering moan has him reaching for your thigh, hooking it higher up his waist, opening you up until your crying out for him again.
"God, you're perfect," he groans, palm cradling the back of your skull to keep you looking up at him. Forcing you to rewrite your entire narrative. "So damn responsive for me."
You can feel it. The heat, the pressure, the hard line of his erection coaxing you to heights you've never experienced. Panties growing damp. Nipples pebbling inside your bra. An overwhelming ache for more.
"Please," as if it's the only word in your vocabulary. Nails leaving pink trails down his back, your other hand reaching down to grab his ass, using it for leverage to chase the pleasure coursing through you.
All because he hasn't taken his eyes off you. Showing you, clear as day, how fucking turned on he is. Just from seeing you like this.
So when you sense the shift - his breathing turning harsh, the tension building in his muscles, the way he keeps saying your name like it's the only thing he remembers - you're finally capable of asking for what you want.
"Please, I... can we- can we go to bed?"
Bucky'd throw you over his damn shoulder if he wasn't worried about scaring you off.
Instead, he takes his time. Kisses you nice and slow, easing you up so you're sitting for him. Giving you a chance to change your mind once you're no longer clouded by the heat spreading between you.
There's no second guessing this. No pausing. You just reach for his hand and allow him to pull you up, his steady feet guiding you towards the bedroom. Assuring gaze carrying you until you're both standing at the side of the bed. The low light of the lamp hiding nothing from either of you.
"Can I take this off-," he starts to ask, hands resting on your hips, fingers dipped under the hem of your shirt.
"Can we turn off the light-," you ask at the same time, your head turned towards the offending source.
Shy laughter vibrates against his chest where you bury your face, his arms banding around you, his warm chuckle shaking you both.
And then the moment threatens to turn sour, Bucky placing a kiss on the top of your head with a murmured, "tryin' not to hide in the shadows anymore."
It shouldn't shock you. Shouldn't freeze you in place. Shouldn't have you tensing in his arms like he's done something wrong.
"Sorry." The reflexive apology tastes bitter on your tongue, but it's the only olive branch that makes sense.
"Hey." That soothing tone again that has you melting, his hands coming up to frame your face, flesh and metal holding you like you're something precious. "None o' that. We don't gotta do anything, okay? Could just lay here, if you wanted."
Your fingers encircle his wrists, the contrast reminding you of everything he's been through. What he's capable of. How incredibly safe you are in his arms.
You start with the slow shake of your head, then you're offering him, "I'm just... scared. I don't... I'm not good at... this. At... being seen."
"Yeah, you are."
The words cut through the haze, a confused laugh passing between you before you're shaking your head again. Ready to prove him wrong.
"You are," he grins, turning to sit on the edge of the bed, pulling you between his bent knees. "You don't think you are. You've somehow convinced yourself you're incapable of it."
It's not criticism. Or a complaint. Just an observation that he's bringing into the light.
Thumb tracing the seam of your lips, he tilts his head, refusing to let you drop his gaze. "But you like it. You want me to see you. Want me to prove you wrong."
You swallow the lump forming, words getting lost in the process, your focus flickering between his mouth and his eyes. Trying to figure out where to go from here. How to-
"Ya gotta stop thinkin' so much, sweetheart," he grins, hands sliding around your hips, pulling you even closer. Cutting off your response with a teasing kiss. "Not expecting miracles, here. Just need you to trust me. Can you do that?"
It's an impossible task actually - stop thinking so much - but trusting Bucky? That comes easy.
"Yeah," you nod, hands toying with the cuffs of his sleeve, thumbs stroking his biceps. "Might still make it awkward."
"Awkward I can do," he promises with a playful smile, fingers starting to guide your shirt up. "Hiding's what scares me."
His confession catches you off guard, knees threatening to buckle, the vulnerability in his voice leaving you breathless.
"Know it makes you feel safe," he continues, eyes darkening when your shirt rides up just enough to give him access to the soft skin above the waistband of your pants. "Wanna figure out how to make you feel safe with me. Like this."
Each word dismantling another layer of armor until you're trembling in his arms, skin prickling with excitement, arousal building from the sheer thought of being taken care of.
"Can I try?" he asks, hands moving up along the curve of your waist, shirt bunching higher until cool air meets heated flesh.
He doesn't demand any more of you. He just sits there, looking up, patient as the day is long. Waiting for you to decide if this is something you're ready for.
If not-
"Yeah."
This time it resembles an actual syllable instead of a gust of air. The effort sending heat licking up Bucky's spine. Spurring him on to help you take the first leap, he rises to his full height the same time he gently instructs you to lift your arms. Shedding you of the material in one careful swoop, leaving no time for you to get lost in the tempting darkness.
"All you gotta do is stay right here with me," he reminds you, your shirt tossed onto the dresser behind you.
Then he's looking at you, hungry gaze taking in the swell of your breasts, cleavage on display, the delicate trim of your bra making him have to remind himself to behave.
For now, anyway.
When he finds you looking down too, he steps closer, catching your attention with a playful, "Knew I was lucky. Didn't realize how lucky until just now."
You forget how to breathe again when his hand makes contact with your bare waist, thumb resting just below dangerous territory.
"What else you got hidin' under there, doll?"
The question cuts through the noise starting to surface, an appreciative laugh getting swallowed when you take the initiative to kiss him. Arms draped over his shoulders, fingers combing through his hair, the tip of your tongue teasing along his parted lips.
That's all it takes for Bucky to take matters into his own hands. Literally. Palms effortlessly scooping you up, wrapping your legs around his waist before you can overthink it. He doesn't even turn towards the bed yet.
He just stands there, kissing you like his life depends on it. The solid weight of you igniting filthy scenarios he's desperate to act out with you.
By the time he has you on the bed, writhing underneath him, your shirt still the only barrier that's been removed, you've become someone you don't even recognize.
Desperate and needy. Holding onto him while he takes you apart.
His mouth leaving a trail of messy kisses down your throat, across your collarbones, tongue dipping between your breasts until your arching up. Offering yourself up to him, leaving him no choice but to devour you.
Wet heat closing over your nipple through the thin barrier of your bra, sending sparks straight to your clit. Your hips finding that rhythm again, grinding against his jeans until you forget that you never knew how to do this.
It doesn't even register once his hands slip underneath you, fingers unhooking your bra with ease that belies his recent experience. Once it's slipping free, he's kissing you again, distracting you with growling praise of, "so goddamn perfect," and "can't believe you're mine," and "love you so much."
Until you're dizzy again. Lost in the sea of sensation and intimacy. Brain quieting long enough for you to reach for his shirt, silently begging him to join you. To feel his skin against yours. Hard planes meeting soft curves that have you both moaning.
Then he's back to giving your nipples more attention, large hands cupping your breasts, fingers tugging at one neglected bud before switching sides. Lips and teeth working them into stiff peaks. All the while working you higher and higher with consistent pressure between your thighs.
Making you believe that something life-altering is coming.
Because it is.
Just, not yet.
When he pulls back, one hand slipping between your bodies to start working you free of your pants, the whine that erupts has your hands scrambling, covering your face to avoid Bucky's reaction. As if it'd be anything other than devoted amusement.
Smug satisfaction that he's able to bring out those kinds of noises even through layers of clothing. It leaves no doubt that this is headed exactly where he thinks it is.
As long as he can help keep you anchored.
"Gonna ask for a favor," he says, leaning in kiss the corner of your mouth. "If things get too loud up here," another kiss to your temple, "just let me know." Fingers hook into your waistband, pausing long enough to add, "doesn't even gotta be words, sweetheart. Could tap me. Get my attention if I don't notice, okay?"
He probably will. Always does. But it gives you an out. A way to break the tension before it can shatter the connection.
It doesn't take long. Once he's helping you wiggle out of your pants, the clumsy movement drawing attention to the parts you long to hide, you're reaching out. Trembling fingers brushing his shoulder.
He's already pausing, your pants pushed down to your knees, Bucky refusing to let the swirling thoughts take hold.
"I've got you," he murmurs, leaning in to press a deliberate kiss to your belly. Beard tickling along your side until your squirming for him, a beautiful giggle breaking free. Your pants getting kicked off in a haste to pull him closer.
Rough jeans meeting the thin cotton barrier of your soaked underwear, his hard erection trapped between you, begging for relief. He ignores it in favor of watching you lose yourself to the pleasure.
Head thrown back, eyes fluttering, nails digging into his skin every time he reminds you he's exactly where he wants to be. Heated groans of, "didn't think it could feel this good," and "you're so hot, sweetheart," and "can fucking smell you, wanna taste you so bad."
It should throw you for a loop. Should send you fleeing under the covers. But all it does is make you whine. Pussy pulsing, a gush of arousal that's sure to leave a wet spot on his pants.
"That a yes?" It comes out more desperate than he intends, fingers cupping your jaw, thumb guiding your chin down so he can lock eyes with you. Needing the verbal confirmation this time. "Want me to taste you? Eat your pretty pussy?"
"Oh god." Another whine. Eyes snapping closed. Thighs gripping him tight as your entire body reacts as if you've been electrified.
The growl he makes against your neck, teeth nipping at your dewy skin, has you confessing in record time. Gasping pleas of, "Yes... want that... please, oh my god."
"Fuck," Bucky grunts, forgetting himself for a moment as he thrusts against you, the fly of his jeans catching on your swollen clit, making you keen. Making the pleasure spike until you're begging for him to take pity on you.
It takes everything in him not to give in. Not to slide down and lick you clean, have your thighs wrapped around his ears as you scream his name.
Hips maintaining the direct pressure you seem to crave, he catches your gaze again, offering you that same smile that got you to agree to go on that first date.
"Same rules apply, sweet girl," he reminds you, nose kissing yours. "You let me know if anything doesn't feel good. However you can." A mischievous smile ticking up the corner of his mouth, "Otherwise, all you gotta do is lay here, okay?"
No expectations. No need for performance or overthinking. Just two people in love, exploring. Learning each other.
Bucky only moves once you fully relax, hands mapping your body as he trails kisses down your sternum. Tongue poking out to tease the side of your breast before dipping lower. Open mouth kisses across your tummy while the pads of his fingers tease along the soft skin of your inner thigh.
Giving you no relief to the ache building inside of you. But at least he's all you're thinking about. How good it feels. How much you need him to just tear your fucking panties off so he can make good on his promise.
Watching him have to unzip his jeans and reach in to adjust himself only sets more fire to your veins, nails digging into his shoulder while you tug at his hair.
"Fuck. Please, I can't..."
"Okay," he soothes, smiling against your skin, fingers sliding to catch the waistband of your underwear, dragging them down until you're completely bare for him. The scent of you hitting him like a tidal wave. Making his mouth water, his trembling hands coaxing your knees back, spreading you open.
"Bucky," you breathe, hands resting on the curve of your stomach, itching to hide yourself from his intense gaze.
"You're so fucking gorgeous, holy shit," he gasps, pupils blown, palms inching closer, thumbs meeting the slick heat coating your skin. "Jesus, you're so wet for me, baby."
That's all it takes, apparently. Some teasing, some filthy praise, and you're resting back against the pillows, thighs spread, hips already moving towards his mouth. Your hand never loosening its grip on his hair the moment he makes contact.
Lips and tongue leaving a wet trail along your thigh until his nose bumps your swollen pussy, the taste of you exploding on his tongue. Your scent filling his lungs. Making him never want come up for air.
"Knew you'd taste good, but fuckin' hell, sweetheart."
Nearly coming right then and there.
Tongue lapping at your folds, collecting more of your wetness, thumbs keeping you spread so he can drink you down. Never once letting you start to doubt this is anything other than worship.
For once in your life, time loses all meaning. Zero thoughts other than how much Bucky is enjoying this. Allowing you to focus on his mouth finding your clit, tongue swirling, groans vibrating that have you seeing stars.
"Like that," you manage between gasping breaths, sweat starting to collect between your breasts, your free hand wrapped around your ankle. Helping to keep you exactly where he wants you.
Where you're more than happy to be.
The pressure building again. Sharp zaps of pleasure radiating out from your clit. Juices drenching his beard. Your greedy walls pulsing around nothing. Aching to be filled.
Your demand for more is met with the pad of his finger breaching your entrance, slick digit slipping in without any resistance, knuckles curling to make you grind against his mouth.
Encouraging you to chase your pleasure, another finger stretching you open when your legs starts to quiver around his head. His hips humping the air while he devours you. The sounds you're making going straight to his leaking dick. Steel-hard and leaving a mess because he can't get enough of you.
You're almost there. Teetering on the edge of something attainable, eyelids shut tight, dry mouth left open in a permanent O, muscles starting to protest from exertion.
Reminding you how long you've been like this. While he's still-
Harder suction has you crying out, vibranium arm pinning your thigh to the mattress, your other dropping to mirror the relaxed pose. Heels digging into the covers so you can fuck yourself. Use his mouth to make yourself come. His fingers never ceasing their relentless assault, your fluttering walls starting to tighten.
Bucky couldn't even if he wanted to. He's too far gone. Lost in his new favorite place. Where he intends to spend as much fucking time as you'll let him.
Especially if this is where it leads. To you coming all over his face, pussy trying to milk his fingers, the hoarse scream of his name making him spill his load like some green cadet.
He doesn't stop until you're tugging at his hair, sobbing from overload, his fingers continuing to draw several more shuddering gasps before he finally relents. Letting you breathe, kissing his way back up until he's wrapping his arms around your shaking body.
Welcoming the onslaught of emotions sweeping you under.
"Shh, I've got you," he promises, soothing you with tender caresses along your sweaty back. "Did so good for me." Grazes of his lips over your jaw. "So proud of you. Takin' what you needed. Lettin' me love you like that."
Slowly bringing you back down to earth.
"Holy shit." The first words you're capable of, followed by tearful laughter. And endless admiration. "Can't believe you just did that."
Bucky's breath fans over your face, his laughter meeting with yours during a lingering kiss.
"We did that," he counters, fingertips stroking lower, tracing the swell of your ass. "You did that. And it was so fucking hot."
A squealing laugh erupts when he grabs a handful of your asscheek, rolling over until you're sprawled across him. Nipples scraping against his chest, thigh draped over his, one confident hand following an invisible trail to his open fly.
"Made a mess," he warns, abs clenching under your teasing touch, cock already twitching back to life.
"Should I stop?"
A hint of playfulness that has him grinning against your lips, tongue slipping into your mouth in answer. Hips arching towards your hand. Silently encouraging you to keep exploring.
The boldness wavers when your hand reaches his underwear, fingers hooking in the waistband to tug them down, only to realize you've reached the awkward one-handed stage. Your other elbow digging into the mattress to keep most of your weight off of him.
"You're overthinkin' again," he teases, whispering the words like a secret. "How 'bout you lay back for me? Let me do all the work?"
"Pretty sure you just did," you whisper back, hand stalling at his fly.
Soft laughter fills the space between you, Bucky's nose nudging yours, encouraging you to look at him, "So? Make me earn it, sweet girl."
Like he's craving it.
Pillow back under your head and his gaze stays targeted on you. Pants and underwear getting pushed down, clumsy attempts knocking him over before he's surging upright with a sheepish grin, the material finally getting kicked off his feet.
Your own relaxed laughter fades as soon as you lay eyes on him. Thick and heavy, growing by the second, leaving you torn between wanting him in your mouth and your pussy. Tongue peaking out to wet dry lips, thighs opening wider to invite him in. Unabashedly giving him the final choice.
It's no contest.
The thought of having your lips wrapped around him has a pearl of pre-cum beading at the tip of his cock, but it's the thought of sinking into you - feeling your walls squeeze him when you come again - that turns him rock-hard. Balls drawing up tight as he shuffles forward.
Resisting the urge to sink into you - a super-human fucking feat, given the tilt of your hips - Bucky places both hands to the mattress, right next to your head, effectively caging you in, pelvis flush against yours, the engorged head of his cock rocking against your clit. Creating a lewd, schlick sound.
Waiting until your fluttering lashes open to meet his gaze, he leans close, stilling your quick nod with a growly reminder, "Gonna give you whatever you need." Body aligning with yours, thick head nudging your entrance, he pauses again. Heavy breaths mixing with yours. "All you gotta do is lay there and take it."
The first exquisite stretch cuts off your needy whine. The uncontrolled sound morphing into a keening sob that wracks your whole body. Nails digging into his back, heels flexing towards the ceiling, his cock bottoming out to steal your last breath.
"Oh fuck me," he groans, forehead dropping to your chest, velvet walls pulsing around him, trying to turn him into a liar. Threatening to end this before he can make good on his word. "Gonna need a second."
His breathless confession has the opposite effect of what he's probably hoping for. Back arching, pussy squeezing his cock, nipples seeking out his talented mouth.
"Doll," he growls, body meeting yours in a slap of heated flesh, hips setting the pace you're begging for. Lips close around the aching bud, teeth worrying the sensitive tip, suction soothing the sting every time his cock hits that spot inside of you.
Driving you higher and higher up the bed until his hand shoots out, palm nearly cracking the headboard to protect your head from hitting the wood.
"Ain't gonna last," he grunts, letting your nipple go with a filthy pop. Sitting back to get a better look, eyes roaming from your bouncing tits to his cock disappearing over and over into your tight heat. "Fuck, baby, tell me what you need."
It hits like lightning, a burst of pleasure, a roll of your hips, and then a flash of insecurity. Stomach rolls on full display, thick thighs shaking with each hard thrust.
"Uh uh," he pants, "eyes on me."
Metal hand securing a thigh, the other gripping your soft belly, his twitching cock and gaping mouth all the evidence you need to believe his next rush of praise.
Vibranium thumb finds your clit, cool metal warming under the slick, swollen heat, metal starting to vibrate as he picks up the pace. Finding the perfect rhythm you need to start strangling his cock.
"That's it," he tells you, fingers warpped around your waist for leverage, "just let me fuck you. Gonna make you come all over you me, baby."
There's no doubt this time. An exhilarated laugh and you're throwing your head back, once again lost to the pleasure. Bucky fucking every single thought out of you. Leaving you breathless and whining, the intensity building until it hits you like a tsunami.
Wetness gushing around him, triggering his own orgasm, whiting out his vision as he falls on top of you, careful of pressing too hard against your belly, cock filling you up with several more sloppy thrusts. Prolonging the aftershocks until you're both spent, limbs trembling, words reduced to incoherent gasps.
Tears you don't even remember crying track down your temples, Bucky kissing them away once he finds them there, tasting sweat and salt and you.
"Love you," he breathes, pulse thundering in his ears, super-soldier serum having met it's match.
"Love you," you manage, despite being barely conscious, nails scratching lazy patterns down his back, bodies still humming.
Eventually, ears tuned to your steady heartbeat and slowing breaths, he shifts his weight to avoid crushing you, rolling you both over, his softening cock slipping out, severing the precious connection. Your twin moans from the loss creating more laughter. Lightness. A bridge back to reality. Sweaty bodies sticking together. Cum leaking from your sore (satisfied) pussy.
"Gonna get you cleaned up," he announces, hand holding yours against his chest, right over his racing heartbeat. "Right after I remember how to walk." Fingers tracing the soft curve of your back as you snuggle into him.
"You're on your own there," you mumble, "gonna have to carry me everywhere."
A tease that you'd never make before settles deep in his chest. Emotion tightening his throat.
Bucky fights through it, inhaling deeply, watching the way your heavy lids flutter during the exhale. "You got it, sweetheart. Your very own chauffeur service. Ready to spoil you rotten."
Sealing the vow with a soft brush of his lips to your forehead. Wondering how long it's gonna be until you're strutting around his place naked. Comfortable and free.
Oh my gosh! I love this. I want this. Literally can't get enough of Bucky as is, but a Bucky boosting your confidence? 😍😍 Gimme gimme. Great story-telling skills, amazing writing! Thank you for posting!
CautiousKittyCat @cautiouskittycat - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
