⭐︎ warnings: nsfw, smut, jealousy, porn, masturbation, fleshlight, sex toys mentioned, p in v sex, innocence kink, sex recording, even more coercion, blowjobs, dirty talk, threats of baby trapping, degrading, praising, size difference kink, breeding kink, humiliation kink, rough and possessive sex, exhibitionism, bucky is a little mean here, and he still has a cringy username
⭐︎ word count: 7.7k
⭐︎ a/n: nearly a year later, here we go again. this is part two of my p*rnstar bucky. read part one in order to understand this part. thank you for all the love and support you've shown me in the first part. i didn't plan to write a pt2, but with pt1 hitting 10k along with 7k followers, i had to do it for ya'll. i hope you enjoy!
synopsis:
One video isn’t nearly enough for Bucky. He wants more of you—wants to make you his star, his girl. But it isn’t just him who’s hooked. His viewers can’t stop talking about the voice in the video he’s been jerking off to. Now everyone’s desperate to know who the mystery woman is… the only thing is, it's been ten months since you two last spoke.
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Ten months.
It had been ten long, grueling months since Bucky last got a taste of you.
After taking your virginity, he paid for your groceries—as promised, because he believed himself to be a gentleman—and messaged you a few days later, inviting you to film another video with him.
You were his loyal fan.
You were there for every single one of his videos.
Hell, your own username was dedicated to him.
So when you left him on read for ten months without leaving a single trace behind, he grew furious. He tried making excuses for you—perhaps you were too busy? Or maybe you went on vacation? He tried circling back to your social media, which was how he had first found you, but you had privated all your accounts and deactivated your TikTok.
Naturally, pessimistic thoughts began to fill his mind.
Was he too rough when he took you? Did he freak you out by finding you at the grocery store? Worse, had he scared you away for good?
Bucky knew where you lived. It would’ve been easy to just show up at your front door and demand answers—but he couldn’t do that. Not with the threat of a restraining order looming in the back of his mind.
Ten months. He couldn’t believe he had let you stray away from him for that long.
There was so much you could’ve done during that time. You could’ve moved, had sex with other men, or even found a relationship.
You went from being his loyal fan to a ghost.
Bucky knelt on his mattress, holding up a clear silicone toy that looked tiny compared to his hands. He squeezed a generous amount of lube into his palm and spread it carefully along his half-hard cock, making sure none of it dripped onto the sheets.
His camcorder was propped against a pillow, angled perfectly to capture him from the waist down. With his bare abs and thighs fully in frame, he settled back on his heels, gripped the toy firmly, and guided it toward his cock.
A rough groan escaped him as he teased the sensitive tip against the entrance. The lubricant made every movement slick and audible, the wet sounds filling the otherwise quiet room.
“Fuck. Been waiting for this all day.”
His eyes fluttered shut as he slowly worked the toy against his shaft. He continued at an unhurried pace, his grip tightening as he lost himself in the sensation.
“Good girl,” he muttered without thinking.
The words slipped out on instinct, a praise that always led back to you. As the room filled with the sounds of his grunts and movements, his thoughts drifted to the memory of you. They always did. He pictured your soft lips wrapped around his dick, the way he had your face pressed into the pillow as he took you from behind—the moments that had replayed endlessly in his mind over the past months.
At some point, imagination alone had stopped being enough.
Whenever he wanted to relive it, he would pull up the private video he recorded of the two of you, letting it play in the background while he lost himself in the pleasure of his toy.
“God,” he groaned, your name slipping from his lips in a breathless rasp.
He made a mental note to cut the part where he whispered your name like a prayer before uploading the video to the site.
“Shit—fuck. I miss that tight little pussy.”
With a loud groan and both hands holding the toy tight, he drove his hips deep into the toy until it made an unmistakable tearing sound. Too lost in the haze of his own desire, he didn’t even realize he tore through yet another toy to the memory of you.
Seed filled the silicone, marking every cloudy surface with his thick cum.
Once he caught his breath, he let the toy fall from his grip and pushed it aside.
From there, the rest of the evening followed the same familiar routine.
He would take a shower, get dressed, make himself something for dinner, then spend the rest of the evening at his computer. He would spend his time editing the footage, preparing it for upload to the same porn site he had been posting on for years.
Except this time, there was no excitement after hitting the ‘post’ button, because you wouldn’t even be there to watch them.
After the video went live, he waited for the likes and comments to start pouring in, holding onto the faint hope that your username might appear among them.
As usual, it never did.
Surprisingly, though, that wasn’t what disappointed him this time.
Every time he jerked off with the intention to post a new video—your video was always in the background. It got to the point where people started to leave comments asking who the mysterious girl was. Who those sultry, seductive moans belonged to.
He would even get comments asking if he’d be willing to record another video of the two of you together and post it online.
Every time he read those comments, he would scoff, laughing to himself.
I would like to know the same thing.
After posting his latest video, his comment section had been flooding with the same demands for weeks.
wankingandspanking: hell yeah man! love the new video. but who’s the babe in the video you’re watching??
StraightJorkinIt: U breaking ur toy was so hot, but what’s even hotter is the girl moaning in the back. xx
Bwasexual: The toys are getting a little old, don’t you think?? Bring a real woman in. especially the one in the vid you’re jerking to ;)
Each comment was a direct insult to Bucky’s pride.
He was one of the platform’s top creators—yet now, his community was entirely consumed by you.
He had spent the last ten months trying to get you out of his head, trying to just use your video as a quick jerk off aid and move on. But how could he when his own fans wouldn’t let him forget?
How could he, when he couldn’t even cum to anything else anymore? His memory was flooded of the way his cock had disappeared in and out of your tight pussy while he had you bent over from behind. By the recollection of your cute, virgin mouth stuffed full of cock—his cock—for the first time ever.
How could he possibly forget how sweet your tight little body was, like it was made for him?
Bucky’s frustration was peaking. At the very least, he was making money off of this.
Just as he was about to shut down his computer and call it a night, a new notification popped up.
He clicked it, and what he saw made the air in his lungs vanish completely.
Pleasure_Ring: Love the video!
Bucky blinked.
Was he seeing this right?
He rubbed his eyes, but lo and behold, your comment was still there. He double—and triple—checked the username, ensuring every single letter matched and that it wasn’t some random copycat trying to impersonate you.
But no, it was you.
When he clicked your profile, the interface loaded your old message thread. He saw the green indicator showing you were currently online, sitting right above his last unanswered message asking you to film with him again.
He couldn’t believe it.
You were real. You were still here, ten months later, watching him.
Bucky didn’t realize he was holding his breath as his fingers hovered over the keyboard. He wanted to spam you with messages—to demand where the hell you’ve been, to beg for your phone number so he would never lose track of you again.
No, he couldn’t risk ruining this moment. He had to stay rational and seize this chance before you slipped through his fingers again.
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: I saw the comment you left.
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Where have you been?
A minute passed. Then another. He propped both elbows on the desk, resting his chin on his hands, his foot tapping impatiently as he waited.
Three minutes went by. Your little icon was still green—you were still online.
Then, his heart leaped.
Pleasure_Ring is typing…
Pleasure_Ring: Why? Did you miss me?
Bucky’s brow twitched. Your messages from ten months ago had been sweet, alluring, and almost innocent. If you had been texting him consistently, he might’ve read this as a flirtatious little comment to make his dick hard.
But right now, he just felt pissed off.
Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Quit playing around. Of course I missed you. Where did you go?
There were so many things he wanted to ask, but he couldn’t risk scaring you away just yet. His heart raced as he watched the screen.
Pleasure_Ring is typing…
Your bubble kept appearing and disappearing. You would type, then silence. You would type again, then nothing.
Bucky felt like he was going insane. He was just about ready to send another message himself, until one finally popped up under your name.
Pleasure_Ring: I think it’s best that we talk in person.
Pleasure_Ring: Can we exchange numbers?
And of course, Bucky gave you his number without a second thought.
You sat alone at the coffee shop Bucky had agreed to meet you at, fiddling with your mug and glancing anxiously out the window.
The meetup was set for noon, and the closer the clock ticked to the hour, the more your mind began to spiral.
It had been ten months since he last saw you. Ten months since he had you bent over your own bed, your face pressed into the pillows, ravaging you like an animal.
You were growing anxious. What if he had lost interest? What if he took one good look at you and realized you were nothing like the woman he had been infatuated with all this time?
The bell above the door chimed. You glanced up, and your breath caught in your throat.
Bucky was right there. He looked just as handsome as the day you met him. His presence seemed to take up the entire space of the coffee shop, just as it had when he first approached you at the grocery store.
His eyes swept across the room. The moment they landed on yours, your thighs instinctively clenched together. He was wearing that same cold, stern expression he had when he first told you to strip for him.
Naturally, it did things to you.
He marched over to your table, dragged the chair back, and dropped into the seat directly across from you. He didn’t bother with a polite smile, and his gaze didn’t warm up at all.
Was he angry? Was this a nuisance to him—taking time out of his busy day just to see a girl he slept with ten months ago?
“Bucky,” you breathed, forcing a polite smile. “How are you—”
“Where have you been?”
You blinked. You were about to stammer out a quick excuse, but he breezed on past.
“Ten months without a single word from you.” He leaned closer across the table. “Where have you been?”
Despite his harsh tone, he was anxiously bracing himself for your answer. He expected you to say you had lost interest, or that you found a boyfriend to practice your new... sexual experiences on. You hadn’t even given an explanation yet, and he was already fuming with jealousy.
You looked down at your coffee mug, avoiding his gaze. Looking him directly in the eye right now was simply too much to handle.
“I’m sorry I haven’t kept in touch,” you mumbled. “Ever since… that night, I’ve been… uh—how do I even say this?” You chuckled awkwardly, scratching lightly at your cheek. “I guess I’ve been feeling a little ashamed of myself.”
Bucky watched your shoulders slump as your hands fidgeted nervously in your lap.
“Ashamed?”
“Ever since we slept together, I’ve felt insecure about not being able to... keep up with you.” You winced. “I mean, you’re obviously experienced—I had a great time, and everything—but it made me realize that, at my age, when everyone else seems to be out there having fun and figuring things out, I’m nowhere near as experienced as they are.”
Your voice dropped lower as you glanced around the room.
It wasn’t exactly the kind of conversation suited for a small, intimate coffee shop.
Bucky frowned, crossing his arms. Your explanation wasn’t giving him the reassurance he had hoped for.
“So you were embarrassed about sleeping with me?”
Your eyes widened.
“No! It’s not like that.” You shook your head. “I had an incredible time with you. You gave me an experience I’ll never forget. I mean...” You leaned forward, lowering your voice to a conspicuous whisper. “You were the one who took my virginity, after all.”
That, at least, managed to draw the hint of a smile from him.
“It’s just...” you hesitated. “I’m ready to start dating, and in the current dating scene, sex matters, you know?”
There it was.
The sentence Bucky had been dreading.
While he had spent the last ten months thinking about you—worrying about you, searching for some way to reconnect, replaying the video you’d filmed together and jerking off to it, moaning your name—you had spent those same months looking forward to a future with someone else.
“So...” You hesitated. “After reading all those comments on your videos, the ones talking about how good I sound, and remembering the offer you made ten months ago to film another one...” Your gaze dropped briefly. “If that offer still stands, maybe you could teach me?”
“Teach you?” Bucky repeated, the words leaving him almost like a scoff.
Just as innocent as the day he first met you, you nodded shyly.
“Teach me how to be better at sex.”
An awkward silence took the space between the two of you.
You were preparing yourself for rejection. For Bucky to push back his chair, walk away, and decide this conversation had been a mistake. After this, you wouldn’t be surprised if he even blocked your number and your profile, cutting off the last connection between you.
Instead, he studied you for a very long moment.
“You know,” he said slowly, his gaze finding yours, “the comments have been asking us to film a video together, right?”
The look he gave you was difficult to read—careful, calculating, and almost suspicious.
“I know,” you said bashfully.
“If you want me to teach you,” he said, leaning forward as his voice dropped soft and intimate, “then we’re going to do the same thing we did before, but I want this done at my house instead. I’ll record.”
He paused, studying your reaction.
“And this time, I’m posting it online.”
You sat there frozen.
It wasn’t exactly the compromise you expected, but you couldn’t say you were entirely surprised. After disappearing from his life for months, after leaving things unresolved between you, part of you knew he would want something in return.
Bucky leaned in closer, his hand finding yours on the table. His fingers curled around yours, giving them a reassuring squeeze.
“You’ve read the comments,” he said. “You might be insecure about your experience, but my viewers love you. They’re curious. They want to know who the woman behind that voice is.”
Heat rushed to your face. The confidence in his words only made your pulse quicken, and the slow sweep of his thumb across your knuckles wasn’t helping at all.
“I’ll teach you everything you want to know,” he continued. “I’ll take care of you. You know I will.”
For a moment, his confidence faltered and his eyes looked pleading, revealing something almost hopeful beneath it.
“What do you say, doll?”
Your heart had been pounding ever since Bucky sat down across from you at the coffee shop. It hadn’t slowed once—not during the conversation, not during the drive over, and certainly not now as you stood behind him while he unlocked his apartment door.
Bucky stepped aside, holding the door open for you. After a moment's hesitation, you stepped inside.
The studio apartment was dimly lit. The blinds were drawn, leaving only the warm glow of a lamp to light the room. In one corner sat a computer setup—his workstation where he recorded and edited his videos.
Your breath caught at what was displaying on the monitor.
Your chat history.
His studio was the definition of a man cave. What caught your attention, however, were the sex toys scattered throughout the apartment without a hint of shame.
Some of the toys were immediately recognizable from his videos. Having been a longtime viewer, you had seen them often enough to identify them at a glance.
Bucky tossed his keys onto a nearby surface and motioned for you to follow him toward the bed. As you approached, your gaze landed on something unfamiliar at his bedside table.
“What’s this?” You pointed to a toy shaped like the lower half of a woman’s body. Unlike the others, you didn’t remember ever seeing this one in any of his videos.
Bucky glanced at it. “Oh, that?” He came to stand beside you. “Custom made. I use it off-camera.” His tone was casual, almost dismissive. “Had it modeled after you.”
You were suddenly grateful for the low lighting, because that meant he couldn’t see the stunned expression that immediately crossed your face.
Modeled after you?
Your eyes drifted back to the toy, taking in the details—the shape of the hips, the skin tone, it was an unmistakable similarity. What shook you up, though, was the tear in the toy around her upper abdomen, a sign that Bucky’s cock tore right through the silicone.
The sounds of his belt buckle being undone drew your attention back to him.
“Had it set to the maximum tightness,” he explained gruffly, setting the belt down on his chair and reaching for the familiar camcorder he used before. “Still not nearly as tight as you felt—but it made do during those ten months you were gone.”
A moment later, he lifted the camera and pointed it in your direction, the red light flickering to let you know it was on.
“Go ahead,” he prompted, watching you. “Undress.”
You bit your lip as you stood in front of him, feeling far more self-conscious than you expected.
For some reason, the atmosphere felt infinitely more tense than it had the first time you undressed for him.
Bucky seemed to notice your hesitation immediately. He lowered the camera slightly.
“What’s wrong?”
“I don't know about this, Bucky.” You fiddled with your fingers, unable to meet his gaze. Instead, you focused on your bare feet against the floor. “What if I'm not good at this?”
A slow, patient sigh escaped him.
Without a word, he set the camera on the bedside table. It remained angled in a way that still captured your body, but his attention had shifted entirely to you. His hands found the hem of your shirt and lifted it up, letting his fingers tickle your lower belly.
“Are you feeling shy, doll?” he murmured softly.
The question was quiet enough so that the camera wouldn’t pick it up. It wasn’t meant for an audience. It was just for you.
“Look at me,” he commanded gently. “You’ve got a perfect, tight body. There are a lot of people that would kill to be in my position, and you’re scared to show it off?”
He lifted your shirt up until it exposed the lace of your bra. His large hand cupped over your breast, giving it a squeeze that made you gasp softly.
Bucky grinned. “Ah, there she is.”
While his left hand fondled your tits, his other hand crept up to your chin, tilting your head so you were forced to look at him. His eyes wandered down to your lips—exposed, plump, and vulnerable.
“When you get a boyfriend—you’ll have to learn how to kiss,” Bucky murmured. “Do you know how?”
The question felt almost condescending. He should already know the answer. You were still inexperienced, still clueless, but despite it all, you couldn’t help the ache that began to form between your legs from the way he talked to you.
Your voice came out soft and trembling, but to Bucky, it sounded like music to his ears.
“… Teach me?”
A low growl vibrated from his lips as he closed the distance in one, smooth motion. His lips collided with yours—hungry and consuming—letting his tongue delve past your lips and into the wet warmth of your mouth.
He held your face tight, forcing you to take every inch of his tongue and every surface of his lips. It was hot, messy, and wet. During every second of his ravishing, his hands continued to explore your body, groping you through your bottoms. He held you so close, you could already feel him throbbing against your leg.
“Fuck,” he groaned against your lips, pulling away slightly to catch his breath. “Still taste so good. So sweet, just for me.”
He stepped away, breathing just as hard as his dick felt.
With the warm lamp glowing next to him, it outlined the sheer size of his dick throbbing in his pants. You watched it pulse, a little wet spot forming near the tip, before his large hand came down with deep, circular rubs to soothe the ache.
“Bucky…” You gasped softly.
His other hand snatched the camera off the bedside table, nearly knocking down the picture frames. With a shaky hand, he lifted the camera up to you again.
“Strip.” He commanded, rougher this time. “Strip. Now.”
Your heart raced. His patience was fraying, and without upsetting him further, you began to undress. You abandoned your top, your pants, all until you were left standing in nothing but your panties and bra.
Bucky groaned at the sight, his palm working faster over his clothed erection.
“God, look at that,” he zoomed in on the wet spot collecting at the front of your panties. “You’re fucking soaking for me, doll. And all I did was kiss you.”
Shame flooded your face. As you unhooked your bra and worked for your panties next, Bucky’s voice pulled you to a stop.
“No,” his hand shot out, catching your wrist. “Keep those on. I want to see the mess you’ll make after having my dick in your mouth.”
With his grip tightening around your wrist, he ushered you to the ground until your knees made contact with the floor. He tugged his pants down with force, and his cock sprang out heavy—slapping you in the cheek and making you wince.
He was big and hard. Seeing him up close like this, with his hand around his shaft and his tip rubbing against your cheek, you weren’t sure how you took him the first time.
“Do you remember the first time you sucked my cock? When you tried fitting it all in on your first try?” he rasped a chuckle, slapping his cock against your face and smearing his pre-cum over your wet lips. “Your mouth was so small—you could hardly fit anything past the tip.”
You flicked your tongue out, giving his cock a shy kitten lick just to tease him.
“Oh, fuck,” he shuddered. “You slut. You want it in your mouth again? Wanna try again for me?”
He pointed the camera closer to your face, his other hand tangling in the back of your hair, nodding you closer to his shaft.
“Come on. Open up. Show me what you remember.”
You licked the pre-cum that was beading at the tip. It tasted just like it did the first time—salty and thick. Bucky groaned, his hand tightening in your hair, pushing you forward for more.
You opened your mouth, letting your lips wrap around the swollen head. His cock was warm and hot, already twitching in your mouth and he wasn’t even halfway. Encouraged by the camera and his breathy grunts, you sunk your head deeper.
Bucky felt like he could cum right there. Your mouth was still so tight and inexperienced. He was half tempted to pin you against the side of the bed and face fuck you until his balls were dry—but he forced himself to hold back.
“God. Is this—fuck—the best you can do, really?”
He brought his camera down, the lens pointing right where his tip disappeared in and out of your plump lips, making sure to pick up every wet squelch that left your mouth.
“You can do better than that,” he hissed, pushing his cock deeper into your throat. “I know it hurts, baby. Just remember what I said the first time. Stretch those lips, relax your jaw, breathe in and out of your nose.”
You fluttered your lashes as you looked up at him. Your eyes were sheen with tears that threatened to spill out from the ache of your mouth being stretched open. He rocked his hips forward, making you gag and choke.
“Oh, christ,” he grunted, his cock twitching as your throat tightened around him. “You guys listening to that? She’s gagging for me.”
He was talking to his potential viewers. Your eyes widened with embarrassment as an instinctive moan left your lips and vibrated around his cock.
“Mph!”
“Fuck, she’s sloppy—drooling all over my floor, but her mouth is so tight. Could cum just from this,” he started drawing his hips back and forth, forcing himself deeper.
He angled the camera closer to your face, capturing your pleading eyes and stretched mouth.
“Does it taste good, sweetheart?” he asked, despite knowing your inability to answer. “Come on, show that pretty face off for the camera.”
With your mouth stuffed full of his cock, all you could do was nod in desperation.
“Damn, what a good girl. The fans are going to love this,” he let out a shaky laugh.
His hand kept your head still, and without warning, he pushed his hips even deeper into your mouth. He pushed until your jaw ached from the stretch and your nose made contact with the dark, musky curls sitting on his pelvis.
Bucky tossed his head back, letting out a deep, pleasurable moan.
“Ohh, shit.”
You gagged and choked, your hands finding his bare thighs as you attempted to push your head away for a quick breath. His cock was sitting heavy on your tongue, and drool began to shamelessly drip down your chin and onto your thighs.
Despite your mouth being overworked, you were getting wetter by the second.
“Shh… shh. I know, baby. Just stay right there.” Bucky cooed, his blue eyes hazy with lust. “Just let it sit in your mouth. Breathe in and out through your nose. That’s it.”
You did as instructed, keeping your mouth stuffed full of cock like a good girl. But every time you breathed in, all you could smell was him. His musky, masculine scent only made your head spin with desire even more.
Another deep groan tore from his chest before he gripped your hair tight, pulling you away from his cock with a wet pop. Saliva mixed with his pre-cum drew from your lips like a silver string as you coughed for air.
“Fuuck,” he groaned, fucking his hand for a few pumps as he watched you struggle.
Bucky’s cock was angry, pulsing and throbbing with a mind of its own. His cock was sheen with your saliva, and he was dripping out so much pre-cum, he looked just about ready to cum right then and there.
“Goddamnit. Ten months later, and your mouth is still good enough to make me almost fucking cum,” he hissed angrily. He bent down, catching your stray tear with his thumb. “Don’t cry, pretty girl. You wanted me to teach you, didn’t you?”
He spoke so gently in a way that might’ve fooled his viewers, but every word that left his lips felt hauntingly patronizing.
You nodded with a sniffle. “Y—yes…”
Bucky smiled, his eyes softening as he took in your utterly debauched state.
He knew he was being a little mean, but he couldn’t help it. It’s what you deserved after ghosting him for ten months.
“That’s a good girl. My girl.” He nodded to his bed, standing up. “Go.”
Swallowing hard, you pushed yourself up—your mind dizzying and your legs feeling like jello from standing up too fast. You crossed over his crisp, white sheets—the mattress dipping under each crawl.
You didn’t know what position he wanted you in, so you played it safe and laid flat on your back.
Bucky’s expression was completely unreadable. His eyes were dark, his breathing labored, but his cock was still stiff, angry, and unsatisfied.
He adjusted the camera, zooming in on the cute bow on your panties.
“Spread your legs. Show everyone how wet you are after getting a taste of my cock.”
Biting your lip and turning your head from shame, you slowly spread your legs. With your thighs wide and your damp panties on full display, Bucky’s gaze somehow felt even heavier and more tense.
He growled, a deep rumbling sound of satisfaction. He stepped closer, meeting you at the bed. Every dip and creak from his moving weight made your heart race. His camera lens was focused solely on your panties, highlighting the growing wet patch on your crotch.
“Mm,” he hummed, his fingers dragging up and down your underwear, letting the fabric cling against your slick folds just underneath. “So wet. Could smell you from here, baby.”
You felt your body growing weaker by the second.
You wanted to beg him to fuck you—to take you just as he had the first time. But with the camera pointed steady in his hands, you knew he was trying to drag this out for as long as possible.
“Bucky,” you panted, eyes pleading. “I can’t take it anymore. I need your cock—”
“Aw, you’re begging?” Bucky huffed a laugh. “Ten months without a single word, and now you’re in my bed, demanding for my cock. That’s real cute, doll.”
Bucky brought the camera up to your face, and instinctively, you shied away from it. Despite your agreement to film, the lens pointing directly at you made you burn with an embarrassment you didn’t feel the first time.
Maybe because, in the back of your mind, you knew he’d be posting this one online—meaning you’ll be watched by thousands of people.
Sensing your hesitation, he lowered the camera with a slight frown, brows furrowing.
“Do you want to stop, doll?”
Stop?
Your heart clenched, eyes widening as you faced him.
“Stop?” you repeated softly, making sure you heard him right.
The softness in his eyes made your body feel warm. Bucky lowered his camera completely and angled it in a way that wouldn’t capture you in this vulnerable state. He was serious. He would stop for you if you changed your mind, despite your initial agreement to this as the compromise.
“If you don’t want me to upload this, I won’t.” He reassured. “I’ll keep this video for myself—just like the first one.”
His hand found your hip, his thumb tracing soft and gentle circles with a tenderness that only encouraged you to give yourself to him completely.
“I promise,” he added.
“No. I… I want to do this,” you searched his eyes, trying to soothe your nerves. “I can do it, Bucky. Please teach me.”
It was hard to ignore the way his cock hung heavy between his legs—twitching at your admission. The corners of his lips tugged up in a satisfied, smug smile.
“That’s my good girl.”
While one hand repositioned the camera back to you again, the other found the waistband of your panties, giving it a gentle tug downwards. With the fabric slipping slipping down your thighs and past your ankles, you hissed at the cool air greeting your wet cunt.
“Christ. You soaked the fabric right through, doll.” He held the garment up, the lamp highlighting every glistening wet spot as he made sure to capture your essence on camera.
He leaned over you with a grunt, setting your panties down on the side table. Your eyes followed his movement, and you sucked in a breath at seeing the toy he modeled right after you—resting there with a loose hole and an obvious tear in the abdomen.
It was haunting, almost like a warning for what you’re about to take.
Bucky nestled himself in the space between your legs, letting his length rest heavy on your stomach. His tip tickled your belly button, grinning proudly at the size comparison of his cock to your body.
“Did you fuck anyone else after me?” he rasped as he rocked his hips back and forth, grounding his cock against your belly.
You shook your head, face blistering from the sensation.
“No, Bucky. There was no one else…”
A satisfied groan tore from his lips. He grabbed himself at the base, guiding the tip toward your entrance.
“Is that so?” he mumbled. “Let’s see if you’re telling the truth.”
With a slow forward push of his hips, his tip fought against the tightness of your entrance. He sucked in a breath as he slipped in deeper, and your walls immediately clenched around the intrusion. You were so tight—Bucky had to grit his teeth to keep his composure.
Whimpering, you held onto his shoulders for support as he stretched you from just the tip. “Fu—fuck..”
“Fuck, baby. Still so goddamn tight. Just breathe in and out,” he gasped, his voice thickening in a way that made it sound like he was trying to calm himself down. “In and out while I sink into you deeper. That’s it. Good girl…”
Your back arched off the bed as he filled you. Your legs were stiff around him, your lips whimpering and mewling with every inch he was forcing your tight body to take. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your temple as he stretched your pussy out with just half his cock.
“Have you been keeping up with my videos?” He asked.
You couldn’t bring yourself to answer. You were too stuffed—too concentrated on trying to get your body to accommodate the sheer size of him.
“I—I haven’t—” you answered truthfully.
He clicked his tongue in disapproval, pointing the camcorder to where the top half of his cock disappeared in and out of your tight cunt.
“The videos would’ve scared you,” he pushed his cock a little deeper, making you cry out. “Kept breaking my toys. All my damn fleshlights are torn right through. Had to keep ordering new ones, but fuck, they didn’t feel nearly as good as your tight, virgin pussy did.”
The broken sex doll that laid on his bedside table was certainly a testament to that.
Bucky’s hand found balance near the side of your head, his muscles and veins popping from holding his weight while the other hand was too occupied filming every inch of his cock delving deeper in your pussy.
“How does it feel, baby? Still as big as you remembered?”
“Still big, Bucky,” you winced when he angled his pelvis, his cock twitching in time with every clench your pussy gave him. “I’m trying to take it all—to big the good girl that you remembered—”
He tossed his head back with a groan. He tried his best to control himself—he really did. But the longer he stayed inside your warmth, the more his mind started to fray.
“Fuck—so cute. Such a good girl,” he groaned, sheathing himself completely inside until his dark curls were greeted with your wet folds. “Oh my god.”
Bucky stilled inside you, basking in your warmth. Your body felt like a wet, tight hug wrapping around his cock. This was the sensation he sought after the day you left. The very feeling he’d been looking for in the useless sex toys he was constantly ordering.
Now that you were finally here—pinned beneath him and his camera—he was afraid that if he moved, he would cum right there on the spot.
“Bucky?” your voice was soft, breaking into a gentle moan. “Are you okay?”
His eyes fluttered down to look at you, and his breath caught.
Your hair was fanned out so beautifully against his white sheets. Your body was laid bare and perfect for him. You asked the question in such a soft and innocent tone—it did nothing to dull the ache in his balls and did everything to make his heart heavier.
He should be asking you the question, with you lying there stretched out with more than you can take, but alas.
“You’re asking if I’m okay?” he huffed a raspy laugh, shifting his hips to deliver a deep and hard thrust inside you. “No, I’m not okay. I want to fuck you right through the mattress. Want to split you open and make you cry on my cock. But I can’t—I have to control myself and teach you how to take me again.”
The red light of the camcorder flickered in the dark room as he began rocking his hips, his cock sliding in and out of you—capturing every moment of him claiming you a second time.
The bed started to creak, accompanied with his grunts and your soft moans of pleasure.
Bucky’s breathing was heavy, every deep, punishing roll of his hips making your eyes roll back.
The tip of his cock was kissing your cervix so sweetly, you felt your body giving out. He was right—your pussy was acting like a vice, wrapping impossibly tight around his thick shaft, refusing to let him go.
The camera shook in his hand as he aimed it directly at your hips. He had failed to capture the moment he pumped you full of his cum last time, and he was going to make damn sure he got it right tonight.
“Not a single drop going to waste,” he panted, his hips rutting uncontrollably against yours. “Gonna pump you full—God. Should fill up your womb so you’ll never leave me again.”
Your heart started to race as his words danced in your mind. Surely, this was just make-believe dirty talk. A performance he put on for the camera to secure a good payout from his loyal subscribers, right?
But as his body moved even more erratically, the bed groaning under every hard, bruising thrust, you began to fear otherwise.
“Fuck—this little slut thought she could use my cock to practice for other men,” he laughed, the sound deep and condescending. “Said she wanted to learn how to take dick for her future boyfriend. What a fucking joke.”
Your face burned with humiliation. You couldn’t believe Bucky was airing out your private confessions to his viewers like this.
“Oh my god! Bucky, please don’t say that—”
But your protests were useless. Your pussy was already spasming, clenching around him in a tight, weeping mess at every degrading taunt that left his lips.
“Ah, fuck. My sweet girl is milking me so hard—she doesn’t want to let go.” He chuckled, watching the wet friction of your hips through the camera screen. “You want to cum for me?”
You nodded, letting out a pathetic whimper.
Bucky leaned over you, shoving the camera close to your face. “Come on, baby. You’re on camera. I need you to speak up so everyone else can hear you.”
Pleasure was coursing through your body in ways that a simple vibrator could never match. Ten months without Bucky—and without touching anyone else—had left you chasing a high you couldn’t replicate. It was never like this.
You nodded frantically, losing all control over your own autonomy as tears of pleasure blurred your vision.
“Yes, Bucky! Please—please, please, I want to cum!”
Your cries were loud enough to peak the camera’s built-in microphone. Your walls clamped down around his cock, pulsing and fluttering as your back arched off the mattress with a loud moan, letting the climax rip straight through your core and down to very tip of your toes.
Bucky groaned, his entire body going stiff as your pussy milked him ruthlessly. Fuck. He missed this. He missed the tightness of your cunt. He couldn’t find this sensation anywhere else.
“Christ. Look at that,” he growled into the camera, his hand shaking as he kept the lens focused on where you squeezed around him. “She’s squeezing me so tight—it nearly hurts. Fuck, I’m gonna cum too.”
His balls slapped against your pussy with every hard thrust. He was chasing his release—his face twisted into a mask of pleasure as he felt his balls tighten and his cock twitch. You were already past your high, but Bucky forced you to ride it out for him.
“Shit, the idea of her having sex with someone else...” he snarled to the camera, his voice breaking as he slammed deep into your pulsing heat. “...of someone else’s cock buried deep in what’s supposed to be mine. I’m gonna fucking lose it.”
You cried out his name, your nails digging into his back as he used your body ruthlessly, just like one of his sex toys.
“Fuck, fuck—shit—fuck!”
A litany of curses spilled from his lips as his cock buried all the way to the hilt.
He shuddered violently, pinning your hips flat against the mattress as his orgasm tore through him, flooding every surface of your womb with thick, warm seed. He held himself deep, marking you from the inside out, leaving his cum to fill you completely until it was dripping onto the sheets.
Bucky brought the camera down with a shaky hand, capturing the way your puffy slit was pulsing around his cock, and the way his cum trickled out of you.
“There we go,” he breathed, satisfied. “Captured every second of it, baby.”
Ensuring that you kept your end of the bargain, Bucky uploaded the video to his profile.
Before hitting post, he texted you multiple times to make absolutely sure you were comfortable with your face and username being shown.
When you finally agreed, you never expected the video to blow up overnight. You knew Bucky was a popular content creator, but perhaps the sight of a woman’s body—your body—in the thumbnail stood out against his usual solo content.
Today, you sat at your desk, pulling up his profile out of habit, just like the ritual you used to have ten months ago. Your mouse hovered over the video, and you hesitated before clicking.
Two million views.
A wave of nerves hit you—the thought of being perceived by two million strangers while completely bare and vulnerable was overwhelming. Yet, for some reason, the idea of it excited you more than a girl like you should admit.
You finally clicked the link. The video started with you stripping for him, then dropping to your knees, and just minutes later, you were sprawled out bare on the mattress while he pumped you full of his cum.
You were already soaking through your underwear just watching it, your thighs rubbing together shamelessly from the memory of being filled by Bucky. The way his breathy moans sounded so much more enthusiastic than they ever did in his solo videos filled you with absolute pride.
You made him feel that good.
And apparently, you made his entire comment section feel good, too.
Daddywants2play: hooooooooolyy fuck. she’s so hot. my balls are so heavy just from watching her tits bounce. u lucky dog
Bwasexual: Omg!!! Do you guys need a third?
pegm3please: God so fucking hot. Is she going to upload anytime soon?? Just gave her a follow.
Your brow rose at the last comment.
Gave her a follow?
Instinctively, your mouse hovered to the top right of the screen where the notification bell was displayed.
It showed over 99+ alerts. You were used to seeing two at the absolute maximum—a like from Bucky on one of your comments, and his reply.
Bracing yourself, you clicked it, and a wall of notifications flooded the screen with dozens of different usernames following you. Your follower count had gone from exactly one—Bucky’s account—to well over a thousand in just a single night.
You couldn’t believe it.
People loved watching you.
They loved you enough that, despite you having zero videos posted, no profile picture, and an entirely blank description, they were hitting follow anyway—eagerly expecting to see more. You mentally patted yourself on the back for having the foresight to remove the links to your personal social media accounts beforehand.
A warm flush traced your face. The crazy part was, it wasn’t from embarrassment at all.
It was pure excitement.
Without thinking, you snatched your phone off the desk and dialed a familiar number. It only rang twice before a deep, sleepy voice answered on the other end.
“Hey, doll,” Bucky rasped. “Everything okay?”
“I just saw the video,” you said, the words tumbling out fast. You couldn’t contain your excitement. “I woke up to a little over a thousand followers—and there are so many comments!”
He paused on the line. You could hear the rustle of sheets as he sat up.
“… And are you okay with that? Do you want me to take it down?”
You bit your lip. You couldn’t believe what you were going to say next. “I’m more than okay with it. But… um…”
Bucky’s brow furrowed. He pulled the phone away from his face for a split second to make sure you were still on the line.
“Sweetheart, what is it?”
A breathy sigh left your lips. “I… I want to become a content creator, too. Will you teach me?”
And just like that, the air left Bucky’s lungs completely.
Everything he could possibly want—and more—was finally being served to him on a silver platter.
This meant more videos, more collaborations, and endless opportunities to have you completely to himself.
“Yes,” he swiped at his camcorder and car keys. “I’m coming over. Be ready for me.”
hopping off the bed turn my swag on. happy almost one year anniversary to pornstar bucky and the first bwa collab. once again, thank you to my dear friend @unificsation for the premise. thank you to @barnesonly for the cyber sex bucky edit she made inspired by this fic that i goon to nightly. thank you to @blowingbarnes and @buckybunni for being pornstar bucky's number one fan (i never forgot) thank you to @houseofhyde for giving me the inspiration to write this after sum silly joke. and thank you for all the love and support for part one. i would like to dedicate this oscar to you guys /j
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Summary: Falling for a mysterious man has been exhilarating, until you discover his biggest secret and realize you’ve been loving the most dangerous man in the city. But can you run from a monster in his own home when his eyes and ears are everywhere?
Word Count: 22.8k
Warnings: 18+ (mdni); smut (oral f receiving—but just in the beginning so you could skip it if you want); lots and lots of panic/anxiety/paranoia (reader); moral shock; huge misunderstanding; fear of being trapped; secrecy in a relationship; discovery of hidden identity; unequal power dynamics (implicit); manipulation (perceived); weapons (guns); Bucky might be a little possessive, but we love it; references to violence and criminal activity; Bucky is soft only for you; Bucky is down bad
Author’s Note: Oh my gosh, my first fic of the year, I’m so proud!! Mob Bucky has had me in a chokehold y’all and I’m so happy I finally get to share this. It took me what feels like an eternity. There is a second part to this coming up shortly. I fully planned on packing all of it into a oneshot but it’s gotten way out of hand and I don’t think tumblr would even let me get it out in one go. I also didn’t want to cut anything down because I already spent so much time trying to get everything the way I wanted it, and removing parts would’ve sent me right back into editing hell, so here we are. The second part is already in progress and should be up in a few days once I finish it properly. I hope you enjoy! ♡
Masterlist | part two
You surely are about to taste your own blood on your tongue any second now if you keep biting your lip so hard. But all you do is tighten your grip on those messy, dark hair your fingers are knotted into, and you can’t fight the reflex to shift your hips away an inch so that the embarrassing sob that is growing in your throat won’t make it out.
Though you should have known that that would make him stop. His mouth pauses against your clit, and you squeeze your eyes shut.
His hands remain firmly at your thighs, thumbs soothing those slow and drowsy circles against your skin. But his eyes lift to yours, the usual bright blue of them gone dark and concentrated in the dimness of his bedroom. His gaze is fierce enough to make your breath hitch, but melted into its depths is that softness you know is there just for you.
With his gaze still on yours, he begins to kiss a languid path up your stomach, pausing just beneath your ribs and letting his eyes flutter when worshiping your breasts with his skilled tongue. Your mind and soul are soaring up to his high ceilings.
Your teeth are imprinted upon your bottom lip, and you hope you can continue keeping your breathing as even as possible, though you’re not managing all that well.
His hands move slowly across the skin of your hips, pinning you to the mattress. He doesn’t use all his strength but enough for you to feel stuck in his hold.
He crawls further up your body with that deliberate drag that leaves you shivering and panting. He hovers over you and his bare chest brushes your heaving breasts.
His face is now inches from yours, his stubble grazing your cheek, smelling like vanilla and something like cardamom, and you breathe it in automatically. His pupils are blown as they sear into yours.
“Stop that,” he orders, though his voice is a warm whisper. He reaches up, his thumb catching your bottom lip and tugging it out from between your teeth. He soothes the imprint. “Don't you hide those pretty sounds from me.”
“Bucky, the guards,” you breathe out, your voice trembling, still weak from the way he used his tongue on you. Your face burns. The room feels enormous again, full of listening walls. “Your people. They will hear. They will think—”
Something flits across his expression. It seems to be something proud, even possessive. You could say it looks dangerous, but being the person that you are, and considering the sweet albeit intense person that he is, it turns you the hell on and makes you sigh.
“I don't care what they think. I want them to know.” He leans down, his lips hovering over yours, his breath hot and smelling of you. “I want every man on my payroll to hear the way you sound when I’m the only thing on your mind. I want them to hear who I’m answering to tonight. And every other night from now on.”
With a stunned shake of your head, you stare up at him, a huff of embarrassment trying to bubble up and fall out of your mouth but it fails because his mouth is on yours, kissing you aggressively before he dives back down, not waiting for you to argue. You’re entirely overwhelmed, but damn, not in a bad way at all.
His hands lock you into place, and the way he’s eating you out has you flying straight to heaven with a one-way ticket. He’s being greedy. He’s using his tongue with a blunt, feverish sort of worship that makes your head hit his pillow with a thud.
He’s a businessman, that’s what he told you. But as his mouth works over you with all that bottled-up intensity he carries around all day, you feel the latent power he usually keeps veiled behind a tie. He’s a man who takes what he wants, and right now, what he wants is to hear you break, and you might actually, because god is he good, so incredibly good, you could definitely get used to it. Maybe you already are, but who’s to blame you for it.
The first real moan tears out of you, and you cringe internally at how loud and breathy it sounds, the way it vibrates in the cavernous room, landing in the farthest corners of the high ceilings.
Bucky grunts against you, and it sounds so purely satisfied, it even seems to rumble within your own body. You gasp, trying to suppress another moan, and he only presses harder, licking and sucking and slurping, and it makes you feel like you’re the only meal on his plate.
His thumbs dent the soft give of your hips to make sure you’re pinned the way he wants you, the way he has the best access to all of you. It’s dizzying, it makes your gut lurch in the best possible way, and you feel like a queen and a ruin all at once. He’s gentle, yeah, but it seems to be the gentle kind you would use on a porcelain heirloom right before testing its breaking point.
Your hands don’t know what to do with themselves. Gripping the sheets or pillows, touching yourself—it all doesn’t feel like enough, so you go back to sliding your fingers into his hair and basically watch them disappear in it. You feel powerful and helpless, and oh god you should really keep those noises down or you won’t be able to look at his people anymore.
He is a mountain of a man, intimidating in ways you don’t understand yet, full of secrets; and yet here he is, kneeling for you and eating you out as if that’s all he’s been waiting for his whole life.
Damn, you’re a lucky girl.
He is drinking you in, his mouth molding to you with a suction that feels like he’s trying to draw your very soul to the surface.
It feels as though each individual bristle of his stubble is caressing your inner thigh, and it's abrasive and burning but also so damn good. It makes the gliding heat of his tongue feel so soft and vivid, and it pulls the tension right out of your bones.
He tracks you through his lashes, and you’re careful not to meet his eyes or that dark gaze of his would surely make you come already. But he doesn’t stop documenting you and the way you react to him. He thrives on it, so very much that it doesn’t seem to embarrass him in the slightest.
Then he dives past your entrance, his tongue finding that soft, sharp intake of your breath. And your spine bows upward out of pure blinding pleasure. The sound that leaves you is startled, too loud for your liking and so you try to clamp your hand over your lips.
He catches your wrist.
He’s not harsh with it, but he brings your hand down to the mattress and pins it there decisively. His fingers lace through yours.
“What’d I say,” he warns, voice low, husky.
You swallow, your eyes are fluttering. “Bucky—”
“Make the noise,” he whispers as he kisses along your inner thigh, eyes on you. “All of it.”
His free hand slowly wanders upward and it almost feels possessive how he ascends your heated skin. You glimpse that little hint of something feral, something prehistoric in the trail of his eyes. You’ve seen it before, and as always, it pulls you under completely. His ferocity isn’t some thrashing kind of wild, honestly, he seems perfectly comfortable with his position, as though he’s already done the math but there’s no clear solution and he just has to keep calculating. Has to keep going.
He lunges back and buries his face in your heat, his tongue flat and broad, applying a rhythmic pressure that whites out your vision and has you moaning without thought. It’s thorough and hungry, his mouth drawing you in eagerly, and it feels like he’s trying to pull the very center of you into his throat.
“Bucky—,” you gasp, your fingers tightly clamping around his, knuckles white.
He growls, and it rattles his entire chest, it vibrates against your sensitive skin. He uses his teeth—just a graze, a tiny, sharp nip that sends a scalding current straight to your core. Your hips jerk reflexively, his hands are pinning you open, and you are forced to take every unsparing lap of his tongue.
He shifts his weight, his nose dragging through your wetness as he focuses his attention on the very top of your nub. He works his tongue in a cadence so constant it sends the pressure straight to the back of your skull until the room dissolves behind your eyelids. It feels almost like a breaking point, but hell, you would throw yourself out of those high windows if he were to stop now.
He’s fast and skilled and you’re made to take it.
“Open up,” he commands against your skin, his voice muffled and wet although you couldn’t possible open up more for him.
There is no more warning before he fills you with two fingers, sliding them deep inside you and stretching you while his thumb maintains that dizzying pressure, and the friction burns a hole through your focus. The two sensations fight for room in your head, effectively demolishing whatever was left of your pride and it makes you let out the highest moan. You’re straining upward, seeking the release he’s dangling just out of reach.
He looks up at you, his face flushed, his breathing ragged against your thigh. A stray, damp shimmer glistens on the curve of his lower lip, and he licks it clean. You watch mesmerized and utterly overdrawn. His gaze is stripped of any pretense, it’s dark and appeased and entirely fixed on the way your face is breaking.
"That's it," he coos, watching your chest heave. "Scream for me, sweetheart. I'm not stopping until you do."
He dives back in, his tongue swirling deep inside you before curling back to hook against your clit, and suddenly there is no perspective on anything anymore, and the floors are walls and the walls are floors, and—
And then his phone begins vibrating against the mahogany nightstand. It’s a sharp and intrusive sound and it’s stripping the air of its heat.
Bucky doesn’t seem to care, though. He doesn’t so much as glance over at it. His gaze stays welded to yours, his pupils taking up the beautiful blue. His thumb continues trailing your heat, collecting your slick, and he turns to watch in amazement, as he licks a long stripe up your center, making you choke on your spit.
The vibration of his phone still ringing grates against the wood, loud enough to feel like a physical itch.
Bucky is a man who has built an empire on timing, yet he seems perfectly content to let the world outside the bedroom door spontaneously combust.
The phone dies.
He keeps sucking, you keep moaning.
Then, it begins again, more insistent this time. His phone is pulsing. It seems urgent.
You feel his jaw tighten against you. Feel the shift you’ve come to recognize but never quite know what to do with. The air around him thickens by a single degree. The temperature of him changes, not in heat but in authority. Somewhere beyond these walls, the world is knocking its head against his patience.
“Bucky,” you breathe, the word leaning on the dryness in your throat. Your chest is still heaving, your skin flushed a beautiful pink. You softly pull at his hair to make him look at you, a weak gesture that feels like trying to move a mountain. “You should get that.”
His eyes meet yours. There are galaxies in them and something darker orbiting behind them. He leans in and presses a slow, devastating kiss to the inside of your thigh, all calm and relaxed while the phone continues vibrating angrily.
“It can wait,” he decides, voice an octave lower and threaded with promise as he trails a line of punishingly soft kisses along your skin.
Another buzz, the sound now an impatient thrum that seems to vibrate the very legs of the bed. It feels like a summons, a reminder of the business that pays for the guards and the maids and the high ceilings.
He exhales through his nose and lets out a rumble of annoyance. His thumb strokes a calming line along your hip, as if reassuring you that his irritation belongs elsewhere. He looks like some wild animal being interrupted mid-meal.
“Bucky—,” you start, carefully, your hand sliding to cup his face, feeling the heat of his skin, but he clicks his tongue to interrupt you.
“My girl deserves to get off first,” he hums, not letting his lips off your skin, his stubble a deliberate, intoxicating scrape against your thigh.
And when his tongue drives home, flat and strong against that hyper-sensitized knot of nerves, it doesn’t take long for that jolting pleasure to cloud your vision and bleach the dark corners of his bedroom into a searing, blinding white.
Your spine arches and snaps and leaves you suspended between the silk sheets and the cold air, held down only by his weight.
The embarrassing sob you were trying to hide earlier finally tears free, but it isn’t a sob anymore. It’s a melodic wail that echoes off the shadows-drenched ceiling. It climbs high and rings out with a clarity that makes the idea of guards and business feel like a fever dream from another life.
Your body is trying to crush his fingers in a desperate pulse that feels like a heart beating where it shouldn't.
And Bucky drinks it all in. He keeps his head down, jaw locked against you, refusing to let the moment end. That rough graze of his stubble is brutal but it keeps you somewhat in the room. He is taking the time with the mess he made, leaning into the way you are trembling, his mouth ensuring that every last bit of your control is gone.
By the time your vision starts to clear at the edges, and the room starts to solidify back into reality, you feel hollowed out, as if he’d reached inside and pulled the very soul of you to the surface. You slump into the mattress, your limbs too heavy to even twitch, your lungs burning with the effort of remembering how to breathe.
When you begin to squirm in his hold, Bucky finally pulls back, his expression bluntly victorious. He is breathing hard, his lips stained, his eyes trained on the way your ribs are still hitching with those dying tremors. His hand tightens at your hip.
Then he rises over you in one fast movement, bracing himself above you with his weight carefully balanced. You don’t need any more physical proof that he wants you, considering how hard and ready you can feel him against your leg, with his control barely in check; and it makes your lungs seize up.
Wordlessly, he leans down to pull you into a slow kiss that goes so deep, your thoughts evaporate and your fingers tangle in his hair. He groans against your lips, breathing your name. You feel him twitch against you as he lets his hand slide back between your bodies—when the door rattles with a knock.
Bucky stills with his forehead on yours, eyes still closed, jaw a block of ice. “Boss?” a slightly hesitant voice comes through the door.
His nose presses into the crook of your neck. For a long second, he just breathes you in, a deep, possessive inhalation as if he is trying to pull in all of your scent to survive the coming interruption.
With a low curse that is more a growl than a word, he rolls onto his side and promptly pulls you with him, tucking you into his chest. His body angles slightly toward the door, building an instinctive shield. His arms remain draped over you, his left hand splayed protectively across your back.
“What,” he calls, voice suddenly stripped of warmth. There is a pause on the other side.
“Sorry, boss,” The voice is male. Sounding even more hesitant now. And definitely embarrassed. “But, uh— it’s important. You are needed.”
You want to let out a heavy sigh. But you’ve seen this coming, really.
Bucky closes his eyes briefly and there is something pinched around them. He’s not usually a short-tempered man, at least not with you, but right now he looks ready to snap at the door.
“I’m busy,” he replies flatly, and you believe his voice is only calm for your sake.
Another pause. The poor man outside is probably staring at the door waiting for it to shoot him.
“It’s Sam,” he explains carefully, seemingly afraid to say too much.
You know Sam. Or, you have heard Bucky mention Sam. Sam, the colleague. The one your boyfriend refers to with a mix of irritation and reluctant brotherhood. A pain in the ass, he told you with a half-smile. But loyal. Does good work. One of the few men he trusts to argue with him and live. You had laughed at the way he said it so seriously. He hadn't really laughed with you, but he kissed you stupid afterwards and so you no longer thought of it.
Bucky gives a long exhale.
“Give me five.”
“Yes, sir.”
Hurried footsteps retreat down the corridor.
And Bucky doesn’t make a single attempt to leave your side. He just peppers your neck with tiny kisses.
You try to turn to his face. “Bucky, you should go.”
His eyes meet yours, and the stoicism buckles immediately. Back is the softness.
“You come first,” he hums, and his thumb brushes your cheek. There is something apologetic in the gesture, though he hasn’t done anything wrong.
You smile faintly and let a slow pout form on your lips. “I don’t want to hold you back from work.”
“You’re not,” he reassures you softly, leaning down to kiss you with a lack of the urgency he should probably be feeling right now.
But then he’s shifting away, sitting up on the edge of the bed, and the loss of his heat is a stinging chill. The chandelier light spills over his naked back, over the breadth of his shoulders. Your eyes glide down the tiny pink scars on his left shoulder with a sinking feeling in your stomach—those scars are another mystery he hasn’t let you into yet. But all you want to do is kiss them and hope to make it better, even if just a little.
You watch the way he runs a hand through his hair, reassembling himself piece by piece. By the time he stands, he has edges. He always seems different when he’s no longer touching you.
He pulls on a pair of dark trousers and doesn’t bother with a shirt. The phone is in his hand now. He checks the screen, jaw grinding briefly before he glances back at you. And the hardness that stepped into his eyes softens again, dissolving the moment they meet your face. It’s almost ridiculous, how quickly it happens. Like watching a knife remember it was once a piece of silver meant for candlelight.
You’re still half-sunk into the bed, hair falling around your shoulders, limbs loose, and sheets wound around your naked body. Around you, it smells of cedar, expensive soap, and Bucky himself, which is somehow warmer than both.
“Stay here,” he says gently. “I’ll handle it.”
Handle it.
The words mean spreadsheets and contracts in your mind. Annoying colleagues. Late- night negotiations.
He walks back to his bed to press a tender kiss to your forehead.
You push yourself up slightly on your elbows, the blanket sliding down your side. And you definitely see the way his gaze drifts for an appreciative and unashamed moment before it returns to your eyes. There is a small smile tugging at his mouth, and it’s the one you always get to see when you’re the only audience.
“Make yourself at home while I’m gone, yeah?” he whispers, nodding toward the massive wardrobe along the far wall, keeping his attention on you. “If you get cold, grab a shirt of mine. Top shelf on the left.”
You smile at him, nodding softly.
His eyes move over you slowly, and there is something warmly adoring in them that makes your chest tighten in a strange, bright way. He reaches out to brush his fingers along your jaw. The touch is thorough, absentmindedly tender, soothing out something only he can see.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he adds, voice rougher now. Reluctant. “Didn’t plan on having to step out. Told Sam he better handle his own ass today. Should’ve known better, though.”
“You’re the boss, Bucky,” you ease lightly. “I assume dramatic interruptions are part of the brand.”
His mouth curves.
“Unfortunately.”
He kisses your forehead once more, lingering long enough to make your lashes flutter.
“I’ll make it up to you,” he murmurs sweetly. “Soon as I’m done with this.” His thumb traces your cheek. “I’m coming right back. Gonna give you my full attention.” His eyes darken slightly, voice dipping just enough to send a warm shiver through you. “Cuddle you properly. Maybe take things a little further.”
Your stomach does a small, excited flip. “Maybe?”you tease, leaning into his touch.
He presses his smirk against yours. “Definitely.”
With that, he pulls back and straightens, that sovereign steel slipping back over him piece by piece. It’s almost visible, the way he steps into whatever role the rest of his world knows him for. The man who answers phones about Sam and things that sound suspiciously more complicated than spreadsheets.
At the door, he glances back once more. Same softness, just for you. “Lock it behind me, doll.”
The door opens. His phone lifts to his ear.
His voice changes instantly as he steps into the hallway.
“Get Wilson on the line,” he demands, tone clipped. “Now.” And then the door shuts.
You’re left in the echo of him and his scent in the sheets, his warmth still imprinted on your skin.
You don’t get up immediately to lock the door. He can get just a little too protective sometimes, so you don’t deem it necessary to lock the door when he’s just out taking a call. And you’re sure his guards would be in much worse trouble if they were to enter and see you nakedly spread out in his bed.
So you flop back into the mattress—that certainly was expensive too, due to the way it feels—and stare at the ceiling for a moment.
Then you laugh, incredulously. A quiet little wheeze of disbelief escaping into the big room.
Because really. What on earth.
You roll onto your side, pulling the blanket with you, and glance around the bedroom again like maybe you hallucinated the last two hours. Or the last two months.
The place is obscene.
And not in a tacky-rich, or gold-fountain rich kind of way. This is the quiet kind of wealth. Everything is polished wood and deep colors and furniture that probably has a historical backstory longer than your résumé.
There’s a fireplace bigger than your entire first apartment. A chandelier that looks like it was handcrafted by depressed angels.
And somewhere downstairs, there are actual maids.
Maids.
And guards.
Actual human beings whose job description probably includes phrases like protect the property and stand menacingly near large gates.
Meanwhile, you used to eat instant noodles on a couch that leaned slightly to the left like it had given up on life.
And somehow—how the fuck—you have ended up in the bed of a man who owns more suits than you own pairs of socks. A man who is tall and broad and so absurdly handsome, who steps into those razor-sharp tailored suits as though they were invented solely for him. Who wears that self-confident authority in his voice that makes the people around him straighten without realizing why.
And yet, he was on his knees for you just moments ago.
The thought sends heat creeping up your neck again. But in a giddy way.
You bury your face briefly into the pillow with a muffled groan. Because honestly, how did you pull that.
A man like Bucky should logically be dating a diplomat. Or a CEO. Or some terrifyingly poised woman who drinks champagne for breakfast and owns fifteen languages.
Instead, he found you.
You.
Who once tripped over a grocery store display and apologized to the oranges. And yet he looks at you like you hung the moon with questionable hardware.
You grin into the pillow.
Also—objectively speaking—the man is incredible in bed. Like, it’s crazy.
Biting your lip and staring up at the ceiling, you wonder if the chandelier is as baffled by your luck as you are. It’s like winning the lottery without buying a ticket, and you’re silently pleading with the laws of probability to stay bent in your favor just a little while longer; at least until he realizes you’re a mere mortal and not the goddess he’s treating you as.
It’s weird that a man like him noticed you. Weird that he’s so sharp with the world but so gentle with you. Weird that he lives in this fortress of wealth and power and still tells you to steal his shirts if you’re getting cold.
Your eyes drift toward the wardrobe.
Top shelf on the left, he said.
You imagine one of his massive shirts swallowing you as a whole, and snort softly.
Yeah.
You definitely pulled a mob-boss-looking, suit-wearing, ridiculously attentive gentleman who apparently worships the ground you lie naked on.
Weird. Very weird. But you’re not complaining. You’re just mentally haggling with the universe, offering to never ask for another favor again if it just promises not to reclaim its prize or realize he’s a solid ten and you’re way out of his league.
He told you he runs a company.
You imagine glass walls and long tables and men in suits who nod too quickly while he stands in front of them all in his suit, looking all delicious and hot. You imagine paperwork, meetings, a name etched into metal on an office door. He never corrects you. He only smiles in that small way of his—enigmatic, a little asymmetrical, a little careful, as if the smile is something he built from spare parts and polished until it gleamed.
You’ve been dating for a short time. And considering the mystery he surrounds himself with, you guess it’s going to take a while until you truly get to know him. Until he truly starts telling you how his day has been and what he has been up to—and what taking a call means in his business.
But he kisses as though he’s been starving in a snowstorm. As though warmth is an endangered species and your mouth is the last sanctuary. His hands are large and soothing, and they never wander without purpose. He touches and handles you like the first blossom of a century-plant, something that has spent a hundred years preparing to bloom for a single day. And he looks at you as if you are that miracle. As if you are the only soft thing in a life built of stone.
And so, you tell yourself, you can wait for him to be ready to talk.
You don’t know what he does after midnight. You only know he sometimes steps onto the balcony to take calls. His voice changes there. It drops. He doesn’t smooth over his words and instead lets the corners stay pointy. You just never catch his words. The only thing you can do is admire the way the city lights flicker behind him like they’re afraid of him. Or in awe.
And when he comes back inside, he presses his forehead to yours as if he’s returning from war.
Contemplating, you lie there for a moment longer, staring at the ceiling. Then you sit up.
It’s not cold, the room is perfectly climate-controlled in that rich-people way where seasons are merely decorative suggestions outside the window; but you suddenly want one of his shirts.
Not for warmth, but for him, for the smell of him, for the proof that this is all actually happening and you are actually here with him somewhere out there in this huge mansion, waiting to get his mouth back on you. For the possibility that his detergent—whatever luxury forest-scented nonsense it probably is—might trick your brain into thinking he’s still right there.
You glance toward the wardrobe.
It’s enormous, who would have guessed. Cathedral enormous. Dark wood doors that probably cost more than your childhood bedroom set. It suggests that Bucky owns multiple versions of the same devastatingly expensive suit.
You slide out of bed and pad across the carpet, which is so soft it feels apologetic for touching your feet. Putting on your underwear for comfort, you make your way over to his wardrobe. The doors open without making a single sound.
You step inside and it feels like even the air is filtered for perfection. It’s a humbling difference to your own apartment, where the dresser functions less like furniture and more like a high-stakes game of Tetris, with your favorite sweaters perpetually losing the battle against a jammed bottom drawer, and where finding a matching pair of socks requires the luck of a seasoned treasure hunter.
There are rows of shirts, jackets, trousers. Everything spaced just enough apart to breathe. Everything immaculate. A faint scent of sandalwood and something clean and expensive drifts forward to greet you.
You tilt your head up.
The shirt shelf is ambitious.
You stand on your toes but you don’t reach anything. You reach higher, basically for nothing. Your fingers waggle uselessly in the air, far away from touching anything.
You sigh.
Because obviously, the man built like a six-foot-something war monument thinks a shelf near the ceiling is perfectly reasonable.
You walk out of the wardrobe and glance back toward the bed. Then toward the chair near the window.
His jacket is draped there. It looks like it belongs at the head of a mahogany table, brokering peace or declaring war with a single sharp lapel. And in between there’s the shirt he’s tossed aside as soon as you both entered his room, with an untidiness that feels like a glitch in his otherwise perfect Matrix.
It’s the shirt he didn’t bother to put back on when leaving you here. You grin.
Well.
That works too. Perfectly, even.
You wander over, the carpet not letting any sound free. The chair sits near the tall windows, moonlight cascading across the floor in long silver rectangles. It looks graceful somehow. His jacket catches the light along its seams, and you shiver at the thought of how elegant and powerful it makes him look.
You reach for it, intending to lift it aside and claim the bunched shirt.
But the moment you grab the jacket, something feels off. It’s heavy. Not normal-jacket heavy. Weighted. You frown faintly, adjusting your grip. You pick it up fully, wanting to fold it neatly, when something slips out of it.
There’s a short, dense thud against the floor. It makes you freeze.
The object lands on the dark carpet inches from your toe; a short, metallic punctuation mark in the silence. It drinks in the chandelier’s glow and spits it back out with a cold, silver arrogance. It ignites an unmistakable shimmer that makes the air in the room feel ten degrees colder.
Your brain takes a second to translate the shape.
It’s a gun.
You stare at it.
The word sits adamantly on the floor of your mind and turns the room into a crime scene before anything has even happened. It’s a sharp fracture in the timeline—there is the version of you from five seconds ago, and the version of you staring at a hunk of lethal metal.
This thing is real. Very real. Not movie-real. Not plastic-prop-real. More like heavy-metal-object-that-could-alter-the-entire-direction-of-a Tuesday-real.
Your knees grow weak and you crouch down so very slowly. Who knows, maybe sudden movements can already trigger it. You’ve never seen a real gun. You never expected you would, not like this, at least. This feels pretty surreal.
The jacket still hangs half off the chair behind you. The shirt you wanted is crumpled innocently beneath it, but you’re not grabbing it.
Your attention remains on the gun. You don’t touch it.
It’s not like your heart is racing noticeably, but there is a new tightness in your chest and it’s making you feel as though your thoughts all have quietly stood up at once.
Because. Right. Of course.
You know Bucky runs a company.
You know he’s wealthy enough to own a mansion that probably requires a map and a tour guide.
You know he has guards. Actual guards. You knew all that.
But with this gun sitting there on the carpet, it feels like looking through a new lens that snaps the blurry facts you know of this man into a slightly different focus.
If it’s frightening, you’re not sure, but it’s definitely clarifying.
You sit back on your heels for a moment, staring at it. He carried this in his jacket pocket. Casually. Just around. Like a wallet. Or keys.
Your mind tries to rewind through the past weeks. The way he watches exits. The midnight phone calls. The men who seem oddly respectful around him. The commanding note in his voice when he tells someone to do something.
You bite your lip, a hectic internal editor trying to bridge the gap between the little you know about the man and the metal you’ve found. You tell yourself not to panic, because panicking won’t give you any answers. And there’s no need to panic, because he’s just a man with power, a man who’s a boss and bosses tend to have people who don’t like them.
That’s no reason to use a gun on anyone, but it’s probably just a formality. A piece of insurance stored away like a fire extinguisher you hope to never use. Maybe it’s not meant for violence at all, just for peace of mind.
He’s protective. You’ve seen and felt it. Just last week, he was absolutely livid, after one of his guards stepped out of line with one of his maids, who’s this sweet old woman who had been with his family since his father’s time. He was in such a blind tailspin over it, and your soothing touch was the only thing that was able to pull him back to earth.
He would build a wall around everyone he cares about just to keep the wind from blowing too hard. Perhaps this gun is just part of that wall, a safety he keeps close so he never has to feel helpless. It doesn't have to mean he’s dangerous. It just means he’s prepared. It’s a precaution, a tool, a just in case that will likely collect dust until the end of time.
You try to settle the thought, but it feels like trying to pin a map against your chest in a storm; the harder you flatten your palms against the paper, the more wind tunnels through the gaps, ballooning the center and snatching the corners from your grip. If you manage to squash one section still, the air pockets behind the rest, turning the whole thing into a thrashing thing that fights to fold itself back up or fly away entirely. No matter what you do, no matter how much you lean into it, the wind will always be a second faster. The wind will always have the upper hand, hollowing out the space between your hands and the whole truth you are trying to read.
You just have to believe that the man who touches his girl so carefully is the same man who would only ever use that steel to keep the world at bay.
Your gaze lingers on it.
You don’t know much about guns. Your knowledge is mostly assembled from movies, news articles, and the vague understanding that they belong firmly in the category of things you should probably treat with respect. And it definitely belongs to a world you’ve never really stepped into before.
But apparently, Bucky lives there.
You glance toward the door he disappeared through. This is the guy who permitted you to steal his clothes, who pressed a kiss to your forehead with the softest lips. When he looks at you, it’s with that specific focus, that startled sort of wonder that always makes you feel so over-exposed, but also exponentially adored.
Your chest softens despite yourself. Still.
You eye the gun again, and one thing has become very clear in the last thirty seconds. You might be dating a man you know less about than you thought.
And that realization sits in the room with you now, waiting for you to act on it.
But you don’t know how. You simply keep staring. The chandelier light kisses its metal edges until they gleam faintly, indifferent to the fact that your brain is currently eroding into a new shape.
You swallow, and even that sounds strange in the imposing space, like it wandered too far from home.
Leaving this thing on the floor feels wrong.
And if Bucky comes back and sees it there... You don’t know why, but the thought makes your stomach tighten.
So you reach down, only now seeing that your hands are slightly wavering. Your fingers close around the grip, and the first thing you notice is the weight. It’s heavier than it looks, solid in a way that makes your palm immediately aware that this object was designed with very serious intentions.
You lift it slowly. Nothing happens, obviously. The world doesn’t explode. The chandelier doesn’t shatter. The mansion continues breathing its wealthy breath around you.
But holding it still feels like stepping one inch deeper into a room you didn’t know existed.
You turn it slightly, meaning only to orient it so you can slide it neatly back into the inside pocket of his jacket, but you spot an engraving, small letters carved into the dark handle.
JBB
Your brow furrows. You stare at them for a moment, tracing the edges with your eyes.
The metal around the letters looks softened. Not scratched exactly, but worn in the way objects get when they’ve lived in someone’s hand for a long time. Like a favorite pen. Or a well-loved watch.
If guns can look old, this one does. It’s not antique-old, but familiar-old.
You tilt your head. JBB. You try to assemble a name around the letters. The only name you know for the man currently pacing somewhere in this mansion making serious phone calls is Bucky.
Just Bucky.
You don’t know his last name, you realize suddenly, and you don’t like that.
You know his favorite whiskey. You know the exact shape of the scar on his shoulder. You know the way he presses his nose into your hair when he tries to calm himself down.
But his last name leaves a blank space in your mind. You glance down at the gun again.
JBB.
Maybe it belongs to someone else. Someone with a J. Jake? James? John? Jacob?
Maybe it’s a family thing. Maybe it belonged to his father. Maybe it’s one of those rich-man- heirloom objects that get passed down through generations alongside cufflinks and complicated legacies.
You exhale quietly.
That explanation sounds reasonable enough that you decide to borrow it for the moment.
Very carefully, and with explicit intent, you slide the gun back into the inside pocket of his jacket. The fabric settles around it like it knows exactly where it’s needed.
You smooth the lapel automatically.
There.
No evidence.
Your fingers linger on the jacket for a second longer than you want.
It still smells like him. Clean soap. Dried tobacco. Something stronger beneath it that you can’t put a name to but always recognize immediately as Bucky.
You step back, and suddenly the room feels different. Not threatening, but it does feel larger still.
Because now your brain is busy counting the things you don’t know.
You don’t know his last name.
You don’t really know what his company does.
You don’t know why men knock on his bedroom door looking nervous.
You don’t know why he carries a gun like it’s just another accessory.
You rub your arms lightly, because now there is a faint prickle of awareness crawling along your thoughts and it is spreading throughout your body.
You’ve been dating for six weeks. Is this long enough to demand answers? To justify interrogations? Gosh, you’re not sure. You’re not sure about a lot of things right now, really. You’ve been floating through the beginning part—the sweet, dizzy, honeymoon fog where the only facts that matter are the ones you feel.
But now there’s a small string of sunlight sliding through the fog. A string of curiosity. You turn back toward the bed where your clothes lie in a small, careless pile.
Maybe you’re overthinking this.
Maybe.
Still.
You pull your shirt over your head, the fabric rustling softly in the quiet room. Your jeans follow, and then your fingers reach automatically for the necklace resting on the nightstand.
The pearls catch the light when you lift them. Bucky gave it to you two weeks ago.
It’s delicate. Real pearls, because he just can. Everything about him seems to come with an expensive quality attached.
You remember the way he looked when he gave it to you. Almost shy, which was deeply unfair considering how the man is built.
Saw it and thought of you, he’d said. Think about you all the time, he’d added.
Which had melted approximately seventy percent of your internal structure. You fasten the necklace and touch it lightly now.
Gentleman.
Ridiculously good in bed.
Mysterious.
Possibly carrying engraved guns.
You sigh.
You feel a little guilty. Because what you’re about to do is technically snooping. And snooping is not great. Your mother would absolutely deliver a lecture about boundaries if she could see you right now.
You glance around the massive room again. The desk by the window. The bookshelves. The curated neatness of everything.
You bite your lip. You’re not looking for secrets. You’re just looking for context. A clue. A name.
Something that tells you who Bucky is when he isn’t kissing your forehead and telling you to raid his closet.
Your feet move before your conscience can finish filing complaints.
Your steps make no sound as you move across the carpet, wandering deeper into the room and scanning the shelves and surfaces with a caution that can’t suppress your intrigue.
You don’t need all the answers. Just one or two. So you start with the obvious places.
Drawers.
It feels less intrusive somehow; opening something that was clearly meant to be opened. You move slowly, like a guest in a museum after hours, careful fingers, quiet breath, a mild sense that the walls might be watching.
The first drawer slides out with a wooden noise and even that sounds rich. Inside, there are watches. Several of them, lined neatly in velvet compartments. Dark metal, silver, leather straps. You don’t know brands, but you know enough to guess that each one probably costs more than your car.
You close the drawer.
The next one holds cufflinks. Rows of them. Small polished things that look important and serious and entirely uninterested in your investigation.
And it only goes on this way. You open drawer after drawer, and there is nothing strange. Nothing suspicious. Just the belongings of a very wealthy man who liked things neat.
Your shoulders loosen a little. Maybe you overreacted. Maybe the gun is just a rich man's security thing. The guards downstairs carry them too, probably. It doesn’t automatically mean anything bad.
You open another drawer.
Paperwork. Boring looking things. A passport tucked neatly inside a leather sleeve. You hesitate for half a second before closing it again.
That one definitely feels like crossing a line.
You step away from the wardrobe and wander toward the nightstand instead.
The wood gleams darkly under the chandelier.
You pull open the top drawer.
More ordinary things. Wallets. Sunglasses. A small tray of rings.
Further back in the drawer, you find a small stack of Polaroids. You fish them out, because you recognize the first picture. It’s a picture of Bucky and you from a few weeks ago. You had found an old Polaroid camera and wanted to try it out, practically levering him into the frame while he grumbled about how he wasn’t photogenic which was total bullshit in your eyes. But he isn’t even looking at the camera in the photo. He is looking at you with a fond little half-smile.
Looking at a few others, you realize they are of you. All of them. One is a shot of your back as you walk toward a sunset, another is a blurred profile of you sleeping on his shoulder.
There is a warmth prickling at the back of your neck and you feel something slacken inside your stomach as you slowly lower the photos back where they were.
Nothing about all of this screams crime lord. Your nerves ease another notch.
You almost laugh at yourself. Your brain likes to get dramatic. Bucky is archiving your relationship, he is sweet and protective and tender and just—
As you are about to pull your hand out, your fingers brush against something cold and metallic near the back of the drawer.
You pause.
It’s partially hidden beneath a folded black cloth. Just the faint glint of a chain catching the light.
Curiosity taps gently on your shoulder.
You slide the cloth aside and notice the silver chain. It’s thin and tangled loosely like it’s been dropped there without much thought.
You hook your finger under it and lift. Something heavier at the end slips free. Two small metal plates fall against each other with a quiet clink.
Dog tags.
You blink.
That’s not strange, exactly. Lots of people keep sentimental things. Maybe Bucky served in the military. That would even make him hotter, to be real. But it does feel a little hurtful that he didn’t share this information with you.
You turn the tags over idly, expecting to see a name you don’t recognize. However, though, you do recognize the name that’s neatly spelled out on the metal plate. And it has the air in your lungs turn to stone, refusing to move a single inch.
James Buchanan Barnes.
Your stomach drops in such a harsh way, there is no ending to the fall. Your internal organs are unmoored and everything about you feels dizzy and weightless. It’s like stepping down a staircase that isn’t there. You’re still gripping the metal, but the connection between your brain and your hands has been cut, and now your fingers feel distant and wooden, filled with a needling sensation you know comes right before they start to shake.
And they do shake.
A thin tremor at first, then worse, until the tags begin to chatter against each other. Each sharp nick of the steel feels so biting and loud, broadcasting the exact moment you are losing it.
Your mind flips through memory like rifling a deck of cards too fast.
News headlines.
Conversations overheard in cafés.
Podcasts about organized crime.
New York’s most notorious mob boss.
The man whose name floats through the city like a ghost story told after midnight. James Buchanan Barnes.
JBB.
Heat rushes up the back of your neck while the rest of you goes ice-cold. It feels like standing in two climates at once—your skin clammy, your spine rigid, a cold sweat blooming between your shoulder blades.
Every breath you pull in is labored and metallic, coating your lungs in a film of disbelief that makes your chest ache. You can almost hear the gears of your reality grinding to a convulsive, screeching halt, stripping the teeth right off the life you thought you were living.
Your pulse is a furious SOS tapped out against the underside of your throat; a muddled, thrumming reminder that you are standing in the epicenter of a storm you didn't even know was brewing. You feel thin, translucent, like a sketch of a person that someone could erase with a single, hard look.
Your fingers tighten around the dog tags. No.
No no no.
Your brain scrambles to reject it. Because that’s outrageous.
That man—the one people call dangerous in all kinds of languages, the one whose operations stretch across half the city, the one who apparently runs things so carefully that no one has ever managed to pin a crime on him—
That man is a myth.
A shadow.
A name in newspapers. No photos. No confirmed identity.
Just whispers.
James Buchanan Barnes.
JBB
You stare at the letters again. You recall the way his initials were engraved in the gun.
Your mind scrambles for explanations—wrong tags, coincidence, someone else with the same name—but every attempt at reason breaks apart in your hands.
Bucky. James. Bucky. James.
James Bucky Barnes.
Your eyes drift slowly across the room.
The suits.
The mansion.
The guards.
The midnight phone calls.
The seriousness.
The gun.
Your hands are shaking tremendously. JBB.
James.
Buchanan.
Barnes.
Your mind repeats it over and over again. The math is suddenly very simple.
He kissed your forehead fifteen minutes ago. He told you to steal his shirt if you get cold. He gifted you present after present because he simply could. He spoke your name as if he had ingrained it on his tongue.
He is the most dangerous man in the city.
Something uncomfortably glaring and stinging climbs up the back of your neck, and it’s making you feel watched by a predator you once mistook for a protector.
You’ve heard the stories. Everyone has. Illegal shipments. Rival gangs disappearing overnight. Entire businesses quietly changing ownership after one meeting with Barnes.
And yet there is no evidence. Never evidence. Just the name. James Buchanan Barnes. The general public doesn’t know what he looks like. There are no confirmed photographs. Just rumors.
But you know exactly what he looks like. You know the way his hair falls into his eyes when he’s tired. You know the scars on his body, know his reactions to your lips on them. You know the exact sound he makes when you laugh unexpectedly.
You are standing in the bedroom of the most notorious mob boss in New York. Wearing the pearl necklace he gave you.
Sleeping in his bed.
Dating him.
For fucks sake, he’s been inside you. You came on the most wanted dick in this city.
The walls of his seemingly huge room, so pristine and elegant, now seem to turn from a sanctuary into a beautifully curated cage.
You have been falling for the most dangerous man in the entire city and until two minutes ago, you had absolutely no idea.
Your hand moves to put the dog tags back in their place, but it’s like you’ve switched to autopilot. Your fingers operate with a sense of detachment while your mind is still a mile behind, screaming.
You lower the chain back into the velvet-lined dark with a tremble you can’t shake. You should crush it in your fist, should throw it at the ground and stomp around on it, should spit on it for what this man did—to the world, to you—but all you can do is handle it with a carefulness that is usually reserved for unexploded ordnance.
The metal hits the bottom with a tiny clink. The sound is so small, yet it feels like a heavy iron gate slamming shut between who you were five minutes ago and who you are now.
You slide the drawer shut, the wood-on-wood glide sounding like a long, slow exhale of a secret that’s finally been caught. You do it with agonizing slowness, as if by moving quietly enough, you can trick the universe into rewinding the last sixty seconds, or rather the last months so you could have avoided stumbling into his strong but deceiving arms.
And immediately, your brain begins doing what brains do best when frightened—it rewrites the past with fresh ink.
Everything changes. Everything. You look around the bedroom again. But it’s not the same room anymore. It’s not a beautiful space where you spent evenings laughing and tangled in sheets with a man who handled you like he was scared to hurt you.
Now it’s a room belonging to James Buchanan Barnes. Mob boss. Ruler of the underworld. The man people whisper about like saying his name too loudly might summon him like the devil.
Your stomach is curled into a hard stone, your fingers still numb. And suddenly every memory of the last few weeks starts recoding itself.
You remember the first gift he gave you. Not the pearls. The flowers. Three dozen white lilies delivered to your apartment door a day after your first date.
You’d laughed at the absurdity of it, calling him to tell him that this is too much, way too much, but he had smirked over the phone, so soft and unabashed, only replying that you deserve it, that you deserve way more than that.
At the time it felt romantic. But now your mind shears the memory, leaving the colors bled and the angles wrong. You turn all the memories of him over in the light until the shadows fall differently, until they take on shapes that start to build a picture.
Maybe it wasn’t romance. Maybe it was a strategy. Because that’s what men like him do, right? They buy people. They build golden cages out of small, glittering gestures.
You rub your arms slowly.
Another memory surfaces. The restaurant. The one with the insane skyline view where the waiters treated him like visiting royalty.
You’d joked about it. Do you secretly own this place?
He’d smiled that slow, mysterious smile of his and simply offered you more wine. He had looked so pleased.
Tension coils behind your ribs, but your mind keeps going.
The necklace. The pearls. One month together and he gives you something that probably cost more than your entire wardrobe.
You had protested. He’d looked almost offended. He pouted at you. He looked so adorably soft, so hopeful you would take this gift from him, that you thought it to be sweet.
Maybe a little over-the-top.
But that was just Bucky, is what you thought. A little intense. A little larger than life.
However, now the thought hatches, its spindly legs prickling against your focus.
He wasn’t spoiling you, he was buying you. Buying your affection. Buying your trust. Buying your silence.
Heat floods your face. Shame webs across your heart in a dark lace of regret. You feel so embarrassed. It spreads across your whole chest and even stains the air around you.
Because you fell for it. You idiot fell for it.
Hook, line, and embarrassingly enthusiastic sinker.
You believed the soft way he looked at you. The way his voice dropped when he said your name. The way he kissed you like he had been wandering the desert and you were the first water he’d seen in years.
You believed the way he listened to you ramble about dumb things like your coworkers, your favorite movies, the stupid podcast you liked.
You believed the way he touched you. Gentle and devoted, and it all seemed so loving.
Your throat is tight, turned into parchment, the soft tissue shrinking and hardening until it feels ready to crack. Because all that might have been a performance. A simple performance to fool you.
Of course, he would know how to act. Of course, he would know how to charm someone. Men like that survive on manipulation.
But you don’t understand why it’s you. Why you of all people? You’re not wealthy. Not powerful. Not connected.
Which somehow makes it all the more humiliating because maybe that’s exactly why. You imagine the possibilities, and each one feels worse than the last.
Maybe he needed someone clean. Someone with no ties to his world. Someone who could unknowingly hold something for him. Transport something. Sign something. Test something.
Maybe you were never a girlfriend, but a tool. A pawn. A convenient, smiling civilian. Someone harmless enough that no one would suspect anything.
Your hand flies to your mouth to stifle a sound that hasn’t even formed, but you cannot lock out your mind, and a keener thought pushes through.
What if he didn’t need you for anything practical at all? What if you were just entertainment?
A normal girl to play house with for a few weeks. A soft distraction between grating business meetings and dangerous deals.
Your eyes and cheeks burn at the thought that somewhere behind those soft eyes and tender hands, he might have been laughing at how easily you melted. How quickly you trusted him.
You feel sick. Your stomach heaves in a frantic attempt to purge the very air you breathe. It drags liquid heat up from your gut to your searing cheeks.
Your gaze drifts to the chair by the window. His jacket still hangs there. Inside it, the gun rests quietly.
Your stomach flips again.
Because suddenly it feels impossible that the man who carried that gun tonight was the same man who tucked the blanket around you earlier, who swiped his tongue against your pussy this deliciously and stopped you from hiding your reactions.
It was simply a power play, and god, are you a stupid girl.
You hear his voice in your head again. Stay here. Lock the door.
A shiver runs down your spine. Because now the words sound different. There is none of that protective and caring cadence. All you hear is a command. Containment. Showing you he is the one with the power, he is the one dealing the cards.
Oh, god. What have you gotten yourself into. This is definitely the worst thing yet.
You know you have to get the hell out of here. High-tail it. Let your panic lend wings to your feet to carry you the fuck out of the devil’s quarters.
You absolutely cannot still be in this room when he comes back. Pretending you didn’t notice the gun was one thing. Pretending you didn’t discover who he actually is, is another thing entirely.
The lie would be too large. It would sit between you like a loaded weapon much deeper and more fatal than that damned gun.
Your pulse is a vibrating scream inside your throat, your chest, your whole body, because what happens when he sees that you know?
What does a man like James Buchanan Barnes do with loose ends?
Fear and dread pin your lungs against your ribs and make the hairs on your arms stand up.
You don’t want to find out. You grab your phone from the nightstand with shaking hands. Inside your mind, your thoughts are colliding and yelling at one another, memories reshaping themselves into something darker.
He was so worshipful. So attentive. So careful with you.
And it hurts. It hurts so fucking bad.
He really is the best actor you’ve ever met.
You glance once more around the room. The bed. The wardrobe. The luxury of everything.
Then you head for the door. Because whatever this was, whatever he was, you need to be gone before James Buchanan Barnes comes back.
There is that low, now seemingly threatening rattle vibrating through the wood of the door. Somewhere down the long dark of the hallway, a mess of voices spills out—too muffled to catch the words, just a low drone. Then there’s the sound of footsteps on the marble, over and over, like a pendulum, until it gets softened by the rugs.
It’s eerie how this place just functions. No clanking, no friction. Just the invisible, midnight grinding of a house that knows exactly how to keep itself running while everyone else is dead to the world.
Bucky's house.
No—your mind corrects strictly.
James Buchanan Barnes’s house.
You inhale slowly, steadying yourself, and turn the handle.
The door gives a tiny, smug click, and you step out slowly, looking around to see nobody.
Ahead, the hallway just stretches out forever, all that dark, expensive wood shimmering under these wall lamps that just stare at you, glowing like something waiting for its turn to speak.
It’s wide enough that you expect a massive echo, but the carpet is so thick it just eats your footsteps. It’s unsettling. The whole place feels like it’s sucked in its gut, just holding its breath, waiting to see if you’ll decide to jump through the floor-to-ceiling windows to your right in your desperation to leave this place.
The door closes behind you, and even though it doesn’t really make a sound, you flinch so hard, your little jump through the window plan might be accidental.
Your heart begins to pound harder now that you’ve left the safety—no, the illusion—of the bedroom.
Because this house feels much larger and colder out here. Maybe you should have taken the gun with you. But you don’t know how to use such a thing, because you’re a normal person, and normal people don’t carry those things around like an innocent handbag.
You take a few unsure steps and it feels like you’ve stepped backstage at a theater and suddenly realized the play you were enjoying might actually be a crime scene.
You know the way to the front door.
He walked you through the mansion when you first visited, his hand resting lightly at the small of your back, guiding you through endless rooms and hallways with an easy familiarity that felt charming at the time.
But you know better and realize he was just showing you the cage. But at least you were paying attention. Every turn, every hallway he bragged about is burned into your head. That charming tour just became the only map out of here.
Two hallways down. Past the staircase. Through the long gallery with the ample paintings.
Then the front entrance.
Simple.
Except for the fact that his mansion is apparently populated by a small army.
Maids. Guards. Staff who move through the house like quiet satellites orbiting the gravity of one man.
These were all signs you simply overlooked because he’s handsome. You bite the inside of your cheek out of frustration with yourself. How can one person be so fucking blind.
You start walking.
Your footsteps are soft, but your heartbeat is anything but.
A maid appears at the far end of the corridor just as you round the corner, and everything inside you locks up.
She pauses when she sees you, instantly throwing you a smile that genuinely looks pleasant. She recognizes you. You don’t recognize her. Your stomach turns and turns until it is knotted too tight to even be able to move.
“Miss,” she starts politely. “Aren’t you feeling well?”
You force a smile that you hope doesn’t look like it’s made entirely of nerves and the urge to run down this hall, disappearing out of sight.
“Hi,” you say, keeping your voice light, a little apologetic. “Sorry— I just... I think I need some fresh air. I have a bit of a headache.”
The lie comes out smoother than you expected. Maybe panic is a good acting coach.
The maid’s expression softens immediately. She even looks a little too concerned for you for whatever reason.
“Of course,” she says sweetly, and you actually feel bad for lying to her. Does she know who she’s working for? Does she know who you are supposed to be for the man who is her boss? Maybe you could ask her. Maybe she would shoot you for it, who knows. Maybe everyone in this godforsaken building owns a gun, ready to use it. “Would you like me to call the boss—”
“No,” you interrupt quickly, then soften the urgency with a small laugh. “No, it’s fine. He’s busy with work, right? I don’t want to bother him.”
You hate how natural the sentence sounds. How easily you can say work when you now know that word hides a thousand darker things.
The maid nods, but she does seem a little hesitant. “Of course.” Thankfully, she leaves it at that.
With the wish for you to feel better soon, and an awkward thank you from your side, you continue walking.
One corridor.
Then another.
Your mind keeps racing ahead of your body, building plans like emergency scaffolding.
It all suddenly looks so terrifyingly menacing. Especially in the dark. It feels so much like a trap. The lights are down and the shadows feel like they’re actually reaching for you. There’s this dreadful, suffocating weight pressing out from the walls, like the house itself is holding a grudge. Your skin is crawling, and the air feels too thick to actually get into your lungs. It’s stale, as though it’s been sitting in a basement for a hundred years, and now the building has finally stopped pretending to be a home and turned into a giant cave with only dead ends so you will never have a way out and will end up as a rotting corpse in some forgotten corner.
The dark walls feel like they are crowding your shoulders. Those deep red carpets are laid out just a little too perfectly, too insistent on keeping you in the center of the floor. Walking down those corridors feels like being threaded through a needle.
And it’s not that the place is ever actually quiet, it’s just that every sound here is on a leash. There is the clink of glass coming from somewhere deep in the gut of the mansion. The dry, dusty thud of footsteps on rugs that are probably more worth than your life in the eyes of the mob boss. Voices that stay low and thick, never quite hitting the walls. It’s too disciplined. It’s a silence that’s been trained to keep its mouth shut.
He probably won’t notice you slinking out of his home. However, what he will definitely notice, is that you will never see him again, or answer his texts or calls. So that will be a problem.
The man owns a gun, and whatever else he can kill people with. So you can’t go home, is what you think as you descend the wide staircase. When you get out of here, you can’t flee to your apartment.
Because he knows where you live. He picked you up there. Dropped you off there. Walked you to your door like the perfect gentleman.
You almost laugh at the bitter irony.
The most dangerous man in the city knows your address. He played the perfect gentleman just to find out where and how you live.
Which means going home would be like walking back into a trap you’ve just barely escaped.
But you know just who is badass enough to help you out of this situation. Natasha.
Natasha lives across town. Natasha answers calls at ungodly hours. Natasha once helped you move apartments at two in the morning with nothing but her wry commentary and a borrowed truck.
You could stay with her. For a few days, weeks, maybe even longer. You know she won’t mind. She’s just that kind of friend.
You could figure things out from there.
Your hand tightens slightly around your phone as you reach the bottom of the stairs.
You’ll text her once you’re outside.
Not before.
Because paranoia is part of your bloodstream now, and who knows who might glance at your screen, who might casually mention later that they saw you messaging someone.
So you keep walking until the entrance hall opens before you like the lobby of a five-star hotel. It’s extensive, with vast floors and tall ceilings and capacious doors at the far end like the exit to another world, a world you want so desperately to be a part of again.
You wipe your clammy hands on your thighs and try to mentally prepare yourself for this last step.
You cross the obsidian floor toward the doors with what you hope resembles casual determination.
Not too fast. Fast looks guilty. Not too slow. Slow looks hesitant.
You aim for something in between—the walk of a woman with a mild headache and absolutely no catastrophic revelations fluttering around inside her skull.
God, everything about the place seems so much darker now. The darkness even slinks upward into the walls, which are paneled in matte-finished ebony that drinks the light before it can reach the corners. There is no glow, not the one you imagined when you first walked in here, hand in hand with a man you thought you could fall so deeply for and would be safe with. But everything now feels iterative and cold and to feel safe means to leave and never return.
The guards notice you immediately.
Two of them stand beside the colossal front doors, tall shapes in dark suits, shoulders squared in that particular way men stand when their job description includes the possibility of violence. They’ve always been polite to you before. Quietly respectful. The way staff are supposed to be with someone important to the man who owns the house. You only now know the direction this importance takes.
They both straighten slightly when you approach.
“Ma’am,” the left one says with a deep voice that gives nothing away.
You offer another careful smile, layering it with just enough exhaustion to make your earlier excuse believable.
“I’m heading out,” you say, keeping your tone breezy, like this is the most normal thing in the world to do in the middle of the night after spending hours in their boss’s bed. “I have a headache, and don’t want to interrupt Bucky while he’s working.”
Your voice nearly stumbles over the name.
Bucky.
The harmless version.
The one that belongs to the man who kissed you like you mattered. Not the one attached to James Buchanan Barnes.
The guard on the left side of the door glances at the other one. It’s subtle, but you see it. A quick trade of communication.
Then he looks back at you.
“Boss aware you’re leaving, ma’am?”
The way he uses the word boss makes bile rise up your throat. You are actually getting a headache.
You force yourself to keep smiling.
“Oh, he’s busy,” you say lightly, waving a hand as if this entire situation is mildly inconvenient but otherwise harmless. “I would feel bad for bothering him while he’s working. And I could use some fresh air and a little rest. So I thought I would just head home.”
Neither guard moves. The doors remain closed.
You swallow tightly, and it feels like there’s a stone coming down your throat along with it, which makes your limbs feel heavier.
“I will call him,” the second guard offers, already reaching toward the small device clipped at his belt.
“No,” you blurt too quickly.
Both men look at you again, and your pulse tumbles when you feel a subtle shift sliding into place, into the invisible perimeter around this house, the machinery of control that keeps things exactly where James Buchanan Barnes wants them.
Your throat feels dry. Your voice tries to find a hiding place inside the hallway of your throat. You pull yourself together as best you can. “That’s really not necessary,” you add, softer this time, trying to patch over the crack you just made in your own story. “It’s just a headache. I don’t want him to be distracted by that. You can just let him know I left once he is done.”
The first guard studies you more closely now. He doesn’t seem suspicious exactly, but he does seem cautious.
And suddenly the hallway behind you feels very long. Too long. Because if they call him, and he walks in here while you’re standing at the door trying to escape his mansion—
Your thoughts spiral into vile possibilities faster than you can control them.
What does a mob boss do to a girl like you when he realizes she has discovered his identity? Certainly no good things.
Your heart pounds so loudly, it’s a single roar all around your skull. You feel hot, so hot, you could burst into flames.
The second guard lifts the radio slightly, eyes on you. “Sir—”
“Baby?”
The voice comes from behind you and it sounds so soft. Confused.
Your insides startle into a panic so bright, you turn blind for a second.
Your entire body freezes up.
Baby.
A freezing shiver breaks loose at the base of your skull and slides all the way down to your heels.
Baby.
The word traces the line of your back, making every hair stand up.
Baby.
You know you have to react in other ways than fear to your so-called boyfriend, so you turn around slowly, trying to unpin your strained expression.
He’s standing halfway across the hall.
Except, now he looks like a stranger.
While he was gone and taking that business phone call, he had changed into one of his perfectly tailored suits. The charcoal wool is stiff and sits snugly, and it would have ignited a heated flutter in your lower belly just an hour earlier, but now it just makes him look malevolent. He looks terrifying in his elegance. So symmetrical, your lungs are wheezing out of sheer fright.
The sweat on your skin, once warm from him, has now turned into a layer of ice. You look at him and think that no, this man doesn’t love you. All you have been to him is a soft room he stepped into to wash off the smell of whatever he does in that suit.
The business he talked about isn’t spreadsheets and meetings. It’s the way the two guards behind you have gone absolutely still, like dogs waiting for a whistle.
He looks dangerous. You have never associated Bucky with direct danger, only with protecting you from danger. But this is not a boyfriend’s posture, it’s a king’s. Even that softly confused frown he is giving you doesn’t make him seem less threatening. It’s just the look of a man who owns everything he sees and knows what to do with it.
Bucky.
Except now your brain whispers the other name.
James.
Every inch of that expensive tailoring screams that he could have you erased before his morning coffee, and he wouldn’t even get a crease in his trousers.
While you were falling in love, he was just managing a distraction.
Your heart is breaking all over again.
“What are you doing down here?” His voice sounds the same as always, and yet it doesn’t.
The guards immediately straighten although he is talking to you, though you wish he wouldn’t.
“Sir,” one of them starts, but Bucky lifts a hand slightly without even looking at them, silencing whatever explanation they were about to offer.
His eyes are on you. Only you. Concern tightens his face almost immediately.
There is a cold needle threading through your nerves. You feel like a deer that has been eating out of a hunter’s hand, only just now noticing the rifle leaning against the tree.
“I—” Your voice nearly betrays you, cracking halfway through the first syllable. Act. You have to act. You drag in a breath and force your shoulders to loosen, shoving your face into something resembling mild embarrassment rather than existential terror. “I wasn’t feeling well,” you lie, carefully smoothing your tone. “I didn’t want to interrupt you. It seemed pretty important.” You look toward the door, turning your body slightly with it in a gesture of longing. “So I planned on just heading home.”
His brows only pull further together, his expression turning deeper, and it doesn’t make this better at all. “You’re the only important thing, sweetheart. You know that.” His voice is low, but how does he manage to make it sound this gentle? Even soft.
Oh god, he’s coming closer. Of course, he’s coming closer, he’s your boyfriend, pretending to be your boyfriend, pretending to be worried, because his girl allegedly has a headache and wants to leave when he promised earlier to continue pleasing her in bed and asked her to stay and lock the door behind him because he doesn’t expect her to leave in the middle of the night.
But that doesn’t make it any easier for you to handle, doesn’t make your body react less in the horrifying way that this scary man is moving toward you, and he doesn’t know you know what kind of scary he is.
You feel your body fight against itself. You want to swirl around, run, bolt, fly through the door outside into the night, never to be seen again. Or at least not by him and his people. But you can’t. You have to stay, you have to remain planted to the floor. Even taking one step back would be a fatal mistake.
And suddenly he’s right there with all his tallness and built, and he still looks warm, but so much more intimidating.
You feel your insides shrink into themselves, your heart slipping into a corner somewhere deep.
The sheer scale of him in that suit makes your stomach drop. He is not a man, he is an entire system of brutality hidden behind a charming smile and gold cufflinks.
You shiver at the fact that your boyfriend could end a life with a nod of his head, and then come home and press his face into your neck as if his hands were clean.
“You’re not feeling well?” His voice drops into a frequency that is meant to be gentle and soothing, but for you, it just sounds like the rumble of an engine. The furrow in his brow grows shadows on his forehead. His eyes shift between yours so fast and piercing, with such a concentrated focus, scanning for the source of your pain as if he could kill it for you.
His hand comes up instinctively, the same way it always does when he’s worried about you, or when he’s not. It’s just normal for him to touch you. But watching his hand move toward you this time makes your back stiffen and a ring of alarm sounds out in your skull, shrill and poignant.
His fingers brush your cheek.
Your skin crawls of its own accord, and you flinch. You force your reaction to be small, but you can’t suppress it entirely. Your brain blanks, and your heart strikes high.
His hand stills, and so does your heart as it feels like.
Bucky notices everything. You guess it comes in handy with being the most wanted crime boss in the city.
His eyes sharpen slightly, and his concern turns more piercing. He looks at his hand still hovering awkwardly, then at you. His eyes are distraught, hinting at something deeper that just broke in two. And he looks so deeply puzzled.
“Hey,” he lets out, and it sounds a little raspy. You scramble.
“I’m sorry,” you breathe quickly, forcing a small laugh that sounds thin even to your own ears. “I’m just a little dizzy, I think.”
He studies you for a long moment.
The guards are silent now and you feel them watching from behind your back.
The house feels too quiet, too attentive, too alert.
James’ hand lowers slowly, though his gaze doesn’t leave your face.
“You’re pale,” he acknowledges, his voice grainy. He sounds like he is holding his breath.
You shrug weakly. “Yeah, well. Not my best look.”
He’s not smiling, and you start sweating. How did you never notice just how scary this man looks.
He’s thinking. You can see it. Pieces moving behind that stormy gaze. Your heart hammers harder.
Please don’t see it.
Please don’t see that you know.
He exhales slowly, then reaches for your hand, and he doesn’t do it possessively, nor roughly, just tenderly closing his fingers around yours.
“Come with me,” he says quietly, and it could sound like a plea if he weren’t the man that he is.
Your skin is a furnace. You might explode. You force a shaky breath, praying he doesn’t hear the way your heart is trying to kick its way out of your ribs.
“Bucky, I really just—”
“I know,” he cuts in softly, but there is something thick and hunted in the way he talks. “Just a minute.”
He looms over you with his whole presence and those intensely fevered eyes and he sucks the oxygen clean out of your lungs.
He nods toward the hallway behind him.
“My office is right there. We’ll sit down for a second, make sure you’re okay. And if you think I’d let you go home alone with a headache you can think again, doll.”
Doll.
God, you really have been stupid. Doll.
This is not a sweet endearment. This is literal. You are a thing made of porcelain that he is scared of dropping—or since a man like him isn’t scared of anything—you’re a thing he realized he can break.
Your pulse spikes.
Office.
Private.
Closed door.
Every alarm bell in your body begins ringing at once.
In his office, the rules of the outside world—the rules where you are safe—don’t apply. It’s where the blood gets mopped up.
But the guards are watching. The exit is behind them.
They aren’t moving a muscle and stand there like gargoyles, guarding your only hope for escape.
And Bucky—James—is standing right in front of you, his thumb brushing lightly across your knuckles.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, concern weaving through his quiet tone.
Well, you’re shaking because you can feel the callouses on his hands, the strength in his grip that suggests he could snap your wrist without his expression changing. He knows you are vibrating with nerves, but he has misdiagnosed the fever.
You force yourself to breathe. To smile. To pretend. Just like he has all these weeks. Just like he does now.
“Just the headache,” you whisper, and it’s tasting like bile.
He studies you for another long second, and for a moment you think he might see the truth. You think the mask is going to be ripped away right here in the hallway.
Then he squeezes your hand gently. “Come on, sweetheart.”
He turns you away from the door that would bring you to safety, moving his hand to the small of your back, and it is the gentlest thing in the world. But that somehow makes it so harrowing, because there is nothing rough in the gesture, nothing that could be called force by anyone watching, nothing but warmth and assurance, leading you into the heart of his house with the grace of a protector, and yet your whole body reads it like a sentence being handed down.
You are now thoroughly trapped, you realize while swallowing down the rising tide of bile. It feels like a master painter adding the final, darkening stroke to a portrait you can no longer step out of.
But there is nothing you can do. You let him steer you away from the door because what else are you supposed to do? Rip away, run, scream? That seems impossible in a house that breathes his name through every vent and doorway. A house where even the air seems employed by him.
The mansion appears to lengthen as you walk through it, as if corridors are being pulled like taffy just to spite you, just to show you how laughably far the front door already is, how absurd it was to think you could simply walk out with a polite excuse and a swallowed scream in your throat, hoping nobody heard it rattling behind your teeth, pretending you were still a girl who had a choice in where she slept tonight.
You try to pay attention. You try to mark the route the way people do in movies when they’re kidnapped or hunted or trying not to fall off the edge of the earth—left at the long console with the black granite top, right at the staggering painting in the gilded frame, straight past the alcove with the antique lamp and the white flowers that smell expensive and funereal at once.
But panic is a vandal and it is paralyzing and it comes in and smashes every useful thought with a chair.
Your heart is beating too hard, your blood too loud, your mind too busy manufacturing horrors to do something practical like remember turns. Foyer, hall, archway, staircase, another hall. No—was it staircase first? Was the office past the library, or past that room with the dark green walls?
Oh god, this is horrible. You're really starting to feel lost and this might be a catastrophic blow to your faith.
You try to pin each detail to the inside of your skull, but they slide off slick as fish, and every second spent trying to memorize the geography of this place only makes you more conscious of the fact that you are being walked farther and farther from the only exit you knew.
Why would he take you this far? The question lets sweat collect at the base of your neck. Why not the room just off the main hall? Why not one of the closer offices? Why not let you leave if you are only dizzy, only pale, only under the weather the way you claimed?
Does he suspect something? Has he already seen it, the wrongness in your face, the recoil you were too slow to hide, the way your voice came out laced too tight? And worse than that, more awful than suspicion because it drips with intention—was there always going to be a moment like this? Had he always been walking you here in one way or another, from the first date, from the first gift, from the first time he looked at you as if you were worth the chase?
Maybe this is what men like him do. Maybe he had a plan long before you ever had a clue. Maybe there has never been a single unarranged second between you, and you were just too lovesick and dazzled to notice the rails under your feet.
His hand stays at your back the entire time, broad and warm, but it makes you want to shove him away from you. When you hesitate, the pressure spikes just enough to remind you which way the door isn't. He is leading you forward and it would have felt gentle, but it doesn’t. No longer.
His thumb-strokes across your back don’t feel comforting at all and more like he is smoothing out a wrinkle in his own sleeve or the way he might polish a piece of silver he has decided to keep.
You suppress a chilling shiver he surely would have felt.
When you glance at him, because some abhorrent part of you still does, still wants to; you find concern in his face and it nearly brings you to the floor. You can’t glimpse any coldness, no strategic thinking whatsoever. At least not the kind you expected to see. His eyes aren’t narrowed and sharpened with discovery, there is no clipped impatience, no telltale crack in the mask.
He looks at you the way he has always looked at you when something seemed off, with his little frown and that determination, as if your problems are things he would like to drag outside and beat to death with his bare hands.
His gaze moves over your face with the same intimate concentration that once made your stomach warm for all the right reasons. It does not help. It makes everything worse.
Because if this is performance, then he is monstrous at it. If this is an act, he’s lived in the skin of it for a lifetime.
A lie shouldn’t feel this solid, shouldn’t have a thumb that knows exactly where your tension hides.
If he is acting, then he deserves a stage and an audience and perhaps a crown.
You can barely stand it, this collision between what you know and what he appears to be. A man can’t look at you like that and still be the most feared name in the city. Except apparently he can. Apparently, men can be two things at once. Apparently, the universe is vulgar enough to make both true.
You pass a maid coming the other way—a small, neat woman in a crisp uniform. She is carrying folded lines in her arms, and Bucky acknowledges her with nothing more than a curt nod, and she responds with a warm little smile aimed at you and the faintest dip of her head—something halfway between greeting and curtsey, so practiced it is almost invisible, but not invisible enough, not to you, not now.
It makes your breath hitch, how he doesn’t swell with importance, or doesn’t put on a show of his control.
He’s so comfortable in his power that he doesn't even need to show it off; he just steers you onward, knowing nobody will do a single thing to stop him.
And your stomach lurches so suddenly it feels as if your bones have missed a step. Because there it is. There, in one small exchange, is the whole persona of him. He is not loud or cartoony with his power, he just has it. It’s real. It doesn’t need to announce itself because everyone in its radius already knows where to bend.
The maid’s smile is kind, almost affectionate, and that somehow shames you more, because it suggests this has been obvious to everyone but you.
They all know what he is. The guards know. The staff knows. The men at the gate, the drivers, the strangers in tailored suits who always nod to him with instant stillness in their spines—they all know.
And you, meanwhile, had been floating around this house in your pretty little ignorance, accepting tea on silver trays, accepting jewelry in velvet boxes, accepting his mouth and his hands and his delicious attention as if you had simply stumbled into the arms of an intense, rich man with old-fashioned manners and a dangerous face completely by accident.
You would like to face palm yourself, but this is a bad moment.
Natasha will definitely do it for you once you get out of here and manage to escape to her apartment.
You had looked at the signs and called them charm. You had looked at vigilance and called it romance. You had looked at fear arranged into etiquette and thought that wow, he really runs this company proficiently.
The embarrassment of it blooms hot under your skin, nearly as painful as the fear. You have been blind. Worse—willingly blind. Blind not by accident but by appetite, by wanting. Love, or whatever this early ferocious thing is, has wrapped a hand-woven scarf around your eyes and led you smiling into a cathedral built from warning signs and decorated with red flags.
And the humiliating part, the part that makes you feel like you could peel yourself out of your own skin from sheer mortification, is that you had even congratulated yourself for being so unbothered by his world.
Look at you, cool girl extraordinaire, dating the beautiful, mysterious executive in his deluxe mansion, pretending not to notice the guards and the driver and the way everyone waited half a beat too long for his approval before moving.
You had thought you were being mature. Sophisticated. Unruffled. Meanwhile, you were essentially a decorative houseplant with a pulse, sitting in the sun of his attention and calling it insight. It would almost be funny if it weren’t your life currently doing a slow and terrible cartwheel off a cliff.
How could you have ever believed that a guy like him would be interested in that naive, silly girl that you are.
Honestly, if you survive this ordeal, you will end up in some corner of your small, meager apartment, bawling your eyes out, and keep living that unlucky life of yours.
He glances at you again as you walk on that burgundy red carpet deeper into the hole that is another hallway, and his hand presses a little more firmly between your shoulder blades. It’s protective rather than possessive to anyone looking in from the outside, but the gesture sends another flare of panic through you anyway.
You wonder if he can feel the fear on you, if it comes off your skin. You wonder if men like him are trained by experience to smell a lie the way dogs smell storms. You wonder whether he is leading you to comfort or containment. Every room you pass seems too opulent to be real with those chandeliers like frozen explosions, rugs plush enough to kill the sound of literally anything, the dark wood twinkling creepily under low gold light, paintings in heavy frames, looming over everything, looking down their painted noses at anyone not born into the frame.
The place no longer looks luxurious so much as fortified. You see the thickness of doors now. The depth of corridors. The strategic sightlines. The subtle placement of people. This house is not merely beautiful. It is defensible. It is a kingdom in disguise.
And you had been letting yourself be loved in it. You stupid girl had let him come way, way too close to you.
But it’s what makes every step hurt more than it should. Because despite everything, despite the gun and the initials and the name on the tags and the avalanche of terror crushing common sense into powder, there is still some small perfidious corner of you that keeps stumbling over the memory of how gentle he was, how attentive, how he watched your face as if your feelings were weather and he meant to learn every season.
You hate that part of yourself right now, and that it even exists in the first place after everything you found out about the man and what knowing him entails.
You want cleaner fear, simpler fear, fear without ache in it. But your fear is contaminated by affection. By memory. By the wrenching possibility that whatever else he is, whatever blood has dried invisibly on his hands, the softness he’s shown you may have been real. And if that is real, then the rest is not easier to understand. It is harder. Infinitely harder. It means the monster did not wear a mask. It means the monster kissed your forehead and tucked blankets around your legs and remembered how you take your coffee. But your brain can’t follow all of that.
Another turn. Another corridor. Another room you cannot catalogue fast enough.
You try again to memorize the path, because panic may be a vandal but desperation is stubborn.
The wall here is paneled more deeply. There is a bronze wolf on a pedestal. A narrow window at the end of the hall. A runner rug patterned in deep red, almost the color of old cherries, almost the color of dried blood if your mind is in the mood to be cruel, which it surely is.
Your thoughts keep darting ahead of you and slam themselves against every worst-case future they can find. If he knows you know, what does that mean? If he does not know you know, what then? Which is safer? Is there a safer version of this at all?
You imagine phones taken gently from your hand. Doors locked with apologetic clicks. Promises made in that low warm voice while your life narrows to the width of his will.
The terrible thing is that none of your imaginings need to be loud to be horrifying. A man like him does not need spectacles. He has infrastructure.
By the time he slows in front of a set of double doors farther inside the mansion than you have ever been allowed, or invited, to go; your nerves are so frayed they feel almost luminous, every sound oppressive, every movement enlarged.
He looks down at you, his face still threaded with worry, and sweeps his hand from your back to your elbow in a gesture so careful it would be beautiful in any other universe. In this one it only makes your chest tighten until breathing feels like work. He leans slightly closer, and his voice drops, intimate as a hand at your throat, though there is nothing harsh in it.
“What’re you thinking about, baby,” he asks quietly, searching your face.
Well, you’re thinking about the front door.
It’s where you left your mind.
Or maybe it was lost in his room already. Maybe it stayed with the gun on his carpet.
And the other, the more rational part of your mind, the one that told you this couldn’t have been true anyway, because you are you and he is him, lingers in every news story you ever half listened to.
You are inside the tormenting, glittering realization that you have not just fallen for a dangerous man, but for the dangerous man, and that all the softness you took as sanctuary may have only been the most exquisite blindfold ever tied.
“Nothing, Bucky,” you reply weakly, trying to ease, but your voice is shaking just that tiny bit, and judging by the uncomfortable twist of his mouth, he caught it.
You’re too lost in your stupidity that you’re hardly present when he opens his wooden office door and ushers you inside, again with the most tender movements.
The office is warmer than the hall, quieter too, and it makes goosebumps rise on your arms and the hairs stand tall at the back of your neck because this room is built to keep any sound inside and secrets fat and sleeping in the walls. Everywhere you look there is dark wood and low amber light and books lined up in stern, handsome rows as if knowledge itself has been drafted into his service.
You feel the world shrink from cathedral to chamber, from public performance to something confined, more dangerous, more indiscreet, because now there are no guards, no maids, no witnesses to help keep either of you inside your assigned role.
There is only him, only you, only that soft snick of the door as he shuts it behind him; and that small, tidy sound feels like it’s happening inside your own chest. You watch his hand leave the brass knob, and the logic in your head just gives up. There’s only a hysterical, messy scramble of thoughts, all of them howling at once and all of them useless.
He turns back to you immediately, all his attention gathering around you with that familiar chilling completeness, and before you can decide whether to stand very still or bolt like a startled animal with nowhere sensible to run, he is guiding you toward the couch near the fireplace with one hand steady at your waist and the other brushing over your arm, then your back again. He’s never forcing or gripping hard, but he’s just not letting go of you and it makes you want to jump against the wall in hopes it’ll crack and you’ll land on the other side because his touch is making you more and more nervous.
He treats you as if he thinks you might faint at any second.
It is infuriating, that gentleness. It feels like a kind of torture that’s impossible to fight because your skin has a longer memory than your head. Your body still knows him first as safety. It still recognizes the heat of his palm and the strength of him, the way he moves as though you’re the center of the room.
And now every instinct is splitting at the seams. All you want to do is run, you want him away from you, you want to be far gone from all of this, you want to scream and scream some more, but the other half of you is remembering how carefully he tucked a blanket over your legs last week when you fell asleep during a movie or the way he has checked you for bruises after literally making love to you with that distressed frown upon his face, scared he’s been too rough with you.
The collision makes you dizzy enough that, absurdly, he may not be wrong. You might actually faint. Just from the sheer vertigo of finding out that the man who kissed you so devotedly has a name the whole city says with a tremble in their voices.
“Sit down for me,” he coaxes, and his voice is low, soft, carrying none of the steel you used to hear when he dealt with his men, and that contrast nearly makes your skin crawl.
You lower yourself onto the couch because your knees are not reliable enough to argue with him. The room seems to have acquired a faint sway, because the blood in your veins feels thin and feverish, and he stays right there, close enough that his thigh nearly brushes yours before he drops into a crouch in front of you.
The sight of this dangerous man folding all that height and breadth down to your level, gaze lifted to your face with plain concern would have melted you an hour ago.
But all it does now is frighten you some more. It feels too intimate, too earnest, too much like care, and care from a man like him is no simple thing. It is not a ribbon. It is a chain in softer clothing.
You swallow hard and that alone almost makes you flinch.
His eyes move over you with increasing worry, taking inventory in little silent increments. Your face is pale, you feel the damp shine of stress at your temples, you can’t keep your fingers still in your lap, and you can’t quite tame the uneven hitch in your breath.
He reaches up and lays the back of his hand against your forehead, then your cheek, his brows knitting tighter, and his mouth presses into a serious line. “You’re sweating,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you, as if he would like to issue orders to your body until it starts behaving properly.
His thumb grazes the curve of your jaw, feather-light, and you have to stop yourself from jerking away too sharply. You have to refrain yourself from slapping his hand away.
He notices even the version of restraint. You guessed, he does. A man like him has to. A man like him would. But it does worsen your situation.
A chill spreads along the base of your neck.
His eyes sharpen, not with suspicion exactly, but with apprehension deepening into something more searching, more troubled. “Talk to me, baby,” he pleads, softer still. “Did something happen? Did I do something?”
You stare at him.
For a moment the question does not make sense, your mind too busy running in circles with sirens in its hair, but you notice the shadow in his face, the hunch, the way his gaze jumps to your mouth, your throat, your posture curled too tight, and it seems bizarre because he honestly looks as though he might dread he pushed you too far, touched you too much, misread your body, took a liberty you weren’t ready for.
The absurdity of that nearly splits your head open because earlier when he—god, when he had his criminal tongue on your pussy—he acted so attentive, he seemed genuinely careful and devastatingly patient, and yet now, knowing what you know, even that lightness now hardens into a new breed of atrocity.
Because if this is him being careful, if this is him holding himself in check, then what does rough look like in a man built the way he is, in a man whose name can make grown men go quiet? What shape does cruelty take when it belongs to someone with this much power and this little need to raise his voice?
“No,” you answer too fast, the word skidding out of you. “No, you didn’t— nothing like that.”
Well, he did do something. A lot, really. Things that would put him in a cell never to be let out.
But he didn’t do anything to you yet. Yet. He might, if you don’t get your shit together.
His shoulders loosen by a fraction, but not enough. Not nearly enough. He still looks wound up. He still looks a little perturbed.
“Are you sure?” he asks, and there is something sincere in his voice, it is disorienting. “Because, honey, you can tell me if I was too much. If I missed something. If I—” He stops, swallows, and the hand at your cheek gentles further, as if he is trying to make himself seem safer. Funny. “I need to know. Need to know if there was ever a moment when you didn’t feel good.”
Something is dipping in the air around you, and everything feels distorted. Your head is hazy and a complete maze, because how is he even doing it this well?
You pull back then, small at first, because having his hands on you for longer will surely drive you insane. You don’t shove him off, or smack his hand away, you simply move out of his palms enough to break the line of his touch, but even that has him looking at you more closely.
You gather your hands together in your lap so he won’t see them tremble and shake your head with a smile that feels stapled on, brittle and thin, and one wrong breath away from snapping in half. “I’m okay,” you say, aiming for sheepish, for embarrassed, for normal. “I just need some sleep, I think. That’s all. It’s probably stupid. I’m probably just a little exhausted and overreacting.”
He doesn’t buy it.
You can tell immediately, and you hate that you can tell, but you notice how his whole face changes in that subtle way his face does when he has decided something is amiss and he is not going to stop until he gets to the bottom of it.
He shifts closer, forearms braced loosely on his thighs, his attention absolute. “Then sleep here,” he deadpans. As if this is simply the answer to all the problems in the world. “You don’t need to go anywhere tonight. 'Specially when you’re not feeling well.”
Your stomach contracts into a hard, cold knot, and it feels like there’s a displacement in your chest. It’s the sensation of a staircase ending one step too soon and you didn’t notice so now you’re hitting air instead of floor with a heart-shaking jolt. It is jarring. It is petrifying, because it means you’re not getting out of here that easily. You might not be getting out of here at all if he continues to look at you like that.
Sleep here.
Stay here.
In his house. In his reach. In the center of the web.
Your pulse stutters so hard it hurts.
“I should go home,” you try, and even to your own ears it sounds small, unconvincing, more instinct than argument.
His frown deepens, utterly baffled by your insistence in the face of what he clearly sees as a solvable problem. “Why?” he asks quietly, and his voice sound a tad hoarse. “If you feel bad, why would I let you leave?”
Your lungs can’t seem to catch any air although it’s all around you.
Why would I let you
He didn’t say why would you leave, no he said why would I let you.
Good god, you really have been a stupid girl. The signs were all in front of you, weren’t they? They were literally speaking to you.
He’s talking in a tender tone, making his voice all soft and gentle, even soothing and so concerned, but that’s just the outside. You never paid attention to what lay underneath, hidden deep inside, because the outside was pretty and alluring enough. And maybe you are imagining it now, the gravelly implications in his tone, maybe your body’s just trying to see and hear things that aren’t there, but perhaps it truly has been there all the time and you were too wrapped in him to notice it.
You stand up quickly.
And you shouldn’t have done that because he will think what the hell you’re doing now, but your body decided and now your body is doing it.
The room sways, your vision going soft at the edges for one humiliating second, and his hands are on you—one at your elbow, one at your waist, and there is no shaking them off.
You flinch despite yourself and he stills as if you have struck him. You know he doesn’t understand your reactions, how could he.
“Hey,” he coos, his voice lowering even further, and there is definitely something thick in his voice. “Easy.”
“I’m fine,” you insist, too breathless, too papery, trying to peel his hands off you without making it look like peeling, which is impossible, because every move feels too fast or too urgent, every instinct either too frightened or too telling. “Really, Bucky, I’m just tired. I’m probably being ridiculous.”
His gaze searches yours with such intensity it feels almost physical. “You’re trying to get away from me.”
The words are quiet, and although there is no anger in them, no threat at all, it has your mouth go dry.
“No,” you answer, and it is not a good lie. “No, Bucky. Of course not. My head’s just really hurting.”
Something in him clicks into a higher gear—not a lack of trust or anything like that, but a kind of piercing, automated focus. Something in his eyes snaps into high definition. All that soft, vague concern is gone, replaced by an attention so bright and infiltrating it feels like being pinned to a board under a microscope.
Carefully, he makes you sit back down on the couch and lands right beside you. You feel the heat of him pressing into your side, though he does give you a bit of space.
His hand comes to your upper arm, stroking once, and you hate your own pulse for noticing how familiar it feels despite it having lost its appeal. “Look at me,” he presses, and it almost sounds like an order. His voice seems serious enough to make you shiver in fear.
You look at him because you have to and refusing would be louder than screaming.
His eyes are so damn blue in this weirdly dim light, clear and intent and lined with such deep worry. He’s definitely denser, his concern losing its fluff, but not its patience. There still is no trace of coldness, no roughness, nothing that is overly intimidating despite the man he is.
Just that same irksome softness, that same look like your distress is something he wants to fix with both hands, with all of himself if necessary.
It rattles you more than if he had come in hard and sharp and monstrous. A monster would be easier. A monster would let your fear stand up straight. But this man looking at you like your pain pains him is a labyrinth with no clean exits.
And it feels foreboding. It has you more on edge. It’s the way the woods go quiet right before something heavy steps out of the brush; a sudden, absolute alignment of intent.
Maybe he knows you know and now he’s waiting for the right moment to pounce. You do your best to keep your fright behind your eyes.
“You can sleep here tonight,” he offers again, gentler now, and it seems as though he believes repetition might soothe you into agreement. “I’ll stay with you. Or I won’t, if you want space. I’ll get you water, food, whatever you need. But I’m not sending you home like this.”
Not sending.
Again that wordless, soft-toned authority.
Again that sense that his care and his control are fused so tightly together they share a bloodstream.
You are running out of room inside your own face. Running out of expressions that can pass for normal. Running out of ways to keep the panic from drawing its blade.
So you do the only thing you can think of, the stupidest thing, the most desperate thing—you lean in and kiss him.
It’s short and small and only meant to reassure, to smooth over, to redirect. Your lips meet his and every cell in your body revolts.
And it’s not at all because he kisses badly, god no. Even startled, even worried, he receives you with immediate tenderness, one hand lifting to cradle your jaw, his mouth warm and careful and heartbreakingly familiar but also so, so foreign, a cold shiver seizes your back.
It is what makes nausea roll through you so suddenly you nearly choke on it. Because this is James Buchanan Barnes.
This is the name on the dog tags, the name on the news, the name people lower their voices around as if it might hear them and turn its head.
This is the most feared man in the city and his mouth is still the same mouth that kissed the corner of your smile with one of his own.
Your stomach turns so sharply you have to concentrate not to pull away in disgust too soon, not to betray yourself with the wrong kind of urgency.
You kiss him once, twice, tasting dread under the memory of want, and every instinct in you screams that you are pressing your lips to a loaded weapon and pretending it is a rose.
When you ease back, you make yourself smile.
It feels gargantuan, the effort of it.
“I’m okay,” you whisper, like that explains anything, like that proves you are only tired and not terrified, only overwhelmed and not trying to survive. “I promise. I can go home like this.”
His thumb brushes under your eye so lightly, and you run your tongue over your lip, trying to get that uncomfortable tingling to go away.
But he still looks unconvinced.
More than unconvinced, actually. Plagued. As if the kiss reassured him of your affection but not your state, and now that mismatch is bothering him in ways he can’t make sense of.
His gaze lingers on your face, then your mouth, then your hands clenched too tightly in your lap. He takes one of them and turns it gently palm-up, his fingers closing around yours. You can feel how much bigger his hand is. You can feel how easily it encloses.
And all at once the room feels narrow as a throat, the walls leaning in, the lamplight too gold, the air too warm, and you are sitting inches from a man who could ruin your life before breakfast and is looking at you like the only thing he wants in this world is to make you feel safe.
“What’s going on, doll?” His voice could even be pleading, just a little bit. It’s definitely croaky. “I— I get the feeling—”
“I told you, Bucky. It’s just a headache.” He sighs to that, but all you can think about is how completely his hand closes over the bones of your own. How easy it would be for those fingers to tighten from comfort into command, from tenderness into something unarguable.
His other palm is at your arm, and your body does this awful arithmetic without your permission, subtracting your strength from his and arriving, every single time, at the same answer—none.
There is none. Not enough. Not nearly enough.
You notice things you never let yourself notice before because before they were part of romance, of safety, of the warm relief of being cared for by someone larger and more grounded than you.
Now those same details come back rearranged into something atrocious. The width of his shoulders. The thickness of his thighs where they bracket the edge of the couch. The controlled way he moves, never wasted, never sloppy, suggesting he has long ago become intimate with force and no longer needs to flaunt it.
Even the gentleness feels frightening because it is so deliberate. You can feel, in every cautious touch, that he is handling you lightly not because he must, but because he chooses to. And choice is a nightmarish thing when done by a man like him. Choice means there are other versions of him. Choice means there are rooms in him you have never seen. Choice means the tenderness is not the whole house, only one lit window.
You sit very still because being still feels safer than moving, and panic has made your limbs feel both too heavy and too ready to misfire. While he studies your face with that immensely worried crease between his brows, your thoughts keep slipping sideways into grotesque little visions of what would happen if he decided to stop being soft.
Not even dramatic visions. That would almost be easier. Nothing so loud as being thrown or shouted at. Your fear is smarter than that now. It imagines quieter things. A wrist caught before you can pull away. A door closed with no visible hurry. Your name said in that low voice while every route out of the room gently, politely disappears.
You hate yourself for thinking it, hate the way your pulse kicks harder with each new image, hate most of all that his touch remains careful through all of it, remains incessantly kind, so that your fear begins to feel almost counterfeit in the face of what he is actually doing, and then the next thought corrects you suddenly—no, not counterfeit. Instinct. Instinct finally dragging itself awake after weeks of sleeping with its face turned to his chest.
He must notice something fresh pass through you, some new tremor or tightening, because his jaw flexes and then he reaches into his pocket for his phone.
He is glancing at the screen and some shutter drops behind his eyes. It doesn’t slam, it just falls shut, as simple as that. Just sliding into place as neatly as a blade returning to its sheath.
He lifts the phone, says a name you don’t catch because your ears are too loud with your heartbeat, and when the person on the other end answers, his voice changes so completely that a chill runs over your skin.
“Bring cold towels to my office. And painkillers. Water too.” That is all.
Simple words. Ordinary words.
But the voice that carries them is stripped clean of softness, and that is what makes your blood curdle. There is no gentle edge worn smooth for your benefit. It is a voice pared down to function, to expectation, to command. Not loud, not theatrical, not cruel in any obvious way, it is just cold the way a simple black stone is cold. Cold the way a locked gate is cold.
There is no room in it for hesitation, no room in it for mishearing, no suggestion that obedience is a favor rather than the natural order of things. Whoever is on the other end responds immediately, and he ends the call without another word, already moving to set the phone aside, already turning back toward you, and your whole body has gone thin with dread because all you can think, stupidly, helplessly, is this is how he speaks when he is not pretending to be gentle.
And if this is his ordinary command voice, then what would he sound like if he knew? If he looked at you and saw recognition staring back, saw the name James Buchanan Barnes fully formed in your eyes, saw that you had found the gun and the initials and the tags and had welded them all together into the truth? Would his voice sharpen? Flatten further?
Would he say your name with that same smooth authority and turn it into a thing that could pin you in place?
The thought is a beaded sweat of ice trailing down the ladder of your back.
You try not to react. You fail a little. He sees the shiver, he sees, because he is James Buchanan Barnes for goodness sake, and immediately his focus softens again as he leans a fraction closer, anguish returning to his face as if the colder version of him never existed at all.
The door catches your eye over his shoulder.
It is simply there. Closed, but not locked, at least not that you can see. Dark wood, brass handle, a square of possibility in a room rapidly losing oxygen.
And once you look at it, you cannot stop.
Your gaze keeps darting back like something hooked. You begin to map the distance with desperate measurements.
If you stood up now—no, not stood, launched—if you shoved him hard enough to buy yourself one puzzled second, maybe two, could you make it? Out the office, into the hall, left or right—God, which one had you come from?—and then what? Down one corridor, past another, through that impassable warren of pragmatic but pristine floors and expensive silence and armed loyalty, praying that your body would remember what your mind failed to memorize?
You picture it anyway. You can’t help it. You picture yourself bolting, slipping on gleaming floors, turning wrong and wrong again, heart exploding in your throat while the mansion multiplies around you like a bad dream, each hallway birthing three more, each staircase leading not to freedom but to another floor full of his money and his people and his reach.
Still, the image won’t leave you. It grows instead, takes on velocity. You imagine the first breath of motion, the clean scary choice of it. The couch under you unweighting. The door handle cold in your palm. The sudden crash of everything becoming honest.
You don’t have a lot of choices here. So maybe fate would take pity on you. Maybe panic would become a compass. Maybe your body would remember a route your mind cannot hold. Maybe the front hall would be merciful and simply appear in front of you, all that dark wood and those massive doors and the guards too startled to stop you before you ripped yourself out into the night. It is preposterous. It is probably impossible. It becomes, nevertheless, the brightest thought in the room. Bright enough to burn.
You are too poised on the edge of movement now, too taut, every nerve drawn tight as wire.
“Baby,” Bucky starts, a little alarmed, and he shifts closer again, one hand lifting instinctively, probably to touch your face, your shoulder, your wrist, some place he thinks he can soothe.
But the sight of that hand coming toward you almost does it. Almost tips you over from imagining escape into choosing it. You can feel your muscles gathering without permission, your body preparing itself in secret, a rabbit under the hawk’s shadow. Run, run, run. For one crazed second you are already halfway gone in your mind—up off the couch, around the table, through the door, don’t think, just move, just run, run, run—
And then his fingers brush your arm, so lightly, so soft, but it breaks something inside you because you want his sweet touch, you want him to hold you, to soothe you, to love you, but you don’t want it to be James Buchanan Barnes, you want it to be Bucky, but he’s no longer Bucky, he won’t ever be anymore, and so you simply react.
You jerk, shoving his hand away before you can stop yourself, not enough to really hurt, but enough that the gesture hangs in the air between you like a shattered glass note.
Your breath is now gone entirely.
There are a few beats where simply nothing happens.
Then his hand drops back.
You stare at him, your own hand hovering stupidly in midair as if all you have to do is snip your finger to turn back the time.
And Bucky—James—just looks at you. For a small moment, he simply looks startled, like a deer in the headlights of your rejection. He looks so tremendously confused, his face totally unglued, but then his eyes shift gears, shift into alarm, shift into a concern so much deeper than before. It seems as if your recoil has unhinged him. As if it has frightened him for an entirely different reason than the one clawing its way through your chest. As if it has confirmed something he’s only lived in a nightmare before.
His features warp into something resembling desperation, his mouth hanging open, his eyes wide and asking, and it is nauseating to watch—the way he’s already cobbling together a version of reality where he isn’t the monster you’re trying to run from.
He is misinterpreting your panic and it makes you sick.
He isn't thinking She knows what I am. His mind is sprinting in the exact opposite direction to protect itself.
He thinks the headache is actually a migraine that has you reacting strangely, or it’s a panic attack, or some hidden trauma he didn’t know about, and he is already frantically building a scenario where he gets to fix it. His mouth stays slightly open, his breath hitching as if he’s about to choke on his own breath. He looks around the empty office with this desperate, wild squint, his eyes darting to the corners of the room as if he expects to find a physical monster standing there—something he can actually put a bullet in to make you stop shaking.
“Alright,” he lets out, and his voice is completely broken, a rough, dry scrape that sounds like it is tearing his throat.
He doesn’t lunge for you or do something big. Instead, he actually hitches his weight backward, trying to make himself smaller, which is harrowing because he is still twice your size and wearing a suit that could be sprinkled with blood in under an hour. His hands stay out in front of him, palms up, fingers twitching with this jittery, helpless energy. He is looking at you with this forlorn begging in his widened eyes, practically pleading with them for you to blame it on the lights, or the noise, or anything else in the world—because the alternative is that he is the thing making you look at him like he’s an executioner.
You might be running out of time to pretend.
“I’m sorry, Bucky, I— I’m so sorry, I don’t—” You don’t even know what explanation you are going to give him now, only that you are suddenly full of the clumsy need to fill the room with words before the room fills with something worse, and so your mouth opens on instinct, on panic, on the miserable little scraps of sanity still fluttering inside you. You hear yourself stammer out some thin, transparent nonsense about feeling strange, about maybe being overwhelmed, about maybe needing air, maybe needing to go home, maybe nothing, because every excuse sounds flimsy the second it leaves you, and every sentence makes your spirit mulch and dissolve into a gray slurry that won’t hold a shape.
And Bucky is still so close and still so beautiful and still so racked with his brows pinched into a severe, pained knot. His eyes are full of shadows, and this is all so bad.
His softness somehow makes all of this worse, not better, because if he were cruel already, if he were cold already, if he gave you even one clean villain’s grin, one sharp look, one thread of honest menace, maybe your fear would have somewhere proper to sit.
But he only examines your features as though it truly physically aches him to see you like this, as though your panic has reached inside him and laid a dirty hand around his heart.
“Don’t apologize, sweetheart,” he starts, and he says it so quietly, with so much care, still, but also with a mounting unease that is just about to reach its peak. “I just wanna know what’s going on. Talk to me, baby. Please. I—” he breaks off with a sigh, his jaw grinding. “If something’s wrong, if something’s going on, then I gotta know.”
You swallow hard in hopes that anything might help soothe the sting behind your eyes. You don’t believe him, not fully anymore, but some humiliating, hopelessly romantic part of you still recognizes the cadence of the man who kissed your forehead this morning, the man who tucked a strand of hair behind your ear with the most tender hands, the man who remembered how you take your tea and which side you prefer to sleep on and the fact that you hate when socks twist inside your shoes.
It is unimaginable, it is desolating how tenderness can survive in the same body as terror, how your heart can continue making a fool of itself even while your mind is setting the whole house on fire.
“Bucky, really, I’m just...” Your voice hitches, the words sticking like thistles in your throat. You look down at his hands and they are so huge and capable, currently flexing with an empty urge to hold you. You know those hands have held weapons. You know they’ve ended lives and carried blood. But right now they are trembling because you won’t let them touch you.
You can feel yourself growing sharper and shakier by the second, every nerve in you pulled too tight, every breath arriving shallow and unhelpful, and still he keeps speaking to you in that quiet and gentle tone, asking whether it was something earlier, whether he pushed too far, whether he missed something, where exactly it hurts. You can’t tell him it’s your heart and not your head that is currently in shambles.
The concern in him seems real. That is the terrible part. It seems real enough to bruise. You shake your head too quickly. You try to smile and feel it crack before it even fully forms. You say you are just tired. You say you do not know. You say you are fine with the kind of desperate brightness you would use when standing on the edge of a roof insisting you are only admiring the view.
His gaze drops to the space you are slowly clearing between you, and his expression hardens. Gears are grinding behind his eyes and suddenly he looks like the man in the hallway, filled with command and so fucking terrifying, your pulse spikes to unhealthy numbers. He doesn’t look at you, he turns his head to look in the direction of the closed door, his posture squared.
“Did someone say something to you?” He asks, his tone dropping into a low, scraping register that makes the hairs on your arms stand up. “In the hall? Before I came out?”
You blink at him in disbelief. Does he think someone threatened you? Does he think one of his own men, or some interloper in his kingdom, stepped out of line with you? The fact that that would cause such an intense reaction in him makes you want to be catapulted straight out of here because this is genuinely just getting all too much. He seems about ready to tear his own house down to find the monster that scared you, completely unaware that he is the one wearing the monster’s skin.
You are about to open your mouth to improvise your way to freedom, when there is a brisk knock on the oak door and it makes your entire body jerk.
Bucky turns toward the noise, but not before you catch the brief, hot flare of irritation that darkens his features. He rises with all his coiled grace and contained force, and for half a second you just stare at his back, seeing even that differently now. He really is a tall man. He is immense. Broad. Space seems to make room for him as he steps to the door. God, what the hell did you walk yourself into. The only thought that gives you a tiny bit of ease is that there surely have to be other girls out there who would have fallen for it all, looking at him.
He cracks the door open. A man stands in the corridor holding a tray balanced with a folded stack of damp, cold towels, a bottle of water, and a blister pack of painkillers. And it’s weird how this would have struck you as absurdly thoughtful just hours before but now it feels sinister. It is purely ominous. It is comfort orchestrated by absolute authority; a display of care that only exists because of total, unquestioning submission.
Bucky, or James, or the most wanted mob boss of all time; thanks him, quickly, absently, not unkind but distracted, his thoughts still hooked to you so visibly that even the man at the door registers the tension.
And that man glances inside just enough to catch sight of you on the couch, sitting there sweating, pale, rigid as a hunted thing.
A manic urge strikes you to scream for help. You want to yell at this stranger to run, to call the precinct, or to simply throw you over his shoulder and get you the hell out of this building. But the impulse dies in your throat. It would be entirely useless. Every single person under this roof operates on his frequency. This man wouldn't take a single order from you even if it would be more of a plea than anything else. All of these people in this damn building listen to his every word. He wouldn’t do a thing to help you.
And before you can even let go of the fantasy, the man immediately drops his eyes again and leaves, because everyone in this house seems trained in the art of not seeing too much.
But you see too much now. That is the problem. That is the irreversible thing.
Because while Bucky’s back is turned, while he takes the tray and shuts the door with his shoulder and crosses toward the sideboard, your gaze begins to snag on the office around you with new eyes, and suddenly nothing is only furniture anymore.
Nothing is only decoration. All the wood in here is dark and expensive, perhaps even that is getting paid to stay silent, and there are details you would once have filed away as masculine and stylish.
But now everything is imposing. Everything reads as evidence.
Like that locked cabinet that is too reinforced to hold unimportant paperwork. There is a map pinned behind glass with inked markings that look less like commerce and more like a tactical grid. A stack of files sits bound with a suspicious kind of neatness. Then there is a heavy antique letter opener glinting on the desk like a civilized version of a threat.
Even the art on the walls seems changed, the frames too severe, the subjects too stern, everything in here curated by a man who does not simply possess things but controls them. He dictates outcomes. He governs people. His office is a single spider web woven from all this darkened wood and his suits, and you are the only thing inside it that is still vibrating, sending signals straight to the center where he stands, and it is making your skin grow cold in patches.
He is opening the water bottle for you.
That tiny, stupid gesture nearly does it—the torturous way he makes this all so normal and so intimate when he says, “Here, baby,” without turning yet, as if this is still salvageable, as if you are merely unwell and he is merely worried and the world has not already split clean down the middle.
Something primitive detonates inside you, and perhaps if it were a conscious thought or a decision or just some other thing in a civilized sense, maybe you wouldn’t do what you are doing, but your body is revolting before your mind can dress the fear in language, and you’re up.
Oh god, you’re up.
You’re off the couch, you’re on your feet, and now there’s no going back, now there’s no sitting down because now you sprang up and now you will run. You will run because the suddenness of your own movement has chosen the path for you.
Without looking back, without another word, your feet move you to the door and they move so fast, the room is moving with you, your vision is filled with streaks. Your hand fumbles blindly before finding the door handle, wrenching it open, and then you are sprinting.
“You love me, you say. You love me, you say. You love me, you say. Then why are you shaking?”
- Richard Siken
A/n: I know this is basically one single scene and I truly don’t know how I managed to make it this long. I always add unnecessary details and emotional spirals wherever possible but I worry that I sit in the emotions for too long sometimes.
So please feel free to let me know if the emotional introspection and all those feelings got to be a little too much at any point because I know I tend to ramble and take a while getting to the point in my writing and it’s getting a little frustrating. Hearing what you guys think would be really helpful 🫶🏻
And if you enjoy my writing and would like to support me, please feel free to consider my ko-fi
Morning, besties! I hope everyone is well and ready for your update! :)
Summary: A year has passed since the events that left your newly formed family shattered, the four of you continuing to move ahead with your lives as best you can. The introduction of new equal rights laws for vampires across the United Kingdom marks a significant turning point, offering hope and the promise of greater acceptance. With these changes, you and II feel empowered to finally take the next step towards expanding your family, beginning to plan for the arrival of a child.
However, the journey towards this new chapter is not without its uncertainties. A new friend, with the best of intentions, offers some advice that despite your judgement, lingers in the back of your mind. Regardless of the strength of your bond and the depth of your commitment, you find yourself questioning whether these concerns hold any merit.
Your trust in the resilience of your marriage remains steadfast, and you dismiss the warning as unfounded. Yet, as time unfolds, those doubts prove harder to ignore. It is only when envy emerges unexpectedly - affecting one of the vampires you hold dear - that the true challenge reveals itself, threatening the peace and unity you have worked so hard to build.
Previous chapters - One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven Twelve Thirteen Fourteen Fifteen Sixteen Seventeen Eighteen Nineteen Twenty
Words: 6,951
Warnings: Vampire fic, mentions of blood and gore, plus lots of smut. 18+ content, minors DNI!
Tag list: In the comments. Please DM to be added/removed.
"Is Grace drunk?"
To be fair, with everything you've been through recently, you needed it. Needed a night away from the constant demands of motherhood, of being a wife to four, two of which you're solid as ever with, one you are reconnecting to, and the other barely speaking to at all.
"Mm," you hum, holding onto II's hand as you sway a little bit. "Just enough to take you upstairs and give you a really, really good time."
Leaving the baby for even a single night felt impossible to you, but your mum and III talked you into going away for the weekend , II's proposal of a very short break away to London, tied in with a little consultancy work he's doing for a Viking display at the Victoria and Albert museum. You're both tired, and need the chance to remember who you are as a married couple before you became parents, so with your little one being very well taken care of by her adoring uncle and doting nanny, off you went to bask beneath bright lights of the city.
Or rather, have your husband take you to Asian eatery Tattu for dinner, where the food is excellent and the cocktails are notoriously strong. Now, with your appetite for sushi and alcohol nicely sated, there's another that needs to be catered to.
It was III who got you on Tuesday. Now, it only seems fair you let II relieve his two month wait. God, how you want him just as much, too. You've spent all night yearning for him, seeing him sat across from you in an all black suit, his shirt open just enough to reveal a little peak of blonde hairs and plentiful tattoos.
Once in the privacy of your room, your kisses gain feverish heat, abandoning the idea of the bed for that moment and pushing him down to sit in the char, climbing astride his strong thighs. You run your hands down his chest, II shrugging his jacket off, hands then swiftly having your dress undone and bunched at your waist. With your confidence bolstered by alcohol, there is no hesitation there like there was a few days ago with III, your desire outweighing your feelings of body image insecurity.
He pulls your bra from you, mouth moving to lick in flicker upon your nipple, your head tipping back as you grind yourself against his hard cock, his teeth prickling in bite upon the pebbled bud in response to that. He daren't suck, not wanting to end up with a mouthful of breast milk, which despite the fact his diet is strictly blood only, he definitely does not have a kink for.
His breath flutters cool against you, groaning with arousal, his tongue running slowly from between your breasts and back to your mouth. "I missed you like this, my beautiful wife," he murmurs against your lips, hands moving to grip the rounds of your bum and pull you closer. "Can't wait to feel you squeezing on my cock."
Pushing you back, he moves you to your feet, pupils blown with lust through his vermilion stare, gripping those soaking undies and tugging them down. Shuffling the chair forward, he lifts your leg over his shoulder, scattering kisses up your inner thigh, the anticipation making you pant, a soft gasp fluttering over your lips as his mouth meets your folds. A firm lick rolls through the wet of you, his tongue seeking your clit and circling, flickering, evoking your wails, your hands going to his hair, nails flexing against his scalp as you mewl in delight. Each lick has your blood running hot, sends glimmers through you, little shocks of pleasure tingling your entire core as your cries rend the air.
He has you panting hard, each skim of his tongue over your tiny, potent little bundle making your hips rock against his mouth, his arms wound around you, one gripped to your waist, the other squeezing upon the rounded orb of your bum.
Oh, god above. You've missed your Viking.
His lips close in suck, your legs shaking, the heat of it snapping over your bones, the pleasure biting and full-bodied, a bright burn of warmth making the coil within you tighten sharply. Flattening his tongue against you, he lets you get off on the wide drag of it, the tip caressing your dewy opening as your clit throbs against the press, his hand moving to begin undoing his trousers.
“I could spend hours here, but fuck, I need you on my cock.” You’re so aroused, you can barely form thought as he pulls it out, thick and perfect, running it through the slick petals of your sex as you sit back astride him before feeding it into your gaping little hole, filling you with a rumbling growl.
White hot pleasure sizzles up your spine, ascending like a flurry of bubbles, the taste of yourself upon his hungry mouth more erotic than you can comprehend, moaning against his tongue as your rock back and forth upon him. There, both still half dressed and alight with embers for one another, you feel yourself blooming, mouth upon his as you moan, tongues rolling together, kisses all fire and honey.
The sensations of your walls being split so wide around him has bolts of pure bliss skittering through you, your tender little clit grinding against him as his hips buck up against you, pushing you back to devour your breasts with kisses, nibbles and licks.
The way his hands tour you, stroking ever rise and curve of your body, it has you just as mindless as the delicious drag of his cock over every sweet spot within you, scraping sparks through your walls, his groans deep and rich as he paws at you with unrelenting hunger. The heat of it roars like a forest fire, the embers sizzling over your nerves as your mutual moans fill the room, bliss tumbling through you both. It’s fervid and delicious, scorching and unrelenting, everything you know sex with II to be, and has been from that very first time you were with him.
His eyes are a bonfire of crimson glitter as he stares at you, fingers tangling in your hair, kissing you again with urgent need as his cock sends glimmers fizzing through you. It becomes even more uncontained, the power of him beneath you incredible, hands tightening upon your shoulders as he forces you down upon the rigidity of him, making you to take the brunt of every hard snap of his hips, hitting you so deep, you’re sent reeling and mindless atop him as your thighs tremble.
Your cries reach crescendo as the stars surge forth, entire nebula's glittering into decadent light, your walls fluttering around him, dragging his release from him as he groans and comes deep into the spasm of your cunt.
"Mmm, fuck that was so good," you pant, feeling his cock gently twitching within you, II grinning widely.
"I'm not done yet."
Words you're very fond of hearing.
He carries you to the bed, only losing the tangency to remove clothes, lying you down, sinking back into your warmth to the hilt. His hands encircle your wrists, pressing your arms down above your head, staring at you unblinkingly before his lips find yours again. His hips roll against you, spearing deep, the pace slow, but so scintillating and fevered, feeling yourself being remade around him. That sure press of his cock has you sparking, tongue slowly rolling with his, your fingers clenching on nothing as he keeps you pinned there.
You're soaking, your walls a slick heaven of velvet around him, II unable to resist slipping from you and kissing his way down to wrap you in a hungry suck, eating you like a starving man would gorge upon ripe fruit.
"You always taste sweeter after you come," he murmurs, "and I've no idea why that is, but I'm not bloody complaining."
His lips firm a suck around your bundle, and it sends a fiery chill ebbing through you, your back arching from the bed with a soft mewl. With his hands kneading at your thighs, your writhe against his face, II turning away and with a rapid snap of his fangs, sinking a bite into your inner thigh, feeding from his favourite artery with a deliciously deep growl.
While you're in the midst of having an amazing time, somebody else back in Bath is making her displeasure known.
"Oh, small! What is all the fuss about, hmm? What's wrong?" A slightly flustered Oliver asks Ivy, whose decibels have reached ear splitting.
"She's crying for III," he's told, Tanya coming to assist, leaning in to kiss her cheek. "He'll be here soon, baby cakes! Yes! He's just in the shower, because you threw up all in his hair. Yes, you did!"
"Isn't it a funny thing, how she settles for the vampires much faster than humans," he muses, gently bouncing the squealing tot in an effort to pacify her. "They're always the monsters in stories, who children should be scared of. Not that they aren't all great fellas, but it's so cute that this little one here is so drawn to them."
"They have a lovely bond," she smiles, stroking Ivy's hair. "I think it's the deadness in them she likes, too. They have a quietness about them that seems to soothe her."
"Hmm, never thought of that, petal." He leans to kiss her head, and she leans into him, happiness swelling despite her granddaughter's conniptions. "Shall we head back to yours once he's done, order a takeaway or something?"
Wanting a little of her own space, she's recently taken up residence in the guest house on the property, but she's up there at the house so often it sometimes doesn't feel like it.
"Eat here!" the voice of III sounds as he enters the orange lounge, hair still wet, shirtless, dressed in his favourite jeans that no longer have knees. There's also what he likes to call the Grace tear at the back, a space you can slip your hand into and give his bum a good squeeze, loving the fact that just like the rest of the vampires, he always goes commando. "I could murder some Chinese food right now!"
To be fair to III, he'd stroll around completely naked a lot more if he could get away with it.
"Alright, I suppose we could do that," Oliver replies brightly, handing Ivy over to her uncle. As soon as she's in his arms, silence. Well, she gurgles happily, beaming at him while reaching to try and hold the long, platinum chain around his neck, the scythe pendant catching her eye.
"Have you seen this?" he speaks proudly, gesturing to Tanya. "She isn't supposed to be purposefully grasping yet, but she's trying! Can't quite get it yet, but she wants it!"
They're joined by Mary then, poking her head around the door. "I'm off for the night now, sir. See you in the morning, and for the love of god, put a t shirt on! You have company!"
"I know!" he enthuses, pointing downwards. "Showing off my sexy hip creases, see?"
"Wait." She vanishes, heading quickly down to the laundry and grabbing a black one from the pile she was going to iron come the morning, knowing he isn't bothered either way. "Here, give me Ivy and pop it on."
He tuts, taking it from her. "Always censoring me, Mary. Got my nipples out and everything, just for you!"
"I'm going home!" she tells him sternly, handing the baby back. "He's for you to deal with now, ma'am."
Tanya gives her a little salute through her chuckles, Oliver shaking his head. "You live to wind that poor woman up, don't you?"
"She loves it," III chirps, sitting down, holding Ivy to his chest as he strokes her back. With her second nightly bottle already given, he enters the little routine in settling her. Stroking her back until she drifts off usually does it. "Right, food. Let me just go and find IV, see if he wants in on this." He then takes a moment to read the room, cringing slightly. "Sorry, did you two want some alone time?"
"No, no! It's fine!" Oliver insists. Tanya isn't quite as polite, though, but she is discreet.
"I want food and sex!" she mouths, grinning from behind her boyfriend.
III snorts softly, standing up. "Text me what you want and I'll do the ole' Uber Eats."
Once he's certain Ivy is in deep enough slumber to leave her, he puts her down in her cot, not bothering with the baby monitor. Of course, he'll hear her wherever he is in the house. Dashing up a floor, he tries to find his younger sibling, his bedroom vacant, zooming down to the kitchen. No IV. Hmm.
"You seen IV?" he asks, poking his head around the main lounge door, where Ves is sitting enjoying a glass of blood by the fire, an open book in his lap.
"He mentioned something about working out."
"Right."
The atmosphere is so thick between them, it could be cut with a knife. "Are you going to persist in giving me the cold shoulder, III?"
"Pretty much, yeah," he replies, folding his arms. "You upset my wife and made her panic at a time she didn't need to be panicking. I heard your argument out in the orangery a few days ago, too. I'm on her side, so yeah. As much as it was worth it, and we all appreciate you bringing him back, you should have thought about all this before you fucked off to another continent without a word, innit?"
He's gone before Ves has a chance to reply, the vampire growling low in his throat.
While the eldest of the family is wrestling with the consequences of his actions, the younger is out on the patio, forty burpees into the fifty that will finish his workout. III arrives with him, raising an eyebrow.
"What's all this in aid of, eh?" He then sniffs the air, nose crinkling slightly. "You smell like a wrestler's crotch."
IV continues counting out each burpee, lungs heaving with the effort. "And you look like one." He then winks, laughing through his breathlessness. "Walked into that one, didn't you?"
"Shut up, dickhead," he scolds, sitting down on the back step. "So, what's with the fitness? You didn't answer me."
He still doesn't, holding up his finger before finishing out the set. "Because I want to enter vampirism looking a bit better this time around. And I'm bored. You're always busy with the baby, Grace and II are away and Ves is content with his nose in a book. With no local skate park either, I need a hobby away from guitar and wanking."
III shrugs. "Fair comment, but you ain't exactly chubby, mate."
IV slaps his stomach. "I'd settle for this being a bit firmer." Grabbing his water, he takes a big glug, his lungs still burning in protest at all the effort.
"So, you're not down for Chinese food, then, no?"
Hmm. A tempting prospect if ever there was one. "I suppose I can stick to something moderately healthy. No chips or fried rice."
He does, and just under an hour later he and III are sitting eating their share of the takeaway in the lesser used green lounge, one which the latter has slowly been making his own. All kinds of macabre items have been moved into it, as well as an abundance of taxidermy animals. Mary almost died of fright at entering to find his newest acquisition of a huge brown bear posed in attack staring back at her.
"Four months isn't a lot of time, you know," III says, horrifying his sibling by tipping pineapple fritters into a beef curry. Syrup too.
Pausing from lifting a cold beer to his lips, IV frowns. "For what?"
"For you to get all buff!"
"Oh." Placing the bottle down, he picks up his bowl of szechuan chicken, digging the chopsticks in. "Well, I've started already, out in the rainforest. Exercise helped the pain. And the time of me being turned depends, don't it? I could wait a bit longer, until I see results. I know I've been saying I can't wait to be turned back again, but I suppose there's no harm in delaying, enjoying a few human things while I am one."
"Like food and booze?" he questions, grinning. "Never stopped me! Well, boozy blood, innit."
"Yeah, but hopefully I won't be such a miserable cunt this time around as a vampire. I'll have that thing, the love of life." He clicks his fingers, attempting to remember "French thing."
"Joie de vivre?" III offers.
"Yeah, that's the one," he confirms, chewing through a particularly spicy piece of chicken, fanning his mouth. "Jesus wept, that's aggressive!"
"Probably more joie de la mort in our case, being the living dead." Still IV puffs and blows his way through the chicken, III frowning. "Is it really that hot?"
The bowl is thrust forward. "Try it."
A fork is dug in, III having no time for the faffing that is using chopsticks. "Mm, it's alright. Moderate." He then grins, and it's pure devilment. "Gone all soft since you returned mortal."
"Piss off."
He guffaws, nudging him, picking up the remote and turning on the TV. "Your choice, what do you want?"
"Has Netflix got any better since I've been dead?"
"Nah," III replies, heaping another mouthful of his vile concoction into his mouth. "They did all the good stuff already, all the murderer specials and the scandals." He then begins to chuckle. "They even did one about vampires and the whole fucking backlash we're facing from the equal rights bill. Interviewed the PM's wife and everything. People were right up in arms about it!"
IV snorts softly, still negotiating the heat of his dinner, actually considering a glass of milk to help with the burn. Oh, this is not going to be pleasant on exit. Why did he request extra chillies? "I bet Gary was one of 'em. Does he know about Oliver yet?"
III shakes his head, grabbing a spring roll from the bag. "He doesn't. He'll only communicate with Tan through solicitors. He's actually going for the entire B&B, you know! She's been fair and said he can buy her out, that she has no intention of returning to Scotland, but he's being a shit about it."
"Yeah, she told me the solicitor II hired for her is an absolute shark and not backing down even a little bit over it all," he comments. "That was really good of him, to do that for her."
"Tanya is amazing, and she fucking deserves it, y'know? Oh, did he tell you he finally got his revenge on him? Gary fucking put his hands on her, grabbed her arm so hard he left bruises, so II took him forty minutes away from the B&B when he and Ves went to go fetch her, let him have a verbal tirade and then cracked him twice in the jaw!"
IV guffaws at that, picking up his beer. "Bastard had it coming." They're silent for a few minutes, III flicking through the household Prime account, looking for something to watch, IV waving his finger when he lands on Taxi Driver. "That! Put that on! Remember when it first came out, and we went to the cinema to watch it?"
"I do," III replies, "and I had to virtually sit on your lap to stop you from having blood cravings for the girl sitting in front of us." He was only two in his vampire years back in 1976. "Do you think you'll be the same this time around? I'd guess not, since your body will remember what it is to be undead, eh? All the blood craving and feral behaviour is down to us becoming used to what we are, innit, and you had just shy of fifty years being a vampire."
He shrugs. "I dunno, but you might be right. I'll ask Ves." Pausing he finishes his mouthful of food, taking a swig of beer. "Are you still not speaking to him?"
"Kinda." He pauses then, listening intently to the little grizzles he can hear coming from the main bedroom. "Hang on, Sproggy Pants is possibly pre-meltdown." He waits a few seconds, hearing her eventually revert to pissed off snuffles before she's quiet again. "Okay, she's fine. Yeah, I'm just really fucking pissed off at him for fucking off and not telling us. Like both Grace and II have said, we understand that it was delicate and he was trying to protect us, and everything he did was worth it to have you back, but he should have kept us in the loop."
"I agree, and I did tell him that," he replies, "but I also get that like, Ves is really difficult to negotiate with if he thinks he's right. It's cos' he's so old, ain't it?"
"Old and fucking stubborn." He then hears a low growl coming from the other side of the house. "Stop listening in then, if you can't deal with my truth!" he snaps, rolling his eyes. IV still can't quite get used to it, that his ears no longer pick up on every little sound.
The door suddenly flies open, Ves standing there looking angered, pointing at III. "Remember what happened the last time you disrespected me?"
"I do." Leaning back, he kicks his feet together. "Lost my legs, but you can't threaten me with ripping my limbs away when all of this wasn't my fault. For every action, there's an equal and opposite reaction, and mine is being annoyed. Pulling rank on me as my creator isn't just unfair, Ves, it's you trying to get out of being the one in the wrong, innit?"
An annoyed grunt permeates the air, Ves vanishing once more. There's truly nothing to say in the face of that. III is right.
The tension lingers in the house from the loggerheads III and Ves find themselves within, four weeks passing by and still the atmosphere a little tense. However, there are moments of levity to be found away from your marriage issues. Most of them revolve around your beautiful daughter.
"Arrrr la la la," she gurgles, grinning hugely at her daddy as he lies in bed, Ivy on his chest. He then delights in watching her brace her forearms, lifting herself up. "Baby, turn around, look at her!"
"Oh wow!" you enthuse, watching the little milestone of progress, each of which you've both come to utterly cherish. "Look at you, buba!"
Ivy gurgles, looking back at her dad and giggling. "What?" he asks, reaching to gently boop her nose with his index finger. "What do you have to tell me now, hm?"
"Barla la la baaap!"
"Barla la la baaap!" he parrots back at her, laughing when her smile widens even more. "What is all this nonsense you babble at me, child?" He then points across the room, where you're pulling on a big, comfortable sweater. "Look, that's mummy. Isn't she bloody lovely?"
Turning, you smile at them both, II waving one of her toys around, watching as her eyes follow the brightly coloured plush dinosaur. "We're going to have to clean up our language in a few months, save her picking up anything she shouldn't and thus having a foul mouthed baby on our hands."
"I'll absolutely lose it is she says the word fuck, or calls somebody a wanker," he grins, looking to you again with a little hum. "What? Why are you giving me the evil eye?"
You point, moving to crawl up the bed and look above him. "You will not teach our baby how to swear."
He's shaking with laughter, snapping his teeth at your pointed finger. "Not even little ones?"
"Magnus!"
He rolls his eyes. "Fine, no swearing. She shan't hear it from me, but her uncle? Different matter entirely."
As soon as you're downstairs and she spots that uncle, she's overcome with excited kicking and babbling, her face lighting up.
"Ba la ba, harrlaa!"
"Sproggy Pants!" he cries, taking her from her father, blowing a massive raspberry on her tummy, her giggles delighting him as always. "All smiles, eh? After you howled the house down for most of the day! How's she doing now?"
"Her temperature has come down, but she's still fussing about being given Calpol. Don't like it, do you, Ivy?" you reply, leaning to kiss her cheek. "Hated mummy trying to syringe it into your mouth, didn't you?"
A baby with a high temperature and a cough is a nightmare to negotiate, with you up most of the day taking care of her, II forgoing rest to help while you both kept her cool and tried in vain to settle her into sleep. With her final feed given, she happily drifts off, and you take her back upstairs into her own bedroom you've had done out to look a little less English Heritage chic and more suitable for an infant, placing her down in her cot.
"Goodnight, my little lamb. Love you." you whisper, your heart melting as ever. Leaving the room, you're confronted by the sight of Ves coming to a rapid stop in front of you, his eyes sad.
"It's been just over a month, Grace," he speaks, "and the tension between us lingers." Pausing, he reaches for your hands, stepping closer. "I'm sorry, my darling. I truly am so sorry for all the upset I put you through. I miss you, miss my wife beside me, miss her smile and her love."
And god, how you miss him, too. This, you note, is the first actual sincere attempt at an apology for his lack of awareness in handling the whole IV situation. It counts for a lot, too, for him not to be adding a 'but', or attempting to explain it away by reminding you of the ultimate goal.
Reaching for him, you pull him down to your level, pressing a kiss to his lips. "I've missed you, too." Deeper kisses follow, and you feel your heart fluttering, wrapped in the surety of his long limbed embrace. In marriage, sometimes you have to meet in the middle with your spouse, realise that some issues you might forever differ on, but ultimately, not let them define your overall relationship going forward.
You'll never be one hundred percent okay with his actions, and he will never truly consider them entirely wrong, but as long as both parties can acknowledge the concern from both sides - which you of course both do - that's the point where you call truce. All grievances have been heard and accepted, both sides aired out, and now you move forward.
Marriage: it isn't always smooth sailing. Especially when you're married to vampires. They are, if nothing else, tricky creatures to negotiate at times. The ease of their emotional steadiness in shades and blindingly fierce love do make up for that, though.
He moves you swiftly to his bedroom, over to the window seat, sitting back with you comfortably placed between his long legs, wrapping you in his love as he kisses your neck.
"This is a beautiful life we have built for ourselves, such love has bloomed forth out of the moments of sheer desperation and darkness we have faced in our three years together," he speaks solemnly, looking out over the grounds of your home. "I own my part in our fracture, darling, but I do not wish for it to sully the wonderful marriage we have. I see that I should have shared my plans, I do. I am not so old and stubborn that I don't."
You turn back to him, arching an eyebrow. "Are you sure about that?"
Humming a chuckle, he pinches your nose playfully. "Bloody piss taker."
Warm laughter settles at the edges of your words, reaching to stroke his face. "I don't either, so I'm happy to call a truce. I've been so angry with you for so long, it's exhausting, holding onto it. Plus, you did do a wonderful thing for our family in bringing back the one we were all missing. How do you feel about it all, now he's back?"
His arms tighten around you, resting his cheek to the top of your head. "Like the gaping pit of mourning I carried within has been filled. It ripped a part of me away, waking up and not being able to feel him after that month of unconsciousness. It's preferable, to live without the ache, to see him returned and unburdened by the shadows that once followed him."
He reaches beneath your chin then, turning your head to face him. "Anyway, I'd much rather spend this time kissing my beautiful wife than speaking, so if you could indulge your husband here with those pretty lips, he would be thankful."
You hum into the kisses you share, basking in the aura of his love. Very quickly, too, another energy quite literally rises up between you. One you are in no hurry to cease feeling.
"Oh," you murmur against his lips, something very big and very, very hard poking against your spine. "You really did miss me, didn't you?"
"Mmhmm." He kisses you again, fingers trailing in circles at the sides of your neck. "I wouldn't be unwelcoming over you helping me with it, either."
Falling into deeper kisses, you let him lift you up, wrapping yourself around him, transported to his bed. Beneath him, you feel all the anger, the hurt and upset melt under the precision of his touch.
Pausing, you eye him with suspicion. "Just to check, you aren't making good with me simply because you want to get your dick wet, are you?"
"My wife, ever the charmer with her turns of phrase," he scoffs lightly. "No, darling love. I just need to be with you again. Urgently."
His mouth covers yours once more, and you moan against his tongue, your legs widening enough to allow his body to slot between. Feeling him hard against your centre, you gently rut against him, feeling the ridges of his cock stimulate, both of you chasing the desire that's flushing hot like a fever beneath your skin.
Your body shivers beneath his, Ves beginning to undress you with patience, savouring the reveal of your body to his adoring eyes. "Be careful around the boobs area," you warn him, his clever fingers having your bra clasp flicked on the first attempt, pulling it from you.
"Sore?" he asks.
"A little, but it was more over you getting a mouthful of milk."
He snorts on a laugh, pulling a face. "And that is definitely not intended for me!"
"Nope!" you chuckle softly before returning to the moment, kissing him, the patter of your nails down his back making him quiver against you. Sparks gleam in gentle fission, his hand slipping down your side and into the waistband of your soft lounge trousers.
"Mm, no undies," he grunts, biting your lip. "Your husband very much approves."
His fingers slink into the velvet of you, gilding the petals of your sex with the sunshine of his touch, and you gasp against his lips at that first contact. It hits you then, staggeringly, that you haven't been intimate with him for almost six months, counting the time he was locked away in the study as well as the time from his departure and return.
That rhythmic stroking centres over your clit, his perfect touch having you panting against his lips, your little gasps making his cold blood burn hot. Flint strikes flare when his fingers slide down to slip into the molten clutch of you, hooking, raking your sweet spots, his fangs popping out when he feels your slick muscles tighten upon them.
His lips trail to your neck, sumptuous kisses full of longing bestowed, the sharp of his fangs sinking in before he feeds from you sending your brain muddled. Your sex aches for more, the honeyed scent of your arousal calling to him, Ves kissing his way down your skin in a heated path, hands pulling your trousers off.
Settling between your legs, he pitches them over his shoulders, mouth lowering to sink his tongue into the warm wet of you, his groan eerily beautiful at claiming that first taste of your dew. The heat of your pleasure burns deep, your marrow smouldering to ash as he offers the kind of deep, long slicks that have your bud swelling against his tongue, your hands tangling in the soft of his hair as your hips quake against his face.
"Missed me, haven't you, darling?" he whispers, pressing a kiss to your clit, his tongue returning to beat upon it rhythmically.
"Ahh!"
That's all the reply he truly needs, smiling against the soaked velvet of your folds, blowing on your gently in tease before those precise licks return. Your body ripples like a wave, your cry of ecstasy snagging against your throat, coming broken, Ves meeting the rhythm you need perfectly as your body and his mouth fall into sync.
The wet laving of his tongue, the return of his fingers to pleasure you in a firm, upward press that circles while gaining speed has you panting hard, feeling as if you're coming apart. The sound of it is filthily lewd, and you know you're trickling onto the sheets below, a panting, mewling mess of a woman lost in the divinity that crackles like lava beneath your skin.
You feel yourself ascend sharply, and it's almost too much as with a shriek, your legs tense against the sides of his head and your hips grind, riding out the crest of the huge wave against his mouth as he steers you through it. Emerging, he licks his lips, eyeing you with beautiful, reddened eyes that glitter with dark lust, kneeling before you to spear himself into the soaking heat he's been missing for months.
It forces the breath from your lungs, pleasure flaring through you as that long, girthy cock fills and empties you, Ves leaning to offer kisses steeped in burning embers, his big hands holding your thighs spread. He's contained for a brief time before needing to claim you, deep and hard, arrowing into you again and again.
Lifting one of your legs over his shoulder, he sinks in even deeper, and it's like you can feel him in your chest. The air fills with your soft cries, his rumbling groans and the wet slap, slap, slap of his cock fucking you hard. You shiver at it, pulses and sparks flickering up your spine, succumbing to the mind-numbing power of his fuck as he remakes you around him there in the centre of his bed.
He's overcome with it, head turning to place a dry bite into the meat of your leg, the pain sizzling, feeling it in your bones, his hand stroking his way to your neck.
"Can I?"
You nod permissively, and his fingers clench, holding you there beneath his grip, his index finger moving away to push between your lips. "Mmm, yeah. Fuck, you're beautiful, so beautiful with my hand around this pretty neck, darling."
A particularly hard shunt drives him right into a sweet spot, ebullience skittering, your verbalisation all feral growl. "Oh, fuck that feels so good, Ves! Oh god, fuck!"
Of course, he does it again, and again, until your spine is alight, screaming in utter rapture of the burning release that scorches through you like a forest fire. With his own crest pulsing ever closer, he only just about manages to pull from the heaven of your fluttering cunt, moving to straddle your chest.
"Be my good girl, open your mouth."
You do, a steam of cold cum bathing your tongue, Ves groaning gutturally through the spasm of each spurt, your fingers reaching to grab his nipples and twist as you close your mouth around the head of his cock and suck his spend from him further. The way he looks down at you, oh wow. You're not set to leave this bedroom at any point soon.
Turning you, his hands grasp your hips, his knee shunting to spread your thighs further, cock slotting back into the soaking, ruined mess of your cunt. The press of him is heavy, and he's slow to begin with, stirring the heat in your veins thick and syrupy, each ridge of his thick shaft scraping against your walls.
The pleasure of it skitters up your spine one vertebrae at a time, his fingers pattering down on the outside, driving flushes of goose pimples to race over your skin like tiny herds of wild horses.
"Harder, please!" you cry, and he chuckles amusedly, hand landing in a hard smack against your bum.
"If my beauty insists on me wrecking her."
He pitches himself forward, and the change in angle has you gasping, Ves pressing kisses of sugared sin at the back of your neck as he fucks himself into you with pounding, smacking strokes. Your mouth drops open, a silent scream, eyes closing tightly, your whole body throbbing with ecstasy as you're pounded at the speed only vampires can ever attain.
The alchemy between you and him has always been magmatic, but this evening it reaches a different level, Ves not letting you out from under him until he's certain he's sufficiently - and very sweetly - ruined you entirely.
Meanwhile, down in the kitchen, the other two vampires are experimenting with an alchemy of their own. Well, one is. The other merely plays as an observer to the proceedings.
"Okay, one tablespoon of sugar, oh shit no, he's not eating sugar. One tablespoon of honey, gelatin goes in…"
II frowns, leaning on his elbows at the adjacent side of the island. "Why don't you just buy them? All the online CBD stores out there right now, surely it's the same, just without the high?"
"Tried it, didn't work as well," III replies, "hence why I moved fucking mountains to get cannabis oil."
"Or travelled to Cardiff to fetch it from your regular dealer's brother, which is only just over an hour away. Fifteen minutes at our speed."
He receives a snort. "Adding the sugar free juice, ignoring my disparaging, short arse of a sibling…"
II ignores the comment, smiling as he watches III work, thinking it very endearing that he's attempting to make special gummies to IV can microdose successfully, rather than living beneath the foggy shroud of being permanently stoned. Even though his pain and tics are lessening now, it's still a lovely gesture.
Speaking of IV…
"Alright, you smelly fucker," II chimes, seeing him come in from the back entrance to the kitchen, obviously at the end of one of his patio workouts. That's dedication, given that the heavens opened and it began pouring with rain ten minutes ago. "Good workout?"
"Yeah, I just ran the perimeter of the property six times to finish."
II snorts softly. "Oh, just six?"
"It's more exercise than you ever did as a human," he shrugs, grinning, moving to the fridge and waiting for it as he pulls himself a bottle of water out.
"Are you sure you really want to say that to somebody whose exercise consisted of toil and warfare, hm?"
There he goes, right on cue. "You're still way too easy to wind up."
"Innit?" III chimes brightly.
"Oi," the former warlording-for-cardio one spits, pointing between them. "Give it a rest!"
They both laugh, IV finishing the water before filling the bottle again and placing it back in the fridge. "So, where's Grace?" he asks.
"In bed," II replies.
"Ahh, and Ves?"
"In Grace," III speaks absently, concentrating on the mixture before him.
Of course, they hear it all where his own ears fail, the house big enough that your continued sexual wailing doesn't quite reach downstairs. At least not to human ears. IV chuckles, shaking his head. "Ahh, they made up. Finally."
"Yeah," III mutters, "he's giving his apology via ten inches."
IV arches an eyebrow. "That's like, really specific knowledge over the size of our creator's cock."
"I've witnessed him shagging enough times to know he's hung like a fucking fire hose," he mutters, II snorting with laughter at his side.
"I'll still never forget the Italian woman, the one who saw it, screamed and ran the fuck out of the house!" he chirps, laughing loudly at the memory.
"So, when are you gonna make up with him, eh, since Grace currently is?" IV then asks, hoisting himself up on the island, grabbing an apple from the bowl and taking a bite.
"Ahh, soon enough, probably." III then pauses. "He doesn't need to apologise to me with his dick, though, I hasten to add. Number one, I'm a top and number two, I ain't into the idea of fucking my creator. Nah."
His siblings are in soft fits at that, IV raising an eyebrow. "So, your deviance does have a limit? Who'd have thought it?" They share laughter, III finding his shoulder clasped by his younger sibling on his way out. "Appreciate you for your gummy making, by the way. A quality chef I might be, but I always had issues with gelatin."
"Can't have been much of one then, can you?" II teases.
"Shut up, ya prick." IV throws back as he exits, bathroom bound.
He and III smile at each other, both thinking exactly the same thing. It's amazing to have him back.
Did you enjoy what you just read? If so, please help your author out by commenting/reblogging. If you want to be added to the taglist, please do let me know, too!
Pairing: Benjamin Poindexter x fem!Reader
Warnings/tags: 18+; stalker-to-lovers, domestic abuse, violence, unstable!Reader, hurt/comfort, angst, suicidal ideation, smut, dead dove do not eat
<<One Good Deed Playlist>>
All Dex needed was one good deed, something to tip the scales of his life and balance everything out a little. Crying, injured, and terrified as you wandered the streets of Hell’s Kitchen late at night, you seemed to check all the boxes of someone in need. But as Dex gets to know you, he realizes he miscalculated what his one good deed would be, and now he's not quite done with you.
Installment List
1:| Killer, Killer, Killer
2:| You Consume Everything
3:| Yours for All the Wrong Reasons
4:| It's Starting to Cave
5:| Look What You've Done
6:| Make Me A Believer
7:| Please Don't Let Me Down
8:| Didn't Mean to Find It In You
New week, new update, besties! Thank you as ever to all of you for your reads and support. You're beautiful people :)
Summary: A year has passed since the events that left your newly formed family shattered, the four of you continuing to move ahead with your lives as best you can. The introduction of new equal rights laws for vampires across the United Kingdom marks a significant turning point, offering hope and the promise of greater acceptance. With these changes, you and II feel empowered to finally take the next step towards expanding your family, beginning to plan for the arrival of a child.
However, the journey towards this new chapter is not without its uncertainties. A new friend, with the best of intentions, offers some advice that despite your judgement, lingers in the back of your mind. Regardless of the strength of your bond and the depth of your commitment, you find yourself questioning whether these concerns hold any merit.
Your trust in the resilience of your marriage remains steadfast, and you dismiss the warning as unfounded. Yet, as time unfolds, those doubts prove harder to ignore. It is only when envy emerges unexpectedly - affecting one of the vampires you hold dear - that the true challenge reveals itself, threatening the peace and unity you have worked so hard to build.
Previous chapters - One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven Twelve Thirteen Fourteen Fifteen Sixteen Seventeen
Words: 6,622
Warnings: Vampire fic, mentions of blood and gore, plus lots of smut. 18+ content, minors DNI!
Tag list: In the comments. Please DM to be added/removed.
"Sit down there in that chair, and I must instruct you that no matter what you see or hear, you do not disturb me at any point during the ritual." She begins to gather various magical items from outside of the circle, tinctures and oils within bottles, dried herbs, stones that look to have little in the way of significance, but are likely more vital to the proceedings than Ves realises. "Now, I must forearm you of a number of things before I begin.
"When the dead arrive back within the mortal realm with us, it's often not pretty. We are reanimating the remains to bond with the supplied flesh and fuse the soul within it; this is a harrowing process for the spirit to endure once it has been called back from the other side. Not all souls will depart the spirit world willingly, you must realise. Some are content in their peace. You revealed to me his passing was via suicide, so I would expect this, if I were you.
"They will be frightened, in grievous amounts of pain and confused. Your IV might not immediately recognise you because of this. For everything you are about to put him through, expect resentment or hostility. They often become angered for a time before they settle." Pausing as she meticulously lays out the items before her, her eyes flit to his once more. "Any questions?"
"Will he pick up any characteristics of the dead man whose hand and blood I brought here?"
She shakes her head. "Body and blood are separate to spirit. He will return as he was."
That's a relief. "And will there be anything lingering, anything that will make him dangerous, or different to be around?"
"As I stated," she breathes, "he will return as he was. I am a skilled witch, Vessel. I do not conjure the dead to merely end up with a homicidal, Frankenstein's monster. The IV who returns will be the IV who you lost in every sense. He will experience pain for months, though, also little tics, spasms and the like, while his soul continues its fusing to the new flesh. This will abate after around six months.
"If you are to make him vampire again, you must not do this until that period has passed, or he will carry the tics and pain over into his vampirism. Also, the process could kill him if undertaken before the six months have passed, to the point he not return undead at all. If that happens it could damage his soul so grievously, not even I could bring him back again.
"Now, you mentioned to me about his trauma, the afflictions he carried. You still wish for me to heal his mind of these, yes?" A nod confirms. "I can do that, although it may take a while for him to settle enough to proceed. This shall not be an instant fix. You will both have to stay out here with me until the process is complete. Trust me, though. My methods work better and faster than months, or perhaps even years spent languishing upon a therapists couch. Your feeding needs will be provided for by those who guard me, too, so you do not have to worry over sustenance while you remain out here."
"Will he still remember it, what happened to him?"
Sniffing, she sighs. "Yes, unfortunately. My powers are great, but removing memories themselves I alas have never been able to master." Her fingers flit in the direction of the table, where L's severed head sits prominently. "She could." she adds bitterly. "He will remember, but the memories will no longer affect how he lives. He will be soothed of it, accepting that it happened without blaming himself. Not at total peace, but no longer wounded and melancholic either. He will have balance, the kind I suspect he didn't in his life or living death."
The witch's fountain of truth just keeps on bubbling over, it would seem.
"Now, Vessel. The midnight hour is almost upon us. I must ask you for your silence."
Taking the bag, she empties out the ashes directly onto the floor itself, his hairs following. Placing the hand in the centre, she begins to chant in a language he doesn't understand, taking the blood and dripping it in strategic dots throughout his remains. Picking up a knife, her chanting escalates, slicing her own fingertip deeply, moving in an almost spider-like way to begin marking sigils around the circle, eyes closing, her sight seemingly unneeded to etch them correctly.
If Ves's heart still had a rhythm at all, it would be pounding into his throat, his eyes locked on the scene, hands clenched together tightly.
Grasping the photograph, she extends it to catch light upon a flame, watching it begin to curl. Letting the ashes of it scatter on top of those before her, the image curls and sparks, the embers glowing within the remains like tiny ghosts of what once was. What now will come to be again.
"Body and blood, ashes and bone. I call into the spirit world, I command you, IV, to return to these remains, take up your flesh once more. Come back to the light, IV, return to all you knew. I seek it, I beseech it, I command it. As above, so below."
With a sudden gust of breeze that comes from nowhere, the many candles within the circle and beyond all flicker violently, their flames gaining in height and ferocity. M continues her toil, her chanting returned to the mystery language, herbs scattered, the dried remnants catching the flames of the candles, the air thick with the pungent scent.
She then turns to him, her eyes narrowed, eerily whited out completely, hissing a whisper. "He is here."
Ves gulps, feeling his entire body stiffen, eyes focusing on the sight before the witch, who continues in her complex ritual.
Her voice grows louder, weaving between sharp, guttural syllables and softer, haunting notes that seem to call out in a beckoning melody, a magical song to tether IV to this realm. Shadows stretch and contort along the walls, the circle pulsing with a palpable force that presses against Ves’s chest, urging him to remain still despite the instinctive desire to move closer. He leans forward in his seat, watching M's hands weave and turn over the remains as they begin to ripple, his eyes unblinking as he witnesses it, a form slowly beginning to take shape.
Out of all the wondrous sights he had beheld in his long life, he has never once witnessed something so miraculous, so fascinating, and yet so bone chilling as what is playing out before him. Ashes swirl like tiny tornadoes, solidifying into bones, creeping and growing until the grey is replaced entirely by a yellowish-white skeleton. Tendons and sinew sprout, muscles and organs blooming with an unsettling, wet trickling sound.
As the ritual reaches its crescendo, the floor beneath the newly emerging body begins to shake, and a chill creeps along the edges of the circle, the energy shifting tectonically as there within, he lies returned. Ves struggles with the urge to reach for him, M still chanting, her hands now stroking over his bare, pale flesh, picking up bottles of tincture and dropping the contents into his eyes and mouth. Wetting her hands with the oil, she anoints his flesh, her chanting but a soft whisper, taking the ring and placing it onto his finger.
Her words cease naturally, no fanfare or theatrics, her hands resting to his chest as she leans over his lifeless body. "IV? Do you hear me? Come back to us now. Open your eyes."
A nervous few seconds pass, the air seeming to grow slack from where it had thickened before with jarring, rapid swiftness, IV sits up with a blood curdling scream that sends terror, love and disbelief through Ves, his eyes rounding, feeling like his entire soul has caught fire.
It worked.
The screaming continues, IV’s eyes wide and wild in sheer terrified panic, grasping at himself, hands feeling the body his soul was long parted from before doubling over and projectile vomiting a stream of what looks to be black blood.
Ves’s eyes snap to M, and she holds out her hands in placation. “Leave him, leave him! This is normal.”
IV’s screaming gradually subsides, replaced by ragged breaths, his chest heaving as the horror ebbs into trembling confusion. Ves sits rigidly, fists clenched in his lap, fighting the urge to go to him and offer comfort, every instinct as his creator to protect pushed down in light of M's instruction.
IV’s gaze flickers between them, searching for familiarity in the unfamiliar. M remains steady, her voice barely above a whisper, murmuring soothing reassurances as she wipes the black sheen from his chin, her hands gentle, patient. The circle’s energy fades, leaving only the lingering scent of oil and ash, and for a moment, all is calm.
Until the screaming and chaos erupt once more.
IV tears himself from M's soft clutch, neither knowing up from down as he stands, wobbling, his entire body burning in agony. He staggers, hands thrashing wildly at nothing, the room a witness to the chaos as he crashes against tables, possessions scattering, his body rolling along the walls as he continues to scream in abject terror.
M's eyes are urgent and permissive. "Go to him now! Ground him with your presence."
The vampire is out of his seat in a flash, arms wrapping around IV, his strength ceasing all the rapid motions and fumbling. "IV, it's me, it's me. It's Ves. You're safe, it's okay. It's alright."
At first, his words seem to offer no comfort, either that or the now alive again man wailing in his arms cannot make sense of them, Ves trying again. "It's me, IV. It's Ves. Look at me."
Clutching his face in his hands, he holds his gaze, IV scrunching his shut as he moans and writhes, eventually falling to the floor. His body jerks in violent spasms, and it's a horrific sight to witness, groaning, clawing at his skin.
Panting, he grits his teeth, his insides twisting violently. "No, no! Why are you here now? Why didn't you find me before? We're dead and you didn't come to me!"
His heart, oh. He truly has no idea where he is, Ves sinking to his knees and grasping his shoulders. "IV, you're alive. You here with me, returned. I didn't die my final death. I came back and now so have you, too."
"Grace?" he then screams, "Grace! I'm sorry! Ves, I hurt her, I tried to kill her!" his gasps are ragged, choking down air into lungs that sting with every breath. "I'm a fucking monster!"
"Shhh, she isn't here, we're very far from home. Come now, settle down."
His screams reach crescendo again rapidly, writhing across the floor. "I can't, I can't! I ain't supposed to be here!"
"Yes, you are!" His words are emphatic, hoping they carry the kind of weight to ground the maelstrom of confusion beleaguering his offspring. "You place is here, by my side, as it always was!"
A roar exits his mouth, his forehead lurching forward, smacking into Ves's nose with a sickening crack of bone shattering. "I don't want to be here! I want to be dead! I can't face it all, what I did to Grace, what, wh-what they d-did to m-me!" he stammers, chest heaving, gasping for air that feels thicker than molasses.
Ves's hands grasp tighter, leaning into his line of sight again, knowing likely it could be at the sake of his nose once more. "I am going to get you help with that." He then points to where M sits neatly within the circle, observing it all. "This is M, and I swear to you she is someone you can trust. She is the witch who brought you back. All the pain and shame of your trauma you carry? She can take it away from you, IV. If you let her, she can make it better for you where I failed."
With his breathing beginning to calm, all of the tension suddenly eases from the newly restored being, IV's body slackening. He stares between them a few times before his eyes seem to lose focus, and he slowly shuffles backwards. Pulling a blanket swathing a nearby chair, he covers himself in it, hiding beneath the deep orange threads, backing himself into the corner, slowly rocking back and forth.
M holds her hand out as Ves makes a start to follow. "Leave him be," she instructs softly. "Let him settle. He's soothing himself. This is good, he calmed to your words."
Remaining sat a few feet away, Ves looks on, helplessness closing in around him as he bears witness to the climbing anxiety within IV, but not for one single second does he regret his actions in bringing him back. The energy in the room seems to lighten then, the quiet settling, drifting up into the corners that have overseen the minutiae of resurgence, and all the unhinged chaos that swirled in its aftermath.
Gradually, under the watchful eyes of Ves and M as the night ticks on, IV begins to calm, his rocking ceasing. He remains under the blanket, and his ragged breaths come panted through his nose, eventually emerging.
Looking dead ahead, his eyes fill with tears. "Is it really you, Ves?" he whispers, like the last few moments in time didn't happen at all.
"Yes, IV," he assures him, his voice quivering with emotion. "It's really me." He moves to him then, a still blanket swathed IV meeting him in the middle, Ves pulling him into a hug and letting him cry against the surety of his wide chest.
The silence settles again, only permeated by IV's soft sniffles and sobs, Ves blinking red tinged tears down his cheeks as he soothes him, his hand comfortingly rubbing a circle at his back. Eventually, he slips, lying his head in his creator's lap, blinking hard, his breathing beginning to quieten.
"Ves?" The vampire casts his eyes down, fingers gently stroking the side of his head. "Why do I smell like a leg of lamb?"
A soft ripple of laughter abounds, Ves shaking his head, leaning to press a kiss against IV's forehead. "I think it might be the oils M used."
"Correct," she smiles, looking to IV. "Are you hungry? I can prepare you something simple and include one of my blends to help ease your pain?"
He nods. "Please." His eyes then flit around the shack, noticing the black blood spray, the disarray, the broken items. "I'm sorry. I did all this, didn't I?"
She nods. "You did, but it is to be expected. I will prepare you some oatmeal with dried fruits and nuts."
"Before you do," he begins, sitting up. "Why am I human again? I can feel my heart beating, and I'm warm. Don't feel that deadness I did as a vampire either."
"Because I couldn't bring you back as anything else." She then nods to Ves, rising to her feet. "The rest is for him to rectify at a later date."
"Then it might be important I tell you no almonds in those dried nuts," the speaks. "I'm allergic. Don't want to die all over again when I've only just come back."
"No almonds," M echoes, moving across the space to the kitchen area, although it doesn't really look much like a kitchen at all since there is no water or power supply to the property. Still, she makes do.
IV then turns to Ves, pointing at the rucksacks. "Do I have clothes in there?"
He nods, rising to grab the bag. "You do, yes."
Passing it over, he pulls them out, IV emerging from beneath the blanket to pull on the dark grey jeans and black t shirt within, deciding to remain barefoot. Staying there on the floor, he then jolts suddenly, a rapid twitch of his head and a clenched jaw following.
"The fuck was that, eh?" he asks, looking concerned.
"Tics," Ves replies smoothly. "You'll have them for about six months, according to M."
IV processes that information, his leg suddenly jumping, too. "Right." He then grasps his head suddenly, groaning in pain. "Fucking hell, feel like my head's gonna split open! What the fuck?"
"M!" Ves calls. "Please hurry."
"Fuck!" IV flies to his feet, physically beating himself in the head, his eyes searching for the open space windows, no glass within the panes. He makes for one at a run, intent to hurl himself through it until Ves moves with swift ease and prevents it. "Let me go! Let me fucking get out of here! It hurts too much, being alive!"
M did warn him of this, how volatile IV would be while once again soul and flesh bond. "Shhh, it's okay. It shan't last, I promise. I promise it won't."
"Fucking turn me again, please!" he then begs, gasping, his head feeling like someone is repeatedly sticking a knife through it. "I can't take this pain!"
Ves's arms tighten in their embrace. "I cannot do that yet, IV. Not for six months. I am sorry, but this pain you must endure for now."
Running from the other side of the room, M brings with her a small, green glass bottle. "Drink this. It tastes vile, but it will ease your pain quickly."
Snatching it from her fingers, he tips it into his mouth, immediately retching. "Christ! That's fucking foul!"
"It'll work, though," she reminds him, heading back to the small fireplace and heaping thick spoonfuls of oatmeal into a bowl, covering it with nuts (minus almonds) seeds, dried fruits, fresh honeycomb and edible flowers. She lingers, waiting for him to seat himself again, his chest heaving still as he continues to hold his head. Slowly, he straightens, the burning pain subsiding, his emotions calming.
She hands him the bowl, IV taking it with a small smile. "Thanks." M retreats then, allowing them the space they need to reacquaint.
Picking up one of the flowers, he turns to Ves. "Do you remember when I was telling Grace about edible flowers, and she thought I was winding her up?"
His head tilts, his smile fond. "I do, yes. She wouldn't have it, would she?"
IV snorts. "Nope! Fucking took me actually eating one to show her. First thing I'd eaten as a vampire, and it was a bloody flower, like. All cos' she didn't believe me." He then scoffs softly. "She was too stubborn for her own good, that lovely woman."
"She still is," Ves replies, stretching his legs out. "In her own delightful way, of course."
He laughs, taking a spoonful of the oatmeal and blowing on it. "How is she? How are they all?"
"They're fine," Ves replies, "all furious with me at present, I should think." IV raises his eyebrow slightly, Ves continuing. "I didn't tell them about any of this, and when I left it was shortly before quite an important time for Grace. I do regret that, but it was worth it."
IV pauses, looking around himself. "Where are we, Ves? It's fucking hot as balls here!"
"Ecuador," he replies, a little laughter lingering at the edges of his words. "And yes, you are correct. It's August, so around thirty degrees."
IV nods, his eyes then suddenly widening as he points through the open window space. "Shitting hell, there's a bloody monkey right there!"
Ves turns, smiling at the beautiful creature hanging gracefully from a branch, M coming into view as she turns to placate IV's growing sense of apprehension. "This is Moki, and I have known her for many years. She's here for her treats."
Reaching for her, the monkey ambles into her embrace, M laughing warmly. "Hello, little creature, yes. These are for you." Handing over the fruits in her grasp, Moki takes her leave as quickly as she came, off out into the humid night with a banana in her mouth and a soursop in her grasp.
Ves turns back to his offspring, raising an eyebrow. "You should have seen the big cats we encountered on our way here." Laughing softly at the slightly perturbed look he receives, he then goes on to fill IV in on everything that has happened over the past two and a half years, every event and piece of news he has missed, the information making him sit there and gape throughout most of Ves's long explanation.
"So like, he had to have them stuck right down in his bollocks for it to work?" he exclaims over the part regarding his siblings fertility journey. "And then effectively, bzzzz, electric shock?"
"Yes, but more like an electrical current slowly gaining in frequency."
His eyes widen. "Rather him than me. I bet he was angry as fuck after, eh?"
Ves snorts softly. "Mm, he wasn't particularly happy about it. He was when they discovered it had worked, though."
"So she's due around now, Grace?" he then questions, working it out in his head from when Ves mentioned the point she'd revealed her pregnancy.
"Yes, she was in labour when I called her earlier, so unless she's very unfortunate, I think she will have given birth by now," he replies. "How are you feeling now, after eating?"
"Better," he speaks, his shoulder suddenly jerking. "Could do without them, though. Feel like I've got fucking tourettes. Without the random shouting." He's quiet for a moment, prodding his back tooth with his tongue where a seed has gotten stuck, the feeling entirely alien to him. "So, all that you mentioned about not telling them your plans. You can't just show up with me, Ves. If I go strolling into Norton House again after so long, Grace'll fucking die of fright."
"We do not live in Norton House any longer," he replies, his eyes closing momentarily. Even though he's back, sitting opposite him, the sad ness lingers. "Too many sad memories."
"Well, wherever it is," IV shrugs. "You should tell 'em."
Ves is thoughtful, clasping his hands together, resting his forearms on his thighs as he leans forward. "I think any prefacing words of warning will likely come as much of a shock as seeing you again will. Besides, how all of this came to be is not an explanation suited to a telephone call."
He's probably right, there. Truly, there is no perfect way to reveal that a long dead family member has been resurrected. "Fair enough, Ves. I trust your word. I might not entirely agree with it, like, but fair enough." His body tenses then, head tilting sharply. "Fuck."
Ves looks on, feeling hopeless, wishing there was something he could do to soothe it for him. At least he isn't experiencing pain at present, though. However, as the morning draws out, the tincture given to him eventually begins to wear off, M quick to offer more.
That isn't before the poor man hasn't experienced the kind of agony that made the pain of bursting into flames feel like a case of mild sunburn by comparison.
"Imagine somebody has put a meat hook right in the centre of your body, and they're turning and yanking it," he pants, doubled over on the floor, sweat slicking his pale skin. "Fucking hell." He then looks up at Ves, shaking his head. "You better fucking find me something with opioids in it for the journey home. If I can't have M's magical potions and whatnot, then I'm fucked."
"I have codeine capsules," Ves tells him, clutching his shoulder, helping him to his seat again. "Strong ones."
"Good," IV nods. "I'll bloody need 'em, cos' this ain't pleasant."
Sadly, his pain begins to persist so much that M has no choice but to cast a spell over him shortly before dawn, sending him into a deep sleep.
"It will abate, as the weeks and months pass," she reassures a concerned looking Ves, who crouches at the side of the comfortable looking floor bed IV lies deep in slumber within. "Now, if you wish, you can sleep in the chair and I will swathe you in blankets to conceal you from the sunlight, or dig yourself beneath the soil to the side of the house. We will be well-guarded. Sal has ventured home, but Pablo, my other handler, will be here with Miguel, his son. I insist on armed guards always when I rest, and my hammock is calling me."
She must be drained from her efforts, he realises. "I will take the ground." Looking down at IV one last time, he leans to press a kiss to his head. "Look after him for me."
"He will sleep until sundown, but yes. Be assured I will, Vessel."
With that, he somewhat reluctantly leaves his offspring's side, unsure whether he can truly refer to him as that now he is returned in human form again. If not that, then what? Friend is not enough, with what IV means to him, with all that they have been through.
No. He's still his offspring. Just altered.
Giving a quick nod to the men patrolling the perimeter, they offer to help after he has rapidly dug a pit and laid down, covering him with soil just before the rising sun creeps over the horizon before returning to their posts once more.
In the days that follow, IV has further bouts of hysteria, his pain only managed by M's spells and tinctures, but slowly, under Ves's watchful eye, he returns to himself. Her healing of his trauma is undertaken over this time, IV allowing it to wash over him, the burden of sullied memories pressed so sharp against his heart finally feeling duller for M's conjuring.
To be free of it, the pain that blighted him, made him so sullen and mistrusting of all those bar his family, he feels lighter with every session she works him through, until finally, the dark mark he carried for so long leaves him free of it.
At last.
Six weeks pass before he is ready to depart beneath the bloom of darkness, Sal returned to escort them back through the rainforest.
"Thank you," he speaks, embracing M warmly at the foot of the shack stairs. "Thank you for all you did. I don't suppose I'll ever see you again, like, so yeah. I'm grateful to you for bringing me back."
"You suppose correctly." she speaks, smiling, her eyes studying. "This was always meant to happen, IV. I consulted the tarot a couple of nights ago, and the cards confirmed it. It wasn't your time when you passed. This body, this flesh, you belong within it, at the side of your creator."
"I cannot thank you enough, M," Ves speaks solemnly, nodding with deep admiration for the witch.
Her mouth tilts. "The hoops I forced you to jump through are thanks enough, Vessel." Reaching into her pocket, she pulls out the bottle of his blood, handing it over as promised. "Fair is fair, after all."
He accepts it, slipping it into the side pocket of his rucksack. "Appreciated."
Stepping back, she nods elegantly, gesturing into the forest with her hand. "Farewell to you both, and safe travels."
Waiting for ten minutes, until she is sure they have vanished into the thick of the rainforest's dense canopy, she then turns back to the shack, holding her hands aloft. Chanting in words from the language only she and the powers of this earth and beyond understand, a ball of light beams out from her hands, the homestead beginning to buckle and shrink as a mystical breeze whips around her.
Magic dances through the air, the shack reduced to the tiniest of wooden cubes at her feet, M finishing her commands and reaching to pick it up, tucking it into her pocket. Taking a look around, she then closes her eyes, mutters a different incantation, and promptly vanishes.
She is a difficult witch to find. If you locate her once, you probably shan't ever be able to again.
Trekking through the rainforest, Ves finds a simple pleasure in watching IV take it all in, frequently nudged with a soft exclamation of 'look at that!' when Sal alerts him to animals high up in the trees, staring on in wonder. He smiles, the happiness of having him back by his side only marred by whenever he has to witness his bouts of pain.
Luckily, he doesn't experience any until much later that night, Sal having bid them goodbye, travelling at speed through the night to cover as much ground as possible, IV doubled over as he groans.
"How long now, roughly?" he grimaces, Ves taking out the codeine capsules from his bag and removing two from the orange bottle.
He hands them over, frowning in concern. "About another hour before we reach southern California."
They are heading to Ves's house there, the beach side property in Malibu that he usually rents out through Airbnb, now currently vacated for the next month. It will allow a little precious time for them to continue reconnecting, also offering a further period of adjustment for IV to become used to being alive again.
"Let me just get these in me, then." Opening the first capsule with his teeth, he carefully decants the power onto the back of his hand, plugging his nostril and quickly inhaling it through the other. Ves raises an eyebrow. "Gets into the bloodstream faster this way." He then laughs softly, shaking his head. "I suppose living with junkies all those years ago gave me a few more life skills I didn't even know I'd need, eh?"
"Quite." Ves comments, watching him do the same with the second capsule before he's ready to jump onto his back once more and continue their journey.
After stopping at a mall so Ves can buy himself a pre-pay phone just as the store is closing and rapidly set it up, they arrive shortly after 9pm, IV's rumbling stomach dictating that Ves order him some food as soon as they walk through the door. Being greeted by a familiar space offers comfort, IV last visiting the home ten years before.
Feeling grubby after his stay in the rainforest, smelly too since his creator neglected to remember that as a human, he'd need soap and deodorant, he also asks Ves if he can DoorDash those items as well as a few others too, before throwing his clothes into the washing machine and moving to run himself a bath.
"Have we still got clothes here?" he calls from the door. "Can't remember."
"Hold on." Ves then moves to the large cupboard beside the kitchen, where their personal items are stored away, ready for them whenever they come to stay. Within, he finds the box marked IV, pulling it out and taking from the vacuum sealed bag a pair of black sweatpants and a cut off sleeve band t-shirt. He doesn't have a clue who Bring Me the Horizon are, but he knows IV loves them.
When he returns, it's to the sound of clippers, his offspring giving himself a haircut.
"Want me to do where you can't see?"
"Yeah," he replies, handing them over. "Faded back and sides, long on top."
"Can do."
The clippers move in a blur, Ves dusting hair as he works, IV feeling immediately fresher for a little grooming. He could do with a shave, but doesn't have anything in the way of a razor until the DoorDash items arrive.
Once finished, Ves places the clippers down, and they both stand there, studying one another's reflection in the mirror silently for a few moments. The vampire then drapes his arms over his shoulders, smiling, still not quite able to believe that he is back. It still feels like a dream to him, to have his longing at a cease, his offspring there. Both his brother and son, his friend and family.
"I won't ever put you through it again, you know," IV pledges, placing his hands on Ves's forearms, his loose drape tightening in a hug he leans back against.
"Good," he speaks, smiling with a soft laugh. "Cost me enough to bring you back this time."
His joke lands well, but also piques IV's curiosity. "How much was it, then?"
"Never you mind." He then points in the direction of the bathtub. "You're about to flood the floor."
He moves quickly, feeling it strange still when he tries for his usual rapid motion, only to be hampered by his human form's constraints. Turning off the tap, he turns back to his creator. "No, go on. How much?"
Ves straightens, shaking his head. "I told you, never you mind." He then nods, folding his arms. "Suffice to say I would have paid four times the amount if I'd had to. You're more than worth it."
Leaving him to his bath, he departs, IV standing there for a few seconds, feeling the glow of love humming through his being. It's a stark contrast to what he experienced the last time he was on earth, the churning mass of emotions, the trauma, the shame of what he carried within, the hurt, the realisation over his horrendous actions towards you.
They fractured within his insides like shards of heirloom glass, too small, too fragile to piece back together, forever goring at where he was soft. To exist without those burdens feels freeing in a way he never imagined he could experience, the torment of his soul seemingly erased clean.
As far as second chances go, he knows this is his, this gift unbelievably precious, not to be wasted or thrown away. Not that he ever intends to be so reckless again.
Sinking into the water, he immediately feels soothed for the heat, steam rising through the air as he relaxes. He's only disturbed momentarily by Ves, bringing in his requested items from the DoorDash order, relieved beyond measure to be able to have a good scrub with some soap.
"How was your bath?" he's asked half an hour later, the smell of the burger and fries sat in a bag upon the table wafting under his nose.
"Feels good to be clean," he replies. "I'd have been quicker, like, but I had to bust out a wank, too."
Ves tips his head back, laughing richly. "Ahh, so desire has returned, then?"
"Ain't fucking half," he chuckles. "That and being permanently starving hungry." Opening the bag, he virtually tears the box open, lifting out the huge, deluxe tripe cheeseburger and taking a massive bite with a look of pure satisfaction. "Fuck me, that's a damned good burger!"
"I'll take your word for it," Ves replies, sipping his tea. Oh, how he missed proper tea while in the rainforest, M's infusions not quite cutting it for him. "You should have seen some of the pregnancy craving concoctions III has been rustling up for our wife of late," he then hums, the memory bringing him a pleasant tingle within. "As a former chef, you'd despair."
Swallowing his mouthful of food, he takes a big glug of soda. Ahh, full fat Coke. As a vampire, he didn't remember how much he loved it, the bubbles fizzing effervescently upon his tongue. "Yeah? Such as?"
"Pizza with hot dog sausages and Branston pickle. She's also been partial to pickled onions smothered in ketchup."
IV pauses in his chewing, his nose crinkling. "Oh, so we've got two wrong'uns in the house now, eh?"
Ves laughs softly in agreement. "Indeed, we do, IV." Looking on at him, he shakes his head a little, still bowled over to see him right there across from him. "I can barely wait to take you home to them all. They've missed you immeasurably."
He's surprised to hear that. "I would have thought the opposite."
His poor IV. While M's magic healed his trauma, a little of his low self-esteem lingers. "You must move past the notion that you are somehow not worthy of being cherished, IV."
"No, it isn't that," he begins, popping a fry into his mouth. "All the healing M did with me, it finally soothed all of that. I get it now, properly. I think maybe me being healed as a human did it? I dunno, something about me being vampire making it impossible to seal the wound, backwards as that sounds." Chewing, he swallows his mouthful, another sip of Coke following. "I meant because in my last hour of being before I ran into the dawn, I tried to murder the one fucking person who came close to fixing all my broken bits."
Ves leans forward a little, placing his tea down on the coffee table, eyes flitting out to watch the waves crashing along the shoreline through the window. "She has forgiven your transgressions. She's told me often over the last two and a half years how much she's wished for the impossible, you coming back so she could tell you in person. Expect her trust to be something steadily rebuilt, though."
IV nods rapidly, finishing the final bite of his burger. "Absolutely, Ves. I don't like, expect it all to go back to how it was at all. I gotta work hard with her, and I will." His mouth then tilts a little. "Although I know as soon as I see her, other than wanting to just fucking put my arms around her, I'll be fighting the urge to flatten her against something."
Ves snorts softly. "She has that effect, our wife."
"I bet she was fucking gorgeous pregnant, eh?" A nod confirms. "So, is the plan for all of you to have kids with her, then? Really branch out the family like that instead of adding more vampires?"
At hearing the subject that brought him such anguish a few months prior, Ves can't help but notice how the sore spot inside over his lack of fertility doesn't quite sting with the same acerbity any longer. "III doesn't want to, because of Clara," he begins, IV tutting softly, his eyes saddening. "As for me, while my balls provide the very thing needed, it is without any little reproductive cells necessary to conceive. I can give my wife a beautiful pearl necklace, but alas, no beautiful baby."
IV grunts with laughter at the pearl necklace comment. "Ya filthy old vampire."
"Says you," he replies, "the man who once decorated her face so plentifully, you left the poor woman half blind!"
He really falls apart at that, remembering the moment when a load shot onto your face accidentally included a spurt into your right eye. "Oh, she was fucking livid with me. Had to stick my face between her legs and almost break my bloody jaw apologising for it!" They share laughter, IV shuffling back to sit cross legged on the sofa. "Sorry, to hear that, though. That you can't father a kid with her."
Ves shrugs with ease, his head cocking. "It doesn't hurt quite as much. Not now I have you back."
It wasn't just IV who was healed out in the rainforest.
Having his offspring returned to him has acted as a balm to his disappointment, the wound of infertility finally closing over. However, Ves realises in healing himself and bringing IV back to life once more, another is likely to open up. This one, he understands, will be within the rest of his family.
He only hopes with the same amount of conviction it took to return the one they lost, that he can repair it with those who never left.
Did you enjoy what you just read? If so, please help your author out by commenting/reblogging. If you want to be added to the taglist, please do let me know, too!
Well, I hope you're all sitting comfortably, guys. Are you ready? Because we have one hell of a reveal here!
Summary: A year has passed since the events that left your newly formed family shattered, the four of you continuing to move ahead with your lives as best you can. The introduction of new equal rights laws for vampires across the United Kingdom marks a significant turning point, offering hope and the promise of greater acceptance. With these changes, you and II feel empowered to finally take the next step towards expanding your family, beginning to plan for the arrival of a child.
However, the journey towards this new chapter is not without its uncertainties. A new friend, with the best of intentions, offers some advice that despite your judgement, lingers in the back of your mind. Regardless of the strength of your bond and the depth of your commitment, you find yourself questioning whether these concerns hold any merit.
Your trust in the resilience of your marriage remains steadfast, and you dismiss the warning as unfounded. Yet, as time unfolds, those doubts prove harder to ignore. It is only when envy emerges unexpectedly - affecting one of the vampires you hold dear - that the true challenge reveals itself, threatening the peace and unity you have worked so hard to build.
Previous chapters - One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven Twelve Thirteen Fourteen Fifteen
Words: 6,088
Warnings: Vampire fic, mentions of blood and gore, plus lots of smut. 18+ content, minors DNI!
Tag list: In the comments. Please DM to be added/removed.
"We can't wake Grace."
"No, that would be bad. She's been up all day with her."
"So that means that we have to deal with this."
"Yes, and we can. We can do it."
"It smells so bad, though."
"That it does."
Ivy's wailing continues, II and III looking down at her upon the changing mat. "Okay, I'll get the nappy off, you be ready with a bag and wipes."
III puffs his cheeks, opening one of the tiny bags intended to throw away soiled nappies within. "We can do it. Go!"
In a flash, the nappy is removed, and oh…
"Gods above!" II exclaims, nose crinkling. "This is a bigger mess than wipes can manage." He looks like he's about to throw up, and for a creature who physically can't, it instantly gives light to exactly how bad the situation he and III are dealing with it. "How can something so small shit this much? She only drinks milk!"
"I don't know, but I think we need to hose her down." He ponders for a few seconds, his clicked then fingers signifying the arrival at a solution. "The thing on the kitchen sink, the thing that's like a little shower head. Come on!"
They move through the house at a speedy walk, not wanting to transport the baby at vampire speed just yet while she's still so little and delicate, III zooming to fetch a towel as well as a thermometer.
II nods at the device. "Why?"
"Because we're both dead and we might not get the water temperature right," he speaks practically. "Don't want to risk either freezing or burning this shitty little arse." Running the taps over the sink, he pulls out the hose attachment, placing the thermometer into the stream. "It needs to be about thirty seven degrees." A bit more tap fiddling follows. "Okay, were good!"
II lifts her over the sink in a careful hold, III directing the water over everywhere she's soiled, both pulling the kind of faces one would expect from hosing down nuclear waste rather than the dirty bottom of a newborn baby. If you asked them at that moment, though, they'd probably both pledge the nuclear waste to be preferable.
"Right, where's the nappy?" II asks once she's clean, carefully placing her down on the towel.
III frowns. "I thought you had it?"
"I had the baby!" he exclaims. "Why didn't you bring it?"
"Because I was fetching the sodding towel from upstairs!" He rolls his eyes, zooming away and arriving back with it, just as a very audible pffrrrp noise emanates from Ivy's direction. "She just sharted in the towel, didn't she?"
II opens it to examine the evidence. "Oh yes."
"It's gone right up her back, hasn't it?"
"It absolutely has."
One baby back beneath the water, another clean towel fetched, nappy put on and baby grow dressing later, and Ivy is content against her father's chest once more.
"This child rearing is certainly a lot bloody different to when we were human," he speaks, admiring his daughter's tiny fingers. He still can't quite get over how dainty she is, just seven pounds and one ounce.
"It is, because this time around we're the ones doing it." He then leans in close to Ivy, smiling. "How we doing, Miss Sproggy Pants? You gonna keep us, or send us back to the daddy and uncle warehouse for a refund?" She starts to fuss, her gurgles becoming very unhappy, her crying starting back up. "Oh, she's made up her mind, she's going to print the shipping labels and send us back!"
II laughs softly, gently shushing Ivy's cries. "You can't be hungry again already," he speaks, sniffing her cautiously. "And you aren't wet or soiled. What's the issue, tiny human?"
The crying continues, II continuing to soothe her to no avail.
III reaches over then. "Here, let me try. You look pained."
"It's so bloody loud," her father comments, passing the baby to his sibling.
"Yeah," III agrees, "she's at mezzo-soprano." Ivy's wails then louden dramatically. "Oh, oh no!" he coos softly at her. "Full soprano now! Oh dear!" Holding her to his chest, he gently rubs her back, her crying near perforating his eardrum. "What's to do, eh, Ivy? Why so noisy? You could summon demons with all this racket!"
"Or exorcise them," II offers dryly, III beginning to laugh. Just then, the baby lets out the kind of burp that truly shouldn't emanate from something so small, the vampires in soft fits as her crying then subsides.
"So wind was the culprit, eh?" III says, hand still stroking her back. "And I thought we'd got it all up when you decided to do a massive sick right down my back!"
Child handling, as they are both learning, is an exercise in constant changes of clothes, not just for the baby either.
"Speaking of feeding her, did Grace express enough milk for her next one?" III asks, Ivy settled against him, dozing off.
"Yeah, more than enough," he replies, waving a finger in the direction of the kitchen. "There's about another four bottles in the fridge."
In the interests of being able to get some precious moments of rest, you decided that after initially feeding her yourself a couple of times, you'd move to bottle for ease of not having to be awake. Luckily for you, though, Ivy isn't fussy at all, and will take her milk from either bottle or breast so you've learned over the past four days since her arrival.
"I swear, when Ves comes back, he can get stuck right in with the help," II speaks out of nowhere, his head moving to rest on III's shoulder, kissing Ivy's soft baby fuzz. "And he said absolutely nothing of why he'd been in Nova Scotia when he called, or what was leading him to bloody Ecuador of all places?"
"That's something I've been meaning to ask you, actually, if he has any far flung acquaintances in either of those places?" III begins, gesturing to the baby. "With this little cute potato arriving, though, it went right out of my mind, innit?"
II looks thoughtful for a few seconds, his head shaking against III's slender shoulder. "Nope, none that I can recall. It seems so fucking weird, to need to be visiting two places with absolutely no correlation, all for assumedly the same end goal."
"If only there was some way to find out," III muses, giving II a nudge. "Can't you go and consult with your old gods or something? I dunno, make a sacrifice, toss a few rune stones around, shake some bones at a fire, or whatever it is your people did?"
"I'm a Viking, not a fucking shaman," II grunts. "Besides, they'd likely not tell me. I doubt I'm popular with them for cheating my fate. They tend to frown upon that."
Lifting Ivy aloft when she begins to stir, he looks up at her. "Do you know where your erstwhile uncle is, Ivy?" Right on cue, she opens her mouth and throws up. Straight in his face. II nearly haemorrhages from laughter. "And now I'm blind in my right eye, with no answers over where Ves is. Oh no, and we were hoping you'd be the oracle, bubs."
"What a shot!" II guffaws, taking his daughter while III goes to wash his face. Some parts of fatherhood, it has to be said, are much preferable than others. While he is entertaining your baby downstairs, you awake from a much needed rest in your bedroom, getting up and taking a shower, standing there afterwards and looking at yourself in a mirror.
"It'll go back," you speak, hand smoothing over your still-swollen stomach. While vampire blood healed your birth injuries adequately, it doesn't work with shrinking something that took months to expand as it grew another life. Your womb remains swollen, your tummy still big. If only it worked on the bright pink stretch marks your pregnancy left you with, too.
"Those will fade too, eventually. It's all worth it, though," you speak, pulling on your undies and favourite cashmere lounge trousers as well as a nice, loose fitting t shirt. "Because I do have a beautiful little baby to show for it. Even if I do feel fucking fat and ugly as hell."
"I beg your bloody pardon?"
Ahh, vampire hearing. In a flash, II appears behind you, arms slipping around your waist. "You're fucking gorgeous, trust me. Why would you think otherwise?"
Pulling up your t shirt, you sigh, pointing. "These horrible things! And I'm fat!"
He tuts, reaching to run his fingers over your stretch marks. "So bloody what if you gained a little weight? Gave you a gorgeous, big bum for one. As for the stretch marks, you earned those. They're beautiful." he explains. "They're the reminder that you did something incredible, grew an entire other life inside of you for nine months. Battle stripes, I'd call them. I'd have to be a truly shallow vampire to ever be put off by those, so you can get that out of your head right now, if that's what you're thinking."
You nod, but your lip begins to wobble, II pulling you into the sanctuary of his arms. "Come on, it's alright."
"I'm sorry, I'm just tired and a bit emotional. And I know you'd never see me as unattractive, but I hate how I look. I can't ever wear a cropped top now because of these fucking things!"
"Who says?" he asks softly. "Even if you didn't, though, you can compensate in other areas and wear one hell of a scoop neck. Because just look at these!"
He takes a handful of your boobs, giving them a very gentle jiggle, the raspberry he blows onto them finally making you laugh. "Yeah, they look great now, but once I'm done feeding they'll shrink and go all saggy!"
He shrugs. "Ingrid's didn't. And if they do, I can afford implants. That's only if they'd make you feel better, though. Trust me, I'll still think you're gorgeous either way."
"Really?"
"Mm," he hums, finger dancing around your cleavage. "If you're up to it, I'll show you, if you like?"
Oh, god. That look. That look which never fails to set your blood to blaze, and while you do indeed feel it, you are still somewhat shaky from the trauma of childbirth. Although the pain hasn't lasted, the memory of it plus all the tiredness has you shaking your head sadly.
"I think I need a bit more time," you lament, leaning to kiss him.
He nods, hands cupping your cheeks. "Understood, precious baby. Just come and dive on me when you're ready, right?"
You agree, and with that head downstairs, finding III sitting beside Ivy, who is sleeping soundly in her bassinet at the side of the sofa.
"She threw up on me," he reveals as you lean to kiss him. "Twice! Straight in the bloody eye the second time!"
Well, if that isn't the little slice of humour you needed, snorting with laughter, III welcoming you onto his lap despite your giggles. "Oh, she's amazing!"
"She is, but really? In my eye?" he exclaims, and you gently shush him, pointing at her.
"Shh, don't wake her up. It's lovely when she sleeps."
As you learn over the coming days, newborns tend not to do a whole lot of that, either.
"Come on, ma'am. Pass her over."
Your ears. God, they're ringing. How can something so small reach these kinds of decibels, you'll never know. "This isn't in your job description, Mary."
"Oh, but it is!" she speaks efficiently, taking Ivy from you. "I look after the house, and everybody in it. Besides, there's lots of things I do here that aren't strictly in that job description. I am not a cook, but I prepare meals happily, nor am I a connoisseur of naked vampires, but your husband will insist on flashing me in all his naked glory!"
And glorious he is without his clothes on, but you understand that Mary likely doesn't think so. "Thank you, Mary."
"No bother, ma'am. Little Miss. Ivy and I are going to take a walk around in the sunshine. It often seems to settle her. Where's her little cotton sun hat?"
Taking a quick look around, you spy it over on the side where you left it earlier, handing it over, kissing your wailing baby before she's taken for a little wander around outside. As soon as the air is quiet again, you flop, face first across the counter.
"Oh, would it be so bad if I went back to bed?"
"No, babe," your mum's voice comes from the kitchen door as she enters. "Go on. Go curl up with one of your husbands, let Mary and I take over."
"I was being dramatic, I'm alright for now," you reply, sitting back up again, leaning into her when she comes to give you a hug.
"Just so you know, you're doing a great job. It's the hardest thing in the world, raising a child, but between you, II and III, that baby wants for nothing," she tells you affectionately, kissing your head before making her way to the kettle. "Coffee?"
"Oh, yes please! I've expressed enough milk to last Ivy for a while, so I'm safe to have caffeine in my system."
And how you've missed your morning jolt of freshly ground Blue Mountain beans.
"One nice, strong coffee coming up!" she chirps. "Oh! Oliver asked last night, when he could come and meet the baby, and if that's okay for him to do so?"
The way she lights up at mentioning his name truly makes you feel warm inside. You did wonder if perhaps it might've been too soon for her to embark upon another relationship, but your worries were misplaced. She looks happier and more contented than ever with every day that passes, and it's all thanks to your riding instructor.
"Of course!" you gush, smiling brightly. "Anytime he feels like having his eardrums shattered is good for me."
For that moment, you enjoy the quiet of the house minus the eardrum-shattering noise, both of your husbands in a state of rest after spending much too long awake. Their reluctance to leave you alone with the baby was touching, but when even II had begun to leech from his nose, you shooed them off in the direction of their respective bedrooms.
Selfishly, there was a part of you that didn't want to, though, because seeing those two vampires with your adorable little baby… oh. Your heart never fails to flutter. In fact, you enjoy your time with Ivy while you have it for the remainder of the afternoon, the night falling, putting her down to bed and knowing that for the night hours, you won't get much of a look in.
True to your prediction, when she wakes for a feed, it's her daddy who provides, walking around the lounge with her, smiling down at her as she happily sips from the bottle in his grasp.
"Why are you so bloody lovely?" he asks, moving to the chair by the window and taking a seat. "You shit and throw up on me, scream like a tiny banshee and keep your wonderful mother awake entirely too much, but you're amazing."
It makes you melt into a little happy puddle, every time you witness him vocalise his adoration. III is much the same, too, beyond happy to join in on the baby raising. You find as much the following morning, awaking to find Ivy gone from her cot in the bedroom, II out cold at your side, knowing that wherever she is, it'll be with her uncle.
You hear it before you see the sight, the sound of him singing softly to her coming from the main bathroom, opening the door to find him there in the tub, a gurgling Ivy rested against his chest. Oh god, if that isn't the loveliest thing, your tall, handsome vampire contentedly chilling with a very peaceful looking baby. It makes a pleasant change from her screaming fits.
"Morning!" he chirps. "She made a big mess, all over me too, so I thought this was the easiest way to get us both clean. I tried the shower but she hated it and had a right bloody tantrum, so the bath won. And yes, I checked the water temperature."
Leaning to him, you plant a lingering kiss on his lips, one atop your baby's head, too. "Thanks for looking after her. I didn't sleep much yesterday."
"I know, and you're welcome," he replies, stroking her arm with his fingertip. "I don't mind at all, she's so lovely, isn't she?"
Looking down, you notice a little trickle. "She's peeing on you right now, you know."
He shrugs. "Eh. It's been a while since anyone did that. Different context entirely, though."
Your eye roll could detach a retina. "Charlie, no filth in front of the baby!"
He tips his head back, laughing as gently as he dare, Ivy wobbling a little beneath the security of his splayed hand. She then sneezes, and he grins hugely. "That's my favourite thing right there, the sneezes! That and the hiccups. It's somehow stupidly adorable when a tiny baby does it. Her farts not so much, because you're a stinker, eh, Miss Sproggy Pants!"
"The sneezes are too cute, aren't they?" you enthuse, sitting on the side of the tub. "You're so good with her, really. You and II are absolute naturals, minus the whole fiasco surrounding the first brown nappy you had to change without me!"
His eyes immediately round. "Gracie, it was black! Greenish, black sludge. Awful! How can something so foul have come from somebody so pretty, eh?"
"Newborn poop is a hell of a nasty thing, but it'll get better once she moves onto solids," you comment, III looking pleased at that.
"She won't be a fussy eater, nah," he vouches, looking down at her. "You get to give all of your uncle III's wonderful concoctions a try, Ivy!"
Lord help the poor child. "No poached pears and eggs!"
"She might like them!" he exclaims. "You don't know that she won't!"
Leaning in close, you shake your head, kissing the tip of his nose before your gaze falls to your baby. "Are you hearing this, Ivy? You're a week old and already, your culinary exploration is being planned!"
Sharing laughter, he then suddenly reaches to grasp your arm. "Oh, shit. Did you see the note I scribbled for you on the chalk board? Nene called when you were sleeping."
"Yeah," you confirm, "she and Laz are so busy with work that they won't be able to come over for a while, and she just wanted to let me know and have a catch up. It's a shame, I really bloody miss her."
"It is, she's fucking amazing, Nene is."
While that particular lovely friend has to remain over six thousand miles away, there are a couple of others much closer to home who arrive over the coming days, beyond excited to meet Ivy for the first time. Your aunt Mel and uncle Chris pop in, much to your joy on their way up to the Lake District for a mini break, Meghan also visits, and then there's one other who, given his distance, comes to stay for a few days. He isn't alone, either.
"Oh, my Jesus!" Teddy cries as you open the door with Ivy against your chest, his mouth dropping open wide. "You've cloned II!"
Giggling, you reach to give him a careful one armed hug, sinking into him. Oh, how you've missed your bestie. "We have, she's the double of her dad!" Looking past him, you then beam. "Hi, Jason! It's so nice to finally meet you!" You then look around a little more, expecting to see a small, yet solid furry friend. "No Bruce?"
"Hi, Grace! Lovely to meet you, too, chicken!" he enthuses, giving you a little hug and kiss on the cheek. Good grief, you can tell he's a personal trainer from the strength of that one arm wrapped securely around you! "And no, no Bruce. He's too chaotic and gets overly excited, so we'll wait until the baby isn't so delicate and new." He then peers at her, making a silent 'awww!' face. "She's a little princess, look at her!"
Moving into the house, Teddy is thrilled to see both vampires awake, being greeted with a big hug from II, and III, well, it's the usual.
"Sorry, Jason," III speaks, arms and legs wrapped around Teddy after diving into his arms. "This is my standard greeting for you man!"
He laughs, all good nature. "Ah, you're fine, you're fine. I've never met a vampire quite so cheerful!"
Indeed, all he received from II was a nod and quiet 'hello', but he was pre-warned over his general iciness towards new people.
"Do I have to carry you around now, III?" Teddy asks, giving him a little swing back and forth.
"Ain't like you can't, is it?" he replies, squeezing his arms. "Teddy got gains!"
Jason has been an excellent influence there, one of their couple activities now including training together. It's baffling to you, to see him now so committed to an exercise routine when before, he considered rising from his bed in the morning as a sit up. Honestly.
Teddy at least makes it halfway down the hall before putting him back onto his feet, he and Jason taking their cases into the usual guest bedroom Teddy occupied during his last visit, heading then straight to the kitchen. As soon as he sees your mum, he's off at a run.
"My Teddy!" she cries, opening his arms and receiving a huge cuddle that lifts her from the ground. "It's been bloody years! How are you, babe?"
"Absolutely flippin' amazing, Tan!" he breezes, putting her down again, studying her face. "Did you get a facial, or Botox or something? You look incredible!"
"Nah, she's getting laid well and often, though!" III chimes with his usual unfiltered mirth, receiving a slap as he guffaws on his way past her to the fridge.
Of course, Teddy has heard all about your parents and their divorce, which is now luckily well underway.
"Oh, swit swoo, lady!" he cries, and of course, she goes bright red.
"Stop it!" she scolds, pointing between II and III. "I have enough to deal with from these two taking the piss constantly!"
"I don't take the piss," II speaks, leaning against the island on his forearms, trying to bite back a grin.
She immediately turns to him. "One time I came into the lounge limping because I'd hurt my leg, and you sang 'Tanya got her back blown out, back blown out, back blown out!' at me!"
The room erupts, II looking quietly pleased with himself. "Not my fault, I was stoned at the time, I believe."
He is a little more mischievous when under the influence, it has to be noted.
Jason looks on in utter surprise at that. "Wait, wait. Vampires can get stoned?"
"Mm," II replies succinctly, III offering an explanation.
"Yeah, we just need to imbibe the blood of someone under the influence of whatever we want to be, innit? So for getting stoned, it's dried blood sprinkled on top of actual weed, so that means we get the taste of it along with the high. Weed alone won't work. Same as being drunk, if we drink blood someone donated while under the influence, we get absolutely wankered!"
Jason is the picture of fascinated. "That's so interesting! I had absolutely no idea! Literally, the only thing I knew was that you could be awake in the day if you overfed on blood, as Ted told me you might both be awake to greet us. Wow, you learn something new every day!"
After pouring a few cold drinks to combat the heat, you all move through to the lounge, Teddy getting to have his first hold of Ivy.
"Oh, oh! She's so precious, look at her!" he gasps, smiling, gently giving her a little bounce when she fusses. That fussing leads to a full blown meltdown, II taking her from him, her crying immediately ceasing. "Ahh, daddy knows where the off switch is."
"Yes," he replies, stroking her back. "It's something about us as vampires, too. I think she responds well to our stillness, picks up on the quiet of our energy."
Indeed, you have noticed that even when she won't settle for you, your mum or Mary, as soon as she's held by her father or III, she'll begin to instantly calm. It made you cry to begin with, feeling like you were a failure of a mother in so much that your presence sometimes wasn't enough to soothe her. That was until you realised that in fact, having a sure fire way to soothe her at all shouldn't be sniffed at.
If that's the dead energy of a vampire she likes the stillness of, then so be it.
Sitting comfortably, you ask Jason lots of questions about himself, learning that he's the polar opposite of Teddy in being such an on the go, outdoorsy type of person, but that after a little reluctance, your bestie is now keenly pursuing activities such as hiking with Bruce and long walks through the village and surrounding areas.
"We went up to your house recently so Teddy could show it to me, the outside at least," he begins, his eyes widening. "It's absolutely beautiful, I thought it was massive until I arrived here. Bloody hell!"
You chuckle, knowing that your home is quite a lot to take in when you first arrive within it. It certainly was for you when you drove up to it that first morning upon moving in. "It is, yeah. I still have a nightmare if I put something down and forget where, having to jog around long corridors and up and down endless staircases!"
"I bet it keeps you fit, though!" he enthuses. "Your figure is fantastic for somebody who just had a baby!"
"Thank you for saying that, Jason," III chimes from the armchair. "She won't listen to us when we tell her!"
Smiling shyly, you tuck your hair behind your ear. "Thanks, I am trying. It's only been a week and a half but thanks to healing from the birth with vampire blood, I can comfortably go and ride my horse again, which is nice."
His mouth falls open. "You have horses?"
"Yes! Would you like to come and see them?"
Immediately, he agrees, you, him, your mum and Teddy taking a walk around to the barn, stopping on the way to see Oliver out in the arena, putting Svartr through his paces. With no Ves here to ride him, he's kindly taken it upon himself to oversee his exercise when II can't.
"Your husband is going to have a fight on his hands when he comes home, I can tell you! I want to keep him!" Oliver laughs, riding over to the fence line, allowing his reins to go long so Svartr can stretch his neck. "This horse is such a joy for one still so young. Such a trier, really listens and works to please."
Ves often says the same of his now five-year-old steed, too. "Yeah, don't expect him to give up easily," you joke, keeping your tone light even though inside, you feel a little sad pang. Oh, how you miss him.
Beside you, Teddy gently nudges, and you turn to him. "You okay?" he mouths, and you shake your head.
"Excuse me, just going to steal my bestie for a chat." Leading him in the direction of the stables, you're greeted by the warm whickering of Sage and Honey from their stables, very expectant for the carrots you brought out here for them as a treat.
"So, I take it he hasn't been in touch again since his call while you were in labour?"
Of course, you filled him in on everything during one of your long FaceTime conversations. "No, but he did say he'd be off the grid while he was in Ecuador. It does help a tiny bit, knowing where he is, but I'm still furious that he won't tell me why he's there."
He looks sympathetic, cocking his head as he reaches to stroke your arm fondly. "Nope, I agree with you entirely, baby. You shouldn't keep secrets like that from your own spouse, no matter how much you feel like it's in their best interests not to know. I mean bleedin' hell, have you all not been through enough as it is, without him acting like this?"
He's hit the nail right on the head. "You'd think so, darl, wouldn't you?" You reply comes sharply, coming your fingers through your hair in frustration, sighing. "He's got to bloody work his arse off with me when he does finally get home, to rebuild our relationship. Trust me, bond and marriage or not, he's really pissed me off and we're not in a good place as far as I'm concerned."
"Girl, you tell him!" Teddy speaks supportively, reaching to give Sage a little rub on her soft muzzle before you move down to an expectant looking Honey. "He has it coming to him for being so secretive. And the kick in the balls you mentioned to me, too! Don't get me wrong, I love Ves to death, he's a great guy, but this? Absolutely not. This is no way to treat your family!"
Thankfully, everyone you've told about this (only him, Nene and Meghan know the actual truth, Oliver and the staff for example simply think he's away on business) are fully in your corner over your general ire regarding your husband and his secrecy. But oh, how as the weeks pass by without further word until finally, he arrives home just shy of Ivy turning two month's old, you finally discover why.
"Oh bloody hell, it's an actual smile! It isn't wind!" III gushes as Ivy beams at him from your arms, his face completely lit up. "Or is it? She isn't farting her arse off, is she?"
"Nope!" you laugh, your heart fit to burst as you watch her beam further at her uncle. "She's just pleased to see you!"
Ivy wriggles around in your grasp, her eyes following III as she gurgles happily, being taken from you for a cuddle. "Do you want to go and ride Honey for a bit while I look after her? It must be nice to have a little more energy now she's falling into a routine."
You and your two husbands have this child raising running like a finely oiled machine. You've mostly reverted to daylight hours, but always have one of them up with you, taking it in turns every other day to remain awake. In III's case, he can only usually do that for a couple of rounds before he needs to revert to darkness for a few days, but while you sleep at least you know Ivy is being well cared for by him and her father.
"That would be absolutely lovely, thank you." Leaning to kiss him, you tickle the sides of his neck with your nails, and he makes a very pleased noise at such affection.
"Mm, that feels nice," he hums. "Is this you maybe getting a bit of your horny back?"
Moving your mouth, you kiss the side of his throat, wishing that there wasn't a baby between you right at this moment. "I think so, yeah. Might have to come and jump on you later."
"Ooooh, please fucking do!" he grins, laughing filthily. "I can't remember the last time I went without a good shagging for two months!"
You continue your tease, nails trailing up and down his back, illiciting a shiver. "Well, as long as little miss mouthy here doesn't keep us busy with her squealing, trust me, you're going to get one."
He grins widely, kissing you again before you make to leave the bedroom, suddenly prevented by a few wide eyed looking II.
"Elskede, what's up?" you ask, feeling your heart thrum uncomfortably. He looks in a state of complete shock, his eyes wide, mouth agape.
"Grace, stay up here with the baby," he advises sternly, looking to his sibling. "You need to come downstairs right now, and prepare yourself."
III groans, rolling his eyes. "Not the fucking anti-vampire wankers at the pissing gates again?"
Indeed, a few of them do turn up on occasion, shouting obscenities to anyone who they happen to see up at the front of the house, usually only deterred when the local constabulary turn up to move them on. Usually, if he's in the area, it's Aric, the nice vampire officer who previously attended with the delightful Geordie lilt who turns up, often staying for a cup of tea and a chat while he's there, too. That really seems to wind them up, when they realise the police are very much on your side.
II's mouth twitches, jerking his head backwards. "Just come downstairs."
You feel a little slither of worry begin to pool in your tummy, II leaning to kiss you and Ivy. "It'll be okay, just give us a minute."
"Really, what's going on?" you ask again, not happy to be kept in the dark.
He looks more uncomfortable by the second. "Just stay here, love. Please."
Oh, god. They haven't been hanging animal entrails on the gates, have they? They've done that in the past, one of them likely having a contact at an abattoir. Why they think festooning the ironwork with cow intestines is intimidating, you'll never know. It makes you heave whenever you witness it, though.
Pacing around your bedroom while bouncing Ivy in your arms, you can only wonder what it is that's caused your husband to look so, well… you're unsure you've ever witnessed II appear so stunned. Considering doing for a peek out of the landing windows to see what's going on further down the drive, you mull it over for a few moments, deciding against it ultimately.
You remember well what happened the last time you were instructed to stay somewhere and you didn't, and while you're at no risk from falling through the floor and ending up with a can of paint hitting you squarely on the head, you decide to stay put until their return.
Minutes pass by, that gnawing feeling of worry sharpening its teeth upon your insides as you continue pacing, eventually turning to see III and your mum.
"Don't ask me!" she speaks, holding up her hands. "I don't know what's going on either, I've just been instructed to stay up here with the baba," she continues, reaching for Ivy.
Carefully handing her over, you immediately shift your attention to III, whose appearance is as unsettled as II's was moments before. The tension in the room is palpable.
"What's going on?"
He swallows hard. "Ves is home."
The news hits you, providing some explanation for the apprehensive atmosphere. With little pause, you move swiftly towards the door, full of intent to confront your previously errant husband directly. However, III speeds ahead, blocking your path before you can make your exit from the bedroom.
His voice quivers, gulping. "Just, fuck. I don't know how to… just try and be calm, alright? That seems like the most ridiculous fucking thing to tell you right now, but… ahh, fuck. Come on."
As you walk down the stairs alongside him, a shift occurs within you. The curiosity that had previously been overshadowed by a sense of indigence now begins to take the lead, propelling your feet forward with greater purpose and urgency. Each step brings you closer to the answers you have been seeking for the past four months in his absence, hoping to find resolution at last.
And bloody give him that kick in the balls you've been reserving.
Upon descending the last step, the chill of utter shell shock sweeps through you upon arrival in the welcome hall. It is not the sight of Ves, returned after such a long absence, that causes this overwhelming astonishment. Instead, it is the presence of another figure emerging from behind the front door that leaves you frozen with disbelief, rocked to your very bones.
IV.
A/N - Well, there we go, then! He's returned! I wasn't going to do it, believe me, I always intended on IV remaining dead, until I got the idea of having him resurrected (more details to follow in Friday's update) and it worked so well, and fitted so nicely in giving back to Ves in what he was missing, losing his youngest offspring, that I decided to bring him back into the story. I know I wasn't popular with a number of readers for killing him off, and I didn't bring him back to appease anyone, but it just fit so well with the idea that I had, and I wanted to explore it! :)
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✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦
✦summary: bucky isn't your boss, but he's still off limits. and even if he wasn't, there's no way he'd ever go for someone like you. weird that he matched with you on a dating app then, isn't it?✦
✦warnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, modern!au, ceo!bucky, no use of y/n, mutual pining, virgin!reader, dating apps, no description of reader (pictures for aesthetic only), fluff, angst, love confessions, kinda boss x secretary, plot to earn porn, feral level smut, (fingering, teasing, stripping, soft dom!bucky, dirty talk, mean bucky but you're into it, teasing, possiveness, mutual masturbation, pussy spanking, praise kink, manhandling, dumbification, big dick bucky, p in v sex, creampie), soft!bucky outside of smut✦
✦wc: 13.9k✦
✦Author's Note: this one is for all my wound up "want love but afraid of intimacy girlies". we go through it. Enjoy!✦
Bucky Barnes is ruining your life, and he doesn’t even know it.
You wish you could blame him. Slash his tires and scream in his face, maybe drain the oil from his bike or mess up his lunch order. But he wouldn’t deserve that, and you’d just end up homeless on the street. You’d have to sell your body, but you’ve never been that good at sales, and begging Steve for your job back wouldn’t get you anywhere when you’d just given his best friend food poisoning.
And Bucky wouldn’t deserve that. He’s perfect. He’s a mountain you’d love to scale, if you hadn’t always been horrid at climbing. You’d dig your nails into his chest, and maybe just keep him at eye level forever. So you could watch that quiet joy that only shines for the people he really, truly likes.
You’re a member of that rare club. It’s taken years of small kindness’ and lingering in Steve’s shadow to get there.
Even if you wanted to, you’d never risk ruining that just because of some schoolgirl crush. Not when Bucky might make your heart stumble and your face heat, but he hasn’t taken away your wits.
The same wits that tell you, it’s not worth the risk.
It will never be worth the risk. You worked too hard to get where you are. It’s too good a job, to burn up because you have a few fantasies. Steve Rogers famously went through assistant after assistant, before you. When you’d asked Natasha why—Steve’s a perfect boss, he lets you take hour long lunches and use sick time as PTO, as long as you don’t tell HR—she’d just shrugged.
“It’s not Steve that’s making them quit.” She’d hummed, like you were supposed to know exactly what that meant.
You hadn’t. You still don’t. Best guess, he thinks that everyone can keep up with him and forgets to slow down and match pace. But you can keep up with him just fine. Without breaking a sweat. Sometimes you out-pace him, and that earns you a loud, approving laugh and small smirk from Bucky.
Bucky.
James. You’re trying to call him James, in your head. It’s more formal. Creates a larger gap, between private fantasy and reality.
In fantasy, Bucky is a hazy voice that creeps into your dreams and rough stubble that brushes over your cheek. You tangle the sheets and blankets between your legs in bed, and pretend he’s there, holding you tight. Dreams and scenarios play out before you go to sleep, where he backs you against a wall and declares that he’s loved you since he first saw you. Or he shows up at your door in the middle of the night, pleading because he can’t take being away from you anymore. Maybe all his stares at conferences and meetings finally amount to something, and he grabs your jaw and kisses you so brutally you both just fall onto that soft couch in his office.
But Bucky doesn’t just stare at you. It’s one of his weird little quirks that Steve calls just Bucky, and Sam calls creepy and weird, he’s lucky we love him.
You do love him.
Bucky’s perfect. When you’d met him, he’d seemed as if he’d fallen out of a silver screen or leather-bound book. You’d never understood fantasies about powerful men, until one with the brilliance of fifty suns had been adjusting his cuffs in front of you. You’d barely been able to breathe, and it’s only gotten harder since you’ve known him.
At first look, Bucky’s a sharp jawline, dark hair, and eyes that follow you into your sleep. He’s cold and standoffish in that annoying way that makes the fool in your heart babble about how you could melt him. He snaps and orders and doesn’t waste time on things that don’t matter, and you’d like to hear how his voice could go soft, if you could make it.
That fool in your heart is loud. It tends to get the better of you, until the object of it’s fleeting obsession shatters the illusion by itself. Most of your crushes take a sledgehammer and destroy the heroic visage you’ve made of them in a second. You just have to wait for it, and they save you from themselves.
But Bucky likes to ruin your life.
It’s been a year, since Steve hired you. Fresh out of college, nervous, and with what Natasha called doe-eyes.
You love Bucky more than you did at the start, and it’s incredibly rude that he won’t just cut it out so you can focus.
“How’s your mother?” You ask one night, when it’s just you and Bucky.
James. When you’re alone in a room with him, and the white sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to show off obnoxious muscles, it’s important to remember you should be calling him James.
“My… Mother.”
He’s staring at you like you’re crazy. Heat floods your cheeks, but you just nod. He doesn’t get to win.
“You said she was moving.” You shrug, and Bucky’s tongue flicks over his lips.
“I did say that.”
“Yeah. I know.” You pretend to turn over a paper. “I was there.”
Bucky snorts, and it’s enough to yank your attention up. He’s shaking his head with that tiny curve of a smile, and it makes your heart do something that might resemble overdrive.
“What?”
“Nothin’.”
“What-“
“My mother’s doin’ just fine.” Bucky says, staring at you across the room. “She loved those muffins you made her. Got me and my sisters in a lotta trouble, for not bothering to make her a housewarming gift.”
You swallow. “Oh, I- I didn’t mean to-“
“Don’t hurt yourself.” Bucky—James, but it’s impossible to remember when he looks at you like that—smirks. “I’d want you over me every time, too.”
There’s no possible response you can think of, to that. Not one that makes sense, and isn’t humiliating. You look back to your papers, mumble a thank you, and try not to let Bucky’s low chuckle pool heat between your thighs.
You don’t succeed.
But that’s a problem for your vibrator to worry about, when you get home.
Because that’s where the fantasy. And the reality is always starker. Harder to escape.
Bucky is a mountain of a man, but you’ve never climbed anything at all. Not a tiny hill, not a slope, not even a bump in the road. The most basic things, that most people get out of the way in middle school, you’ve never even brushed against. Not on purpose. It’s just… Never happened. And you’re certainly not going to start doing anything now. With your older pseudo-boss and sort of friend. You don’t have a death wish, and you’re certain that rejection will kill you with the humiliation alone.
So in reality, you’re never going to risk anything. You’ve never had health insurance this good before. Steve buys you lunch every day—technically he buys himself lunch, but you’re allowed to get whatever you want—and you got to move out of your rundown apartment with the landlady who kept getting mad you dared to have trash, but refused to fix your broken heater. In New York.
You haven’t had freezing fingers in a year. Because now, you could afford gloves. And in the harsh cold of reality, no dick is worth more than a nice pair of gloves.
Bucky’s might be. Bucky and his smile and low laugh and nobleness and silent kindness and-
No.
Nothing’s worth it. Not when Bucky wouldn’t even want you anyway.
You’d rather have the gloves.
“You get a plus one to this event, you know?”
You look at Steve over the desk, frowning slightly. “Huh?”
Steve’s lips twitch. “You get a plus one.”
“Okay?”
“Wasn’t sure you knew.” He shrugs. Your frown deepens.
“Of course I knew. I send out all the invitations.”
“Hm.”
“What’s hm? What does hm mean?”
“Just hm. Do you have the numbers, about-“
“They’re in front of you, Steven.” You narrow your eyes. “What’s hm mean.”
“Told you, nothing-“
“What.”
Sam says that there are only three people Steve is afraid of. Natasha, Bucky’s mother, and you. At the time, you’d laughed it off and rolled your eyes.
With how his throat bobs and he avoids your gaze, you’re starting to think that last part might be true.
“You’ve just always had that plus one offered.” Steve mutters, looking at the reports like they’ve suddenly turned into something interesting. “Noticed you never used it. Wanted to, uh- Make sure you knew.”
“I knew.” You snap, and Steve sighs.
“Yeah, I thought you did.”
“Then why’d you ask-“
“You wanna get lunch?” Steve’s voice raises, and the conversation is clearly over. “I think I could go for some sushi, or- Mexican. Maybe acai?”
Those are three very different things, and it is your job to figure out which one he really wants. But you can’t stop thinking about it for the rest of the day.
You have never used your plus one. You’ve never needed to.
There’s never been anyone worth using it on, except for one, dumb, handsome man who already has his own invitation to every event, and never has a problem finding his own date. You’ve spent dozens of nights lingering at Steve’s side—because he can tell you all he wants to enjoy yourself, you’ll slack when you’re dead—and glaring daggers at the model hanging off of Bucky’s arm. Giggling at everything he says and trying to drift closer than the polite, respectable distance he keeps them at.
He lets you sit closer to him than he lets them. And they are all a little younger, so maybe he wouldn’t mind that you’re not experienced and-
You stamp those thoughts under your heel. Not worth it.
But is Steve’s noticed how you never bring anyone, maybe he’s noticed how you stare at Bucky as well. And if he’s noticed that, he might start looking closer. And if he looks closer, he’s going to realize that you’re in love with his best friend, and he’s going to tell Bucky, and you’re going to get fired, and lose your cool apartment and fuck, you aren’t emotionally prepared to be a prostitute-
You need a date.
It’s the safest, most logical conclusion. You study Steve across the room, and quickly decide against asking to be set up. That might get back to Bucky, and you don’t want him to know for reason that defy common sense. You can’t ask anyone at work, but all your friends are your co-workers. You could go out to a bar, but that sounds dangerous and exhausting, and you’re not even sure where you’d find the time.
Which leaves one option.
Dating apps.
There are millions of them. You know from college friends and social media that there are about five worth having. You download all of them, and spend the rest of your lunch setting up your profile. You’re by no means ugly, and you’ve got plenty of pictures in exciting locations thanks to Steve being unable to get through any work event without you there. You put down that you’re not sure what you’re looking for, because you’re really not. You lie about your job, because when you tell people you’re Steve Roger’s personal assistant, they usually get weird. You settle just secretary, even though Steve and Natasha would shout at you if they saw.
They won’t see. None of them will see.
And you’ll get a nice, boring date to the next event, and everything is going to be fine.
“You never tell me about your family.”
Bucky’s words are so low you almost don’t hear them. You look up at him in surprise, and hope the dim lighting hides your flush.
“You never ask.”
His lips twitch down. “I’ve told you about my family.”
“So?”
“Usually.” He mutters, glaring at his papers like the did something to personally offend him. “When you tell someone about yourself, it’s an… Exchange of information.”
“An exchange of information?” You snort. “Is that a CIA thing?”
“Not everything I do is a CIA thing.”
“Everything Natasha does is a CIA thing. And you were in the CIA together.”
“Nat was better at it than I was.” He grumbles. His brow does a tight-knit wrinkle thing, when he’s frustrated. For a grown man, it’s always rather adorable. “I’d like to know about your family.”
“I…” You blink at him, your brain turning fuzzy and useless.
He’s staring at you. Saying those words like they matter, and you can barely understand them at all.
“Why?”
“Because. We’ve worked together a while. I know… A lot about you.” He takes a deep breath through his nose, giving you a strange look. “You know about me.”
“Uh huh. That’s usually how being friends works.”
Bucky sighs. “Yeah, well. You’ve met my mother. She adores you.”
“She doesn’t adore me-“
“She adores you.”
He says it like it’s really not up for debate. You flush. “Oh- Okay.”
“Everyone you meet adores you.” Bucky grumbles, like that complete lie of a statement infuriates him. “And I tell you everything about me.”
You don’t think that’s true either. You know a lot about Bucky, but not everything. Steve says Bucky’s just like that—not big on sharing—so you hoard every bit of information he offers you like a dragon with gold, but it’s far from everything. “Bu- James-“
“Bucky.” He corrects, and you sigh.
He’s not making that part easy, either.
“Bucky.” You say, smooth and careful. “You know everything about me that Steve knows. I- I can tell you more. But I’m not all that interesting.”
“I disagree.” He mutters. “You’re impossibly interesting.”
You can only hum, pressing your thighs together as he just keeps staring at you. He shouldn’t be allowed to do that. It makes your brain slow down and all your thoughts turn honeyed and gooey. His hands are right in your eyeline, and he’s got those big, deft fingers that you’ve imagined tracing over your hips and lips, and he’s giving you compliments. Compliments like they’re just breathing, like he doesn’t even have to think about them because you could be all he sees.
“What do you want to know?” You mumble, desperate to move the conversation away from this. If you offer yourself too much of his attention, it’s going to drag you under like quicksand.
“What’s your favorite kind of flower?”
“My favorite flower-“
Bucky grunts, nodding tightly. You take a deep, slow breath, careful not to look him in the eyes.
“I don’t know. I’ve never really thought about it.”
Bucky grunts. “Well, what kinda flowers have people gotten you before.”
“I- I’ve never been given flowers.”
“You’ve never-“ Bucky cuts himself off, and you risk a glance up to see him scowling. “Ever?”
You can hear the what about that he won’t say. What about a boyfriend.
If he’s not brave enough to ask it—although you don’t understand why he’d care—you don’t have to be brave enough to answer it.
“No. Never ever.” You mumble, and you might dissolve into a mist of humid humiliation and confusing arousal.
You have Bucky’s attention, and you both wish he’d take it back and never want him to stop pushing. You’ve never had someone poke at you this much. It makes your core ache, and you’d rally rather not explore what that means right now.
“You need to sign these.” You shove some papers across the desk, staring at Bucky’s hands again.
They’re curled in fists. You’d like them inside you-
You mentally slap yourself, and force a smile onto your face, nodding to the papers. “Steve told me not to let you go home, until you did.”
Bucky chuckles at that, though there’s still a strange look in his eyes. “Not let me go home, huh.”
“Yes, sir.” You drawl.
Bucky’s knuckles go white. You could swear his voice gets lower.
“And how would you stop me from gettin’ home, kid?”
“With lots of talent.” You shrug, giving him a tiny smile. “And my body.”
Bucky coughs, and the desk jerks suddenly. His knee must’ve slammed against it. You shoot to your feet, ready to check on him, but he waves you quickly back down.
“Fine. I’m fine.” He scowls, scooting forward in his chair. “Papers.”
He makes a beckoning gesture, and you just stare at him.
“James, are you-“
“Bucky.” He grunts. “Papers, sweetheart.”
You nod stupidly, shoving the papers into his hands. You’re not sure what’s happening. Your thoughts are all still made of candy-clouds and goo, so you don’t want to overthink it.
It’s only when you get home, that you realize what he called you. I
Sweetheart.
You can’t blame him. He can’t know what that does to you.
You really need to find that date.
It happens in the middle of work. The worst possible place for it to happen.
Steve’s on a conference call, and you’re lying on his couch, swiping through dating apps. You’re only there in case he forgets something, and you don’t have to pay much attention for that. The voices of old, annoying men drone on and on and on in the background, and you have everything memorized so well that when Steve calls your name, you answer without even realty paying attention to what you’re saying.
The call is three hours for no good reason at all. You get bored.
Hence, the dating apps.
It’s almost as mindless as the call itself. All in all, the experience is turning out to be more of a fun game than an actual method to find a date. The next gala is creeping up, though. You refuse to give up.
But you’re also picky. And you keep comparing every profile you see to Bucky, which is deeply counterproductive.
Michael is handsome, and the exact same height as Bucky, but he’s built with corded muscle instead of the softer, thicker strength you’ve seen straining through Bucky’s suit. Henry has a picture of himself with kids—his sister’s, according to the caption—but you look at it and just think of when Bucky and Steve went to the children’s hospital, and Bucky had become such a soft and approachable person you’d been worried you’d get pregnant watching him.
Leon has nice eyes, but they’re not as pretty as Bucky’s. Cal is in the military, but he’s beaming about it in a way that makes you think he joined so he could run around with a big gun, while Bucky joined because his family needed the healthcare. Jake has a sweet smile, but it doesn’t make you feel bubbly like Bucky’s. Asher and Kyle both have high paying jobs—all their photos showing them driving Maserati’s and drinking expensive whiskey—but one of the things you’ve always loved about Bucky is how he doesn’t brag. His suits are less expensive and more well-tailored. His watch costs $150—he always grumbles that he just needs it to tell time—and he drives a motorcycle that Sam says he built from scratch.
You squint at Damien’s profile, and he’s got a motorcycle too. His caption says that he built it himself, and you don’t know anything about motorcycles, but you doubt he built it as well as Bucky did.
You swipe left with a sigh, and go onto the next profile.
James. 41. Business Manager. You give the picture a quick glance—beefy, shirtless chest that makes you drool a little, only the sharp, bearded jawline of the owner visible in the photo—and squint at the bio. Wealthy bachelor looking for his Queen.
You snort, and scroll lazily down. James’ Interests include music, cars, technology, dancing, family. No kids, but wants them. Looking for casual fun—you can’t be causal, or have fun, but it’s always nice to pretend—located thirty feet away, pet cat, smokes and drinks socially-
Located thirty feet away.
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
You sit up suddenly, rapidly scrolling back up to the photos and main bio. James, 41, Business Manager.
Fucking- Fuck-
You click frantically through the photos, somehow burning alive and freezing to your bones all at once. James’ next photo doesn’t show his face either, instead displaying a fluffy white cat on his bare chest. You know that cat. You’ve fed and pet her, paying her more attention than Bucky himself whenever he brings her to the office. Alpine adores you. You have more photos of her on your phone than you do of yourself.
Next photo.
Bucky drinking at that Italian place he, Steve, and Sam always go to for celebrations. In the background, you can see Natasha flirting with the bartender. You remember that night. She’d taken him home, and you’d heard far too many details about how hot and submissive he was in the morning. You’d been happy for her, and sick with jealousy. You’d spent all of that night standing next to her, trying not to stare at Bucky while he and Steve drank.
Which means-
You pinch in on the photo, feeling a little sick when you find it. Shrouded enough in the background that you can only see it if you look, but you can definitely fucking see it.
Your lovelorn, sad expression as you stare at Bucky like he’s made of stars.
He’s seen this photo. Everyone who’s been on his dating profile has seen this photo.
You feel sick. You unpinch the photo, ready to maybe just fall back into the couch cushions and have them swallow you whole, and then it fucking happens.
Your thumb drifts a little to the right.
You swipe yes on Bucky’s profile.
And a little heart graphic overtakes your screen, the bolded words It’s a Match! Shoved into your face.
You scream, and throw your phone across the room.
Steve looks at you like you’re insane. You feel insane.
“Are you-“
“I need to go to the bathroom!” You shout, and Steve opens his mouth, but you’re already running.
You have to pass Bucky’s office—right next to Steve’s—to get to the bathroom. You pause to stare at him, unable to form any coherent thoughts but fuck and Bucky.
He’s on his phone. Reading something with a knit brow. You might actually be about to throw up.
Like he can sense you, he looks up.
Your eyes meet.
And you run away, as fast as you fucking can.
Steve is a lovely boss. When you tell him you need a week off for vague personal reasons, but that you can still work remotely, he tells you not to bother and just take the time without work.
“But- I can help-“
“I know. I’m telling you not to.” He gives you a small smile. “You’ve earned the break.”
“Steve-“
“You’re allowed to just rest,” he says your name kindly, and you shake your head. No. You’re not.
“Please give me something to do.” You plead, and Steve sighs.
“Kid, you don’t have to prove something-“
“Please.” If you don’t have anything, you’re just going to stare at your match with Bucky the whole time. And that’s a harrowing, deadly prospect of a way to spend your week.
Steve sighs, and gives in. You get a bunch of emails to send, and they’re just enough to distract you.
Barely.
Sometimes, you still manage to falter, and open up the app. Stare at the you matched with James three days ago! Banner at the top of the screen. Maybe he hasn’t seen it at all, and you’re hiding for no reason. He could be someone who never even checks who he matches with unless they message first, because he just gets so many matches. Jealousy stabs through your heart, sour and sharp, and you sigh.
It’s your best hope. That he’ll just never know.
But he matched with you, too.
He could just swipe right on every girl he sees. That’s a thing you hear men do.
Bucky’s not the type to do that.
He’s also not the type to be looking for his Queen. Maybe you don’t know him as well as you thought you did.
But you’re pretty sure you do.
This is making your head hurt.
Your real best bet is that someone’s been catfishing as James Barnes, but there’s no real hope of that with the bar photo. You’re going to have to quit your job and change your name. Maybe Steve can reference you to another similar job if you apologize enough. Maybe you can move to Alaska and learn how to be a fisherwoman. You’re not very patient. And you’re not going to be able to afford your nice gloves anymore. Maybe you should just die. The best option might just be dying-
Your phone buzzes.
Message from James.
You throw your phone again. He knows.
Death is looking lovely right now.
Your days off turn into a week off. Steve checks on you, but doesn’t push you to come back. If anything, he’s still trying to convince you to just take a real vacation.
“It’s going to help more than… What you’re doing right now.” He stands in the middle of your apartment, gesturing at your ice cream and the mess of clothing on the floor.
“This is helping plenty.” You mutter. Steve sighs.
“Look, I’m really not mad about you taking the time. I know you. You wouldn’t take it if you didn’t need it.”
“But?” You give him a pointed look, and his jaw ticks.
“But I wish you’d tell me what was goin’ on.” He says, sounding more sad than annoyed. “So I could help.”
You give him a tight smile. “Steve-“
“Anything you need. If I can’t get it, I’m sure Bucky or Nat could-“
“Steve.” You don’t want to hear about how Bucky can help you. Not when he knows perfectly well why you’ve gone into hiding. “I- I really don’t want to talk about it.”
Steve frowns, but lets it go. In the Steve way, where he keeps asking every time he visits, but always takes the no in stride.
“Can you at least tell me what I should be saying to everyone else?” He asks after a week. “People are noticing I’m missing my brain.”
You laugh softly. “I’m sick.”
“But you’re not.”
Not visibly. Your heart feels sick. Bucky’s sent you two more messages on the app, one into your personal number, and none on Teams, and you’ve read none of them. You don’t want to hear his gentle rejection, because it’s going to crush you into fine, little pieces.
“We’re worried about you.” Steve says. “And again, no rush to come back, but I don’t know how to work my own schedule and Bucky’s started pacing whenever I try to do your job, so-“
“Bucky’s pacing?” You blurt, and Steve blinks.
“Yeah? Think he misses you, too.”
You swallow, and glance at your phone. The unread messages.
Bucky only paces when he feels like something is wrong. Really wrong.
And you don’t want to know. That he’s been thinking about. That he’s been pacing. Because it all ends the same anyway.
“I’ll be back soon.” You mumble, flipping your phone face down. You don’t want to know. “Just- A few more days.”
Steve looks at you like he doesn’t believe you. You don’t believe you.
But you’re a big girl. You can survive a little rejection, and it doesn’t have to be anything at all.
You’re going to keep going, and this won’t have to have been anything at all.
Nobody asks, when you get back to the office. Nat and Sam check in that you’re okay, and Steve lets you pick lunch three days in a row—and you think he’s blaming himself for everything, which at least tells you that Bucky hasn’t snitched about anything—but the only thing waiting for you is a phone full of voicemails and a crowded calendar.
And Bucky.
Bucky, who almost acts like nothing even happened at all.
Almost.
He’s staring more than he used to, and he’d always stared quite a lot. When you’re left alone in a room together, he stares until you look up at him, before immediately coughing and looking back to his own papers. He lingers outside of Steve’s office until you ask if he needs to talk, and he shakes his head and runs off like a teenager caught trying to buy drinks. Nat shouts at him after two meetings where he wasn’t paying attention, and he mutters that he was distracted.
“What?! What could you possibly have been so distracted by that you missed every cue Sam gave you, five times in a row?”
He just shrugs, and you can feel his gaze burning straight into your heart. You bow your head, and pretend you don’t see it.
You still haven’t looked at the messages. You’re not going to. And he hasn’t brought it up, so it’s like nothing ever happened.
Like nothing ever happened.
But it happened. The world ended, but it also just kept spinning, and now you’re suspended in a world where Bucky doesn’t even treat you like a friend anymore.
Steve notices. Of course he does. Asshole.
“Did something happen?” He asks softly. “Did Bucky… Say something to you?”
You look up with wide eyes, mouth going dry. “Wha- What? No, Bucky- James and I, it’s fine.” You laugh, high and nervous. “Everything’s fine.”
Steve hums, and he doesn’t believe you. You can see it, shining in his eyes. “You know… I’ve known Bucky a long time.”
“I know. I’ve read the about page.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “No. I mean, yes, but-“ He sighs. “Bucky’s not good at… Talking. When something matters to him, he shows it.”
“Okay.” He’s shown you nothing but silence and stares.
“And he, um- He’s a good guy-“
“I’m aware.”
“I know you are, but-“ Steve sighs, slumping in his chair. “Just, if Bucky ever says something to you, or asks you to do something, and you don’t want to, don’t. I’d rather you piss him off then feel pressured. Not that he’d pressure you,” he adds quickly. “But if there’s ever… Anything. And I’ve been wrong about… Stuff. Just know you’re as valuable as he is.”
He’s speaking in riddles. This has been a long few weeks. “Okay.”
“Okay.” Steve nods, taking in a deep breath. “And is there… Anything you want to tell me? As my friend?”
It’s a mean card to play. You almost want to. Steve’s kind, and he gives good advice, and you believe him. You know that if you confessed your silent, raging love for Bucky, Steve would just support you.
But you don’t need someone to support you right now. You need someone to smack you in the face and tell you to stop being a baby about your crush not liking you back.
“No.” You give him a strained smile, and it hurts on your face. “Why, is there something you need to tell me?”
Steve stares at you for a moment, then slowly shakes his head. “No. Just… You were missed.”
There’s a long moment of silence, and Steve clears his throat.
“By everyone.”
You nod, useless tears stinging at your eyes, and look back to your work.
Later that day, Bucky goes into Steve’s office and they talk for two hours. You want to eavesdrop, but that would be a new, pathetic low.
You stare at Bucky’s head through the glass, and chew on a pencil until it snaps in half.
When Bucky leaves the office, he stops in front of your desk and lingers. You can feel the heat from his body, and you’d like to fall into it. He clears his throat, and you look up like he’d grabbed your chin and demanded it.
His eyes are shining on yours, and you’ve never seen his jaw clenched so tight. As if he’s disgusted, just from the sight of you.
“You look nice.” He rasps, and you can’t tell if you’re glowing or burning out.
“Thank you.”
He nods, looking up to the ceiling, then back to you. “We all missed you.”
“I’ve been told-“
“I missed you.” He says those words firmer. They sink into your core, molten and demanding, so overwhelming you’re not even sure what to do with yourself.
You’ve been staring at him too long. Words are failing you, thoughts are failing you, and-
“I, uh- I’ll leave you to it-“
“You too.” You breathe out, and Bucky stumbles back like you hit him. “I- I missed you too.”
He blinks. His nostrils flare, and he gapes at you with a red face. For a second, you don’t see the calm, collected man you know and adore so well. You see something closer to a teenage boy, fumbling and gaping and unsure what to do with his own strength.
You like him, just as much as you like the rest of Bucky. Love it.
Endlessly and uselessly love it.
Bucky turns on his heels, and almost runs back to his office. Your nails dig into your palms, and you force your attention back to your work.
It will pass. All of this, like every storm, is going to have to pass.
You get a night off. Steve has a date, and it’s the one part of his life you have and want nothing to do with. You were going to use the evening to catch up on more voicemails, until Sam shooed you out of the building like a bird. Go rest, woman.
You are resting.
By catching up on emails.
There’s a knock on your door, long after anyone should be out doing anything. You don’t move from the couch at first, because you think it’s a mistake.
Then the knock repeats. Louder than the first time. And someone shouts your name, muffled through the door.
Not a mistake.
Bucky. That’s Bucky’s voice.
You fall, trying to get up. Your knees feel like jelly, and you haven’t even seen him yet, but he’s already doing that thing where his attention makes you feel like you’re made of electric static. Sensitive and empty-headed in the best and worst way. You can barely stand it. You can’t really stand at all.
When you finally—somehow—make it to the door, Bucky’s standing on the other side like he’s awaiting inspection. Tall and silent, shoulders squared and arms behind his back, looking at you like you’re holding his life in your hands.
You stare at him. He stares back, and you can measure your every breath in heartbeats. Louder and louder in your ears.
“Hi.” You finally say, shifting on your feet, and his throat bobs.
“Hey.”
“What’re you-“
“I wanted to check on you.” He blurts, and you freeze. “And- Talk.”
You ignore that last part. It’s the last thing you want to do. “I’m fine.”
Bucky’s pretty lips tug down. “You took two weeks off.” He mutters. “You don’t even take sick days.”
You swallow. “I- I was trying to take care of myself-“
“By working the whole time?” He looks past you again, and you follow his gaze.
Right to your laptop, open on an email draft.
“You’re supposed to be takin’ tonight off too.” He says, a little scolding, and you stiffen.
“You’re not my boss.”
Bucky chuckles. Low and deep, shivering up your spine. “Trust me, doll. I’m fully aware of that.”
Oh. That does something nice to your core. You think you might be getting a fever.
“James…”
“Bucky.” He grunts, and you take an unsteady breath. Staring at his chest seems to be the most effective way to speak to him.
“Bucky, I- I’m fine, really-“
“I brought you flowers.” He says suddenly, and his hands shoot out from behind his back.
He’s holding out a large bouquet of roses and lilies, each in about three different colors. It’s a stark contrast to his black suit and neatly pressed white shirt, petals spilling and little bits of yellow pollen clinging to the stems. To the cuffs of his sleeves.
Bucky clears his throat, pushing the flowers a little further forward. You take them with shaking hands, a little worried they’ll dissolve the moment you touch them. They don’t. And Bucky clears his throat.
“I, uh- I gave you options, and-“ He shakes his head, rubbing the back of his neck. “Can I come in? Please?”
You can’t think of a good reason to say no. You don’t even think you’d get out the words, if you tried. So you nod, and step to the side.
And now Bucky’s in your apartment. Looking around at your things and licking his lips, nodding slowly. He fits into it, like a puzzle piece being slowly slotted in, and-
No.
You can’t think like that. It’s not going to help anyone, not by far.
He brought you flowers.
To apologize for breaking your heart.
Bucky looks back to you, bracing his hands on his hips. You swallow, hugging yourself tight, and neither of you dare to move. Bucky takes a ragged breath, looks to the side, and back to you with the strangest, most anguished expression you’ve ever seen on his handsome face.
“Tell me if I’m steppin’ over the line.” He starts, urgent and pleading. “You gotta tell me if I’m steppin’ over the line.”
“Bucky-“
“We both know why I’m here.” He takes a step forward. You take a step back.
Bucky freezes, and you take a shaking breath, staring at his shoes.
“I- I’m sorry.” You mumble. “I didn’t mean to-“
“You didn’t?” Bucky cuts you off, and you glance up to see him frowning. “At all?”
You blink. “No, I- I don’t know.”
“You don’t know if you meant it?”
You nod, and Bucky’s jaw works tight.
“Could you?”
“What?”
“Could you mean it?” He rasps, and your mouth falls uselessly open.
“Ja- Bucky.” You shake your head, stepping further back. If this is a trick, you’re too fragile to fall for it. “I- I don’t know.”
“Why not?” He takes a step forward, your eyes trapped together. “Is it me?”
“Is it you?”
“Yeah, I- I mean- You don’t really date.” He clears his throat. “And Stevie’s never told me why, ‘cause- I’m not your boss, but I’m not not your boss- ‘s what Sam says-“
You’ve never heard him ramble. Never heard him speak like he’s not sure of the next work. It’s just as endearing as the display at the desk, but you’re even less sure what to do with it. “Bucky-“
“If it’s just me that you’re not- That’s the reason.” He’s standing over you now. Bowing his head. “Then that’s fine. I’m not gonna be an ass about it. But…” His shoulders slump. “If it’s not that. Then I- I’d like to…”
He trails off, giving you a hopeful look.
But you’re lost. Nothing he’s saying is making sense, and you’re almost being dragged under by the current of his words.
“What?” You repeat, more pleading than before. Bucky sighs.
“You never answered my messages.” He mutters. “Figured I’d need to ask in person. Needed to hear it.” He clears his throat, lips twitching. “Even if it’s a no.”
“Even…” You frown. “Even if what’s a no?”
His head shoots up, and his frown deepens. “I’m… Asking you out. On a date?”
Oh.
What.
Your surprise must be written all over your face, because Bucky looks bewildered. He can join the club.
You just keep staring at him stupidly, and he says your name, slow and measured.
“You read my messages, right?”
You shake your head, and he groans.
“I- I’m sorry-“
“No, it’s- It’s my fault.” He mutters. “Nat told me you were oblivious-“
You cut him off indignantly. “I am not oblivious-“
“We matched on a dating app.” He drawls, lips twitching slightly. “And you’re shocked I’m askin’ you out.”
You scowl, hugging yourself tighter. “I thought you made a mistake.” You grumble, and Bucky chuckles.
He takes another step forward. Close enough that you can smell him, smell his cologne and aftershave and something deeper that’s just Bucky. You step back more out of fear that you were about to fall forward.
Bucky follows you.
Suddenly your pinned against your counters, Bucky’s arms braced on either side of your body. You swallow. Bucky’s tongue darts over his lips, and you think you did drown in his everything. You’ve been swept out to sea, and there’s no hope of being dragged out to shore.
And with how Bucky’s looking at you, you’re not sure you’d ever ask to be saved.
“You.” Bucky reaches up, brushing hair out of your eyes with a small smile. “Are not a mistake. And if someone’s been tellin’ you that you are.” He leans down, until your lips are almost brushing. “They’re damn lucky you’re lettin’ them make it.”
Dear God. You’re not strong enough for this.
“James…” You breathe out, and his brows knit. “Bucky. Don’t.”
He tenses around you. “Don’t?”
“Don’t.” You whisper, eyes dropping to his lips. They look so soft. “Don’t do this.”
Bucky leans a little back, but doesn’t pull fully away. “Why not? I told you, if it’s not ‘cause of me, we can work it out-“
“Bucky-“
“I’ll quit.” He says suddenly, and you gape.
“You’re the boss, you can’t quit-“
“There are like, four bosses.” Bucky waves you off. “Five if we’re countin’ you, which I am, and you do twice the fuckin’ work. I’ll just quit, and you can have my job, and we can-“
“Bucky.” You grab his shirt, and he falls silent immediately. “Just- Stop. You can’t quit, you shouldn’t-“ You take a deep breath, trying to focus on speaking instead of crying.
Bucky says your name softly, and big hands thread through your hair as you start to sniffle. It’s so pathetic, but you’re tired and overwhelmed and you can’t take him doing this to you twice. You’re not the kind of girl Bucky Barnes is going to want. Not for real. Not for long. And you can’t handle him pretending you are.
“It’s not nice.” You whimper, even as he tugs you into his chest.
Pressing your face into his chest is just as amazing as you’d always imagined. You wish you weren’t crying when it finally happened.
“What’s not nice.” Bucky prompts gently, and you swallow.
“You.”
“Me?”
You nod, wrapping your arms around his torso. Bucky pets the back of your head, words low and cautious.
“What about me isn’t nice?”
You shake your head, hugging him tighter. You can’t stop. It’s like a reflex. “You can’t- You can’t say that stuff. ‘S mean.”
“Me tellin’ you I’d quit for you is mean?”
“You don’t mean it.”
Bucky tenses. “I do mean it-“
“No, it’s not- I’m not-“ You swallow, breathing him in. “I don’t just wanna be…”
You trail off. Bucky prompts you softly. “Be what?”
“Be fun.” You mumble. “I can’t do fun, you know than, and- And if you’re not serious, then-“
“I’m dead serious.” Bucky grunts, and you swallow.
“James-“
“No. Listen to me.” He picks you up without a warning, sitting you on the counter so you’re at his eye level. You grab his shoulders, and he keeps his hands planted on your hips, almost holding you under his words.
Forcing you to hear them, as he watches you like you’re the most important thing in the world.
“I am serious about this. About you.” He grabs one of your hands, holding it between your bodies. “I have wanted you since I met you. Don’t look at me like that,” he squeezes your hand when you give him a doubtful frown. “I have. You are beautiful and smart and bossy, and I’ve been obsessed with you so much, Nat’s slapped me about it twice.”
You swallow, closing your eyes tight. You can’t look at him right now. “Your profile said looking for casual.” You mutter, and Bucky snorts.
“Last year, Sam made that thing for me. ‘Cause I was obsessed with Stevie’s new PA, and I needed to get under someone to get over it.”
“Hm.” You peek at him. He looks sincere. “Did you?”
“I got under many someone’s.” He shrugs. “Didn’t have Sam’s intended effect. Think I just wanted you more, after every time.”
You swallow. That does explain a lot about the profile, in hindsight. Those were all very Sam things to say.
“I want you.” Bucky murmurs, pressing a little closer. Your noses are bumping, and he’s still not looking away. “You’re in my dreams, and days without you are nightmares. Just- One shot. It’s all I need. Please.”
And God, you want to give it to him. More than anything. You want to tell him that he doesn’t even need his shot, he hit a bullseye a year ago and you’ve just been waiting for him to realize it since.
But-
“I’m a virgin.” You blurt, and Bucky blinks.
“Okay-“
“I can’t do what others can. For you. And I- I don’t know how anything works- Well, I know how sex works, I got an A in health class, but everyone got an A in health, but I got an A and paid attention, and-“ You’re rambling. “I just don’t know how dating works, or- Or relationships, and I’m not- You’re very- You.”
You gesture over his everything, and Bucky’s lips twitch.
“That a problem, doll?”
“No. God, no. You’re perfect, I’m just- Not? And that’s not really fair to you-“
Bucky grabs your face, and your cut off in a kiss.
You’ve seen kissing in the movies and on TV. Read about it a million times. It’s always all sweet and romantic, with swelling music and breeze and passion.
And nothing has done it justice at all.
Kissing Bucky is awkward for a second—his lips slotted over yours, your whole body frozen as it shuts down, then reboots—and then it’s like breathing. Your hands fly back to his shoulders, your legs spread so you can lean further forwards, and your lips move without a thought. Pressing against Bucky’s, moving in a dance he seems more than happy to lead, chasing at the slight chance that you could have just a little more.
One of Bucky’s hands finds this back of your head, and the other grabs your waist. Dragging you further forward until your chests are pressed tight, massaging the softness there in rhythm with his lips. You sigh, breathy and content, and Bucky presses further down. He’s all you can feel, muscle under your hands and love pounding in your heart. You nails scrape his neck, and he groans into the kiss.
The sound vibrates against your spread thighs. His hand on your waist flexes, fingers digging into the softness, and you gasp.
Bucky pulls back too fast, and you follow. Tugging him back, unwilling to let him go just yet. He follows for a second, tongue tracing over your lower lip, then yanks himself back.
His brow presses against yours, and you both breathe raggedly.
“I like you.” Bucky almost growls. His thumb presses over your swollen lips, palm cupping your cheek, and you melt further into him than you already were.
“Bucky-“
“You’re what I want.” He leans forward, demanding and pleading all at once. “Your body.” He pushes his hand under your shirt, rough fingers dragging against sensitive skin. “Is a bonus.”
You shiver, whimpering softly. You feel pliant. Dizzy, in a way that no flirting or video has ever rendered you before. You think Bucky might’ve sucked your soul out with that kiss. You’d like him to do it again.
But when you try to lean up, Bucky pushes you gently back down. You whine, and his lips twitch.
“You like me too.” He mutters, watching you like he’s somehow still unsure.
“Mhm.” You say, and he stands a little taller.
“How long-“
“The same.”
“Oh.” He grins. “Good. That’s- Good-“
You slam back up, kissing him with an open mouth and sloppy need. Bucky responds immediately, and heat is starting to build between your thighs. It’s not just going to go away with a little touching and petting. It’s almost painful. You need him.
Bucky pulls away again. You’re going to punch him.
“Jesus.” He mutters, staring down at your desperate expression. “You gotta slow down, baby-“
“Don’t want to.” You breathe, pulling at his shirt. “Want you, Bucky. Want you now.”
His throat bobs, eyes darkening, but he remains composed. “You… You’re a virgin-“
“Then show me.”
Bucky says your name, and now he’s the one begging. But you’re not letting him off this easy.
“Show me, Bucky.” You rest your chin on his chest, giving him your best pout.
He grabs your face between big hands, chest heaving as he stares at you. You offer a sweet smile, and his nostrils flare.
“Please.” You whisper. “Anything. I just want to feel you.”
“Feel me.” He echoes, like he can’t believe it. “You wanna feel me?”
You nod, and he presses his brow over yours his, his eyes squeezed shut.
“And you want me to show you.” He rasps. “All the different ways I can make you feel good.”
You nod frantically, almost clawing at his shirt. Bucky’s eyes shoot open.
“Yeah?” He grunts, and you whine.
“Yeah. Yes. Please-“
He grabs your jaw, grip hard and unyielding, folds over you like he’s trying to fuse your bodies together. His lips move, harsh and hungry, and his hand on your hip starts to knead the skin like he’s trying to leave a mark.
“Wanted this for so long.” He grunts, dragging his hand down to squeeze your ass. “Wanted you. So fuckin’ bad.”
You moan into his mouth, and Bucky sucks on your lower lip. You can’t have enough of him. He’s warm and leaves little fires everywhere he touches. You’d like them to sweep through you, overtake you and send you higher.
“So gorgeous.” Bucky’s hand moves lower, resting on your upper thigh. “Thought about you all the time, hated bein’ in a room and not getting to touch you, was so sure I was going to lose my damn mind not havin’ you be mine.”
“I- I wanted you too.” You breathe out, almost delirious from his kisses. “Always wanted it to be you, never- Oh-“
You lose your ability to speak for a second, when Bucky starts to kiss under your ear. Your body goes pliant and soft, and his growl against your skin sends a shiver up your spine. He’s holding the back of your neck now, guiding it to offer himself better access. You tug on his hair and he moans. It makes your knees wobbly.
“Never anyone else,” you breathe, and he seems to like that. The massive hand on your thigh shifts slightly, so Bucky’s thick fingers are grazing your core through your clothing.
It’s a perfect pressure where you’d been craving any of his attention, and it’s a promise of more later. Your legs give out, eyes fluttering as your brain short circuits with arousal.
Bucky picks you up like you weigh nothing. Your nails dig into the back of his neck as he sits you on the counter, back arching as he captures your mouth in another kiss.
“No one else.” He mutters, hand on your neck slowly, possessively moving down your spine. “Never gonna be anyone else, doll. Not for you,” he nips at your jaw, hand on your thigh teasing the sensitivity under your shirt. “Sure as shit not for me. Been no one else since I started thinkin’ of you.”
Your breath hitches, and you lean back with wide eyes. “Bucky, you don’t have to-“
“I’m not lying.” He says firmly, dropping his brow against yours. You try to lean back, but he grabs your chin, forcing your eyes back together.
You blink at him hopelessly, grabbing at the collar of his shirt like you’re looking for balance. Bucky gives you a tiny smile, pressing his lips sweetly over yours. Another, softer promise.
“No one,” he murmurs. “Was ever gonna live up to you. First few months I’d fuck a girl and feel sick the next day. Like I’d done you wrong.”
“You- You didn’t-“
“Yeah, I did. We coulda been doin’ this a lot sooner.”
You flush, looking down to where your bodies are pressed so tight together. Bucky’s dress shirt and hidden muscle, both hard and gentle all at once. Your sleeping clothes and bare feet, swinging off the counter. You lean a little further into him, suddenly feeling rather small.
“What if I’m not…” You take a deep breath, frowning at the floor. “What if I don’t-“
Bucky says your name, concerned and caring, and you shake your head.
“What if I’m not the fantasy, Bucky.” You look back up with your best pleading eyes. “What if that- That idea of me isn’t worth what you thought?”
His brows knit tight, and you try to shirk away as he studies you. You can’t tell if you like it or not, but you know you feel bare. And you both want him to look away, and never go where you can’t reach him again.
Bucky’s lips twitch. He leans forward slowly, kissing each corner of your mouth before taking it fully under his. The kiss is hot and commanding, almost forcing your brain to slow back down. You dissolve into it, your thoughts a nice haze of Bucky. He guides your legs a little further apart, and takes both of your wrists in one of his hands, pinning them behind you.
“I love you,” he mutters. “I told you. And remember,” he pulls back with that lovely, secret smile. “I’m helpin’ you through it, right?”
You nod, and Bucky leans back forward, bumping your noses together.
“Trust me?”
“Yes.” You breathe, and he grins.
“Good girl.”
Heat floods between your legs, and oh. You like that. You’re shaking a little bit, you like it so much. Want it so much. Want Bucky.
Like he’s reading your mind, he rasps against your lips. “You enjoyed other things before?”
You nod, unable to tell if that’s another flush or just how turned on you are, and Bucky smirks.
“Like what?” He kisses your cheek, massaging your thighs. “Tell me what you like, sweetheart. What you want.”
“I- I want to be under.” You whisper, and you think his hands might be magic. Pulling answers out of you that you would’ve rather died with an hour ago. “Want you over me. Tell- Telling me what to do.”
Bucky hums, nosing at your neck. You close your eyes, forcing on.
“Tell- Tell me how good I’m doing. And- Other stuff.”
He leans back, and your core throbs at the shine in his eyes. Like he’s going to eat you alive. “Other stuff?” He rasps, and you nod weakly.
“If you can- Can do that.” It’s hard to focus, between his piercing gaze and the hand wandering between your legs. Teasing your inner thigh, until you’re voice is high and breathy. “Do that, and- and be-“
“Be a little mean?” He coos, thumb pressing over your aching button. You swallow, and nod.
“A little mean.” You echo, and Bucky grins.
“Yes, ma’am.” He kisses you again, slow and romantic, and you barely notice his hand moving away. “Think that’s enough outta you for now.”
“Wha- Bucky-“
He steps away. Without warning, Bucky just backs up, and you almost fall off the counter trying to chase him. He laughs, and pushing you back into place in a second, then moves away again. Where you can’t follow.
“Bucky, come back-“
“Nope.” He grins, like he knows you’re already too lost to chase him. He probably does. Asshole. “You want me to show you?”
You scowl. “James-“
“Call me whatever you want, baby. You ain’t gonna be able to talk at the end, anyway.” He braces his hands on his hips, raising a brow. “Want me to show you.”
He won’t come back until you answer, so you just nod, crossing your arms like a scolded child. Bucky grins, and you’re hoping for another good girl and kiss, but he doesn’t even lean closer.
“Alright.” He stands a little taller. “Strip.”
You blink at him. “What?”
“Strip.”
“Like, completely?”
“Hm.” He pauses, raking over your body in a way that really shouldn’t make you feel more turned on. “Yep. All of this, off.”
He waves to your body, and gives you a silent, challenging look. Like he’s expecting you to go back, and ask for that date first.
But at this point, you’re going to explode if he doesn’t make you cum. And you’ve never backed down from him before. You have no interest in starting now.
Slowly, you peel off your sweater. Your shirt. The cold air hits your bare chest, and not wearing a bra was the right choice. Bucky’s looking at you like he wants to eat you alive, the evidence of your effect on him straining through his pants.
Your nipples are peaked, and you awkwardly palm at them the way you’ve seen in porn. Bucky shifts on his feet, hand flexing like he’s trying not to reach for you, so you repeat the motion again.
“Pants.” He grunts, and you smile sweetly.
“Please?”
Bucky chuckles, like he can’t believe you. “Jesus, woman-“
“It’s polite-“
“If you don’t take your pants off.” He grunts, giving you a firm look. “I’m gonna rip off your pants and fuck you on this counter right now.”
You swallow. That doesn’t sound all that bad, but-
Something foolish and lovesick inside of your chest demands that tonight be special. So you move on from your breast, but give Bucky a nervous smile.
“Next time?”
He softens slightly, and nods. “Next time. Pants.”
You smile, and he smiles back. But the expression quickly shifts back into desire, as you shuffle out of your pants. You take your underwear down in one motion as well, leaving you completely exposed. At Bucky’s mercy.
And he’s just watching you.
Watching you and rubbing his crotch, where an erection is demanding attention. The lewd sight makes you fuzzy in all the right places, your own legs spreading a little wider apart.
You need him so bad it hurts. Your fingers dip into your wet pussy, clumsily rubbing your clit, and Bucky groans.
Suddenly he’s back against you, staring at your hand between your legs and panting like a dog.
“Look at you.” He groans, dragging his gaze back up your naked body. “Better than a dream.”
“Thank you.” Your hips buck up against your own, suddenly flimsy and useless hand. You’ve touched yourself before. With Bucky all around you, it’s simply not enough. “Bucky- You-You need to touch me-“
“I know.” He grunts, lips ghosting over yours. “Need you to be ready, just-“
His throat bobs as he cuts himself off, his hand on his own hard dick suddenly pressing against your pussy. A spasm shoots through your body, and you almost fly off the counter.
Bucky presses further down, attaching his lips to your neck and collarbone. His tongue flicks against a pulse point as he spreads your pussy lips. Rubbing up and down while his thumb circles around your clit, working you up and up and up. You’re panting in his ear, vulnerable and dazed, and Bucky hums against your skin.
“Shirt.” He grunts. “Get my shirt off.”
You nod, and it should be a simple task. But Bucky’s relentless. He suckles on your neck, leaving possessive bruises on your skin all while working your pussy and drawling in your ear.
“I know exactly how I want you, pretty girl.” He mutters, flicking your clit with his thumb. “Told you I’ve been thinkin’ about it forever. ‘Bout every single way I’d take you if I got the chance. And I’m gonna show you all of them,” he kisses over a bruise, teasing two fingers against your fluttering core. “But tonight, we’re takin’ it easy.”
You whine, fumbling with just the top button of his shirt. “I- I don’t want easy-“
“I know, baby.” He presses just the tip of his finger into your cunt, and you clench around him with a whine. “But you’re so sensitive.”
If you had the power right now, you’d hit him for saying it like that. All mocking and syrupy. Making you try to fuck your hips down onto his fingers. But Bucky just pulls fully out, moving his attention back to your swollen clit.
“You need to take care of the buttons.” He whispers, pushing down hard on the bundle of nerves. “They need a little extra attention.” He rubs his thumb back and forth. “Before we get goin’.”
“Fuck- Bucky-“ You breathe, almost slumped against his chest. Your fingers are shaking, desperate to just hold onto something as thighs spread as wide as they can go. “Fuck you-“
He chuckles, kissing the side of your head as his thumb picks up speed. “We’re getting there, needy girl.”
You scrape at his forearm, one hand still trying to pry his shirt open with no real resolve at all. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you, the asshole. Driving you insane with the teasing over your exposed entrance, never fully offering relief. You manage to get the top button open, but then Bucky pushes down hard on your clit, and an open moan falls from your lips as you double over.
“That’s it.” Bucky laughs, low and dangerous in your ear. “Doesn’t that feel good, baby?”
You nod, watching him move on you. “Bu- Bucky-“ You pull on his collar. “Help…”
“You’ve got it.” He says simply, spreading two fingers and dragging them between your pussy lips. “Just keep tryin’.”
There is no world where you have it, but Bucky’s words are enough for you to keep grasping fruitlessly at the fabric. Your head drops onto his shoulder, as you paw at his shirt. He laughs, rumbling through his chest, and slows his pace on your clit.
“All the ways I’ve pictured havin’ you.” He mutters. “This is the prettiest. Got you nice and ready, barely even touched you.”
“You’re- You’re touching me-“
“Not like I could touch you.” He says, a deep promise in his voice. “Told you, I’m going easy on my best girl. But if I wanted…”
He chuckles, kissing the side of your head. Pushing on your clit as your body starts to wiggle, trying to find more relief. “Bucky-“
“Every time I’ve seen you, layin’ on the couch.” He presses further forward, his bulge against your thigh. “I’ve thought about putting my hands all over your perfect fuckin’ body. Touching these tits,” he ducks his head, and your breath hitches as he kisses over the curve of your breast. “Touchin’ this sweet little pussy.” He plays with your clit like it a toy. “And makin’ you squirt all over Stevie’s nice cushions.”
“I’d look at you.” You gasp, holding onto his shirt for dear life. “In your chair. Wanted to sit on your lap.”
Bucky groans, hips jerking slightly. “Shit, I’ve thought about that too. Pinning you on my cock ‘till you’re sobbing, fucking you over my desk- Christ, whenever you’d bend over I’d just want to drag your ass back and fuck it ‘till you were drooling.”
“Fuck, yes.” You’ve given up on the shirt.
Your hand is wandering down between your bodies, and you rub against Bucky’s crotch, trying to return some of the favor. Bucky moans into your ear, pressing his hand flat over your cunt.
“Shit, you- Can’t just fuckin’-“ Bucky grunts your name, and you roll your hips against his hand.
“Need it. Need it, Bucky- Just- Your fingers, please-“
“No.” He mutters, his own voice gravelly as you squeeze him. “Can’t be patient, can you, sweetheart? Want this cock so bad you’re just grabbin’ for it, wasn’t even able to get my shirt off-“
“It’s a mean game.” You breathe, and he laughs, pushing his lips back over yours.
“You started it.” He brushes the hair from your face, easily moving you backwards until you’re just groping for something of him to hold onto.
“Why can’t you just- Just fuck me-“
“Because you wanted to be a good girl.” Bucky’s kisses are turning slow. Lazy. He’s groping your pussy again, but with far less purpose.
Just spreading your arousal and teasing everywhere you need him, driving you up to an edge you think might take away your mind. A mind you’d be happy to lose for him, if he’d just take it.
“And I want to show you.” Bucky rests his thumb over your entrance, his free hand pushing on your abdomen. Forcing you to stay still. “But you’ve got a greedy pussy, sweet girl. Think you need a little break?”
You shake your head—you do not want a break—but Bucky pushes his thumb a little harder, and you squeak.
“Bu- Bucky-“
“Look at me.” He orders, and you don’t have another choice. His voice is magnetic.
With just the top button exposing his sweaty collarbone and his erection evidence that he cares about this as much as you do, all of Bucky is magnetic. Gravitational. And it makes you feel so unbelievably good, just to be seen by him.
Being fucked by him might kill you.
It’s a risk you’re willing to take.
“Hi.” He smiles, and your lips wobble with need.
“Hi.”
“You still in this?”
You nod, and Bucky’s throat bobs.
“I’d like you to say it-“
“Yes, sir.” You can’t help yourself from saying it.
It’s supposed to be mocking. But your voice is still high, and Bucky looks at you like you’ve lost your mind.
“You’re lucky you’re so pretty.” He shakes his head, tone something between amused and exhausted. “Otherwise you’d be a really fuckin’ brat.”
You flush violently, and Bucky slaps your pussy once. Just enough to make you feel like you’ve been struck by lightning, and mold back into his whims.
“One day.” He drawls, one knuckle pushing up to press on your clit. “I’m gonna get you on my face. Let you ride me, fuckin’ suffocate between your legs.”
You’re shaking, watching him. He’s talking like he’s predicting the weather, but your head is running wild. The image of Bucky under you, forcing your cunt onto his generous mouth. It would be hot and wet, his hands would leave bruises, and, and-
“You’re so reactive,” he mutters, using featherlight swipes of his thumb against your clit. “Think I could make you squirt on me. It’ll be like this,” he starts to move in tiny, rapid motions back and forth. “Like this. But my tongue,” he licks up your neck, nipping at the underside of your jaw. “And your needy clit bein’ sucked like I’ve got some fuckin’ candy.”
He pinches your clit, and starts to roll it back and forth. You can feel a pressure, building and building. It’s almost blindingly good.
“You’re makin’ such nice sounds for me.” Bucky mutters. “Bet you’ll sound even better, coming apart all over my cock.”
You nod, humping into his hand. You need more, but just when you think it’s going to snap, Bucky’s hand moves back down.
“You feel this, baby?” He circles his thumb against your hole, and you hum, eyes flutters. “She’s ready for me.”
“Yes.” You breathe. “Ready, Bucky, please- Wait-“
You almost whine when he pulls away again, but this time it’s for a good cause. Bucky rips his shirt off, tossing it to an unimportant corner of the room.
He’s a work of art. All thick, tanned muscle and scars from his time in the army. They ripple when he moves, decorate him like earned tattoos, and you want to map each one with your fingers. His arms are fucking tanks, reaching out for you, and you tumble into them without a thought.
Bucky hauls you into his arms, hooking under your ass and dragging you off the counter with only a grunt.
“Legs around me.” He orders, and you obey. It’s nice to be this close to him.
Plus the bonus, of getting to try and ride his chest while he carries you to your room. You stumble and giggle, trying to give him directions. Bucky shoves open your door with his shoulder, and you laugh as he walks backwards to the bed, his knees hitting the mattress and sending you both tumbling down.
“Shit- Bucky!” You shriek with delight as Bucky rolls you over, trapping you under his broad body. “Oh- Ooh-“
Your words fall off as he kisses you into the mattress, settling between your spread legs quickly. Your hands wander over the expanse of his back, and it’s a nice wealth to be crushed under. You’re losing cognitive function again, as Bucky ruts his still covered erection against your wet core. You don’t know how he’s kept it together so long. You feel like you’re going to cry with desperation, and you’re fully at his whims.
This is nice, though. It’s a hot pressure—still far from what you need, but enough to tide you over—and Bucky’s wall of muscle around might be the best things you’ve ever felt. Your tits pressed against his chest, his arms braced by your head as you just make out like teenagers. He glides one hand down, rolling your nipple between calloused fingers, and you gasp softly.
“Bu- Bucky-“
“I’m gonna start slow.” He murmurs, low and commanding. “Then pick it up. Fuck you ‘till you can’t walk, baby. Give you what you deserve.” He drops his hips, forcing you to stop grinding up. “That sound good?”
You nod, blinking hopelessly up at him, and he smiles.
“Good girl.” You get a sweet kiss on your cheek, his beard tickling softly. “Stay down.”
You don’t understand the request until he’s moving again, and suddenly it seems impossible. Being naked in front of him had been one thing. Naked, sprawled out in bed below him, and watching him strip is another thing.
Bucky sits up on his knees, never breaking eye contact as he pulls off his belt. You start to chew on your lower lip, and he moves back forward, stopping you with a gentle press of his thumb.
“Easy.” He murmurs. “Relax.”
You whimper, but try to. For Bucky.
And you think you might be turning into a puddle anyway, under the reverence in his gaze.
Bucky gets his pants off with practiced ease, and your mouth falls open.
His cock is thick and big. Veiny in a way you want to feel dragging against you, the head red and angry. Your breath catches as he starts to stroke it, just watching you wait for him.
Your legs close, trying to rub together for some friction. Bucky grabs your knee, and drags them back apart.
“Let me see you.” His thumb rubs in small circles. In a perfect rhythm, with his hand beating his cock. “Nice and relaxed for me, doll. Need you to be relaxed.”
You hum, watching him under hooded eyes. You can’t stop yourself from glancing down to his dick again. You feel empty, waiting for him. You’ve been waiting long enough as it is.
Bucky follows your gaze, and his lips twitch.
“You just walk around all the time?” He teases. “Waiting for some cock to fill you up.”
You nod, breathing through your mouth, and Bucky’s throat bobs.
“Yeah?”
“Mhm.” You whisper, dragging your gaze back to his. “Need to feel you, Bucky. Pleeease.”
He swears under his breath. “Legs a little wider. Now.”
You listen quickly, and Bucky lowers down. He drags his cock between the puffed, slick lips of your pussy, the head bumping against your clit.
“Dirty girl.” He hovers over you, watching your every breath as he plays with you. “So fuckin’ pretty, should be stuffed with cock all the time, shouldn’t you. Gonna keep you in my bed, fuck you full of me.” He kisses you quickly, his words getting rough. “My smart fuckin’ baby, begging for my cock.”
“Don’t- Don’t tease-“ You mumble, and Bucky grins.
“But you’re so pretty when I do.”
He kisses your cheek, and you feel raw. A live nerve, open for him and almost vibrating with desire. But Bucky’s hands are gentle against you. And you know.
He’s going to treat you well.
“You think you can let go for me?” His question is gentle. Almost soft. “Always workin’ so hard.” He notches himself at your entrance, and your breath catches. “I’m gonna take care of you, aren’t I.”
“Yes.” You whisper. “Please.”
Bucky grins, and kisses your lips. “That’s right. You just gotta take it.”
You don’t get to even nod, before Bucky starts to push in.
And you’re not a blushing nun. You’ve used your fingers, and even some toys. Tried to see what the big deal was. But it had just felt like something was inside of you, and kind of heavy, and mostly just annoying.
This is different.
Bucky splits you open, and it knocks the air from your lungs.
“Breathe.” He grunts in your ear, and you nod uselessly. “Breathe, baby.”
You gasp for air, burying your face in the crook of Bucky’s neck, and clawing at his shoulders.
He mutters your name, and you try to arch your back up, inviting more. You need more. Everywhere he isn’t feels cold and hollow. Bucky needs to smear himself all over you, or you’re going to lose your mind.
“More.” You manage to croak out, and Bucky grunts.
“Are you-“
“Yes- Fuuuuck-“
You moan, loud and shameless, as Bucky presses deeper in. He bullies your pussy open, thick cock pressing deep into you and making your feel more full than you could’ve ever felt possible. Your body feels like it’s singing, a shiver of delight pushing up your spine as he hits that spot inside you that you weren’t even sure was real.
Your pussy clenches involuntarily, and Bucky hisses in your ear.
“Shit- Relax.” His thumb snakes between your bodies, massaging your clit. “Let me in, babydoll, come on-“
The massaging helps. You melt into him with a shaking breath, head tipping back when he bottoms out.
Bucky’s head drops into your chest, his breath hot against your breasts. You’re just sitting in each other, in the sticky, feverish heat that might drive you insane.
“You feel… fuckin’ perfect.”
Bucky’s voice is a rasp, and he sounds like a man ruined.
You might have already lost your mind.
“You too.” You breathe out, and he chuckles.
The sound is a vibration, and you bite your lip as pleasure rushes right down to your toes.
“Oh… God.” You squeeze your eyes shut, clenching again, and Bucky grabs your hips.
“You gotta stop doin’ that-“
“Can’t.” You whine. “’S- You did it, you spent forever working me up, and- And now-“
His muscles shift around you, and that’s enough for your body to keen. Your back arches, pussy squeezing, and Bucky makes a guttural sound from his chest.
You squeak, when he pulls the tiniest amount out and slams back in. Your body goes completely limp, and Bucky pushes up over you, his cock still buried deep inside as he stares down at you.
“For someone who asked me to teach her, you’re bad at takin’ directions.”
“You- Bucky-“ He’s fucking you, shallow and slow. Just dragging back and forth. You might cry over it. “You- You knew that already-“
“I did.” He muses, pressing your hips further down. Forcing you to feel every thrust of his cock against your cervix. “It’s something that I love about you, y’know? So sweet and mouthy, all at once. My dream girl. So far outta my reach.”
He angles you a little up, letting him rut against your g-spot, and any chance of a sassy retort is knocked out of your head.
“Not right now, though.” His lips twitch. “Bet you’d tell me anythin’ right now, if I fucked you nice and properly. Fucked you like you deserve?”
Your head bobs, words slurred on lust. “Any- Anything, Bucky, oh my god- mmmmh-“
His thumb swipes your clit, and it’s like a tiny shock you can’t even react to. Your body jerks, but Bucky just pins you back into the mattress.
“Think I don’t want you to talk right now.” Bucky leans down, smirking as you blink with teary eyes. “We’re a little past that, aren’t we sweetheart?”
There’s something mean and powerful, radiating off of him right now. He really knows exactly where he has you right now. And you have no desire to be anywhere else.
“Ye- Yes.”
“Might’ve fucked you nicely, if we’d just talked a month ago.” He raises his brows. “But you made me wait for this pretty pussy. Hurting us both, baby.”
“I- I was-“
“I know.” He kisses your nose. “You are a fuckin’ brat. Bet you thought about this every time you touched yourself.”
“I- I did.” You confess. “Needed your cock, Bucky. You’re- You’re so big-“
You mewl, as he rolls his hips and slams back in. He kisses you, open-mouthed and sloppy, and you can feel your slick need running down your ass. Or just Bucky’s sweat, as he tenses with the effort to hold himself back.
Effort is visibly, slowly slipping.
“You feel that? Feel this dick inside of you?” He fucks a little harder, and your head rolls. “All yours, babydoll. This hard, just for you.”
You whine, and Bucky sucks on a soft spot at the base of your throat.
“You’re a natural.” He groans against your skin. “Made for this cock, made to be my pretty doll, and- shit-“
He rises back up, watching you with a dark, hungry gaze.
“You’re trying so hard, aren’t you. To not choke my dick with your tight little pussy.”
“I- I am, Bucky- Please-“
“You gonna be good and listen to me, now?”
You nod, doe-eyed and cockdrunk, and Bucky hums in satisfaction.
“Hands on my shoulders.” He instructs, and your body somehow finds the strength to listen. “Mouth open. No holding back, wanna hear how you like it. Hear you scream my name.”
He kisses under your jaw, and you moan loudly. Bucky’s lips curve, and he pulls a little further out than before.
“Just like that. Good, isn’t it?”
“So good.” You whine, and Bucky hums.
“Stay just like this for me, doll.” He drags fully out, then slams back in. You think you see stars behind your eyes, and a sound you didn’t know you could make is pulled from your chest.
“Buuccky-“
“I know. Needy girl, wound up so tight.” He sets a slow but brutal pace, his hands bruising into your hips as he holds you down. “I’ve got you now.”
And he does.
Bucky’s got you so good, you’re already ruined for anyone else.
He fucks you the same way he’s been kissing and touching you. Like he’s trying to lay a claim. Make it so there’s no question what he wants, no doubt in your head that this is anything but serious. His hips piston against you, but it’s not rapid. It’s the measured, strong work of someone who knows exactly what he’s doing.
If there’s a pleasure point on your body, Bucky’s finding it and using it. You babble, as he abuses your g-spot with the thick head of his cock. His kisses swallow your every moan and plea, and you can’t think beyond his massive body, completely draped over yours. You’re tangled together, his balls slapping your ass and hands wandering over your body like he owns it.
He drags your knees up to your chest, helping him hit even deeper. You’re so wet it’s smearing all over his cock, and the sight of him driving in and out of you is enough to make that pressure in your tummy feel like it’s going to explode.
Bucky’s beyond words himself, hunching over your and taking one of your nipples in his mouth as he grabs at the other. You mewl, eyes glazed over and body overwhelmed with the need to cum. You might scream if you don’t. You’re probably already screaming.
“I- I need- Bucky, please, please, fuck-“
You scratch at his shoulder, so close to toppling over the edge but unable to figure out how to just fall. Bucky grunts, slamming down harder. His tongue swirls your nipple, sucking the peak between full lips before he crashes back up. His kiss is sloppy and open. You’re writhing in the sheet, edged into complete oblivion and on the verge of tears.
“You having some trouble, babydoll?” Bucky teases, throaty and wrecked.
You nod, shaking with the need to snap. Bucky hums, kissing you too sweetly to be productive.
“Let go for me.” He squeezes your ass. “Just let go.”
Bucky finds your clit, and barely even offers more than a tease before you’re coming with a scream of his name.
Your back flies off the mattress, your hips bucking, and you’ve never cum this hard in your life. The tension in you burst like fireworks, heat pooling down your pussy and your body trembling. Your vision goes white. You might black out for a second, the daze of pleasure clouding your gaze.
There’s nothing but Bucky, still pounding into you. The obscene sounds of it, his guttural moans and the slide of his cock through your spasming cunt. His thrusts are jagged and uneven, his mouth kissing you everywhere he can seem to reach.
He follows you quickly, thick ropes of cum painting your insides and dribbling out of your pussy.
Bucky kisses you one more time, before he pulls out. It’s slower, like he’s trying to memorize you. You reach up to cup his face, smiling against his lips, and he lets out a heavy breath.
“That wasn’t too-“
“Perfect.” You whisper, and he relaxes.
“Good. Good.” He rises back up, brushing away the hair stuck to your face.
For a second, you just watch each other.
And with Bucky looking at you like you’re the most beautiful thing in the universe, you feel like it.
He certainly treats you like it, too. Cleaning you up like you’re a princess, a treatment you never thought you’d want until it was Bucky offering. A warm, wet cloth between your thighs and a glass of water. He carries you into the bathroom, changes the sheets, then brings you back to bed.
He pauses after he sets you down, hovering around the mattress with a frown.
You scoot a little to the side, give him a hopeful look, and his shoulders slump.
He crawls into bed next to you, pressing his face into your breasts and holding you tight.
“We got things to talk about.” He mutters, and you hum, playing with his hair between your fingers.
“I know.”
“I was serious, about all of it-“
“I believe you.”
Bucky looks up at you with tired, but happy eyes. You smile, and they crinkle when he returns it.
It doesn’t matter if you’re the most anything in the world.
To him, you seem to be the world. And that’s more than enough.
“I’d like to take you out.” He says. “On a real date. Then the gala, too. If you-“
“Yes.” You beam. “Yes, please. I’d like that a lot.”
✦End note: bucky on a dating app has haunted me since tfatws. glad to do something with that.✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
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pairing | Massage Therapist!Bucky Barnes x f!Reader
summary | While on vacation, your best friend books a spa day for you to loosen up. A luxury spa, the hottest masseuse you've ever laid eyes on, and the slip of a sound lead to a very not normal massage. But in your defense...he had very good hands and a flexible definition of tension relief.
warnings | MDNI 18+ Barbies only, please | female reader, no use of y/n, vacation fling, porn with a sprinkle of plot, open ended, inappropriate use of towels + massage oils (literally don't...don't do this at home), fingering, dry humping, unprotected p in v, pussy pronouns, exactly one (1) clit smack, soft dom Bucky if you squint, slight Romanogers if you squint even further and hold the phone at the right angle, reader is briefly described as being smaller than Bucky (if I missed anything please let me know)
word count | 5.6k
phoenix chirps | Hi Barbies! It's time for my first installment for the Barbie collab put on by the @stantastic-association. It's been so fun watching this come together that I can almost hardly believe it's my turn to post. I don't have much to say about this one, except that I feel the need to remind you that this is fiction. Please don't engage with massage therapists in this manner out in the real world. Even if they do suspiciously look like Bucky Barnes.
dt | Literally everyone who had to listen to me bitch about needing to lock in since...January? Y'all know who you are, and I'm giving you all a big forehead kiss through the screen. I hope you can feel it. Though a very special dt to @miraclediviner who made sure the collab ran as smooth as butter and didn't let me slack off. You're a real one Mecca ❤️
"We should do a girls trip!"
A dreaded six word sentence among friend groups. It always felt like something elusive that would always get talked about, but never actually get planned. In the history of your particular circle, those words were carelessly thrown around during Pinterest searches or doom scrolls after too much wine more times than you could count, but never once made it out of the group chat.
That was until the self appointed leader of the group, Natasha Romanoff, decided that enough was enough. In her own words, she was tired of the drab concrete buildings in which you worked soul sucking desk jobs and wanted to explore. But she didn't want to go alone. So, she planned. She made itineraries that the group was excited about. A few helped narrow down the field to a destination of the Amalfi Coast. But somewhere between the planning stage and the plane taking off for a two week trip to Positano, only you and Natasha had actually managed to buy the airfare and split the cost of an ocean front hotel room in the picturesque town.
Arriving in a landscape dotted with colorful cliffhanging houses on the bluest waters you had ever laid eyes on should have been enough to decompress. Yet the first thing out of Nat's mouth when you had barely unpacked a bag in the small hotel room you would be sharing was: "You look like you need to relax." Evidently the charm of being in another country without having to think of emails and spreadsheets for two weeks was not enough to bring your shoulders down from where they had permanently bunched at your ears.
And that is how you found yourself herded to the five star spa attached to your hotel. The air was tinged more prominently with orange blossom and citrus oils here, mixing with the salt air of the sea that seeped in through the windows. There was a soft melody of instrumental music along with water bubbling from a few rock fountains that dotted the reception area, granting a relaxing atmosphere from the bustling of the hotel lobby just beyond the entrance.
You had been directed to a pair of plush armchairs by the receptionist and offered a glass of cucumber water along with a list of services that were outrageously priced, even for a tourist town. You supposed that the main focus of stepping into a place like this should have been the ease of which it was to relax. But what really wasn't relaxing were the prices on the laminated sheet.
"Nat I - " you began in a hushed tone, but were cut off by the wave of her hand.
"We're on vacation," she sighed taking a small sip of water. "Just charge everything to my card, and you can pay me back when you can. I need the miles anyway." It wasn't so much of an offer as it was a request to just treat yourself. Like innately, she knew that you would argue over spending an exorbitant amount of money on a ninety minute massage.
Slumping back in your chair, you knew it was futile to argue when Natasha put her mind to something. The receptionist approached shortly after, getting you both on the schedule. Her voice had a distinct charming Italian lilt that you supposed was meant to be calming, though it felt performative in a way; like everything in this over priced spa. Maybe that's how they were able to charge such high prices. If clients were lulled into a false sense of comfort at every turn, it hurt less when money changed hands.
Natasha's name was called first by a tall, muscular blonde man wearing dark blue scrubs. Before she disappeared behind the frosted glass doors flanked by two lemon trees, she gave a sly wink, her nose scrunching slightly. A secret girl code that loosely translated to her likely coming back out with her masseur's personal phone number.
Good for her, you thought. Though you dreaded if she actually did get it that you'd be spending the rest of the vacation playing tourist alone.
That left just you and the incessant dripping sound of water in the reception area, which truthfully wasn't all that relaxing when it had you debating if you had time for a bathroom break. In the middle of your deliberation, you heard your name called.
When your eyes lifted to see who your appointment was with, you now had a concrete reason as to why services here were so expensive. A six foot, broad shouldered muscular man with chestnut hair, and blue eyes that could rival that of the ocean waters of the coast was looking at you expectantly. Your gaze drifted down to the clipboard that held your assessment form you had filled out while waiting. And you were sure it was a normal sized clipboard, but it looked dwarfed being held in his hands. Hands that would soon be on your skin.
His smile was warm, and looked to be the most genuine form of soothing in the spa as you walked up to him on unsteady legs. "I'm Bucky, looks like I've got you for the next hour and a half," he introduced himself, and you immediately noticed he did not carry the same Italian accent of anyone you had encountered at the hotel.
He held the door open for you into a warmly lit hallway, with more greenery and a stronger scent of lemons. "Do you have any problem areas you'd like me to address?"
The only problem that came to the forefront of your mind - aside from your sore back muscles - was that your mind was now…blank.
And yet he patiently waited for an answer as he directed you to a small dim room. Likely having rendered so many women speechless, that this was just part of his routine when he introduced himself to someone new.
The room he showed you to only held a massage table, a small cart with various oils and towels, and the same plinking music that had been playing in reception could also be heard in here, albeit much softer. "Uh, my back kind of? It was a long plane ride," you said, finally finding your voice.
Bucky nodded, jotting something down on the clipboard he still held. "Taking care of yourself on vacation? Good girl, sitting that long can cause unneeded stress on your muscles."
The praise coming from his mouth seemed to slip out so naturally, your brain almost didn't register it. But the rest of your body sure did.
He's probably like this with everyone, he's just trying to get a bigger tip from you. You reminded yourself.
"If you'll just undress to your comfort level," he pulled the drape of the massage table back, "I'll be back in five minutes."
And with that, he was out of the room with the door closing behind him with a soft click. Truthfully your comfort level with a strange man in a foreign country should've been to add more clothes and walk out of here. Especially with the way your thoughts were racing as you pictured his hands on your body.
Perhaps you should go request a different masseuse. One that you didn't want to do things with he probably wasn't allowed to charge for. But with the way your back ached and the crick in your neck from an eight hour flight, you didn't want to wait for a different masseuse. Nor did you want to explain to Natasha why it was necessary and get teased relentlessly.
Deciding you'd like the full experience, you stripped bare and folded your clothes in a neat pile on the chair in the corner. Sliding into the cocoon of soft sheets on your stomach, you shifted the drape over your backside and as soon as you made yourself comfortable with your head on the rest, a knock sounded at the door.
"Alright sweet girl," Bucky's smooth voice reached your ears once more as he stepped into the room. "Let's see if we can't get you to relax."
This was already a bad idea, you surmised. Your body was reacting to the baritone of his voice in ways you hadn't even considered when Nat suggested a massage. Like it was reminding you of the dry spell you had currently been in with your dating life and that something or someone needed to rectify that soon.
He peeled the sheet away from your back to begin, the sudden rush of air hitting your nerves and sending a shiver down your spine,
"Cold?" He asked from somewhere above you, concern lacing his words.
"A little?" Your voice squeaked the lie piling on to your mortification. You weren't really cold, more like your nerve endings you long thought dormant were reacting to any form of provocations.
You heard the click of a button somewhere and a sudden wave of gentle heat flowed from a vent on the wall next to you. "There we go," he murmured. "I want you to be as comfortable as possible."
Some more shuffling occurred while you watched his shadow cast by the dim amber lights dance around the dark floor. A click of a cap being flicked open almost had you peaking over your shoulder to see what was going on, but eye contact would likely only heighten this one sided awkwardness you felt for the next ninety minutes.
A warm sensation dripped over your skin, and you felt goosebumps rise in its wake. Bucky's palms were on you next with a firm pressure that already had the tension floating from your body and into his palms. Deft fingers kneaded the muscles along your spine first, pausing to roll among your shoulders.
Sinking further into the table, it was almost easy to forget who was on the opposite end of the hands that you could describe as harbingers of magic. Your eyes slipped shut, finally letting out a deep breath you didn't remember inhaling.
"Good girl, keep letting go," Bucky whispered, knuckles digging into your shoulder blades and working your muscles loose. There was that praise again, made all the more intimate by the fact that you were now naked and his hands seemed to be working overtime to pull every bit of tension out of your body.
He made it so easy to relax. More so than anything out in the reception area. The aura around his person inviting and safe in a way that made it easy to let go. From the warmth of the room, the slide of his fingers, the gentle praise, a floaty kind of feeling rushed to your head. It was then he found a knot just to the right of your spine that was worked out with enough pressure for an involuntary moan to slip past the barricade you'd been carefully crafting.
And it really wasn't even something you could pass off as a momentary lapse of judgment, especially if he kept skillfully working your muscles out like he was.
But Bucky, professional as he was, never wavered even when he felt the tension rising back to your body like you had done something wrong. "Happens more often than you think," he reassured. "Make all the noise you need to, sweetheart. You don't need to hold back on my account," he said evenly, and you could hear the ghost of a satisfied smile in his tone.
With permission granted unlocking something in your brain, you sighed, letting whatever slightly pornographic sounds come out. It wasn't like you would see him again anyway to be embarrassed about it. And as you fully let go, both of Bucky's hands continued working lower now to where the drape covered the last bit of your decency.
"Your lower back is really tense…" he muttered, hands wrapping around your waist, your attention flaring to the point of contact. "Desk job?"
Your mind momentarily stuttered as you tried to get your mouth to form words that weren't 'you can bend me over a desk'. "Uhm, yeah, unfortunately. I try to stretch but…"
"I can put a towel under your hips if you'd like?" he interrupted whatever your thinly veiled excuse was going to be for not getting up and stretching for ten minutes every hour. "May help me work out some of this discomfort."
You spied him already rolling up a piece of fabric into a tight cylinder. His hands and fingers glistening in the low light looking like a sin you'd love to commit.
You nod in agreement, and shift so he can wedge the towel under your hips. In doing so, the drape covering your ass narrowed, now just barely keeping you concealed.
More oil was added to your skin and Bucky's hands returned to your lower back. You had to give it to him, the added cushion under your hips did help your spine stretch, and the oil was already seeping into your muscles, aiding in the relaxation. But now you had a different problem entirely. The towel had been placed in such a way it pressed right against your clit, the texture of terrycloth mixed with the oil dripping down providing a delicious friction you hadn't been expecting.
And just why had you decided it would be a fabulous idea to get naked? As if the heat pooling between your thighs the second you laid eyes on your masseuse wasn't bad enough, you now had to deal with the fact that every time his thumbs pushed from the swell of your ass to the middle of your spine he unknowingly rocked you just right to send sparks shooting through your limbs.
If you thought keeping your noises to a minimum before was a challenge, it was certainly about to be an even bigger struggle. Screwing your eyebrows together, your fingers gripped the face cradle harder, you dared to let out a much more breathy exhale than before. Slightly worried that if you held any further noises in, Bucky would catch on to the lewd activities happening under the drape.
It would be so embarrassing to come like this, you thought for a brief second, another airy moan traitorously leaving your lips.
That time, Bucky's hands did pause, ever so briefly, on their upward trajectory. Enough that it was obvious he noticed your sounds had changed. But he didn't draw attention to it verbally. Instead, he moved…slower.
His hands trailed down, past your hips to your thighs. Thumb digging just a touch more into your muscles as he moved with leisure.
You barely noticed the drape that had still been covering your ass was being pushed up, too focused on the way he seemed to know when to press on your lower back to get another inappropriate sound out of your mouth. On the next pass, Bucky's fingers grew bolder, dipping between your thighs and nudging your legs apart.
It eluded you that his thumbs were getting closer and closer to where you were now dripping on every pass. Rational thought had long since flown out the window with the way he was slowly rocking you against the towel.
At least…until he drifted experimentally. Two fingers slowly and precisely slipped directly between your thighs ever so slightly relieving the ache that had been building since you had put your body in his very capable hands. It was too deliberate, yet slightly timid to be considered an accident. Much like the soft moans he had elicited from you moments earlier.
Your eyes flew open, breath catching as he did it again. Two fingers mindfully stroking your clit like he was testing your reaction. "I can stop," he said easily once you met his piercing blue eyes over your shoulder, pausing his ministrations but not taking his fingers away. "But I am very good at my job."
You were aware that you could say no. Surely such a posh and highly rated establishment would not survive if such acts were being performed under duress.
You were also aware that while you could…you had absolutely no intention of asking him to stop. Much like when you gave yourself grace by letting your mouth fall open, moans flowing freely, you rationalized that you were on vacation. You were never going to see this man again, and your body was wordlessly begging your mouth to just say yes. Shifting to tilt your hips in a silent dare for him to keep going, you both performed a staring contest in the soft light. But you realized quite quickly that he wasn't going to move again until you said something verbally.
Letting out a shuddering breath, and throwing all caution to the wind along with the last of any rational thought, you imperceptibly shook your head and gave a shaky whisper of "don't stop."
A slow grin spread across his face, a spark of delight as he gingerly tossed the drape to the side. There was no use for it now, considering it had turned into a small sliver that covered nothing.
"Turn over for me, sweet girl, if we're doing this, let's do this right," he murmured, giving a slight tap to your clit before withdrawing, a gentle hand coming to your hip to help maneuver you to your back.
With shaky arms and his guidance, you adjusted. The towel you had been grinding against was also discarded quickly, all the better so you didn't see the mess you had likely caused. Bucky's hands were on you again, steady, but sure, working their way slowly back up your thighs like he was still giving you the chance to back out.
"Beautiful," you swore you heard him whisper above the low music that was still faintly playing in the background. Heat spread from your chest to your ears as you chanced a glance at him while his fingertips made their journey back between your thighs. But his eyes, dark and hooded, were fixated on the dance of his hand moving closer to your center.
You let out a small 'oh' the second he circled your clit, thighs parting further — an invitation to keep going while your fingertips dug into the table. Eyes falling closed, your body arched into the movement, rocking without abandon now that it wasn't something you were trying to hide.
He had not been over exaggerating, he was very good at his job. Executing just the right amount of pressure on the bundle of nerves, every so often dipping to gather the slick now freely dripping from your cunt and tease your entrance. Like he was a lover made just for you, and had learned every single way to provide the highest amount of pleasure to make your head spin.
"When's the last time she was taken care of, hmm?" his voice was closer than it had ever been, your eyes flew open again to see he had moved so his torso was hovering over yours, hand that wasn't performing magic between your thighs braced next to your head.
Fuck, his eyes were more disarming up close. Two shimmering pools of bright blue reflected what could only be described as starlight from the ambient lamps.
Did you really want to admit to a stranger how long it'd been since the last time anyone touched you like this?
"Uh…" you stammered, "haven't really…been awhile."
Real smooth. But what were you meant to say when words were drowning before they had a chance to form?
A gentle, compassionate look crossed his features. "Tsk, you can't neglect something as precious as this sweetheart."
With that, he finally pushed a long finger past your entrance, the stretch sudden causing a needy whine to travel up your throat.
"There you go. Just relax for me…" he whispered the command right against the skin of your cheek, and to your credit, you really did try. But the coil in your lower belly was tightening further and further.
Another unabashed moan slipped past your lips as he added a second finger, your jaw going slack from the sudden stretch while your fingertips dug further into the table to the point your knuckles ached. "I'm trying," you protested, though several parts of your body were continuously clenching.
Above you, a deep rumble vibrated from Bucky's chest. His hand that had been planted next to your head reached for yours, working your grip free of the table. Your fingers interwove with his creating a far more intimate connection than you had been braced for.
"Keep trying sweetheart, you can do it," he coaxed, leaning further in until his lips were right next to yours. While his hands and words were confident, there was a hesitation in the movement of his lips. Like he was a man who was afraid of pushing too many boundaries.
Your fingers squeezed his once his thumb pressed deliberately onto your clit, back bowing off the table while your thighs spread further, one ankle falling carelessly over the edge. "You're so close," he whispered, lips finally meeting the corner of yours. "Can feel it in the way she's squeezing me."
"Mhm," you managed to whine, lips chasing his automatically when he went to pull away.
There was barely a second of hesitation and his mouth was on yours, greedily drinking in the sounds of pleasure as he pushed you closer and closer to release. He tasted of bergamot, lemon and sea salt, like the personification of the small town itself.
It was like something snapped between you the second your lips collided. Something untamed finally being set free after being unfairly caged. Your hand flew to the nape of his neck, drawing him in closer, enough that with the angle, he had to withdraw his fingers from your cunt so he could steady himself above you.
You wanted to grumble at being denied, body clenching desperately around nothing. Until Bucky adjusted, knee finding the bare space of table between your legs. With a slight bounce, his large form soon eclipsed yours as he settled into a comfortable position. All the while, his lips never really ceased contact with yours. Exploring parts of you that you hoped he never dared venture with other clientele.
But any unfounded jealousy you may have stumbled upon exited your mind the second he pressed his hips to yours. The hard, throbbing ridge of his erection had your mind reeling. It hadn't really even occurred to you that he could be as affected as you were, needing his own form of tension relief. Perhaps the soft dark blue scrubs he wore were intentionally chosen to hide such things.
Your legs bent at the knees, drifting to either side of his torso until you cradled his lower body with yours. A sound came muffled from his throat, his teeth sinking into the plush flesh of your lower lip when your hips twitched upwards, bare pussy dragging across the outline of his cock that sent fire rushing through your belly.
Your free hand fisted into the hem of his top, thoughts running rampant of how you planned on daydreaming about ripping this very top off when you got back to your hotel room to now being able to experience the real thing. His hips moved in needy, urgent circles, the head of his cock catching your clit every so often causing your thighs to clench around his frame harder. His movements were so delicate, so restrained, you wondered if he was reconsidering.
Testing the already flimsy boundaries, your hand released his top, moving to rest on the warm skin of his abdomen. A shudder radiated from where your palm was placed as the weight of him sunk deeper onto you. Your hand explored further, your own hips canting up to meet his; soaking the front of his pants with your slick. Fingernails scratched into the hard wall of muscle, contracting like claws with each slow grind.
When you reached his shoulder, Bucky released his grip on your hand, yanking the fabric off and discarding it. It had been one thing to imagine what he looked like underneath the navy blue top. It was another thing in itself to see it in the ambient lighting of the massage room. The flickering candles on the shelves reflected shadows on every crevice that had to have been honed by hours in the gym. Both hands now moved of their own volition, traipsing up the dips until they smoothed over the light dusting of hair along his chest.
"Seems only fair I suppose," he chuckled softly, watching your hands explore. "That you get to feel me up now instead of the other way around."
You felt your cheeks heat once more, moving to withdraw your touch. But, Bucky moved quicker, gripping your wrist and placing a soft kiss to the delicate inside with a smirk.
"Knew you were going to be special the minute I laid eyes on you," he whispered, tugging your wrist until your hand landed at the nape of his neck again, your fingers carding into the soft hair.
"Bet you say that to every girl who walks in here," you mumbled, gaze darting to where his other hand was palming his erection through his pants that were slick from where you had been grinding against him.
A short laugh flitted from his lips, pulling the waist of his pants down further until his thick cock was freed. "I do, but none of them have ever gotten to do this though," he admitted gently, running the tip of his cock already leaking with precum through your folds.
The meaning behind his words barely registered when your eyes were still glued between your bodies. His large hand was wrapped around the thick shaft as he fucked into it, tip gliding through your aching pussy until it kissed your clit and withdrew again.
The motion continued, teasing away what little self restraint you had left with each dip that barely caught at your entrance. A frustrated exhale escaped your lips, looking back up to meet Bucky's eyes. "Can you just - " you huffed as he slid through even slower, like he had all the time in the world yet you knew the ninety minute session would have to end sooner or later.
The corner of his mouth pulled up again, head dipping so his nose brushed yours. "Patience sweet girl," he murmured against your lips. "Don't wanna rush this."
Your leg wrapped higher on his hips wondering if your strength could out match his. But his grip found your thigh, fingers digging into your flesh to keep you from using your muscles in an attempt to get what you want. His hand released his cock, letting it fall heavily onto your hip so he could cup your jaw.
"Breathe with me, okay? In," he inhaled, your lungs expanded on command, chest rising to meet his.
"And out," he exhaled, lips brushing yours intimately while your breaths mingled, his hips adjusting so you felt the nudge of his tip at your entrance.
You really should have expected him to press in the next time he coaxed you to inhale, yet the stretch of him finally filling you completely and slowly was something no amount of breathing exercises could've ever prepared you for.
A loud whimper tore through from your throat while you adjusted to his size, the hand at the base of his neck gripping a bit tighter to steady yourself. Bucky hiked your leg up further, hooking it around his hip — freeing up his other hand to completely cradle your face, elbows tucking under your shoulders while he settled his weight onto you. An intimate gesture you least expected, from someone who was a stranger a little more than an hour ago.
He hadn't even really moved yet, letting your bodies get acquainted; muscles clenching around his throbbing cock while his thumbs slowly brushed over your cheekbones. Every breath leaving your mouth was shallow, attempting to get air to your lungs while every other nerve ending was just concerned with pleasure.
Your fingernails found solace digging into the taut muscle of his bare back, clinging to reality as he finally buried every inch in. Eyes watered as you held his stare of concern marred behind feral need. "Breathe sweetheart," he reminded you once again, thumbs never ceasing the calming movement against your skin.
The table swayed gently with the start of his hips rocking. The ridges and veins of his cock massaging the most intimate and sacred parts of your body.
Needy deep grunts and soft breathless moans soon filled the room, articulated by the whisper of your skin connecting and the nature sounds that were once meant to be relaxing. They now only fueled a delirious fantasy, mixing with the heat rising. Where the room melted into something far more primal and less composed than anything the upscale spa had offered in their list of services.
His strong hands continued to keep your head tilted up. Every desperate thrust into your already fluttering pussy, still aching for the release he denied you earlier had your eyelids dropping. But his hypnotizing eyes that watched every flicker of pleasure on your features were hard to stay away from for long.
"Come on now, darling, let go of that last bit of tension," he breathed softly, head dipping to your collarbone so his lips were right next to your ear with another deep thrust that had stars bursting in your vision.
Words seemed fleeting, as much as you wanted to say for the umpteenth time that you really were trying, but the bliss washing over your body in waves was hard to release. Nothing would have made you more content than to stay in this haze of citrus scented oils.
"So stubborn." You swore you heard him huff, trailing a hand between your bodies where his thumb found your clit, massaging gently.
Entire body locking from the jolt caused a gasp to punch out from your lungs. Thighs and arms wrapped tighter around him, nails digging further into his skin until you were sure the half moons would become a permanent feature to his otherwise flawless body.
"There you are, now let it all go." Bucky's teeth grazed the column of your neck, thumb picking up speed in time with his pace that was becoming erratic. Pleasure finally crested through your nerve endings, flowing to every limb and ligament as you fell over the edge. Saliva pooled on your tongue, eyes finally falling closed to surrender to the sensations. His lips found yours again, an intimate gesture designed to bring you back to the present. He groaned deeply, a tremor rumbling through his entire body as you felt the throb of his own release flare into yours.
Bucky pulled back from the crook of your neck, hair that had been perfectly styled now fell in front of his wild eyes while realization crashed down on both of you. A sudden dawning of what just happened probably…should not have happened. Your limbs were still limp, muscles melting into the table in a sensation you had missed for too long.
"Am I - uh - going to have to pay extra for that?" you asked in an attempt to diffuse the situation, breath still ragged.
He laughed, low and genuine, brushing a piece of your hair back from your forehead. "Nah, we'll keep that off the books."
You giggled in response as he carefully maneuvered off of the table. You propped up on your elbows, accepting a clean sheet he handed in your direction, like he knew your body was already growing colder without his to keep you warm.
"When do you leave?" he asked sincerely, donning a fresh scrub top. Eyebrows drawn together in earnest.
You really hadn't been expecting him to all of a sudden seem so vulnerable, for someone who got you to the position you were currently in with such quiet confidence. "Oh, we're here for two weeks."
He nodded, looking now at a planner that was splayed open on the small counter. "Do you…want to come back tomorrow? I can take you to dinner first and then I can get you another…more appropriate session."
He tripped over his words as he asked, endearing in a truly charming way. "Yeah," you agreed easily, swinging your legs off the side of the table. "I'd like that."
Bucky's shoulders dropped, relief flooding over his features. "Great," he smiled, handing you a business card. "I've, unfortunately, got another appointment I need to get ready for, but I'm looking forward to it."
"Hope it's not one just like this?" you asked, turning the card around in your fingers to see what you assumed was his personal cell phone number scribbled in a margin.
"No," he chuckled again. "This was a…uh…first for me."
Natasha was already in the reception area when you drifted through the frosted glass doors. Everything that had first annoyed about the corporately saccharine decor was muted, the only thought on your mind was when you would get to see it again.
"So?" Natasha asked, a perfectly manicured eyebrow raised as she scrutinized your sudden glow. "How was it?"
You accepted another small glass of cucumber water, settling beside her. "Amazing. I'm coming back tomorrow."
The redhead's eyes narrowed at that, her tongue swiping over her bottom lip. "Is that so? And here I thought this was meant to be a girls trip?" she teased, nudging your foot with hers.
"Weren't you the one who said I needed to relax?" you shot back, briefly flashing the business card before tucking it back into your pocket with a playful smile. "Not my fault the relaxation method doesn't fit your definition of a girls trip."
After Chirps: Okay, maybe I did have more to say??? I hope you liked this one! But I'd be remiss if I didn't link the masterlist post for the collab, and let y'all know that along with all of the other scrumpdillyumptious fics coming, my veterinarian Bucky fic comes out in less than a week! As proud as I am of this one, that one is my baby and I can't wait to share it ❤️
Hello, hello, my lovely audience! Well, here we have it, then. The aftermath of Ves's departure. Oh, he's so bloody bad, isn't he? Thank you all for your unwavering readership, it means the world to me :)
Summary: A year has passed since the events that left your newly formed family shattered, the four of you continuing to move ahead with your lives as best you can. The introduction of new equal rights laws for vampires across the United Kingdom marks a significant turning point, offering hope and the promise of greater acceptance. With these changes, you and II feel empowered to finally take the next step towards expanding your family, beginning to plan for the arrival of a child.
However, the journey towards this new chapter is not without its uncertainties. A new friend, with the best of intentions, offers some advice that despite your judgement, lingers in the back of your mind. Regardless of the strength of your bond and the depth of your commitment, you find yourself questioning whether these concerns hold any merit.
Your trust in the resilience of your marriage remains steadfast, and you dismiss the warning as unfounded. Yet, as time unfolds, those doubts prove harder to ignore. It is only when envy emerges unexpectedly - affecting one of the vampires you hold dear - that the true challenge reveals itself, threatening the peace and unity you have worked so hard to build.
Previous chapters - One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven Twelve Thirteen
Words: 5,813
Warnings: Vampire fic, mentions of blood and gore, plus lots of smut. 18+ content, minors DNI!
Tag list: In the comments. Please DM to be added/removed.
Everything swirls in chaos, II and III both frantically moving around the house in the wake of reading the letter, leaving you standing in the welcome hall, lost in the eye of the storm.
"He's taken clothes, packed light, though. His cases are all still there, but his big backpack is gone. As is his passport," II confirms, arriving back with you.
"Can you feel him, still? Can you get to him, fucking tow him back here?" you ask, the own desperation in your voice laddering further with every syllable uttered.
III joins you again then, pointing in the direction of the barn. "One of the travel coffins has vanished. Just when the fuck did he do this? I didn't hear any car arrive at sundown, and his is still in the driveway!"
II pauses, latching onto that connection he shares with Vessel, one that runs much stronger than III's simply for his age. "I can, but it's faint. Means wherever he is, it isn't in the same country as us any longer. When I awoke, I felt he wasn't here, but just assumed he'd gone out and didn't pay it any mind. If I'd concentrated on it, I'd have felt him moving further away. Bloody, fucking hell!"
"Oi," III warns, pointing with one hand, retrieving his phone with the other. "Don't blame yourself. We'll find him." Making a quick call, he frowns, suddenly racing away, returning seconds later with Ves's new iPhone in his grasp. "Wherever he is, he's going right off grid, leaving this behind. Anyone know his passkey?"
"Yeah, Grace's birthday," II mutters, chewing the side of his cheek in frustration, III entering the date and unlocking the phone. "He'll have wiped it, I know he will. Same with the computer, there's no point even checking it."
III does so anyway, seeing his call list cleared and the only messages and emails remaining being ones from you all, other friends and work associates while you make a start down the corridor towards the study.
"Grace, where are you going?" II calls after you.
"Study, just to double check the computer."
He sighs, an audible huff. "I just said, he'll have wiped it. Just like he's been doing with his browser history. You're wasting your time."
You don't reply, II making a start after you, only to be halted by his sibling. "Leave her, let her go. She needs to feel useful, even if like you suspect it has been wiped clean of anything he's been up to for the past few weeks."
Turning, II runs a hand over his jaw, scratching at the dark blonde scuff. "I can't believe he did this, just upped and left without a word. A note, he leaves a pissing note! I'm fucking furious with him!"
"I know," III grits, his nostrils flaring. "Grace doesn't need this worry. Not at seven month's pregnant, for fuck's sake!"
Words the father of your child certainly agrees with. "Correct. And what the fuck can be more important than that, being there for her at such a time? I'm fucking… I…."
"Lost for words?" the younger vampire offers.
His jaw tightens. "Oh, I have words. All of which would likely come out as a nonsensical stream of cussing right now."
They both move then, arriving with you in the study rapidly, your fingers tapping away on the keyboard.
"Nothing, he's bloody done complete clears on everything, not just the period he's been browsing for," you grit with frustration.
"Right, go into disc cleanup and then select temporary internet files, see if there's anything in there," III suggests, with you doing just that. "Ahh, fuck."
An empty folder is all that you discover.
"Google History! Look on that!"
"Wait," II speaks, pointing to the top right of the computer screen. "It isn't even signed in on his account. Click it and his will come up. Again, his password is probably your birthday."
You do, but Ves's username isn't even listed there. He's literally deleted everything.
Staring at the blank screen, you feel a dull ache settle in the pit of your belly, both from the futility of your efforts and the nagging sense of helplessness that comes with being shut out so thoroughly. Nothing. He's left nothing but a note, and the intention there behind keeping you so closed off from this is completely maddening.
You ball your fist, pounding it off the desk in quick succession, II grasping your wrist to halt each anger-filled, frantic motion. "Grace, stop. Don't hurt yourself, he's already done a fucking good enough job of that."
"I don't understand." Your voice quivers with emotion, your eyes becoming glassy. "How can he do this to us, just fuck off somewhere without a word and hide what it is he's doing?"
"To protect us?" III suggests. "Maybe we're coming from this wrong. Maybe something happened and he's gone off to deal with it, I dunno, some kind of threat and he doesn't want us to worry?"
"There has to be something," II states with conviction, beginning to search the office for clues, anything that might answer the questions mounting up one by one. A scrap of paper, a seemingly innocuous piece of information that could lead to something bigger. His search ends up at a dead end, though, after thoroughly going through everything at speed.
In the hollow echo of Ves's absence, there's nothing left to piece together, no trace or breadcrumb to follow. II and III linger, restless and uneasy, each at a loss for what to say or do next, as if the room itself has absorbed the tension and uncertainty that now floats around you all.
II laces his fingers behind his head, tapping the index one, deep in thought before he reaches for the letter again. "Of great importance," he reads aloud to no one in particular, "his burden to bear."
"Perhaps he really has gone to locate another potential offspring, but just didn't want to say until he knew for sure whether they'd be suitable?" III then begins to ruminate, pacing back and forth behind the chair you're still seated in. "Some human across the world he already knows, maybe?"
"That doesn't explain why he'd be wiping his phone and computer clean, does it?" II counters with, beginning to tug at the tuft of his beard. "Makes no sense. He'd just call them and clear their number alone the caller list, or email them, but then delete the evidence. This, whatever he's doing, implies huge amounts of research."
"Then maybe it isn't someone he knows, and he's been looking for a person at random who he deems worthy enough to gift vampirism to," III suggests, while you stand and halt him.
"Stop, you're making me feel more antsy with the pacing," you gently advise, and he pulls you into a hug, kissing your hair.
"Sorry, babe."
"That seems the most likely scenario, although truly, we could still be way off the mark," II agrees. "Either way, I'm fucking furious with him for all the secrecy."
You all stand in a shared silence, bonded again in a similar circumstance to the one that befell you all almost three years before. Ves gone, except this time he isn't lying in any kind of limbo between existence and death, but physically away, to god knows where, leaving you all with a worry that feels akin to the events of the past.
At least you know he's out there, but just what danger is he putting himself in, if any at all? More and more questions begin to swirl around your head, and you feel your pulse racing, III's loving hands stroking you, II coming to your side as well to offer the same.
"Try to keep calm," he soothes, his hand gentle as it circles the top of your arm. "Stress isn't good for the baby, and I know you know that, and it's easy for me to say, but keep breathing deeply. Steady your heart."
It is easy for him to say, but you swallow down the urge to bite back at him when he's trying to offer support. "I know, I know," you breathe, counting in for five and out for five. "It's the not knowing, the feeling of hanging in limbo until he gets in touch or comes home. I'm bloody livid with him for doing this to me, to us!"
"We all are, sweetheart," III replies, still holding you close. "I suppose all we can do is trust him when he says he knows what he's doing, aside from being pissed off that he vanished like this in the first place. Waiting it out is gonna be tough, innit, but we don't have any other choice."
"As far as anyone else needs to know, other than family, Vessel went away on a business trip. Simple as that," II then speaks, his usual pragmatism taking centre stage. You both nod in agreement that this stance is the best thing, leaving the study together. You drag your feet absently, clutching onto III's hand, the anger now beginning to move more to a place of bewilderment.
You simply can't believe you've been so shut out like that. You're his wife, for heaven's sake, and he couldn't even reveal his plan to you? It makes no sense whatsoever, leaving you with a bitter taste in your mouth over the strength of your marriage, the very bond you have with him, questioning now if you truly are as close to him as you always assumed you were.
"Stop stressing."
Looking up, you see two heavenly blue eyes staring down at you, III squeezing your hand. "I know it's easy for me to say, being a creature with such hardwired stoicism, but you'll drive yourself mental, babe. Like I just said, it'll be tough, and we'll be pissed off at him until he returns, but we have to just wait it out."
Nodding, you pull him down to your level, kissing his pretty lips. "I'm going for a bath, I need to relax."
Offering II the same, you depart for the staircase, leaving them to wander into the orange lounge, sitting down beside one another.
"Has he ever done anything like this before, prior to me coming along?" III asks of his sibling, resting his booted feet up on the coffee table and knowing full well if Mary catches him doing it, he'll receive a verbal stripping down. He likes it, though, much to her indignation.
"Sort of," II begins, "but that's the story you already know about."
"Oh, when he tried to save Anne Boleyn and turn her?"
Indeed, back in the early to mid-1530's, Ves had a clandestine friendship with the former queen of England, one which her refusal to confess - namely their secret nighttime meetings in the woodlands bordering Hampton Court Palace - was one of many reasons behind her imprisonment in the Tower of London and eventual beheading. Of course, she was protecting him and what he was, understanding only too well that if her husband or his army of sycophants and aides ever discovered vampires to be real, it would certainly result in serious repercussions.
The poor woman faced them anyway, for the many scandalous, untrue accusations levied against her by her monstrous husband.
"He still feels bad about it, even now," II replies, "that they took her before he had the chance to retrieve her from that fate. I remember we travelled to the tower and watched it by night, every night of her imprisonment, waiting for a chance to snatch her. Too many guards, though. We couldn't have gotten her out of there without being seen. I suggested we simply slaughter them all, but too many tongues were already wagging about our possible existence at that time. Ves didn't want us to become exposed."
III remembers the ins and outs of the story well, but allows his sibling to lose himself to the memory all the same. "Shame, innit? It would've been fucking awesome, having a former queen for a sibling. She sounded like a fascinating woman too by all accounts."
"She was," II agrees, "and I only ever met her once."
III folds his arms, chin resting against his chest. "I still reckon this is what he's doing. I just don't get the hiding it part. Then again, it doesn't correlate with what he told me back in Japan, when he sought my advice after the incident with Gracie."
"We could go around and around in fucking circles for weeks, III, and still not arrive at the right conclusion," II sighs, crossing his legs beneath himself. "We won't know until he comes back, whenever the fuck that's likely to be, or until he calls. If he ever actually does." He frowns, grinding his back teeth a few times. "And if he can be thoughtless enough to leave and only partially explain himself via note, then fuck him! I have a daughter on the bloody way. In nine weeks, she'll be here, so this is my focus, not whatever he's playing around with."
You all move through your range of emotions following his departure, and life continues on in his absence, although despite the negative feeling towards his disappearance, he's never far from anyone's mind. There are, however, several things to take everyone's mind over it.
"Oh my blimey!"
Turning off the vacuum she's been running over the first floor landing carpet, Mary looks to the window where III points his fingers rapidly. "What?"
"Tanya and Oliver!" he shouts, rapidly jumping around. "Fucking snogging like teenagers out there on the drive!"
His hand moves to throw the window open, Mary approaching at a run, even comically losing a shoe in her haste. "Sir, no! Don't you dare!" She moves herself between him and the handle, batting his hand as he tries to get around her. "Ah, ah!" Smacking his arm, she points sternly. "Charles, I said no!"
"Bloody hell, you called me by my born name!" he cries, eyes widening, his raucous laughter filling the space. "The last time anybody called me that, it was my mother, when she caught me bending a maid over in the scullery and giving her a damned good-"
"And that's as far as you'll go with that sentence!" Mary warns him, trying to bite back her grin. Oh, how she absolutely adores him to his bones, but will never let on quite how much on account of his merciless penchant for driving her up the wall with his antics. "Now, come away from the window, give the poor woman her dignity!"
His mouth drops open to comedy-width proportions. "I wasn't about to be undignified! Merely throw out a little wolf whistle!"
Her hands rest upon her hips, cocking her head. "No."
"Can I at least shout that I give this my blessing?"
"She's your mother-in-law," he's told, Mary's mouth tightening. "She needs no such thing!"
He shrugs, snorting. "I'm one hundred and seventy-seven years older than her! I can give approval in lieu of Grace's granddad being around to do it!"
He's pushed then, two hands waving him away from the space. "Be gone! Let her have her nice moment with the lovely chap who's made her smile again!"
Doing as he's told he turns around, beginning to beam. "I suppose this means Gary has definitely been given the ole' heave ho, then."
"None of my business to comment upon really, sir," she replies, moving back to the vacuum. "It would appear that way, though."
Seven weeks have passed since her separation, and while some might deem it much too soon to begin seeing another man, III isn't one of them. Besides, a kiss doesn't necessarily equal a venture into a new relationship; he himself has done much more with people who have meant significantly less, but the youngest vampire of the house is keen to hear the news from Tanya all the same.
Picking up a duster and polish from Mary's cleaning box, III makes himself of use, dusting the windowsills, table and skirting boards, the housekeeper smiling to herself as she continues her vacuuming. They're both coming down the stairs again just as your mum is closing the front door behind her, III finally letting out the piercing wolf whistle he was previously denied.
"Oh, stop it!"
"Got yourself a new boyfriend, eh, Tan?" he chimes, his grin widening by the moment. "Or were you just manually inspecting his tonsils with your tongue?"
Her frown has him guffawing, the noise travelling to the main lounge, drawing you out to investigate the source of his mirth. "Why are you being noisy?"
"You say that like he isn't usually, ma'am," Mary comments, side eyeing him.
That's a very factual assessment, if nothing else. "Mum, I take it from the look of withering death, you're the cause of my husband's noise?"
"She's been kissing Oliver!"
Nope, he can never, ever keep his mouth shut. And now yours is open wide, too. "Oh my god!"
She hides her face, pointing at you both with a waved index finger. "Don't you start as well! Nobody was meant to see that!"
"Well then you need to go somewhere else other than the bloody driveway, don't you, mother?" you cry, soft laughter lingering at the edges of your words. Oh, she's gone so red! Bless her.
"Yeah," III chirps, "if you're gonna suck the tongue out of his head, take him upstairs, eh? You know, just in case you feel like working your way down." He then immediately crumples with a grunt as Mary's hand finds his mid-section. "Christ on fire! What is it about the women of this house dinging me right in the fucking solar plexus?"
"Oh, you feel pain for all of three seconds." Waving her hand dismissively, she then turns to smile in a satisfactory sort of way at him, III retaliating by resting his forearm on her shoulder, using her as a leaning post. "Behave yourself!" A glare follows, to which he bestows her a kiss atop her head. Trunchbull neutralised.
Your eyes fall to your mum, jerking your head back. "Come on, I'm going to make some tea. Let's have a chat without this one's mouth running wild."
III beams, and you instantly regret your choice of words. "You never usually complain about my mouth running wild, sweetheart."
Closing your eyes, you huff softly through your nose. "Mary?" The sound of him grunting in pain fills the air, the housekeeper's reprimand landing accurately. "Thank you."
While your husband continues his quest of menace masquerading under the guise help while following Mary from room to room, you and your mum occupy the kitchen, her taking a seat at the island while you flick the kettle on and go about choosing some loose leaf tea.
A little pang hits you, seeing all of the jars labelled so neatly, Ves's flawless penmanship denoting the contents of each. It's been three weeks, and beneath your simmering resentment that he is yet to call, you pine in his absence.
Pushing those thoughts away, you choose the raspberry and nettle tea, closing the cupboard, quick to place the jar down and clutch your stomach with a wince.
"Oh, bloody hell," you hiss, your mum's head turning from where she's been checking her phone.
"Braxton Hicks?"
You nod, closing your eyes, breathing deep. "I think so. I had a couple last night as well. II was nearly apoplectic, thinking I was going into early labour. He even had me wondering if I was for a few seconds."
Getting up, your mum moves to the tap, taking a glass off the draining board and filling it with water. "Here, hydration helps. That and gentle movement. Not to scare you, but trust me, babe. You'll know the difference when you actually are in labour."
Oh, wonderful. A sour glance in her direction prompts her laughter. "Sorry, but better you be prepared."
"I am," you speak between sips of water. "I just don't want to be reminded that this is going to be one of the most painful things I'll ever have to do. Remember when I broke my ankle?"
She's never forgotten it, having to rush a five-year-old you to A&E with a rollerblade dangling from your foot at a very haphazard angle. "I was relieved that incident was the end of your wheeled escapades, beyond your bike and scooter. As for the birth, at least you won't have to suffer in the aftermath, with vampire blood being a thing, of course."
"It feels like cheating, but I don't give a shit. I'll choose rapid healing of my poor, broken little fanny over months of pain!" you reveal, sinking the rest of your water. "And it wasn't quite the end, either. IV got me up on one of his skateboards one time, out on the drive of Norton House." You smile while remembering it, remembering him. "I held onto his arms and made it all of two feet before screaming, 'No, I can't! It moves!" and diving off it! He was in hysterics!"
As is your mum to hear the story, her gentle fits filling the air. "I wish I could have known him better. Beneath all the broken parts, he seemed so sweet. Poor thing."
You swallow hard, that lump in your throat his memory often evokes sinking back down again. "He was. He was flawed, but so lovely. I wish you could have known him, too, beyond the vampire who hated humans."
"I didn't blame him for that an ounce, with all he'd been through. He tried so hard with me and your dad, that first morning back at the other house. Because he loved you," she says, resting her hand on your shoulder, her thumb skimming through the fabric of your dress in a gentle circle.
And oh, how you loved him. Love him, even. It'll never fade, no matter how much time passes without him. "Anyway!" You clear your throat, taking a deep breath. "Tell me everything that's happening with you and Oliver! I've been waiting for updates but didn't want to push you."
Taking a seat again while you go about your tea preparing endeavours, she smiles, and it's a hundred percent dreamy. Aww! "He's just, he's bloody wonderful, Grace. I like him a lot, I'll be honest there. We're still taking things slowly, but I think by the third time he took me out, I really did realise that there's simply nothing left for me in my marriage. Not necessarily because of Oliver, but not not because of him either, if that makes sense?"
"You can see a future without dad, whether you and Oliver become an actual item or not, is what I think you mean?" you offer, spooning tea into the glass Bodum pot.
She clicks her fingers, pointing at you. "That's exactly it, yes. But… and I say this tentatively, but fairly certainly, I think there is something there that might mean he's long term. He's making little mentions here and there of us visiting places together, like a horse trials event or something he wants to take me to? Oh, what's it called? Reminds me of tennis."
You snort on a soft laugh. "Do you mean Badminton Horse Trials, mum?"
"Yes!" Oh, she's such a delight. Tennis. "Yeah, he wants to take me for a little weekend away. Well, it isn't really away since Gloucestershire is only about forty minutes from here, but still."
Smiling, you catch the kettle just before it boils, ever mindful to never pour boiling water in and scorch the tea, which renders it bitter. "I'm so happy for you, really I am! Oliver is such a nice bloke, so you have my blessing entirely."
"Good, I'm glad," she smiles, taking the two mugs you hand her before turning back and grabbing the tea pot. "Even though I know you're not in a good place with your dad, I did have a bit of a stress over what you'd think of it all, me moving on."
"I think that if he's going to behave as he has been, then that's his choice and he can't expect us to be the ones to come around. We're not in the wrong!" Your nostrils flare slightly, clenching your back teeth together. "He hasn't contacted either of us, so I'm happy with my separation from him being as permanent as yours is going to be, too. Good riddance, and it is a shame to say it, but I can't wait on whether he's going to change his mind. He's been so callous towards us. In my mind, he doesn't deserve it." You realise you've completely emotionally dumped all over her there, wincing. "Sorry. That was a lot."
"Oh, don't be silly!" she assures you, reaching to stroke your back comfortingly. "I'm your bloody mum, you can tell me everything going on in your head. You know that. Speaking of which, how are you feeling now about the whole Ves situation?"
"Pissed off."
That isn't surprising to hear. "Understandable, for him to bugger off like that and only leave a sodding note." She cocks her head, looking sympathetic. "Men and their fuckery, to use one of your words. Well, Ves isn't a man, but he's of the male persuasion. I think we've both had our fill of it enough now!"
Pouring out the tea, you lift your mug, softly tapping it against hers. "In lieu of alcohol, I will happily drink to that with a little raspberry nettle."
After your tea, your mum potters off for a bath, leaving you to go and enjoy the cool of the night air, moving to sit down at the top of the large, grand steps that lead to the lawn. There, you sit and let your thoughts wander back to your absent husband, looking up at the stars above. The dark canopy sparkles, and you're thankful for the small mercy of knowing no matter where he is, he's still beneath the same sky as you.
The fact you're completely in the dark over where that location is exactly threatens to rear up, grow claws and teeth, but you fortify yourself and for the sake of the tiny life contentedly wriggling away inside you, not let it gain any further strength. Pissed off is as far as you'll let yourself go with it, knowing well that succumbing to the utter rage you could allow for will do no good.
Well, there's more than rage there, naturally. There's the worry for him too, despite the fact that he's one of the eldest and most powerful vampires walking the planet. The not knowing where he is or what he's doing, what danger he could be exposing himself to - if any at all - doesn't sit right with you. Again, for the sake of your baby, you attempt not to truly let yourself feel it too deeply.
You've been there before with him, after all, and you remember only too well the emotional toil of watching him hanging between worlds. He was gone from you in a different sense then, but there is a similar uncertainty in his absence this time around, too.
Still, beneath it all, your love for your husband persists; stubborn, insistent, refusing to be trampled down by uncertainty or distance. You close your eyes and listen to the sounds of the night, the nearby hooting of the local owl populous, the gentle creak of the old house settling behind you. Every breath in the cool air seems to hold a quiet promise, a sense that however scattered your family may feel right now, there is a thread connecting you all. It's unseen, but very much unbreakable.
For a moment, comfort settles in your bones, and you find yourself smiling faintly, knowing that both love and frustration can coexist as fiercely as any other emotion stirred by his absence and the secrecy surrounding it. He asked for you to trust him, and despite your contempt, you know that you must extend that to him, for your own peace of mind above anything else.
"Oooh, blimey!" you wince, hands moving to your bump and rubbing, breathing your way through another Braxton Hicks contraction. In nine weeks, they'll feel vastly different, and you can't help but wonder whether your errant husband will be back by your side helping you through it or not when they are.
All you have is a tiny spark of hope that he will.
Those nine weeks seem to pass in a blur, summertime arriving and with it, less time with your remaining husbands. They do, however, begin to take it in turns to remain awake as the days inch by, your due date arriving and leaving with no sign of Ivy's appearance, until one early morning in August…
"Shitting hell!"
Immediately, the rapidity of II's thrusts into your soaking core ceases at your gritted exclamation. "Is it working? Do you want me to stop?"
Although some claim that sex isn't efficient in bringing on labour, it's how he and Ingrid once brought it about when she went over nine moons with no baby to show for it.
You've been having twinges and pains all evening, but this? It was something else entirely. "Yeah, I think it might be and no! I want to come first before I have to go through this!"
He snorts on a laugh, turning his head to kiss your ankle, your legs rested up on his shoulders. "In that case, I'll give you two."
He makes ecstasy swell right down to the very root of you, straight to your marrow, bliss tipped and glimmering through your veins, your hands fisting at the pillow beneath your head, panting and mewling. The thick of his shaft drags you, your tender walls flexing around him, each deep thrust accompanied by a baritone groan of pure erotic want.
He leans to you, slightly hampered by the massive baby bump, kissing you deeply. "You look so fucking beautiful." He's never made you feel anything less, even though over these last two months you've ballooned, feeling puffy, fat and unattractive, his constant pledges of desire towards you negate those feelings whenever he speaks them.
His lips move to your jaw, grazing a little bite, kisses slipping slowly before you feel the nip of fangs prickle your neck. He’s thick and heavy within you, stretching you, filling you, railing you slow and deep.
That slowness soon abates, giving way to something with burning ferocity, hitting you so deeply and furiously you feel you may pass out from pleasure, his cock offering the perfect pressure to have you glimmering around him, a panting mess as your embers glow, your dewy centre practically dripping around him as he fucks you wildly.
His pubic bone grinds against your clit with perfect precision, aiding your ascension, wild heat snapping between you as the fires of your crest roar, shattering entirely. It’s all warm and fluid, where the high of your release transports you to,breathless and light headed as you slowly descend, II kissing your neck softly.
He did promise you two, though. A promise he immediately makes good on.
Slipping from your embrace, he lies down flat before you, pulling your leg over his shoulder, burying his mouth against your sex with hungry intentions. The way he eats you… god. He's never anything short of sinfully vigorous with his tongue.
It glides over you, exploring you thoroughly, pushing inside you as you quiver against his mouth, using the flat of his tongue to then lay slow, firm licks all over your clit. Your head thuds back against the pillow, your fingers flexing either side of his head as you moan in utter bliss.
Each lick evokes sparks, illuminating you, the instigator of your thighs beginning to tremble as your soft moans fill his bedroom. Already you can feel a knot beginning to tighten deep within, his mouth evoking ecstasy with every lick. You feel sparks igniting, the sting of arousal prickling your insides and making you soar. It shan’t take long, it never does with him. He knows exactly how to make you come so rapidly, it'll knock the breath from you.
Your chest quivers as each roll of his tongue becomes harder, more focused, moaning against your cunt as you flood his mouth with your wetness, sucking, drinking you, his hands reaching up to grasp your tits as you grip his forearms and whimper.
The addition of his fingers has you clenching wantonly, your back arching as your muscles tighten, your breaths quickening as the flash rolls through you with strong consumption.
It makes your body go limp in the aftermath as you pant, II's mouth back on yours as you tremble through the remains of your orgasm, his fingers slipping from you, replaced by the hard, sure press of his cock once more.
"Three?" he breathes, easing back and forth, trawling your soaked walls. "Three sounds good, hm?"
You're given no chance to reply before he's utterly uncaged with you, barbarous and rough but coupled with it a finesse so delectably erotic, so passionately skilled. Especially when he stares down at you with those big, intense eyes, his fingertips trailing your thighs as he holds you spread before him.
You’re alight with incandescence as he begins to speed up, the pleasure biting, his bulky shaft stroking your walls, sensations streaking through you. He’s a feast for your eyes, looking truly beautiful to you in the candlelight, golden hues illuminating his pale skin, his crimson glittered eyes blown with lust as he continues to stare with intensity unmatched.
As the pleasure builds, your thighs tense, your inner walls tightening around him in an aqueous grip, your vampire driving into you like a piston to overcome the strength of that wet clench, delivering your ebullience as you begin to cry out. Every breath is laboured, the exertion culminating as his thrusts reach staccato, the golden burn of undoing shining over your horizon as he fucks you there, his own release shot in thick ropes deep in your slippery core.
You lie there dreamily in the aftermath, head rested against his chest as he strokes your bump, your hands suddenly reaching to grasp his wrists tightly.
Oh, hell. This isn't dreamy any longer.
"God fucking… fuck!" you cry, the pain tight and unyielding, like the worst period cramps you've ever had… times about ten. "Oh, bloody hell. Yep, this definitely isn't Braxton Hicks. She's on her way."
At last, you're going to meet your baby. You expect it to be a long while, too, an arduous labour right there at home as you've planned, not wanting to give birth in hospital. Expectations, though, can often go the opposite way to plan!
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warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut (p-in-v & unprotected, oral - f!receiving, fingering, creampie, lots of dirty talk, edging, p-pronouns, light p-inspection, mentions of somno and free use), dom!Bucky, power imbalance, sugar daddy / sugar baby dynamic, age gap (reader in mid-to-late twenties while Bucky’s in his early forties), mentioned illness/death of parents (minor characters), money troubles, i.e., debt, bills, etc., alcohol consumption, one instance of smoking, no mentions of y/n
word count: 31.8k
summary: The arrangement is simple enough: you give him friendship, he gives you a better life. But between the private dinners cozied up in a booth and the charity galas pressed to his side, it’s getting harder for you to hold up your end of the bargain when you’re starting to feel things for your sugar daddy that were not included in the contract…
PARTS:
part one
part two
part three
DRABBLES:
coming soon…
thanks for reading!🤍 check out more in my masterlist
Summary : You think someone has been following you. You were right.
Pairing : DDBA! Benjamin Poindexter x Antihero! reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : reader is a thunderbolt/new avenger who has a prior relationship with Dex, morally grey characters, freak4freak. Sub!Dex and he has a praise kink. mutual obsession, stalking, mentions of violence, consensual but morally complex sexual dynamics, nudity. Ava and Yelena has a cameo! (let me know if I missed anything!)
Word Count : 6.7k
Requested by : Anon
Notes : It's my first time writing for Dex and of course it’s a Freak4Freak. The title is inspired by a line from the song Candy by Paolo Nutini. Enjoy!
The bar was alive, bathing you in violet lights while the bass was heavy enough to settle in your ribs. The sound of pool balls cut clean through the noise every few seconds. It smelled like cheap alcohol, citrus, and rusted metal.
You leaned over the table, lining up a shot you weren’t fully concentrating on, while Yelena paced slowly behind you like a critic waiting to tear you apart.
“If you miss this,” she said, voice dry, “I will revoke your right to hold that cue ever again.”
After all, it was you and Yelena against Ava, for lack of a fourth person. You just figured you’d take turns on a 2 v 1.
“Whatever,” you muttered, squinting down the line.
From the other side, Ava clicked her tongue softly, already unimpressed. “Just take the goddamn shot.”
You did.
The ball clipped the edge. It was close, but not enough, as it veered off uselessly.
Yelena made a satisfied sound. “Embarrassing.”
“Oh my god, shut up,” you laughed, straightening, heat in your face. “You’re both insufferable.”
“At least we are skilled,” Yelena shot back.
Ava smirked. “We?”
Girl’s night out with your new teammates had been fun. It had kept you distracted for months, and for a second, you had a taste of normalcy.
Only for a second, though.
“Okay, fine,” you said, grabbing your drink and leaning back against the table. “If we’re ranking insufferable, can we talk about the team?”
Yelena’s ears perked up immediately, like a puppy hearing the word snack. “Yes. We can always talk about this.”
“Thank you!” You exclaimed, rolling your shoulders from the strain last week’s mission gave you. A couple of rogue mercs in the Atlantic, but it was nothing you weren’t used to. “I have been dying to talk about how much John yapped during yesterday’s meeting.”
Ava snorted from the other side of the table, chalking her cue. “He does love the sound of his own voice.”
Yelena scoffed, crossing her arms. “At least he has a voice. Bucky just sulks in corners like a depressed statue.”
“And Bob—” Ava started.
“Oh, Bob is trying,” you said quickly, laughing. “We’re not dragging Bob.”
“Fine,” Ava allowed. “But Alexei...”
Yelena straightened immediately, eyes narrowing. “No. No one shit talks my papa.”
You raised a brow. “You do.”
Yelena waved her off. “It is different. When I do it, it comes from a place of love.”
You laughed again, shaking your head, warmth settling in your chest. The noise and banter grounded you. It kept things simple.
For a second, it almost felt like you could forget that feeling.
That sinking feeling like a silk ribbon pulling tight behind your ribs that someone was watching.
Your smile lingered a second too long as your eyes drifted, not enough for Ava or Yelena to notice, but enough that you were already scanning the perimeter. You clocked in every person, every door, every exit point.
Nothing.
It was early in the evening after all, maybe twelve other customers in the bar? If anyone was looking too long or out of place, it would be painfully obvious.
Still, you didn’t fully relax.
It wasn’t really a sight thing. It was the absence of feeling you couldn’t name. There was a gap in the noise, picked up by the kind of instinct you didn’t learn. You had survived long enough that the skill had carved itself into you subconsciously.
You adjusted your stance slightly, back no longer fully exposed to the room.
Ava was lining up her next shot. Yelena was mid-rant about John’s weird breakfast habits, hands moving as she talked.
Right. You must be imagining things.
Because if it was real, if someone was actually watching, you wouldn’t be the only one noticing it. Yelena and Ava were two of the best field agents you knew. They were stealth specialists, they would know, right?
You exhaled slowly, forcing your grip on the glass to loosen.
This was just stupid fucking paranoia. You chalked it up to a residual instinct you hadn’t shaken since before the team.
Besides, who the hell would be dumb enough to stalk three former assassins in a Soho bar?
No one, you concluded. At least, no one that wanted to live.
But still, your eyes flicked once more toward the mirror behind the bar.
And for the briefest moment, you could’ve sworn you weren’t alone in it.
—
By the time the three of you finally stepped out into the night, it was nearly two in the morning.
It had been a good night, and it turned out to be a loud one.
As it got later and more crowded, a handful of guys had circled in and out of the group. They were the only downside to the evening, as they were all too confident, too curious, too annoying. One had tried to lean over your shot like that would impress you. Another had slid a drink toward you without asking, already expecting a yes.
You hadn’t given either of them much more than a flat no before they could even try again.
Ava had noticed. Yelena had enjoyed it.
“‘You look like trouble,’” Yelena repeated now, her voice dripping with mockery as you all slowed on the sidewalk. “What does that even mean?”
“It means he thought he was being original,” you said, rubbing the back of your neck.
“It means he was idiot,” Yelena corrected.
Ava huffed a laugh. “The second one was worse.”
You groaned. “Don’t.”
“‘Can I buy you a drink?’” Ava mimicked, glancing at you. “While you were literally holding one.”
Yelena nodded, delighted. “And you just...” she made a dismissive flicking motion with her hand, “…’no.”
You shrugged, unable to help the small smile tugging at your mouth. “What was I supposed to say?”
“Anything more entertaining,” Ava said.
“I’m not here to entertain them,” you shot back.
“No,” Yelena agreed, eyeing you knowingly. “You are here to intimidate them.”
You snorted. “Please.”
Ava tilted her head slightly, studying you. “So what would work?”
You tilted your head. “What?”
“You shut them down so fast,” she pointed out, “there’s gotta be a reason.”
“They’re…” you shrugged as you passed a street lamp. You had to be very careful of what you say next. “…just not my type.”
Ava scoffed. There were a couple of men that seemed genuinely nice that you didn’t have a second look at. And she knew it wasn’t about looks, you weren’t that shallow. “And that is…?”
Yelena lit up immediately. “Oh, I know.”
You groaned, bracing for whatever over-the-top assumption she was gonna make. “No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do,” she insisted, stepping in front of you like she was presenting a case. “Girl like you?” She pointed vaguely. “You like… how you say… pet psychopath.”
You barked out a laugh. “A what?”
“Pet psychopath,” she repeated confidently. “Someone unhinged.” She crossed her arms. “I think you like reigning them in. You keep them on leash.”
Ava snorted. “I can see that, actually.”
You rolled your eyes hard, walking past her. “Sure.”
“Am I wrong?” Yelena pressed.
You didn’t answer, and didn’t want to.
They didn’t know much about your past love life. Not the full story, not even half of it, to realise her statement wouldn’t fit neatly into a joke.
So you let them have it. Let them speculate, let them laugh. It was easier that way.
As you reached an intersection, you stopped.
“I’m heading home,” you said after a moment, checking the time out of habit. Sure, you lived part-time in the tower now, but you still kept your apartment. Rent control, you’d say. That, and just in case shit hits the fan with the team. “Got some paperwork to finish. I’ll be back for briefing tomorrow.”
Yelena made an exaggerated, offended sound. “Again with paperwork.”
You chuckled but said nothing.
Ava narrowed her eyes on you. “If you are lying and just want to avoid us, we’ll know.”
“Noted,” you said, already stepping back.
Yelena crossed her arms, muttering something under her breath before sighing dramatically. “Fine. Go. Be boring.”
You smiled faintly. “Night,” you said as you waved, watching the disappear into little dots in the distance, heading for the safety of the watchtower.
—
You walked on autopilot, familiar turns and cracked sidewalks guiding you home. And still, even now, the feeling was there. You were either experiencing a psychotic break or someone was following you just beyond the edges of perception, and based on experience, you knew that neither thing was preferable to the other.
You scanned your surroundings, checking darkened windows, reflections, and passing figures.
Nothing.
You exhaled, rolling your shoulders. You were an Avenger. You’d handled worse than a vague, creeping sense of being watched, worse than a few idiots at a bar.
When you got to your door, you didn’t have to look to open it like muscle memory. The click of the lock echoed louder than it should have as you turned the key in the door.
This place has always been your apartment, ever since you moved to New York. No one else’s.
Yet he had stayed over, he slept over, he left traces of himself behind like a stubborn echo. He was the only one you ever let in your oh-so-sacred personal space.
You shoved the door open and stepped inside, shedding your coat. The noise of the city outside leaked through the cracked windows, and for a moment, everything felt… familiar.
Still, you looked over to see the couch he’d sprawled across. To your right was the imperceptible dent he had left on the wall where he’d leaned too hard one night. To your left was one of his shoes you never bothered to throw away.
You dropped your bag by the entrance, kicking off your own shoes.
Again, you’d told people, often, that you kept this apartment because of rent control. Truthfully, it was the excuse that stuck, but you knew better.
It had never been about the money. It was the memories, the spaces he had inhabited, however briefly. The way the apartment had felt alive when he was there, chaotic in the worst possible way, and you still couldn’t shake that feeling off.
You dropped onto the couch, letting the silence settle. You were safe here. You should feel safe here.
But even as you sank into the cushions, that thread of unease from earlier hadn’t gone away. You shook your head. Not real. Not real!
“Fuck,” you whispered out loud, before reaching for the stack of bills on the counter. If you said you were going to do paperwork, you were gonna do paperwork.
You were not a liar.
…Anymore.
—
You had peace for exactly thirty-two minutes. Thirty-two whole, perfect minutes where you could pretend that nothing from the past could touch you.
And then came the knock.
It was insistent. Every muscle in your body tensed before your brain even caught up. That rhythm was familiar, though your brain refused to supply who it was.
Whoever it was kept knocking, and they were knocking right out of your apartment door— which meant they either had the ability to pick the lock or they live in the building.
Was it Yelena or Ava? Did you accidentally take their access card in your bag? Was it your lovely old neighbor Mr. Finch? Did he want to borrow a bit of sugar again?
Still, you walked over. Your fingers hovering over the doorknob. A part of you screamed not to, that this was a trap, that this was your instinct telling you that whoever was on the other side of that door, was the one behind your uneasy feeling all night.
But you opened it anyway.
And standing there, bruised and a little bloodied, was Dex.
He had that sheepish, boyish grin tugging at the edges of his lips. Blood streaked across his cheek, fabric torn in places. He wasn’t injured enough to be dying, and certainly not enough to warrant your panic, but enough to make your stomach drop.
“No. Absolutely not,” you said, slamming the door with more force than necessary.
You should’ve known. You should have known if anyone were to stalk you, it would be him.
You could hear him chuckle on the other side, infuriatingly familiar. You pressed your back against the door, forcing your shoulders to relax, telling yourself you were an Avenger. You could handle this. You could.
Five minutes later, there was a second knock. This time at your window, the one opening onto the fire escape.
It was an annoying little tap tap tap, and he just wouldn’t stop.
You should tell him to fuck off. You should tell him that this was insane, that whatever part of him was out there bleeding, emotionally or physically, was not your problem.
You groaned, dragging your hand down your face, muttering, “Get lost, Dex.”
But he was there, balancing effortlessly on the fire escape like he’d done a thousand times before, body backlit by the moonlight. His grin was infuriatingly boyish, arrogant in a way that made your heart beat quicker. “Kicking me out of my own apartment?” he asked, muffled through the glass.
You pinched the bridge of your nose. “It was never yours. You just… slept over.”
His eyes looked to the side, smirking. “Huh. That’s why you still keep my old clothes in the drawer?”
“Fuck. off,” you said, drawing the curtains shut. Even as you did it, your chest felt tight, your stomach twisting, because you knew. You knew you’d never really stopped letting him in.
Your hand hesitated over the fabric of the curtains.
A part of you knew you shouldn’t. A part of you was angry at yourself for even considering it. And yet, you knew you wanted it. You wanted him.
You knew he could just break in, that he didn’t need your permission to go in. But he wanted it. He wanted your approval, he craved it, he fed off it.
Cussing yourself, you opened the curtains and window again and gave him exactly what he wanted, cold air rising into your heated space.
Almost surprised, he stepped inside. Your chest tightened as you let him in. You hated how your body betrayed you, how your mind scrambled for rationality while your instincts leaned forward, wanting to be close to him.
“This is a bad idea,” you said, more to yourself than to him.
“Is it?” he asked, just close enough that you could feel his breath on your neck.
You didn’t answer. And in that charged silence, in the small space of your apartment, you could feel him watching you. It should be sinister. It should be uncomfortable. But instead, your twisted mind thought it was flattering.
As you forced yourself to look at him, it became obvious that the cuts weren’t just superficial. Bruises darkened under his shirt, his hands trembled slightly as he ran them along his sides, and the faint hitch in his breath told you he’d been pushing himself a bit too far and wouldn’t admit it.
“Jesus…” you breathed, stepping closer, eyes wide. “What happened to you?”
He gave a faint shrug, almost casual, and the ghost of that old, nervous grin touched his lips. “Killed a couple of AVTF agents,” he said lightly. “Some of them fought back.”
You blinked, heart lurching. He said it like it was nothing, like it was a joke.
“You’re… in worse condition than I thought,” you said, voice tight, and you guided him to the couch before he could protest. He sat, one arm slung over the backrest.
You knelt in front of him, already tearing open the first strip of gauze from the first aid kit you kept under your coffee table, lifting his shirt up halfway. “Fuck, Dex… you can’t seem to get outta trouble. Killing task force? Come on, I…” Your voice broke off. You didn’t even know what you were trying to say anymore. Protect? Scold? Save?
“You would’ve done the same,” he interrupted, shrugging again, that lazy, self-assured tilt of his head. “Just because you’re part of this reformed antihero bullshit… doesn’t mean you’ve changed.”
A tight ache squeezed your chest.
No, you haven’t. Not really. You were more aware of that than anyone else.
He just smiled at that, like he knew exactly what you were thinking and thrived on it.
You tore another strip of gauze, dabbing at the blood along his side. “Yeah, but you’re doing it in broad daylight,” you said quietly, voice tinged with frustration and disbelief. “I would’ve done them in on the down low.”
There it was, the truth. You hated how much you recognized a piece of yourself in what he’d done.
“That’s my girl,” he said, voice soft but certain, and the possessive smile returned. “You were so good. You would’ve made it seem like a freak accident.”
You rolled your eyes, pressing a little harder than necessary against the gauze at his side. “Don’t start,” you warned.
He hissed faintly at the pressure, but the grin didn’t leave his face. If anything, the pain just made him more present. “You let me in,” he said simply, watching you like that answered everything.
You didn’t look up. “You would’ve broken in.”
“Yeah,” he admitted, tilting his head. “But this is nicer.”
For a moment, the only sound in the room was your breathing and the city noise bleeding through the window. Then you leaned back slightly, tossing the bloodied gauze aside.
“Agents, Dex,” you said, voice flat. You finally met his eyes. “In the middle of the street? Really subtle. Real low profile.”
“They were sloppy,” he shrugged. “And annoying.”
“That’s not the point.”
“It is to me.”
You finally looked up at him then with a sharp glare. “The point is you’re making noise. And when you make noise, people look. And when people look, they start connecting dots. And when they connect dots—”
“They find me?” he cut in. “Or they find you?”
Your jaw tightened. “You know I don’t care if they find me. You know I can take care of myself.”
His smile flickered dangerously. “You can pretend all you want— with the Avengers, paperwork, with girls' night outs— but you still think like this.” He tapped a finger lightly against your temple, and it felt so tender. He was always tender with you. “Like me.”
You grabbed his wrist, a little too fast, a little too tightly.
For a second, neither of you moved.
Then his eyes dropped to your grip, then back up to your face, interest settling in.
“See?” he murmured. “There she is.”
You shoved his hand away, standing abruptly. “Shut up.”
But you didn’t step back. You didn’t even put distance between you.
“You’re mad,” he said, pushing himself up despite the injury. “But not for the reasons you think.”
“I’m mad because you’re reckless,” you snapped. “Because you’re stupid enough to think you can just, what? Walk back in here like nothing’s changed?”
“Something hasn't,” he countered, almost joyfully in how much of you has stayed the same.
Your breath hitched. It was barely noticeable, but he caught it.
He stepped closer.
You should’ve moved. You knew you should’ve. Every trained, survival-built instinct you had told you to create space, to regain control, to shut this down before it spiraled.
Instead, you stayed rooted.
“Those agents,” you said quickly, forcing the conversation back into a safer, tactical topic. “Fisk’s getting sloppy if that’s who he’s sending after you.”
That earned a scoff.
“He should’ve adapted by now,” you went on. “Instead, he’s sending uniforms into open streets like it’s gonna end clean.”
Dex smirked. “It didn’t.”
“No, it didn’t,” you agreed, meeting his eyes. “And now you’ve got even more heat on you. Congratulations.”
He didn’t look bothered. If anything, he looked amused.
“Maybe I don’t mind the heat,” he said.
“Yeah?” you shot back. “Because it’s not just you who gets burned.”
That landed in his heart as hard as a plane crash in the middle of a forest. But then his expression shifted again, softer, but in that calculated way he had, like he was choosing exactly which version of himself to show you.
“Maybe I don’t have to be on my own,” he said.
There it was.
You exhaled slowly, already shaking your head before he could even finish the thought. “No.”
“You didn’t even let me pitch it.”
“I know the pitch,” you said flatly. Of course you did. You’d helped write it.
The whole Bonnie-and-Clyde fantasy. You used to breathe it in like a drug you just can’t quit. You used to kiss the shell of his ear, biting his earlobe as you mapped out the idea of the two of you against the world, leaving nothing behind but wreckage of rotting bodies. His hands would roam on your body just the way you liked it, both of you half-drunk on adrenaline and the promise of violence dressed up as devotion.
Back then, it felt inevitable, like there was no version of you that didn’t end up there with him, in the dark, laughing at the fallout.
But you should know better by now.
Clinging back into that fantasy would not only be a disservice to your progress, but also to your friends.
It would be a disservice to Yelena, who was trying to shed her inner child assassin. It would be a disservice to Ava, who was trying to pay back all the things she’s done in search for a cure. To Alexei, who was finally becoming the hero he claimed he was.To Bucky, who was atoning for sins his mind wasn’t even responsible for. To John, who was trying to be a more present father, and to Bob who was simply trying to get clean.
You were trying, too. Maybe not as obviously, but you were. You were dragging yourself, piece by piece, away from that edge.
There was no balance here. No safe middle ground.
If you slipped back into that life, even a little, you wouldn’t just visit it. You’d sink.
If you started killing for sport again, Anti-Vigilante Task Force or otherwise, you can't be sure you’d even want to come back. Not if you were doing it with him.
Your voice came out quieter this time, but steadier for it. “I don’t want that anymore.”
After all that inner turmoil you had, he had the audacity to wink. “Sure.”
You wanted to slap him.
Before you could respond, he reached out quickly, fingers brushing your wrist, then sliding up just enough to feel your familiar pulse. He tilted his head, studying you again like a puzzle he already knew how to solve.
“You miss me,” he said simply.
Your stomach twisted. “No.”
“Yeah,” he breathed. “You do.”
You stepped into his space before you could stop yourself, grabbing the front of his shirt and pushing him against the wall. “Don’t put words in my mouth,” you snapped.
The impact knocked a breath out of him, but the look on his face?
He looked thrilled, as if your anger, your control, was exactly what he’d been starving for.
“I should put you in the fucking Raft,” you snapped, breathing uneven, your forehead nearly pressing against his. “Get a cell warmed up just for you.”
Dex didn’t flinch. He didn’t even pretend to take it seriously.
Instead, his lips curled crookedly. “Then who’d watch over you?” he murmured, eyes drifting down to your lips before looking back in your eyes. “Who’d take care of you?”
Your grip faltered, just slightly. What? What did he mean by that?
“Who’d be killing the task force for you?” he added, softer now, like it was intimate. Like it was a secret meant only for you.
Your stomach dropped. There were no right words for what you were feeling. Guilt, maybe, for feeling good about it at all.
“…y-you did that for me?” you asked, the words smaller than you meant them to be.
His expression didn’t change. If anything, it softened, just a fraction. In his eyes was the same dangerous devotion threading through everything he did for you.
“I know you’d want to,” he said, looking up at you with wide eyes. “So I did it for you.” He paused, only for a decor. “To prove I’m one of the good guys now.” His eyes flicked over your face, searching, craving. “Like you.”
Your lungs felt twisted in your chest. You did. You wanted to. You’ve argued with Val countless of times, but she said the same thing: it wasn’t good for optics.
“Jesus, Dex…” you breathed, shaking your head, frustration and a little bit of admiration boiling up under your skin. “You’re so… ugh— you’re just so fucking—”
Dex breathed in, those hazel eyes that you adored so much darting anxiously, as if waiting for a final verdict, a final judgement that would make or break his heart.
But that was the problem. You didn’t have a word for him.
There was no clean, clinical label that could contain what he was to you, what he had always been. Obsession felt too shallow, addiction felt too passive, and even love felt too tame.
“Jesus, baby…” you exhaled, not really meaning to call him that again, your grip tightening in his shirt instead of letting go. “You’re so—”
You’re so… wrong? Sick? Familiar?
You made a frustrated sound, that sounded like it belonged somewhere between a laugh and a curse, and before you could stop yourself, before you could talk yourself out of it…
You kissed him.
It wasn’t gentle or careful by any means. It wasn’t anything you could chalk off as a mistake.
You pushed up onto your toes, dragging him down into it, your mouth crashing into his like you were trying to shut him up, erase him, consume him.
Maybe all three at once.
For a split second, he froze. Not out of hesitation, but out of shock. It was as if he hadn't even expected you to give in first.
It didn’t take long for him to break, though, to melt into you.
His body gave way under your hands, tension unraveling so fast it was almost unsettling. A tiny, almost adorable, wrecked sound slipped from him. His hands came up like instinct, like muscle memory, settling at your waist, splayed over your skin, under your shirt. He did so gently, as if he needed permission even now.
The world knew him as unhinged, uncontrollable, but with you? He folded every time.
Your fingers tightened in his shirt as the kiss deepened, messy and heated, all teeth and tongue and frustration. You could feel the way he leaned into you, not taking, but responding, chasing whatever you gave him like it was oxygen.
And you hated it, because it meant you knew exactly what you were doing to him. It meant you liked it.
You pulled back just enough to breathe, your lips barely leaving his, your forehead brushing his as your chest rose and fell too fast.
“This is—” you started, voice cracked. “This is exactly why I shouldn’t have opened that window.”
“But you did,” he whispered, already leaning in again, chasing you without even realizing it.
Your stomach twisted because he was right.
You could lock doors, build distance, join teams, attempt to rewrite your life into a clean slate, but the second he was there, bleeding on your fire escape, looking at you like you were the only thing tethering him to the world, you opened it. Every fucking time.
Your hand slid from his collar to his jaw, tracing his raised scar with feather-light touch. “Dex,” you muttered, searching his face like you might finally see something that would make this easier. “You killed them and —what? You call that a favor?”
“If it keeps you safe,” he said simply without a shred of hesitation.
Your chest tightened, air clawing its way up your throat. “I never asked you to do that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
You let out a shaky breath, your grip loosening for half a second, just long enough to feel that familiar pull. That old gravity that had nothing to do with logic and everything to do with the parts of you you pretended didn’t exist anymore.
He had never created that darkness. He had just matched it.
“I hate that you think like that,” you said, quieter now.
His eyes softened. “You don’t,” he said. “You just don’t get it yet.”
He made this so unbearable, so inescapable. He saw every ugly, buried instinct you’d tried to outrun, every thought you’d trained yourself to suppress, every violent, intoxicating urge you’d dressed up as restraint.
And instead of being repulsed, like any sane man at the bar would, he loved it.
“Dex…” you started, but there was no argument left in you.
His thumb brushed lightly against your wrist, right over your pulse, like he was feeling it race. “You miss me,” he said again.
You should’ve denied it. You should’ve stepped back, shut this down, reminded yourself of everything you’d built without him.
Instead, you leaned in again.
The second kiss wasn’t explosive.
It was worse because it was slower. It was deeper. It wasn’t as careless.
And he broke for it completely.
That same wrecked sigh left him again, his forehead pressing against yours as his hands tightened slightly at your waist just anchoring himself there like you were the only solid object left on earth. Like he’d finally gotten something he’d been starving for.
And the most fucked up part, was that finally, so had you.
No one else ever met you here. No one else had ever met you in the dark, in the contradiction, where wanting something didn’t make it right, but didn’t make it any less real either.
You exhaled against his lips, barely a whisper. “This is a bad idea.”
“Yeah,” he breathed back.
Neither of you let go, though.
Before you knew it, space between you collapsed again like it was never meant to exist.
You didn’t remember deciding to move, you just did. Your hands fisted further into his shirt, dragging him with you as you stumbled back toward your bedroom like gravity has shattered and he was the only thing pulling you down.
Dex followed without resistance, like a lost puppy.
There was something almost reverent in the way he let himself be guided, even now, unsteady from blood loss, from exhaustion, from you, but still so focused. Like every nerve in his body was tuned to find you, waiting, anticipating.
You shoved him down onto the bed harder than necessary.
The mattress dipped under his weight, and for a split second he just looked up at you. His breathing was uneven, pupils blown wide, lips parted like he’s waiting for a command.
“Look at you,” you muttered, more to yourself than him, chest rising and falling too fast. “You’re so easy.”
His throat bobbed, a fragile look flickering across his face, and it definitely didn’t belong to the man who laughs while bullets fly.
“Yeah?” he breathed.
You climbed over him before he could say anything else, pressing him back into the mattress, your hand sliding up his chest, over the bruises, the bandages you placed.
He hissed at the contact, but didn't dare pull away. If anything, he leaned into it.
“Stay still,” you murmured, but your voice has no real authority left in it.
“I am,” he said quickly, like he needed you to know, like he needed to get it right, to not fuck up this time.
Your fingers caught under the hem of what’s left of his shirt, dragging it up, exposing more of him. He was marked and bruised, and wrecked.
And he still came here. For you.
“You’re a mess,” you whisper.
A small, breathless laugh left him. “You like me like that.”
You said nothing, because you did.
Your nails pressed lightly into his skin as your hands moved over him, mapping his body. You already knew him too well. He responded immediately, back arching just slightly, breath catching, like every touch landed deeper than it should.
“Say it,” he started to beg, almost hesitant. “Please.”
“What?”
“That I’m…” he trailed off, swallowing, suddenly shy. “That I did good.”
There it was, that need.
“Dex…” you breathed, shaking your head. You shouldn’t give it to him, but you wanted to.
“You did good,” you said, unbuckling his belt and undoing his trousers. “So good for me, baby.”
And he fell apart. You could feel it in the way his hands tighten at your sides, in the way his breath choked out, in the way his head tipped back against the mattress like he’s overwhelmed by something as simple as your approval.
“Yeah?” he whispered, desperately tugging up your shirt like a cat pawing at his meal. He didn’t stop until your skin was bare, naked, and so… exposed.
“Yeah,” you repeated, your voice lower now, closer, your lips brushing just barely against his jaw as you climbed on to him. “You’re so eager to please, it’s pathetic.”
He let out a broken little sound and didn't even try to hide it.
Your nails dragged down his abdomen as you pressed closer, and he gasped, unfiltered. His fingers clutched at you like he was grounding himself, like he needed physical contact as he toyed with the band of your sweats.
“You want it off, sweetheart?” you murmured against his ear.
“Yes,” he breathed, and it came out too fast, too honest. “Yeah, whatever you want— just—”
He cut himself off with a sharp inhale as your hands tighten again, your nails leaving faint, angry trails down his skin.
“Use your words, baby,” you whispered.
“Yes.”
The room felt too small for the way everything had been building. It was tight, too hot, too full of everything you’ve both been holding back for way too long.
It was messy and desperate in a way that had little to do with the physical and everything to do with the fact that neither of you knew how to want the other halfway.
—
By the time you both came undone, by the time you chased each other’s high, it was already too late to come back down. He lit up all your senses at once, your hands gripping, his breath breaking, your nails dragging down his back as he clung to you like you’re the only thing keeping him from falling apart. And maybe you were.
And after your legs gave out, you collapsed against him, your forehead pressed to his shoulder, both of you breathing like you’ve just survived it all. Or ruined it. Or both.
His hand came up, resting against your back as you curled into him.
You reached and kissed the corner of his lips, tasting the blood and sweat on his skin. “I’ve missed you.”
All of his neurons lit up in happy colour, like a Christmas tree. It hit him all at once, like a switch flipped behind his eyes. You felt it in the way his breath hitched, in the way his fingers tightened just slightly where they rested against your waists
“You mean that?” he asked.
You hummed, brushing your mouth against his again, not quite a kiss this time, letting him feel it without giving him enough. “I said it, didn’t I?”
A disbelieving smile tugged at his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes, not fully. Those stayed locked on you, dark and hungry and searching, like he was trying to figure out if this was real or just another thing he made up about you in his head.
You traced your thumb along his collarbone, watching him break for it in real time.
“So…” you whispered, lips brushing just beneath his ear, “how long have you been watching me?”
Dex’s hand flexed once against your side.
You pulled back just enough to look at him. “A month, two?”
His eyes had gone darker, but there was not an ounce of guilt or regret there. It was the absolute conviction of possession.
“How long?” you pressed, grabbing his chin and forcing him to look you in the eyes.
“…A while.”
You let out a breathy laugh, like you weren’t sure if you should be impressed or concerned.
He was fucked up. You were fucked up. It made a kind of sense.
“Yeah?” Your head tilted, studying him. “Is that where my neighbor went?”
He held his eyes on you.
You tilted your head, struggling to remember what the scumbag looked like from memory. “You know, the insurance creep. The one who wouldn’t shut up about taking me out to dinner?”
Dex said nothing, which was answer enough.
You should’ve been horrified. You knew that. You should’ve been disgusted and angry because he did something in your name that you didn’t do anymore.
Instead, your fingers slid up into his hair.
“Of course you did,” you said, almost amused.
Dex watched you carefully now, like he was waiting for the moment you’d turn on him.
“You liked him?” he asked.
The idea alone made you want to lurch.
“Please,” you scoffed, shifting closer, your knee pressing into his thigh without thinking. “He made a living denying people the help they needed and bragged about it to anyone who would listen.” Your nails dragged lightly against his scalp. “I was two drinks away from breaking his fingers myself.”
Your grip tightened slightly in his hair, claiming.
Dex watched you like he was bracing for impact, like this was the moment you’d push him away. Instead, your thumb brushed over his lower lip, dragging it down just a little before letting it snap back.
“You really thought he had a shot?” you asked quietly.
His teeth tightened. “He thought he did.”
You leaned closer, your lips ghosting over his again, just barely there. “Mm,” you hummed. “That’s cute.”
Dex’s breath hitched.
“He talked too much,” you added, your voice dropping, your mouth brushing the corner of his lips again.
Your fingers slid from his hair to his throat, resting there, feeling the rapid pulse beneath your palm.
Dex didn’t move away. He even tilted into it. “I didn’t like how he was looking at you.”
Your fingers curled slightly against the sheets.
“They never just look at you," he said with absolution in his eyes. Oh, so there were more? “They think things.”
“And you don’t?” you shot back.
For a second, something flickered across his face, almost self-aware. Then it was gone.
“I’m allowed,” he said, resolute.
Fuck, he was impossible.
Your fingers slid back into his hair, tugging just enough to tilt his head so you could kiss him properly this time.
He melted into it immediately, like he’d been waiting for permission, like he’d been starving and you’d finally decided to feed him. His hands tightened at your waist, pulling you closer now as you slid your legs further in between his, not holding back as much.
You pulled back just enough to speak against his lips.
“He didn’t deserve to look at me like that,” you mumbled.
Dex’s eyes darkened. “No.”
Your thumb brushed his cheek affectionately.
“But you do,” you added.
He relaxed, like his entire body had to catch up with what you just said.
“Yeah?” he asked, as if for permission.
You smiled faintly, leaning in until your noses were almost touching. “Yeah.”
Your hand slid from his face down to his chest, pressing him back into the mattress just slightly. It wasn’t forceful at all, but enough to remind him where he was. Who he was with. Who he belonged to.
“You always have,” you whispered.
Dex exhaled like you’d just undone him completely.
After all the sins you’d committed, all the lines you’d crossed and never once thought to step back from, you knew there was a special place in hell for both of you.
But if you were going to burn for it, you hoped it wasn’t cold or empty.
You hoped it came with a bed that never cooled, sheets that would still straighten even after it was twisted beyond saving, and restraints strong enough for him. You hoped that place wouldn’t try to fix you, wouldn’t try to separate you, and you hoped that it would let you drown in every wrong thing that ever felt right.
Because if this was damnation, if this was the price of loving him exactly as he was, you didn’t want salvation. You just wanted him.
And maybe, that was the most unforgivable sin of all.
He knows it's wrong, but he can't help it. He's in love with you. Alternatively, your IT guy watches you, then gets you to fall in love with him.
▸ PAIRING: Stalker IT Guy!Bucky Barnes x F!Reader
▸ WARNINGS: NSFW 18+, cyberstalking, daddy kink, bucky and reader are both freaky, some emotional manipulation, reader gaslights herself a little, fingering, riding, light choking, light spanking, wild imagination!bucky (descriptions of cnc, public groping, noncon voyeurism), dirty talk, toxic romance?
▸ WORD COUNT: 6.4K
▸ A/N: this has been living in my head rent-free for a while so im glad i finally put it on paper. hope you enjoy! i love stalker obsessed bucky. please note that this is maybe not the healthiest relationship so proceed with caution!!!
↤ Seb-O-Ween (Kinktober) Masterlist
If you told yourself a few months ago that you would fall in love with the IT guy in your company and that you’d decide to move in with him after dating him for three months, you would’ve laughed and checked yourself in for psychological evaluation.
You’re a romantic, sure, but you’re also incredibly rational. You had debated it for a while but ultimately decided that — financially speaking (rent, utilities, internet) and practically speaking (you spend more time together than not) — it was a no-brainer.
Your love story isn’t an interesting one. You had computer problems at work, and you’ve always known you aren’t particularly technologically savvy, so the constant trips to the IT desk are understandable. There, you are introduced to the only guy who keeps this company running.
Bucky Barnes is quiet, almost sullen if you don’t know him. He’s got hair that curls around his ears, a permanent frown on his chiseled face, and a constant more-than-a-week-old scruff on his face. He’s tall but doesn’t present himself as such. He’s relatively good-looking but keeps too much to himself to attract attention.
But the Bucky that you got to know is softer and kinder. He has the same taste in chocolates as you, the ones you are constantly getting delivered. He watches the same television shows and never spoils the next episode. When he asks you out, he makes a reservation at a place you’ve been eyeing for months but could never get seats for — and you didn’t even have to tell him, he apparently has great taste.
Don’t get you started on the sex. He seems to know exactly how to touch you to hurl you over the edge, staring at you with those gorgeous, sharp, icy eyes. He worships every inch of you, ensuring no fewer than two orgasms every time he takes you to bed. He’s open to experimenting with kinks you’ve been interested in trying, sometimes even prompting it before you can. And he’s good — fuck is he good.
Falling in love with Bucky and his reserved nature and gentle humor — and his fat cock — was easy. Living together is even better.
He seems to understand your apartment habits, picking up the slack on chores you loathe and easily abiding by the rules that you set. Despite moving into his space, Bucky allows you to run it like it’s yours.
This is your favorite kind of man.
The only place he recommends you to stay out of is his office where he sometimes works from home. He tells you, with pink dusting his cheeks, that it’s a bit of a geeky mess in there so he doesn’t want you seeing it quite yet. You’ve caught glimpses of it from time to time and, despite presenting himself as extremely responsible, Bucky likes to have a lot of things. You’ve seen it in the numerous coffee mugs he collects on his work desk.
On one of the rare days your project is slow, you opt to “work” from home and get a bunch of chores done. Bucky leaves for the office with a kiss to your forehead while you’re still in that liminal space between sleep and consciousness.
“See you tonight, sweetheart. I’ll pick up dinner on the way home.”
You only hum before slumber pulls you under again.
The deep clean of the apartment comes in a productive frenzy. Something comes over you as you work through every inch of the place, not a single corner untouched. Well, except for one.
You stare at Bucky’s office door, vacuum in hand. He had only suggested that you don’t go in, not that you’re not allowed in. You’re itching to complete the entire apartment and this is the only section left. So you take the plunge by swinging the door open and taking in the room.
It’s cluttered but not entirely unsalvagable. His computer setup is relatively elaborate, cables tangled together underneath the table. While Bucky is a tech genius, he isn’t the most pristine person. You find it somewhat amusing that he has multiple large monitors and an advanced-looking system, but not a single cable organizer is in sight. You make a mental note to look up YouTube tutorials for that, perhaps for his birthday.
Then there are the figurines on the shelves, all sorts of superheroes standing tall and proud. Each one more detailed than the next. Your lips twitch into a smile. He really is a nerd. He’s your nerd.
The vacuum whirrs loudly as you move around the room, picking up dust and hair. When you’re done with that, you feel the urge to also clean his setup. You’re not going to move anything (maybe), but just a wipe-down of the particles that have settled as a thin layer on his screens and desk — and that coffee ring stain on the table.
Once you start justifying it to yourself, you can’t help but do the rest of the room. You make his favorite heroes shine, their pedestals spotless. Loose papers with all sorts of tech jargon are tucked properly to the side of his desk. You even wipe down his desk chair because god knows when he did that last.
That’s when you spot the closet door. It’s probably just extra storage, but it can’t hurt to also make sure it’s clean. When you open it, you find a few of his hoodies hung in there, a couple of boxes on the shelf above your head. A singular, stuffed box on the floor. You look up to find the perfect empty slot on that shelf.
So you pick it up, finding it surprisingly heavy. As you’re lifting it above your head, your fingers slip and your heart drops to the floor along with the box, contents spilling across the floor.
Now Bucky’s patient but you don’t know how particular he is about you touching his things. Documents and photos tip out from the box that now sits sideways. You move quickly to shuffle them together, knowing that he should be home from work soon. You don’t want him to think you’re that kind of girlfriend, the kind that snoops around when her boyfriend is out.
However, as you do so, you catch a proper glimpse of one of the photos. It’s you. Your lips are stretched into a wide grin as you look directly into the camera in this grainy capture. You feel present-you smiling at the fact that he keeps a photo of you on print.
This is probably when you should’ve stopped, shouldn’t have invaded his privacy, but you’re a little nosy and you always appreciate the validation of how much Bucky loves you. So you start flipping through some of the photos.
In most of them, you’re looking at the camera. There are a few of you in your old apartment kitchen as you’re cooking. You wonder if he screenshotted some of your video calls, which would be cute that he found you endearing enough to do that so early on in the relationship. There are a few of you working in your room, of your face when you’re propped up in bed, a palm tucked under your cheek.
However, the more you flip through them, the faster the realization sinks in. It’s like quicksand — the moment one understanding dawns, the rest drags you in and the air is punched out of your lungs. You’re breathless.
The smile is wiped from your face as you start to piece together the timing for the photos. There are a few from when you had a different haircut, a time before Bucky was properly in your life. Private moments of you looking up recipes to prepare in your tiny kitchen, or how you watch movies alone on your laptop in the dark.
Alone. You were alone in all these photographs. Alone with your laptop.
But you were on your personal laptop, how could he have—
Oh. Oh. You’re an idiot. A completely naive fool.
You remember the second time you met Bucky when you told him how sometimes you wish you could just travel with one laptop instead of bringing both your personal and work laptops around. So he was kind enough to figure out how to access your work documents on your personal. And he told you it was a secret. It was a favor he was doing for you and only you.
And you handed him over that hunk of metal that you lived and breathed — where you did everything — easily. You had been thrilled at the time that he was willing to break a few rules for you.
Little did you know, it was never for you.
Unease churns in your stomach but you brave the rest of the materials. With your legs crossed on the floor, you start flipping through the organized mess. There are dozens of pages with screenshots and highlighted text. Your online orders, your Netflix history, books you’ve read, and — oh god.
Heat furiously sprawls across your entire body, goosebumps pebbling your skin. Your search history when your curiosity goes a little too far, when you consume content that lights a fire between your legs, when you dip your fingers into the wetness that pools.
Suddenly, it all makes sense. Everything you thought you coincidentally had in common with Bucky, how easy it was to talk to him about your interests. How open he had been to exploring some taboo things that you could never say aloud to your friends.
He knew. He knew. All of it.
Nothing was sacred. All your secrets are written and printed in this box, tucked away in this closet that you never thought to open because you trusted him. You trusted that he’s a good man. A good man who just happened to luckily land on your lap.
The perfect boyfriend.
“Interesting read?”
You nearly give yourself whiplash with how fast you jerk your head up to the voice. Bucky leans against his doorway, cool eyes trained on you on the floor surrounded by the mess. The mess that defined you.
His expression surrenders none of his actual emotions. You can’t decipher the neutral set of his brows, the relaxed pout of his lips. He only searches your eyes, appearing curious more than anything.
Your tongue darts out to wet your lips, only to find that your mouth has dried since the discovery. Your throat feels like sandpaper as you ask the big question. “Bucky, what’s all this?”
Bucky assesses you quietly, his head tilting ever so slightly. “What do you think it is?”
His name rolls off your tongue in a whisper. It’s a question that you’re not sure you want answered.
Undeterred, Bucky still appraises you with that same calm expression. “Are you scared?”
A little. A lot. Yes? Not really. You’re not entirely sure. You didn’t exactly have enough time to process. Your heart is hammering too loudly in your chest for you to hear your own thoughts. A part of you still loves Bucky dearly. The last few months have been magical to say the least. You fell hard and fast. But now, knowing what you know — why you fell so quickly for him — makes you question whether these feelings are real. He practically manufactured these feelings for you.
A pair of fingers catches your chin, tips your head up to look at Bucky who has crouched down to look at you at eye-level. “Honey, I asked you a question. Are you scared?”
Chills snake up your spine at his tone. So casually cruel, tinted with the gentleness that is so familiar. “No,” you whisper. “I don’t know. I should be. Right? This is—” you suck in a breath, “—this isn’t normal.”
The corner of his lips curls into a satisfied smile. “It’s me, sweetheart. You know me. You don’t need to be scared.”
“I don’t?” You squeak, voice small.
“No, you don’t. I would never hurt you. I love you,” Bucky smiles, leaning forward to kiss you softly. His touch is so kind, like a prayer of appreciation to a god he doesn’t believe in. But it’s only you — you are the higher power, the enchantress that has bewitched him heart and soul.
“This isn’t right, Bucky,” you swallow thickly, eyes closed as he barely brushes his lips against yours, “we need to talk about this.”
“What is there to talk about? I loved you from the first day I met you. I wanted to know you.”
“You could’ve just asked,” you mutter.
You can feel him smile again. “Would you have loved me the way you do now if I did? We wouldn’t have had anything in common. You would’ve assumed that I was only mimicking your interests, and that’s not what you want. You want a man who would take matters into his own hands, right?”
Do you? Maybe. Bucky probably knows you better than you know yourself. He knows what you like and don’t like, but he has the advantage of looking at you from the inside out, understanding what really makes you tick, why you like the things that you do.
“Right, sweetheart? Answer me.”
“Right,” you echo numbly.
“You love me?”
Your teeth sink into your bottom lip, but you gaze into his eyes and slowly nod.
“Good girl. Now, I brought dinner. Shall we eat?”
Dinner is a relatively quiet affair. Your mind is still a jumbled, sticky mess. After what you discovered, you’re running over the last few months with Bucky, the pieces falling into place. He had coincidentally brought your favorite chocolates to work, and watched your eyes light up when he offered to share pieces of them with you. He had casually mentioned that he was up late binging a medical drama you also happened to be watching until the wee hours of dawn the night before, which sparked thrilling conversations about character development and weekly catch-ups on new happenings.
He had asked you out almost shyly, wondering if you wanted to grab dinner with him after work one of these days. Given how many things you connected over, the “yes” came out easily and quickly.
In your dazed state, you barely process Bucky leading you to your shared living room. Photos of the two of you together pepper the walls, bits and bobs like movie tickets and tiny DIY paintings frame your television. Coming home to all of this had been warm. It felt like home. Now, the sight has you questioning everything you’ve ever known.
By the time you register your surroundings, Bucky has pulled you over to straddle his lap. You in your tiny, thin pajama shorts and oversized tee, and Bucky in his college t-shirt and sweats which you note does nothing to hide the growing erection in his pants.
You wonder how he could be turned on when your brain is struggling to catch up to the situation. Then again, this is what gets him off, isn’t it? Your naivete. Your confusion. Months of playing stupid as he played puppeteer with your feelings.
Your confusion boils into irritation as you look down at his blue eyes, soft and searching.
Bucky’s voice is gentle when he slices through the silence. “You know all I want is to take care of you.”
Do you? Was that his intention from the start?
“And the only way to really take care of you is to know everything about you, even the things you’re too scared to tell me. Because I’ll love you with all of it.”
He has always had a way with words, a siren drawing you out to sea. He opened up this vast expanse of a world to you, showed you what it’s like to be loved and understood. However, you’re quickly realizing that maybe he’s been luring you out to drown you.
Bucky leans closer tentatively, careful not to make any sudden movements as he brushes his lips against yours. Your body still responds so instinctively to him. You bend towards him like a flower to the sun, chasing after the warmth that you so desperately crave.
Encouraged by your shift, he kisses you deeper and harder. His mouth moves against yours the way the moon pulls the ocean, demanding, unrelenting. You don’t have a choice but to comply with his magnetic pull. His tongue tastes yours with more confidence, slipping past your lips and stroking with intention.
Bucky’s fingers trail up your sides, eliciting delicious sparks of electricity with every inch of you he touches. He goes up and up until they curl around your throat. He drinks in your gasp, lips still attached to yours.
“Buck—”
His lips tug into a smile. “Remember the first time I choked you and how much you liked it. You came so hard that night, honey.”
The memory is burned into the back of your eyes, your legs tensing at the recollection of your core pulsing with need. Of course, you remember. It was the first time Bucky had done anything like that, it’s something you’ve fantasized about for a long time but never had the courage to ask for. So when Bucky did it with a silent request for permission, you didn’t say no.
It was the right decision.
Even now, with his hand on your neck, all you can feel is that familiar thrill of pleasure sparking fires inside of you. “Think about how I didn’t even need to ask you what you wanted. It’s all because I saw what you were watching, what you were reading. My curious, pretty girl.”
His words stoke the flames that burn bright in your belly. It’s nice to be noticed, to be understood. It’s nice that Bucky knows you. You don’t have to say a word and he knows. It’s the kind of understanding that you cannot create with words, only a mutual perception of the things you observe in each other.
You’ve never had a relationship like that. It’s always been you telling, you asking. It’s nice not to have to ask.
Your core tightens with that familiar heat coiling and twisting inside of you. The small whimper that rises from your squeezed throat has Bucky tilting his head with a grin.
“Are you wet, honey?” The question leaves your mouth dry, but your pussy leaking. Your teeth sink into your bottom lip as you avoid answering the question. He knows. He doesn’t need to ask. Bucky has the same pleased expression on his face, knowing that he has you right where he wants you. “Bet your panties are soaked.”
With one hand on your throat, he slides his other one around your body and dips into your underwear. A finger tentatively stroking up your slick lips. The effect is immediate, your body arching ever so slightly as he slides his finger deeper every time he strokes up. You can feel the moisture collecting on his fingertips, dripping. When he pulls out his hand, his finger glistens under the living room lights.
“Fuck, you’re drenched. Look at you. Always knew you’d like me like this,” Bucky says, almost in awe. “Thought you’d be scared of me but I know you. I knew you’d appreciate me. I knew you would understand me.”
“Bucky,” you whisper. Your brain seems to have lost all means of comprehension, words thrown into the abyss as the pleasure rewires your mind to only think of him. How much you love him. How much you appreciate him. How much you crave him.
It’s only his name seared into the folds of your thoughts, every single nook and cranny.
“You’re perfect, honey. My perfect girl. No one else can ever compare to you,” Bucky murmurs as he captures your lips once more. Softer this time, but with a persistence that has your hips scooching closer for more.
More friction, more heat. Your clothed pussy presses against the growing bulge. His cock is thick even underneath the heavy fabric. You can practically taste it, your mouth salivating like a trained dog at the thought of it. A reward you’ve been anticipating all day.
“Do you want to tell me what you want?” Bucky asks, pauses then continues, “Or do you want me to simply know?”
The answer is easy. While the fear had paralyzed you earlier, it’s clear to you now that you don’t mind it in the least. He can’t help it, can he? He’s so obsessed with you, so desperate to be with you, that he did all those things.
He’s not a bad man, is he? He is merely a mortal man in love. A man in love with his curious girl who has a search history that could make a priest blush. A man in love who only wants to satisfy his girl.
“You know the answer to that,” you whisper against his lips.
A curse hisses past Bucky’s teeth as he pulls away slightly to look at you. His eyes dart across your face, the way your pupils are blown in desire, how your lips part for gasps of air. Your chest rises with every breath, every quickened heartbeat that leaves you squirming in anticipation.
“I know,” he confirms. “I know you better than you know yourself, honey. All your secrets. Thought I’d go slow with you, introduce you to the things you think you’ll like, but you’re ready. You’re a big girl, right?”
You hum, nodding. “I can take it.”
“Fuck, yes, you can. Of course you can. So capable. So smart. Always knew I chose right.”
“Tell me,” you urge, insistence lacing your syllables. “Tell me what you were thinking. How you did it. What you thought of me.”
Bucky’s lips twitch again with amusement, clearly delighted that you want to hear his thought process. He knows how desperate you are for praise, how you want to hear how he can adore you to the point of going to extreme, likely (most certainly) illicit lengths to get you.
His fingers slip again beneath your underwear and seek the heat between your legs. You can feel yourself leaking onto his fingers, coating them with slick as they sink into you. There is a wicked gleam in his eyes, one that matches yours as you wait for his response with bated breath.
“So many stories, sweetheart. Where do I even begin?” Bucky hums, curling his fingers as your hands find purchase on his shoulders. Your fingers dig into his flesh, which barely budges with the toned muscle underneath.
When he twists his fingers inside you just right, your eyes roll to the back of your head as a moan slips past your lips. He knows exactly what does the trick — the speed, the angle, even how deep to go inside of you. It’s a science he has perfected.
Then he begins. “There were those videos that you watched, of women getting touched in public. Used to watch you switch between one clip to another, your fingers moving faster until you’re creamin’ all over them. All I could think about was one day following you home. You would never know it’s me. I would trap you against the subway doors. I’d put a hand over your mouth, let my free one grab you all over. Your gorgeous breasts, your curves, before sliding down to cup your cunt.
“You’ll try so hard to act like you don’t want it, you’ll try to resist it, but I’ll know that you’re secretly enjoying the thrill of it. Because I know what you like, what you watch, what has you whining when you’re alone in your room. You’ll enjoy the thought of some stranger who just couldn’t resist you, who had to have a taste of you. I’d finger you until your knees buckle, until you don’t have a choice but to hold onto me.”
Fuck, you remember those nights. At first, they started with faceless strangers touching you, groping you. Taking what’s yours and claiming it as theirs. But the more you got to know Bucky, the more that face looks like his. What if it were him? What if it were his hands that treasured you? What if it were his voice that whispered seductive assurances in your ear?
And all that time, he was imagining the same thing. The thought makes you whine needily, pressing up more against him until there is not a single inch of space left between you.
“I’d make you cum on my fingers first and, since you live oh-so-far away, maybe I’ll even push up those skirts you like to wear. The ones you know are my favorite. You wear ‘em for me, don’t you? I’ll make sure to reward your good behavior and take my time fucking you in front of everyone. Not even the evening rush hour will be able to mask your moans and screams as you take my cock.”
Desperate little sounds spill from your lips as you lean back, palms on his thighs as you grind down into his fingers. With his hand pressed against your ass and his fingers buried deep inside you, all you can do is fuck yourself stupid on them. You bounce on them, ride them until you can feel the temperature in the room rising.
“Would you like that, honey?”
“Mmm, Buck, please. Yes. I want that. W-want your cock.”
“Such a desperate little thing,” he hisses, his clean hand sliding up your back to sink into the tresses of your hair. He tugs lightly to expose the length of your neck to his warm breath. His lips graze the skin, teeth catching onto parts of your flesh to mark you as his.
“W-what else did you see?”
A low laugh rises from his throat. “Fuck, you love hearing this. You love knowing how gone I was for you, how obsessed. You were my nighttime entertainment, honey, before you even knew what that meant. My sweet girl. Never had a clue. But I always knew we were cut from the same cloth. I knew we would be perfect for each other.”
Bucky’s sharp blue eyes hone in on you, drinking in the pleas that fall from your pretty, pouty lips.
“I saw you watch those girls who whine daddy, daddy with their legs spread, their asses aching after daddy spanks them for misbehaving. Their pussies dripping with juices. They’ll be begging for daddy to fuck them — and I never cared once to watch them. I only watched you, how quickly you shoved your hand down your panties. Pictured you on your knees asking me for my cock. I’ll inspect your skirt and pussy every morning before I let you go off to work. When you’re talking to your manager, you’ll see me over his shoulder and you’ll remember who you belong to when my cum drips down your legs.”
His words leave a trail of fire on your skin. Your stomach burns with a need you never knew you could feel, a desperation that claws at you like an itch you can’t scratch. You know those videos, have touched yourself countless times to them. The more you got to know Bucky, the closer you are to letting the name slip in moments of intimacy.
But you didn’t know how he felt about it, didn’t want to scare him off.
As you’re struggling to process his words, Bucky continues, “Bet he would notice it too, bet he would be wondering what you’re hiding underneath that skirt. Whose cum is sliding down your pretty legs. I can think of five other men who wouldn’t hesitate to spread you open on a desk and fuck you silly. But you won’t ever let that happen. Because you belong to me. All of you belongs to daddy, doesn’t it?”
And you’re still so delirious in his words, in the way his fingers move so deliciously inside you, that you barely, truly hear him. You’re too caught up in chasing your own pleasure, sinking lower and lower onto his fingers until you can feel his fingertips brushing the deepest parts of you.
It is only when his hand cracks down on your behind, the sound more shocking than the sting of the hit itself, that you look down at him. A whine escapes you, an involuntary reaction to an unexpected blow. “Tell me.”
“Yes, it all belongs to you!” You cry out, writhing even harder when Bucky’s fingers stop moving inside you.
He cocks an eyebrow, a firm hand on your hip to still you. “Belongs to who?”
Your heart stutters in your chest as you really gaze into his eyes. The sharp blue keen on you, waiting for your response.
“You, daddy.”
A smile slowly rolls across his handsome features. “That’s my good girl.”
The praise has your toes curling. You are a good girl. His good girl. All you want to do is be good for him, to please him. Perhaps you were an ambitious woman once upon a time. But right here in his arms, your pussy stuffed with his fingers, your purpose is to make him happy. To make him proud to call you his.
Bucky lifts you onto your shaky knees, keeping a hand on your elbow to steady you. He grins at how you tremble, nearly toppling over in the lustful haze your mind is in. Instead, when your eyes meet his, he brings his fingers to his lips and licks them clean. His tongue rolls between the digits, stroking up the length until you picture him doing the same between your legs. His fingers no longer shine with your juices but with his spit.
Any other day, you’d beg for him to eat your pussy — and you wouldn’t even have to try too hard because he would never let you finish the sentence. It’s as if he had been waiting for you to ask all day.
However, when all you can think about is cock, cock, cock, you can only whine for it. “B-Buck, please, your cock. I want to be filled with your cock.”
“I know, sweetheart. Let me put on a condom first, hm?”
You almost beg for him to forgo it. You want to feel him. All of him. Only him.
Of course, Bucky has an idea of what you’re thinking when you look pitifully disappointed. “As much as I’d enjoy feeling you wrapped around my bare cock, I don’t want to risk you getting knocked up yet, honey. I want you to myself for a few more years. Maybe even forever.”
The idea of Bucky knocking you up, of you growing a piece of him inside you, festers in your mind. You almost hate yourself for how much you like the thought of it. How you can only think about him breeding you, pressing you down into the bed, legs up as he fucks his cum into you to make sure it sticks.
Bucky seems to notice this, sliding his hand along your jaw to turn you to look at him. To keep you in place. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. If you want kids, I’ll give them to you whenever you want. However many you want. Keep you filled with my cum until you can’t think of anything else except how full you are of me.”
Your boyfriend moves swiftly, ripping open a new packet with his teeth before deftly rolling it down his exposed length. His pants are abandoned somewhere in the room, that’s a problem for post-sex you. For now, you strip yourself down to nothing before quickly tackling him back down to the couch and crawling on top of him.
“Sweet girl,” Bucky grins, “if I had known how much you’d enjoy the fact that I watched you, that I stalked you for months, I would’ve introduced you to my collection sooner.”
You whimper pathetically, attempting to fuck yourself on his cock but Bucky doesn’t let you drop. He keeps his hands on your hips, hovering above his thick dick standing upright, twitching as if begging to find a hole to fill.
Yours. Only yours.
When Bucky finally allows you to ease his length in, it’s like you’ve finally taught yourself how to breathe again. Your lungs expand to take in deep breaths as you bite back a wince in adjusting to his size. The two of you have been relatively busy lately, finding pockets of time for a quickie, but nothing so gratifying, so electrifying like this moment.
His wide girth stretches out your pussy lips as they swallow him whole. You don’t think about the stickiness of sweat on your skin, or the fact that your legs are starting to burn from how desperately you’re riding him. All you know is how he fills you up so good, how he has shaped your cunt to the shape and size of him.
“Does it get you off knowing I’ve watched you cum by yourself? Do you know how many videos I’ve saved of you in the dark, your fingers between your legs, the way your face would crumble with every orgasm that strikes you? I know what you look like when you’re coming. How stunning these pretty lips look as you’re gasping for air,” he narrates with his fingers pinching your chin, releasing your bottom lip from the confines of your teeth. His other hand reaches up to grope your breast. His fingers tug and twist, squeezing the mound with such intention that you arch into his touch.
His name slides off your tongue like honey, a prayer to some unknown deity that had once fulfilled your wishes of finding someone like Bucky. He is now the only higher power that you plead to.
“I’ve heard you call my name in the dark, heard you beg me to take you. All I want to do is make sure my pretty girl is taken care of.”
Bucky smiles, hands combing through your hair as you grind yourself down on his lap.
“My pretty, sweet girl. Those stories that you read — you look all prim and proper, but I know that all you want is for daddy to take care of you, honey. All you wanted was to tell daddy all your little fantasies so he could make them come true. Isn’t that right?”
“Mhmm, jus’ want daddy to take care of me. To love me. To fuck me.”
Bucky clenches his jaw, steely gaze trained on your cute babbles and gasps. He memorizes each one — the intonation, the length, the little hitches of breath — and tucks them away for a rainy day.
“We can watch some of the videos in my collection. You could sit all pretty on my lap, my cock in your pretty cunt while you remember how you touch yourself at home. And you can think about how lucky you are to have a real cock between your legs, inside of you, rather than just your fingers. How daddy is so much better at pleasing you than you are yourself.”
Clearly impatient with how your hips keep faltering with his words, Bucky begins bucking up into you. His cock punches the air out of your chest with every thrust, every filthy promise that fills the room. With his nose tucked into your neck and his tongue dragging up your skin, Bucky makes you promises that you tattoo into the back of your mind.
“I’ll keep you chained to my bed, fuck you into oblivion until you don’t even know your own name. Nobody will be able to find you. You’ll be mine and only mine forever.”
“Daddy will eat this pretty little cunt out after he fills it with his cum. You’ll be my dessert after you cockwarm me. All you gotta do is sit on my dick all day.”
“If you behave, maybe daddy will take you on a trip outside where daddy will touch you the entire day. Everyone will see what a proud little slut you are for me.”
Each line sounds rehearsed, like he’s thought through every single promise — or threat — he makes to you. But his voice is laced with sincerity. These are not words said on a whim, but a vow of everything he will be doing to you — for you.
While you exist for his pleasure, he exists for yours.
Bucky’s grunts are a delightful melody in your ear as he chases after both your highs. His thrusts get sloppy, but in a way that makes your heart soar with how desperate he is for you.
“You have no secrets with me, honey. I’ll make sure to use every single one to please you.”
And giving up that control, perhaps that’s all you’ve ever wanted with Bucky. So you give it to him when a final cry echoes from your chest and you jolt in his arms. Your cunt spasms around his cock, barely moving with how fat and thick he is inside of you.
When Bucky finally finishes, you almost wish you could feel the warmth of his cum paint your insides, but that’s something you’ll coax out of him another day. After all, Bucky has promised to fulfill every single one of your fantasies.
Whether it’s his cum plugged inside you or if you leak his cum all day, you know he will make it come true.
As you slump forward, bare chest against his, you let out a sated, exhausted sigh. It’s been a whirlwind of a day and, even if your pussy is still milking him, squeezing around him, you can feel the telltale signs of fatigue taking over your limbs.
Bucky’s hand reaches up to stroke your head as his lips press comforting kisses onto your temple. “My sweet girl. You did so well for me.”
You giggle, nuzzling into his touch. “I always want to do well for daddy.”
His cock jerks awake inside you, slowly inflating once more to fill you up. “Keep that up and I’ll take you again.”
“Is that a promise?”
Bucky grins up at you, hand shifting to the back of your neck to yank you down for a crushing kiss. “That’s a promise.” He takes a deep breath and searches your eyes. He’s quiet for a moment, seeming to hesitate for the first time that evening. “I love you, sweetheart.”
You offer a small, shy smile. “Love you too, Buck.” You wet your lips as you continue, “I don’t know why I was so scared seeing what you’ve done, considering what you’ve seen of me. But I’m not scared of you. I love you.”
“Wouldn’t dream of letting you go without a chase, honey.”
Happy Monday, besties! New week, new (very long!) chapter! I'm still so hyped to see you all enjoying it so much, it really does make my day! <3
Summary: A year has passed since the events that left your newly formed family shattered, the four of you continuing to move ahead with your lives as best you can. The introduction of new equal rights laws for vampires across the United Kingdom marks a significant turning point, offering hope and the promise of greater acceptance. With these changes, you and II feel empowered to finally take the next step towards expanding your family, beginning to plan for the arrival of a child.
However, the journey towards this new chapter is not without its uncertainties. A new friend, with the best of intentions, offers some advice that despite your judgement, lingers in the back of your mind. Regardless of the strength of your bond and the depth of your commitment, you find yourself questioning whether these concerns hold any merit.
Your trust in the resilience of your marriage remains steadfast, and you dismiss the warning as unfounded. Yet, as time unfolds, those doubts prove harder to ignore. It is only when envy emerges unexpectedly - affecting one of the vampires you hold dear - that the true challenge reveals itself, threatening the peace and unity you have worked so hard to build.
Previous chapters - One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine
Words: 8,070
Warnings: Vampire fic, mentions of blood and gore, plus lots of smut. 18+ content, minors DNI!
Tag list: In the comments. Please DM to be added/removed.
"Okay, right then! Your tests have all come back normal, and everything appears to be healthy. I can estimate that you are presently in your ninth week of pregnancy from the blood test, so that just leaves you to return in three weeks for the twelve week scan. Unfortunately, I have no spaces at that exact time, but we can fit you in slightly after, at fourteen weeks. I can book an appointment for you in the evening, too, so that your husband can join?"
Dr. Fleet looks over her horn rimmed glasses as she checks her schedule, her blonde corkscrew curls bobbing away as her fingers move rapidly over the keys. "I have appointments available after 6pm on December the 15th, 17th and the 21st."
Quickly working out whether you have any plans or not, you arrange with her for the 21st, which falls on a Monday evening. She's very much in demand for her services, the news announced to the world at large recently that science had moved on with a tremendous step in allowing for vampires to undergo the fertility treatments that lead to you becoming pregnant.
Not everyone took it well, though.
"Okay, wonderful. 7:35pm on the 21st! I shall see you then, Mrs. Danielsson-White. If you head back around into the waiting room, a member of our security will escort you back to your car."
Yes, because of the rising tide of people not taking the announcement well - to put it very mildly - the clinic has been the target of constant protests coming from anti-vampire movements, one such group predominantly featuring in the media with their relentless push back against the vampire rights bill. The MAVR, an abbreviation of Mothers Against Vampire Rights are positioned at the very forefront, leading the charge against what they describe as unnatural family values.
Despite the heightened security measures firmly in place, you can't help but feel a flutter of apprehension as you make your way towards the waiting room, where Meghan is sitting after volunteering to come with you. This early morning appointment was all Dr. Fleet had available for the next month, and with you and II feeling it vital you know that the pregnancy is progressing as normal in these early stages, he insisted you take the appointment and go without him.
You're greeted by your friend as well as Saleem, a giant of a man with the biggest beard you've ever seen, his kind smile crinkling his eyes.
"Right, let's get you back to you car, and then the boys on the front gate will move the idiots out the way, yeah?" he speaks, angling his walkie-talkie to his mouth. "Lads, black G Wagon, reg GDW 1 coming your way shortly. Over."
They certainly run a secure and tight ship, the sound of the chanting coming from the front of the clinic drowned out somewhat as Saleem makes pleasant small talk with you both.
"Bet that private plate cost a bomb, ennit?" he speaks as you approach your car. "My dad is a dentist, had T double O T four on his. My mum nearly passed out when she found out how much he paid for it!"
"Yeah, it wasn't cheap!" you laugh softly, thanking him as you click the fob and climb in, Saleem following your car down the winding driveway around the side of the clinic before resuming his post at the door along with another security operative you didn't catch the name of.
Continuing slowly down the drive, the sounds of their chanting over the protection of families and down with vampires-themed nonsense fills your ears, one of the guards waving you along as the electronic gates open.
"Do they shitting not have anything better to do than this?" Meghan exclaims, frowning deeply at the protestors while the security team usher them away from the entrance. A placard that reads 'NO VAMPIRE BABIES!' is struck across the bonnet of your car, and you beep at them, receiving a barrage of abuse. "I bet these are the same kinds of people who protest outside of abortion clinics, too! Poking their fucking noses in when it's none of their business!" she continues, while a break in the crowd means you can wave thanks to the security and pull out rapidly onto the road, wedging your foot onto the accelerator.
The G Wagon roars, surging forward away from the clinic and it's vying mob, and you shake your head, running a hand through your hair.
"I hope they've given up by the time I come back for my scan," you huff, "or I might end up with a husband getting arrested. Of all the things II will tolerate, this isn't one of them."
"And who could blame him?" she cries, pulling out her phone and sending a quick message to her mum, checking in on her little ones. "Right, now we know all is well with you and your teeny little bun in the oven, let's enjoy our day out in the big city!"
While you're down in London, you're heading for that lunch she promised you back when she had to cut her visit short on account of Harvey being poorly, a little shopping excursion planned, too. After circling the underground car park at Kings Road M&S a few times, you finally slot into a space, some local youths on bikes actually not making a nuisance of themselves for once and staying way back while you reverse into a spot, looking on at your car admiringly.
"Yo, that ride is sick! Is it custom interior, too?" one of the young lads asks, pulling down his face mask as he nods approvingly.
"Yes, black with red," you reply, watching him snap his fingers.
"It's dope!" he beams, circling around and grinding to a sudden halt with a "Oi, what the fuck, fam?" as a sleek, white BMW skids to a halt, almost taking out the front wheel of his bike, a woman winding down the window and directing a tirade at you.
"I saw you coming from that clinic, the one that does the vampire fertility!"
"Hey yo, check the mouth on Karen," the lad who admired your car snickers, riding back and stationing himself between your car and hers.
"One of them, are you?" she then screams, the lads all bursting into laughter.
"Is she on fire though?" another calls, gesturing to you with an outstretched arm.
"No, but…"
"Then like, how can she be out in the daytime and not be on fire, if she was a vampire? What are you, fam? Four O Four coded? Bitch is cringe, yeah?"
"Yeah, she is," you agree, turning back to her. "My husband is, not that it's any of your fucking business."
While you and Meghan, having a little more in the way of knowledge on the slang of teenagers these days laugh, the elder woman hasn't a clue how much she's had her intelligence - or lack thereof - insulted.
"Nothing to do with you either way, is it? Kinda sad, really, that you took a month of tread off your tyres in order to chase me down and throw insults at me," you laugh, shaking your head. "Piss off, you nasty old twat."
"Based!" the first lad who engaged in conversation with you speaks, rocking his bike back and forth on the spot with some very precise balance skills. "Think we're done here, Karen. Go cope."
She streams off a barrage of insults, shifting her car into gear and roaring away, not taking the turn around the pillar at the end of the row into correct consideration, her headlight smashing in her haste to get away.
"Yo! That's karma, for real!" one of the lads shouts, turning back to you. "You okay?"
"I'm fine, guys. Thanks for having my back," you smile, the lad shrugging.
"No worries," he speaks, pointing at one of the group. "His stepdad is a vampire, and we all stan for Stephen. Ain't nobodies business, other people's families. You ladies have a nice day, like."
You wish them well, heading over to the lifts while they continue to circle around the carpark. "And to think, it's the lads society would probably deem as degenerate or up to no good with their covered faces who are the decent ones, and the bitch in the brand new X5 who needs a slap!" Meghan says as you step into the lift.
"The world has gone topsy-turvy!" you agree, smiling with fondness at the actions of the lads who, despite their appearance, were definitely raised well by their parents. You plan on being exactly the same kind of mother to your own little one, too.
A tour around M&S, plus the food hall and you return to your car to drop off all the shopping before hitting the high street and heading to a nice looking bistro for brunch.
"You know, I think this is just as nice as regular prosecco," Meghan chirps, both of you enjoying a glass of ice cold nosecco, the non-alcoholic version. "Do you miss your wine yet?"
"I do!" you lament, looking comically pained. "It's so worth it, though. It's just getting the bleedin' morning sickness under control! Mostly ginger tea helps, and eating lighter meals more often, like you suggested." You smile then, remembering the touching gesture left for you yesterday evening. "Mary baked me a whole box of ginger cookies as well, and when I tell you they're the nicest biscuits I've ever had! Buttery, crisp on the outside and chewy inside. She's really starting to come round a bit more to us. She's still stern as hell, but she actually smiles more, relaxes a little sometimes. Cracks III over the legs with a rolled up cloth if he's ever too cheeky with her!"
Meghan tips her head back, applauding softly. "Oh, I want to see that! He's so bloody naughty, I bet he keeps her on her toes!" Her smile crinkles her eyes, resting her chin to her hand. "He's such a sweetheart beneath the menace, though. It's hard not to love him."
Smiling, it delights you so much that she gets along well with your husbands. II is even beginning to warm to her much more now, but III is the one she's closest to.
"Oh hello, the dark haired temptress has arrived, too!" he chimes upon your arrival back at home after the long, two and a half hour drive, where Meghan is also going to stay for dinner. "Have the two most beautiful women in all of Bath had an enjoyable afternoon?" he then asks, kissing you and then pulling Meghan into a big hug.
"Yes, apart from the protestors and some nasty old bag of a woman following us from the clinic to the car park at M&S purely to have a go at me," you reply, II appearing out of nowhere and promptly scaring Meghan half to death.
"Sorry," he begins, greeting her with a fleeting kiss on her cheek before turning his attention to you, scowling. "Someone followed you? And how did it go with your appointment?"
The depth of his frown lines are nothing less than you expected. "It's fine, she didn't get a chance to say much," you begin, turning to Meghan.
"The local populace of bike riding chav lads came to our aid and gave her a gob full, bless 'em!" she continues for you.
"And all went well with my appointment, everything is progressing as it should be, so you can put these away," you finish, giving the lines creasing his forehead a little stroke with your finger.
His nostrils flare a little, his face finally softening but his tone darkening considerably. "Let them try it when I'm in the fucking car with you next time. Fucking let them."
"Oi, don't you go throwing bigots around with the same veracity you did with hatchets!" III advises. "Not unless I'm there to help!"
Beginning to unpack your shopping bags, you point between them with a new olive wood spatula you picked up. "There'll be no throwing of the morons from either of you! Just bloody ignore them. That's exactly what they'd want, for a vampire to lose their cool and get physical with them. Proves their point, doesn't it?"
"Still can't believe someone fucking followed you, though!" III mutters.
"Old witch of a woman," II speaks, his sibling spluttering.
"Nah, don't even compare 'em to the magical sisterhood!" he cries lightly. "Witches have done us a solid for fucking centuries, innit?"
Meghan takes a seat at the island, scoffing softly. "You make it sound like they're real beyond the women who wear lots of velvet and pentagram jewellery."
"Hmm." He looks at II for a second.
"Meghan is practically family," he nods, "you can tell her, just so long as you don't go speaking any of this to anyone else," he continues, moving to a seat beside her and pressing a hand to her shoulder to emphasise his point.
"What," she gapes, taking a handful of grapes from the bowl in front of her. "They're actually real, with powers and all of that?"
"Yup!" III chimes, nodding at her hand. "Want a bit of cheese and wine to go with those?"
She accepts his offer and he moves in a flurry, having a little charcuterie board placed before her in a matter of moments, III then ushering you to a seat to partake of it, too. "They're some of the most powerful women on earth, the witches. They keep hush hush, though. Too many greedy people would bother them endlessly for their own gain if they did come out and explain that magic was real."
"Some of the less scrupulous ones have revealed themselves for financial gain and given certain people considerable power and fortune over the ages," II further explains. "Cough, the Rothschilds, cough, for example."
Her eyes widen, popping a cube of cheddar into her mouth. "Get out!"
"It's true," he speaks, raising his eyebrows. "All the fucking idiotic antisemitic conspiracy theorists out there have missed the mark so widely, why that family continues to remain as wealthy as they are."
Her head spins in your direction. "Did you know all of this?"
Nodding, you pluck a few grapes and a little wedge of red Leicester from the board, saddened you can't enjoy any of the brie. It's a big no-no during pregnancy. "I did, yeah. Obviously I couldn't say, though. There's a lot about the world we as humans don't know, unless you happen to be family with vampires."
"Well, bloody hell," she exclaims, rolling up a little slice of chorizo and popping it into her mouth. "I've learned something fascinating! Just how powerful are they, then?"
"I'd never piss one off," II snorts, "not the ones with the powers of necromancy, at least. Being able to control death and the dead means of course, they can control us. Nah, I've never backed down from a fight in all my life and death, but I would with a witch."
"Didn't stop you from shagging one while we lived in Italy, though, did it?" III chirps with a grin.
II rolls his eyes. "Antonia wasn't a necromancer though, was she? And as I remember, you weren't exactly shy with her either."
He grins, all white teeth gleaming under the bright kitchen lights. "I'm not shy with anyone!"
A statement nobody has trouble believing. "Necromancy is a rare power, though. Very, very few witches actually possess it. There's perhaps only three of them who we know for sure actually do."
While you and Meghan sit there as a captive audience, III's eyes widen. "Oh… don't even mention them! Oh, god fucking alive, don't!"
II's snorts, looking perturbed, and it's such an unnatural emotion to witness in one as strong and stoic as him. "They won't magically appear, you know, if you say their collective name." He then looks to you and Meghan. "They're called the Espera, and they're fabled as being the three most deadly, incredibly powerful witches on earth. Truth is, nobody is a hundred percent certain if they truly do exist any longer, since throughout history, they've kept themselves so well hidden. It takes months, even years, to track them down. According to legend, they're dotted around the globe, too, so if you ever needed all three, it'd probably take a lifetime to find them."
Meghan can't help but snort with laughter, pointing at III and clapping her hands. "For a creature who doesn't shit, you look really close to crapping yourself!" she cries.
"You haven't heard the bloody stories!" he shouts. "Some say the right incantation can make them suddenly appear, and we don't know the words! We could be chatting away and poof! One of those things pops up in the kitchen and then we're all fucked! This is why I never speak their name!"
While Meghan falls apart in hysterics, II shakes his head. "You're being ridiculous. It's probably all in an ancient language that's long dead, the summoning incantation. Besides, if that worked, they wouldn't be so hard to find, would they?"
III seemingly ignores him, continuing. "They've made vampires walk into the sun, set us on chartered courses for their own devastating gain, been the agents behind many a natural disaster, etc… And they do blood magic, which is fucking massively dangerous in itself! Nah, let's move on. They scare me too much to even think about them for too long."
"Yeah," II agrees, "the part about them being scary is very, very valid."
"So, what was this solid you mention, then. About witches doing for you?" Meghan then asks, taking a sip of her red wine while you stick with another nosecco.
"We offered them protection in exchange for feeding from them, prior to us revealing ourselves at large," II explains. "Witches have always had targets upon their backs, which everyone knows of historically. Things like Salem - even though those poor women weren't witches at all - really frightened the hell out of their communities, so we stepped up, hid them, helped them leave their towns quickly under the cover of darkness if ever the witch hunts threatened their safety. Not all of them were saved, but a decent number of them didn't perish via fire, noose or the ducking stool thanks to us."
Meghan sits with her eyes wide, absolutely enthralled by her little history lesson she's receiving. "God, this is bloody fascinating! I love history, always have my nose in a documentary on the History channel, but this, woah. Totally mind-blowing stuff!"
She's treated to a few more stories of their past too over dinner, Meghan leaving at just before 7pm. Once she's gone, you head off to find Ves, locating him in the study rapidly flicking through a few web page windows he then hurriedly closes.
"Darling, how was your day?" he speaks warmly, welcoming you onto his lap.
"It was great," you begin, "everything is fine with my pregnancy, and Meghan and I had a really nice lunch, too. Had a bit of blow back from all the anti-vampire protestors outside of the clinic, one even following us to shout at me, but nothing else came of it." You then nod at the screen. "Why the sudden closing of the tabs?"
He looks shifty for a second, smiling eventually. "Might've been looking for somebody's Christmas presents," he reveals, winking. "Might've not wanted that somebody to see what they were, since she's so insufferably nosey."
Gasping, you poke him with your fingernail. "I am not bloody nosey!"
"Lies," he snorts, hand idly stroking your thigh. "Oh, I have come to a decision as well, one which I should probably tell you all together."
A quick change in location to find the others, II and III residing in the orange lounge, and he revels his news. "I have decided to somewhat retire," he announces, sitting down at your side, stretching his long legs to rest up on the edge of the coffee table. "I've earned more than enough to do so, so apart from my stocks and shares, and the houses that keep the cash flow rolling nicely, the apartment project will be my last. I'm going to hire a business manager to oversee a lot with the rental houses, too. I want more time to focus on my family, especially as it begins to expand."
"Bollocks," III snorts, "you'll be trawling for other houses to buy within a month. I know you much too well!"
"I might," Ves replies, "but the active chasing of investment projects will cease entirely, and I am selling my stakes in the various projects I've invested in, too. I tire of my time being so consumed by business meetings. I have other plans for myself." He then turns to you, reaching to pat your stomach. "Being on hand for this little one is but one of them. Also, I am going to reacquaint myself with all things horse, since II, you did speak of buying a few for you and Grace. I will go and speak with Bob momentarily about finding a good line on a breeder. I can occupy my time by bringing on a youngster, now that we are primarily to settle back here in Bath for a while."
That plan certainly moves very swiftly, Bob giving him the details of a lady down in Frome who primarily breeds sport horses, the kind of animals reared and trained to compete in three day events, not that any of you will use them for such endeavours.
"Now that one there, that's a lovely lookin' horse, that!" Bob speaks as you peruse the steeds she has for sale on her website. "Good movement, strong legs, bright as a button she is an' all!"
Watching the video of the three year old mare being worked on the end of a lunge line, you would be lying if you said you knew what to look for, but II definitely looks interested. "I like her more than the previous one. I have no patience for stallions. Bloody headaches, they are."
"Ar, you're not wrong there, Mr. II," Bob agrees sagely. "No point in buyin' one of them buggers unless yer planning on breedin' from it!" He then turns to you. "Seen anythin' you like the look of yet, Grace?"
"I want a plod," you announce, Bob snorting with laughter. "A nice gypsy cob! Something sturdy like that. I'll leave the Rolls Royce horse equivalents to these two."
"Ere', I might have something for you there!" he replies. "Lass who works down at the feed stores is selling hers cos' she ain't got the time, bringin' on a youngster to show jump. Eleven years old, not plod by any means, but nice and sensible. Lovely dun mare, she is. About fifteen hands, good to hack, no vices I don't believe."
"Sounds like something I might like," Ves speaks, receiving an elbow from you.
"You, aboard a fifteen hand horse, with those long legs?" you joke. "You'd need roller skates!"
Bob and II snort with laughter at your assessment. "She's right, Mr. Vessel. Tall chap such as yourself would suit something about seventeen hands at the smallest!" the former speaks, pointing at the screen as you click onto the next horse. "Like 'im there. Now, he's a beauty, look at him move!"
Ves studies the screen as you play the video of the pure black, four year old thoroughbred cross Irish draught gelding being taken over a series of small fences, making an approving noise. "I like him, yes. Email the lady, darling. See when we can make an appointment to visit."
An appointment is made, the visit going so well that just a week later and the three year old dark bay mare and four year old black gelding are delivered to your home, being led straight into their stables, greeted by the piercing neigh of Honey, the dun cob mare Bob told you about, whom you bought just three days before.
"Tart," Ves calls at her as he leads in his new steed, laughing at how perky she is to suddenly have male company in the barn. "He's only four, calm yourself."
Laughing, you jog ahead and open the stable door, Black Jack being led in and released from his head collar, Ves moving back out and watching him inspect his new surroundings.
"I hate the name," he speaks, watching the horse begin to paw at his thick, straw bed before getting down for a good roll with a happy grunt. "I couldn't fucking keep a straight face at her calling him BJ!"
How you held yourself together at watching him, II and Bob all trying not to laugh at the unfortunate abbreviation of the horse's name, one that seemed to sail right over his former owners head, you'll never know. "I think just Jack would suit him."
Ves frowns. "He's too majestic for that!" he exclaims. "Might as well fucking call him Alan!"
Your laughter fills the space, II turning from Sage's stable door. At least he was happy with the name she arrived with. "We've got to call him that now!"
"Absolutely not," Ves replies, the horse with the undecided name coming to give him a sniff as II approaches, reaching out to stroke his face.
"Svartr," he then speaks.
"Bless you," you joke, receiving a side eye.
"Hmm, literally the word black in old Norse," Ves muses, nodding. "I like it."
With the new horse named, you leave them to settle, Bob telling you he'll feed them all at 7pm so they move onto Honey's current feeding regime and giving them a net of hay each before you depart the barn and walk back to the house. In the weeks that come, leading you closer towards Christmas, Ves seems to really take to the new arrival and his care, going straight to see Svartr upon waking every evening, riding him around the huge arena you recently had marked out and filled with sand.
It brings him a focus, a contentment, something to sate his need to nurture as he works with Oliver, a local freelance riding instructor under the floodlit space each evening, Svartr needing further bringing on being so young still, and Ves not quite as knowledgeable as II in being able to do that for himself.
To see him becoming more settled brings you great pleasure, and who'd have thought it would be a young, often flighty horse to pull his focus away from his yearnings for an offspring of his own? Still, though, there are moments where you'll catch him vacantly staring into space, preoccupied by wistfulness, spending massive amounts of time in the study tinkering around with goodness knows what online, too.
"I noticed he keeps on clearing the browser history," you speak to II one evening, an evening free of Ves, who has gone on a Christmas shopping expedition with III. "It's odd. Like he's trying to hide something."
"He likely is," he speaks, "might be planning another grand surprise for Christmas for you."
Honey was enough of an early gift for you, your lovely mare with her sweet temperament the absolute apple of your eye. "Hmm, yeah. You're probably right."
You'd be lying if you didn't say it was a prickly thought that continued to rotate in the back of your head. If he's honest, neither could II, but you are both so relieved to see Ves no longer struggling quite so hard with his grief, or the news of your impending parenthood that neither of you put to much stock into his slight secretiveness.
Besides, with your scan approaching, you have enough to think about. Namely how to keep II calm in the face of the ever-present protestors at the clinic, your appointment reminder text sending the same details as before. You are to call ahead with your car make, model, colour and registration details, so the security on the front gate can allow you access without delay.
Tasking II with driving, you hope that might give him something distracting when you arrive, your tempestuous husband perhaps less likely to fly out of the car in a rage directed at the protestors.
"Fucking disgusting cunt!"
Well, it was nice to think that maybe you could distract him. Exiting your G Wagon in a blur, II is standing nose to nose with the woman who directed her statement at you, growling low, people retrieving their phones to record the interaction.
"What the hell did you just call my wife?"
She scuttles backward, pointing at him. "Film him! He's going to hurt me, film it!"
He snorts, folding his arms. "I'm not going to hurt you, human. What I do want to know though is how you think you have the moral high ground here? Harassing pregnant women is appalling. She has done nothing to you, and you call her a disgusting cunt?"
"She is, letting a vile, dead sack of flesh like you near her!" she rages, pointing her finger. "Tampering with nature just so you can selfishly procreate again when you gave up that chance however many years ago you were created? That poor baby of yours didn't ask to be born to a vampire! It isn't natural!"
You brace yourself, but something inside you tells you that II is much, much smarter than to do anything nefarious while having about six phones all pointed in his direction, recording the exchange. "By that logic, isn't all procreation selfish? Does any baby get to ask whether its born?Also, it's the most natural thing in the world, starting a family. Your gripe about it being unnatural because I was previously infertile, I suppose by that token, you'd extend your prejudice to human parents going through IVF, right? You know, save yourself looking like a brainless hypocrite."
You can't remember a single moment you've been prouder of him in how he's handled this, not raising his voice once, getting his point across to the floundering woman perfectly. She stands silent, attempting to piece together a retort, but ultimately falls short.
He grins, leaning close to her. "I didn't think you'd have a tangible argument for that. Prejudice is loud, but it isn't clever. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm about to see my child and hear their heartbeat for the first time. You won't ruin that for me with your bullshit. In the words of a certain rapper, move, bitch. Get out the way."
Climbing back into the car, you turn to look at him, snorting with laughter. "You, of all vampires, did not just quote a Ludacris song at her!"
II shrugs, moving the car forward as the security guys walk forth and usher the protestors back. "I can't stand that fucking music, but that line stuck with me. I thought it might come in useful at some point." His smile saddens a little then. "It was me going to shout at IV to turn it down when I first heard it, so wherever he is now, I bet he got a massive kick out of me using that line on somebody!"
God, how you bet he did, too. "Somewhere, his spirit is laughing and calling you a bloody hypocrite!"
"Likely," he chuckles quietly, parking up. "Right, let's forget the nonsense of the naysayers and go say hi to our baby, shall we?"
Leaving the car, you head into the clinic and check in at the desk, II giving a nod of acknowledgement to another vampire in there with his significant other. He feels for him, knowing he's probably here for the excruciating treatment he previously went through. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't a smidgen relieved to hear that your plans for the next baby involve you and Ves adopting one.
"Grace Danielsson-White to Dr. Fleet's room."
At hearing the electronic voice accompany the message that plays across the TV screen, you both stand up again mere seconds after sitting, heading through the L-shaped building, your excitement buzzing further with every step.
You're greeted warmly by Dr. Fleet, and she checks her notes while you remove your cardigan and drape it over the back of a nearby chair.
"Right, let's begin," she states, gesturing to the examination bed in the corner, the sonograph machine humming quietly beside it. "Lift your top to just beneath your bust and slip your trousers down just a fraction." You do as instructed, Dr. Fleet taking a sheet of blue paper towel and tucking it into the waistband. "Okay then. Comfy?"
"Yes, thank you." you reply, II taking a seat at your side, reaching for your hand and knitting his fingers with yours. Dr. Fleet warns you that the jelly is cold before squeezing a generous amount onto your abdomen before pressing the doppler down. It begins its slow passes around, yours and II's eyes glued to the screen as you excitedly await that first glimpse of your baby.
What greets you first has tears immediately brimming in your eyes, the sound of a rapid heartbeat before another pass of the doppler reveals something that looks a bit like a chubby grey bean. Your chubby grey bean.
"There they are!" Dr. Fleet begins, pointing to the screen as you exchange looks with II, watching him beaming. "Fantastic, strong heartbeat, good growth parameters, everything is in order. I think I can even deter the sex of the baby too, if you want to know?"
"Do we?" you ask, II looking away from the screen to you and snorting with soft laughter.
"The size of your eyes right now tells me that you want to, so yes. Why not?"
Dr. Fleet presses the doppler a little firmer, leaning towards the screen. "You're having a girl."
"Oh, that's so lovely!" you sob, turning to look at II, who is rapidly trying to dry his glassy eyes on the heel of his palm. "You're going to be a bloody terrible girl dad! Poor thing won't be allowed to leave the house until she's eighteen!"
"And the rest," he jokes, sniffing, bringing your hand to his mouth and kissing it. "A daughter, wow. I didn't get nearly enough time to watch Eir grow. This feels like I get to make up for it with her little sister she will sadly never meet."
You both stare at the screen again, transfixed on her image, relief that all is progressing as it should be mingling with awe and a sense of profound joy that even the harsh words of protestors moments ago cannot diminish. Armed with your print out pictures and with another scan booked for six weeks from then, you leave hand in hand, the further negative narratives you meet from said protestors as you leave barely even heard.
It takes a hell of a lot to cut through such profound elation.
"Elskede, I might be wrong but I'm sure that black truck in the middle lane is following us," you speak as he drives you homeward bound along the M4.
His eyes flit to the wing mirror rapidly. "Mm, I'd noticed it, too. Don't worry, I'm keeping my eye on it. More fool them, following a car that's embarking on a near two and a half hour journey." He then floors the accelerator, moving at speed through the lanes, looking in the rear view once he's settled the car back into the nearside lane once more. "Yeah, it definitely is. That'll be fun for them, if they want to try and follow us home and bring challenge. Haven't had a good brawl in years."
"II, please," you warn, your heart beginning to race. "Don't go full tilt warlord on anyone!"
His hands grip the steering wheel, knuckles whitening. "In defending my wife and child, I cannot promise that I wouldn't."
You sigh, rubbing your forehead. Negotiating with his temper is perhaps the toughest thing you face in your marriage to him, although nine times out of ten he will calm down and listen. Now he has a daughter to defend as well, though. Well…
"I don't need the stress of you getting arrested," you speak, thanking the stars that it wouldn't come with the extra worry of him being slung away and left to rot as a halfbreed. Still, you could do without him being escorted away in silver cuffs all the same. "Please, don't make me do the Tommy Shelby speech at you."
He rumbles with laughter, and in a flawless Birmingham accent, you continue. "No fighting, no fighting, no fucking fighting!"
"Again, can't promise."
Oh, lord. Taking out your phone, you send a quick message to the voice of reason.
'Hi, love. I think we're being followed home from the clinic by some protest wankers. II is already in fight mode, so I'm going to need you on standby to keep him calm if it kicks off when we arrive xxx.'
You wait for about ten minutes before you receive a reply.
'No problem, darling. I'm riding at the moment, I just took your lovely little mare over some fences. She's got such a huge jump! About to get on Svartr, so I'll be finished by the time you're home. Love you xxx.'
Indeed, Honey does have a jump of great scope, not that you're allowed to enjoy such over anything too high, II stressing every time you're in the saddle in case you fall despite one of them always being on hand to zoom in rapidly and catch you in case you do become unseated.
You feel yourself gnawed at by the tension inside like its grown teeth for the remaining hour and forty minutes, the black Ford Ranger truck indeed following you off the motorway and onto the A road that will take you back to the quiet country lanes of Batheaston.
Hitting the very narrow lane that leads along your house, II takes the journey steadily, save ending up hitting a ditch. While the Jeep is fairly narrow, the vehicle pursuing you is much wider in size, and if you don't know these winding lanes well…
"Hah! Fucking twat, he's ditched it!" II laughs, watching in the rear view as the Ranger suddenly tilts to the side, an audibly loud thunk of metal signalling the wheels descent into the ditch running alongside the narrow lane. "I'm going to stand on the roof when we get back, keep my fucking eye on them. I don't trust just because they've lost use of the vehicle until a breakdown truck can come and tow them out that they won't try anything."
Upon your arrival home, you very swiftly realise just how right he was, too.
"What the bloody shit was that?" III exclaims as you all gather in the kitchen, hearing a noise come from the back garden. He's gone in a nanosecond, II and Ves following while you and Mary exchange looks. You both hurry through the house to the back door, and it fills you with a little tingle of surprise to feel her hand rest upon your lower back as you walk, the gesture protective, a little motherly, even.
"Oh, good god!" she cries as you arrive at the back door and witness the sight before you, a small fire broken out at the side of the house, and the perpetrator of such being held by his neck off the floor by III, fangs bared, growling at him.
"III, the police are on their way," Ves urges, phone still in his hand. "Put him down."
He snorts, his grip tightening. "Nah, don't think I wanna do that, Ves," he growls, the lad who can't be much older than his early twenties struggling as he dangles, the other three with him all frozen in fear a little further back as II looms close to them. "I think I want to take a few bits of him for my jars. A finger, an ear maybe? How would you like that, you cowardly little human fuck? Would you like a piece of you to stay behind after you've trespassed on our property and flung a fucking petrol bomb at our home?"
"Let me fucking go!" he squeaks, legs thrashing, III laughing wickedly.
How on earth has this become your life? Subject to harassment in your own home now, the perpetrators brazen enough to not simply follow you, but trespass upon your property, your safe haven. With three vampire husbands to take care of you, feeling fear at these actions isn't something you experience. However, wondering where the hell these people mustered their audacity from very much is.
You were unaware Mary had left your side until she suddenly comes past you, a fire extinguisher in her grasp, running around to the side of the house to begin aiming a jet of foam onto the flames, which luckily mostly cover the floor where the bottle exploded.
"III, put him down," Ves continues, moving rapidly then to block the path of two of the men attempting to run off. "You are fucking going nowhere other than the back of a police car. Just know though if this had been a few hundred years ago, the only place you'd be going would be the fucking ground."
"You can't threaten me with that, you vampire scumbag!" one of them screams at him, trying to dodge Ves but finding his path blocked. Some humans just truly have no comprehension over what they're up against.
"I didn't," he replies succinctly, "I made you aware of what would have happened, had law enforcement not been what it is today. Equally, though, you cannot throw a fucking petrol bomb at my house and expect to get away with it. Following a pregnant woman all the way back from London with the sole intention of terrorising her? What kind of scumbag conducts themselves in such a way, hmm?"
"I think you're looking at him, love," you speak, walking from the back door over to the edge of the terraced patio. "Brainless twat, aren't you? Thinking you could get away with doing this when you ploughed your penis extension into a ditch right outside our bloody house!"
"I didn't want to get away with it!" he shouts, "I wanted to watch your house burn, you sick freaks! I did this so I'd be known as someone who stands up to you lot! You're not right!"
"How's the fire, Mary?" III asks, finally dropping his captive in a heap on the lawn, he and the others ignoring the ridiculous ranting.
"Almost out now, sir," she calls over the whooshing of the foam. Once the flames are snuffed, she turns neatly, casting a disparaging look that could curdle milk at the intruders. "Hmph!"
A Mary hmph; it speaks more than words ever could.
III nods in her direction, the pair exchanging smiles before he turns back to the man still lying upon the lawn at his feet."Yeah, didn't really think that through either, did you, that it would take more than one bottle of petrol to set fire to a house that big," he laughs, shaking his head. "My wife is right, innit? Brainless twats, all of you!"
The flickering of blue lights coming up the lane signals the arrival of the police, and you run back through the house to let them in and explain the situation.
"Okay, we'll need to take an official statement from you and your husband. Lead us through and we'll handle the intruders." One of the four officers states, three human and one very clearly a vampire. Oh, they'll love that, seeing him turn up in a law enforcement role.
The officers all file out, requesting that your husbands step back, the four men all placed under arrest, handcuffed and lead back through the house to the van, the one being handled by the vampire officer putting up a fight.
"You've got no right, no fucking right to cuff me!" he yells, struggling, the vampire tutting.
"According to the law of which I enforce, I think you'll fine I have, sunshine," he replies neatly, lifting him from the ground and carrying him neatly to put him into the back of the van. Still, he persists in causing a scene. "Si, grab his legs, mate. Come on, lad. Get in instead of giving us these theatrics."
The aforementioned Si moves to take his ankles, hauling his feet from where he's braced against the riot van door, the man shouting and cussing before he finally gives up.
The vampire then turns to II, nodding. "Viking, eh?"
"Yeah," he replies, looking on at the officer. "Scythian?"
It's remarkable what the ancient or simply well-trained eye can tell from a person's tattoo coverage.
"Aye, not that many would guess that, like. Spent most of me recent centuries up in Newcastle before me and the wife moved here, so the Geordie accent kinda throws people off," he replies. "Right, if you and your missus want to come down to the station now, I can take a statement from you's both, or leave it until the morning and see one of my colleagues. Up to you entirely, mate."
You decide on now, getting back into the car and following the van down into central Bath to the main police station, all the while counting your lucky stars. The equal rights bill for vampires has certainly thrown up its fair share of issues with ongoing prejudice, but at least the three you're married to now gladly fall under the banner of having any rights at all.
Once at the station, you give your statement, the officer very polite and friendly with you, even sticking around to have a little chat with you both off the record once its concluded.
"Me missus and I are saving up to have the treatment, so we can have a bairn of our own, too," he reveals, after of course learning of your pregnancy. "Got three already, all adopted. Me wife was the sole legal guardian until the rights bill came in, so I'm in the process now of becoming their dad legally."
You smile, watching the way his deadness lights up as he speaks of his children. "I'm so happy for all the vampires out there like yourself who now get to do all of this with parental rights," you tell him. "You look like you're a very proud dad."
"Aye, flower. I am. Right little handfuls, they are, though! Eight, six and two. The eldest has just discovered metal music, came running in with his iPad the other night, all excited to ask us if I was Marilyn Manson, for god's sake!"
You can't keep the laughter in at that, as there are some similarities to the musician in his younger days, with the long, raven black hair and armfuls of tattoos. "You do look a little bit like him, though!" you state. "Well, a bigger built, more attractive version!"
He smiles, shaking his head. "I'll take that! Right, we've got your details so we'll keep you afloat of what's going on with these fellas. They'll be looking at harassment, trespass and arson at the very least, like."
With that, you head home and once there, very happily sink into the sofa in II's arms, joined by Ves and III.
"I think going forward, I'm going to enforce the decision that we turn the house and grounds back into a private residence," the former speaks, sitting down on the sofa opposite you in the main lounge. "For the safety of our family, I don't want the general public to have any access at all to it, not even the grounds."
Hearing this, a notion you all immediately agree with, a sense of cocooning peace softens the sharp edges of agitation your ordeal left you with. Your home is your home, and you are perfectly within your rights to remain safe within the sanctum of its walls and grounds from the people who are effectively trying to deny the rights of your family.
At least within that loving family, you no longer have to worry about shifting dynamics and the emotional fallout from what. Or at least, that's how it all appears for now.
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To avoid a bullet through your head and another trip to prison, you give the good sheriff a show.
▸ PAIRING: Lee Bodecker x F!Reader
▸ WARNINGS: NSFW 18+, consensual dubcon, screwing and licking a gun, fake mean lee, degradation kink, semi-public (but not really), penetration with no protection, creampie, breeding kink, masturbation
▸ WORD COUNT: 4.9K
▸ A/N: he's a soft meanie. this is in a world where the sheriff is maybe trying to do some good. if you enjoy, any like/reblog/reply is appreciated!! PLEASE HEED WARNINGS. i am not responsible for your consumption.
▸ A/N 2: I'M AN IDIOT THAT ACCIDENTALLY DELETED THE ORIGINAL POST HELP so here it is again thank you and im sorry
↤ Seb-O-Ween (Kinktober) Masterlist
“You’re a sweet little thing, aren’t you, sugar?” The guy croons in your ear, his liquor-laced breath sinking like talons into your skin.
You try not to wince, instead plastering on a perfect performance of a smile and darkening your eyes into a sultry look as you press closer to him. Shoulder to shoulder, one hand slowly sliding up his lap, which has him widening his eyes. “Let me take care of you, baby. I’ll give you a good time.”
He slides an arm around your bare waist, fingers already fiddling with the hem of your silky panties. He lets out a pleased hum at the warmth of your body as he nuzzles his face into your neck. “Yeah, let’s do it, sugar. How much for—”
“Freeze!”
Fuck.
While the guy next to you immediately leaps away from you, you throw the cop at the door a dirty look. None other than Sheriff Lee Bodecker. His thick frame practically fills out the entire doorway, and his presence immediately sucks all the fun from the room, especially when he’s the only one who has a gun in his hands.
The guy you were with is some low-level runt who works at the attorney general’s office. Dirty, corrupt. Loves tits and has a thing for being called daddy. You had him wrapped around your pinky. A few more seconds were all you needed, but this guy had to come in and muck it all up.
“Oh, come on. I ain’t do nothin’!” The guy complains as Lee pulls him to his feet, hard-on still very much visible under his pants.
“Tell that to the judge, we’ve got you for solicitation of prostitution,” Lee grunts and shoves him into the hands of another officer. “Take him to the station for processing. I’ll take care of this one.”
His nod in your direction is met with a sneer as you cross your arms over your chest in defiance. “Oh, fuck you, Lee.”
“Better watch that tongue, sweetie, or I might stick you in the same cell as him and he’ll make you put it to good use — for free too.”
Another snappy retort sits on the tip of your tongue but you swallow it back as you watch the guy display a brief millisecond of hope. Like hell you’d do it for no pay.
When the officer takes away the man, Lee shuts the door behind him with a muted click. Now it’s just the two of you — Lee with a revolting smirk on his face, sandwiched by his chubby cheeks, and you with a glare that could slice him in half.
“What is this now — strike four? Five? You’re running out of chances, honey.”
“You and I both know you’d be trapped right in there with him if a pair of bare legs walked by right now,” you snip in irritation.
Lee moves closer to you, his footsteps heavy and unnervingly loud in the quiet room. He buries his thick fingers in your hair before yanking your head back, eliciting a pained yelp from you. He leans down to your face, his breath smelling of whiskey warm against your skin.
“Careful, honey. You keep talkin’ and I might be tempted to stuff that mouth to shut you up.”
Your lips immediately seal into a tight line, but your eyes are defiant as they stare at him. Everyone knows that the sheriff’s office isn’t exactly the upholder of a real moral high ground. They make arrests when convenient, when it benefits them. Most of the time, with nothing happening around town, they go around collecting bribes and waste their days at the dive bar on Main Street.
This certainly does not exclude Lee who leers at you, gaze trailing up your figure ravenously. His tongue darts out to wet his lips. “Why don’t you give me a little show?”
“I’m not a fucking stripper, I don’t do shows,” you snap right back.
“Honey, you could sit there for hours on end and that would be a show for me. It’s you. Pretty little thing,” he croons, tucking your hair behind your ear.
Even in the dim lighting of the room, you could see him bare his shiny teeth as he grins devilishly at you. Your heart leaps into your throat. There is no way out of here. The other officers have gone and now it’s just you and the sheriff.
“Let me see how you get yourself off, pretty girl.” He leans close to you, close enough that you feel the brush of his damp lips against your skin. They trail up your neck to the back of your ear, sensitive to his touch.
A shiver travels up your arms in goosebumps. “You can’t be serious,” you bite back.
Lee plops down with a heavy thump onto the bench against the wall, gesturing to the singular chair placed in the middle of the room. The place is usually reserved for lap dances, but the occasional hooker — you — can use it to service a client. It’s not as if this place is known for its hygiene.
“Take off your underwear too, honey. I want to see all of you.”
You look over your shoulder as a chill spreads through you; after all, you’re dressed in nothing but scraps of lace covering your breasts and your pussy. “Someone might walk in.”
A snort escapes him as he cocks a challenging brow at you. “Then you better hurry up before the boys come back lookin’ for me. They’ll catch you with your tits out and hand in your cunt.”
Flinching, you look desolately at the chair behind you and then back to Lee who is patiently waiting. His stare lazily drinks you in, noting that for someone who is constantly naked, you appear almost awkward to be perceived by him.
But maybe it’s just him. Something about the sheriff unnerves you. Unravels you.
You slowly slip off the flimsy materials from your skin, letting them pool to the floor before seating yourself on the creaky chair. The surface is cool against your bare behind, but you lean back slightly to get comfortable.
You can do this. It’s not the first time you’ve gotten yourself off. It’s the first time someone has watched you doing it, but it shouldn’t be any different. Why would you get performance anxiety now when you’ve sucked dick and taken strangers’ cocks for a living?
Tentatively, you part your legs to give Lee a good view of your pussy. You hate how it clenches when you see how he looks at you. Like he’s been waiting his entire life to see this. To see you. Your hands reach up to grab your tits first, giving them a good squeeze. The flesh yields to your touch and you can feel a small flame flickering in the pit of your stomach. Small but present.
Your nipples perk up in the cool air and you run your fingertips over them gently, then around. Teasing slowly until you close your eyes and imagine it’s someone else’s hands on you. Someone who is careful with you, gentle. Someone perhaps like the sheriff across from you with his large hands, calloused but comforting.
A small moan slips past your lips at the thought. It’s your first mistake. A sign of weakness that Lee immediately latches on to.
“Even a whore like you can still pleasure yourself,” he hisses and, when your eyelids flutter open to see him, you watch how he palms his fat cock through his pants. His blue eyes shine, glimmering like sapphires in the dim room.
Your mouth starts watering like a trained dog, eyes widening to take in more of him. His belly slouches over his belt, thick neck folding as he dips his head to really look at you. He lets out a small grunt as he adjusts himself.
“Touch your cunt, honey. I want to see how wet you are.”
Swallowing thickly, you slowly drift your fingers down to your pussy. Your folds are now slick, practically oozing when you stroke a single finger up your lips. You can see how your finger glistens.
Arousal stirs between your legs as you drag your fingers over yourself, your gaze greedily memorizing the shape and length of Lee’s silhouette. The man is devastatingly handsome in his own way. But, if you’re being honest, it’s really that he’s so… big.
Everything about him. You feel tiny compared to him. He could so easily overpower you. He could take you for himself if he wanted to; it wouldn’t matter what you wanted. His hand could engulf yours, dwarf yours to cover your entire pussy. Those thick fingers inside of you, stretching you out like an average cock would.
Your fingertips graze your pussy lightly, too sensitive to do more. If you even thought about putting a little bit more pressure, you’d succumb to the pleasure immediately. And you know the sheriff won’t be too pleased with you.
“What are you scared of, honey? Slip those fingers in. They’re so tiny, can’t even stretch you out properly. Just rub yourself, sweet girl. I want to see you squirm. Pretty little thing like you masturbating in front of your sheriff. I should put you in cuffs while I jerk off on you,” Lee groans at his own narration, his hand curling around his clothed cock and squeezing. “Could paint those pretty tits with my cum. Do you want that? I could cum on your cunt too, put some pretty stripes before your next customer. I’ll rub it all over you, inside of you, so the next guy who even thinks about fucking you knows who’s been in there. Smell me on you. Feel me.”
“Lee,” you whimper pathetically as your fingers work slow circles around your clit, every nerve inside of you buzzing for attention. Your body feels like it’s been set on fire, your skin burning with the feeling of your dainty fingers slipping between your folds.
The man can’t tear his eyes off you. His lips part as soft huffs leave his chest and he unbuckles his belt to loosen some of the grip around his waist. He still doesn’t take his pants off, doesn’t show you what’s underneath.
You’re practically salivating for it. You almost want to crawl over to him, pop open that button with your teeth and take out his cock. But the way he’s looking at you now roots you to your seat. His gaze devours you. It makes you feel wanted. Desired.
“You like being watched, don’t you?” He growls low, icy eyes sharp on you. “Such a fucking pervert, pretty girl. You shoulda just told me if you wanted to put on a show for me. I woulda let you done it at the station so all the boys could get a good look at your pretty pussy.”
Fuck, you let out a small whimper at his words. Your stomach clenches with wanton need that buries itself so deep into your skin. Your thumb presses against your clit as you plunge one, two fingers into yourself. The friction provides some relief but it isn’t enough. You want more.
You want him.
“Wish I had a camera here with me. I’ll print out a photo of your pussy, put it up at the station for all the boys to borrow. Betcha by lunchtime you’d have every single officer’s cum on that picture. I’ll pin it up as a tribute. When I catch you next time, you’ll see what every man in that place thinks of you. What they’ve pictured doing to you. Cum all over your pretty face, pretty tits, pretty, tight pussy.”
“Lee, fuck, please.”
“That’s a good girl. Look at your pussy dripping. Is that all for me? You like me watching you touch yourself, honey? That pussy’s all mine. No one else gets to see it. Gets to touch it. You get me?”
Another expletive leaves your mouth and Lee clicks his tongue. Cowering, you sense his disappointment. Your fingers still burrow deeper inside of you.
“Keep that mouth clean, sweetie, or I won’t touch you. You gonna apologize for that potty mouth?”
Heat licks up your cheeks in embarrassment. You fuse your lips shut but Lee is still looking at you expectantly. He won’t touch you unless you do what he says. So you pout, petulantly sulking. “Sorry, Lee.”
“Good girl,” he purrs. “Now slide those pretty fingers into your pretty cunt. Let me see how well you prepare yourself for me.”
You work yourself in a fervent fever. Desperate, sloppy as your finger squelches into your pussy. The insides of your thighs are soaked with the way you’re squirting all over yourself and your hand is a wet mess, but you can’t seem to find it in you to mind when heat coils and twists around your insides.
Lee stares at you with renewed interest as you start writhing on your chair, trying to fuck yourself deeper with your hands. It doesn’t feel enough, but if you twist your fingers just right, you may be able to get there.
It’s a futile attempt. No matter how close you get, no matter how much you want to finish yourself, you can’t. Not unless he tells you that you can.
You need him. It’s a need as strong as breathing. “Lee, please,” you whine, “I want to cum. I’m so close.”
“I know, sweetheart, but not yet. Let me watch you a little longer. You’re so pretty like this.”
Your frantic fingers are starting to ache and you can feel that pressure build and build, your stomach flipping deliciously until you can practically taste—
Lee is suddenly above you, your wrist firmly in his giant bear hand. Your pussy pulses with the new emptiness and you release a pathetic whimper under his seething glare. “I told you not yet. Did your ears stop working? You really want to come on your fingers?”
Another whine. You look up at him with wide eyes, pleading with a shake of your head. “N-no.”
“So how do you want to come?”
The answer is easy. “Your cock.”
“Yeah? Beg me for it.” His lips stretch into a menacing smile as he looks at your clenched thighs, chasing friction that never quite satisfies you.
“Please, please fuck me, Lee. God, I’ll do anything.”
“Now don’t you go around using the lord’s name in vain, especially when you’ve got your pussy dripping for me like that. Look at you makin’ a mess all over the chair.”
You don’t need to look down to see how you’re leaking onto the chair, pussy squeezing every once in a while, seeking something — anything — to fill it up. “Lee, please,” you rasp, more breathless.
“Only because you asked so nicely,” Lee grins, grabbing you by the elbow and manhandling you to the wide bench. He tugs you to his lap, ass on his thick thighs as your legs stretch out long across him.
Your arms immediately wind around his neck as you press your naked body against his fully clothed one. Another needy whine slips past your lips as you nuzzle into his neck, breathing in his heady scent. An intoxicating combination of strength and danger.
You squirm on his thighs, pussy leaking damp patches all over his uniform. Every time the muscles of his thighs flex, you clench your cunt, which has you drooling all over him again from between your legs.
“Please, Lee, I’ve been good, haven’t I? I’ve been listening well. Please give me your cock.”
He has an arm around your body, one hand groping your breast and tugging on your sensitive nipple. Electricity zings through you with every harsh pull.
“Think you deserve it? Been good for me, honey? Sweet honey dripping all over me.” You nod desperately, pushing your body more into his touch. “Lean back, spread your legs.”
Your body presses back against the cool bench, but you hold yourself up by your elbows to look at him. With your hips still raised on top of his lap, your legs part as you wonder what he’s doing. Maybe he’s going to finger you first.
However, when he pulls his weapon out of his holster, your blood runs cold. Your body jerks and immediately tries to scramble away from him. “Fuck, Lee! What the hell?!”
He slaps your cunt and pushes you down to stay still with a palm on your thigh. He grunts, “Quit squirming.”
Tears well in your eyes as fear claws at your chest. “Lee, fuck, no. Please, please don’t do this, I’m scared.”
“Don’t do what, honey?” He leers as you eye the weapon gleaming wickedly in the darkness. “You said you wanted to be filled, right?”
“I wanted you to fuck me!”
“And I will.”
You cry when he runs the cool metal against your thigh, your body jolting instinctively. “Not with a gun, you psychopath. Get it away from me!”
Lee sears you with a frosty look. “Quit movin’ or I might actually hurt you.” He taps the gun against your skin again as a reminder. A threat.
Then he moves it down between your spread legs. The tip of the muzzle touches your pussy lips, cool against the heat between your legs. Shame and fear and desire are at war inside of you. Your stomach churns, but you can’t even tell which of the three caused it.
He parts your slick folds and gently nudges the mouth in. His eyes are wide, drinking in the sight with sick interest. “Just like that,” he coos, “look at you. What a good girl. So tight, so wet. You’re going to take this officer’s gun real well.”
Your pussy unconsciously clenches with fear, tightening your entrance with a sting as the gun starts to push in. Your heart is beating against your ribcage, horror crawling all over your skin. At the same time — god, you’re so turned on by how insane this situation is — that he’s fucking you with his gun.
“That’s my girl. Open wide for this sheriff,” he says, desire lacing every syllable. His eyes never once leave you as he pumps the weapon into your pretty, puffy pussy. Every time the gun pulls out of your cunt, it comes out wetter and wetter. You’re soaking it in your juices. “So good for me, honey. So pretty with my gun in your pretty pussy.”
His eyes travel from your legs to your face, where your expression has morphed from fear to full-blown arousal. Your lips open as your eyes flutter closed, struggling to stay alert in the intensity of how fucking good it feels. The metal is cold against your warm skin, each thrust is smooth and fast. Moans spill from your lips and Lee bottles each one up in a new memory, a reference for when he feels like picturing you alone.
“Tell me how it feels, honey,” Lee prompts with his gaze flicking between the pleasure etched into the lines of your face and the sloppy slide of his gun into your cunt.
“Feels g-good,” you admit. The intoxicating concoction of fear and desire is enough to have you throwing your head back as Lee continues to fuck you. “Fuck, Lee. ‘M so tight, gun’s so thick.”
“Yeah, sweetheart. You’re this sheriff’s filthy little whore, aren’t you? Shouldn’t spread your legs for anyone else. Just my fingers, my gun, my cock.”
The idea of his gun makes you whine and writhe on top of him. His palm presses down on your naked hip to keep you down as he continues to plunge the muzzle over again into your squelching pussy.
“I’m close, Lee,” you mumble, fingers wrapping around his wrist and tightening. It’s a question, a request for permission.
Lee only hums. “My fucking slut loves being fucked with a gun. What if it sets off, honey? What if I accidentally pull the trigger?”
His words set off another round of fireworks in your stomach. You can’t help the way your hips jerk in resistance, but your pussy clenches for more.
“My sweet, pretty girl with a death wish,” he chuckles, voice dark and low. “This is why you’re my favorite to fuck. Do you think I’ll hurt you, honey?”
“Lee, please,” you whimper as your insides twist uncomfortably again. The metal is no longer cold on your skin, molding into you with the same temperature as molten lava. Heat courses through every fiber of your being as you pursue that delicious friction.
“You know I won’t hurt you, right? Not unless you deserve it. Have you been a good girl for me?”
You whine and nod desperately. “So good for you, Lee. Please. I need you to fuck me.”
“I’m fucking you already, sweetheart.”
“With your cock, please. Please, I want you to fuck me and cum inside me.”
Lee lets a groan slip. He can’t help it when his sweet girl is begging him so nicely. Please and thank yous. So polite.
“Yeah? You want my cum inside you? What if I get you pregnant, honey? Do you want my baby? Can’t work anymore. Can’t open your cunt up to any other man.”
“‘S okay, I want it, I want it,” you cry out, fingertips digging into his pulse and feeling it jump.
He likes the idea. Of you round and unable to do anything except take his cock with his baby inside you. Fuck.
“Alright, since you asked me so nicely.” Lee pulls the gun out just as your belly wrestles with another wave of pleasure that nearly tips you over the edge. The sudden emptiness has you crying out, your pussy seizing around air as it gapes for him with your legs still parted.
“Lee,” you mewl needily, hands clawing at his forearms again for attention.
When the fog in your mind clears slightly, you see the gun, shining with your slick, right in front of your eyes. You could smell yourself on it.
“Open up, honey. Taste yourself.”
You’ve already had the gun in you, you shouldn’t be scared to put it in your mouth. But it’s one thing to have it inside of you when it’s out of sight, it’s another to have it right there, front and center. Trepidation ripples through you again as you begin shifting away from him.
However, Lee doesn’t let you move an inch, stare pinning you in place as he presses the muzzle against your lips. Your juices spread on your lips as he coaxes your mouth open slowly. “Clean it for me. I gotta be able to use it for work.”
“Lee!”
He takes that opportunity to finally slide it along your tongue, the metallic tang immediate on your taste buds. Metal mixed in with something sweet, something bitter, something so uniquely you.
“Quit your whining and do it if you wanna cum,” Lee growls, shoving the gun deeper into your mouth. The tip touches the back of your throat and draws tears from your eyes. “Be a good girl one more time for me and I’ll give you what you want.”
Your thighs press together, fierce need driving you to start licking it clean. Even with fright running through your veins, you start licking and sucking the weapon clean of traces of you. Your tongue laving at the length of it until it shines spotless.
Lee watches you closely and you can feel him thicken further in his pants. Your mouth waters even more at the thought of his cock, and eases the slide of the gun past your lips. The moment it’s clean, before you can even form a single letter, Lee is letting the gun clatter off to the side and flipping you over. Your bare body, tits and all, pressed flat against the cool bench as you feel Lee’s silhouette loom over you from behind.
You hear him unzip and feel that shiver of anticipation slither up your spine. Then you feel the tip of him, hot and thick, pressing against your opening as his fingers sink into your hips to still you. A moan slips out instinctively.
“Hope my sweet girl’s pussy is clean, better not have had another man’s filth inside you,” he mutters before pushing the head in, stretching out your lips around his wide girth.
God, Lee’s always been so big. So thick. It’s why you’re obsessed with his cock. No one else can fill you up, stretch you out like he does. It’s why — even when he humiliates you and takes advantage of you to the point of tears — no one else can fuck you like he can.
Lee doesn’t waste a breath when he finally sheathes himself completely inside of you, the tip of his cock kissing the opening of your womb. That thought of him breeding you has your heart somersaulting in your chest again. He could do it so easily. Knowing how strong he is, you can imagine how quickly you’d get knocked up. Hell, he would probably succeed on the first try.
He picks up the pace, fucking you relentlessly. Rough, fast. Desperate and needy. His belly presses against your back, his badge cold against the back of your shoulder. His thrusts almost flounder, like he’s chasing something so frantically, like he’s so close to getting there.
“Hold on, honey, gonna cum in you. This ol’ sheriff is going to fill you right up. Put all my cum in you,” he mutters with his breath hot in your ear. He’s heavy against your back, his weight limiting your circulation, but he’s pounding into you like there’s no tomorrow while his mouth explores the bare expanse of your neck, tongue lapping at your skin to taste the sweat on you. All you can focus on is the grinding, the fire burning bright inside of you, so much so that you can see stars behind your eyes.
“S’tight, you’re going to keep all my cum in you. No one else can fuck you like this. No one else is allowed to. I’ll shoot down any man who even thinks about lookin’ at you twice,” Lee groans, his fingers bruising on your hips as your body lurches forward with every plunge of his cock into you. “This is my cunt. Tell me, honey. Who does it belong to?”
“You, my cunt belongs to you,” you sob, heat blooming fast and hard between your legs as you adjust to Lee’s size. None of the pain is left, just excruciating pleasure spreading through your limbs. You smell the musk on him, feel the cool imprint of the star against your back, breath knocked out of your lungs under the weight of him. It’s all too much.
“That’s right, sweetheart. All mine. This sweet, tight little pussy is all mine. I’m so close, honey. S’close, fuck, you’re squeezing my dick so well. Feel every inch of you clenching around me. I’ll give you what you want. I’ll cum in you.”
“Lee, please. I want to cum. Let me cum.”
“Cum for me, sweetheart. Cream around my cock,” Lee grunts as he picks up his thrusts, harder, faster.
It’s like a supernova, galaxies exploding before you, and the orgasm wracks through your entire body. You can feel your body jerking, pussy clamping down around him as he finishes with a groan. Warmth spills into your insides, and suddenly you feel oh-so-full. He’s using your body to milk himself dry, slipping and sliding, fucking his cum back into you.
All you can do is pathetically moan, feeling the slick push deeper inside you each time he drives into you. Your pussy is sensitive, you’re fully sated, and you’ve got a warm, big man on top of you. Nothing could be better.
A giggle bursts from your lips.
Lee grunts as he narrows his eyes at you, his face pressed up against yours where you’re still splayed on the bench, his cock buried inside you.
“Sweet girl, are you really laughin’ after I creamed your pussy?”
With a contented sigh, you tilt your head to the side and peck him on the lips. “It was just really good, Lee.”
“Yeah, you enjoy that?” You don’t miss the way Lee preens with pride, clearly pleased with himself. You only hum happily in agreement. “Didn’t think my girl would want to do something like that.”
“Been curious about it,” you huff with a small shrug, as much as you can manage at least, “hope your gun’s okay.”
Lee pulls out of you with a groan and lets you stay there. He parts your legs and watches the cum dribble out of you, then uses two fingers to push it back in, eliciting a sensitive wince from you. You try to crane your neck to get a glimpse of how smug he looks.
“I used a fake one today. Can’t risk hurting you, sweet girl.”
Love blooms all warm and tingly in your chest as you look up at this man you absolutely adore. When you first agreed to be his informant, you never thought that you would end up falling in love with him. But Lee is all heart when it comes to you. His cock is a nice bonus.
“You okay?” He murmurs.
“Better than okay.”
He nods. “Thanks for helping us catch that guy. He’ll squawk like a bird and hopefully we can trace some of those drugs back to the AG.”
“Anything to help my boyfriend with his job,” you tease, fluttering your eyelashes at him.
Lee chuckles and swats your ass. “Let’s get you cleaned up before the boys come back.”
He knows it's wrong, but he can't help it. He's in love with you. Alternatively, your IT guy watches you, then gets you to fall in love with him.
▸ PAIRING: Stalker IT Guy!Bucky Barnes x F!Reader
▸ WARNINGS: NSFW 18+, cyberstalking, daddy kink, bucky and reader are both freaky, some emotional manipulation, reader gaslights herself a little, fingering, riding, light choking, light spanking, wild imagination!bucky (descriptions of cnc, public groping, noncon voyeurism), dirty talk, toxic romance?
▸ WORD COUNT: 6.4K
▸ A/N: this has been living in my head rent-free for a while so im glad i finally put it on paper. hope you enjoy! i love stalker obsessed bucky. please note that this is maybe not the healthiest relationship so proceed with caution!!!
↤ Seb-O-Ween (Kinktober) Masterlist
If you told yourself a few months ago that you would fall in love with the IT guy in your company and that you’d decide to move in with him after dating him for three months, you would’ve laughed and checked yourself in for psychological evaluation.
You’re a romantic, sure, but you’re also incredibly rational. You had debated it for a while but ultimately decided that — financially speaking (rent, utilities, internet) and practically speaking (you spend more time together than not) — it was a no-brainer.
Your love story isn’t an interesting one. You had computer problems at work, and you’ve always known you aren’t particularly technologically savvy, so the constant trips to the IT desk are understandable. There, you are introduced to the only guy who keeps this company running.
Bucky Barnes is quiet, almost sullen if you don’t know him. He’s got hair that curls around his ears, a permanent frown on his chiseled face, and a constant more-than-a-week-old scruff on his face. He’s tall but doesn’t present himself as such. He’s relatively good-looking but keeps too much to himself to attract attention.
But the Bucky that you got to know is softer and kinder. He has the same taste in chocolates as you, the ones you are constantly getting delivered. He watches the same television shows and never spoils the next episode. When he asks you out, he makes a reservation at a place you’ve been eyeing for months but could never get seats for — and you didn’t even have to tell him, he apparently has great taste.
Don’t get you started on the sex. He seems to know exactly how to touch you to hurl you over the edge, staring at you with those gorgeous, sharp, icy eyes. He worships every inch of you, ensuring no fewer than two orgasms every time he takes you to bed. He’s open to experimenting with kinks you’ve been interested in trying, sometimes even prompting it before you can. And he’s good — fuck is he good.
Falling in love with Bucky and his reserved nature and gentle humor — and his fat cock — was easy. Living together is even better.
He seems to understand your apartment habits, picking up the slack on chores you loathe and easily abiding by the rules that you set. Despite moving into his space, Bucky allows you to run it like it’s yours.
This is your favorite kind of man.
The only place he recommends you to stay out of is his office where he sometimes works from home. He tells you, with pink dusting his cheeks, that it’s a bit of a geeky mess in there so he doesn’t want you seeing it quite yet. You’ve caught glimpses of it from time to time and, despite presenting himself as extremely responsible, Bucky likes to have a lot of things. You’ve seen it in the numerous coffee mugs he collects on his work desk.
On one of the rare days your project is slow, you opt to “work” from home and get a bunch of chores done. Bucky leaves for the office with a kiss to your forehead while you’re still in that liminal space between sleep and consciousness.
“See you tonight, sweetheart. I’ll pick up dinner on the way home.”
You only hum before slumber pulls you under again.
The deep clean of the apartment comes in a productive frenzy. Something comes over you as you work through every inch of the place, not a single corner untouched. Well, except for one.
You stare at Bucky’s office door, vacuum in hand. He had only suggested that you don’t go in, not that you’re not allowed in. You’re itching to complete the entire apartment and this is the only section left. So you take the plunge by swinging the door open and taking in the room.
It’s cluttered but not entirely unsalvagable. His computer setup is relatively elaborate, cables tangled together underneath the table. While Bucky is a tech genius, he isn’t the most pristine person. You find it somewhat amusing that he has multiple large monitors and an advanced-looking system, but not a single cable organizer is in sight. You make a mental note to look up YouTube tutorials for that, perhaps for his birthday.
Then there are the figurines on the shelves, all sorts of superheroes standing tall and proud. Each one more detailed than the next. Your lips twitch into a smile. He really is a nerd. He’s your nerd.
The vacuum whirrs loudly as you move around the room, picking up dust and hair. When you’re done with that, you feel the urge to also clean his setup. You’re not going to move anything (maybe), but just a wipe-down of the particles that have settled as a thin layer on his screens and desk — and that coffee ring stain on the table.
Once you start justifying it to yourself, you can’t help but do the rest of the room. You make his favorite heroes shine, their pedestals spotless. Loose papers with all sorts of tech jargon are tucked properly to the side of his desk. You even wipe down his desk chair because god knows when he did that last.
That’s when you spot the closet door. It’s probably just extra storage, but it can’t hurt to also make sure it’s clean. When you open it, you find a few of his hoodies hung in there, a couple of boxes on the shelf above your head. A singular, stuffed box on the floor. You look up to find the perfect empty slot on that shelf.
So you pick it up, finding it surprisingly heavy. As you’re lifting it above your head, your fingers slip and your heart drops to the floor along with the box, contents spilling across the floor.
Now Bucky’s patient but you don’t know how particular he is about you touching his things. Documents and photos tip out from the box that now sits sideways. You move quickly to shuffle them together, knowing that he should be home from work soon. You don’t want him to think you’re that kind of girlfriend, the kind that snoops around when her boyfriend is out.
However, as you do so, you catch a proper glimpse of one of the photos. It’s you. Your lips are stretched into a wide grin as you look directly into the camera in this grainy capture. You feel present-you smiling at the fact that he keeps a photo of you on print.
This is probably when you should’ve stopped, shouldn’t have invaded his privacy, but you’re a little nosy and you always appreciate the validation of how much Bucky loves you. So you start flipping through some of the photos.
In most of them, you’re looking at the camera. There are a few of you in your old apartment kitchen as you’re cooking. You wonder if he screenshotted some of your video calls, which would be cute that he found you endearing enough to do that so early on in the relationship. There are a few of you working in your room, of your face when you’re propped up in bed, a palm tucked under your cheek.
However, the more you flip through them, the faster the realization sinks in. It’s like quicksand — the moment one understanding dawns, the rest drags you in and the air is punched out of your lungs. You’re breathless.
The smile is wiped from your face as you start to piece together the timing for the photos. There are a few from when you had a different haircut, a time before Bucky was properly in your life. Private moments of you looking up recipes to prepare in your tiny kitchen, or how you watch movies alone on your laptop in the dark.
Alone. You were alone in all these photographs. Alone with your laptop.
But you were on your personal laptop, how could he have—
Oh. Oh. You’re an idiot. A completely naive fool.
You remember the second time you met Bucky when you told him how sometimes you wish you could just travel with one laptop instead of bringing both your personal and work laptops around. So he was kind enough to figure out how to access your work documents on your personal. And he told you it was a secret. It was a favor he was doing for you and only you.
And you handed him over that hunk of metal that you lived and breathed — where you did everything — easily. You had been thrilled at the time that he was willing to break a few rules for you.
Little did you know, it was never for you.
Unease churns in your stomach but you brave the rest of the materials. With your legs crossed on the floor, you start flipping through the organized mess. There are dozens of pages with screenshots and highlighted text. Your online orders, your Netflix history, books you’ve read, and — oh god.
Heat furiously sprawls across your entire body, goosebumps pebbling your skin. Your search history when your curiosity goes a little too far, when you consume content that lights a fire between your legs, when you dip your fingers into the wetness that pools.
Suddenly, it all makes sense. Everything you thought you coincidentally had in common with Bucky, how easy it was to talk to him about your interests. How open he had been to exploring some taboo things that you could never say aloud to your friends.
He knew. He knew. All of it.
Nothing was sacred. All your secrets are written and printed in this box, tucked away in this closet that you never thought to open because you trusted him. You trusted that he’s a good man. A good man who just happened to luckily land on your lap.
The perfect boyfriend.
“Interesting read?”
You nearly give yourself whiplash with how fast you jerk your head up to the voice. Bucky leans against his doorway, cool eyes trained on you on the floor surrounded by the mess. The mess that defined you.
His expression surrenders none of his actual emotions. You can’t decipher the neutral set of his brows, the relaxed pout of his lips. He only searches your eyes, appearing curious more than anything.
Your tongue darts out to wet your lips, only to find that your mouth has dried since the discovery. Your throat feels like sandpaper as you ask the big question. “Bucky, what’s all this?”
Bucky assesses you quietly, his head tilting ever so slightly. “What do you think it is?”
His name rolls off your tongue in a whisper. It’s a question that you’re not sure you want answered.
Undeterred, Bucky still appraises you with that same calm expression. “Are you scared?”
A little. A lot. Yes? Not really. You’re not entirely sure. You didn’t exactly have enough time to process. Your heart is hammering too loudly in your chest for you to hear your own thoughts. A part of you still loves Bucky dearly. The last few months have been magical to say the least. You fell hard and fast. But now, knowing what you know — why you fell so quickly for him — makes you question whether these feelings are real. He practically manufactured these feelings for you.
A pair of fingers catches your chin, tips your head up to look at Bucky who has crouched down to look at you at eye-level. “Honey, I asked you a question. Are you scared?”
Chills snake up your spine at his tone. So casually cruel, tinted with the gentleness that is so familiar. “No,” you whisper. “I don’t know. I should be. Right? This is—” you suck in a breath, “—this isn’t normal.”
The corner of his lips curls into a satisfied smile. “It’s me, sweetheart. You know me. You don’t need to be scared.”
“I don’t?” You squeak, voice small.
“No, you don’t. I would never hurt you. I love you,” Bucky smiles, leaning forward to kiss you softly. His touch is so kind, like a prayer of appreciation to a god he doesn’t believe in. But it’s only you — you are the higher power, the enchantress that has bewitched him heart and soul.
“This isn’t right, Bucky,” you swallow thickly, eyes closed as he barely brushes his lips against yours, “we need to talk about this.”
“What is there to talk about? I loved you from the first day I met you. I wanted to know you.”
“You could’ve just asked,” you mutter.
You can feel him smile again. “Would you have loved me the way you do now if I did? We wouldn’t have had anything in common. You would’ve assumed that I was only mimicking your interests, and that’s not what you want. You want a man who would take matters into his own hands, right?”
Do you? Maybe. Bucky probably knows you better than you know yourself. He knows what you like and don’t like, but he has the advantage of looking at you from the inside out, understanding what really makes you tick, why you like the things that you do.
“Right, sweetheart? Answer me.”
“Right,” you echo numbly.
“You love me?”
Your teeth sink into your bottom lip, but you gaze into his eyes and slowly nod.
“Good girl. Now, I brought dinner. Shall we eat?”
Dinner is a relatively quiet affair. Your mind is still a jumbled, sticky mess. After what you discovered, you’re running over the last few months with Bucky, the pieces falling into place. He had coincidentally brought your favorite chocolates to work, and watched your eyes light up when he offered to share pieces of them with you. He had casually mentioned that he was up late binging a medical drama you also happened to be watching until the wee hours of dawn the night before, which sparked thrilling conversations about character development and weekly catch-ups on new happenings.
He had asked you out almost shyly, wondering if you wanted to grab dinner with him after work one of these days. Given how many things you connected over, the “yes” came out easily and quickly.
In your dazed state, you barely process Bucky leading you to your shared living room. Photos of the two of you together pepper the walls, bits and bobs like movie tickets and tiny DIY paintings frame your television. Coming home to all of this had been warm. It felt like home. Now, the sight has you questioning everything you’ve ever known.
By the time you register your surroundings, Bucky has pulled you over to straddle his lap. You in your tiny, thin pajama shorts and oversized tee, and Bucky in his college t-shirt and sweats which you note does nothing to hide the growing erection in his pants.
You wonder how he could be turned on when your brain is struggling to catch up to the situation. Then again, this is what gets him off, isn’t it? Your naivete. Your confusion. Months of playing stupid as he played puppeteer with your feelings.
Your confusion boils into irritation as you look down at his blue eyes, soft and searching.
Bucky’s voice is gentle when he slices through the silence. “You know all I want is to take care of you.”
Do you? Was that his intention from the start?
“And the only way to really take care of you is to know everything about you, even the things you’re too scared to tell me. Because I’ll love you with all of it.”
He has always had a way with words, a siren drawing you out to sea. He opened up this vast expanse of a world to you, showed you what it’s like to be loved and understood. However, you’re quickly realizing that maybe he’s been luring you out to drown you.
Bucky leans closer tentatively, careful not to make any sudden movements as he brushes his lips against yours. Your body still responds so instinctively to him. You bend towards him like a flower to the sun, chasing after the warmth that you so desperately crave.
Encouraged by your shift, he kisses you deeper and harder. His mouth moves against yours the way the moon pulls the ocean, demanding, unrelenting. You don’t have a choice but to comply with his magnetic pull. His tongue tastes yours with more confidence, slipping past your lips and stroking with intention.
Bucky’s fingers trail up your sides, eliciting delicious sparks of electricity with every inch of you he touches. He goes up and up until they curl around your throat. He drinks in your gasp, lips still attached to yours.
“Buck—”
His lips tug into a smile. “Remember the first time I choked you and how much you liked it. You came so hard that night, honey.”
The memory is burned into the back of your eyes, your legs tensing at the recollection of your core pulsing with need. Of course, you remember. It was the first time Bucky had done anything like that, it’s something you’ve fantasized about for a long time but never had the courage to ask for. So when Bucky did it with a silent request for permission, you didn’t say no.
It was the right decision.
Even now, with his hand on your neck, all you can feel is that familiar thrill of pleasure sparking fires inside of you. “Think about how I didn’t even need to ask you what you wanted. It’s all because I saw what you were watching, what you were reading. My curious, pretty girl.”
His words stoke the flames that burn bright in your belly. It’s nice to be noticed, to be understood. It’s nice that Bucky knows you. You don’t have to say a word and he knows. It’s the kind of understanding that you cannot create with words, only a mutual perception of the things you observe in each other.
You’ve never had a relationship like that. It’s always been you telling, you asking. It’s nice not to have to ask.
Your core tightens with that familiar heat coiling and twisting inside of you. The small whimper that rises from your squeezed throat has Bucky tilting his head with a grin.
“Are you wet, honey?” The question leaves your mouth dry, but your pussy leaking. Your teeth sink into your bottom lip as you avoid answering the question. He knows. He doesn’t need to ask. Bucky has the same pleased expression on his face, knowing that he has you right where he wants you. “Bet your panties are soaked.”
With one hand on your throat, he slides his other one around your body and dips into your underwear. A finger tentatively stroking up your slick lips. The effect is immediate, your body arching ever so slightly as he slides his finger deeper every time he strokes up. You can feel the moisture collecting on his fingertips, dripping. When he pulls out his hand, his finger glistens under the living room lights.
“Fuck, you’re drenched. Look at you. Always knew you’d like me like this,” Bucky says, almost in awe. “Thought you’d be scared of me but I know you. I knew you’d appreciate me. I knew you would understand me.”
“Bucky,” you whisper. Your brain seems to have lost all means of comprehension, words thrown into the abyss as the pleasure rewires your mind to only think of him. How much you love him. How much you appreciate him. How much you crave him.
It’s only his name seared into the folds of your thoughts, every single nook and cranny.
“You’re perfect, honey. My perfect girl. No one else can ever compare to you,” Bucky murmurs as he captures your lips once more. Softer this time, but with a persistence that has your hips scooching closer for more.
More friction, more heat. Your clothed pussy presses against the growing bulge. His cock is thick even underneath the heavy fabric. You can practically taste it, your mouth salivating like a trained dog at the thought of it. A reward you’ve been anticipating all day.
“Do you want to tell me what you want?” Bucky asks, pauses then continues, “Or do you want me to simply know?”
The answer is easy. While the fear had paralyzed you earlier, it’s clear to you now that you don’t mind it in the least. He can’t help it, can he? He’s so obsessed with you, so desperate to be with you, that he did all those things.
He’s not a bad man, is he? He is merely a mortal man in love. A man in love with his curious girl who has a search history that could make a priest blush. A man in love who only wants to satisfy his girl.
“You know the answer to that,” you whisper against his lips.
A curse hisses past Bucky’s teeth as he pulls away slightly to look at you. His eyes dart across your face, the way your pupils are blown in desire, how your lips part for gasps of air. Your chest rises with every breath, every quickened heartbeat that leaves you squirming in anticipation.
“I know,” he confirms. “I know you better than you know yourself, honey. All your secrets. Thought I’d go slow with you, introduce you to the things you think you’ll like, but you’re ready. You’re a big girl, right?”
You hum, nodding. “I can take it.”
“Fuck, yes, you can. Of course you can. So capable. So smart. Always knew I chose right.”
“Tell me,” you urge, insistence lacing your syllables. “Tell me what you were thinking. How you did it. What you thought of me.”
Bucky’s lips twitch again with amusement, clearly delighted that you want to hear his thought process. He knows how desperate you are for praise, how you want to hear how he can adore you to the point of going to extreme, likely (most certainly) illicit lengths to get you.
His fingers slip again beneath your underwear and seek the heat between your legs. You can feel yourself leaking onto his fingers, coating them with slick as they sink into you. There is a wicked gleam in his eyes, one that matches yours as you wait for his response with bated breath.
“So many stories, sweetheart. Where do I even begin?” Bucky hums, curling his fingers as your hands find purchase on his shoulders. Your fingers dig into his flesh, which barely budges with the toned muscle underneath.
When he twists his fingers inside you just right, your eyes roll to the back of your head as a moan slips past your lips. He knows exactly what does the trick — the speed, the angle, even how deep to go inside of you. It’s a science he has perfected.
Then he begins. “There were those videos that you watched, of women getting touched in public. Used to watch you switch between one clip to another, your fingers moving faster until you’re creamin’ all over them. All I could think about was one day following you home. You would never know it’s me. I would trap you against the subway doors. I’d put a hand over your mouth, let my free one grab you all over. Your gorgeous breasts, your curves, before sliding down to cup your cunt.
“You’ll try so hard to act like you don’t want it, you’ll try to resist it, but I’ll know that you’re secretly enjoying the thrill of it. Because I know what you like, what you watch, what has you whining when you’re alone in your room. You’ll enjoy the thought of some stranger who just couldn’t resist you, who had to have a taste of you. I’d finger you until your knees buckle, until you don’t have a choice but to hold onto me.”
Fuck, you remember those nights. At first, they started with faceless strangers touching you, groping you. Taking what’s yours and claiming it as theirs. But the more you got to know Bucky, the more that face looks like his. What if it were him? What if it were his hands that treasured you? What if it were his voice that whispered seductive assurances in your ear?
And all that time, he was imagining the same thing. The thought makes you whine needily, pressing up more against him until there is not a single inch of space left between you.
“I’d make you cum on my fingers first and, since you live oh-so-far away, maybe I’ll even push up those skirts you like to wear. The ones you know are my favorite. You wear ‘em for me, don’t you? I’ll make sure to reward your good behavior and take my time fucking you in front of everyone. Not even the evening rush hour will be able to mask your moans and screams as you take my cock.”
Desperate little sounds spill from your lips as you lean back, palms on his thighs as you grind down into his fingers. With his hand pressed against your ass and his fingers buried deep inside you, all you can do is fuck yourself stupid on them. You bounce on them, ride them until you can feel the temperature in the room rising.
“Would you like that, honey?”
“Mmm, Buck, please. Yes. I want that. W-want your cock.”
“Such a desperate little thing,” he hisses, his clean hand sliding up your back to sink into the tresses of your hair. He tugs lightly to expose the length of your neck to his warm breath. His lips graze the skin, teeth catching onto parts of your flesh to mark you as his.
“W-what else did you see?”
A low laugh rises from his throat. “Fuck, you love hearing this. You love knowing how gone I was for you, how obsessed. You were my nighttime entertainment, honey, before you even knew what that meant. My sweet girl. Never had a clue. But I always knew we were cut from the same cloth. I knew we would be perfect for each other.”
Bucky’s sharp blue eyes hone in on you, drinking in the pleas that fall from your pretty, pouty lips.
“I saw you watch those girls who whine daddy, daddy with their legs spread, their asses aching after daddy spanks them for misbehaving. Their pussies dripping with juices. They’ll be begging for daddy to fuck them — and I never cared once to watch them. I only watched you, how quickly you shoved your hand down your panties. Pictured you on your knees asking me for my cock. I’ll inspect your skirt and pussy every morning before I let you go off to work. When you’re talking to your manager, you’ll see me over his shoulder and you’ll remember who you belong to when my cum drips down your legs.”
His words leave a trail of fire on your skin. Your stomach burns with a need you never knew you could feel, a desperation that claws at you like an itch you can’t scratch. You know those videos, have touched yourself countless times to them. The more you got to know Bucky, the closer you are to letting the name slip in moments of intimacy.
But you didn’t know how he felt about it, didn’t want to scare him off.
As you’re struggling to process his words, Bucky continues, “Bet he would notice it too, bet he would be wondering what you’re hiding underneath that skirt. Whose cum is sliding down your pretty legs. I can think of five other men who wouldn’t hesitate to spread you open on a desk and fuck you silly. But you won’t ever let that happen. Because you belong to me. All of you belongs to daddy, doesn’t it?”
And you’re still so delirious in his words, in the way his fingers move so deliciously inside you, that you barely, truly hear him. You’re too caught up in chasing your own pleasure, sinking lower and lower onto his fingers until you can feel his fingertips brushing the deepest parts of you.
It is only when his hand cracks down on your behind, the sound more shocking than the sting of the hit itself, that you look down at him. A whine escapes you, an involuntary reaction to an unexpected blow. “Tell me.”
“Yes, it all belongs to you!” You cry out, writhing even harder when Bucky’s fingers stop moving inside you.
He cocks an eyebrow, a firm hand on your hip to still you. “Belongs to who?”
Your heart stutters in your chest as you really gaze into his eyes. The sharp blue keen on you, waiting for your response.
“You, daddy.”
A smile slowly rolls across his handsome features. “That’s my good girl.”
The praise has your toes curling. You are a good girl. His good girl. All you want to do is be good for him, to please him. Perhaps you were an ambitious woman once upon a time. But right here in his arms, your pussy stuffed with his fingers, your purpose is to make him happy. To make him proud to call you his.
Bucky lifts you onto your shaky knees, keeping a hand on your elbow to steady you. He grins at how you tremble, nearly toppling over in the lustful haze your mind is in. Instead, when your eyes meet his, he brings his fingers to his lips and licks them clean. His tongue rolls between the digits, stroking up the length until you picture him doing the same between your legs. His fingers no longer shine with your juices but with his spit.
Any other day, you’d beg for him to eat your pussy — and you wouldn’t even have to try too hard because he would never let you finish the sentence. It’s as if he had been waiting for you to ask all day.
However, when all you can think about is cock, cock, cock, you can only whine for it. “B-Buck, please, your cock. I want to be filled with your cock.”
“I know, sweetheart. Let me put on a condom first, hm?”
You almost beg for him to forgo it. You want to feel him. All of him. Only him.
Of course, Bucky has an idea of what you’re thinking when you look pitifully disappointed. “As much as I’d enjoy feeling you wrapped around my bare cock, I don’t want to risk you getting knocked up yet, honey. I want you to myself for a few more years. Maybe even forever.”
The idea of Bucky knocking you up, of you growing a piece of him inside you, festers in your mind. You almost hate yourself for how much you like the thought of it. How you can only think about him breeding you, pressing you down into the bed, legs up as he fucks his cum into you to make sure it sticks.
Bucky seems to notice this, sliding his hand along your jaw to turn you to look at him. To keep you in place. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. If you want kids, I’ll give them to you whenever you want. However many you want. Keep you filled with my cum until you can’t think of anything else except how full you are of me.”
Your boyfriend moves swiftly, ripping open a new packet with his teeth before deftly rolling it down his exposed length. His pants are abandoned somewhere in the room, that’s a problem for post-sex you. For now, you strip yourself down to nothing before quickly tackling him back down to the couch and crawling on top of him.
“Sweet girl,” Bucky grins, “if I had known how much you’d enjoy the fact that I watched you, that I stalked you for months, I would’ve introduced you to my collection sooner.”
You whimper pathetically, attempting to fuck yourself on his cock but Bucky doesn’t let you drop. He keeps his hands on your hips, hovering above his thick dick standing upright, twitching as if begging to find a hole to fill.
Yours. Only yours.
When Bucky finally allows you to ease his length in, it’s like you’ve finally taught yourself how to breathe again. Your lungs expand to take in deep breaths as you bite back a wince in adjusting to his size. The two of you have been relatively busy lately, finding pockets of time for a quickie, but nothing so gratifying, so electrifying like this moment.
His wide girth stretches out your pussy lips as they swallow him whole. You don’t think about the stickiness of sweat on your skin, or the fact that your legs are starting to burn from how desperately you’re riding him. All you know is how he fills you up so good, how he has shaped your cunt to the shape and size of him.
“Does it get you off knowing I’ve watched you cum by yourself? Do you know how many videos I’ve saved of you in the dark, your fingers between your legs, the way your face would crumble with every orgasm that strikes you? I know what you look like when you’re coming. How stunning these pretty lips look as you’re gasping for air,” he narrates with his fingers pinching your chin, releasing your bottom lip from the confines of your teeth. His other hand reaches up to grope your breast. His fingers tug and twist, squeezing the mound with such intention that you arch into his touch.
His name slides off your tongue like honey, a prayer to some unknown deity that had once fulfilled your wishes of finding someone like Bucky. He is now the only higher power that you plead to.
“I’ve heard you call my name in the dark, heard you beg me to take you. All I want to do is make sure my pretty girl is taken care of.”
Bucky smiles, hands combing through your hair as you grind yourself down on his lap.
“My pretty, sweet girl. Those stories that you read — you look all prim and proper, but I know that all you want is for daddy to take care of you, honey. All you wanted was to tell daddy all your little fantasies so he could make them come true. Isn’t that right?”
“Mhmm, jus’ want daddy to take care of me. To love me. To fuck me.”
Bucky clenches his jaw, steely gaze trained on your cute babbles and gasps. He memorizes each one — the intonation, the length, the little hitches of breath — and tucks them away for a rainy day.
“We can watch some of the videos in my collection. You could sit all pretty on my lap, my cock in your pretty cunt while you remember how you touch yourself at home. And you can think about how lucky you are to have a real cock between your legs, inside of you, rather than just your fingers. How daddy is so much better at pleasing you than you are yourself.”
Clearly impatient with how your hips keep faltering with his words, Bucky begins bucking up into you. His cock punches the air out of your chest with every thrust, every filthy promise that fills the room. With his nose tucked into your neck and his tongue dragging up your skin, Bucky makes you promises that you tattoo into the back of your mind.
“I’ll keep you chained to my bed, fuck you into oblivion until you don’t even know your own name. Nobody will be able to find you. You’ll be mine and only mine forever.”
“Daddy will eat this pretty little cunt out after he fills it with his cum. You’ll be my dessert after you cockwarm me. All you gotta do is sit on my dick all day.”
“If you behave, maybe daddy will take you on a trip outside where daddy will touch you the entire day. Everyone will see what a proud little slut you are for me.”
Each line sounds rehearsed, like he’s thought through every single promise — or threat — he makes to you. But his voice is laced with sincerity. These are not words said on a whim, but a vow of everything he will be doing to you — for you.
While you exist for his pleasure, he exists for yours.
Bucky’s grunts are a delightful melody in your ear as he chases after both your highs. His thrusts get sloppy, but in a way that makes your heart soar with how desperate he is for you.
“You have no secrets with me, honey. I’ll make sure to use every single one to please you.”
And giving up that control, perhaps that’s all you’ve ever wanted with Bucky. So you give it to him when a final cry echoes from your chest and you jolt in his arms. Your cunt spasms around his cock, barely moving with how fat and thick he is inside of you.
When Bucky finally finishes, you almost wish you could feel the warmth of his cum paint your insides, but that’s something you’ll coax out of him another day. After all, Bucky has promised to fulfill every single one of your fantasies.
Whether it’s his cum plugged inside you or if you leak his cum all day, you know he will make it come true.
As you slump forward, bare chest against his, you let out a sated, exhausted sigh. It’s been a whirlwind of a day and, even if your pussy is still milking him, squeezing around him, you can feel the telltale signs of fatigue taking over your limbs.
Bucky’s hand reaches up to stroke your head as his lips press comforting kisses onto your temple. “My sweet girl. You did so well for me.”
You giggle, nuzzling into his touch. “I always want to do well for daddy.”
His cock jerks awake inside you, slowly inflating once more to fill you up. “Keep that up and I’ll take you again.”
“Is that a promise?”
Bucky grins up at you, hand shifting to the back of your neck to yank you down for a crushing kiss. “That’s a promise.” He takes a deep breath and searches your eyes. He’s quiet for a moment, seeming to hesitate for the first time that evening. “I love you, sweetheart.”
You offer a small, shy smile. “Love you too, Buck.” You wet your lips as you continue, “I don’t know why I was so scared seeing what you’ve done, considering what you’ve seen of me. But I’m not scared of you. I love you.”
“Wouldn’t dream of letting you go without a chase, honey.”
I know I have said this about everything @darklydeliciousdesires writes….. but I mean it! This is hands down one of the BEST series I have ever read! It is written so beautifully. I loved the progression of each relationship and the love that develops is breathtaking. I laughed, I smiled, I swooned & I cried throughout this series. I loved every single word of it!
pairing | bf!bucky x fem!reader / minor roommate!wanda x fem!reader
word count | 10k words
summary | junior year at NYU is supposed to be all late nights, rehearsals, and a boyfriend you can barely keep your hands off. then your new roommate wanda arrives. she’s quiet, beautiful, and strangely eager to slip into the spaces that belong to you.
tags | 18+ (MDNI), college au, erotic thriller, Explicit Sexual Content, obsession, jealousy, toxic fixation, fratboy!bucky barnes, yandere!wanda maximoff, eventual smut, piv sex, unprotected sex, unknown exhibitionism, stalking, voyeurism, invasion of privacy, manipulation, protective bucky, music major reader, girl kissing, “single white female” (i just learnt this trope), eventual violence, physical assault, attempted murder, kidnapping
a/n | just watched The Roommate, it's such a good movie, chat.
likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨
MASTERLIST
divider by @omi-resources
Music was thudding through the walls so hard it felt like the whole house had a pulse.
ΩΒC looked like every bad decision college had ever made rolled into one building. The front rooms were packed shoulder to shoulder, hot and loud and sticky, bass rattling the cheap frames on the walls while somebody in the kitchen yelled over somebody else to move the hell out of the way if they weren’t taking a shot. The whole place smelled like beer, weed, sweat, cologne, and whatever Natasha had spilled on the floor fifteen minutes ago and refused to apologize for.
You were drunk enough for the room to feel pleasantly soft around the edges, but not so far gone you’d crossed into useless. Which, honestly, was worse. Because it meant you were coherent enough to already be dreading tomorrow morning.
Your head was going to split open. Your mouth was going to taste like carpet. And there was at least a seventy percent chance you were going to wake up in Bucky’s room with one earring on and your phone dead under his bed.
“Why are you making that face?” Darcy asked, leaning in so you could hear her over the music.
You blinked at her. “I can feel tomorrow.”
Natasha snorted into her cup. “That’s because you mixed liquor.”
“You handed me half of it.”
“And you accepted it,” she said easily, like that settled the matter.
Across from you, Sam looked deeply unimpressed by the entire conversation. “Every year,” he said, shaking his head. “Same damn party, same damn tragedy.”
“It’s tradition,” you said.
“It’s idiocy.”
“You’re here.”
“I live here.”
Darcy pointed at him with the neck of her bottle. “And yet somehow still the least fun person in the room.”
Sam opened his mouth to answer, then glanced over your shoulder and made a face. “Never mind. Here comes your problem.”
You didn’t even have to turn around to know who he meant.
You felt Bucky before you saw him, that broad warm body sliding in behind you, one hand landing on your hip like he had every right in the world. Which he did. His chest bumped your shoulder, and then his mouth found the side of your head, careless and affectionate and already laughing.
“There you are,” he said into your hair, words just a little slurred.
You turned enough to look at him, and there he was—drunk as hell, pretty as sin, cheeks flushed, hair a mess from people grabbing at him all night, dark T-shirt stretched across his shoulders.
“I have been standing here the whole time,” you said.
“Mhm.” He nodded like he believed you in theory, then leaned in and kissed you anyway.
It wasn’t a polite kiss. It never really was with him after he’d been drinking. His mouth was warm and insistent, his hand spreading wider against your side as the room tilted just enough to make you grin against him.
When he pulled back, he barely made it an inch before going in again, like he’d already forgotten you were in the middle of a conversation. His hand slid from your hip to the small of your back, then lower, fingers pressing in with no shame whatsoever.
You gave him a look. “James.”
“What?” he said, innocent in a way that would’ve been more convincing if his hand wasn’t halfway down your ass.
Sam groaned. “Man, take that somewhere else.”
“You’re in my house,” Bucky said, not even looking at him.
Steve appeared out of nowhere beside Sam, red cup in hand, looking irritatingly sober by comparison. “This is our house and it’s a public space.”
“Oh, don’t start,” you muttered.
Bucky smiled at that, lazy and pleased with himself, then hooked two fingers into one of the back belt loops on your shorts and tugged until you were flush against him. He was all heat and liquor and that stupid familiar smell of soap and skin and whatever he’d sprayed on before the party. Enough to make your body go soft before your brain could catch up.
You tried to keep talking anyway, because you had dignity.
“So like I was saying,” you started, turning back toward your friends while Bucky planted his chin on your shoulder, “if Professor Xavier gives me one more assignment with no actual rubric, I’m going to—”
Bucky kissed the side of your neck.
You stopped.
Natasha’s mouth twitched. “You were saying?”
You pushed at his chest without any real force. “Bucky.”
He hummed against your skin, not sorry in the slightest. “You’re ignoring me.”
“I’m talking.”
“To them.”
“Yes.”
Darcy snorted. Steve looked down into his drink like he did not know any of you. Sam just muttered, “I’m begging y’all,” and walked off.
Bucky’s hand slipped around your waist and under the hem of your top just enough for his palm to brush bare skin. The touch made you suck in a breath before you could help it. He felt that too, because his mouth curved against your jaw.
“There she is,” he said quietly.
You shot him a look that probably would’ve worked better if you weren’t fighting a smile. “You are so annoying.”
His hand moved again and you had to close your eyes for a second because he knew exactly how to touch you in ways that made it hard to remember what you’d been saying. That was part of the problem with Bucky. He had no respect for timing. Or public decency. Or the idea that maybe you should be allowed to finish one conversation without him trying to drag your attention back where he wanted it.
You turned in his arms properly then, one hand catching at the front of his shirt to steady yourself. Up close his pupils were blown wide, his grin softer now, less showy. Just drunk and happy to have you in his hands.
“You good?” you asked.
He nodded once. “M’great.”
“You’re cross-eyed.”
“Baby, I think the room’s moving.”
That made you laugh, and the sound seemed to hit him right in the chest. He got this look sometimes, especially when he was drunk—like he’d just remembered in real time how much he liked you. Not slick, not game-playing. Just open. Almost dopey.
Then, because he was still Bucky, he ruined it by squeezing your ass again.
Your brows went up. “Seriously?”
“What?” he said again.
Steve sighed. “You know one word.”
“It’s a versatile word, punk,” Bucky replied.
Natasha downed the rest of her drink and leaned toward you. “Do you want us to leave, or are you about to get unlawful in front of company?”
You rolled your eyes. “Please go. All of you.”
“Gladly,” Darcy said. “This is getting gross.”
“It was gross ten minutes ago,” Steve said.
“You’re all jealous,” Bucky informed them.
“No,” Natasha said, already stepping back into the crowd, “I just prefer foreplay that doesn’t happen next to a folding table.”
Then they were gone, disappearing into the noise and bodies and lights, leaving you with Bucky in the middle of the living room like that was in any way safer.
He looked smug about it too.
“You did that on purpose,” you said.
“I missed you.”
His hand came up to cup the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheek in a way that was unexpectedly gentle after all the grabbing and bad behavior. It softened you immediately. That was also part of the problem with him. He could go from frat-house asshole to something sweet enough to make your stomach turn over in under five seconds.
You looked at him for a moment. “How drunk are you, exactly?”
He thought about it. “I lost count after six.”
“Jesus Christ.”
You let out a breath through your nose, shaking your head, and he dipped in to kiss you before you could say anything else. This one lasted longer. Slower. His hand stayed warm at your jaw while the other settled firm on your waist, keeping you tucked in close as people bumped past and music pounded and somebody screamed from upstairs like they’d either won something or broken a limb.
When he pulled back, his forehead knocked lightly against yours.
“Come upstairs with me,” he said.
You laughed a little. “So romantic.”
“M’serious.”
“I can tell.”
“I want my girlfriend.”
The way he said it was not smooth. Not polished. Just low and blunt and wanting, like the thought had crossed his mind and come straight out of his mouth without getting cleaned up first.
Your fingers curled tighter in his shirt. “You’re so clingy.”
“You like that too.”
That, annoyingly, was true.
He could see it on your face too, because his grin turned smug all over again. “Yeah,” he murmured. “C’mon.”
You should’ve made him work harder for it. Probably. At the very least, you should’ve pretended to think about it longer.
Instead you glanced toward the kitchen, where Thor was trying to shotgun a beer while everyone around him was cheering him on for reasons you would ever understand, then back at Bucky.
“If I wake up feeling like death tomorrow,” you said, “I’m blaming you.”
“Honey, you were gonna feel like death anyway.”
“You’re not helping your case.”
“I’m not trying to. I’m trying to get you in my bed.”
You laughed despite yourself, and he took that as the yes it obviously was.
His hand found yours and tugged, weaving you through the packed hallway, past spilled drinks and shouting brothers and a couple making out against the wall like they were in a race. He kept looking back just enough to make sure you were still behind him, thumb rubbing over your knuckles once, twice, like even drunk out of his mind he needed to touch you somewhere.
By the time you got Bucky upstairs, the noise downstairs had turned muffled and ugly through the floorboards, just bass and shouting and somebody losing their mind in the hallway.
His room was a mess in the way only frat boys could manage. Half-open drawers, some stupid flag pinned crooked on the wall, a belt on the floor, clean laundry mixed with dirty like that meant anything. The lamp on his desk was on, throwing the room into that soft yellow light that made everything look warmer than it was.
The second the door shut behind you, Bucky had both hands on you.
His mouth found yours before you’d even turned around fully, one palm pressing into your waist while the other slid over your side and up under your top like he’d been thinking about it for the last hour and finally couldn’t stand it anymore.
He kissed like he was half-starved and half gone, messy with it, breath warm with liquor, stubble rough where his jaw scraped your skin.
You laughed against his mouth, one hand braced on his chest. “Jesus. Slow down.”
He shook his head once like that was ridiculous and kissed you again anyway.
His fingers were already fumbling with the hem of your top, trying to push it higher, trying to get his hands on more of you. He was warm everywhere. Warm hands, warm mouth, warm body pressing you back toward the door.
“Bucky,” you said, catching one of his wrists.
“What?”
He said it low, distracted, eyes already dropping to your mouth again.
“You are drunk as hell.”
“M’fine.”
“You can barely stand up.”
“Still can do a lot.”
That made you snort despite yourself. “Oh really.”
He took your laugh like encouragement, dipping his head to your neck, kissing there open-mouthed and lazy, nosing at the sensitive spot below your ear until your grip on him tightened on instinct.
His hand flattened over your stomach, then moved lower, slow and heavy and familiar, and your breath caught for a second before you pulled it back.
He felt that too. Of course he did.
His mouth curved against your skin. “Yeah,” he murmured. “There she is.”
“You’re so annoying.”
“You’re wet already.”
You slapped a hand over his mouth so fast it made him grin into your palm.
“Shut up,” you muttered, already laughing again because he looked so pleased with himself, so thoroughly convinced he still had game even half-drunk and swaying.
He kissed the inside of your hand once, then bit lightly at the base of your thumb before you snatched it away with a look.
“You’re filthy.”
“And?”
“And I’m not fucking you like this.”
That got his attention.
Not enough to stop touching you, apparently, because his hand was still sliding over your hip, squeezing, wandering, but enough that his eyes came back to your face properly.
For a second he just stared at you, like the sentence had hit a traffic jam on the way through all the alcohol.
Then, very seriously, “Why?”
You stared at him. “Because you’re wasted.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Bucky.”
He blinked once. Twice. Then leaned in, voice dropping like he thought this was the real issue. “Baby, I can still make you feel good.”
You pressed your lips together so you wouldn’t laugh in his face.
He took your silence for doubt and got more earnest, if anything. “No, seriously. C’mere.” His hands went right back to your waist, trying to tug you closer. “I’ll get on my knees. I’ll make you sit right here and—”
You put a hand flat to his chest and shoved.
Not hard. Just enough.
Drunk as he was, and already leaning too much of his weight into you, it worked better than expected. He stumbled backward with a startled look and dropped onto the bed, mattress springs groaning under him.
For a second he just sat there, hair falling over his forehead, shirt riding up a little, staring at you like he couldn’t believe you’d manhandled him in his own room.
Then he spread his knees and looked up at you from the edge of the bed, grinning slow.
“That was hot.”
You rolled your eyes and stepped between his legs.
“You’re done.”
“M’not done.”
“You are.”
He caught at your hips the second you got close enough, palms dragging around to your ass with all the subtlety of a man who had never once in his life known restraint. “You got me all worked up.”
“You came into this room worked up.”
“Because of you.”
“Sure.”
He was still trying to tug you into his lap, burying his face against your stomach when you reached down and caught the back of his neck.
“Sit still,” you said.
He groaned like you’d asked him to do hard labour, but he let you push him back enough to get his shirt over his head.
That part took longer than it should have, because halfway through he got distracted and started kissing at your wrists, your forearm, the inside of your elbow—any patch of skin he could reach while the shirt was still half over his face.
“Bucky.”
“Mm.”
“Arms up.”
He obeyed eventually, and you yanked the shirt the rest of the way off him.
There he was. Flushed skin, broad chest, that stupidly pretty mouth already parted like he was about to say something dirty. You shoved his shoulder lightly when he tried to reach for you again.
“No. You sit there and let me take care of you.”
That softened him for a second. Not fully. He was still drunk and horny and looking at you like he wanted to drag you down on top of him. But there it was—that little shift he always got when you started fussing over him, like some part of him genuinely liked being handled.
You crouched a little to unlace his sneakers.
The room smelled like him now more than anything else. Soap under sweat, old wood, stale smoke drifting in faint from the cracked window, the sharp sweet rot of spilled beer from downstairs. His knee nudged between your thighs while you worked his sneakers off, and his hand landed lazily in your hair.
“You’re too good to me,” he said.
“You say that every time I take your clothes off.”
“Because I mean it every time.”
“You’d think after twenty-one years on earth you’d know how to do it yourself.”
“I do know how.” A beat. “I just like when you do it.”
You looked up at him then, and he was smiling in that dazed, soft way that made him look younger somehow. Less frat prince, more boy.
Then his hand slid from your hair to your cheek, his thumb dragging over your bottom lip.
“And I still want you to sit on my face,” he added.
You rolled your eyes and shoved at his leg. “There he is.”
“Thought I lost him?”
“Was hoping, maybe.”
He smiled wider, pleased you were still here, still touching him, still dealing with him.
You stood and worked at his belt next, mostly because if you left him in jeans all night he’d complain in the morning like it was somehow your fault. The second your fingers touched the buckle, he let his head fall back with a low noise that was entirely too dramatic for a man getting undressed like an overgrown toddler.
“Oh my God,” you said. “Relax.”
“Can’t. You’re taking my pants off.”
“I’m putting you to bed.”
“Looks sexy from here.”
You got the belt loose and started on the button. His hands were back on you immediately, one at your waist, the other smoothing up your thigh, fingers pressing in through the fabric of your shorts.
“You should stay,” he said, voice lower now.
“James.”
“M’serious.”
“You are never serious with your hand up my shirt.”
He ignored that. Or maybe didn’t hear it. Hard to tell.
The jeans were a struggle because he kept lifting his hips at the wrong time, then laughing at himself, then trying to pull you down between his legs when you got too close. But eventually you got them down enough for him to kick them off with minimal dignity.
He looked unfairly good sprawled back against his pillows in his boxers, hair a mess, chest bare, eyes glassy and hot on you.
And still, somehow, he looked like he thought he had a chance.
You knew the exact second he realized he didn’t.
It was small. Just a change in his face. That smug little look eased off. He watched you straighten your own top back down, watched you step away instead of climbing into bed with him, and something in him recalibrated.
He sat up on one elbow. “Wait.”
You folded his shirt over the desk chair because if you looked at him too long you were going to cave on something you shouldn’t.
“What?”
“You’re leaving?”
“I’m getting you water first.”
“No, I mean after.”
You glanced at him. “Yes.”
“Don’t.”
You found the half-full water bottle on his desk and sniffed it suspiciously before deciding it was probably fine.
“I have early rehearsal,” you said.
“I know.”
“So I’m not sleeping in a frat house that smells like bong water and armpits.”
“It doesn’t smell like armpits.”
You gave him a look.
He thought about it. “Okay, little bit.”
You handed him the bottle. He took a long drink, eyes still fixed on you over the rim like this was all part of some negotiation.
Then he set it down and held a hand out.
“C’mere.”
You should’ve said no.
Instead you went, because you always did.
The second you were close enough he caught your wrist and pulled you in between his legs again, gentler this time. No grabbing now. Just his hands settling around your waist, forehead pressing briefly to your stomach before he looked up at you.
“You can just sleep here,” he said. “That’s all. I’ll behave.”
You laughed under your breath. “You are such a liar.”
“I swear.”
“You said ten minutes ago you’d get on your knees if I let you.”
“That was then.” He shrugged a shoulder. “People grow.”
You smiled despite yourself, and he saw it and pressed on.
“Stay.” His thumbs rubbed slow circles into your sides. “We don’t gotta do anything. Just stay. I’ll shut up and go to sleep.”
“You will not shut up.”
“I can.” A pause. “Probably.”
You raised a brow.
He looked offended you didn’t believe him, which was rich considering the evidence.
Then his mouth softened. He tugged you a little closer and tipped his head back enough to kiss you.
This one was different than the ones by the door.
Slower. Drunker, yes, but softer too. His lips were warm and heavy on yours, lingering there before moving properly, a little lazy with it, like he wanted to keep you in place more than he wanted to win. His hand slid from your waist to the back of your thigh, not squeezing now, just resting there.
You kissed him back because of course you did.
His mouth parted against yours with a quiet sigh, and for a second the whole room seemed to narrow to that—his bare skin under your hand, the rough drag of his stubble, the faint taste of liquor and mint and him.
He kissed like he always meant it. Even drunk. Even being trouble five minutes ago. There was always that undercurrent with Bucky, that sincerity sitting underneath all the filth and grabby hands and stupid mouth.
When you pulled away, he chased you an inch, eyes still closed.
You kissed him again before he could start talking.
You put a hand on his jaw and took your time with it, brushing your mouth over his once, twice, then deeper, letting him have something to settle him. His grip tightened low on your thigh. He made this low, hungry sound into your mouth that almost made you change your mind.
Almost.
You drew back enough to press one last kiss to the corner of his mouth, then another to his cheek, then his forehead because he looked so unfairly sweet sitting there half-undressed and staring at you like a dog about to be left at the shelter.
“Go to bed,” you murmured.
He exhaled hard through his nose. “Stay.”
“I have rehearsal at eight.”
“I’ll drive you.”
“You will be dead until noon.”
“I’ll set an alarm.”
“You’ll sleep through it.”
“I’ll set, like, six.”
That made you smile again.
He saw it and leaned into it immediately. “See? You’re smiling. That means yes.”
“That means you’re cute when you’re begging.”
He reached for you again, slower now, fingertips catching on the hem of your top like he couldn’t quite stop himself. “Baby.”
There it was. The sweet-talking voice. Lower. Softer. Not less manipulative, just prettier.
“Don’t make me stay in this house and sleep in this bed alone,” he said. “That’s evil.”
“You live here.”
“Still.”
You stared at him.
He stared back, like he knew exactly how shameless he was being.
Then, quieter, “C’mon. Sleep here.”
For a second you almost said yes just because of the way he was looking at you. Open and sleepy and a little pathetic. But then you pictured your guitar case, your sheet music, the walk of shame out of ΩΒC at seven-thirty in the morning, and the decision made itself.
You leaned in and kissed him one last time. Soft. Brief. Enough to make his eyes close.
“Goodnight, James.”
His face tightened a little at that, like he knew he lost.
“You’re heartless.”
“You’ll live.”
You slipped out of his hands before he could try again, reaching for the lamp.
“Don’t turn it off,” he said immediately.
You looked back at him.
He was already lying down, one arm thrown over his stomach, the other bent behind his head. Hair all over the place. Mouth still pink from kissing you. He looked wrecked and warm and deeply, deeply unsatisfied.
“Why,” you asked.
“So when you miss me in five minutes, you can still see where you’re going,” he said.
You snorted, shaking your head, and left the desk lamp on.
When you bent to pick up your bag, he was already watching you with that low, lazy look again.
“Walk away any slower and I’m gonna think you’re doing that shit on purpose.”
You didn’t even turn around. Just slung your bag over your shoulder and headed for the door.
“Go sleep.”
Behind you, his voice came rough and amused and filthy all at once.
“You’re lucky I’m drunk, sweetheart. Tomorrow I’m getting your mouth on me for this.”
You paused with your hand on the knob, smiling despite yourself. Then you glanced back over your shoulder, gave him a look, and pulled the door open.
“Goodnight, baby.”
He groaned like a man being sentenced as you shut the door behind you.
By the time you got back to campus, the night had that thin, weird quiet it always got after a party—like the city was still loud somewhere else, but your little stretch of NYU had started exhaling.
Your phone buzzed in your hand as you walked, screen too bright, your eyes too tired for it. You didn’t even read it. You just shoved it back in your pocket and kept going, moving on muscle memory and stubbornness, the world tilting slightly with every step.
Your breath tasted like cheap liquor and somebody’s fruity gum. Your stomach felt… suspicious. Not bad-bad yet. Just warning you. The kind of warning you should’ve listened to an hour ago.
The dorm lobby was fluorescent and rude. A couple of people were still coming in—heels in hand, laughing too loudly, hair sticking to their faces. The security guard barely looked up as you flashed your ID and pushed into the elevator.
When you finally got to your floor, the hallway smelled like laundry detergent and someone’s late-night ramen. Your keys took a second too long to find. You fumbled them once, swore under your breath, then got the door open and stepped inside—
—and froze.
There was a girl sitting in your living room.
Just sitting on the couch with her hands folded in her lap, a duffel on the floor by her feet, like she’d been there for a while and didn’t know what to do with her body.
Your brain did not immediately catch up. All it registered was; stranger in your dorm.
“What the fuck,” you blurted, voice sharper than you meant. “Who are you?”
The girl looked up like you’d yanked a string. Wide eyes, pale light catching in them. She startled so hard you saw her shoulders jump.
“I—” she started, then stopped. Swallowed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
That didn’t answer the question.
You stood there with your keys still in your hand like a weapon, heart beating too fast for how tired you were. The alcohol made everything feel a half-second delayed, like your body was reacting before your mind could assign labels.
The girl’s gaze flicked to your face, then away, then back again. Like she didn’t want to stare, but couldn’t help it. She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear with a nervous little motion.
“I’m… your new roommate,” she said, quieter this time. “Wanda.”
You stared at her.
Nothing. Just static.
Then your memory dragged itself out of the fog like it had to climb a wall to reach you.
New transfer. Email from housing. A name you’d skimmed while half-asleep between rehearsals. Something about the move-in date being “late” because of paperwork.
“Oh.” Your voice dropped instantly, heat rushing up your neck as embarrassment caught up. “Oh my God. Right.”
Wanda nodded like she’d been waiting for you to remember the same thing.
Up close, she really was pretty. She had that quiet, sweet face that made you instinctively want to be nicer than you were being.
And you had just opened with who the fuck are you.
You ran a hand over your mouth, blinking hard like you could clear your head by force. “Sorry. I— I thought you were, like… I don’t know. Somebody’s random.”
“It’s okay,” Wanda said quickly, like she meant it. Like she didn’t want you to feel bad. “It’s late. I should’ve— I didn’t know if you’d be home. They told me the key would work.”
“It’s fine,” you said, then immediately regretted how stiff it sounded and tried again. “No, seriously. It’s fine. I’m just— I’m drunk.”
Wanda’s lips parted like she might smile, then she seemed to think better of it. “Party?”
“Yeah.” You exhaled through your nose. “Welcome to NYU.”
She glanced at your shoes, your bag half sliding off your shoulder, the state of you. Not judgmental. Just taking in information. “I didn’t know if you’d be… like, mad.”
“I’m not mad,” you said, already forcing your voice into something warmer. Your ma’s voice lived in your head when you got like this. Be nice. Be normal. Don’t be the asshole. “I just got startled. Hi. I’m—”
You almost said your name, then stopped yourself, suddenly aware of your tongue feeling thick and your stomach giving another small, ominous roll.
Wanda waited, patient.
You pointed vaguely at yourself, murmuring your name. “Me. Your roommate. Sorry. I’m gonna be better in the morning.”
“I’m an art major,” she offered, still meek, still polite. “Photography.”
“Okay,” you said, nodding too hard like the motion might settle your insides. “That’s cool. I’m music.”
Wanda’s gaze flicked briefly to the corner where your stuff was—your case, the little signs of your life. It wasn’t invasive. Not yet. Just curious.
“Nice,” she said.
You took one step further into the apartment, and your stomach chose that exact moment to turn into a live wire.
Heat surged up your throat. Your mouth watered instantly.
Oh, no.
Your body did that awful thing where it gave you five seconds of warning and then started counting down like you had any say in the matter.
You clapped a hand over your mouth, eyes widening. “Sorry— I’m—”
Wanda’s posture shifted, concern flashing over her face. “Are you—”
“I’m fine,” you lied, already backing away. “I just— I need— give me one second.”
You turned toward the bathroom like your life depended on it, keys clinking in your fist, and you heard Wanda move like she might stand, like she might follow.
“It’s okay,” you said quickly, without turning back. “I’m okay. Just— I’ll be right back.”
You made it to the bathroom just in time, one hand braced on the sink, the other gripping the edge of the counter as the room swayed gently around you.
You woke up at seven on the dot like your body hated you on principle.
Your head felt packed with cotton. Your mouth was dry in that sour way that made you immediately regret every drink you could half-remember. You lay there for a second, staring at the ceiling, listening to the dorm breathe—pipes clicking, someone’s shower running down the hall, a door slamming two rooms over.
You swallowed, winced, then forced yourself upright.
The living room was tiny in daylight. It always was. At night it felt like a little pocket of safety; in the morning it was just a cramped space with mismatched furniture and textbooks stacked like someone had tried to build a wall and given up. A weak stripe of sunlight cut across the carpet through the blinds.
Wanda was already awake.
She was sitting on the couch with a mug in both hands, shoulders tucked in, hair loose and slightly messy like she’d slept light. She looked up when you came out, that same wide-eyed caution from last night, like she wasn’t sure what version of you she was getting this morning.
You paused, suddenly aware of how aggressively you’d greeted her seven hours ago.
“Hey,” you said, voice rough. “Morning.”
“Good morning,” Wanda answered softly.
You rubbed your forehead, then tried again, warmer. “I’m sorry about last night. I was… clearly a lot.”
“It’s okay,” she said quickly, “You were tired.”
“Drunk,” you corrected, walking toward the kitchenette. “I was drunk. There’s a difference.”
Wanda’s mouth twitched, almost a smile.
You opened a cabinet, realized you had no clean cups, stared at it like it had personally betrayed you, then grabbed a bottle of water instead. You took a long drink, eyes closed, and tried to reboot your brain.
When you looked back over, Wanda was still watching you.
“So,” you said, leaning against the counter. “Proper welcome. I’m happy you’re here. Dorms are… terrible, but at least it’s not lonely.”
Wanda’s fingers tightened slightly around her mug. “Thank you.”
You nodded, then added, “Also, if you ever see me stumbling in at midnight again, you have permission to ignore me.”
Her smile came properly this time, small but real. “Okay.”
You liked that about her—quiet, but not cold. Shy, but not stiff. It was kind of sweet.
You checked your phone. A notification from your rehearsal group. Another from Darcy with a dumb thumbs-up emoji and “u alive?” The brightness made you squint.
“I’ve got rehearsal in a bit,” you said. “But after, if you want, I can show you around. Like, actually show you around. Not the useless ‘here’s the library’ tour.”
Wanda’s posture changed at that. She lifted her head, eyes brightening a little. “Really?”
“Yeah. You just got here. You shouldn’t be stuck in this shoebox all day.” You hesitated, then added, “And it’ll make me feel less guilty for scaring the shit out of you last night.”
She let out a quiet laugh, like she hadn’t expected you to be funny.
“I’d like that,” she said.
“Good.” You pointed toward her mug. “Coffee?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. After rehearsal, we’ll do the whole thing. Food, buildings, whatever. You tell me what you need.”
Wanda nodded, then after a beat, asked softly, “Where are you from?”
You shrugged. “Queens.” Then you tilted your head at her. “What about you? Your accent—where’s it from?”
Wanda’s eyes flicked down for a second, then back up. “Sokovia.”
“Sokovia,” you repeated, like you knew exactly where that was.
You didn’t.
But you weren’t going to make her feel weird about it, so you just nodded like it was the most normal answer in the world. “That’s cool.”
You grabbed your bag off the chair and slung it over your shoulder, already feeling the clock in your chest. “Alright. If you’re serious about that tour—meet me at the music building around, like, ten-thirty? I’ll be there anyway.”
Wanda’s face lit up just a little. “Okay.”
“And Wanda?”
“Yes?”
You paused, then gave her a quick, honest smile. “Welcome. For real.”
She held your gaze for a second, then nodded, quiet again. “Thank you.”
By the time you met Wanda out of the dorm and in the middle of campus, the day had warmed up a little.
The city was doing what it always did—crowded sidewalks, bikes cutting too close, people rushing with coffee in one hand and their whole life in the other. Washington Square was busy without looking like it was trying. Music somewhere in the distance. Somebody skateboarding badly. A guy with a clipboard already bothering people before noon.
You walked a little ahead, then beside her, then ahead again whenever the sidewalk narrowed, talking the whole time in that easy, loose way you had when you were comfortable. Pointing things out without making it feel like a tour.
“That building looks nicer on the outside than it is,” you said, jerking your chin toward one of the stone facades. “Inside smells like wet paper and stress.”
Wanda glanced up, camera hanging from her neck. “Stress has a smell?”
“You’ll learn it.”
That got a small smile out of her.
She was still quiet, still careful, but not as frozen as she’d been this morning. Every so often she lifted her camera and took a picture—corners of buildings, light hitting the pavement, a girl smoking on a bench, two guys arguing over a cigarette like it was a moral issue. She never made a big production of it. Just saw something, raised the camera, clicked.
You noticed she was good at doing it fast.
Riri from one of your theory classes passed and pointed at you. “You alive?”
“Barely,” you called back.
She laughed and kept walking.
A few steps later, one of Bucky’s frat brothers, Luke came the opposite way giving you a nod and a “Hey, mama,” without breaking stride.
Wanda looked at you. “A lot of people know you.”
You shrugged. “Not really. I just know a lotta people.”
Then, after a beat, “Also a lot of people know my boyfriend, so it kind of spreads.”
“Your boyfriend?” she asked, trying to sound casual and not quite managing it.
You smiled a little. “Yeah. Bucky Barnes.”
You said his name like it explained something, then realized it didn’t.
“He’s in Omega Beta Centurion,” you added. “Loud, annoying, everywhere all the time. So people clock me by association.”
Wanda glanced at you. “You say that like you aren’t fond of him.”
“I’m very fond of him,” you said. “He’s just a lot.”
That made her smile again, smaller this time.
You took her past the student center, then toward the art buildings. “So what got you into photography?”
Wanda’s fingers moved over the camera strap. “I liked that I could keep things,” she said after a second. “A face. A moment. The way light looked somewhere. Before it changes.”
You looked at her. “That very… deep.”
She gave you a shy look, unsure if you were making fun of her.
You bumped her shoulder lightly with yours. “No, I’m serious. That was good.”
Her posture eased a little.
“And here I am,” you said, spreading a hand vaguely around at the street, “majoring in music because apparently I enjoy suffering publicly.”
Wanda let out a soft laugh.
“There we go,” you said. “That’s the most life I’ve seen in you all day.”
You were smiling when the camera clicked.
You blinked. “Did you just take a picture of me?”
Wanda had already lowered the camera, looking almost guilty. “I’m sorry—” She stepped closer and turned the screen toward you. “I hope that’s okay.”
You looked.
It was you mid-laugh, head slightly turned, sunlight cutting across your face, your expression open and unguarded in a way you never noticed in real time.
“Huh,” you said.
Wanda watched your face carefully. “Is it bad?”
“No.” You glanced at her, then back at the photo. “It’s actually… really nice.”
Something about that seemed to brighten her whole face.
“You’re good,” you said, starting to walk again.
The café was half a block off campus, small and always too full, with fogged-up windows and chipped little tables jammed too close together. It smelled like burnt espresso and sugar. Everybody ended up there eventually.
You pushed the door open for Wanda and nodded inside. “This is the spot. You need coffee, you come here. You need to cry over a paper, you come here. You need to see three people you were hoping to avoid, definitely come here.”
Wanda smiled faintly, eyes moving around the room.
You were in the middle of pointing out the back corner, where people camped for hours pretending to study, when an arm suddenly wrapped around your shoulders.
Your whole body gave the smallest start before you rolled your eyes. “Jesus Christ.”
Bucky just laughed against the side of your head, warm and very pleased with himself. “Hi, baby.”
You turned enough to look at him. Hair a mess, sunglasses pushed up on his head, gray sweatshirt hanging off him like he’d thrown it on five minutes ago and called it a day. He looked unfairly good for somebody who should’ve been face-down until mid-afternoon.
“I thought you’d be awake at, like, two,” you said. “This is very unsettling behavior.”
His arm stayed where they were, loose around your shoulders. Wanda had gone quiet beside you, shoulders drawing in a little.
You nudged Bucky with your elbow. “This is Wanda. My new roommate.”
That got him to glance over.
He gave her a quick nod. “Hey.”
“Hi,” Wanda said softly.
And that was it. No real warmth to it. No effort. His attention was already back on you.
“I was looking for you,” he said. “So… Stark’s having people up at his parents’ lake house this weekend.”
You made a face immediately. “No.”
He kept going like you hadn’t spoken. “Friday night into Saturday. Steve said he can drive, Sam’s coming, Nat too, whole thing.”
“No.”
“C’mon.”
“No.” You folded your arms. “I already know what that’s gonna be. Loud music, people getting high in Tony’s daddy’s kitchen, and me walking into a room by accident and seeing somebody getting fucked against a wall.”
Bucky’s mouth twitched. “Or maybe that could be us.”
You looked at him. “Can you not be disgusting for one minute?”
He just grinned, lazy and unbothered.
You were already shaking your head when he sighed and let his gaze slide to Wanda.
“Well, you’ve got responsibilities now anyway,” he said. “Can’t be selfish. Gotta show your roommate a good time.”
The second the attention landed on her, Wanda looked caught off guard.
Bucky leaned one shoulder against the counter, all easy confidence and charm. “You wanna go, right?”
Wanda blinked. “I—”
“It’s nice up there,” he said, talking right over her hesitation. “Lake, bonfire, people, food. Better than sitting in that dorm all weekend.”
You frowned at him. “Bucky.”
But he was still looking at her, smiling in that persuasive, mildly douchey way that worked on too many people.
Wanda glanced at you first, then back at him. “It sounds… nice.”
There it was.
You let out a slow breath through your nose. Bucky looked smug instantly.
“You’re such a jackass,” you muttered.
“Love you too,” he said, already dropping a kiss against your cheek.
Beside you, Wanda stayed quiet, but you could feel the shift in her—the way she’d pulled back the second he appeared, and the way she’d still agreed anyway.
When you got back to the dorm, the day had finally started catching up to you.
Your feet hurt. Your head still felt a little off from last night, though not enough to stop you functioning. The hallway outside your dorm was louder than it should’ve been for a Tuesday—somebody arguing over a charger, somebody else laughing too hard, a door opening and slamming again.
Inside, it was quiet.
Wanda had kicked off her shoes by the couch and tucked her legs up under herself, camera sitting beside her. The lamp was on, throwing that same soft yellow light over the room, making the whole place feel smaller and calmer than it was.
You dropped your bag by the chair and let out a breath. “Okay. I need to formally apologize for Bucky.”
Wanda looked up from where she’d been flipping through something on her camera. “You don’t have to.”
“No, I do.” You pointed toward her with two fingers. “Because he absolutely came in there acting like an ass.”
Her mouth twitched. “A little.”
“A little,” you repeated, then snorted and shook your head. “Most of the time he’s not like that.”
You paused.
Then you tipped your head, reconsidering.
“Okay. That’s not true. Most of the time he is kind of like that.” You glanced down, rubbing at the back of your neck. “But he’s harmless.”
Wanda watched you quietly.
You shrugged, moving toward the kitchenette for water. “He just has this… boy disease where he thinks if he says something with enough confidence, it stops being obnoxious.”
That got a small laugh out of her.
You looked over your shoulder. “See? You get it.”
Wanda lowered her eyes a little, still smiling. There was something almost girlish about the way she did that—like she wasn’t used to laughing openly yet.
You unscrewed the bottle and took a drink. “Anyway. You do not have to go to that party if you don’t want to. Seriously. Don’t let him talk you into anything.”
Wanda’s fingers traced lightly over the edge of the camera in her lap. “Are you going?”
You leaned against the counter, thinking about it.
You lifted one shoulder. “Most of my friends are going, so I’ll probably have to.”
“Have to?” Wanda echoed softly.
You smiled. “You know what I mean.”
She nodded.
Then, after a second, “I wouldn’t mind going. If I was with you.”
You looked at her properly then.
The way she said it wasn’t odd. It was shy, almost careful, like she was already braced for you to think she was being weird. But it just came off kind of sweet. A little nervous. New girl in a new city not wanting to get stranded at some giant party with a bunch of strangers and drunk idiots.
You laughed lightly, not at her, just at how earnest it sounded.
“Wanda,” you said, softer now, “I promise I won’t let you out of my sight.”
Something in her face eased at that.
“Okay,” she said.
You nodded, then pushed off the counter and reached for your phone. “Good. Then your first lesson starts then.”
Wanda blinked. “What lesson?”
You looked at her over your shoulder. “How to survive college kids near open water without dying of secondhand embarrassment.”
That made her laugh again, a little more this time.
Friday night came in with that low, restless kind of energy that made everything feel a little charged.
Your room was a mess from getting ready, makeup spread across the desk in that controlled mess you always swore you’d clean up later. You’d gone with a black dress almost on instinct—short, soft, thin straps, the kind that skimmed your body instead of hugging it too tight. Just enough skin to make Bucky stare and act stupid. The heeled boots finished it off.
You were leaning in close to the mirror, fixing the corner of your lip, when you heard Wanda moving around in the other room.
“Almost done,” you called, reaching for your gloss.
When you came back out, phone in one hand, you stopped.
Wanda stood near the couch looking unsure of herself in a plain top and jeans, like she’d gotten dressed for class and then tried to convince herself it counted. She looked pretty anyway. She just didn’t look like she was going to a lake-house party full of drunk idiots.
You caught yourself before your face could do anything rude.
Wanda noticed your pause immediately. “What?”
“Nothing,” you said too fast, then shook your head. “No, come here.”
She looked wary. “Why.”
“Because I’m fixing this.”
Her brows pulled together just slightly. “It’s that bad?”
“It’s not bad,” you said, already moving toward your closet. “It’s just not party. There’s a difference.”
You dug through hangers, then pulled out a dress you knew would work—dark, soft, a little clingy without trying too hard.
“Here,” you said, handing it to her. “Try this.”
Wanda looked at it, then at you. “I can’t wear your clothes.”
“You literally can. I’m handing them to you.” You softened your voice. “Borrow whatever you want, okay? I mean that.”
Something in her face shifted at that. Smaller. Quieter.
“Okay,” she said.
A few minutes later she came back out in the dress, and you looked up from your makeup bag and smiled before you could help it.
“There,” you said. “See?”
Wanda stood there awkwardly, one hand brushing over the fabric at her waist. “It feels strange.”
“It looks good.”
She glanced at you through the mirror. “You think so?”
“I know so. Sit.”
You pulled the desk chair out and patted it. Wanda sat, slow and obedient, and you stepped between her knees without thinking much of it, tipping her chin gently with two fingers so you could get a better look at her face.
This close, she was all soft skin and wide eyes, her perfume faint and clean, something powdery under it. You brushed a thumb under one eye.
“You don’t need much,” you murmured.
Her lashes lowered. “I don’t really wear makeup.”
“That’s fine.” You reached for the blush. “I do. So now you do too.”
That got a little smile out of her.
You worked slowly, steadying her face with one hand while the other moved. A brush over her cheekbone. Your fingertips at her jaw. The light touch of your thumb smoothing something near the corner of her mouth. Wanda stayed very still for you. You could feel her breathing every time you leaned in.
“There,” you said after a minute, reaching for mascara. “Look up.”
She did.
Your face was close enough now that you could see the different greens in her eyes.
“You’re very calm,” you said.
“I’m trying not to blink.”
You laughed softly. “That too.”
Your phone buzzed on the bed.
You glanced over without thinking and saw Bucky’s name bright on the screen.
u ready yet?
You smiled to yourself, just a little, and reached for it.
You didn’t see the way Wanda’s mouth tightened when your attention left her. Only for a second. Gone by the time you looked back.
“Sorry,” you said, typing quickly. “Bucky’s already being annoying.”
Wanda’s expression had smoothed out again, quiet as ever.
“Is he waiting?” she asked.
“Basically always,” you said.
Then you set the phone down and turned back to her, lifting the lipstick. “Don’t move.”
The lake house was exactly as obnoxious as you knew it would be.
Too big, too lit up, too many expensive cars lined up out front like a dealership for rich kids with bad judgment. Music spilled out over the lawn in waves, mixed with shouting, laughter, the sharp crack of somebody opening another beer. The whole place smelled like lake water, weed, charcoal, perfume, and whatever Stark’s catering guy had tried to class up before the brothers got to it.
You kept a hand on Wanda’s wrist as you led her through the side yard.
“Rule one,” you said, leaning closer so she could hear you over the music, “if somebody says ‘this edible ain’t shit,’ do not listen to them.”
Wanda looked over at you, half amused. “Okay.”
“Rule two, if you see a room with the door closed, keep walking.”
Her mouth twitched. “You’re not joking.”
“Never about that.”
The back deck was packed. People pressed around coolers and folding tables, girls in short skirts and heels, boys already too drunk in polos and backwards caps. Across the yard, a few people had wandered down closer to the water, where Thor was somehow louder than the speakers.
You pointed with your cup. “Okay. That’s Thor. Foreign student. Really nice, but if he asks if you want to do a shot with him, say no unless you hate yourself.”
Wanda followed your gaze.
Thor had one foot on a deck chair, shirt half unbuttoned, yelling something triumphant while Clint Barton recorded him on a camcorder like this was history worth preserving.
Wanda laughed under her breath.
“Exactly,” you said. “And over there—Sam. He’s the only one here with sense.”
Sam was by the grill, drink in hand, already looking tired of everybody. He saw you, lifted his chin in greeting, then looked at the girl beside you and gave her a warmer nod.
“Who’s this?” he asked when you got close enough.
“My new roommate, Wanda.”
“Sam,” he said. “I apologize in advance for whatever you’re about to witness tonight.”
A burst of shouting came from the dock. You looked over just in time to see John Walker trying to balance on the railing with a beer in one hand while MJ yelled at him to jump if he was going to jump already.
You winced. “And that is exactly the kind of thing I mean.”
Wanda watched, wide-eyed. “Does he do that often?”
“Too often. He thinks being from Georgia makes him immortal.”
You kept moving, weaving her through the crowd, leaning in now and then to murmur names and warnings.
“Natasha’s the pretty redhead pretending she doesn’t know anybody.”
“Darcy’s the one with big boobs and talking with both hands.”
“If Pepper gives you a look, ignore it, she does that to everyone.”
“And if you see Peter Parker anywhere near hard liquor, inform someone immediately.”
Wanda stayed close, listening to you with that quiet focus she always had. Every so often someone would stop you—classmate, friend, one of Bucky’s people—and you’d introduce her gently, keeping her at your side the whole time like you promised.
At one point she looked at you and asked, almost softly, “Do you know everyone?”
You smiled and shook your head. “No. It just looks like I do.”
Then you tipped your drink toward the house, where someone had started screaming along to a Ke$ha song from inside.
“Come on,” you said. “You haven’t even seen the worst of it yet.”
You’d managed, somehow, to get Wanda laughing.
She’d loosened up after a drink and an hour of watching other people embarrass themselves. You were standing off to the side of the deck, shoulder to shoulder, while she quietly pointed out a guy near the speakers who had been dancing with the confidence of somebody far more coordinated than he actually was.
“He’s been doing the same move for five minutes,” she said.
You looked over, snorted, and nearly spilled your drink. “That’s Scott Lang for you.”
Wanda smiled into her cup, pleased with herself.
That was when you felt it—warm hands landing on your hips from behind, familiar and shameless. You just rolled your eyes and let your head fall back a little. “There you are.”
Bucky’s mouth brushed the side of your neck, quick and lazy. He was shirtless for reasons known only to him and whatever bad decisions had already happened in the last hour, skin warm from the bonfire, hair messy, a little flushed, smelling like lake water, smoke, and alcohol.
“C’mon,” he said against your ear. “Wanna show you something.”
You turned enough to look at him. “No, you don’t.”
His brows lifted. “Yeah, I do.”
“You want to get me alone.”
He didn’t even bother denying it. Just gave you that look.
Behind your shoulder, Wanda had gone quiet again.
You caught that immediately and put a hand over Bucky’s where it rested on your waist. “I can’t leave her alone.”
Bucky looked past you then, finally giving Wanda more than a passing glance. His jaw shifted.
“She’s not a kid,” he said. Then, at you, with that impatient edge he got when he wanted something and hated waiting for it, “She doesn’t need a babysitter.”
You gave him a flat look. “Don’t be a dick.”
“I’m not being a dick.”
“You are exactly being a dick.”
He exhaled, already annoyed, fingers tightening once on your hip before he let up. “I’m saying she’ll live for a few minutes.”
You looked at Wanda. She was standing with both hands around her cup, expression small but composed.
“It’s okay,” she said quietly. “Really.”
You hesitated.
Then you touched her arm lightly. “I’ll be gone, like, ten minutes. Max.”
Wanda nodded.
“If anything gets too crazy,” you added, “go stand by Natasha. She acts mean, but she likes being needed.”
That got the tiniest smile out of her. “Okay.”
You looked at her another second just to be sure, then pointed once toward Nat across the yard. “Seriously. Hover.”
“I will.”
Only then did you let Bucky pull you in properly.
He took your hand and started leading you off the deck with zero patience, weaving through bodies like he’d already waited long enough. You stumbled once in your boots and caught his shoulder.
“Jesus, slow down.”
He looked back, smirking a little. “Thought you said we only had ten minutes.”
You rolled your eyes, but your grip tightened on his hand anyway.
The noise dropped off the second you stepped past the last line of trees.
It didn’t disappear—it just dulled. The music turned into a low, distant thump, voices blurred into something indistinct, like the party had been pushed underwater. Out here it smelled different too. Damp earth, leaves, a trace of smoke carried on the air.
Bucky didn’t slow down until he had you far enough in that the house lights barely reached.
“Okay,” you said, breath catching a little as you looked around. “This is already suspicious.”
He turned back to you, one hand still wrapped around yours, that crooked, familiar smile already pulling at his mouth. “Relax.”
“Anytime you say that, I get more concerned.”
“Yeah?” he said, stepping closer. “You don’t look concerned.”
You didn’t.
Your body had already caught up to where you were. The quiet, the way he was looking at you, the fact that you both knew exactly why he’d dragged you out here—it made something in your chest go light and sharp at the same time.
You shook your head a little. “You’re not getting what you think you’re getting.”
He huffed a laugh, low, like he’d heard that before.
“C’mon,” he murmured, and then he was kissing you.
His hands found your waist immediately, pulling you into him like he’d been waiting all night to get you alone. Your back hit the rough bark of a tree, the texture grounding you just enough to make everything else feel sharper—the warmth of his body, the way his mouth moved against yours, insistent and a little messy with it.
You kissed him back without hesitation.
His mouth opened against yours, and you felt the shift—deeper now, slower for half a second before it picked up again, his tongue tangling with yours, tasting like liquor and something sweet. You made a quiet sound into his mouth before you could stop it, your hands coming up to grip at his shoulders.
“Bucky—” you tried.
He didn’t really let you finish. Just dragged his mouth down your jaw, back up, then back to your lips like he couldn’t decide where he wanted you most. One of his hands slid lower, fingers pressing into your thigh through the fabric of your dress.
“You’ve been driving me crazy all night,” he said against your mouth.
“You’re always crazy,” you breathed.
“Not like this.”
His mouth was on yours again before you could answer, and it was easier not to. You leaned into him, let him pull you closer, let your fingers curl into his hair when he tilted your head just right.
Then his hand pressed higher on your thigh, urging, and you caught his wrist.
“We’re not fucking in the woods,” you said, breathless but firm.
He laughed against your lips, the sound low and warm. “I know.”
“You say that like you don’t believe it.”
“I’m choosing to believe I can change your mind.”
“You’re not.”
“Mm.” He shifted his weight, then without warning lifted your leg up around his waist, your body jolting closer to his. “We’ll see.”
“Bucky—”
But it came out thinner than you meant it to, because now you were balanced against him, his body solid between your legs, his hands holding you there like it was nothing. His mouth dipped back to yours, slower this time, almost coaxing.
“You don’t gotta think about anything,” he murmured. “Just stay right here with me for a minute.”
You exhaled through your nose, trying to stay annoyed, trying to hold onto whatever point you were making.
It slipped a little.
His mouth moved against yours again, not as rushed now. Intentional. He kissed you like he had time, like he wasn’t trying to get somewhere, just keep you right where you were. His thumb brushed over your thigh where it hooked around him, absentminded, grounding.
“See,” he said quietly, lips grazing yours. “You’re fine.”
“You are so—”
He kissed you again, cutting you off, and this time you didn’t try to finish the sentence.
For a moment, everything narrowed to just that—the weight of him, the press of his mouth, the quiet around you, the faint pulse of music far off like it belonged to another world.
You didn’t notice anything else.
Not the shift of something deeper in the trees. Not the stillness. Not the faint, almost delicate sound—
