bubu | she/her | 97' baby | Mexican born and raised baby! | ESP/ENG | Virgo
This blog primarily focuses on Bucky Barnes/Sebastian Stan, but you can also find me posting about Beyoncé, BTS, Marvel, DC, The Pitt and more. I rb what im currently reading + my own fics.
BTS biases: Yoongi, Taehyung. Wrecked by: Jungkook, Hobi
My blog contains 18+ NSFW content, minors and ageless blogs please do not interact. i am not responsible for your media consumption.
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| fluff 💕 angst 🥀 smut ❤️🔥 |
The Truth Untold | Mel King x Frank Langdon. wc: +3k | AO3 🥀
Love Drought | Bucky Barnes x reader. wc: +2.4k | AO3 🥀❤️🔥
Escape call | Bucky Barnes x reader. Bookstore AU. wc:+9.4k | AO3 💕🥀❤️🔥
The Sparrow and the Soldier Series Masterlist | Avengers!Bucky Barnes x batsis!reader. Marvel x DC AU. Series Completed. wc: +132K | AO3 💕🥀❤️🔥
All my stories are R18. I write smut, and I may touch sensitive topics or topics that are not intended to be read by minors.
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Masterlist
Pairing: Winter Soldier x F!Reader / Bucky Barnes x F!Reader
Warning/Tags: Major Angst, Light Domestic Fluff, Canon Type of Violence, HYDRA implied torture, Guns, Winter Soldier Killing Spree, Reader is kidnapped, Bucky goes Winter Soldier mode, use of drugs mentioned, Canon Divergence, Non Canon Compliant, a lot of names related to the comics or the MCU, but might be used incorrectly, If I'm missing any tags, I'll add them later.
Word count: ~13.2k (Well, things happened.)
Summary: Bucky, as the Winter Soldier, set you both free from HYDRA after you took care of him and tried to make his pain more bearable. And after spending some time living a normal life, you get kidnapped, and he brings his Winter Soldier mode back just to take you back.
Author's Note: This came from this request. First of all, thank you for trusting me to do this. This was quite an experience! I did plan this to be this long, and I'm sorry it took so long, but... between my life going on and that I wanted this to be perfect, I took certain liberties towards the end. I'm not sure what possessed me. Anywho, this was betaread by my lovely @herejustforbuckybarnes and partially betaread by my @kileyking. Thank you so so much for bearing with me on this one! This is certainly the project where I poured most of my heart. I just loved it so so so much!! Hope you all like it!
*Also, all the things in russian where translated and I know -0 of russian... so... sorry bout that
Being the best student did not seem like the worst case scenario when you were younger. Your parents always told you to be the best in whatever you did, and that’s how you ended up in the clutches of HYDRA intelligence.
You were in your first year as a full-time worker when you got kidnapped by them. They were a ghost story—something some scientists joked about. Nothing too serious. Everything seemed like a horror story straight out of Hollywood.
And there you were, after five years of being there, you were now Karpov’s assistant—and with that, you were also the scientist behind many of the decisions taken on the Winter Soldier Project. It was never your decision; you were kidnapped after a tiring shift at the lab. HYDRA had been watching you for several months, as a matter of fact, for years. Since you excelled at school, they noticed you, but they left you to develop your potential, helping you become one of the best in your field.
You were always under threat. Your family was constantly on watch—they were kind of merciful. They let you talk to them weekly. You had lied to them, telling them you were on a very secret project that needed all your attention and was out of the States. Not a complete lie if you overthought it. They didn’t really do it out of the heart; they did it because they needed a low-profile situation, and having someone of your profile being missing was not a low-profile thing. They knew your parents got the resources to start a search for you, and they weren’t risking anything.
You hated every part of it. From the mystery behind, the not-even dubious but illegal and unethical things you were part of—the inhuman things you did to people who just wanted to serve their country, and now were used as lab rats.
The Winter Soldier Project was not new. It had been active since World War II—elite people choose carefully. Every one of them was studied, where found and picked. From the first in their clutches to the last recluded. If you could have called recluded to the kidnapping reclusive. They were enhanced with a Super Soldier Zerum that Dr. Arnim Zola replicated, thanks to Johann Schmidt. You learned all about it through conversations people around you held, not because you really wanted to know about it.
People around you always talked about the Prisoner #56898, HYDRA’s fist—their best soldier for decades. The man who was held in a cryostasis.
You knew how it worked. You had helped improve the cryogenic stasis that preserved the bodies of all the subjects involved in the project. But you never really knew him until he was activated again. You were handed his folder and read what you needed to know about him to understand what you were handling.
“James Buchanan Barnes. Prisoner #56898.”
“State: Active.”
He was not seen as a person anymore. None of the soldiers cryoginized were seen as such—but as weapons, assets, not more than living weapons.
You were in charge of “patching” them up. If you could even call it that. You just cleaned up their wounds or bloodstains and sent them back to be preserved.
You analyzed their metrics, saved up on an inner system their body counts, what mission they went through, and how to enhance them for the next mission, and reviewed the way their bodies reacted to different injuries and levels of pain.
You hated it even more.
You hated to stare at people who were clearly suffering, and you just had to analyze how their heart rate raced or how long it took for their bodies to heal from an almost fatal cut, a bullet gone through. And it was worse when Alexander Pierce—a man who you knew for being a very respectable politician—started to be more active. They started to use more The Project Winter Soldier—and with it, they brought back James Buchanan Barnes—The Winter Soldier.
“You need to review his stats. He’s been inactive for a long time, and the last mission was almost lethal.” You walked behind Karpov and Pierce, just nodding and typing on the device you got to keep a record of all your assets, as they called them.
“James Buchanan Barnes. Chronological age, 30. Perfect shape and state. Dr. Zemo’s enhancing. Healing with a time rate of twenty-four to forty-eight hours if not deep enough.” You started reciting the information the device threw at you.
“Great. You gotta record now how much pain the asset handles before breaking down—he hasn’t been wiped out, he might be relentless and erratic, you would be checked up on from afar.”
You knew they were lying. You saw other scientists being told the same, and they were torn apart in a split second before anyone could notice—and you always kept in mind that the probability of you dying because of one of the assets was bigger than being killed by these men in front of you.
You were in a makeshift office—more like a cell—typing on a computer while they talked about the most important mission he would face. He was assigned to kill every kind of person Pierce saw as an enemy, and the only man able to do that was James Buchanan Barnes.
He had just killed a congressman who was stuck up his nose a bit more than what they liked, and he was so well secured that the asset got injured almost fatally. He was tied on a stretcher with a bulky machine surrounding him.
When you were finally in front of him. Your heart clattered in your chest. He had his face completely swollen—but he looked young, maybe in his thirties, when he was first held captive. You learned he was born in 1917, and he was captured during World War II. He was the first man ever enhanced with the first Super Soldier serum that Zola had recreated back in time. He had been active and preserved since then—brainwashed, mind wiped every mission, or every time he got cryoginized.
He was grunting in pain, squirming, restrained under the belts around his body. You took your voice recorder and pressed the button.
“Asset Number five, six, eight, nine, eight.” You were about to say his name—you knew it was useless. You checked the computer connected to the machine. “Asset presents high pain resistance. No pain-killers, no medicine, nor vials in its system.”
You were hiding your teary eyes. His grunting was louder than your thoughts—you could see his cuts bleeding, and his swollen face. He growled like an animal—the belts around him barely restrained his movements, but were enough not to set him free. He never even asked for help. He had probably learned it did nothing.
You spent the next thirty minutes recording on your devices—typing, speaking, analyzing him. And, finally—and sadly—he finally broke down. He shut down, and his head tilted forward. Sweat and blood mixed, running down his face, droplets falling to the floor.
You had seen that kind of reaction before; his voice had surrendered from the pain.
A speaker was turned on, “Good job, doctor. Now, patch it up and send it to the cell.”
“No cryo?” You asked out loud.
“Not yet.” The connection was turned off.
You knew the protocol. They were gone by the moment you saved up your updates. The last person there had already left, and now it was your turn to clean him up. You walked slowly.
“Mr. Barnes, I’m gonna clean you up.”
You barely knew their names, but when you did, you tried to use them. It was useless—they were wiped out almost immediately, so telling them their names didn’t serve any purpose.
He didn’t respond.
You found the cleaning kit and started to clean up his face—even in the swollen state, his beautiful features could be appreciated. The rag came with a crimson, clear liquid. He finally snapped awake and stared at you. Blue bloody eyes locked on you.
“Mr. Barnes, I’m not here to hurt you. I’m just gonna clean you up and send you to your cell.”
Still no response.
After some minutes, you finished your task. He was all cleaned up and ready. “Ready.” You shout.
No answer on the intercom.
They really thought you weren’t going to survive this. They weren’t even there waiting to see it.
You walked to the second floor, where you knew it would be more likely to find a guard.
The asset was already passed out. There was no threat to be careful of.
You knocked on the door for almost five minutes when hurried steps could be heard on the other side of the door.
Rumlow opened the door.
“What a surprise,” Pierce said, smiling with a hint of pride. “Go to your cell, doctor. You did well.”
You nodded and walked away from their sight. After almost five years there, you had some sort of privileges and were able to walk without a watchman by your side.
They didn’t tell you, but after that, you were designated as his personal handler—and that made it worse for you. You couldn’t handle his groanings, the way he didn’t even talk to you when you tried to comfort him. Like he didn’t know what it meant.
Because, for what you had learned at that point, he didn’t know what it was to be comforted. You learned that he was a sergeant back in time, one who excelled at everything—and that’s why they chose him. It was not deliberate. He was a target from the beginning.
And, because of that—he was now basically a hundred-year-old weapon disguised as a human. By the third time you were taken to him to patch him up, your bosses started to become reckless—letting you alone with him, not paying attention to what you did or how you cleaned him up. Why would they need to do that? You had been nothing but complaining to them.
The first time you did something against the rules was small.
You took some painkillers from the infirmary and snuck them into the chamber where they kept him.
You knew you could get killed, and he could be reprimented even worse.
You were patching him up, blocking the view from the window where you knew they should be. They weren’t there, and you knew it. They were never there. But you still wanted to be careful.
“Open up, sergeant.” You mumbled and made him open his mouth. He complied and swallowed what you put in his mouth. “It’s a very strong painkiller. It’s gonna help you.”
He grunted. You took it as a thank you.
After that, it became a habit for you to bring pills or whatever thing you could to ease his pain. You couldn’t do any more without raising suspicion.
You had a routine—arriving at the chamber, preparing what you needed, starting recording, and when you were about to clean him up, you put the pills on his mouth.
But you noticed something.
He was starting to groan and grunt less. Every session, it seemed like it was less painful for him, but that put him into more distress. The more resistant, the more danger he was put into.
In the last session, you noticed he was even more hurt—his cuts and bruises were deeper and getting worse. So you did the math—if your records showed he was resisting more, he would be taken into worst scenarios.
He was being used back-to-back. No resting between missions, no wipeouts, no preps. Just healing him as much as you could and easing his pain.
So, in the last session, you risked it all. You finished your recording and analysis and started your routine. You had brought a vial from the infirmary—this was the strongest thing you knew of. And those injuries were in great need of care.
“Sergeant,” you mumbled, leaning closer. You took out the vial from the waistband of your sweatpants, which you were forced to use, “This is gonna hurt as hell. You gotta pay attention. Blink twice if you understand.”
He blinked twice slowly.
“Thank you.” You put the vial out and looked at him, “If this hurts, please make all the noise you need. Don’t silence it. Please. It’s gonna help as soon as the burning feeling fades away.”
You knew he hated vials and syringes; you had seen how he reacted when someone approached him with one of them. How violent he became as soon as they pinched his skin.
You injected it into his arm as fast as you could, and as soon as you noticed the liquid traveling and burning his veins, he let a groan out and tried to fight back the pain.
“They're putting you in more pain because my metrics showed that you're getting stronger and that you can handle more pain. So I need you to stop doing whatever it is you're doing so you don't show pain on the machine.”
“Ty. Ty—to, chto pomogayet mne.” "You. You are what helps me."
It was the first time he ever spoke back to you. It had been months of you talking, mumbling, ordering, explaining—and he had never spoken back to you. You were taken aback but really tried not to scare him.
“I wish I spoke Russian, sergeant. I’m not that intelligent.” You tried to joke, a twitching smile left your lips unconsciously, but you didn’t see any kind of reaction from him.
But before you could say something, he started to grunt again—the machine behind you was beeping loudly. You didn’t want to, but you smiled.
The man behind all that brainwashing was still fighting.
You stepped back and started recording the spike on his metrics.
That helped for the next missions—he was put in less dangerous missions—not because they cared about him, but because they needed to keep him in his best shape. But, despite him being less in danger, something in the air made you know something was coming. Everyone was being more reckless than you were used to.
After that last time, you refused to refer to him as Asset. You hated it. At least for you, and to keep some sort of humanity on him, mentally, you started to call him James. It was best for your heartache—even when you worked for them, you were not like them. They were not weapons for you, and you wanted to make that difference at least in your heart.
James was sent to more missions than you could keep track of—they didn’t even ask you to keep track of them anymore.
You were waiting for your monthly meeting with Karpov and Pierce when you noticed the door of his office was open. You leaned to eavesdrop.
“… That’s gonna be its last mission—He’s gonna eliminate Fury, then we’re putting it in cryo, and after that we’re gonna forget about it. We don’t need that liability after killing Fury.”
“He’s getting weaker—the last metrics had shown his pain resistance is less and less with each passing mission.”
Your blood ran cold through your veins. Sometimes you would forget they don’t see him—them as humans, they were just that… assets. No more.
You stood still again on your chair as you waited for any of them to come for you. You knew even if you were breaking inside, they couldn’t know you were helping their best asset, their best fits—they couldn’t know you saw him as a human being after all.
The meeting was as common as the hundreds you’d had over time, but for the first time, you noticed they seemed erratic—they were even anxious about something happening. But between the Insight Project and the many missions James had been through, you could understand they could be relentless.
You were in your lab, and there were no new projects to work on, which was not completely out of the routine. From time to time, they needed to test the multiple projects you had worked on, and they needed time before approving them or sending them back.
Rollins stepped in, “Asset needs a clear-up. It’s going on a mission.”
“What happened?”
“He’s erratic. Pierce needs a clear-out before continuing.”
He stood still on the threshold of the lab. You knew what it meant. They had never asked you to do a clear-up before a mission—this could only mean one thing. You were not prepared. This could be the last time you could ever see him, and it made a pain grow in your chest, and it also meant you were not going to be as alone as you were used to when you worked with him.
You walked through the cold hallways of the building, and you arrived at the chamber—he was restrained on his usual stretcher; for the first time, you saw him completely connected to the machine. He was about to be wiped out, and they wanted to be sure it was not going to have any repercussions.
He looked down—he had been so long without his brain being washed out that he started to develop a hint of humanity, but even there, he knew it would be a death sentence to try to engage with you in this situation—if you could even call engaging the russian answer he gave you some weeks ago, and the nods or shakes of his head.
You were in front of him with your device—typing on, checking spikes, heart rate changes, lab test results, everything you were hired to check up on him.
“I’m so sorry.” You mumbled, it was almost inaudible, and he twitched a finger in response. You leaned closer to review some wire connections behind the machine, and with that move, he was able to touch your leg with his finger. It was fast, barely a move, but it made you almost break down.
“Hang tight, Sergeant Barnes.” You mumbled before coming back into your initial position, “Inspection completed. Asset in perfect condition and ready to comply.”
“You can leave the chamber, doctor.” You nodded and gave him a last look.
His gaze was fixed to the front, but he gave you a fast flicker in his eyes that was almost like a silent farewell.
You were putting the papers away with his new records when the rest of the team of scientists and lab techs walked in. Pierce was in front of them.
You were hurried to leave when you heard the last part of the conversation.
“But I knew him…” He mumbled for the first time in English—and your heart clattered once again in your chest. That broken voice shattered your heart into pieces.
“Prep ‘em.”
It was the only thing you heard before you walked out. Then, the machine being turned on, and his growls of pain. You wanted to step in, to ask for mercy, but you knew these people didn’t have a single bone of humanity—you would be dead before you could even reach Pierce's peripheral vision.
That night, you couldn’t sleep—your chest ached, your mind couldn’t stop repeating his finger barely touching the fabric of your sweatpants. All the work done had gone down the drain—he was now gone. Even with your vision clouded, you knew that your kind gestures towards him were not stronger than the machine that washed up his mind.
Days later, the building was tense—it had been like that since James left for the mission. The last thing you knew was that Sitwell was down. James had killed him after betraying HYDRA.
Two days after, you were sitting in your lab pretending you worked on something—until you heard it. Rumlow was talking to his intercom while he walked into your lab.
“You need to seize the asset.” He informed you.
You jumped on your spot. You were internally celebrating he was still alive—hadn’t he accomplished his mission? You walked behind Rumlow and three other men.
He was there, but his mind was not there anymore. The man you had helped to reach out for his humanity again was not there anymore. It was now gone.
You walked in and stood in front of him.
You could see it, you were not crazy, you could see that resemblance of humanity you had been seeding on him for the last few months. It was there. You really wanted to believe it was there.
“Asset Number five, six, eight, nine, eight.” The voice recorder was in your hand, and you left it on the silver table next to the machine.
You noticed he was silent—he hadn’t been injured on the mission. Maybe a successful mission?
The machine analyzing his vitals kept going while you reviewed every movement he made. The machine gave you back some papers—everything normal—but his heart rate. His heart rate spiked from time to time.
“I need to run a few more tests,” You shouted to be heard on the other side of the wall.
“Go ahead, doctor.” A voice you didn’t care to recognize responded.
You ran the machine again—you wanted to prove something, maybe to you, maybe for you.
First test—you stood still on the side of the computer. Out of his main point of view. His heart rate lecture came back normal.
Second test—you started the machine and walked to stand in front of him. Your tablet on your arm to disguise as if you were reviewing his movements and saving up information.
The heart rate spiked as soon as he locked eyes with you.
He was there. Something was there, and this was the only confirmation you needed. You walked towards him and leaned on him to fix some wires that were plugged into some curved pads around his body. “Welcome back, Sergeant Barnes.” You mumbled. His finger twitched on your side, giving you a faint touch.
Walking back to the machine, you responded. “Asset’s inspection done.”
“You can now leave, doctor.” You nodded and gave him a light and fast look.
You were walking through the hallway when you heard Rumlow talking to Rollins.
“Now it’s supposed to find Rogers and Romanoff now—that’s why they are inspecting it.”
He did kill the said Fury. Why was he kept alive just to kill Steve Rogers and Natasha Romanoff?
This was probably the last time you would see him alive, and you didn’t even realize it.
Radio silence for at least two more days. People had stopped working—everyone was hanging around trying to find ways to escape since most of the leaders were nowhere to be seen. You had no faith. You knew someone new would eventually come and take back the leadership—and then, if you didn’t get killed by the new leaders, you would be asked to do horrid things again.
You had been awake for the last twenty-four hours. You didn’t know what was worse. To be awake waiting for something, or to sleep knowing you could never wake up. Then, you heard a commotion on the other side of the building. It was loud, and it seemed to be getting closer.
“Soldat.” You heard someone yelling. You stood up—had the other prisoner gone free and were on a killing spree?
You hid on a corner—curled up, waiting for something to happen, and then you saw him. James was there. Injured, face swollen, shattered gear suit, he seemed… tired for the first time you had seen him. He ripped open the grid and walked towards you.
You shut your eyes, trying not to look at him when he eventually killed you. You didn’t understand why, but you were sure the man you had been taking care of was not there anymore. But instead, you felt how he pulled you by your wrist.
“Begat'.” “Run.”
He pulled you until you were out of the cell. He gave you a mobkey for a car.
“North wing. No look back. I’ll find you.” He ordered you. You nodded and started running.
You didn’t know this place—where to find anything, what to do—nothing at all. But you knew you needed to escape as fast as you could.
There was not a single soul who was not running; everyone was trying to find their way out, and you did the same. When you were finally on the north wing, you saw the window he had probably broken to get in. You ran towards it and found a door that was almost in pieces.
A car was waiting for you. You didn’t understand why, but you trusted him enough to know the car couldn’t be a kind of tramp or being watched.
You turned the engine on and drove as fast as you could—the place was a disaster, glasses all over the place, somehow smoke and fire was sorrounding the building, screams and people running filled all your senses—but you never stopped until you finally left HYDRA’s land, literally the middle of nowhere was the only thing your eyes could catch—and on the other side of the road, you saw dozens of trucks with “SHIELD” logos on them.
You felt it close. You knew HYDRA had infiltrated SHIELD, and you weren’t there to find out if those trucks were friends or foes.
A sudden shake in the car made you lose control—your door opened, and James was looking down from the car roof. He tilted his head. You tried to move without leaving the car wheel unattended. Before you noticed it, he was already sitting and steadying the car.
“What did you do?!” You asked, looking back—the place was completely on fire.
“Rest.” He mumbled, gaze fixed on the road. “I’ll wake you up.”
“Sleep?” You sounded astonished.
“Yes. Long trip. Sleep.”
“You’re bleeding. I need to check your injuries.”
“Later.”
You sighed and curled up in your seat. The tiredness of twenty-four hours with no sleep was catching up to you, and you fell asleep immediately.
The adrenaline of the moment hadn’t washed over him—he still needed to take you out of the US before anyone found you had survived the fire. His mind was focused on only one thing—protecting you. You were the only person in seventy years who had shown him a glimpse of mercy, and he needed to give you back the life they had probably taken from you.
Hours later, finally, the hunger and pain woke you up. Your eyes adjusted to the bare light that came through a taped window, and you noticed you were in a safe house—more like a warehouse. James was nowhere to be seen, but you knew he wouldn’t have gone through all this mess just to toss you in whatever place he could have found.
You were trying to stand up, but your body had finally lost the battle. You lied down waiting for him.
Some minutes later, you heard him coming, his heavy boots echoing through the whole building.
“Take this.” He handed you some canned food. He stood there looking at you while you sat painfully on the mattress that you were lying on.
“James, can you sit down?” You looked up at him. He frowned at you. “Just sit, you don’t have to wait for any order. Just sit next to me.”
He knelt in front of you, his hands resting on his lap. His face was still swollen, and some cuts were covered with dried blood. You took some of the food and handed him the can.
“Take some too.” He didn’t move immediately. “Am I gonna have to be repeating myself very often, right?”
He grunted and took the can from your hand. You looked around and saw a black duffel bag. You crawled to it and found a kit aid there. You crawled back, dragging the duffel bag through the floor. He was still kneeling, eating slowly, looking at you, trying to decipher what you were doing. You took out some alcohol and rags to dampen them.
You knelt too in front of him, and you leaned over him, “Can I?”
He furrowed his eyebrows.
“I’m gonna clean you up. Can I do it?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you,” You started cleaning him up, working on his face with the rags; he didn’t even flinch at the burning feeling of the alcohol sanitizing his injuries. “Great.”
He left the empty can on the floor.
“What’s next now, James?”
“Why James?” He finally questioned you.
“That’s your name.” You knitted your brows in the middle, “James Buchanan Barnes. Sergeant in World War II.”
“Bucky.” He mumbled back.
“Huh?”
“A man that I saw in the last mission. He kept calling me Bucky.” He tried to remember the whole situation. His mind still tricked him into forgetting things after a while. “I think he knew me… He told me that exact name there.”
“Do you want me to call you like that?” He nodded. You said your name, and he nodded once again. “Bucky would be, then.”
A sepulcral silent filled the space.
“What’s next, Bucky?”
“Take you home.” He admitted.
“No!” You stood still, “Please don’t… My parents… they must be in danger, and they will be even more if I reach out to them…”
He didn’t answer.
“Let me go with you… I don’t care where you go. If you let me, I’ll follow you.”
“Why?” He hoarsed.
“You came back for me, didn’t you?” He nodded, “Well… you must trust me as much as I trust you. That means we should keep each other company. Now, what’s next?”
For the first time, you noticed he didn’t know what to say—his facial expression gave him away.
“What do you know about yourself?”
His eyes showed real fear.
“Not much.”
You remembered that Rumlow had mentioned Rogers—you were sure they meant Steve Rogers.
“The name Rogers rings a bell with you?”
“No.”
“I’m sure finding out about him would give us more information than we think. How much can we stay in the States?”
“We have to leave tomorrow.”
“Enough…” You pursed your lips, “Can you find some cover-ups for both of us?”
He nodded. You were getting tired of his three-word sentences and physical answers, but you also knew these were his first freely spoken words. He tilted his head to the duffel bag—there you found some clothing for males and females.
“How far are we from the Smithsonian?”
“ETA of twenty by car.” He answered immediately—like something was ignited in him.
“And do we have a car?” Another nod. “Let’s get ready, and we can leave this place as soon as we find some more answers.”
You stood up and took the clothes out of the bag. “Where can I get changed?” He tilted his head as if he didn’t understand the answer.
You sighed and closed your eyes. This was going to be the biggest learning curve you were about to face. “Stay here and change, I’m gonna find some spot to change too.”
You were walking with him by your side. He was wearing a black shirt, a flannel, and a denim jacket over it—you had almost the same outfit, he looked almost uncomfortable dressed as a civilian, but it was the only way to not take the spotlight with his metal arm.
“Bucky,” You mumbled, “I’m gonna take your hand, is that alright?” You looked up at him.
“Why?”
“PDA makes people uncomfortable.”
“PDA?”
“Public Display Affection.”
He furrowed, but offered his hand. He trusted you; he was sure you would survive even more than him in a more normal environment. You took his hand, and finally, that finger you had only felt through clothed skin was now tangled with yours. His very calloused hands felt warm—really warm at your touch. You closed your eyes before him just for a second. The warmth of his hand helped you to remind yourself you were now… almost safe. Or at least freed from HYDRA—and he was not being used as a human weapon anymore.
“Where are we going?” He looked down, and for the first time, you could see his blue eyes being enlightened by the sunlight. They were ocean blue. Deep. You could get lost in them even when they didn’t show too much.
“To find out who you are.”
You were now in front of the National Air and Space Museum. You pulled him by his hand and walked directly to Captain America’s exhibition.
You finally found what you needed—his exhibit. A photo of a younger him stared back at you, too. You looked at him, and he looked perplexed. You were mesmerized at the sight—he was full of life in that photo. Guessing by the years, he was at most twenty-seven. He still believed in a country that had never forgotten about him, that had declared him a hero even when he was outside, controlled by HYDRA. But looking at him, now, next to you. You realized you weren’t even sure if he had looked at himself in all these years—or if he could be able to even recognize himself after all.
“Is that me?” He looked at you.
“A younger you, but yes.”
“A fallen comrade. James Buchanan ‘Bucky’ Barnes.”
You could hear through the speakers: Barnes is the only Howling Commando to give his life in service of his country.
“Something here now rings a bell?” You asked again.
“Barely.”
“We would get to it eventually.” You looked closer at the exhibit.
“1917 - 1944”
“You’re ninety-seven years old.” You murmured.
“What year is it?”
“Two thousand fourteen.” You said, as if it hurt your throat. You hated to display all this information this fast to him. Yes, he had been put out of cryo all these years—but why would someone care to inform a weapon what year it was, or how long he had been frozen?
He sighed. “We are done.”
Walking away from that exhibit, you followed him, trying to match his pace, “Did you remember something?”
He swallowed, “No.”
He was not ready to admit that, since he snapped at the helicarrier, some blurred memories had come back into him—they felt too real to just avoid them, and standing up in front of what seemed his past. Even less, when you were there by his side—when you trusted him to be the person who would keep you alive and safe, when he had taken you out from HYDRA’s facilities. He didn’t have the chance to break down when you depended on him at this moment.
“Now what?” You hurried your steps.
“Leaving for Alaska.”
That was the last thing he told you until you arrived at the warehouse. You had to understand from time to time that he was getting accustomed to being free. To speak even if he was not spoken to or ordered to speak. You were looking through the window while Bucky drove back to the warehouse. When you arrived, the warehouse felt like a strange kind of home between you two.
“Sleep a bit. I’ll wake you up when we need to leave.” You furrowed.
“I don’t wanna sleep, I’m fine.”
“Sleep.” He hoarsed.
“Fine. I’ll sleep.”
You lay down and curled up on the mattress, and the tiredness of days and days fighting for your life finally caught up. During the night, Bucky didn’t sleep at all; his instincts kept him awake, checking that no one had found your traces or that you were sleeping well. He didn’t even sit to rest. And by the first ray of light, he took you in his arms and placed you in the seat. You didn’t even realize you had been moved until your ears were covered with a headset and you were buckled up in the copilot seat. Multiple questions came to your mind, but you knew who he was. He had been the biggest weapon HYDRA had had for decades—he knew all the resources, even the ones that weren’t easily reachable.
“Where are we going?” You mumbled, scratching your eyes carefully.
“Bucharest.” You bit your lip when he answered.
“How the hell are we gonna get there just in this thing?” You looked at him. “Not that I doubt your capacities…”
“We are going to Anchorage, Vladivostok, Moscow, Sochi, and then Bucharest.” He mumbled. “Train, car, sail…”
“Oh.”
Anchorage was the easiest part; a ship took you from there to Vladivostok. You stayed there for a week between safe houses, Bucky not trusting any place he had learned in his active years with HYDRA, and making you rest enough to be ready if you had to run away. He had prepared himself, and you really wanted to ask when he planned this… He even had a safe house there waiting for you in the middle—a place that wouldn’t set off any alarms as soon as you arrived. This was somehow better than the ones you saw in Canada and the States.
“Have to fix something before departure.” He said as soon as you sat in the bed you found.
“Oh… Can’t I… go with you?”
“Sleep. I’ll be back before you even wake up.”
“Bucky, I don’t need that much sleep. How much do you think they let me sleep back there?”
He stared blankly at you.
“Just come back, please.” He nodded and stepped away.
You weren’t even sure why you were following his lead, but you were both the only ones who had shown some humanity back in HYDRA, and maybe both of you were holding onto a string of fate built by traces of mercy, and maybe you could even help him to find answers he needed. At least, you knew who you were before all of this, but the only thing he had had was a name on a museum and some very old and grainy photos.
Hours later, he came back with a new duffel bag. You wanted to know where he was getting all his resources, but you also knew you were not going to have an honest answer even if you asked for it. He opened it in front of you, and some new clothes and a fake ID with your name on it appeared—passports, fake documents that could help you to get wherever he was taking you.
“Thank you, Bucky.” He slightly knitted his eyebrows in the middle. “Can I ask where you get all of this?”
He shook his head. “Best not.”
The train to Moscow was kind of relaxing. He had placed you in a window seat, and he chose one far from you. Security matters, he said. And when you arrived in Moscow, he picked you up thirty minutes away from the train station. It had been almost two weeks after he set you free from HYDRA, and now he was taking you God knew where just to make sure you were going to be safe.
“Another safe house?” You asked when you got into the car. He nodded. “Have you had any memory back?”
“No.” Dryly, he answered.
“When we get to Romania, I’ll find a way for you to communicate with your parents.” He answered without looking at you.
You had surrendered to the idea that they would believe you had died, but the fact was that no one knew you were at HYDRA’s facilities. They had taken care of it in such a way that made everyone believe you had just gotten tired of social media—and now you had been MIA for almost two or three weeks.
“Would it be a good idea?” He didn’t answer.
The house in Moscow was, in fact, a house. A small one, but it had a stove and a real bed.
“We will be here for some days until I find what I need. Two more stops and we will arrive at our destiny.”
“Why that many stops?”
“I needed to be sure no one had followed us.”
“Bucky, can I ask you for something?” He nodded, “Real food. I can even cook… I just… I’m tired of canned food.”
He furrowed. You realized you were asking for something he probably hadn’t even had. You looked over the window and saw a small store just a block away.
“Look. Do you see it? I can buy some food to cook for us.” He gripped your wrist.
“No.” His grip was strong, and you whimpered at the feeling.
“Bucky, you’re hurting me.” You cried out, and he snatched his hand from you as if your skin had burned him. “I don’t have to go on my own. We can go together, I just want real food.”
He moved carefully and found a statch of bills buried in his duffel bag.
And that’s how a play-pretend started. It didn’t last long, but you were happy to have a small, almost normal interaction with him. Something you both could feel like something warm and real.
You could even notice how he was walking more lightly. Like all the weight he carried on his shoulders was getting lighter by the day. Like he was starting to trust you and not just the person who had tried her best not to abuse him, as everyone he knew did.
But Moscow only lasted a week after taking a second train. This time, he sat just behind you and just made you walk for some minutes before meeting him to leave for yet another safe house.
‘Dobro pozhalovat' v Sichi' 'Welcome to Sochi.'
Sochi was small and beautiful. It made you kind of homesick, but it was only a connection to the Black Sea. You needed to ship to Romania, and he was there just to find a connection to take you there as fast as possible. He didn’t even take you to a safe house. The truck he had there was big enough for you to sleep in the back for a night before leaving for the Greater Sochi Area. A costline where he met a man who was bribed to take you directly to Bucharest.
And after what seemed an eternity. You arrived at Bucharest.
The day you arrived at Bucharest, you learned the place you were heading to was Rahova, a small neighborhood located in the southwest part of the city. The man Bucky had hired explained everything to him in Romanian, but you caught some of his words when broken English slipped through their conversation.
When you arrived at a very old and neglected building that could have been a very beautiful hotel back in time. Bucky walked through the reception area and went upstairs. You followed him silently. You knew he was getting tired; you could see it in his eyes. You had seen him months prior, and you could see the exhaustion in his eyes, finally catching him up.
He carried two duffel bags and a backpack that he had never taken off him. When you finally arrived at a very dusty and old room, he tossed the bags on his side and sighed.
“Are we finally done escaping?” You looked up at him while you locked the door. He finally nodded.
You couldn’t believe it—and the first thing you did was to hug him. Your arms enclosing his neck, tears dampening your cheeks, sobbing uncontrollably. His arms were on his side, confused, giving him away on the fact that he didn’t know how to react.
“I owe you my life, and I’ll spend the rest of it helping you to find who you are. We are going to recover every piece of it, and you will learn who you are.” You were sobbing, and out of instinct, he enclosed your body with a strong grip.
And for the next months, that’s what you did, you kept your word and found everything you could to make him feel like he was someone. He now owned the name “Bucky”. He learned that he was friends with Steve Rogers back in time. Not just a friendly camaraderie, but a strong connection they shared since the last of their days as they knew them. You helped him to learn more about his family. He had three siblings; he was the oldest of them, and he had lost his father when he was young. You explained to him what you learned about his story and how he had been enhanced.
He learned things about himself day by day. He loved plums, and loved music from the forties—he loved to see you dancing through the small room, and loved the way you gave him space when you were falling asleep, just to end up curling up and cuddling him up when you were past asleep. He loved the perfume you had chosen for him, and the clothes you helped him to wear once he felt more comfortable being seen in public.
He learned he loved the way you greeted every person you stumbled upon in the hallways or on the street. The way you made him become part of society and make him realize he was now a citizen, and he would do his best to make you feel proud, even when you told him day by day how proud you were of how far he had gone after everything he went through.
He became someone people trusted, and with the abilities he had learned through the years, he became the man the neighbors would look to when they needed a helping hand. He came in handy when something needed to be fixed, and he loved to think his hands were now used for something kind.
The truth untold was that he fought every day. He fought never to bring the Soldier back. Every time he saw you talking with a neighbor your age, or an older man gave you a small gift to help you two, he fought something darker, something that felt stronger than him from time to time. He felt that way every time he thought he could lose you, every time you felt sad, and someone was rude to you. But he understood that doing so would do nothing but hurt you.
Life was getting easier by his side, and you appreciated every waking moment with him.
He started sleeping while he cuddled you. His arms tugged you into his chest like he knew you were going to disappear if he didn’t hold you tight enough. Because life had shown him the worst side of everything, and he wanted to make sure he was going to keep it at all costs.
Money was not tight. He had a good amount of money—you never asked where it came from, but you knew it would eventually run out, so he started making some side gigs while you helped take care of the children in the community. And starting from scratch in a completely new continent where you barely understood half a word they were saying, and Bucky tried, he really tried teaching you the essentials, to make it easy for you to deal with it.
One day, you were cooking when a knock on the door took you out of the act.
“Could you help me?” His voice came strangled. You ran to the door, and when he opened it, he had some appliances that almost covered his whole body piled up on his arms.
“What’s that, Bucky?” You chuckled, trying to take the blender from the top. He shook his head and walked in, putting it on the floor.
“I was working on Mrs. Marinescu’s kitchen when the couple next door came. They told me they were leaving and they saw us checking on the appliances on the talcioc.” A very thick accent could be heard. He was a native English speaker, but after so many years mixing Russian with Romanian and English, he tended to feel more comfortable speaking Russian or Romanian—and his English came broken from time to time.
“Oh my god!” You got excited and hung onto his neck, hugging him, your legs were hanging, and you were giggling, “This is so great, Bucky! Now we can use the money we’ve been saving to paint the room!”
He scoffed a laugh, and it filled up your ears in a soft way. He put you down, and you tiptoed to cup his face.
“Bucky…” He looked down, confused. “Can I do something, and you promise you’re gonna trust me?”
He nodded. You pulled him closer, your thumbs circled his rough cheeks. Your lips found each other halfway. He was petrified, like he didn’t know what to do, and clumsily moved—your hands fell to his ribs, and his hands clutched on his sides, you didn’t notice, but he had closed his eyes, finally letting himself feel completely safe. He grunted in response when you stepped back slightly.
“That was fine?” You mumbled, pulling away and giving him some space.
“Fine. It was fine.” Smiling, you were about to pull away, but he gripped your wrist. “Can you do it again?”
You smiled, and now he was the one holding your waist, but he stood still. You tiptoed once again and kissed his lips softly. You felt the way his fingers dug slightly into your soft skin, and the proximity made you feel his chest heaving rapidly. Your hands rested on his ribs; his skin felt hard through his clothes, but it was comforting to have him so close for the first time.
The last few months, he had gone from not being able to even say more than a two-word sentence to even being able to hold your hand in the street when he needed some reassurance. But old habits die hard, and he never let you go on your own to any place. He was always by your side. He was the only one going outside to earn money, and that’s how you ended up taking care of your neighbor’s children. He felt safer knowing you were there at what you both called home.
And now he felt so comfortable and safe to kiss you—to show you his most sensitive and private side. His movements were clumsy and slow; he just let you make the moves, playing with his lips, making him lose himself in the touch. You didn’t even think he was going to react, but he was there, physically asking for more. When you pulled back, he looked at you. There was no comeback. You were now his sole purpose to be alive. You had been that for months now, but the way your lips had enchanted him.
“Thank you,” He answered, still looking down at you.
“Don’t thank me for this… Just… Do it every time you need it or want it…” You stroked his hair carefully.
“Are you sure?” You smiled and nodded.
He leaned over you, and once again, his lips found yours. He was sure he had found nirvana in the way you kissed him. The way you took care of him in ways he didn’t know he could be helpless—the way you showed him the human side he thought he had lost and was never going to see ever again.
Time flew, and your connection grew stronger. With that, the way he treated you got even more protective. He didn’t trust anyone. Every time you tried to leave the apartment just to breathe, he was there, giving you enough space to not be all over you, but to keep an eye on you. He was just not willing to lose the only thing that kept him sane among all the things that kept him awake at night.
But he also had kept his word through the months; he let you talk to your family every once in a while. Always on burner phones, never more than a couple of minutes, and after that first kiss. One night, after a difficult call full of cries, he even held you tight for the first time while you cried for hours. You were sitting next to him, and his hands covered your whole. You missed them with your whole life, but you knew that going back to the United States or even keeping more frequent communication could mean a death sentence for you.
“I’m so sorry…” He mumbled, stroking your hair while you tried to ease yourself. “I’m gonna find a way. You’ll see them. I promise.”
“No!” You placed your hands on his chest, “No, if it means risking everything we had fought for.”
“But you want to see them.”
“And I also want us both to be happy. You’re barely getting to know yourself now. You get along well with the neighbors. We have this small place we now call home… We have each other… and as much as I miss my family, I’m not gonna risk everything we’ve built.”
“But you love them…”
That sole sentence broke your heart. You had shown him that even after all the dark you both had endured, you still had so much love to spread, and you were willing to teach him how to love and trust again.
“And I love you…” You confessed, looking at him. “And you are the only reason we are here now. That means more than anything else.”
“You… love me.” He repeated, trying to wrap his mind around your words.
“Yes, Bucky. I love you.”
“Why?” He was genuinely curious.
“Love doesn’t really have an explanation, you know?”
You could notice the way his mind raced through all the ways he should answer, and you cupped his cheeks again.
“I’m not asking you to answer anything; I just stated a fact. I love you, you can love me or not, tell me or not, that’s yours to find out.”
“Can I kiss you?” He asked, trying to find an answer in your eyes.
“I’ve already told you that you don’t have to ask.” You scoffed a laugh and leaned to kiss him.
“You always ask.” He said between kisses.
“You deserve it.”
His hands found your waist as you kept your hands on his chest—heavy breathing was all you could hear while the air grew thicker in the room. Since the first kiss, he had grown more confident in the way he touched you. Never touching bare skin, never going further than your waist, always being careful not to bruise or grip harder than he should.
And you were careful, too. You never initiated a kiss without asking first, even when he had stated he didn’t care if you did it.
His breathing was becoming erratic, as his hands found softer spots in your waist, he cradled you in his arms, trying to pull you closer without being too eager in his moves. Your hands found his neck, your fingers tracing paths around the scars that time didn’t heal properly. Teeth clicking, mouths going on and off, trying to catch some air between the messy kiss going on. When you finally came back to your senses, you stopped yourself before you took things further.
“Bucky… I think… We should stop.” You said with a hitched breathing.
He tried to mumble something, “Did I do something wrong?”
“No! You would never… I just… I think it’s not the right thing to do.”
“I thought you wanted to…” You shook tenderly. “It’s fine. We can…”
“Bucky, stop—We can wait as much as we both need.” You stroked his cheek, and he closed his eyes, losing himself in the feeling.
“What’s that?” Scarlotti spoke as he took out some dusty folders. Decker looked down at the open folder.
“These are old records from the facility that James Barnes intervened in.”
They were checking the papers, trying to find something of relevance. The exploration was nothing but a last chance to try to bring HYDRA back in one way or another. While they looked through the papers, a photo caught Scarlotti’s attention.
“Who’s that?” He read your name out loud.
“Oh, a scientist who worked for Pierce in that facility. One of the good ones. Went to waste, the government didn’t even know she was there. Karpov did a great job and made her contact her family to not raise suspicion.”
Scarlotti talked through his intercom. Orlov in the operative offices answered immediately. “Orlov here.”
“I’m gonna send you a photo. Give me all you have ‘bout her.”
He snapped the photo and sent it. Some seconds later, Orlov started reading information from his computer.
“She was one of the good ones. She took care of the Asset number five, six, eight, nine, eight. She was at the facilities when it went down…”
“Yes, yes. I know that. What else?”
“She was not officially there, but she was declared Missing in Action by our intelligence.”
“Not Killed In Action?” Orlov chimed in.
“No. Missing In Action.” He repeated, annoyed. “Her body was never found.”
“And you said she was the one who took care of Barnes?” Orlov hummed. Decker started to connect the ideas.
“I think we might have found something.” Dereck smiled mischievously.
It was not even a different day. At least, Bucky didn’t feel it in his bones. He was finally losing tension, letting you be on your own for more than an hour. Not taking you wherever he was going if he knew he could take more than an hour. You were at home, cooking dinner, a recipe Mrs. Marinescu had shared with you during your last visit. He knew you were safe there. He had researched the whole neighborhood just to be sure no one had found you two at any of your stops. He made sure you were safe. And even then, SHIELD’s intelligence, infiltrated by HYDRA, had found you as soon as they spotted your name in their files.
They concluded that Bucky had come back for you, and with weeks of research, they found a trace that led them to your last spot before Bucharest. And with some HYDRA treatment, they found your now-called home. They kept an eye on you for some more weeks. They studied when Bucky let you on your own, how many times a day you were alone, and for how long. They knew it was going to be difficult to take you from Bucky’s arms, but you were the only way to be able to put hands on him once again.
It was out of nowhere. Someone knocked on your door, and thinking it was one of your neighbors, you opened without even looking through the peephole. Something Bucky had scolded you plenty of times.
“I’m sure that’s how you ended up in HYDRA.” He joked once. He didn’t mean it. But you laughed fully on your belly when you heard him, and he furrowed.
You fought. You did everything you could to not be taken by them. You knew who they were; you didn’t even have to know their faces to know why they were there. But one of them pinched you with a strong sedating.
Before you could even scream for help, you dozed off.
“Target secured.” One of them spoke through his intercom. “Heading to the base.”
Bucky came back one hour later than he thought. One neighbor had asked him to rearrange some furniture, and that earned him some freshly baked sweets. When he saw the door torn down, he didn’t even have to come in. His world was crumbling down as he saw the mess inside the small room. The stove was almost catching fire, and he saw a used vial on the floor. His jaw kept ticking as he assessed the disaster.
He didn’t even think twice. He knew who had done this. And he was not willing to leave you more than necessary in their clutches, but he needed to be careful. They wanted the Winter Soldier back. Oh, and if he was willing to bring him back only to bring you back home safe and sound.
First, he prepared everything. He placed all his neighbors in different places. Even if it cost him all the money he had saved to buy a house for you two. He was not going to put anyone else in danger. It was just two families left at that building—that’s why he had chosen it. It worked; the fewer people involved, the fewer would get hurt if something happened. The rest of the neighborhood could act as if they had never met them, and they would be fine.
In the meantime, you had been chained up in a cell. When you finally woke up, a man in a suit stood in front of you. He said your name with a thick russian accent.
“Doctor, it’s so good to meet you. I’m so sorry for the harsh start. My intention was never to hurt you. I hope you understand that you’re a means to an end. And, of course, our goal is not a scientist who fell in love with a monster.” He chuckled. “So intelligent to end up emotionally imprisoned to a monster of the Winter Soldier’s caliber.”
You were looking around. You knew well this was not the cell you had been kept in years prior. This was somewhere else.
“We expect your pet—My apologies—Your loving partner to arrive more or less in a week or two. If he hasn’t lost his sparkle, he will eventually find us. Unless you’re not that important for him to come back.” He gripped your chin. His eyes were fixed on yours. But, looking at you. It’s hard to believe he’s not coming back.”
You didn’t even respond. You remembered the conversation you had with Bucky.
“You need to pay attention,” Bucky sat you down the first time he got nervous to the point of almost making you two leave the city. It had been just a week after the first kiss. “I don’t want to leave this place either. But if we want to stay, you need to understand something. They are actively or passively searching for me. Therefore, they could find me.”
“Bucky… they won’t. We are too far from there.”
“Yes, they will. And you’re now the most important part of my life.” He sighed and kissed your knuckles, “Therefore, they’ll come for you. So you need to pay attention to my instructions.”
He was dead serious, and that took you by surprise. Anxiety crawled up through your body. He noticed and cupped your chin carefully.
“I’m gonna explain what you've got to do. They will want to tear you down. They are not gonna hurt you. They need you by their side. They need me, but they need that big brain of yours.”
“And what if they hurt me?” He sighed.
“Then, I’m gonna have to kill them all.” He sighed and tilted his head, “But they won’t. You’re the only way they've got to find me… and you better be damn sure I’ll find you and bring you back to our home.”
“And what am I gonna do in the meantime?” Your voice came strangled.
“Nothing. Keep your mouth shut. Don’t tease them. They will try to pick fights with you, they will try to find the rage in you to give them an excuse and hurt you.” He stroked your hair. “Don’t give them a reason to hurt you, and don’t make me kill them for that.”
“How are you so sure that they will come for me?”
“Because I don’t have anything else that I care more about than you.” He leaned and kissed you.
You did as you were told. You never even acknowledge him.
“How rude of me? I never introduced myself. My name’s Daniel Whitehall. This fuckers know me like Kraken. An idiotic name they gave me. I’m not that different from the soldat.”
“Maybe the Asset never told you about me. He was busy killing people and slandering men to even know who gave him orders.” You swallowed. You had forgotten how much it hurt you to hear he was referred to as an asset.
He smiled as soon as he saw the way your throat bobbed with the swallowing movement.
He left the cell, and you hugged your legs when everyone left you alone there. You knew he was coming. You knew he would never leave you there, but if you had taken months to arrive from New York to Bucharest, how long would it take him to come back and find you?
But he found his way back to his armory. It was an old facility HYDRA had abandoned so many years ago. But he knew how to find it. Crossing the borders without you and with a goal in mind was even easier. In less than a week, he was back in the United States. He let himself be seen in places HYDRA had based decades ago. That would give you some faith for his arrival.
That week was a hell—even when they kept you fed and didn’t even raise a finger at you. But knowing they could snap at you at any moment was the actual hell in life. Whitehall never came back; usually, other people came to see you. Never the same men, but they brought you food, water, or took you to a shower regularly.
Almost a week later, Whitehall finally made an appearance.
“Look… I thought the soldat was rusty now. But it seems that you ignite something in him.”
He placed a device in front of you, and the screen showed a grainy surveillance snapshot of him. Black gear suit, long hair covering his sides. He was driving a black armored truck that you had never seen before. Even here, you drove a truck that could blend with the rest. But this one? This one was exactly what he would never use if he really wanted to not be seen. He was giving you a message. He was coming, and we were nearer than they thought, and you just had to wait for him.
You didn’t even flinch. You didn’t let yourself react; you couldn’t give yourself away that easily. But if you knew the monster they had created. This was not going to be cute.
You never really saw him in action, but you had heard the gossip, the ghost stories that revolved around him, you knew he was bloodthirsty, and he had no mercy—stories said he had killed John F. Kennedy back in time—you never really asked. Everything he had done as the Winter Soldier was way past you. You didn’t care; that was not him under your eyes. And the man you were about to see was not the man you loved. It was the man they wanted to see.
Your ankles were already bruised by the chain that restrained you since you had arrived, you could see how your skin was turning pale by the passing days, and you had even forgotten how Bucky smelled, that aroma he left in your skin every time he hugged you. That aroma he left that day before leaving to buy groceries.
It was a mixture of soap and a bergamot and clove scent that Ms. Marinescu had given to you as a gift for him when she was told you were starting from scratch.
“You two seem too protective of each other.” She smiled as she handed you a cup of tea.
“Yeah. We’ve been through a lot together. We kind of only have each other in the world.”
“Well, that’s how it’s supposed to be. Eugen and I saw the worst of Romania when we were young, and we started from scratch, too.” She smiled, and you responded with a hurt smile. “Just tell me something.”
“Whatever.” You looked up at her.
“You’re not just a pair of civilians, right?” You smiled, pursing your lips.
“I can see it from miles away. My Eugen was a soldier too. He also escaped to be with me.”
You sighed, “It’s a little bit more difficult than that.”
“Well, he seems too fond of you… If I come correct, he’s loyal to you. You seem to be everything he has.”
“And he’s everything I have.” You admitted, more to yourself than her.
“Keep it like that, and you’ll have the world on your feet sooner than later.”
Where was that promised world now? Where was the happy ending you were promised? Now you were here, sitting, chained, waiting for a man you didn’t even know, it would be the same man you had loved the last few months. He was angry, maybe mad crazy, they had done exactly what he said they would do, and he was doing exactly what he told you—he promised you he would do if that were the case.
Infiltrating the base was not difficult. The snipers were expecting a loud entrance. A Winter Soldier-type entrance. Loud, angry. But he knew better. And he was not willing to risk any chance of retrieving you and tore down every trace of you in paper and systems.
They were killed even before they could turn around—the suppressors did the job, and he had gathered enough armory to kill a hundred men, and he was still saving his best gun for the man who had ordered your kidnapping.
Daniel Whitehall was so full of himself that he never thought Bucky would find everything he needed to achieve his goal. He saw The Winter Soldier as just a weapon—but he had been trained to be more than that. He was well-trained in espionage, and many intelligence agencies had been compromised by him since the sixties, but Whitehall failed to learn more about him.
He started from the lowest in the chain—poor souls that thought they were untouchable. Men who believed that he was just a ghost story. He killed each one of them—then he compromised the security to come into the building. There, elite guards didn’t even wait for him. He was really trying to be as stealthy as possible, but he knew that trespassing into the building would set some alarms off and would inform Whitehall he was there.
He walked to the offices. He knew these people were not even informed that you were there. They probably didn’t even know your name—but at this point, everyone was a liability under his eyes. And being as merciful as he could be—he killed them before they even knew he was there. He was not there to save anyone but you.
A killing spree had begun, and it was nowhere to be done.
And like an old memory coming back to your mind. You heard it again, but this time, a hundred times worse. Men screaming muffled by a suppressed gun, there were no pleadings like the last time. He never even gave them a chance. He didn’t care about saving lives. He wanted every living soul in that place dead before they could even touch you.
A muffled whimper was heard through the hallway that led to your cell—a guard guided him to your cell. It was the last living soul on that floor before Whitehall’s chambers.
When the guard finally opened your cell, Bucky aimed at him, and without a hint of hesitation, he shot him in his temple.
“Out.” One-word sentences once again. He took the vest from the last guard and handed it to you. “By my side.”
You nodded, and he walked directly to the stairs—you were one step behind; he was always vigilant of his surroundings. Finally, he reached out to the last floor. He didn’t even hesitate, didn’t even bat an eye at you as he was killing those men. One by one. Not even thinking it twice. When there was not even a single soul there, he took you by the wrist and made you walk to the main doors.
He kicked the door open, and a bullet flew by your side. He then pushed you to the wall, and before you could even stumble against the door, he aimed and shot at Whitehall’s hand. A howl left his throat.
He took you again by the wrist and made you walk towards him. It was not any kind of torture towards you, even when you felt it was.
He walked towards the man, and before him, he sketched a wicked smile. Bucky—or maybe the Winter Soldier—shot him mercilessly. He then made you walk fast—assessing every floor again, making sure no one had stayed alive.
He walked to find a truck and took you out of the place.
You were in shock, everything seemed like a feverish dream—you were sure they had drugged you, and you were now delirious. In the middle of the desert, the same truck you saw in the CCTV days before was waiting for you. He took you by your wrist, and he sat you in the trunk. “Stay put and don’t even say a word.”
You nodded, the truck seemed to fly—you were lying down in the trunk, the vest hurt, but you knew that if he didn’t ask you to take it off, he would have done it on his own. There were some armory boxes there; you were curling up next to them to make yourself smaller. You knew you were safe with him, but you were afraid of what his next step was.
Some hours later, he finally stopped, opened the door, and over one shoulder he placed you, the other hand held the boxes that sat next to you during the drive.
He tossed you in a second car and drove all the way to a new place.
“We’re not leaving this country until I’m sure all HYDRA is down. I’ve done my research, you’ll be staying with the only people I trust enough until I finish what I just started.” He talked from his seat, you were still in the trunk—still confused about what was going on.
“I thought you didn’t trust anyone.”
“I didn’t.” He admitted. “But I need to keep you safe as I finish this. You’re not coming with me, and I’m certainly not leaving you alone anymore.”
Two hours later, he parked in front of a Tower you had seen plenty of times but never really batted an eye at it.
The Stark’s Tower.
“I’m so sorry.” He said before injecting something in your skin, you were already dozing off when you heard him mumbling. “I love you.”
He set off some alarms by shooting as he left the place.
Natasha Romanoff was the one who found you. You were drugged and sitting at the main entrance of the building. A quick face recognition threw at her and Tony your information. Off the radar for years. There was a folder under you. A Folder with words in Russian.
It was all she needed to know what was going on.
“Call Rogers,” Natasha ordered.
“Cap? Why?” Tony cocked an eyebrow, and Natasha closed the folder.
“She was the doctor in charge of The Winter Soldier Project.”
When you woke up, you were hooked to machines that read your vitals. Two guards with “S.W.O.R.D” vests stood in the doorway, and next to you—Steve Rogers himself, crossed arms, eyes fixed on a book. It was the most logical thing you could think of. No, Bucky didn’t trust anyone, but seeing Steve there, you knew he most likely had remembered him back in the Smithsonian.
“Nice to meet you, Captain.” You husked. He looked at his side and smiled.
He said your name and smiled. “Nice to meet you, doctor.”
“Where am I?”
“Right now? At the Metro-General. But you’re currently a guest at Stark’s.”
“At Stark’s? How?” You furrowed.
“Someone took you here, and you were heavily drugged and dehydrated when you arrived. We needed to take care of you.”
“Where’s that someone?”
“I was hoping you knew.” He tilted his head.
“He told me he was going to finish what he had started.”
“He killed everyone in a HYDRA base. Care to tell me why?”
“They took me, and he rescued me from there. The last thing I know it’s he hugged me, and then everything went blank.”
“He drugged you, most likely for you not to chase him.”
“Fair.” You mumbled.
“Rest. We will talk later. You need to rest, and we need to find him.”
Nights were rough after that. Steve asked you to stay fully at the Tower. Bucky seemed to be on a killing spree towards all the HYDRA’s facilities he might have known. And even when he had just done it, by the time the Avengers arrived at the place, he was not there anymore.
You kept walking like a wandering soul. You needed to know that Bucky was going to snap out of the trance he had gotten into. He had been silent for weeks, and you were going crazy. There were only two options in your head—he was either lost in the trance or he had been killed. There was no other single reason you could think of for him not coming back. Tony started to grow worried about you. At first, he thought Bucky would come back some days after his last attack, but when he did not. He called Steve. What were the next steps after this? If you had been targeted twice by HYDRA, you needed some kind of protection, and Bucky being out as the Winter Soldier was not something everyone could be sure of how it was going to end.
You were already falling asleep when you heard it. A thud sound on your floor next to your window.
A black figure stood still there.
“Did you compromise Tony’s surveillance?” You mumbled, still half asleep.
“I killed thousands of men, I compromised at least a dozen of intelligences, I almost tore down an emporium just for you.” He stood hidden in the shadows.
“Why didn’t you come as soon as you finished?”
“I needed to cool down. I was becoming someone I didn’t want you to see.”
“You drugged me, Bucky.”
“You weren’t going to stay here if I had asked you, were you?”
You sighed.
“You did great there. You were so intelligent.” He walked towards you.
“And what’s next?” You asked while sitting on your bed.
“Your extraction.” He offered his hand.
“Can I at least tell Steve we are leaving?” You stood up, “He doesn’t deserve to stay worried.”
“I’ll take care of it.” He sighed as soon as he saw your worried face, he took something out of his pocket and placed it on your bed. “This will tell him all he needs to know.”
You finally closed the distance between you two, and his hands found your wrist. Your chest could explode as soon as he touched you. His lips found yours, and your hands grasped his neck.
“Bucky,” you mumbled between kisses. He hummed in response. “I love you, too.”
He scoffed and shook. “My countdown skills are getting rusty.”
“No, you just were too hurried to say it before you left.” You giggled. “Now let’s leave before Jarvis notices someone else’s here.”
It didn’t take Steve by surprise that you weren’t there for breakfast. Tony had informed him before that you were hidden most of the time in your bed, but when you didn’t appear for your daily check-up, that was what worried him. When he knocked on your door, no one answered. He opened the door, afraid of what he could find.
You were nowhere to be found, and in your bed, Bucky’s dog tags that were displayed at the Smithsonian. He knew if he made one call or two, he would know they were missing from the exhibit.
At the end, he knew this was not a comeback. He knew the Towe and the Avengers were just a safe place for you until he found something safe for you two and until he eradicated most of the only danger you two had faced throughout your lives.
Your palms flatten against his chest. The tactical vest is rough under your fingers, warmed by his body heat. You're not sure if you're pushing him away or pulling him closer. Neither is he. That's the thing about this—neither of you knows what it is, or what it means.
That uncertainty terrifies you more than the Madame ever did.
Pairings: Red Room!Winter Soldier x Black Widow!Reader
Warnings: Minors DNI; Explicit Sexual Content (penetrative, no protection used!) Dubcon/Noncon (can be read either way, but it's slightly more dubcon-y than noncon-y), Power Imbalance, Canon-Typical Violence, Psychological Conditioning, Brainwashing, Memory Loss, (basically) Porn With Plot
Additional Tags: No Y/N, Pre-Civil War & Post-Civil War AU, Dark Romance-ish, Angst with Happy Ending(?), Kind Of A Cliffhanger Ending TBH, Tragic(?) Romance
Author's Note: missed my winter soldier and i needed to write something cathartic. tbh this one might get a sequel in the future. it's just such a rich set-up,,, you'll see what i mean. i'll be posting this to ao3 later when i feel up to writing a summary for it lmao
All Fics Tag List: @herejustforbuckybarnes
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His Best Work (4.7k)
Three hours.
You've been on the mat for three hours and your body stopped sending pain signals forty minutes ago. That's not a good sign. You know this the way you know everything now—clinically, distantly, filed under information that may be relevant to survival.
The Asset circles you.
He moves like something that learned human motion from a textbook, and then improved on it. There's no wasted energy. No tells. You've been watching him for six months and you still can't read his patterns, still can't find the seams in his technique that would let you slip through.
That's the point. That's why Madame assigned him to you, specifically.
His best work, she called you once. You don't know if she meant it as a compliment or not.
Blood drips from your split lip onto the mat. You don't wipe it. Wiping it would be a tell—would signal that you're aware of the injury, that it's affecting you. The Asset would see it. The instructors on the observation deck would note it. Neither outcome serves you.
"Again," he orders.
His voice is flat. Not cruel, but certainly not kind. Just... operational. Like the word is a function being executed rather than a command being given.
You reset your stance. Your left foot forward, weight distributed, hands up and waiting. Your left shoulder is screaming—you landed on it wrong twenty minutes ago and something shifted that shouldn't have—but you keep your guard even.
He comes at you without warning.
The first strike you block. The second. The third clips your ribs and you feel something crack, a small wet sound inside your chest that you file away for later. The fourth you redirect, using his momentum to spin out of range, buying yourself half a second of breathing room.
He doesn't let you have it.
His metal hand catches your wrist and twists, and suddenly you're airborne, the ceiling spinning past, and then the mat slams into your back hard enough to empty your lungs.
You don't stay down. Staying down is death. Staying down is for the other girls, the ones who washed out, the ones who went to the infirmary and never came back. You roll, get your feet under you, come up swinging.
He blocks it. Of course he does.
"Sloppy," he says bluntly. "You're favouring your left side."
You don't answer. Answering would be an admission. Instead you adjust your stance, redistribute your weight to compensate for the shoulder, and wait for him to come again.
He does.
The next exchange lasts eleven seconds. You count them in your head—one of the few things that's still yours, the counting, the quiet catalog of data that runs underneath everything else. Eleven seconds of blocking and redirecting and trying to find an opening that doesn't exist.
He puts you on the mat again. This time your vision whites out for three seconds when you hit.
"Get up."
And you get up.
The observation deck is dark, but you can feel them all watching. Two instructors, maybe three. They're evaluating. They're always evaluating. Every session with the Asset is a test, and the passing grade is your survival.
You've been passing for six months. Some nights you're not sure if that makes you lucky, or cursed.
The Asset resets to neutral. Feet shoulder-width apart, hands loose at his sides, face utterly blank. The arm gleams under the fluorescent lights—the only part of him that looks like what he actually is.
"Your breathing is irregular. Control it."
You control it. Four counts in, four counts out. The cracked rib protests but you don't let it show on your face.
He watches you. Those eyes—pale, empty, like someone scooped out whatever used to live behind them and left only the machinery—track across your stance, your hands, your center of gravity. Reading you the way you can't read him.
"Better."
It's not praise. Praise doesn't exist here. It's an assessment. A data point. You've moved from inadequate to acceptable and that's all the acknowledgment of it you're going to get.
He comes at you again.
This time you last fourteen seconds before you hit the mat.
Which is progress.
The session ends at precisely 04:15, on the dot.
You're still standing. Barely. Your left shoulder is definitely dislocated now, and the cracked rib has company—two more, maybe three, you'll know for certain when the adrenaline wears off and the pain comes back online. Blood is drying on your chin, your lip swelling where it had split, after he'd punched you square in the face.
At least he hadn't broken your nose. That was something.
The Asset stands three feet away, watching you. He's not even breathing hard. "Report to medical," he orders. "You have four hours before the next session."
You nod. Speaking would require energy you don't have.
He turns to go. The instructors are already filing out of the observation deck, their clipboards full of notes you'll never see. Another session logged. Another night survived.
You should move. You should get to medical, get the shoulder reset, get taped up before the next round. That's the protocol. That's what a good Widow does.
But the Asset pauses at the door.
He doesn't turn around. Doesn't look at you. Just... stops. For three seconds—you count them—he stands there, metal hand on the frame, and something in the line of his shoulders shifts. Not much. Anyone else would miss it.
You don't miss it.
Then he's gone, and you're alone on the training floor with your blood on the mat and four hours until you have to do this again.
You start walking toward medical.
The hallway is empty—always empty at this hour, the other Widows in their bunks, the instructors gone to wherever instructors go when they're not watching you bleed. You're halfway to the infirmary when you hear the footsteps behind you.
You don't turn around. You don't have to, because you know exactly who it is who's following.
His hand closes around your arm—the good one, not the dislocated shoulder, which is a small mercy—and he pulls you sideways into the nearby equipment room. The door clicks shut, and the lock snicks into place.
There's no cameras in here. You know this because he'd made you map the blind spots in the facility your second week here, filing them away under potentially useful. You never thought about why until he first shoved you against the wall in one of them and you understood exactly what kind of useful he meant.
It's strange. He doesn't do this with the other Widows. Just you. Just you and him in locked rooms and abandoned corridors, as if you'd both made some unspoken agreement about the things that happen in the dark.
The Asset doesn't say anything. He never does, not during this. His hands are already on you—metal fingers curling around your hip, flesh hand fisting in your hair, tilting your head back until you're looking at the ceiling instead of him.
He smells like gun oil and sweat and something colder underneath, something that isn't quite human.
You should fight. You're trained to fight. Every instinct Madame drilled into you says resist, redirect, escape.
But you don't move.
One breath. Two. Your body makes the decision before your mind catches up, because his mouth is on your throat. Not gently—nothing about him is gentle—but not entirely brutal either. His teeth scrape over your pulse point, then his tongue drags salt and copper from your skin, following the line of dried blood from your split lip down to your jaw. He's tasting you. Cataloging you the same way he catalogs your weaknesses on the training floor.
Your palms flatten against his chest. The tactical vest is rough under your fingers, warmed by his body heat. You're not sure if you're pushing him away or pulling him closer. Neither is he. That's the thing about this—neither of you knows what it is, or what it means.
That uncertainty terrifies you more than the Madame ever did.
He spins you around. Your cheek hits the cold concrete wall and you hiss at the pressure on your split lip, but his hand is already between your shoulder blades, pinning you there, and his other hand—the metal one—is working the fastenings of your training suit.
"My shoulder," you warn flatly. It's the only protest you're going to make.
He pauses, and it lasts only a fraction of a second. Then his grip shifts, avoiding the dislocated joint, and he yanks the suit down to your waist.
The air is freezing against your bare skin. Goosebumps rise in its wake, nipples hardening from cold and something else, something your body knows even when your mind refuses to name it. You're shaking—not from the session anymore, not from exhaustion. From this. From him. From not knowing if this is something you want or something that's been programmed into you the same way combat sequences are programmed into him.
His metal hand traces the line of your spine. The plates are cold, inhumanly smooth, and you arch into it despite yourself, despite everything. The seam between two plates presses, just barely, against a bruise he left last week—a sharp reminder of what he is, what you're doing, and why you shouldn't want it.
And yet, here you are.
When he kicks your feet apart, you let him. Those metal fingers of his slide between your thighs, beneath the waistband of your underwear and find your cunt already soaked—slick and swollen, your body betraying you the way it always does with him. You don't know if it's fear or arousal or some fucked-up combination of both that the Red Room bred into you both.
You don't know if this is just the result of animal instinct or if there's something more to it.
You do know that he doesn't ask first before touching you—he never does.
The Asset starts with one finger first, circling your entrance patiently, as if he has all the time in the world. He waits, letting you feel the threat before he delivers on it. Then he pushes inside—two fingers, knuckle-deep—and your forehead hits the wall, a choked sound dying in your throat.
"Quiet," he growls. It's the first word he's spoken since this started.
You bite your already-split lip to keep the sound in. The taste of copper floods your mouth as the flesh rips anew. He doesn't care. His fingers are moving—rough, efficient, the same way he does everything—and you clench around them helplessly, body responding even when your mind is still trying to catch up.
He adds a third finger, and you gasp.
His flesh hand comes up to cover your mouth, immediately, and it squeezes tight in a silent warning across your face. Be quiet or we get caught. You know the calculus. You've done it before. Whatever this is, it will cease to exist if anyone sees you.
You nod against his palm and he takes his hand away. In the same motion, his metal fingers withdraw, despite the way your hips buck to keep them inside you. Wordlessly, he pushes those slick fingers past your lips and into your mouth, making you gag slightly.
"Clean."
The order is utterly degrading. But you've been trained to obey such orders without question, and so you do—tasting a heady mix of your own blood and essence and the metallic tang of his fingers. As you work, he yanks your suit and underwear both down and over your hips, baring your ass to the cool air.
You hear his zipper. The rustle of fabric. Then the head of his cock pressing against you, thick and blunt, and you brace your palms against the wall because you know what's coming.
He doesn't ease in. The Asset doesn't know how to ease into anything, you think.
The first inch burns. His metal fingers are still in your mouth and you bite down on them, but he doesn't stop. He pushes forward—slow, relentless, inevitable—and your body screams at the stretch but you take it. Inch by inch.
When he finally bottoms out, he stops. His hips flush against your ass, his cock so deep you swear you can feel him in your throat. His thumb strokes against your jawline in a gesture that's almost tender, even as your teeth dig into his artificial fingers hard enough to leave marks.
Two seconds. He gives you exactly two seconds to adjust.
Then he starts to move.
It's not kind. It's not cruel. It's necessary, somehow—that's the only word you can think of for it. Like both of you need this the way you need water or air, like the programming left a gap in both your heads, and this is the only thing that can possibly fill it.
His hips snap ruthlessly against your ass—the slap of skin on skin, the creak of his tactical gear, the slick sound of him fucking into you filling the little equipment room—and you bite down harder on his hand to keep from making noise. Your cracked ribs scream. Your dislocated shoulder screams. Everything screams except your mouth, which stays perfectly silent.
He fucks you like he fights you—relentless, mechanical, and utterly focused. Your fingers scrabble against concrete, nails scraping yet finding no purchase. That coil in your belly winds tighter and you hate it, hate how easily he can take you apart. Hate that your body responds to him even when your mind is screaming that this is wrong, so wrong, you shouldn't be doing this, neither of you should be doing this.
But you don't want him to stop. That's the worst part. You want him to break you open and leave you empty and do it again tomorrow night. You want this to be yours, even if nothing else is. You want him to be yours.
You push back against him—not to escape, to take him deeper. You control the angle now, grinding down on him, and he stalls for half a second—surprised, maybe, or just processing the new information—before his grip on your hip tightens and he meets you thrust for thrust.
You try to whisper please around his fingers but the words are garbled nonsense. You don't know what you're asking for, anyway. More? Less? Something in the between? Does it even matter? He'll give it to you, whether you beg for it or not.
And, predictably, he doesn't answer. But he knows. That's why he reaches around youand finds your clit with his fingers—pressing exactly where you need it, ruthless, unrelenting—and you come. Hard.
Your vision goes white. Your cunt clamps down on him hard, spasming, your legs shaking so hard that you would've collapsed if he wasn't pinning you to the wall. A sound tears out of you—louder than before—and he withdraws his metal fingers so his hand can clamp over your mouth again, swallowing it, muffling it, and he doesn't stop. Doesn't slow. He fucks you through it while you shake apart against the concrete.
When you come down from the orgasm—if you come down at all—he's still moving. Faster and rougher this time, chasing his own release. So you let him use you. You're loose. Pliant. The aftershocks are still rolling through you, your cunt still fluttering, oversensitive and aching and his.
He comes with a low grunt that sounds like it's been torn from his throat. The sound is almost feral, nothing like the controlled efficiency of his fighting or the flat assessment of his training. For a moment, his entire body goes rigid against yours—the metal arm spasming, the flesh hand gripping the wall so hard, you actually hear the concrete crack under his fingers. Then he shudders, a full-body tremor that runs through him and into you, and he pumps his load deep inside you, claiming you in a way that has nothing to do with the Red Room or Dreykov or any of the programming that brought either of you here.
For a long moment, neither of you moves. You're both just breathing and suspended in the aftermath. His forehead is pressed to your back now, his weight still pinning you to the wall, and you can feel his heartbeat hammering against your spine even through his tactical vest. It's the most alive you've ever felt him, the most human, and the thought terrifies you almost as much as the way your body is still responding to his, still clenching around him inside you.
Then, he pulls out. At once you feel his come dripping down your thighs and you know you should clean up, should get to medical, should pretend this never happened the way you always pretend.
But he's still behind you, still trapping you against him. His forehead has moved to rest against the back of your neck, his stubble scraping your skin, and his breath hot and damp against your spine. You feel him shaking—barely, minutely, the kind of tremor no one else would notice—but you're trained to notice such things.
"Don't..." he starts, then stops. You wait, but he doesn't finish the sentence. You don't know if he was going to say don't move or don't go or don't tell anyone, and you'll spend the next twenty-three years wondering that.
For exactly seven seconds he stays there. Not moving. Not pulling away. Just... present. His breath syncs with yours. You memorize the rhythm.
You want to turn around. You want to see his face. You want to know if he looks as broken as you feel, if this breaks him open the way it breaks you. You want to see what he almost said.
You don't move.
Then he steps back.
You hear him fixing his clothes. The rustle of fabric, the zip of his tactical gear. You don't turn around. You're not sure what you'd see if you did.
"Medical," he finally says, in the same flat voice as before. Like nothing happened.
You manage to nod. You pull your suit back up, ignoring the ache between your legs, the throb of your shoulder, and the taste of blood still fresh in your mouth. You swipe at your mouth with the back of your hand, trying to wipe away the evidence.
When you turn around, he's already gone.
The door is unlocked. The hallway is empty. Four hours until the next session.
You start walking toward medical again.
This time, you make it.
The mark is late. If you had enough free will to care, you'd be annoyed by this. But you don't.
Your tactical watch reads 17:42 when you check it—it's 2016, the wind biting at any exposed skin. Budapest, rooftop overlooking the Danube, the river dark below and the Parliament lights reflecting like broken glass on the water.
You've been in position for forty-three minutes. The wind cutting through your tactical gear. The temperature dropping rapidly, as soon as the sun sets. These are facts. You catalog them the way you catalog everything—distantly, clinically, filed under mission parameters.
Facts are all that your world contains, ever since your training had been complete and your mind subjugated. Ever since, you've been a puppet, dancing to the tune of your handlers. Living separate to your own body, watching from the outside.
And yet, it's still you.
Anya's voice crackles in your ear, and that familiar, cold tone of hers snaps you back to focus. "Status," she demands.
"In position," you reply.
"Target approaching from the east. ETA two minutes."
You adjust your scope accordingly. Your sight lines are clear. The exit routes are mappe and the contingencies planned. You're efficient. You've always been efficient.
My best work, General Dreykov had once called you, a proud glint in his beady eyes. That praise was like a drug to you, a high like no other that you chased after every successful mission—
—there's movement in your peripheral vision. It's coming from the wrong direction. Not the target. Someone else.
You pivot, weapon coming up, and that's when you see him.
He's on the adjacent rooftop. Thirty meters out and watching you, the same way you're now watching him.
Your training catalogs the threat automatically. Male, approximately 1.8 meters, heavy build, tactical gear, metal left arm. The way he moves—controlled, purposeful, combat-trained—triggers something in your memory that your programming immediately suppresses.
You don't know him.
No. You do know him.
That contradiction doesn't compute. You push it aside and sight in on his centre mass.
He doesn't take cover. Doesn't draw a weapon. Just stands there, watching you with an expression you can't read.
"Interference," you report to your fellow Widow. "Neutralizing."
But Anya doesn't respond and you don't have the time to wonder why that is.
The man on the other rooftop moves before you can squeeze the trigger. Not toward you—toward the fire escape, dropping down to street level with the kind of efficiency that makes your muscle memory scream with recognition you're not allowed to have.
He's coming for you.
You abandon the mark, dropping your rifle and running. Training dictates threat prioritization; unknown combatant in close proximity supersedes all. You move to intercept, dropping through the access hatch into the stairwell.
He's already inside the building.
You know this because you can hear him. Footsteps—measured, deliberate, not trying to hide. Like he wants you to know where he is.
You clear the third-floor landing and he's there, standing in the corridor, hands visible and non-threatening.
Withdrawing your sidearm, you put three rounds centre mass.
He moves. Fast—too fast for someone his size—and the shots go wide. Concrete dust explodes from the wall behind him, and despite the pistol holstered at his hip, he doesn't return fire.
"Stop!" He yells instead. You don't stop. You never stop. You close the distance, planning to disable him permanently, but he's faster than you expect. His metal hand sweeps out and knocks the pistol from your grip before you can fire again. The weapon clatters across the concrete floor, out of reach.
Disarmed. But your training adapts, always adapts. You engage hand-to-hand without hesitation.
He blocks your first strike with his right hand—precise, controlled. Your second he meets with the metal arm, the impact vibrating up your bones in a way that's terrifyingly familiar. Your third strike he redirects, using your momentum to spin you out of range, and the movement is so familiar your body completes the counter before your brain catches up. The same counter he taught you on the training mat in 1993.
You've fought this man before.
No. That's impossible. Your handler would have briefed you. Your files would show it.
And he's not attacking you, not really, not in the way he should. He's defending—blocking, redirecting, burning down your energy—and the whole time he's talking. "You don't have to do this," he says.
Incorrect. You do have to. That's what you are. What you're for.
You go for his throat. He catches your wrist—flesh hand, not metal—and the grip is controlled, not brutal. You twist, break his hold, drive your knee toward his solar plexus. He absorbs it with a grunt.
"I know you're in there," he continues. "Deep down. Let me help."
You don't know what that means. Of course you're in there, in your mind, caged by unseen bars. You drive your elbow toward his face. He blocks it with his metal arm and the impact vibrates up your bones and suddenly you're on a training mat, bleeding from a split lip, and—
—no. You shove the fragment away. Focus. Mission. Eliminate the threat.
But he's not fighting like a threat. He's fighting like someone trying not to hurt you, and that doesn't make sense, nothing makes sense. Your conditioning is screaming at you to disengage but your body won't stop fighting.
Your next strike falters. He doesn't capitalize on it. He just stands there, bleeding from somewhere—you must have landed a hit, you don't remember—and looking at you like you're a person instead of a weapon.
"I'm not going to fight you."
He sounds so resigned to this fact.
You hit him anyway. He takes it. Doesn't block or redirect. Just lets your fist connect with his jaw and he rocks back on his heels, the impact jarring his entire frame. Blood drips from the corner of his mouth—your blood, actually, from when your knuckles split against his teeth.
You're breathing hard. He's breathing harder, like he's been running. He's bleeding from somewhere—his temple, maybe, or his ribs where you landed a solid knee strike. Neither of you is winning. Neither of you is trying to win in the traditional sense.
He reaches into his vest slowly, deliberately, giving you time to react. His eyes never leave yours.
You tense. Gun. Knife. Weapon. Your hand drifts toward the knife at your ankle, the backup blade they always make you carry.
But his movements are too slow for a weapon draw. Too careful. He pulls out a small vial, no bigger than his thumb, and holds it up between you. The liquid inside catches the fluorescent light of the stairwell.
It's red.
"I'm sorry," he says, and his voice cracks on the word. Then he crushes the vial in his metal hand, and a crimson veil descends.
For a moment, nothing happens. The red dust hangs suspended in the air between you, glittering in the fluorescent light like deadly confetti. You tense to retreat, to escape, but his hand shoots out—his red-flecked metal fingers wrapping around your upper arm—and he yanks you forward into the cloud fully.
You try to hold your breath, try to fight, but his other hand comes up to hold the back of your neck, squeezing hard enough that it panics you into inhaling. The dust floods your lungs—sharp, burning as it goes down—and you struggle against him, but it's too late. He's stronger than you, and he's not letting go.
Then, it hits you—
—like waking up. No, like remembering you were asleep. No, like drowning and surfacing and the air is too bright, too sharp, too real—
—the Red Room the training floor the Asset his hands his mouth the cold the counting the thing without a name—
—Madame's voice Dreykov's conditioning the handlers the marks the missions the blood that wasn't yours the blood that was—
—his name your name the names you swallowed the words you never said the four seconds with his forehead against your neck and you thought please but you never said please stay—
—1993 to now every locked door every mission every kill and none of it was you it was the thing they made you and oh God oh God oh—
—he releases you and your knees hit the ground, hard.
The world is too loud. Your body is shaking. There's blood in your mouth but it's old blood, twenty-three-year-old blood, and you can taste the iron and the split lip and the way he never kissed you on the mouth because that would have meant something.
Someone is crying. You don't know if it's you or not, but it must be, because the tears are hot on your cheeks.
Then there's hands on your shoulders—you flinch away from the touch, your training screaming threat threat threat—but they don't tighten and they don't hurt. The hands just steady you, hold you together while you shake apart. Slowly, so slowly, you're adjusted until your head is pillowed by a metal arm and your back is pressed against a warm, solid chest.
Your vision is swimming. You can't see him, can't see anything but the red dust and the fluorescent lights overhead and the way every memory you thought you'd buried is clawing its way back to the surface.
"I've got you. You're safe. I've got you." It's like a mantra, whispered in your ear, over and over as you're rocked, slowly. "I looked for you. I looked for you everywhere."
His lips brush your temple, a feather-light kiss that you barely feel. Your senses are completely overblown right now, and every sound, every touch, every smell is amplified a hundredfold as the red dust burns the poison out of your mind.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
Finally, your eyes focus. He's so close, his face inches from your own. The Asset, you recall dimly. It's the Asset who is holding you now.
What if... writing the “wrong” thing is what leads you back to yourself?
In our newest guest contributor's blog post, Blackbird writes about burnout, creative pressure, first-time fanfic, and the unexpected side quests that can help us rediscover the joy in creating things.
"It's important to find the part of you that's fueled by nothing more than pure self-indulgence, and to give that part of you the space to exist.
Whatever form that takes."
Have a read over on the blog!
- the Ellipsus Team xo
Look at the Sky, Its the Color of Love
Biker!Bucky x Rich!Reader
Petal's love notes:
Bucky owns a garage shop so its also Mechanic!Bucky in a way. He calls her bunny and is absolutely smitten with her right from the start ( ˶˘ ³˘)♡ you turn him soft.
You can pry the bad boy x good girl trope out of my tightly clenched fists I am never getting over this.
Summary: Oakley and Rivercreek are two sides of the same town that never got along. You, a rich socialite with a family name powerful enough to move mountains catch the eye of a certain biker boy from downtown.
Word count: 11.1k
Warnings:
18+ mdni / fluff / angst, so much / sad bucky is a yearner / love confessions / smut (oral, no protection, p in v) / no use of y/n / reader is referred to as bunny /
Wrote this while listening to Kiss of Life by Sade so you might want to check that out for the vibes. Also, it's my first time writing for this fandom so please feel free to give feedback! Let's be friends ૮꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ა ♡
Bucky Barnes hates a lot of things.
But not Sundays. Definitely not Sundays.
It's the only time he ever gets to see you, after all. You show up with flustered cheeks every single time. Your hair is in a neat bun, pushed back with a pearl headband that your mother insists you must wear to look at least decent.
You wear a white, chaste dress that falls just below your knees which makes you look pure, angelic, even. Bucky isn't exaggerating when he says that you could be the virgin mother herself, but he doesn't believe in god. He doesn't follow any religion.
Which is why it's so strange to him, and his friends Sam and Steve as to why he insists on smoking just across the street of the old cathedral the uptown folk go to every Sunday.
'Just wanna see what the pretentious are up to, have a good laugh at what rich people gimmick they have this week.' He reasons out to them lamely. 'No other reason.'
Definitely not because he wants to catch a glimpse of you once a week, fidgeting outside the old cathedral as your parents parade you around the other rich families that tend to show off their wealth through generosity.
Somehow, singing praise and donating to the offertory has become a symbol of wealth among the rich folk of Oakley- the upper end of town where you're from. Where folk up there look down on the... more indigent people in Rivercreek, where he's from.
When the cathedral doors open, his eyes find you.
They always find you.
You're running a delicate hand through your hair, getting reprimanded by your mother because 'how dare you have a strand of hair out of place.'
Families are greeting each other, he hears someone complain about how much of a hassle it is that their chauffeur had no other choice but to park a little further down the street just to avoid other cars from parking too near their new Chevy.
He wants to roll his eyes at that, but that would mean taking them off you for a second. He doesn't want to.
The Oakley folk continue to rush out in their white and pristine clothing after singing praises loudly as a form of performative philanthropy, which makes him and his friends stand out in their all black clothing, leaning against the seat of their rested bikes.
"Here they come- My god, do they look like a herd of sheep" Sam comments which earns a chuckle from Steve.
A few heads turn at them wearing horrified expressions with a mix of disgust for using the Lord's name in vain, but they couldn't care less.
"Buck, you listening? That was a good one!" Sam nudges his shoulder.
He manages to let out a small smile in response, but keeps his eyes trained on you.
"Yeah, knocked the breath out of me" he tells him, but he's not talking about the joke.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
It's a Tuesday and he works grumpily hunched over a car of some rich Oakley folk who had no choice but to have his car done at the nearest auto shop that happened to be his.
'Not a scratch on it, young man.' The older man tries to intimidate him.
'You know the consequences if it comes back with with even a tiny dent.'
Bucky huffs at the memory of the conversation. Oakley folk can fuck off, they're all prejudiced. stuck-up pigs who only look down on--
Well, maybe not you.
He's seen you at charity events before, the orphanage located between both sides of town.
While all the other Oakley folk show up to flaunt their big donations, you actually take it upon yourself to interact with the kids and get to know them. They all adore you, but definitely not as much as he does.
He decides to indulge himself in the image of you in his head to put him in a better mood, when suddenly he hears gentle footsteps enter his garage.
"Hello?" A timid voice makes him shoot his head up from the hood of the car.
It's you.
You're standing in his garage, wearing a simple, yet expensive looking dress that probably costs more than his rent for the entire month-
You're standing in his garage
and you're speaking to him.
He opens his mouth once, before closing it again. He knows he probably looks like an idiot right now, gaping at you with wide eyes and saying absolutely nothing, but he can't help himself.
In all his time he spent watching you from afar, he'd already accepted that you were out of his league. He'd be happy with you just sparing a glance at him, but now you were actually here, speaking to him! In Rivercreek of all places-
Realization dawns on him.
You're in Rivercreek.
The bad side of town where the dingy people over here who hate pretentious Oakley kids wouldn't hesitate to take advantage of innocent looking things like you.
Suddenly, a frown dawns on his face.
"Why are you here?" is the first thing he says to you.
You look taken aback by his sudden question, and he winces at how creepy he must sound
"Excuse me?" despite your startle at his words (and his audacity), your voice still sounds like honey in his ears.
"No- I mean..." Bucky panics before recollecting himself with a deep breath.
"You're... Not from this side of town, are you?" Safe. That answer makes him seem like less of a stalker now, doesn't it?
You let out a sigh.
"Is it that obvious?" Your expression is one of disappointment and helplessness, triggering a protective nature from Bucky.
"I needed help and... It's getting dark out and I think I'm lost" he listens to you shyly and frantically explain your situation to him while fiddling with the lace hem of your dress.
"I'm cold, and scared- and your shop was the only one with a light open a-and..."
"Hey, relax. I'll help you." Bucky hopes his words of reassurance will stop your rambling. He can almost see the anxiety bubbling in your chest.
"How'd you end up all the way up here? Oakley is on the other side of town."
At that, he sees your eyes widen at him in disbelief. Surely you would've known if you were in-
"Is this Rivercreek?!" Your small voice squeaks in surprise.
Bucky can't help but blink in disbelief.
"This... This isn't exactly the kind of establishment that would be at Oakley." He speaks to her gently, scared that a little volume in his voice would scare her off like a frightened little bunny.
"O-oh god, my parents are going to kill me..." the words are spoken out of you in a breath that sounded more for yourself than him, but he hears you loud and clear.
"Hey, hey, don't worry I'll..." Bucky attempts to cut off your anxiety that has definitely reached the surface by now
"I'll bring you back to Oakley. The border isn't too far from here, okay?"
He realizes how he's unconsciously stepped closer to you when he feels your warmth of your presence radiating from your spot in the middle of his garage.
"I'm Bucky."
"Bucky" you repeat his name and its suddenly his favorite sound in the world. You tell him your name, before scrunching your nose at the cold air blows and enters the premises of his garage.
He can't help but let out a soft laugh at that. You're just so fucking cute, like a little
"Bunny."
He says it without thinking, but that seems to happen a lot around you.
"What?" Eyes blink up at him in wonder.
"You. You're like a little bunny. All timid and shy."
"Oh." He sees a smidge of a blush on your cheeks which makes his heart rate pick up. You're killing him without even trying and you don't even know it.
Before another moment can pass, Bucky stands up straighter and grabs his leather jacket from where it was tossed on his work desk.
"Come on, bunny. Lets get you back to where you belong. I'll walk ya back to the Oakley border"
"T-thanks, but I was just hoping to get some directions" You shyly let out. "I really don't want to take up more of your time. You seem... Busy" Your eyes trail towards the expensive Mustang the client from your side of town left in his shop.
You're right about that. He is busy.
"Nah. 'M not that busy, bunny" he shrugs and gives you a reassuring smile.
He laughs internally at your little pout and at how you tell him your name again.
"Will you stop calling me that ridiculous name?"
The tone you give him is one of both annoyance and embarrassment, but the little crinkle in between your brows and the scrunch on your nose is the cherry on top. It makes you truly live up to the nickname he's given you.
Bucky shakes his head, still with that gentle smile he never knew his face could make until his conversation with you, and drapes his leather jacket over your shoulders.
"Come on, it'll only get darker and colder from here. Let's get you home." he completely ignores your request to call you by your name and with motions you to follow him.
The walk to Oakley is a decent few minutes, and you manage to make it to the border just before it went completely dark out. The sky is a perfect shade of dark blue, pink, and yellow, making the atmosphere look much sweeter and whimsical.
The pastel colors washed your frame with a soft golden glow, and at that moment Bucky decides that you are the soft light that starts every morning with a gentle warmth. Its ironic how he can feel both comfort and nervousness in your presence.
To his surprise, you both flow into enjoyable conversation where you learn more about each other. You tell him that you've never really been anywhere else but here, limited to where your family chauffeur is allowed to take you.
You were supposed to meet him right at the border of Oakley after visiting the orphanage you volunteer at, but got lost when you decided to take a detour, a short walk to clear your head.
"Makes sense, the orphanage is right at the border of Oakley and Rivercreek. No wonder you ended up at my shop, bunny." Bucky replies.
He tells you that he's been taking care of the shop ever since his pop died, and that he's been running it with his two best friends Steve and Sam. He tells you that he's passionate about bikes, that he and his friends have always lived for the sense of freedom and the rush it provides.
"You're the guys that are always smoking behind the church, then. Am I right?" You ask him with a knowing smile.
"Y-you noticed?" He wants to kick himself for stammering. It looks so uncool.
"I'm not blind, silly" You giggle and hug the leather jacket closer to yourself just as a cold rush of wind hits you both. He has to resist the urge to pull you close to protect you from it.
"My mother thinks you're trouble."
"'M already starting on a bad note with your parents, huh bunny?"
That earns him a loud giggle and a playful slap on his shoulder.
Once your chauffeur spots you from the end of the road, he quickly gets back inside the car to start it and make his way to you. Bucky can almost feel his distress at almost losing the daughter of an affluent family.
Bucky hears you let out a sigh once you see the headlights of your car flash. The sound of the engine starting acting like a countdown timer indicating the end of your time together.
But he can't let it end here. He's been pining after you for so long, admiring from afar and tomorrow he's going to have to... go back to doing that? He just got you.
You take off his leather jacket from your shoulders and that sends him into a panic to act fast.
"Thank you again for walking me back--"
"When can I see you again?"
are the words that rush out of his mouth with slight panic lacing his tone just as you're thanking him. He wants to slap himself in the face for being so forward with you, but the arrival of the car slowly approaching you makes him panic.
"I- What?" You're blushing now, trying to process his sudden words.
Bucky takes a deep breath before repeating more confidently this time.
"I... I wanna see you again, bunny. Will you let me see you again?"
Suddenly, he feels too aware of himself. Covered in all black clothing from head to toe, his intimidating and sharp features contrasting too loudly with your soft ones. There's no way you see yourself with someone like him, its a mismatch from chaos itself.
He prepares himself for rejection, a gentle letdown because he knows your heart is too kind to give him a straight up no. But when he meets your eyes he sees the cute little crinkle on your nose and a shy smile.
"Okay."
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
That's how Bucky ends up sleepless that night, with your number on his phone and a pattern of typing and deleting his message to you.
God... He thinks. This is pathetic.
He's acting like some lovesick school boy with his first crush, and not a Rivercreek biker with a series of misconducts under his belt. If only his friends could see him now.
If only they knew that all it takes is a cute girl with a smile that reminds him of sunshine, and crinkles her nose when she gets irritated to make him go soft.
When was the right time to send a text, anyway? He never cared this much when he's talk to girls before.
Sam had told him once, to wait it out a bit before texting a girl. Don't look too available. He had told him. Girls like a little mystery. Keeps them on their toes.
But does Bucky want you on your toes with him? Did he want you to wait?
It almost felt rude to not message you right away, because after all, he thought you deserved the best.
And the best meant giving you his full attention, his full interest and effort even if it meant making a fool of himself according to Sam's dating guideline.
Hey bunny, you get home okay?
It's Bucky :)
I know its you, Bucky. You're the only one that calls me that ridiculous name.
Yes, I'm home. Thank you again for helping me. :)
He reads your messages in your sweet voice, making his heart stutter. He truly is acting like a school boy right now.
Great to hear that, bunny. Get some rest and don't come wandering out this area alone next time, okay?
Why not? I have my own personal chaperone out of Rivercreek now, right?
I'm kidding. Goodnight, Bucky :)
He doesn't sleep that night. Instead, he loses himself in the memory of you in sunset.
· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
For the next week, you and Bucky exchange messages which allow you to get to know him better.
'What on earth has you smiling like that?' Your mother had caught you once, grinning down at your screen.
'Oh, its nothing its just...' One of the biker boys that you absolutely despise, and would kill me for even speaking to. 'Just a funny video my friend sent.' You tell her.
Your mother huffs at your reply, displeased with your answer as she stirs the dark liquid in the regal teacup in front of her. It makes your drink- coffee that is too many shades lighter than hers due to milk and cream, and a mug with little flowers on it, look much too immature.
"I'd rather have you spend your time more productive than looking at... memes" She laces her words with a tone of disapproval that you're too used to by now.
"Be ready tonight. We have that charity gala today and the press will be taking photos."
Obediently, you get up and leave your flowery mug at the breakfast table before she stops you.
"Oh, and do wear something nice. You're not just looking good for press, but suitors as well. Alright?"
Although her tone was much kinder with that sentence, it causes your heart to thump louder in your chest and your face to flush red.
Her obsession with finding you a match has increased tenfold as soon as you came of age, and you find it absolutely ridiculous. This isn't the 1940's anymore! Mothers no longer need to chaperone their daughters when it comes to dating!
But like the obedient daughter you are, you redirect your anger into subtle balled up fists and let your mouth speak the words your heart begs you not to.
"Yes, mother."
She sends you off with a nod and turns her attention back to her too-black coffee.
You arrive at the charity gala and are met with fellow Oakley families, and of course, the press. The event is marketed as an auction for artworks, wherein the money is promised to go out to the needy but you know better.
Its definitely a power grabbing scheme of wealth dynamics. 'Eat the Rich' you think to yourself. These resources can definitely be used more efficiently if they actually wanted to help the needy.
The event is definitely upscale- the grand ballroom is nothing short of extraordinary with high ceilings, dramatic lighting, and big glass doors overlooking a huge garden. It's beautiful, but you feel out of place.
Earlier that morning, you had texted Bucky your obligations for the night and to expect slow replies.
Which is why the latest notification on your phone comes as a surprise to you.
Fancy getting away for a bit, bunny?
What?
I thought bunnies prefer being outdoors
Don't tell me...
you reply back to him with shaky hands before looking around nervously. Another ping from your phone snaps you back into focus
Come out to the garden, bun :)
Your eyes quickly shoot up from your phone to the glass doors that are almost as high as the ceiling allows it to be. There's no way he actually... came here? Is there? Another message knocks you out of overthinking and confirms your skepticism.
The chandeliers look a bit much, don't you think?
Sure enough, when you look up you're met with the tackiest chandelier displays that exhibit grandeur over style and charm. Much like the people in this room.
You let out a sigh and try to calm the butterflies in your stomach. They won't notice you step out. It will only be a moment! You can always excuse yourself for needing some air.
Once you step outside, your eyes trail over the garden landscape. There is nothing but greenery and a high wall separating the event from the rest of the world. How on earth did he get in--
"Psst. Bunny."
His whisper comes from behind one of the garden statues that shield his presence perfectly from the event happening inside.
Slowly, you tiptoe your way to where he is before a pair of hands grab your waist, spinning you around.
A quiet gasp leaves your lips at the sudden motion, but the rest of your breath quickly gets stuck in your throat once you find yourself caught between the stone and Bucky, who still has one hand on your waist and the other pressing an index finger to his lips, demanding silence.
He's close, so close that you can hear your heartbeat in your ears.
"Sorry," he says quietly "saw one of the guards nearby. But we're in the clear now." He gives you a mischievous smile and steps back to give you more space.
"It's alright." You say shyly.
"But... Bucky, how did you..." You trail off and look over at the walls that stand tall over the both of you. Bucky follows your gaze and smirks knowingly at what you want to know.
"Well, it wasn't an easy climb but-"
"You climbed that!?" You cut him off to whisper yell at him.
"But" A hand comes back to your waist as he repeats himself "I told you I wanted to see you again, remember?"
Heat floods your cheeks at his admission. And despite the dark sky with light only coming from the event behind the glass doors and the moonlight illuminating him in the quiet darkness of the atmosphere, you pick up a dust of blush on his cheeks.
"I... didn't think you'd want to see me now." You tell him honestly. "I thought you'd want to take me to... coffee, or something" the softness in your voice is the most gentle sound to reach his ears.
"I can take you for coffee" He chuckles.
"I can definitely take you out for coffee, bunny."
The way he's looking at you feels like a deep, velvet blue with a quiet warmth. His eyes convey a multitude of emotions that you can't quite decipher, but they're there. There's a sparkle in them.
"How do you get them to do that?" You ask.
He can't help but let out another chuckle at your unpredictability.
"Do what, bun?"
"To shine like that."
Bucky is take aback for a moment before smiling.
"Honestly? By looking at you."
· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The coffee date happens on the next Sunday. He picks you up after Sunday Mass behind the cathedral and you show up in your usual white, knee-length dress. You know that its a date. He told you it would be.
'When are you free next, bunny?' He had asked you that night at the garden.
'Hmm?' You ask him in a dazed state, too caught up in your feelings at how wanted and seen you feel by him.
'So I can take you out on that coffee date. You're okay with it being a date, right?'
That's how you've found yourself behind the cathedral with the excuse to your mother being tutoring sessions with a friend after Sunday Mass. She had nodded approvingly at you for prioritizing your studies, and you had felt a rush at how you've rebelled against your mothers wishes for the first time in your life.
Bucky pushes himself from against the wall and greets you with an arm over your shoulder "Ready, bunny?"
One coffee date turns into two, and then three. He brings you to places around Rivercreek and the novelty of the area to you makes every date feel like an adventure.
'You can't come here on your own, alright?' He reminds you every time. 'I'm being serious, bunny. The people here aren't always good. I won't always be there to protect ya if you come alone.'
You want to giggle at him for his protectiveness, reassure him that you doubt anything like that will happen because 'you have him anyway.'
He pinches your cheek gently at your stubbornness, but can't deny how your bratty side makes his heart beat a little faster. He enjoys bringing out the bold side in you, aware that its something you push down most of the time due to your strict parents.
Eventually, you end up meeting Steve and Sam in the shop during one of your dates.
"So this is her, Buck? The girl thats been stealing you away lately?" Sam teases him, earning him a playful shove by Bucky while Steve gives you a polite smile.
"We've heard a lot about you..." Steve starts respectfully. "Bunny" the playful glint in his eye is hard to miss, which causes you to blush in embarrassment.
Bucky groans at the teasing from his two best friends, but the rest of the day is spent enjoyably.
You learn more about his childhood, the trouble he got into in his younger years, and feel a sense of fraternity between the three of them that makes you jealous.
You tell them that you wish you had friends as close as he does, but a lot of your childhood was spent in tutoring lessons and more family events to maintain your family's status and appearances at Oakley.
· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
After Bucky brings you home that day, he's met with Steve and Sam still at the shop. Both of them have knowing grins on their faces which makes Bucky roll his eyes.
"No" he tells them immediately which earns groans from both his friends.
"Come on, don't be like that. Its been ages since you've started dating again." Sam approaches him with a silly grin.
"We're just curious, man." Steve starts. "That, and... Well..." the rest of his sentence trails off awkwardly.
"That, and we want to know got you dating an Oakley girl" Sam finishes bluntly. "You hate those folk."
Bucky pretends not to give them his full attention by fixing his toolbox.
"I told you already, she ain't like them." He sighs. "She's different from them. She... she's more than the Oakley stereotypes"
The way he defended you earns him more teasing from his friends, but after meeting you today? They can't help but agree.
"You got a good one, Buck. You're happier and that's all that matters" Steve tells him genuinely.
"But you know how Oakley ad Rivercreek don't mix well. This won't all be smooth waters for the both of you."
The reminder stings, but Bucky knew what he was getting into as soon as it started. He appreciates his friend's words, but he would have liked to live in the illusion of being worry-free and happy with you for a little while longer.
"I know, Stevie." His hands fiddle with one of the loose threads on his jacket nervously as he thinks about all that could go wrong with dating you.
There will be a lot of naysay, people who will shake their head at the sight of you two together, your parents disapproving of him, and the fact that he may not be able to keep up with the lifestyle you're used to.
He wonders, do you think of this too?
"But she's worth it. I know she is."
Steve claps him on the back at that "Good luck, Buck."
· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Its a few months into dating when Bucky takes you to one of his favorite spots around town.
'Place is special,' he told you when you asked where you were going.
'No one else knows about it, not even Stevie.'
'I bet you say that to all the girls' you had tease him cutely.
He looks back at you with a playful glint in his eye. 'Just you, bunny.'
The spot he leads you to is a lake covered by the green haze of trees. Sun rays glinting brightly in the clear waters. He lays out a yellow blanket over the dew blades of grass that look to be sparkling in the sunlight.
"It's beautiful, Bucky... I feel like I'm in a fairytale" your fingers brush a dandelion next to you as you lay down, letting the flower heads escape the stem and float around you.
"That's how you make me feel all the time, bun." Bucky lays next to you on the blanket, your shoulders touching as you both watch the drift of clouds overhead.
"Oh stop it, you." You giggle at his words.
Bucky rolls himself up on his stomach so that he's facing you. Your faces inches from each other now.
"I'm serious, bunny... The time I've been spending with you?" He presses a quick kiss on your forehead, "They've been the happiest I've ever been."
Your face is hot, and he's so, so close.
"Bucky..." you say his name shyly. His kiss on your forehead makes you blush, and while he's feathered light kisses there and on your cheek before, he hasn't kissed you properly yet in his promise to take things slow for you.
"I love you, bunny."
Bucky tells you confidently, as if its the most sure thing he's ever had to admit.
"Ever since I first laid eyes on you in that cathedral, I think I've already loved you." He admits further which causes your breath to hitch, and your whole body to freeze as you process his confession.
"I can take care of you just as good as any Oakley boy can. I'll prove it to ya, I'll be the best damn guy for ya."
The promises he speaks are spoken in hushed tones, but you hear every word. Bucky keeps his closeness to your body on that blanket. Your shock causes you to unable to form a reply, but Bucky doesn't seem to mind.
Instead, he brings his hand up to brush the stray hairs away from your face before cupping it gently in his palm.
"Will you let me, bunny? Will you let me take care of you?"
"I love you." You tell him breathlessly, "I love you too, Bucky Barnes."
His grin is wide and his eyes sparkle brighter than they ever had before. 'Honestly? By looking at you' are the words you recall him telling you when you had asked him how they get them to do that.
Your reciprocation of love is all the answer he needs to bring his face down to yours to capture your lips in a kiss. The movement is slow and gentle. He kisses you as if you're fragile, delicate. As if holding you too tightly or kissing you too hard will break you.
"I'll be so good to ya," He murmurs against your lips "I love you, I love you bunny. You understand that, right? Better than any Oakley boy ever will. I promise"
Bucky continues to tell you because he thinks no amount of words, no matter how many times he says it, will equate to the feelings he's carrying right now.
Your heart aches at his admission, because deep down you both know how your different backgrounds could cause problems down the line.
"Bucky, you know I don't care about the Oakley and Rivercreek stuff." You hope your reassurance reaches his worries.
"I know, bunny." He pulls away to get a good look at you. You can finally name the emotion his eyes have been communicating to you at that moment: love, longing.
"Let's just be happy right now, yeah?"
You're brought home that day before the sun goes down.
He drops you off at your porch, kissing you goodbye very quickly just in case your parents are peeking. He waits for the door to close before retreating back to the car he picked you up in.
The door shuts and you lean against it for a moment, allowing your heart to take a break from the love Bucky had showed it all day. You're smiling to yourself when-
"Out late today, aren't we?" Your mother's voice cuts through the warm air you've created for yourself with an icy cold tone. She stands on top of the staircase, looking down at your figure by the door.
"Who is he? The one who brought you home in that... junk" She glares harshly at Bucky's retreating figure heading towards his car.
"Mother, t-that's... That's Bucky. He's, um..." You stammer nervously, frantically trying to flatten your wrinkled dress and unkept hair.
"Are you sleeping with him?" Her voice cuts through once again and her steps down the stairway sound menacing as she makes her way over to you.
"What?! Mother!" The redness from your cheeks comes from both embarrassment and anger.
"Is he from Rivercreek?" She asks you.
You're unable to form a reply. You knew it was just a matter of time before your relationship with Bucky got caught, and you've made sure to rehearse the answer in your head multiple times when the moment presented itself, but right now your voice feels like its stuck in your throat.
Apparently that is all the confirmation your mother needed as she sighs disappointedly.
"I've known you to let this family down numerous times, but to be associated with a Rivercreek boy?" Her voice raises an octave.
"This is a new level of low, even for you."
"Mother, please. It's not like that-"
As usual, she refuses to listen.
"Have you no shame for your family name? People from down there are using you for one thing-!"
"No, you're wrong. He's nothing like that..." Your voice is weak at your attempt to fight back against her, but you try anyway. Bucky would have wanted you to try and speak up for yourself.
"He's after you for status! Money!-"
"Mother I love him!"
The space between the both of you turns quiet. Your chest is heaving from anger, and the shock you feel from answering back at your mother for the first time.
"Stupid girl, what do you know about love?" She says coldly before sending you to your room.
"You can't see him again, do you understand? If we find out you've been going behind our backs, he's done."
You lay in bed rethinking the words she spoke. You're aware of how powerful your family is. One wave of a finger can have Bucky in a problematic position, his business gone or even removed from town entirely.
The sentimentality Bucky has for his place in Rivercreek is no stranger to you, either. You hardly think that a relationship with you is worth losing everything he's built.
· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The next few days has Bucky spiraling. He asks himself if he's done anything wrong, if he said something to upset you or if his confession at the lake came off too strong.
But the tenderness in his heart? The way his brain replays your voice telling him you love him at every waking hour? It makes him believe that he's done everything right.
He reads through the messages he sent you, all filled with worry yet left unanswered.
Bunny, are you okay?
Please tell me if I did something wrong.
Can I see you tonight? I'm worried, bun.
I love you. Please let me know if you're alright.
He showed up at your house once, in the dead of the night, waiting underneath your window.
The light in your room reassures him that you're alright. You're still there physically, but he's yet to feel an ounce of your attention.
Bunny, I'm outside. Just look out for a bit to let me know you're fine, yeah?
You don't.
Bucky waits for the next Sunday to arrive in hopes of getting hold of you, even just for a few minutes. He hates to corner you like this, but he's desperate. You'd understand him showing up like this, won't you?
The way he leans into his parked bike at the steps of the cathedral you frequent takes him back to the days where he used to pine after you, watching you longingly from afar.
He was nothing to you back then.
He shakes his head at the thought. Bucky refuses to go back to being nothing with you, not after you told each other you loved each other, not after he finally felt what it was like to be yours.
Like clockwork, the huge wooden doors open once Sunday worship ends and the Oakley folk flock out the cathedral like sheep. And again, like clockwork, his eyes immediately find you.
Black leather pushes its way through the flock of white clothing towards you. He ignores the grunts of disapproval as someone from Rivercreek infiltrates their sacred space.
The crowd parts for him like he's plagued with nothing but ill intentions, unbeknownst to them all he carries is a heart yearning for you.
You stand picture perfect right outside the doors, too busy fiddling with the strap of your bag to notice the commotion he's caused at the entrance.
The sight of you in full view takes his breath away and almost makes him forget the reason why he's taken stepped inside a church in the first place.
The way you finally look up at him with wide eyes snaps him back to reality.
"Bucky-" You start but are cut off by his hand pulling you into a closed space. A confession room, he realizes once you've made your way inside.
"Wanna tell me what this is all about, bunny?" He asks, staring at you with a hard, fixed gaze. His voice is harsh and it almost makes him feel guilty for using a tone with you that's anything less than gentle, but the affect of being ignored by you for the last few days has him feeling on edge.
"Bucky... You can't be here. You need to leave-" you whisper, words falling into a murmur.
"You're telling me to leave you alone now?" Bucky is anything but discreet in his response, which makes you flinch and panic at volume of his voice. At this moment, he's too desperate to understand the situation to care about who could hear.
"After what happened at the lake... After telling me that you love me" He breathes in deeply. "You're telling me to just... Leave you alone?"
"Shh!" You shush him quietly. "Please, Bucky. You can't let them catch you with me... They- They found out" You admit to him with a heartbroken expression.
It makes sense to him now, why you've been ignoring him. He knew this was going to happen eventually. Steve had warned him, and he's been aware of the... backlash that was sure to follow as soon as he started taking you out.
"Forget about me, Bucky. It's not worth it. They'll ruin you if we keep this up." Your hushed voice turns into a small sob as you speak the words that break his heart.
"I can't do that." He speaks softly and bring you closer to press a kiss on your tearful cheeks.
"I can't do that, baby. You know I can't. I love you."
"You don't understand! The lengths they'll go to keep you away from me... You'll lose everything because of me, Bucky!" Your voice is desperate now.
"Then I'll have you" he says quickly in response. "I'll have you and that's everything I'll ever need."
He doesn't expect you to push him away at those words, angrier and a little more desperate now to get through to him.
From outside the confession room, you hear your mother's voice outside calling for you. The both of you jump at the sound of her voice.
"Bucky, enough!" You whisper yell at him "Don't... Don't try anymore, okay? This isn't worth it."
If he thought his heart was breaking earlier, it's definitely wrecked now.
"What are you saying, bunny?"
"I'm saying... that if you ever did love me you'd stop."
The problem with Bucky Barnes is that he was a devoted lover. If you told him to pick the highest peach from a tree, he'd climb it immediately without question. If you told him you wanted pearls, he'd fish out the whole ocean for the best one.
If you told Bucky Barnes to let you go, he'd do it even if it killed him.
· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
"Buck, come on. You've been like this for weeks." Steve comments as Bucky mopes in front of his garage stool, a beer in one hand and his bike keys with the charm you gave him on the other.
It's a little bunny keychain, a fluffy white one holding a pink heart.
'It's for good luck when you're out riding' you had told him cutely.
The dainty charm stands out against his intimidating features when he brings them out his pocket. It earns him odd looks from his friends and passers-by but he never paid them any mind.
He imagines the bunny as a piece of you he carries when he rides, which makes him more careful and aware on the road in his determination to keep you safe.
Bucky can't help but let out a sad chuckle at the memory when he fiddles with the bunny that looks too much like you.
"Give me a break, Stevie." he finally answers his friend. "Should've listened to you. You knew this was going to end badly" the defeat in his voice is new to Steve, making him wince at his friend's sadness.
"Hey, don't say that, Buck." Steve attempts to make him feel better. "Oakley and Rivercreek relationships are just... complicated, you know? You guys tried your best."
Although Steve was trying to comfort him, his words did nothing but dig Bucky into a deeper hole of despair.
He hadn't tried hard enough. He thought to himself. But your desperate expression when you told him to leave you alone holds him back from chasing after you.
Its silent for a moment, with only the faint hum of the television that hangs overhead serving as white noise.
Bucky is about to close shop for the day, too tired to have this conversation with his friend who means well, when the next segment of the local news channel starts playing which stops him in his tracks.
Oakley Association's 50th Anniversary Gala: Families within Oakley commemorate their golden year by raising millions of dollars for charity! Led by association head...
The camera cuts to a close up shot of you and your family at the same ballroom with the garden he snuck in to see you all those months ago.
Its the typical event you see Oakley families attend, but he knows that look of yours.
Your eyes are lacking the life they usually have, the sunlight you radiate is dull and bleak. You look as if you haven't had a good sleep in days. you look like you need him.
"Bun..." He mutters to himself when he sees you.
"You're going over there, aren't you Buck?" Steve asks.
Bucky responds by bringing out his keys- the bunny charm smiling up at him cutely, and sending Steve a look from over his shoulder
"You'll lock up for me, Stevie?"
· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Oakley's charity gala is yet another event that you are too familiar with.
The pastel yellow dress your mother had picked out for you is a disparity to the gloom clouding your chest. The pearls decorating your neck feel like chains grounding you to your role of a show dog for your family name.
"Smile" your mother reprimands you when she sees the sulk on your face.
"Many are watching. Your father paid a good amount of money for the headlines to feature us tonight." She reminds you.
"Wasn't it supposed to be for charity?" Your tone carries venom in them as you answer back once again. You've been doing that a lot lately. Bucky would have been proud of you.
Bucky.
Your heart shatters at the thought of him. The pain in your chest is a cruel reminder of how you had ripped his heart out in that confession room when you told him to leave you alone.
He was the only one to actually see you as more than your family name. The way he understands you down to the smallest of details is something that no one else can replicate.
Your mother shoots you one of her cold glares when you answer her back. She is tired of disciplining you with lectures about respect and adherence, and has taken a new method of punishment.
Suitors.
For the entirety of the night, you are being introduced to the most eligible bachelors of Oakley. Without a doubt a way for your mother to remind you of the other fish in the sea, but you only want one.
The smile you wear is polite, and you speak in a courteous manner, not having it in you to act unmannerly to strangers that don't deserve unkindness. Some of the men are very aggressive in their advances, aware that the dating pool in Oakley is very limited.
By the end of the night, you're exhausted. Your feet hurt, the dress is suffocating, and there are way too many people. All these factors pile up to overwhelm you, causing your eyes to embarrassingly water in the middle of the ballroom.
"Pull yourself together, child." Your mother says through clenched teeth.
"Do not embarrass us right now."
Eventually, you can't take it. You exit the huge ballroom doors quickly and make it out the garden. Its the same place where Bucky met you in that first time. The memory of seeing him behind one of the garden statues is enough for the dam to break.
You let out a small sob. Your chest tightening at the release of tension following the events of the night.
"Bunny?"
Bucky's voice cuts through the silence of the night air. You can still hear the faint, muffled sounds coming from the ballroom behind you, but Bucky's voice is clear in your ears.
"What... Bucky?"
"Over here, bunny. I was just about to text ya."
He stands next to one of the rosebushes, slightly hidden by the shadows that the moonlight illuminated over the landscape.
His hair is disheveled as if he's been running his hands through it multiple times. The sparkle in his eyes have dulled, but are still there when he looks at you.
Once he gets a proper look at you, his face falls into a frown.
"Who made you cry, bun?"
His immediate concern makes your heart ache. Even after telling him away, his first instinct is to check on you.
You can't take it anymore. You cry out before running down the steps of the platform towards him, throwing yourself in his arms.
"I'm here." He says after he catches your fall. Of course he does.
"I'm here, bunny. I'll protect you." He whispers into your hair.
"It's too much." You say through tears, muffled because of how you're burying your face in his chest.
"I can't take it anymore. All this bullshit they're making me do."
Bucky's arm tightens around your waist, the other hand strokes the back of your head in comfort. You stay in his arms for a moment, remembering how safe you feel when you're with him.
He lets you cry it out while whispering words of comfort 'I've got you, bun. Won't let them hurt you. I'm here.' He repeats just as many times as you need him to.
You calm down eventually, lifting your head to meet his gaze properly.
"How did you know?" is all you ask. He doesn't need any further explanation to answer.
"Saw the press release on the TV. They showed you and I couldn't... I couldn't just leave you there, not when you looked so... unhappy." His hand reaches up to cup your face, thumb lightly tracing your jaw.
"You came for me." You look up at him with so much love in your eyes that you feel his breath hitch.
"You needed me." He replies with a gentle voice, as if its the most obvious explanation.
The look he has reciprocates your own, making you sniffle back tears. That action makes you scrunch up your nose in the way he loves.
A fond smile appears on his face as he watches that little scrunch in between your brows form.
"Bunny..." He says softly. "My bunny."
Bucky kisses you. The first kiss since your declaration of love at the lake. It's still just as soft and sweet as you remember, but there is a new push of longing etched onto it.
You kiss him back with the same amount, showing just how much you've missed him.
"Want me to get ya out of here?" He speaks against your lips.
"What? Bucky-"
"I'm not letting you stay in there any longer, bunny."
He's right. You don't think you can physically or emotionally take the misery of being surrounded by pretentious rich folk, much less your preposterous mother and her impossible expectations.
"Just say the word and we're gone, bunny." Bucky's voice snaps you out of your thoughts.
"I... Yes." You breathe in deeply. "Yes, please, I want to get out of here." You repeat more confidently.
Bucky grins, gives you a reassuring squeeze on your waist before taking your hand in his and leading you further into the garden.
You follow him wordlessly before looking up at the high wall that divides the ballroom's garden from the rest of the world.
"Bucky, I don't think I can-"
"I'm not gonna let you scale a wall, bun." Bucky cuts you off with a slightly amused tone. "Wouldn't dream of it. Too dangerous for ya."
Instead, he leads you to the side of the building that passes just outside the event venue.
"We're using the main entrance?" Your steps falter once you realize where he's leading you.
"They won't notice. Everyone is too busy and drunk inside." He tells you. "You trust me, baby?"
"Yes." You say almost immediately. "Of course."
The smile Bucky flashes at your words is enough to make you forget all your worry. "Then let's go."
Just as he says, you make it out of the gala and into the bike he's parked a few paces away.
"I know you don't like the bike, but I didn't think I'd be stealing you away tonight." Bucky says sheepishly. "We can walk-"
"No, let's take the bike tonight."
Reluctantly, you get on the bike with Bucky's assistance while he chuckles at your attempt at putting on a brave face for him.
"Relax, bunny. I'll drive slowly." He reassures you. You believe him.
The ride back to his place isn't as bad as you expected. You enter through the garage where he parks his bike and are greeted with the satisfying and familiar smell of earth and wood.
The polaroid that you took together is still pinned on one of his boards, next to the car blueprints and documents that he needs for the job.
"Never took it off. Couldn't bring myself to." He says without looking up at from his bike as he secures the lock on its handlebars.
"Always felt like it was never really the end, you know? Of us."
You hum in agreement and continue looking at the polaroid. It was taken a few months back on one of the first dates he took you on.
'Whatcha got there, bun?' He had asked you while you were fishing out something from your bag.
'Brought something for us, took it right out of father's study.' In your hand is a polaroid camera. The expensive kind Bucky has only seen on store shelves.
He lets out a low whistle at the costly item.
'Ya taking things from your parents now, bunny? Am I rubbing off on you the wrong way?' He jokes.
The idea of his sweet innocent bunny doing rebellious things amuses him. To him, she's the type that would frown upon jaywalking.
'Oh, hush you. I'm just borrowing it.' You slap his arm playfully. 'Come on now, say cheese.'
You bring the camera up and snap the photo just as Bucky lands a sweet kiss to your cheek.
The moment lays frozen in time on his pegboard.
As you continue to reminisce, you feel Bucky's warm figure creep up behind you. Strong arms encircle your waist pulling you so close that you feel his breath at the back of your neck. He lands a kiss on your nape, making you shiver.
"Missed ya." He whispers. "Was going crazy without ya."
Instinctively, you lean into his touch, pressing your back closer to his chest as he continues trailing kisses down your neck.
"M-missed you too." Your breathing gets heavier as his lips tickle your skin in all the sensitive spots.
"Bucky..." You warn shyly as he starts getting handsy with you- pulling you closer and kissing down your neck with more vigor than before.
"I can stop," he pauses, lips tickling your skin, "but I can also make you feel good, bunny. Do you want me to make you feel good?"
The offer is tempting, and you want so desperately to just let yourself feel the man that you've missed so dearly.
However, your lack of experience in comparison to Bucky holds you back. Sure, you've kissed boys before, but you've never done... that. Your strict parents have always been a crutch in allowing you to experience anything more intimate than kissing.
"I don't know... I-I've never- I don't know how, Bucky." You stutter shamefully at your cluelessness.
"That's alright, bunny. I know." Bucky presses one last deep kiss on the column of your neck. "You just let me show you, yeah? Are you okay with that?"
You nod your head shyly.
"Words, bun." He pushes
"Yes. I-I'm okay with that." you tell him.
At your confirmation, Bucky spins you around to face him.
"If we're going to do this, I'll make sure to do everything right." His words have that seriousness to them as he looks at you with that familiar glint of a sparkle in his eyes.
"Come upstairs with me."
· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
When you get upstairs, Bucky pulls you in almost immediately into a kiss and pushes you against the door to close it. You gasp into his mouth at the sudden movement, making him breathe out a chuckle against your lips.
"Sorry," he says cheekily "Just... missed you so damn much. Got excited."
You giggle at his eagerness and kiss him back just as hard.
"Take me then, Bucky. I'm all yours."
He lets out a low growl at that, fingers bringing up the hem of your yellow dress from the gala.
"Yeah? Never stopped being mine, right? Even when we were apart?" His question feels more like a statement, but you love how possessive he is with you.
"Yours" you repeat.
His hands slide your dress up to your waist before pulling you closer to him. You can feel how hard he is through his pants when he presses against you.
Before you could let out a moan at the slight friction, Bucky pulls you into a rougher kiss before spinning you around from the door frame to fall on his bed.
You lay there sprawled out- hair a mess, yellow dress wrinkled and bunched up to your thighs, but Bucky thinks its the most ethereal sight he's ever seen.
"Beautiful," he whispers as he pulls away to take in the sight of you "I'll take good care of you bun."
"You already do." You sigh lovingly as his hands find the zipper at the back of your dress.
The fabric covering you is removed so slowly and carefully, as if Bucky is afraid to accidentally break you if you're not handled as anything less than fragile.
You hear his breath hitch in your throat as you lay under him, almost completely bare if it weren't for the white lace panties that you still have on.
"God, bunny. You're gonna kill me."
He kisses you again sensually, hands roaming more freely than they've ever gone before- from your waist, up the curve of the sides of your stomach, until they land gently on your breasts.
His hand gropes at the flesh while the other hand pins you in place by the hip. You moan at the feeling of his tender touch which makes him trail his mouth to your ear.
"That feel good?" He whispers.
Shyly, you nod at him.
"I'm gonna touch you more now, alright? You tell me to stop and we stop. Got that?"
"Don't stop." Your words reach him in a breathless whisper, urging him to continue on.
His lips trail downwards, kissing down your collarbone to the curve of your breast. Hand continuing to massage and play with the other. You feel his lips lick up at the bud, the new and wet feeling making you moan.
"F-fuck, Bucky." It's almost embarrassing how you're already a mess under him when he's barely even started.
"That's alright, bunny. Let it out- let me know I'm making you feel good." The words of reassurance are spoken to you as if he can read what you're thinking. He gives one last lick on your nipple before attaching his lips to the other side to give it the same treatment.
The hand that was on your hips travels further down to the hem of your lace panties. You gasp at his touch but don't make an effort to tell him to stop.
"Bet you're wet already," he says smugly. "You're already so responsive to my mouth on your tits."
Bucky chuckles when he sees your eyes widen and face flush at his lewd words. He hates to admit, but your innocence and lack of experience is turning him on.
His hands dip down, still on top of the fabric and not taking it off you just yet. When his fingers meet your center, you both let out a rough exhale at the wetness that has pooled there.
"No ones ever touched you here, right bunny?"
He makes his thumb glide up and down your entrance, covered by the thin lace which creates a delicious friction on your clit. You shake your head unable to form any words except for the soft moans escaping you.
He chuckles again at your desperate state.
"What a pure fucking pussy..." He sighs, obviously turned on. "All for me to ruin." The pressure he puts against your core increases, making you whine for him louder.
"B-Bucky-!" You're so, so wet that you can hear your juices squelching against your panties as he continues thumbing at the entrance of your pussy. Every brush of his thumb drags the lace down on your clit which makes you gasp out.
"That's it, baby... You like that? Haven't even started and you're already this wet... Fuck." His eyes darken as he watches you dampen both his fingers and your panties.
You want to tell him to stop teasing you, to take them off and touch you properly- but its as if he's turned on by the thin barrier blocking him off from your sweetness.
He moves his body down to be in level with your core. Before you can comprehend what's happening, you feel his tongue lap up at your pussy in one long and hard stroke against the fabric.
"A-ah!" The sound that leaves you is in between a cry and a moan. "Bucky, please!"
"Please what, bunny?" He teases by eating you out through the fabric of your underwear. The material is so thin that you can feel his hot tongue moving against you almost completely, but its still not enough.
"T-take them off... Please." You sob from the pleasure.
"Yeah?" He sucks your clit hard, earning a louder cry from you. "You want me to eat your needy cunt, bunny? Want me to taste you proper?" He makes you feel the warmth of his mouth on your clit as he sucks and licks.
"Yes!" You moan loudly. "Yes, oh god, please!"
Bucky is enchanted by the sight. His sweet and innocent girl making a mess for him on his bed, on his tongue. He can't deny you any longer.
"There's no god here, bunny." He rips the ruined lace from your legs. "Just me."
Finally, he dives down to lick you from top to bottom. Completely catching the wetness at your entrance and bringing it to your clit before sucking it into his mouth.
"Ohh fuck," you cry out, lost in pleasure that you become unaware of the lewd moans you're making.
A finger joins his mouth in pleasuring you, rockin git back and forth until he hits the spot that makes you see stars.
"R-right there! Yes-fuck!"
"Yeah? Right there, bunny? Right fucking there?" He continues his work on your clit with his mouth, while finger-fucking you to the edge.
You can feel yourself about to come. The coil in your stomach tightens and the warmth in your core bracing itself for what's about to happen. He feels you tighten around his fingers, and your hips squirm to get away from the onslaught he has on your pussy.
"Gonna cum, bunny?" He mutters against your pussy, making the vibrations push you closer to the edge.
"T-too much, Bucky-! C-can't...!"
"Just feel, bun." He says against your clit in between lapping up against it. He presses his arm on top of your stomach to keep you from squirming.
"Feel it, bunny. Let go for me. Cum on my tongue."
Heat washes over your whole body. You do exactly as you're told and cum on his tongue generously, which he licks at with a moan. For a moment, you lose all sense of presence and can only focus on the pleasure washing over you.
"So fucking good..." He says while drinking you up. "Did so good for me, baby."
Once you've calmed down, Bucky brings himself back up to kiss your forehead. "You okay?"
When you nod your head, Bucky breathes a sigh of relief.
"Lost you for a second there, thought you were going to pass out."
You let out a weak giggle.
"Still want more of you, though..." You bring your hands up to Bucky's shirt to pull it off his head, and moan at the sight of his chiseled body.
He kisses you as he takes off his pants as well, leaving him in just his boxers.
"We don't have to-" he tries to say.
"I want to, please."
Bucky nods at your reassurance, laying you down and propping a pillow underneath your hips. 'It'll feel better with the pillow there' he had told you.
Once he's set you laid out properly on the bed, he props himself on his elbows hovering above you.
"I'll be gentle." He says genuinely, eyes locked on yours lovingly.
"I know, I trust you." You reply back to his sincerity with your own.
He takes a moment to position himself outside your entrance, rubbing the head of his cock outside to lube himself with your juices. Slowly, you feel him press the tip inside you.
There's a sudden stretch that you feel, making you gasp at the foreign sensation.
"Still okay?" He pauses to ask.
"Keep going, Bucky..."
Encouraged by your words, he continues pushing in slowly, slowly, until he's fully sheathed inside you. It stings and the pressure it places on your lower half is stinging.
But when you look up, Bucky's face is contorted in pleasure. The tightness of your walls, the way you feel so warm, and wet, and soft makes him feel like he's in heaven.
"Fuckkk- bunny," Bucky groans and rests his head on your shoulder as your warmth encompasses him. He struggles not to move and you can see how it pains him to stay still in order for you to adjust.
"J-just, tell me if- if you can't- fuck" his words come out in gasps and heavy breaths. He can barely form a coherent sentence.
"You can move, Buck." you tell him with a shaky breath.
"Sure, bun?"
After giving him a look of certainty, with a nod he thrusts in shallowly. Any big movements can wait till later, his main priority now is to make sure you don't get hurt.
"Shit, bunny. You're so tight." He groans lowly as his thrusts get deeper. "You feel so fucking good, baby."
After a few particular thrusts, you start feeling sparks of pleasure overriding the pain.
"Mmm, Bucky..." You moan softly.
"Yeah? That good, bun? You like how I'm fucking you?" He asks you, panting as he begins to pick up the pace.
His thrusts get more confident now that you're showing signs of pleasure. The length of his cock still stretches you out and stings, but you love how good he's filling you up.
"O-oh!" You arch your back at a certain spot that he finds. Its the same one he was hitting with his fingers earlier, but deeper. The pillow underneath your hips tilts your body at a position that makes him hit you deeper.
Bucky continues to drill that spot, hitting it with every thrust until you find yourself at the edge again. You can feel him twitch inside you, signaling that he's close.
"I'm not gonna last, bunny." He tells you in a low voice. "I need ya to finish again for me."
His thumb finds your clit again. Its a soft touch, but its enough to bring you closer. You can feel how wet you are as it spreads to your thighs, and Bucky can feel it coat all over his dick.
"I-I'm..." you trail off, mind going blank as he continues to chase both your highs.
"That's it, let go. Cum with me, bunny" he urges you.
You cum with a high pitched moan, clutching onto him as you let yourself go for the second time that night.
"Fuckkkk, bun." he groans as he follows after you, filling you up to the hilt and milking himself completely until he's emptied his load into you.
The bed dips as he crashes next to you, completely spent and with a satisfied, tired smile on his face.
"That was..." You trail off.
"Yeah." He agrees. "I love you, you know that?"
"I do, Bucky. I love you, too." turning to face him, you get a good view of of your favorite shade of blue encompassing the sparkle that rests in his pupils.
For a moment you both forget the troubles that wait for you outside the safety of his home.
"Bunny... I'll fight for us, you know that?" He breaks the comfortable silence between the both of you. "I won't let them take you away from me again."
"Bucky..." you trail off.
"I promised you I'd take care of you, didn't I?" The words spoken between are soft and gentle, a tone he only seems to carry with you, yet carry so much weight. "I'll prove it to them, to everyone, that I can be enough for you."
"Bucky, you don't need to prove anything to anyone." You tell him sincerely. "I love you, and maybe that's all that matters."
For now, at least, you both settle into each other's embrace without any worries.
For now, love is all that matters. You'll worry about the hardships that face you in the morning.
"The Sparrow and the Soldier" Masterlist | Bucky Barnes
MCU X DCU AU | COMPLETED wc: 132,528
pairing: Bucky Barnes x batsis!reader
summary:
Same girl, same goal, different name. Leaving Gotham had meant a new beginning. She had left behind the mantle of Batgirl, no longer one of the sidekicks of her father. She changed the batsuit for a notepad and writing for the local newspaper. Now, the city needed help, someone who, unlike the Avengers, dealt with street-level threats. But since Batgirl was in the past, a new vigilante had to step up.
Or
A new threat is rising in the city, people are going missing, and the Avengers are hitting a dead end trying to stop it before it's too late. Now is the time for them to seek help in the hands of Sparrow, a new vigilante that had been helping them from the shadows, never seen but with apparently eyes and ears everywhere, unaware that who they are looking for is the oldest daughter of Bruce Wayne.
warnings/tags:
+18 MDNI. MCU x DCU AU, no use of y/n, slow burn, hurt/comfort, angst with happy ending, PTSD, descriptions of anxiety, panic attacks, grief, canon typical violence, everyone is alive, canon? what canon?, This is self-indulgent. Age gap ? Reader is 27, and Bucky was born in 1917. Biologically, Bucky its mid 30s. they are dealing with criminals, so expect mentions of wounds, blood. One of the main plot points is that people are going missing, so expect that and topics like mentions of weapons and all that. they should be going to therapy. ANGST, it's the bat-fam, what do you expect?. plot heavy, poorly proofread. Eventual smut, praise kink, p in v. but they're adults so expect some suggestive scenes.
set in a world after superman 2025 and civil war where bucky is with the avengers, tony is cool with that (as cool as he can be), natasha and steve are there too. appearances and mentions of other characters from the DCU and MCU. English is not my first language, expect mistakes! no beta read we die like jason todd.
Specific content warnings may differ per chapter to avoid spoilers.I hope you enjoy this work if you're truly alright with the trigger warnings.
I am not responsible for your media consumption !!
taglist: @nikkitabarnes @houseofhyde @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @54nboo @buckyfmd @slutforsr @umbreoni @devililithh @colettebarnes @barnesandashes @metal-armed-muse @heldbybarnes @sheriff-bodecker @bckyslover @demiebarnes @amoremarveloustime @kqtholins @honeysucklewatr @spidermanluvr444 @nisarelle @justwantsomeplums @thearchivistshaven @m4ngo15 @jvanilly @opheliabbarnes @sepho @capswife @losraire @emmasfavs1 @yuhuahuaaa @dandelion-delusion @w1nter-fairy @stesha02 @swimmingnightcolor @levisungjingwoo2099 @sassandscribbles @adeptusxia0 @mathcat345 @goldiegirl0312 @buckysdecaflove @lvrr4lisaa (+ comment on this post to be added to the taglist)
PLEASE READ THE CONTENT WARNINGS AND PROCEED WITH CAUTION IF YOU AGREE TO BE ADDED TO THE TAGLIST. NO AGELESS BLOGS OR MINORS.
Read on AO3 | bubu_barnes on AO3 | Navigation | Bucky Barnes Masterlist
Chapters:
Part 1 Reborn
Part 2 Meet cute
Part 3 Superhero Network
Part 4 Teamwork
Part 5 I don't need a hero
Part 6 Trust Issues
Part 7 Beautiful Liar
Part 8 Rematch
Part 9 Partners? Partners
Part 10 Cracks on the ice
Part 11 Bad Habits
Part 12 Smoke and Bullets
Part 13 Burdens
Part 14 Old acquaintance
Part 15 Spiralling
Part 16 Meeting The Bat
Part 17 A needle in a haystack
Part 18 Deja Vu
Part 19 Songbird
Part 20 Time to heal
Part 21 Wait for me
Part 22 Love Is Not Over
Part 23 Payback
Part 24 Plastic off the sofa
Part 25 So This Is Love
Asks and headcanons 💬
Sparrow and Harley Quinn
Last updated: 24-05-2026
a/n: Hi!! I'm a Marvel and DC girl, and this AU has been in my mind for soooo long. Updates would be slow since I work and study, and i'm building this story on the go, first chapters are done but i'll be posting them slowly. Word count may differ between chapters. It might be a little OOC for some characters to fit the plot, or simply so many fanfics had erased canon from my mind. This, just as Pobre Secretaria are my babies, pls be kind
pictures taken from pinterest, dividers made in canva by me. if you are interested, feel free to leave a like, rb, a comment or an ask!
pairing: 70's!Bucky Barnes x reader
wc: +13.8k
summary: What happens when fate has declared that two individuals belong together? You can run, you can deny it, you can complain, or you can surrender, but the chain that joins them will keep them together.
You and Bucky are quite similar, both running away from an oppressive past and on a journey of self-discovery and belonging in your own terms, and now, after a stolen moment of passion in a bathroom bar, fate has decided.
Part of @artficlly's moodboard event
warning/tags: THIS WORK IS +18 MDNI. If you're a minor or an ageless blog and you interact with this work, you will be blocked. smut, no use of y/n, situationship, angst and porn, porn with feelings, angst with a happy ending, fluff, p in v, bathroom sex, oral sex, vaginal fingering, car sex, pussy spanking, blow jobs, dirty talking bucky barnes, praise kink, multiple sex positions, semi-public sex, rough sex, possessive sex, feelings realization, creampie, kissing in the rain, breeding kink, motorcycle sex, implied mechanic bucky barnes, aftercare, english is not my first language, cross-posted on ao3
a/n: Songs that inspired this work: The Chain by Fleetwood Mac. Alligator Tears, Desert Eagle, II MOST WANTED by Beyoncé.
Events placed during the 70's (it's an AU, don't think too much about it)
Read on AO3 | Masterlist and wips
Bucky Barnes was used to fitting his life into the size of his traveling bag. No strings. No roots. Pure freedom. He had learned to blend himself into his surroundings at each stop he made. Living out of quick jobs during his stay, enough money to keep himself fed and pay for a cheap hotel.
This lifestyle was a contrast to what his father had raised him to believe he wanted. The moment Bucky could break himself free from his expectations, he ran away. Only a bag, and the rest of his savings that were left after he bought his motorcycle. The same bike that became his new home.
Without a clear destination, he drove until he felt he could breathe. And he never stopped after that — well, until he met you.
He had met you in one of his stops, a year after he started his life on the road. A badly-lit smoky bar, sitting on a barstool as you nursed a beer. He had felt as if a magnetic force pulled him to you, making him sit next to you. He was a goner the moment you turned and muttered your name as you introduced yourself.
God, the things he would do only to hear you saying his name.
Maybe he had hit the jackpot, because the next thing he knew, his back was hitting the wall of the bathroom, with you on your knees, giving him the best blow job he had received in his life. After he came, he pulled you up to kiss you; the taste of the beer you had been drinking, mixed with himself, made him groan against your lips. Your hands worked him up as he struggled to pull your jeans down.
"Your name…" You whimpered as he pressed into you, still half-dressed. "Repeat to me your name."
"Bucky, my name is — uh, Bucky." He mumbled as he thrusted into you, over and over again.
He wasn't sure you heard him until, after a beat, you nodded and kissed him.
"Harder, baby." You whined, pulling his long hair, biting his bottom lip as you broke the kiss.
You had a grin on your face as he picked you up, and turned so your back was now against the tile. His hands stayed on your body, keeping your hips still with a bruising grip as he hammered his hips against yours.
"Yes, right there." You exclaimed in ecstasy, throwing your head back. Bucky didn't waste time and moved his attention to your exposed neck, sucking and nibbling in a way that made your legs shake around him. "Fuck, I'm close."
Bucky groaned against your neck—one of his hands went up your body, right up your mouth.
"Open." He ordered.
Eagerly, you took a couple of his fingers in your mouth, sucking them until they were wet enough for his liking.
"Good girl." He praised as he removed his hand from your mouth and directed it between your legs.
"Oh, my God." You moaned as he worked on your clit.
"Come around my cock, darling." He panted, making eye contact with you.
And you did. Your body tensed as you came, pulling him close, until you were murmuring nonsense in his ear about how good he felt.
"Oh— Bucky!" You, moaning his name, pushed him over the cliff. Warm ropes of his seed painted your gummy walls, milking him until both came down from your highs.
When you felt your legs could work again, you patted his shoulder so he could put you down. In silence, only with the muffled music and chatter of the bar as background noise, you pull yourself back together. Bucky offered to clean you, but you brushed him off, saying that you got it.
"I think I'll use the bathroom first. See you out there? "Bucky asked, stopping you before you could open the door. He must have seen the doubt in your face, because he added: "I'd like to buy you a drink."
"Yeah. Sure." You mumbled, and then with a quick, tight-lipped smile, you left the room.
It shouldn't have been a surprise that when he came out of the bathroom, straight to the bar, you were nowhere to be found. A single bill was resting under your half-drunk beer. He asked the bartender, but he just shrugged and informed him that you had left minutes ago. Bucky, confident that the town was small, asked if he knew where he could find you, but to his surprise, he found out that you weren't from there; in fact, you weren't even a regular visitor.
Over the course of the month that Bucky spent there, he looked for you, without any success, in every corner and face.
・・・・・
Four months later, as he arrived in a new city, he had been telling himself that he would never see you again, that whatever force in the universe had only made you cross paths once, and that was it.
For someone who had been eager to see you again, to actually have you in close range, he had stumbled with his own feet.
He was inside a convenience store on the outskirts of the city, near the highway. Bucky had decided to stay in this city during this month and was in the process of finding a job when he noticed a familiar figure through the windows of the store.
Standing beside one of the gasoline pumps, wearing a leather jacket and jean shorts, pumping gas into a pale yellow Impala.
Bucky stared at you in a trance; the person attending him even mentioned that he looked like he had seen a ghost. And to be honest, he might have.
The moment you stopped pumping gas, the spell broke. Bucky got out of the convenience store as if his feet were on fire, running towards you before you could get inside the car.
Bucky exclaimed your name to call your attention. A car honked at him, just a few inches away from running over him. He apologized, but his eyes never left you.
Your hair was flowing in the air, staring at him over your black shades. Your head was tilted, making it obvious your confusion and curiosity.
"Hey! How are you?" Bucky asked with a smile, trying to look nonchalant, even if he was struggling to keep his breath even.
"Good?" You replied, not sounding so sure. "Do I know you?"
"Oh," Bucky's face dropped for a second, then he made an effort to flash a smile at you. "We met the other day at a bar." You removed your glasses and looked him up and down.
"I'm sure I'd remember you if that was the case. I must've been drunk."
He wanted to correct you, remind you that, as far as he knows, you had only drunk not even half of a beer. But he decided to brush it off.
"Actually," he took a step forward, crowding you against the door of the car. "I owe you a drink."
You raised an eyebrow, "Do you?" You asked, staring at his lips.
He nodded. He raised his hands and placed one on each side of you, caging you between his body and the car.
"What do you say if we go for that drink, and I can refresh your memory?"
"Tempting." You said, lowering your shades. You held his stare for a moment and then huffed a laugh. "Yeah, why not?"
You pressed a finger in the middle of his chest as you took a step forward. "Follow me, I know a good place."
The place you had chosen was a biker bar nearby, and motorcycles were already lined up in front, even though the sun was not yet fully set, forcing both of you to park on the back of the building.
He followed you inside, his hand on the small of your back. Prying eyes followed you until you found an empty booth in the back. You exchanged a few nods on your way there, and right before smoothly taking a seat, you told him your drink of choice over your shoulder.
Bucky stared at you while waiting for your drinks. Possessiveness crawled under his skin every time he caught another man staring at you.
"Don't mind them, they are just curious." The bartender said as he prepared your drink.
Bucky frowned. "Curious?"
The bartender tilted his head in your direction. "You come with her, right?" Bucky nodded. "She's been here almost every night for the last two months. Gets here alone and leaves the same way. She talks with some of the other customers, but she's more interested in hearing the places they had visited than them getting in her pants."
Bucky's curiosity for you grew.
"You must be a very lucky guy." The bartender slid both drinks in front of him.
"I am." Bucky didn't hesitate to say and took the glasses, beelining straight to you.
He stood there for a second after placing your drink in front of you.
Should he sit across from you or next to you?
You, noticing his internal debate, decided for him and moved deeper into the booth, leaving enough for him to sit next to you comfortably.
"So, do you come here often?" Bucky cringed internally at his own cliché question.
"Did Thomas mention that?" You asked, squinting your eyes at him with a smile and pointing at the bar.
"He called me a very lucky guy." He said over the rim of his glass before taking a sip.
You tilted your head, eyes tracing his profile. "Are you?"
"Well," he placed his glass back on the table and shifted in his seat. He leaned back and put his arm behind you, turning slightly so he could face you. "I managed to find you again, and finally got to buy you the drink I promised you. I can argue that I'm indeed very lucky."
You hummed, considering his answer. He stared at you, watching as your tongue darted out, wetting your lips as you made sure to catch every drop of your drink that had caught on your lips. You then leaned back, mirroring his position as you turned slightly to face him.
"Do you think your luck has run out?" You asked, reaching out a hand and placing it over his thigh.
Bucky closed the distance between you and captured your lips. The kiss was passionate and deep, pure hunger. His hands roamed around your waist, pulling you close to him. You moved your leg, slotting it between his open legs. His hand quickly traveled down, gripping your thigh, fingertips grazing the hem of your jean shorts.
"Let's get out of here." He mumbled against your lips.
"I haven't finished my drink." You grinned, biting his lower lip and earning a groan from him.
Bucky targeted your neck, kissing and nibbling. And then, after kissing the spot that made you want to press your thighs together, he whispered against your ear, "That didn't stop you last time."
You bit your lip, and then you dragged him by the jaw for another kiss.
"Let's go." You said, breaking the kiss, and pushing him out of the booth.
He grabbed your hand, pulling you with him. And to avoid the risk of losing you in the growing crowd at the bar, he wrapped his arm around your shoulders as you headed out.
Thomas, the bartender, shook his head with a smile, watching you hug your friend by the waist, kiss him, and giggle until the door closed behind you.
You barely made it to your car before you were lost in each other's grasp. The kisses grew messier, guided by lust as he pinned you down on the passenger seat. The door was still open, your legs wrapped around him as his hips rutted against your core, his feet planted on the concrete for leverage.
"Fuck, you feel so good." He moaned against your mouth, the roar of engines around the building drowning the lewd sound of skin against skin.
Your back arched, feeling another imminent orgasm, he had already made you come with his fingers before you even got inside the car. He had kissed you against the door, grinding his hips against yours until you were begging him to touch you.
"I'm gonna —" He stopped, pulling out. You gasped in offense, trying to pull him back, but he was already moving away. You shivered, feeling the air hit your exposed and heated skin, missing the warmth of his body over yours. "Wh— Bucky!" You moaned when he slapped your pussy.
Your eyes rolled back the moment his tongue made contact with your dripping cunt. His hands were keeping you open for him, gripping your thighs harder as you tried to close your legs. He licked and sucked, eating you out as if it were his last meal. Your hips moved at their own accord, grinding against his mouth, searching for more and more.
His lips latched onto your clit, sucking until it sent you over the edge. Your orgasm hit you hard, and your legs trembled against his head as he drank your juices, humming with satisfaction. Once you felt you came back to your body, you pulled him up to kiss you.
"What the fuck was that?" You mumbled, breathless.
"I told you, I owed you." He said, leaving kisses on your neck and jaw.
"What?" You frowned, trying to stay focused as his hand traveled under your blouse, pulling your bra down and teasing your nipples.
"You gave me a blowjob in that bar, but I didn't get to taste you. I couldn't risk it for it to happen again." He explained, and before you could say something else, his cock pushed inside you, the slickness thanks to your orgasms mixing with his saliva, making it slip inside with ease.
"Holy shit," you exclaimed, the overwhelming sensation clouded your senses.
"Where were we?" He teased, the force of his strokes making your tits bounce.
"It's too —" you gasped, "too much. Fuck, don't stop."
Your orgasm caught you by surprise, you clenched around him, sucking him in as wave after wave of ecstasy rippled inside you. His hips were pressed against yours, grinding as he reached his climax, emptying himself inside you as you milked him.
He bent over your body, his forehead pressed on your collarbone as he panted, trying to regain composure. A trembling hand found its way to the back of his head, your fingertips leaving featherlike touches on his nape, fighting the urge to bury it in his hair.
"Did I refresh your memory?" Bucky said after a few minutes of silence.
"Yeah, very much." You said, and then you laughed. Bucky whimpered as he felt you shifting under him. "What were the odds of meeting again?"
"You're leaving again, aren't you?" He said, and even if he was technically asking, it was more of an affirmation.
"Yeah, I am." You said, looking down at him, when you met his eyes, you pulled him up to kiss you. "It's your fault for finding me on my way out." You muttered against his lips, your thumb caressing his jaw as you said it.
"You can't stay any longer?"
"I wish, but I have other plans right now." You said, "I want to keep traveling. For years, I was chained up in one place. I need to explore before thinking of planting roots somewhere else, somewhere it is my decision, not others."
It was almost scary the way you were basically describing him, too. Deep down, he wanted to assure you that staying more won't mean abandoning yourself, but he could understand how important it was to find yourself.
Still, he tried a less committing request.
"Care to share where you're going?"
You scrunched your nose. "That will ruin the fun, and to be honest, I don't even know, I'll know once I get there."
"Ah, I see." He said, before kissing you again, he could feel every second left with you slipping from his hands like sand.
You pulled back from the kiss, but he chased your lips, making you giggle. You gave him another kiss and then pulled back again, this time holding a finger against his lips to let you talk. "I have an idea," You said.
He bit your finger with a grin. "I have one, too." He rolled his hips, making you shiver under him.
"Hmm, listen first, and then, ah, we can do that too." You said until he stilled his hips again.
"I'm listening." He said, with a devil grin as his lips found your skin again.
You sighed. "What if we test our odds again?"
He hummed against your skin, kisses traveling lower to your collarbone.
"If we find each other again…"
"When." He corrected you.
"When we find each other again, wherever that is… we can continue this."
He lifted his head, meeting your eyes. "And if we met after that?"
"We do it again."
"Yeah?" He shifted, pulling out an inch and burying back again inside you.
"And again." You moaned as he repeated his move.
"And again," Bucky said, with a teasing grin, drilling inside you with more force.
"And again." You babbled as he grabbed you by the hips.
Each thrust was a statement. A promise. A link after link assembling the chain that would keep you together, and that the fate and distance would test.
Good luck, fate.
And so the test began.
You parted ways hours later. Bucky staying in town, and you moving to your next destination, wherever that was. You drove for hours, stopping only if necessary, until you landed in a town that felt right. The ghost of his touch still lingered in your skin after days, a burning reminder of your hours together.
In the cold, lonely nights, you touched yourself, aided by your memory, but it didn't feel the same. Your highs weren't the same without the warmth of his body against yours, or the way he filled you until you thought you couldn't stretch more, the way he reached deeper than your fingers could, leaving you unsatisfied.
Months passed, and Bucky wondered if your fates were two parallel lines, only destined to meet twice. Some nights, he wondered if he had dreamed you. If you had been a fragment of his imagination and his loneliness, a wake-up call to settle down, disguised by temptation
When the calendar marked two months since that last night together, he arrived in another town. He drove around the city until someone pointed him to the nearest motel.
Bucky followed his routine, bought more supplies, and a small amount of food, enough to last a couple of days while he searched for a job. He arrived at the motel as the sun set, prepared his dinner, and ate it in front of the TV while a movie played.
Later that night, he noticed he needed more ice to cool the beers he had bought that evening. He grabbed the bucket and left his room in search of the ice machine.
The thing about the building where Bucky was staying was its design. Rooms aligned forming an L shape, a parking spot designated to each room right in front of each door. To get to the ice machine, he had to walk all the way back to the main office, located on the opposite side of where his room was.
Bucky walked, whistling to keep himself entertained, but he stopped in his tracks when something caught his eye.
The truck of the nearest occupied room was moving back to leave the place, and as it moved, it revealed the car that was parked right next to it.
A pale yellow Impala.
Bucky almost choked. With renewed urgency, he rushed to the corresponding room. He stood in front of the door for a few seconds, listening to the noise coming from inside; someone was walking on the other side.
Taking a deep breath, he knocked on the door and waited.
The person inside approached the door, and Bucky guessed that they were using the door’s peephole to see him. A beat later, the door unlocked, and it opened.
His eyes quickly found your face, a relieved sigh left him just as you stretched your hand and grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, pulling him inside the room and kissing him.
The kiss was messy, teeth clashing since both couldn't stop grinning, the sound of your laughter drowning in each other's mouths.
“I can't believe it,” Bucky said as he put his arms around your waist and lifted you, making you wrap your legs around him.
“That this time we have a bed?” You giggled between kisses.
Still with your mouth connected, he walked towards the bed until he deposited you there. Your back met the mattress, Bucky’s chest pressed against yours, making the bed groan over your joined weight.
“Cheap bed, but it's a bed.” He said, as his hands roamed over your body, desperate to feel your naked skin against his. You matched his desperation, as your fingers worked to remove his jeans, groaning with frustration when your fingers struggled to take off his belt.
“Off, now.” You grunted, giving up on your task, and switching to remove your own clothes and shoes.
Bucky laughed, getting up to take off his jeans, the item joining his shirt on the floor next to his shoes, as well as his socks and underwear. His eyes returned to you, finding you resting on your elbows, naked, looking at him with the same intensity.
“Wow.” He let out.
“What?”
“You look beautiful.”
Heat crept up your chest, and you were sure your cheeks were flushed.
“Is this the first time we've seen each other without clothes?” You wondered out loud, and then your eyes widened. “Oh my God, it is!”
“And with better light. Not in a barely lit bathroom, nor the back of a building.” Bucky added.
“Let me touch you, please.” You begged, reaching a hand, and when he didn't move, you crawled towards him, getting off the bed until you were in front of him. “What is it?”
“I’m just trying to memorize this moment,” Bucky said, his hands quickly finding your sides the moment you were within reach.
“I can help with that.” You kissed the corner of his mouth, and then you were on your knees. “Can you help me with my hair?” You batted your eyelashes at him, holding your hair in a ponytail with one hand, while the other caressed his leg.
He nodded, speechless.
His hand replaced the one in your hair, and when you had your hand free, it moved towards his half-hard cock, grabbing it and guiding it towards your mouth.
“Eyes on me, big boy.” You said before leaving a kiss on the tip. Making eye contact, you dragged your tongue over a vein, making him whimper at the feel of your warm mouth, and threw his head back.
Your mouth and hands left him.
“What did I say?”
Bucky gulped. “Eyes on you.”
“Good boy,” You purred, getting your attention back to his thick cock.
You started stroking him with one hand, slowly, while the other played with his balls. Your tongue licked the tip again, and a delighted moan left you as you tasted his precum.
“The first time I did what I wanted with your cock.” You said, looking up while you kept stroking, wrist twisting when it reached the tip. “This time, I want you to use me to make you feel good. Teach me how to please you.”
You batted your eyelashes again.
“Can you do that, baby?”
He nodded, breath getting ragged the more you worked him up. “Yes, I can do that.”
“I’ll tap your thigh if I need a second or to stop, okay? Like this,” you tapped his thigh twice.
“Got it.” He said.
And then you opened your mouth, moaning around the tip as it entered your mouth. One of your hands went to his thigh to help support you, while the other moved over his hand to the back of your head.
You pushed his hand slowly, signaling that it was okay to move your head. Hesitant, he tightened his grip on your hair and pushed you forward barely an inch. You whined around him and then moved your hand back to join his opposite thigh.
You held your mouth open wide, swallowing his dick and letting him set the pace, and hollowing your cheeks to suck. You held eye contact, even if your eyes rolled back for a few instants.
Bucky babbled praises, mumbling about your perfect mouth and how pretty you looked. You whined around him with each praise, feeling yourself getting wet until your pussy demanded attention.
Your eyes watered the more deeply you took him down your throat. For a beat, he held you still once you took his whole length in your mouth.
The chain of praises that he gave you made you start rolling your hips, searching for touch. After a few minutes, you had had enough and took the matter into your own hands, literally.
Your hand left his thigh, making him slow down his pace, thinking you were about to signal to stop. But instead, he watched in awe as your hand traveled south, disappearing between your legs. You moaned around him as you began playing with your clit, eyes rolling back as spit got down your chin.
“Prettiest girl in the whole world. Are you touching yourself? Are your fingers enough, baby? Don’t you prefer my cock inside you?”
You nodded, or at least tried, at his last question.
“Did I already ruin you to the point you can only get off with my cock inside you?”
You whined, batting your eyelashes.
Yes.
“Fuck.” He hissed, pulling his dick out of your mouth.
You gasped for air, and then his mouth was on yours. He pulled you up, taking you back to the bed, removing your hand from between your legs.
He tried to slot himself between your legs, but you pushed him off until he was lying on his back. You didn't waste time and straddle his hips, grinding over his cock, feeling it getting wet with your slick.
Bucky watched you as you moved, his hands holding you by the hips but letting you set the pace.
“You’re such a pretty girl,” Bucky muttered, lifting a hand until he was cupping one of your breasts.
“You think so?” You tilted your head to the side, smiling.
“Prettiest girl I have ever seen. I'm so glad we found each other.”
He synced his work on your nipple with your movements, rolling his fingers each time you glided forward, and his tip kissed your clit. The dual sensation sent shivers down your spine.
You lined him with your wet entrance, and then, painfully slow, you lowered yourself until all of him was inside you.
Your jaw went slack, feeling the delicious stretch as your pussy molded around him.
With both hands in his chest, you rolled your hips, feeling every vein and inch of him. Your eyes never left his, wanting to see in his face if he was feeling what you were feeling.
“So perfect. Look at you, using my cock to take what you need.” His pupils were blown, the blue in his eyes barely a ring around them.
He looked at you with devotion in his eyes.
Something twisted inside you, and almost as if the chain that joined you had been tugged, you collapsed over his body. Your lips found his with open-mouthed kisses, as you moved your hips up and down.
Bucky, who had been letting you mark the pace, felt his own control snapping like a twig. He placed both feet on the mattress, and with his hands taking control of your hips, he snapped his hips up, meeting you mid-trust.
You gasped, feeling him hit deeper, your whimpers dying in his mouth, drowned by the groaning of the mattress.
The slapping of your skin against his and the squelch sound that came from where you were joined, mixed with the string of praises and lewd moans, filled the room.
You came with his name on your lips, fingers closed in tight fists, clenching around the fabric of the sheets to help ground you. Bucky’s pace got erratic until he buried himself deep inside you, holding your hips flush against his as he came inside you.
Slowly, the aftershocks left your body, leaving you boneless against his chest. He didn't pull out; he just made sure you were comfortable over him and held you. He caressed your body with hesitant hands, featherlight touches on your back and hips, almost as if he was afraid you would leave sooner if you felt trapped.
Slowly, you shifted, getting comfortable by his side, forcing him to pull out as you rested your head on his chest. You kept your eyes on the ceiling, eyes shining with delight, with a soft smile on your face. You shifted again, corresponding to his faint touches, your fingers tracing lazy figures in his chest.
But then, as if a record scratching echoed in your mind, you stilled. You took a sharp breath in. Bucky braced himself, already getting ready for you to push him out of your bed the moment he felt you tensing under his touch. Instead, you shifted, turning to bury your face in his chest, breathing him in, you raised your face and met his eyes.
There was a pained frown on your face. “I leave tomorrow.” You whispered.
He raised a hand and cupped your cheek; you leaned towards his touch. He took another beat to reply. “Then let's make the time we have left count.” He finally said, pulling you to him and locking his lips with yours.
You melted against him. One of your hands traveled up, touching his jaw and neck, while the other moved to his hair. Bucky’s arms wrapped around you, rolling you both until your back touched the mattress, slotting himself between your thighs.
You forgot about everything else inside the bubble that formed around you. No pressure. No worries. Nothing else mattered. Just you and him. His skin against yours. His touch became your gravity.
・・・・・
Time passed by in stolen moments across the months. And slowly, as if destiny had caught on to your stubbornness to keep this lifestyle while chasing each other across the country. The time you had together began to stretch; at first, it was more hours, like that time in that motel where you got at most twelve hours together.
Six months later, after finding each other three times in the span of those months, you got to two full days. You had found Bucky at the grocery store, checking some fruit to buy. You had called his name and jumped into his arms when he turned. He held you in his arms, kissing you until you were breathless. You didn't care if someone saw you; you just needed to feel him, feel his hands and lips on you to know that he was real.
That day, it was the first time that he held your hand outside the times you had sex, where he gripped your hands while he fucked you deep.
He held your hand while you told him that you were there to pick up your last check, and since you had been in the town for two months, you volunteered to show him the place.
After that time, you promised to stay at least a full day to spend more time together, as you showed each other the highlights of your time there. The place where you worked, the places you visit. You exchanged anecdotes, glimpses of your day-to-day, the goods and the bad.
Three months later, he took you to dance for the first time. You found him earlier that day, as he strolled down the street while you were leaving a store. He had seen you first, and the moment you stopped by your car, he had hugged you from behind. You instinctively turned and slapped him hard. Which led to his invitation as an apology, even if both knew it was an excuse to spend more time together, a prelude to surrendering to your craving for each other.
He had gone to the bathroom after dancing, well, dancing, grinding, and making out on the dancefloor for hours, when a man approached you at your standing table. He seemed nice, surely drunk enough that he slurred his words. He kept talking about his big apartment that you really needed to see in person.
You had snorted at his words, entertained by him, sipping at your drink to cool down while he rambled. The guy was attractive, you wouldn't lie. But right now, you were more focused on someone in particular.
The moment Michael — was that even his name? — froze. Eyes suddenly looking over your shoulder, you knew that Bucky was behind you.
He didn't say anything at the beginning, strutting towards you like a tornado. Strong, steady. Dangerous. Bucky placed a hand around your waist from behind you, leaning down to kiss your neck.
“Having fun?” He muttered against your ear, nipping at your earlobe.
You tilted your head, giving him more room to explore. "You were taking too long." You taunted him.
Heat pooled in your lower belly when he pulled you against him, letting you feel all of him. The moment you pressed your thighs together, you felt him smirk against your neck.
Michael blinked at both of you, and then he quickly took a step back, stumbling. “Sorry, dude, I didn't know she was taken.” Being on the receiving end of Bucky’s murderous gaze made him run away from your table.
“Let’s go.” His voice rumbled, and then with his arm around your shoulders, he guided you to the exit.
Your drink stayed half full at the table, forgotten. But right now it didn't matter. You were in the appetite for something way different, getting drunk in the ecstasy that Bucky Barnes gave you.
Bucky drove your car to his hotel. His hand lingered heavily over your thigh, making circles with his fingers that made you want to take his hand and guide it to where you needed him the most.
The moment that he unlocked the door, he was on you. Desperate kisses, hands all over you as he undressed you. Bucky went down on one knee in front of you, grabbed your leg, and planted your heel over his thigh and unblucked it as he kissed up your leg. Once he was done and your heel hit the floor after he threw it, he repeated the motions with the other.
“We still have tomorrow,” you had reminded him when he resumed his attack on your neck against the door.
"Not enough."He hummed against your skin.
Once your dress pooled around your feet, he carried you to the bed and dropped you in the middle. He kissed again with urgency, as if you were about to leave. His kisses trailed down your body. Whatever he kept mumbling under his breath was muffled against your skin.
And then he was between your legs, the fabric of your panties tearing, and his hot breath against your core was your only warning before he started devouring you.
There was something different in Bucky tonight, you noticed by the way his lips and tongue worked on you. He didn't relent until your legs were shaking, and you were a babbling mess.
Bucky kept muttering under his breath while he undressed, giving you barely any time to catch your breath. Once his cock was freed from the cage that was his clothes, he returned his attention to you.
You attempted to crawl to him, ready to return the favor, but he met you midway, pushing you back to the bed with his body as he kissed you. You opened your legs so he could position between them, but he grabbed you by your hips and flipped you.
“Buck-ah.” You were cut off by him, manhandling you into position.
Your ass was high in the air, back arched, with your chest and head buried on the sheets. He placed one hand on the back of your neck, keeping you in place.
You were still overstimulated when he buried himself inside your weeping hole. At that point, you weren't sure what was coming out of your mouth, probably whimpers that somehow sounded like Please and his name.
Over the last few months, Bucky had fucked you in many ways. The first time after finding each other again was always desperate, as if both had been going for a millennium without the other and both needed to make up for the time you were apart. Kisses with teeth colliding, basically ripping your clothes apart, sighing pathetically the moment he pushed inside you — you compared the feeling to finally catching your breath after going too long underwater.
Then it became less frenetic; he would take time to kiss and touch your skin, explore your body as if he were saying hello. If you make it to the next morning, lazy sex after waking up was a must, a way of saying I'll see you soon, a promise.
You weren't sure if you had ever seen Bucky as —
“Mine,” Bucky growled louder this time, finally making sense of what he had been saying, keeping your hips still as he drilled you from behind, his balls slapping your clit with each thrust.
Oh.
Bucky was being possessive.
And fuck, you liked that.
A lot.
You clenched around him after you heard the word.
“You like that, don't you?” Bucky said, he leaned down, pressing you against the mattress, his right arm wrapped around your neck, putting you in a headlock as he pounded in and out of you and whispered filthy things in your ear. “You like knowing that you're mine. That this pussy is mine to please. Only I can make you feel like this.”
You whimpered, eyes rolling back as he tilted your hips, each stroke hitting that sweet spot inside you. The grip on your skin was definitely going to leave a mark, but you didn't care.
“Bucky,” you whimpered, moving your hips back in time to meet him mid-trust, each hit harder once he aided you.
“I’m going to ruin you for anybody else.”
“You already did.” You managed to say.
Your confession made him go faster, as he branded you inside out. You could feel him everywhere — inside you, in your skin, in each intake of breath.
"Fuck, baby." He groaned, his hold on your neck tightened to the point you felt the corners of your eyesight blur, and tears rolled down your cheeks. "You're mine. Mine."
"I'm yours." You moaned, "God, I'm gonna…" You could barely talk, feeling the edge approaching. You clenched the sheets in your fists, trying to ground yourself before taking off.
Bucky sneaked a hand under you, finding your clit. "That's it, baby, come on your cock. It's all yours. I wanna feel you, give it to me." He growled in your ear.
"All yours…" You echoed, and then the coil in your belly tightened until it snapped.
White-hot pleasure clouded your senses; you barely registered that you were gushing all over Bucky’s cock and his hand, the squelch noise getting louder as you felt your slick dripping between your thighs. Your muscles tensed and relaxed over and over as you ride out your orgasm, all while Bucky kept fucking and praising you through it.
Your walls kept clenching around him, pulling him in until he came with a growl. He stayed inside you, as he collapsed over your body, caging you under his weight and the mattress until both of you floated down to your bodies.
“We made a mess.” You mumbled, panting.
Your skin was flushed, clammy with sweat, and your hair was messy and sticking to your face.
Bucky thought you had never looked more beautiful.
He grabbed you by your jaw and turned your face, smashing his lips with yours. He moaned against your lips as he kissed you deeply. His hips jolted forward, making you whimper from the overestimulation.
He pulled out and flipped you on your back. His lips found yours like a magnet, his hands gripping you close to him until your hips were bucking up, grinding against him.
“Again?” He muttered after a few minutes. You chased his lips and bit his lower lip.
“Please.”
“Such a good girl, only for me.” Bucky purred against your lips. He pulled back slightly, only to move his target to your neck and collarbone.
“Bucky,” you moaned his name, as he slid his cock between your pussy, each drag teasing your clit.
He sat on his heels, looking down at your body, continuing his motions, teasing you. His pupils were blown, heavy-lidded eyes as he watched you squirm under his sight. He slapped his cock against your clit, making you jerk your hips, desperate to feel him inside.
"Patience, baby, let me see you." He cooed.
His hands traveled between your legs, opening you up to him as he watched residues of his come and your slick pouring out of you. He dragged two fingers, collecting some fluids, and then he pushed both fingers inside you.
“Beautiful.” He said, repeating the motions.
Your back arched as you bucked your hips against his hand. But as you did, he took his fingers out. You looked up to confront him, but all that came out of your mouth was a whimper the moment he slapped your pussy.
“Eyes on me. I want you to remember who made you feel this good.” Bucky said, returning his attention to your core.
You kept your eyes on him as he fingered you. His other hand started to roam around, focusing on your nipple. He leaned forward, and without removing his eyes from you, he latched his mouth to your other nipple.
His name left your lips like a prayer as he worshipped your body. When he noticed you were close, he removed his hand from you and grabbed your legs from behind your knees, pushing your legs against your chest in a mating press. And then he pushed inside in a single stroke.
“You’re mine.” He mumbled, leaving open-mouthed kisses on the corner of your mouth.
For a moment, all you knew was pleasure, each movement of his hips dragging whimpers out of your mouth without control. Your nails dug into his back as he pistoned inside you.
“I’m — mmm,” Your toes curled as you stammered.
“Come, baby, give it to me, make me proud.”
His command was all you needed; your orgasm crashed like waves against the shore. Bucky followed you closely, and as you came down from your high, he left kisses all over your face.
The contrast wasn't lost on you; aftercare with Bucky was… nice, not bad but nothing special… just nice. He held you until your breaths were under control again, kissed your skin until the heat of your lust subsided, licking your remaining tears away, and your legs were stable enough for you to walk to the bathroom to clean yourselves or to leave the secluded spots you sometimes opt to when the craving was too much.
However, this time, there was something else behind his caresses and praises. Something warmer. Each kiss and touch left a more permanent mark, branding you as his.
As your mind cleared from the post orgasm high, a question echoed in your mind.
What the fuck are we?
A dangerous question that you had been trying to ignore since it appeared. This arrangement was supposed to be something temporary, a dare to fate. Something that would help keep the edge off during your months on the road, only if you kept finding each other.
The problem was that you kept finding each other. During your travels, you had bumped into many people with similar plans like yours, endless nomads in search of a new adventure. But you had rarely found them again, let alone almost every couple of months. Bucky became a constant in a path that didn't mean to have one — you kept finding each other as if there was a force between you that, unknowingly to you, kept pushing you in each other's direction, influencing your decisions to meet again.
After the first encounter, you had never predicted that you would end up months later in his hotel room, under his weight as he kissed you and moaned your name. Calling you his with a conviction that made you suspect if he meant it outside the bubble that was your stolen moments of passion.
"Bathroom," you mumbled, lightly pushing him off you without really trying, just a signal that you were ready for him to move.
Bucky froze, his lips still hovering over the corner of your mouth. He shifted back, scanning your face, trying to read you. He rolled over, letting you crawl off the bed. Bucky tried to follow you, but you raised a hand to stop him.
“Wait here. I have to pee.” You said, and then you padded barefoot to the bathroom, closing the door behind you.
A few moments later, he heard you flushing the toilet, and as if he was a dog, he perked up in anticipation of you coming back to bed, not for another round, at least not yet; he just wanted to hold you, get lost in the warmth that you were.
He stared at the door, any moment now you would come out.
Except you didn't.
Instead, the shower went on. Bucky got up in an instant. Were you taking a shower without him? No matter how tiny the shower of the motels you stayed in, almost as a ritual, you showered together in the cramped place. It was a mix of aftercare and foreplay, your actions always teetering between that fine line.
He walked to the bathroom and tried to open the door, only to find it locked. He frowned, staring at the white door between you.
A few minutes later, you got out of the bathroom surrounded by the remaining steam of your hot shower, a towel wrapped around your naked figure.
“You took a shower,” Bucky said from his spot seated on the bed. The dirty sheets were crumpled next to the door. He had called the front desk to ask for clean ones, and without letting the staff set foot inside, he had grabbed them and changed the bed himself.
“Yeah, I was too sticky, I got uncomfortable.” You mumbled, using your fingers to comb your hair.
Bucky hummed, getting up.
“I guess it's my turn then.”
“The bathroom is yours. Hopefully, there's still hot water.” You said, moving aside so he could enter the bathroom.
Bucky stopped right by your side, his hand touched your arm, making you lift your eyes to see him.
“Did I hurt you? I was a little bit rougher than other times.” He asked, as his eyes scanned your skin, which was already bruising from his grip on you.
“Don't worry, you didn't. I guess both got carried away.” You said, clenching the towel against your chest and looking up at him with a tight-lipped smile.
Something shifted behind Bucky’s eyes. The warmth in his eyes turned icy cold. Sharp edges appeared, and walls were lifted around him, mirroring yours.
“Yeah, I guess,” Bucky mumbled, dropping his hand and turning to the bathroom without looking back.
The room felt cold once he left. Not to his surprise, you were already dressed when he stepped back into the room. You were sitting on the bed, finishing putting back your heels, when you lifted your eyes to look at him.
"You're leaving?" He asked, once you stood up.
"I have to go back to my hotel, I still have to pack and return my key in the morning." You walked towards him. He was frowning when you sneaked a hand up behind his neck and pulled him down, connecting your lips with his.
His words remained unspoken: Don't go.
Once you pulled back, you caressed his jaw and looked him in the eyes. "I'll see you in a few hours, okay? Breakfast, our usual hour? There's this good place near my hotel, Rosie's Diner, right next to the highway."
"Sounds good."
You pecked his lips once more and then walked to the door. "You owe me a pair of panties, by the way." You tilted your head to point at the lacy fabric at the foot of the bed.
He flushed, scratching the back of his neck.
"I got carried away."
"I realized." You sighed and opened the door. You looked at him over your shoulder for a beat. "Goodbye, Bucky."
The last thing you heard him say before you closed the door behind you was your name.
Bucky facepalmed himself once the door clicked behind you. Why the fuck didn't he ask you to stay? He could tell that what you said was partly true, but it was also an excuse. He could have joined you — but did you want that? Would you have accepted him to go with you?
Bucky had just arrived in the city, and his stuff was still packed in his bag.
He could go with you.
No more tests. No more frantically looking around in each city, wondering if you were there. You could travel together. You could stop testing how far you could stretch the chain that joined you together and surrender to its pull.
That night, as Bucky rolled in bed without managing to sleep, he realized something. For the last few months, his intent had not been to enjoy the freedom of his travel. He didn't decide to move out of each city because he was falling into the monotony and needed a change in scenery — he did it because he was going mad missing you and needed to move to find you.
He needed you.
He wanted you.
All of this had started as a surrender to his lust, a craving for pleasure. But the more he thought about it, when at first he had missed your body, now he found himself craving for your company, his heart ached to hear your laugh as you told him about your day-to-day, watch the bliss in your eyes as you stared at him after he pulled away from a kiss. He still craved the sex, but he equally yearned for the moment after that, the slow, mundane moments, holding you in his arms, kissing you, existing with you.
It had been too long since Bucky had gone without a home that he had forgotten how it felt having one.
His breath caught in his throat when the realization hit — he loved you.
That morning, Bucky returned his room's key and drove towards the diner with one goal in mind: he needed to tell you how he felt, offer his heart on a silver platter, and allow you to decide if you accepted him in your life.
He arrived at Rosie's in a matter of a few minutes; the weather reflected the storm inside him. The wind was strong with dark clouds threatening heavy rain approaching on the horizon. Thunder rumbled somewhere down the highway. He sent a prayer to whoever was above for the storm to pass quickly, in case you still wanted to leave today after talking with him — driving in that weather, even in a car, and especially on a motorcycle, was a death wish.
Judging by the cars outside, you haven't arrived yet, but still, he got off his motorcycle and entered the local diner. The place was nice indeed, red vinyl booths, chess floor, neon signs hanging from the walls, following the distinct aesthetic of the decade.
He approached the large counter where a lady was cleaning with a rag, humming the song that played on the jukebox in the corner.
"Welcome to Rosie's, table for 1?" The lady asked with a bright smile.
"For two, I'm waiting for someone."
"Take a seat, handsome. You can choose wherever you like. Today seems like the storm scattered everyone."
Bucky gave her a nod and sat down at a booth, staring out the window that faced the parking space. He fidgeted with a napkin, tearing it into little pieces as his leg bounced nervously.
The kitchen door opened, and a waitress stepped inside, holding a pot of coffee.
"Welcome to Rosie's, would you like —" The waitress froze once she got to his table. "Wow, she didn't lie when she said you were handsome."
Bucky turned to see her.
"Beautiful eyes indeed." She added. "You must be Bucky."
Bucky blinked. "Yeah, I am. M' sorry, what?"
She said your name.
"She worked here the last couple of months. She told me you would come today."
Something in the way she said it made Bucky's stomach turn.
"She —"
"She left you this." She dug in the pocket of her apron and took out a piece of paper. She walked away to give him privacy to read it after she left it on the table.
Bucky took the paper with trembling hands. Part of him already knew what it read, but still, he opened it.
I'm sorry. I can't keep doing this. I wish you all the happiness and that you find what you're looking for.
I'll never forget you.
Forever yours.
You had signed the note with your name.
He stood up quickly and rushed towards the waitress; she and the lady at the counter were already looking at him with empathy.
"She left just before dawn." The lady — Rosie, if her name tag didn't lie — said before he could open his mouth. "She didn't say where, but she took the 25 to the south."
He thanked her and rushed to the door.
"Bucky!" The waitress called him, and when he turned, she added, "I hope you find her. Be careful."
"I will."
Bucky got out of the dinner in a hurry; the rain was already pouring down as he took the 25. However, he was stopped by a police car.
"Sir, I'm in a hurry!" Bucky exclaimed.
"Relax, son. The road is closed. This storm caused an accident."
Bucky felt his blood run cold.
”An accident,” he turned to the highway, as if straining his sight would allow him to see your car. “What type of accident?”
“Two vehicles collided due to the slippery road. They ended fucked up, I heard my partner confirming there were casualties, the ambulance —”
“What type of vehicles?” Bucky barked, making the officer narrow his eyes at him. Bucky’s heart was pounding with fear in his chest, “Please, sir, the woman I love just took this road a few hours ago. She,” he choked, “She drives a pale yellow Impala.”
The man’s features softened with empathy.
“Two heavy-duty trucks. No other vehicles were affected.” Bucky let out a shaky breath of relief. “Maybe if you're lucky, she’ll come back in this direction. For what it's being reported, some parts of the road are closed due to inundation. Most vehicles are returning.”
Bucky thanked the officer and went back to the diner. He waited there the whole day until Rosie approached him and suggested that he go to rest. He paid for a room at the hotel you had stayed at, near the diner, but he couldn't sleep, not with the heavy weight on his stomach that realized that he had lost you again.
He took the road again once the sun was up, with only one goal in mind: to find you. An hour into his trip, he found himself at a literal crossroad — the road in front of him broke in two; one would take him closer to you, the other further away. He said a prayer to whoever was listening and took the left road.
He searched for you in each town, each city that he could. He drove his motorcycle around the streets, eyes peeled in search of a glimpse of your car. He stayed in each city for a week, at least at the beginning, and as he kept moving forward, that time frame turned into a month or so.
Bucky didn't want to give up; he didn't know how, even if he wanted to — the reason? For months, after each encounter with you, there was a fear inside him and a heavy conviction that that could be the last time he saw you, only for him to find you again a couple of months later.
The fate had indulged him for so long that he had forgotten how to let go.
Some nights, as he stared at the ceiling of his cheap room, he wondered if he had taken the other road, maybe by now he would have found you. He tried to drown that thought; he needed to trust your connection.
You had found each other plenty of times, of course, you would find each other again. No matter how many months were scratched off the calendar.
A year later, Bucky found himself back in the town he had last seen you, after he finally succumbed to the thought that maybe if he took the other road, he might find you. However, Bucky drove past the crossroad into the city. Why? Be couldn't really explain. He just knew that he needed to be there.
“Bucky?, Is that you?” A girl asked while he pumped gas. When he turned, he found not another than the same waitress who had delivered the news of your departure. “What are you doing here?”
She seemed shocked as if she had seen a ghost, and within reason, for what she knew about him, he might as well be on the other side of the country.
“I haven't found her, I’m gonna try taking the other route.”
Her eyes widened. “Are you still looking for her?”
“I am. She told me to find what I was looking for to be happy, that's her, she needs to know.”
She nodded, chewing her lower lip as she considered something. Bucky was clueless about her inner conflict, too focused on getting his tank full to drive uninterrupted to the next city.
“You should come by the diner before you leave.” She said.
“I don't know, I want to be in the next city before it gets dark.”
“Please,” she said with urgency. “We have this new dish that is to die for, you can't drive without having a full stomach. It will be on the house.”
Bucky lifted his eyebrows at her. “Really?”
“Yeah, take it as an apology for last time, you barely enjoyed your food that day, at least give us a chance for you to leave with a good memory.”
It wasn't as if he was struggling with his savings, but if he could save a little and get good food in return… well, who was he to say no to that?
Bucky considered for a second and, removing the pump, he shrugged. “Fine, you win. I'll come by at lunch.”
“Great! You won't regret it. I'll see you later.” She smiled at him before leaving.
The bell over the front door rang as Bucky stepped into the local diner a few hours later, just as it started drizzling. The jukebox in the corner played some soft rock in the almost empty establishment. The parallels with the day he lost you were painfully evident, making his heart twist.
Rosie was again by the counter, talking with the waitress who had met Bucky that morning, both were talking in hushes. The moment he stepped inside, Rosie gave him a bright smile and announced that someone would serve him soon and take a seat.
The waitress took it as a sign and disappeared into the kitchen. Bucky brushed off the weird reaction to being caught by surprise, and that she needed to bring the pot of coffee like a year ago.
Bucky took a seat on the same booth he had occupied a year prior, not on purpose, of course, but he had realized that fact when his eyes trailed to the parking lot, and the view was particularly the same.
"Welcome to Rosie's, would you like —”
Bucky turned his head fast, almost causing him whiplash.
Standing in front of the table, you were there, looking beautiful as always. Your hair was up, allowing him to take a look at the curve of your neck where his lips had trailed and bitten countless times. You were wearing the waitress uniform, apron spotless, with your name tag on your chest. The coffee pot was tightly held in your hands as you stared at him like a deer in headlights.
He muttered your name.
Your mouth gaped, unsure of what to say. A beat later, you cleared your throat, blinking rapidly as you forced yourself to reboot. "Welcome to Rosie's. Would you like a cup of coffee?” You said robotically, staring at the window.
“You’re here.”
“We offer regular and decaf, sir.”
“Please, look at me,” Bucky begged.
You stretched your hand and took his cup, filling it as you recited your practiced speech. “Are you ready to order, or do you need another minute?”
He tried to touch your hand as you placed his now-filled mug in front of him. You removed your hand as if his touch had burned you.
“We have a variety of burgers, salads, pastas, and sandwiches. I personally recommend Rosie’s special, which is our most recent addition, and if you order it, I assure you, you won't regret it.”
“Did I hurt you? Is that why you leave?”
You turned to the right, pressing your lips together. “I’m trying to work.” You mumbled.
“Just look at me, I need to talk with you.”
“I’ll give you a minute for you to decide what to order. Once you're ready, you can raise your hand, and I’ll be back to take your order.” You took the pot of coffee in your hands and, with a fast pace, you walked away towards the kitchen door.
The moment you burst into the kitchen, Daisy, your friend and co-worker, was already looking at you with a face that told you that she knew exactly what had happened. Part of you wanted to laugh at the realization that Daisy knew Bucky was out there the moment she went back to the kitchen, and she told you to serve the client since she needed to go to the bathroom.
There was a big chance that Rosie, another hopelessly romantic, was on it, since both of them had been insisting that you go to find him since the moment you returned to the city.
“I’ll take my five right now.” You announced to Daisy and the kitchen staff, walking to the service door.
Behind you, Bucky called your name, but you fastened your pace; still, you felt him behind you as you opened the door and stepped into the alley.
When he stepped out with you, you turned, “What the fuck is your problem? I’m trying to work!”
Rain was pouring down, quickly dampening your uniform. The knot in your throat got harder to ignore, and you thanked the rain for covering up your upcoming tears.
“I just want you to listen to what I need to say!” He repeated.
You shook your head and attempted to walk back inside. He grabbed you by your shoulders and turned you to face him.
“Please, you don't need to talk, just listen to me!” He exclaimed, desperate.
“Fine. But once you're done, I’m back to my job.”
Bucky nodded.
“Listen, I-I want to apologize first, I’m sorry for being so rough on you that last time… I was so jealous and possessive, I understand why you would want to leave. I don't blame you.”
You huffed, tilting your head to the back so you could meet his eyes.
"Seriously, do you really think I left because you were just a little bit rougher with me?" You scoffed at his remark.
"You didn't?" He frowned.
"Barnes, we were clear with our boundaries a long time ago. What happened that night — I'm not gonna lie, it was rougher than before, but it was still under our boundaries. If I hadn't been okay with it, I would've said something."
He opened his mouth, brain buffering as he scratched his whole speech.
"Why did you leave, then?"
You turned your head, avoiding his eyes. Your uniform stuck to your skin when it got wet, making you feel colder. You crossed your arms around you, trying to keep yourself warm, noticing your actions, Bucky crowded you, making you take some steps back until your back almost touched the wall, and you were partly covered by the edge of the roof. He removed his jacket and placed it around your shoulders, even though you tried to keep him away from you.
"We should get inside, you're freezing." He muttered with concern.
"Stop, don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Act as if you care about me."
“What are you talking about? Of course I care about you!”
You huffed. “I don't have time for this.”
“Answer me at least. Why did you leave?”
“Because I can't keep doing this!” You exclaimed. “Whatever this is, it’s killing me! For months, I’ve been going from town to town, wondering if I'll see you again. And each time that we find each other, I just don't want to leave. I want to stay with you, but that was never on the table. It's fucking scary because —" you swallowed, “Because I care too much. I can't stop myself from wanting more, and then that day you called me yours… I know it was your lust talking—”
Bucky smashed his lips with yours, you gasped in his mouth, allowing him to slide his tongue inside your mouth.
“Shut up,” Bucky mumbled against your lips.
“I thought you told me to answer your question.”
“I did,” He pulled away enough to see you properly. “But not an expense of you lying.”
“I wasn't—”
“I didn't call you mine because I was blinded by lust. I called you mine because I’ve been holding the words back to the point it was getting hard to breathe. You're what I’ve been looking for. I don't need to go to another town to find happiness, because you're right here in front of me.”
"Bucky…"
"I love you.” He let the words out as easily as breathing. “I’ve been driving across the country only to find you since the moment I met you.”
“I love you, too.” You said feeling the weight in your shoulders lift.
Bucky looked at you with a bright smile and, cradling your head, he kissed you. The shift felt immediate; there was still hunger under the kiss, a need to feel you as close as possible, but there was a tenderness with it now. The devotion was more upfront; he kissed you as if you were the oxygen he needed to live, and you responded equally.
Once more, you surrendered to the force that joined you together like two magnets, the chain that for months you had been tugging at each time you parted ways relieved tension, not because it snapped, it was still there, but stronger now that you acknowledged it.
“I should go back to work.” You mumbled once you pulled away, foreheads still touching.
“Yes, we should.” He mumbled, but he kept you pinned against the wall while he left featherlight kisses all over your cheek and neck.
You were about to say something, but then you snizzed. He parted and looked at you with worry.
“Alright, we’re going back in. I don't want you to get sick.” He said sternly, pulling you by your hand when he moved, making you giggle.
Bucky opened the door, finding Billy, one of the chefs who turned out to be Rosie’s husband, waiting for you on the other side. Billy was crossing his arms, sizing up Bucky with his stare.
“There’s an extra uniform in Rosie’s office, and I'm pretty sure you can find something to dry yourself,” Billy said. “Go before you get the floor wet and cause an accident.” You nodded effusively and, still holding Bucky’s jacket around you, you followed his instructions, “That goes for you too, and make it the last time you burst into my kitchen ignoring the Personnel Only sign." He added, returning his eyes to Bucky.
“Yes, sir. My apologies.” Bucky felt heat creeping up his neck.
Before Bucky could move away, Billy leaned in and lowered his voice for his ears only. “And son? I hope you know that if you stay by her side, it's because you love her. Don't make her lose her time if not.” With that, Billy walked away.
That night, when your shift ended, Bucky was already waiting for you outside, leaning on his motorcycle. The sky had cleared a few hours later, bathing him with moonlight. Your heart might have skipped a beat the moment you saw him.
Rosie had lent you a cardigan, afraid that you might get a cold, so, as you walked towards him, you held the fuzzy fabric tightly around you.
“What are you doing here?” You asked, fighting back your smile.
“I thought you could use a ride. I noticed your car wasn't parked here.” Bucky reached his hand, and when you grabbed his, he pulled you into his arms.
“It’s with the mechanic, I had been having troubles for the last month, so I came back to the only town that I knew the local mechanic wouldn't be an asshole and screw me over only because I'm a woman.” You hugged him, sneaking your hands under his jacket to warm them.
“A friend?”
You nodded against his chest. “It’s Billy’s brother, familiar business, Billy is the owner, while his brother works there.”
“I see. How was your shift?”
“Well, someone came demanding to talk with me, we ended up talking in the rain, and now I'm just hoping that I don't end up sick.”
You tilted your head up, meeting his eyes.
“Is that so?” He asked, a wicked glint appearing in his eyes. “Was it worth it? The talk, I mean.”
“Yeah,” You mumbled, eyes drifting from his eyes to his lips, “very much so.”
“Good. I agree.” He said before kissing you, you smiled against his lips, and when you tried to pull back, he chased your lips.
“Where are you staying?” You asked once you managed to keep your lips apart for a beat.
“Nowhere.”
His reply sobered you up; you tensed in his arms. “You’re leaving?”
“No!” Bucky quickly responded. “As long as you allow me, I want to stay by your side. I did get here as a pit stop, but it was only because I wanted to leave as soon as I could to look for you.” He raised a hand and brushed your cheek, and you leaned into his touch. “And now that I find you, you'd better get used to me, because I’m not leaving.”
“Great, because I don't want you to leave.”You tightened your hold on him.
“Then we’re on the same page.”
He pressed a kiss on your forehead and hugged you, swaying you from side to side as you talked about what would come next. The future was still uncertain, but at least you had each other.
For years, you were used to fitting your life into a suitcase. No strings. No roots. Pure freedom. The world was a canvas for you to paint over, a map waiting to be discovered. And then you found Bucky.
A year passed by, and the meadow where Bucky was driving his motorcycle was in full blossom, the green grass contrasted with the colorful flowers that adorned the horizon. You had your arms wrapped around his torso. As he got uphill, he made sure you remained safely behind him. He stopped right in front of a few trees that formed a good shadow to lay the blanket you had packed that morning before leaving your hotel.
Once he was balanced on his feet, Bucky took one of your hands that was still wrapped around him and pulled it towards his lips to kiss it. The movement made the band around your ring finger sparkle under the bright sun of summer. A matching ring was hanging on a chain that was safely tucked under his shirt, close to his heart at all times.
“Do you like the view?” Bucky asked.
“Oh, yeah, I do.” You said, shifting so you could see his profile as he stared down at the town in the distance.
“I’m serious, sweetheart,” he chuckled after he found you looking at him. “If we are planning to settle down, we have to be sure that this is the place. If you don't like it, we can try anywhere else.”
You giggled, and after leaving a kiss on his shoulder, you turned and rested your cheek on his shoulder blade, looking down at the town that had watched you confess your love.
You hummed, narrowing your eyes as you contemplated the growing town. Since your last visit, you could see there were new roads and neighborhoods being built on the outskirts. “It’s a good place, they have good people. As Billy said, when his brother retires, you can stay with the workshop. He trusts you, and the customers love you.
Bucky snorted, "They love that I get their cars and bikes good as new fast."
"Yeah, always so good with your hands." He laughed. "And I can work with Rosie, and our kids will totally love having their aunties Daisy and Rosie near.”
Bucky turned fast, careful of not bumping your head while doing so. “Wait, are you—”
“Not yet.” You smiled. “I'm still on the pill, but once we have our house,” you trailed, moving your hand that was still around his torso down, dragging your nails on the fabric of his jeans. “But we can… practice.”
He groaned, “Fuck, baby, you can't say that. Our hotel is on the other side of the town.”
“When has that stopped us?” You shrugged, tilting your head, pointing out the empty meadow. “Besides,” you shifted on your seat to get closer to him, “There’s nobody close, remember? Empty road uphill, the last house we saw is more than a mile away.”
“You’re trouble.” He sighed when you shifted again and kissed his neck from behind.
“You love it.” You mumbled, playfully biting his earlobe. “That’s why you marry me.”
“Best decision I ever made.”
You kept kissing his neck, whispering in his ear like a little devil. The final straw was your hand sneaking over his bulge. Bucky cursed under his breath, and in a second, he had pulled down the side stand so the motorcycle could stay upright by itself, and he got off.
With you still sitting on it, he kissed you breathless, one arm wrapped around your waist, moving you forward on the motorcycle until you were sitting on his seat, while the other worked on unzipping your high-waist jeans.
You whimpered in his mouth when his fingers sneaked under the fabric of your panties and teased your clit.
“You’re so wet, baby. So ready for me.”
“Always.” You breathed.
His hand left you as he positioned behind you, but was quickly replaced by his other hand that was still wrapped around you.
“You know,” Bucky said as his fingers rubbed your clit. “We have been together so long, and we've never fucked on my motorcycle.”
You pulled back, confused, mind hazy with lust. You hadn't realized that the motorcycle was still on until Bucky hopped back on, and from behind, he revved the engine; the rumbling between your thighs made you moan his name.
“Don’t you think I felt you squeezing your thighs together whenever we ride together, and I do this?” He revved the engine again, longer. “I know all the sounds you made when you feel good, didn't you think I would recognize that precious sound the first time you ride with me?”
“Bucky.” You gasped as he kept switching from rubbing your clit and revving.
Your hips bucked forward, chasing the feeling.
“That's it, baby, grind on it. My perfect dirty girl.” He kissed your neck as you rolled your hips.
“Fuck.” You leaned your head back on his shoulder, each roll made you grind against his bulge and the seat. “Bucky”
Your orgasm was close; you could almost touch it, right over the edge.
And then you lost it.
Bucky had turned off the motorcycle and pulled his fingers out of your underwear.
“Bucky,” you whined. “ I was so close.”
You tried to roll your hips again, searching for some friction, but he held you in place.
“Easy, baby, I want to feel you coming around my cock, don't you want that too?” He whispered against your ear. “You said we could practice. So let's practice.” He left a kiss under your ear and got off the motorcycle. You thought he was going to pick up where he left off, but instead, he kissed you and took advantage of the way your body responded to him.
He pulled you off the motorcycle as if you were light as a feather, while you grabbed onto his jacket. Your ass rested on the seat sideways, half on and half off the bike.
“Hold on, my love.” Your hands grabbed onto the leather seat under you while he pulled your shorts and panties off, and then pulled his jeans down enough to leave his cock out. You attempted to touch him, but he stopped you, slothing himself between your thighs and keeping you open for him. “Not yet, baby. Be a good girl and stay still.”
You whimpered as you saw him stroking himself, drunk on the sight of your glistening pussy.
"You're so beautiful, have I told you that today?"
You nodded, panting, "Every day."
"My beautiful wife." He pushed in, slowly, stretching you around him and making you whine. "Mine."
"Bucky," you whimpered his name, feeling him throbbing inside you.
"God, you're pulling me in, right back home." He groaned when he was fully buried inside you. He braced his arms around your body, holding you open and steady, and then he moved, shallow thrusts that were slowly building up like a tide until you were fully adjusted to his side.
"I need —" your words were cut off by a moan when he pushed out, leaving only the tip in, and then slammed back inside.
"I know, baby, I know what you love, what makes you crumble under my touch," Bucky muttered. He lifted your leg, shifting the angle, and then he resumed his thrusts faster and harder, winding you tight.
Words died in your mouth, and only whimpers and moans could come out. He leaned over you, kissing your tits over your top and leaving open-mouthed kisses all over your neck. "So gorgeous, my perfect wife." He praised you. "I'm gonna fill you up until it sticks, baby. Everyone will know that you're mine. You'll carry our baby, a piece of our love."
Your hand slipped from the seat under you, so you grabbed onto him to steady yourself.
Your hips bucked up in a frenetic pace. "Yes, Bucky, yes." Your back arched, the edge so close…
"There she is. Come, baby, I got you." Bucky growled with his face buried in the crook of your neck. "I love you so much, I can't wait to make you a mommy."
Your orgasm crashed into you like a wave. You were still riding your orgasm when Bucky shifted you. Your back was now over the seat, ass hanging in the air, only held up by him. He pulled your other leg up and held you into a mating press.
"That's it, baby, I'm gonna fill you up." He pistoned into you until he was coming inside you, prolonging your orgasm. “Take it, sweetheart. Fuck, I’m coming.”
He remained buried inside you while your heart stopped hammering in your chest. Leaving kisses and murmuring praises on your skin while your fingers threaded into his hair.
"You okay?" Bucky asked.
"A little bit sore, the seat is digging into my back."
As soon as you said it, Bucky lifted you, making you squeal. Your legs wrapped around him as he took out the blanket with one hand. The blanket was placed clumsily over the grass, and then he lay you both over it, him half on top of you, careful not to let his whole weight over you — even if you loved it, he always was careful.
"Better?" He mumbled against your skin as he kissed wherever he could reach.
You nodded, giggling as he tickled your skin with his stubble.
"Should we also scratch sex on a blanket in the middle of nowhere out of our list?" Bucky asked after a minute.
You snorted, caressing his jaw, "You're insane."
"What? You can't tell me you didn't think about it." You rolled your eyes and then pushed him off you. He let you push him until he was on his back, and watched as you climbed over him, straddling his hips.
"Let's scratch me riding you on a blanket in the middle of nowhere." You corrected him, grinding on him until he was fully hard again.
He lay under you, looking up at you with devotion, his hands gripped your hips without overpowering your movements.
"Oh, God. Baby, we'd better start working on our house." He moaned, throwing his head back, when you guided him inside you and started rolling your hips fucking yourself. "Because at this pace—"
"It's just practice." You smirked, bracing your hands on his chest and bouncing on his dick. "But yeah, I agree." You panted as your breath started ragging even more. "We will think of our future house later, for now, just relax, and let me love you."
"Whatever you need, baby. I'm yours."
"Mine." You groaned when he started driving up. "And I'm all yours."
"Forever, Mrs. Barnes." He groaned.
You let out a half-moan, half-laugh. The title was still new, not even a week old.
"Forever, Mr. Barnes." You said, before leaning over him and kissing him.
Finally, both of you found your home, together.
taglist: @nikkitabarnes @houseofhyde @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @justwantsomeplums @thearchivistshaven @swimmingnightcolor @w1nter-fairy @sassandscribbles @opheliabbarnes @54nboo @buckyfmd @slutforsr @umbreoni @devililithh @colettebarnes @barnesandashes @metal-armed-muse @heldbybarnes @sheriff-bodecker @bckyslover @demiebarnes @amoremarveloustime @kqtholins @spidermanluvr444 @mathcat345 @singulartoast @erina00 @goldiegirl0312 (+ comment on this post to be added to the taglist)
if you liked it, feel free to leave a like, rb, a comment, or an ask! I'd love to read your thoughts and theories!
pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader
wc: +9.4k
summary: Your friends arranged a blind date for you. The problem? It's been so long since the last date you had that you're spiraling. Enter, the owner's son of the bookstore you work at, Bucky Barnes, a reformed playboy who offers to help you with his dating advice.
What can go wrong? It's not as if you had been crushing on him for longer than you would want to admit.
warnings/tags: +18 MDNI. bookstore au, no use of y/n, fluff, smut, friends to lovers, blind date, bucky is a nepobaby, the pitt crossover? Mel King and Cassie McKay are your friends... yes, from The Pitt, oh, and the date is with Frank Langdon, sue me. Dating inexperience, requited unrequited love, secret crush, falling in love, reader overthinks, reader has hair, jealous bucky barnes, Alpine, p in v, oral sex (f), missionary position, praise kink, dirty talk, edging, creampie, unprotected sex, petnames
a/n: I know I'm late, but school was kicking my ass, but here it is! Enjoy! beta read by @w1nter-fairy and @buckysdecaflove
part of elixirs arcade writing event - @elixirfromthestars
elixirs hold 'em: high card
Bookstore AU + Person A arranges for random Person B to call them during a date as an escape call - they fall in love. One of them is very romantically experienced, while the other one is not.
THIS WORK IS +18 MDNI. If you're a minor or an ageless blog and you interact with this work, you will be blocked !!
Read on AO3 | Masterlist and wips
The distinct smell of books flooded your senses as you stepped into the bookstore that Monday morning, holding a take-out cup of coffee from the nearby coffee shop. It was comforting, as it had been since the first time you walked in, and as it had been this past year working there. Barnes' Book Corner was an old establishment, owned by the same family for generations.
As always, the weight on your shoulders lifted, relaxing your posture as you took a deep breath. It was strange how your workplace was also a place that could be the source of your comfort, a place where you could find solace.
It had been a miracle that you had seen the job offer poster just as the owner's son was putting it up against the front window. The moment you entered the bookstore, you were convinced that the universe worked in mysterious ways, because there was no other place you would rather work in.
Bucky Barnes, the owner’s son, was the one in charge of interviewing you, since he was the one who was currently managing while his parents prepared for their retirement. To your surprise, after you answered a few questions, he hired you on the spot, confirming the serendipity of the whole situation.
From there, one shift after another, your friendship with him bloomed. Bucky was a very fascinating individual, especially once you went past his reputation and his usual brooding exterior. He was a few years older than you, but your school days overlapped enough for you to learn that Bucky was a playboy, always on dates, with a girl under his arm during the frat parties.
Your shifts went by between pleasant conversations and attending to customers, Bucky being a constant across your days. However, said friendship had rarely left the confines of the bookstore. Being in charge wasn't something he took lightly, so he poured his soul into his job, which translated into extra hours and zero social life outside the job.
It also helped that Bucky was a sight for sore eyes. Sharp jaw, devastating smile, piercing blue eyes that could fight the sea from their beauty. More than once, you had found yourself ogling at him as he worked around, carrying boxes that made him flex his biceps and reach the top shelves, making his shirts ride up and flashing his skin. And his brain? God, he was smart and funny, always with a copy of a book near him, and ready to drop the most nerdiest comment possible.
Yeah, you may have had a crush on him years ago, and sometimes it came back from time to time, but who could blame you? He was magnetic. Handsome and charming. Dangerous combination.
“Morning, boss.” You said after stepping behind the counter, leaving your stuff in its usual spot.
“You’re early,” Bucky said over his shoulder without looking at you since he was putting up some books on the highest shelf.
“Wow, you said that as if that's a shocker.”
“It is.”
You made an exaggerated gasp, making him huff a laugh. “Excuse me? You're talking to the employee of the month, a title I'm holding since I started working here, mind you!” You pointed at the board were said title was over your smiling photo. “If I’m always late, I wouldn't have it!”
“Sweetheart,” he said, the nickname he always used with you. “Besides me, you're the only employee, and I can't have it since I’m — how did you call me the other day?” His smug smile made your heart flutter, but you decided to ignore it.
“A nepobaby.” You completed. “You’re so rude, I don't think I will give you the coffee I bought for you, I’ll have to drink it.” You said with a mournful tone, pulling the coffee closer to you.
That made him turn.
He narrowed his eyes at you, leaving the book in his hand back into the box. “Did you say coffee?”
You nodded.
“I bought it for the best boss in the world, but I don't see any of your parents here.” You shrugged as your eyes scanned the back of the store, as if waiting for his parents to materialize on the hall that led to the break room and back office.
“Is that from the coffee shop around the corner?” He said, nearly drooling, noticing the cup sleeve.
Another nod as you logged in to the computer at the front desk. He almost dropped the book in his hand as he placed it back into the book cart and rushed to the counter.
"You're an amazing person, have I told you that?" Bucky said, forearms resting over the counter as he leaned forward.
"Mmm, maybe." You said.
"You're the best employee of the year as well." He added, his eyes tracking the coffee cup as you moved it slightly in his direction.
You hovered your hand around the cup, "Enough for a raise?" You asked, raising a brow.
He hung his head forward, defeated. "You know I can't clear that yet," he lifted his head slightly and leaned even more, lowering his voice as if he was sharing a secret. "But I can put in a good word with my father."
You shrugged, "I know, I had to try. Drink it before it gets cold, it's your order." He raised a fist in victory when you placed his cup near his hand.
"What about you?" He said, closing his eyes as he got a whiff of the coffee scent. "You didn't buy a cup for yourself? We can always share."
"No need, I already drank mine there. I had an early breakfast with a couple of friends."
He scrunched his nose, "The good group you actually enjoy going out with or the one you haven't got the strength to drop and keep going with them even if they make you feel bad?"
You slowly turned to him with your jaw dropped, "That's it, give me that cup back!" You said, reaching your hand.
"No! It's mine!" He leaned back, raising his cup high so you couldn't grab it. You rolled your eyes and returned your attention to the monitor, "I didn't lie, though." He mumbled against the cup once he brought it down.
You sighed, "The good group."
"Thank God. Last time you went out with them was what, after the wedding of one of them last year, right?" You stopped typing.
"Yeah? How do you even remember that?"
He shrugged, "You were stressing out the week prior about your dress, something about not being the right color in the preview, and you also asked for a day off, remember?"
"It was not my fault that they took the photo with bad lighting! The burgundy looked way darker than it should have."
"Believe me, even if it wasn't the right color, you still looked beautiful." He winked and turned around to return to his spot next to the cart, missing the way your skin flushed.
Maybe you do need to get laid.
Which reminded you of the conversation you had with your friends that morning. The reunion went as it always does: each one of you did a recap of the highlights of the last few months, quick jokes between anecdotes over a cup of coffee, and your breakfast election.
Looking back, the topic of your love life was going to be on the table by default. Both of your friends were happily married; one had two kids, while the other was newlywed and expecting. Kids and marriage shanninigangs were the main theme during their turns, so when both turned to you, the "single" sign was already hovering over your head in neon lights with bright arrows pointing at you.
"So what about you? Any cute guy coming to the bookstore?" Mel asked with a playful glint in her eyes, her eyebrows waggling as she rubbed a hand over her growing belly.
You narrowed your eyes over your cup, "Not really."
"Anyone that catched your eye? Any… coworkers perhaps?" Cassie asked, taking a bite of her pastry.
"I don't have any coworkers — well, Bucky… he's my boss, uhm, quasi-boss, more like my manager, if I'm being honest." You rambled as you took a piece out of your pastry with your fingers. "But no one special."
Cassie and Mel exchanged a look, while you obliviously continued eating as you stared out of the window.
"When was the last time you went out on a date?" Mel wondered. "Was it that date with Scott?"
You rolled your eyes, "Don't remind me of him. But yeah, I think so."
Cassie looked at you with her jaw dropped, "Girl, that was before my second pregnancy, and Harrison has 3!"
You winced.
"Wait, but that was the last date. Seriously, your last relationship was with Dylan?" Mel said with a frown, as if reciting the timeline of your lovelife would change the facts.
You rolled your eyes. "Yes, why are you acting as if you didn't know this?"
"I mean, I suspected it, but we rarely talk about your love life! Let alone your sex life!"
"Wow, we are not discussing my sex life." You side-eyed the crowded coffee shop, proper of the hour. "At least not in public and definitely not sober."
"Come on, girl, you are not the type that likes hookups, you're telling me you had slept with someone after Dylan?" You scrunched your nose. "You see my point?"
"I'm fine, I promise. I prefer it this way. I'm happy enjoying my single life and my toys."
Mel shook her head; her face reminded you of how she looked every time there was a debate in class. "Seriously? Haven't you wondered what it would be like? Having someone to share your life, someone who loves you and makes you laugh just as hard as they make you come."
Even Cassie choked on her drink at her words.
"Jesus Christ, I won't believe anything that comes out of your mouth. Hormones and your honeymoon phase glow are talking for you." You said with a fond smile.
Mel blushed, "Yeah, maybe you're right." She chuckled. "However, my point stands."
You rolled your eyes and focused again on your food. After a few moments in silence, Cassie reached her hand, placing it at the side of your plate, forcing you to look up at her.
"What would you say about us arranging a blind date for you?" Cassie said, using the same tone she used when she tried to convince her children to eat some veggies.
"A blind date, really?" You narrowed your eyes at her.
"Yeah, who better to arrange it than your two best friends? We are both in happy marriages, so that's enough to make us more than qualified. We know what you like and what not. We can totally find you a great prospect."
"In what moment did my life become a season of Bridgerton?"
Mel cleared her throat and, holding her cup of tea high, she said with her best British impression: "Dearest gentle reader, you shall be the diamond of this season."
"Easy there, Lady Whistledown." You said, with tears in your eyes from laughter.
"So, what do you say?" Cassie said, laughter still bubbling in her voice.
You considered it for a second. You didn't lie about being happy, but you wouldn't lie that you haven't been wondering what it would be like to have someone. Getting back to your lonely apartment was getting bitterly sad.
"One date. And if it doesn't work out, you two will drop the cupid's work."
Mel squealed, clapping rapidly. "We promise. Oh my God, I can't wait!"
"We won't disappoint you," Cassie said with a bright smile, placing her hand over yours on the table and giving it a few taps. "Better start planning the wedding."
You rolled your eyes, taking a last bite of your pastry and getting up to order Bucky's coffee, knowing that he would kill you if he found out you had gone there and didn't get him something, leaving your friends scheming on the table.
・・・・・
Two days had passed when you got the message. Your shift had just started a few minutes ago, and surprisingly, Bucky hadn't arrived yet, so you were still waiting for him to bring the new arrivals boxes to the front of the store. Without much to do, you took your phone out, and the moment it unlocked, as if it was part of a prank from the universe, the notification popped up.
Mel
You have a date!
Next Saturday. 7 pm.
I'll text you the location.
You
???????
Cassie
He's great, you're gonna love him.
You
Okay??
Mel
He's so nice!
Just make sure to wear something pretty.
Show that curves, babe ;)
You let out a grunt of frustration. This was insane. You had thought they were going to forget, truly. Or struggle to the point that they themselves would tell you that they would give up, since the dating pool looked more and more pathetic nowadays. But two days? In two days, they found someone willing to have a blind date with you. You brought your hand to your mouth and started biting your nail — an old habit that you had thought you had left behind back in college.
A date.
A fucking date.
You hadn't dated in years. The last one had been a nightmare. And before that, you had been in a long-term relationship, where a 'date' consisted of watching a movie or having take-out in his dorm.
What if you fumble this date?
What if, because of your inexperience, you scare a perfect guy away?
"Why the fuck did I agree on this?" You mumbled, burying your head in your hands.
In that instant, the bell over the door chimed, announcing a customer, or so you thought.
"Who's ready for a blind date!" Bucky exclaimed, holding a bag with rolls of gift paper sticking out of it.
Your eyes widened, and your elbows that had been resting on the counter slipped, making you almost lose balance and almost hit yourself on the face. "What?"
Bucky raised the bag, brows knitting together at your reaction. “The dynamic that my mom insists on us doing? The blind date with a book? Did you forget?”
“Oh, yes, that, sorry — yeah, I remember.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yes! I — What do you need me to do?”
“We need to wrap the books that are in that box on that table and write the clues on the front. Are you sure you're okay? You can take the day off if you need.” He sounded worried as he scanned your face.
“No!” You exclaimed, horrified, the last thing you needed was going back to your lonely apartment and spiraling alone. “I’m fine.”
He hummed, “I will act as if I believe you.” He approached the counter and leaned in. “But, just remember, you can trust me with whatever you need, okay? I’m your friend.”
You smiled at him and nodded, “Thank you, Bucky.”
He reciprocated your smile and, after tapping the counter, he strutted towards the table he had organized after hours the day before. “Come on, these books won't wrap themselves.”
You took the list of books with the preselected clues from the printer and joined him.
For the next hour, you fell into a system, while Bucky wrapped the books and placed a sticky note in the front so you could know what title it was, while you were in charge of writing the clues and drawing doodles as decoration on the front of each book.
It was probably the tenth time in less than an hour that you had written “Enemies to lovers” and "Fantasy romance," when Bucky called your name.
“Are you sure you're okay? You keep bouncing your leg, and I think you’re gonna rip the top of that pen if you keep biting it.”
Your leg froze mid-bounce.
Your mouth opened and then closed again.
After a sigh, you closed your eyes. “I’m gonna tell you, but please promise me you won't laugh.”
He left the book he was working on on the table, “Hit me.”
“My friends… they just texted me that they arranged a date for me.”
He blinked.
“A date?” He said slowly.
“Well, a blind date.” You pointed at the pile of books next to you. “Kinda ironic if you ask me.”
His eyes fell to the book in front of him and frowned.
“What?” You asked.
“Nothing, nothing.” He shook his head. “I just… I’m trying to remember the last time you mentioned something about dating.”
“Well, you can keep digging, but to be honest, I think this is the first time we've touched this topic — at least on my end, I’ve heard many things about your dating life.” You chuckled, hoping that he would take the bait and forget your situation.
“You shouldn't believe rumours.” He squinted his nose.
“You forget we went to the same school,” you said, “Still, since I’ve been working here, I’ve seen you leave early for dates or like that time that girl came looking for you to give you back your wallet that you left in her house.”
He frowned. “That was before. I haven't gone on dates in 8 months.” He made an emphasis on the time passed.
“Oh, really? I haven't noticed.” You said and went back to scribbling on the book in your hands. You felt his eyes still on you, and sure enough, when you lifted your head, he was staring at you with his brows raised. “Shit, that sounded wrong. I mean that I truly hadn't noticed, that was not sarcasm. I do pay attention, it's not like I'm distracted while working, I’m just focused.” You rambled until he started laughing.
“God, you do overthink.”
“That's what my therapist said.” You shrugged while you felt your cheeks burning.
“Is that what is happening here? You overthinking the date?”
You exhaled, exhausted, “I'm overthinking everything. What should I wear? What should I even say? How much is too much? What's expected? I haven't been on a date in years, and before that, dates weren't something that I paid any mind to, and they definitely were far from decent, if I even could call them dates. None of my past boyfriends cared enough to take me on a real date.”
You squirmed, trying to push back the memories of the many times you cried yourself to sleep, thinking that you weren't enough for any of them.
“My friends care, and they say this guy is a great catch, so what if I fuck up? I don't have a problem being single, but… i just don't want to lose something that is good only because of a stupid, bad date.”You ranted.
“That’s… so much pressure.” He softened his voice, empathy written in his features.
“Yeah, imagine having to deal with it.”
A beat.
“You don't have to do it alone, you know that, right?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that you're worrying about going on a date, and here I am, someone who has gone to several dates. You can rant to me about what you're overthinking, and I can help you. Think of me like Yoda but for dating.”
“And I'll be your Jedi?”
His eyes glinted with enthusiasm.
“Yes! You're getting it!”
You snorted, “I don't know if you're insane for suggesting it or I’m even more insane for actually considering it.”
“Is that a yes?” He wiggled his eyebrows.
You sighed, “Fuck it, let’s do it. I don't have anything to lose.”
Bucky punched the air, “Yes!”
“Why are you so happy?” You chuckled, watching as he did a weird celebration dance.
“Can’t I be happy for helping a friend? Think of this as a payoff for the many times you have helped me out.”
“A raise would be nicer, though.” You muttered under your breath.
He stopped dancing and pointed at you. “I’m working on it!”
You rolled your eyes and pointed at the pile next to him. “Go back to work, those books won't wrap themselves.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He said, raising a hand to his head in the form of a salute.
Yeah… this might be a bad idea.
Later that day, you were eating your lunch when Bucky burst into the break room. He sat across from you and, with a smile that promised trouble. He leaned back in the chair, crossing his ankles as he stretched, and his hands remained threaded together over his stomach.
“Tell me more about you.” He said.
“I’m on my break.” You buried your fork in your plate and brought it to your mouth. "I don't function unless my break is done."
“And you need help. Part of being on a date is being comfortable talking about yourself and listening, so let's practice." He explained.
“Okay…” You looked down at your plate with a frown.
He raised his eyebrows expectantly, “I’m listening.”
You let out a deep breath. “I don't know. I suck at this.”
“Come on, tell me anything. For example, why did you decide to work here? We have never talked about that.”
“It’s stupid.” You mumbled.
“It's not, I promise.”
You locked eyes with him, debating yourself if you should tell him the truth or go with a simpler, less uncomfortable reason. But the more you looked into his blue eyes, the more you remembered who was in front of you — yes, your almost boss slash former crush, but also your friend.
So you went for the truth.
“When I was younger, my parents had a rough patch; there were always fights at home and… I don't know, I was old enough to get out of the house without their supervision, so I went out and walked around until one day I found this place, it was… quiet, peaceful. A safe place.” You said, looking down at your food. “I used to come here every day until they decided to divorce and my dad moved out.”
Your eyes burned, tears threatened to spill as you remembered exactly how you felt those years ago.
“So last year, I was on my way to an interview at a corporation. A boring desk job. Can you believe? And then as I was passing by, I saw you placing that sign.”
“That's why you had a job application with you,” Bucky mumbled. You raised your head to look at him, and when he realized he had said it out loud, he blushed. “Sorry.”
You let out a wet laugh. “Yeah, that's why. The moment I crossed that door… I felt exactly like I did back then. I felt safe, like I was coming back home. It was a no-brainer after that.”
His eyes softened, he reached towards you and placed his hand over your wrist. “I’m glad you found this place.”
You felt your throat tightening; the way he was looking at you was doing things for you that you didn't want to entertain with, so you looked away, removing your hand to pick up your bowl and lean back into your chair.
"Anyways, don't you think that's a topic for a second date, at least? A lot to unpack for a first date." You attempted to joke.
"It's your decision. If you feel comfortable about it, at the end of the day, it's a part of your life."
"I'll have it mind." You glanced at him, and for a second, you thought he was leaning in, but you heard the bell that announced a new customer, interrupting whatever he was thinking of doing.
He closed his eyes for a second, cursing under his breath, and then got up. "I'll go, you finish your lunch."
You nodded, and then he was gone.
The day passed by with more stolen moments whenever the flow of customers died down. He would approach you at the front desk whenever the customers left the shop or in case some were just looking around, and he didn't need to be placing more books or taking some out from the storage. In case you had switched places, he would find you wherever you were in the store and trail behind you as he asked questions.
Some were rapid-fired, especially when he saw someone approaching from the corner of his eye:
Cats or dogs?
Sunrise or sunset?
Sweet or savory?
Early bird or night owl?
If there was time, he made more open questions:
If you had a superpower, what would it be?
What would you do if you won the lottery?
Favorite song and album, and why?
“Okay, so let me see if I’m understanding, so he is going to marry another girl —” He said while you counted the till after he placed the closed sign.
“He wants to propose.” You corrected.
“Tomato, tomahto. He wants to propose, gifting her a star.” You nodded. “And the star is a girl.”
“Yup.”
“And he falls in love with her.”
“Eventually — it's a really good movie.”
“What do you like about it?”
“I don't know, there's something appealing to watch their journey together and how even if they annoy each other from the start, you see them fall in love without them realizing, or at least trying not to think about it.”
“So you're a romantic.” You expected to see a mocking expression, but instead, there was a look in his eyes that you could only think of as genuine curiosity.
“I guess you can say so.”
He hummed, and after he nodded to himself, he took his phone from the table and pocketed it.
“Bucky?” You narrowed your eyes at him. He was moving in silence, something he rarely did, let alone in the middle of a conversation.
"Do you mind closing tonight?" He said, reaching for his jacket behind the counter.
"Where are you going?"
"Unimportant." He put on his jacket. "I'll see you tomorrow."
"Unbelievable." You muttered. "And I fucking lost count." You groaned and started over.
・・・・・
It was early, you had just flipped the sign to OPEN just a few minutes ago, and now you were busy accommodating some books when you heard the door open.
“One second!” You called out, taking the last book of the cart and putting it in its place.
“Good morning.” Bucky was waiting for you next to the front desk, leaning against the wood.
“I thought you were a customer.” You said, rolling the book cart with you.
“It’s still early. Here, let's switch.” He turned back, took something from behind him, and walked towards you.
He took the cart and handed you a takeout cup, same one you had bought him the day before.
You inhaled the scent of fresh coffee and mentally scolded yourself for not taking a detour to buy your own cup.
“It's for you, by the way,” Bucky said as he rolled the cart away.
“What?”
“It's your order. Drink it.” He chuckled when he saw the confusion on your face. “What? Sweetheart, don't look at me as if I never do good things for you.”
Maybe it was because you had your guard down, but you flushed.
You didn't answer him; you hid your face and drank from the cup. Only one sip was enough for you to widen your eyes and look at him with surprise.
“It is my order!”
“Of course it is.” He said with a smile, placing the cart in its place and moving to continue the morning routine.
“How?” You took another sip and closed your eyes, feeling the warmth of the beverage travel inside you.
“Remember that time, when my parents were here, and I volunteered to bring all of you coffee? Well, I didn't forget your order.”
“That was months ago. I had less than a month here.” You said with surprise.
He shrugged. "I pay attention."
Bucky walked towards the computer and began checking the emails, taking your place at the front desk.
"I see that."
"Oh, by the way, I saw the movie," Bucky said casually over his shoulder. “The one you mentioned was your favorite?”
“Really?”
He nodded, focused on the screen, “Good movie, I see why you like it. And you were right about them.” He turned to face you, “Their journey truly was appealing, but damn, the number of times I just wanted to shake some sense into them so they could see they had what they needed in front of them.” He made a gesture of strangling the air.
You chuckled. “Exactly!”
You kept talking about the movie and other hobbies while working; it felt natural talking with him. Even if during your first month you had tried to keep it professional, Bucky’s charm had been disarming.
You hadn't even received your first check when he was making you laugh and talking about everything and nothing at the same time.
Now, with this whole date situation, Bucky realized that there were many things he didn't know about you, and maybe it was selfish, but he was determined to know you — not his co-worker who could talk about him about the frequent customers, who could keep up with his humor and make him lose his composure while doing inventory and restocking — the real you, the one that lived outside the bookstore when you were out of the clock.
・・・・・
Three days before your date, while both of you were taking boxes out of the storage room, Bucky became bolder.
“Are you planning to have sex with him?” He said casually, holding the door open of the room with one hand and carrying a box with his metal arm so you could go through.
You almost dropped the box in your arms if it hadn't been because he was close enough to keep the box steady with his hand.
“Careful, you don't want to get injured so close to your date.” He said with a teasing smile.
“James Buchanan Barnes!” You scolded him.
He winced. “Full government name? Damn.”
“Why are you even making that question?”
“I swear I’m not a perv.”
“Are you sure about that?”
He snorted. “You mentioned when you were rambling about the date, remember?”
Your eyebrows jumped.
“Well, not explicitly.” He added after seeing your expression. “But you said you were worried about expectations, where the limits are. I thought you referred to that.”
You opened your mouth, but words got stuck in your throat.
“You really have a good memory.” You said instead, placing the box you were carrying on the counter to open it. You tried to use the box cutter, but you struggled to make it glide over the cardboard.
“And you're deflecting, I thought we agreed to be honest.” He approached, towering behind you. “Let me do it.” He said, hovering his hand over yours that was holding the box cutter.
Your breath hitched. He was too close; you could feel his breath fanning on the exposed skin at the side of your neck, and if you took half a step back, you would have his chest against your back.
Instead of taking the blade from your hand, he wrapped his hand over yours, applying enough pressure so the blade could cut through the material.
“We need to change the blade,” He mumbled, removing his hand and with it the box cutter. He put the blade next to the box but didn't move; instead, he placed that hand on the counter, half cagging you.
You gulped, suddenly feeling your mouth dry.
“I’m not deflecting.” You tried to make your voice steady, keeping your eyes trained on the box before you, trying your best not to move back.
He chuckled.
“Then answer.” His voice dropped, low and gravely.
You wetted your lips with a glide of your tongue. And in an attempt to appear nonchalant, you turned around, a decision that quickly made itself noted that it was a bad idea.
You had to tilt your head up to look at him. Suddenly, it felt as if the space between you had shrunk. It didn't help that his metal hand landed on the counter too, fully caging you.
“I — I think it will depend.” You choked.
“Of what?” His eyes scanned your face.
“If there's chemistry. And if he wants to.”
The muscle of his jaw jerked.
“What about you? Do you want to?”
“I don't know yet.” You whispered.
“Would you kiss him?” His eyes dropped for a second to your lips, and then went back to your eyes.
“If things led us there." It was the turn of your eyes to focus on his lips, "Sure.”
“If he had you in this position as I do, would you go for it? A kiss?” He asked when you looked back at his eyes.
“Probably.” There was that again, that glance at his lips.
He hummed, his eyes going back to your lips.
If it hadn't been because the counter was supporting you, you were sure that your knees would have given out.
And then he moved, turning around and going back to taking out boxes.
What the fuck was that?
Before your mind could spiral, he talked again, this time from a much safer distance.
“Whatever you let him do, remember that you're also in control. You can say no. Don't take any step if you don't feel comfortable. Don't give a fuck about his expectations.” Bucky said sternly.
“And if you feel that he's pressing you to do anything that you don't want to, or if you just don't want to be there anymore — you can always reach out to have an escape call.”
“My what?”
He said your name, stopping by the doorframe of the storage room. “Please tell me you have talked with your friends. They are arranging a blind date and not even offering to be your escape call?” He sounded offended.
“I’m confused.”
“You know, when you're on a date, and you want to leave because it's boring, uncomfortable, or you just don't want to be there anymore — a friend can call you.”
You shook your head.
“You should tell them.”
You fidgeted with your fingers.
“I can hear the gears inside your head turning. What's the issue?”
“They know this guy. I don't think I’d need an escape call. Besides, it's on a weekend, they're busy with their family plans.”
“Sweetheart, it doesn't matter if you're going on a date with the best bachelor around; you need to have a safety plan.” He said before getting inside the room.
You sighed. He was right.
"Would you do it?" You said.
"Can you repeat that? I didn't hear you." Bucky said, emerging from the room with two boxes in his arms.
"Would you be my escape call if I need it?"
His eyes softened, and he approached you, stopping right in front of you. "Of course, whatever you need."
You mirrored his smile, and, without thinking about it, you wrapped your arms around him and hugged him.
"Thank you, Bucky." You mumbled against his chest.
He reciprocated the hug, resting his head over yours.
"Not a problem. That's what friends are for."
・・・・・
Days with you, Bucky realized, passed by quickly. This arrangement had pulled you both much closer, so much that Bucky dreaded that it was going to be over soon — sure, you would still be friends like you had been since you started working with him, but he really hoped that the easiness and openness with which you had been interacting these past days would remain.
The day had finally arrived; tonight, you would have your date, and he would see if all the advice and practice had paid off. While Bucky did his morning run around the neighborhood, he realized something, a feeling that he had been having these past days, and had grown more frequent, appeared again, a pang in his chest whenever he thought about you being on a date with another man.
The feeling had come previously, building up softly, creeping until it became painful. Each time he noticed the glint in your eyes when you rambled about something that was on your mind, when you would laugh so hard that your whole body swayed and rested on his side, your smile… soon another man would be on the receiving end of it.
His mind went back again to that day that he had you caged against the counter; he had been so close to kissing you, and after your confession… thinking about this unknown man that would be close enough to do what he had stopped himself from doing, to think that he would be able of feel your lips against his, to touch you, and if he got lucky, he would be able to hear his name out of your lips as you came undone.
Jealousy.
Bucky Barnes was jealous.
He wished that you had a good time, purely because he knew you deserved nothing less than that. But a good time meant that you would like whoever was going to be sitting across from you during your date.
Bucky got to his apartment, his mind still building scenarios, and he got to his shower after checking that Alpine had her bowls of food and water full. Hours passed by with him trying to keep his mind occupied, until his phone rang.
"I need your help." You said the moment the facecall connected.
He could only see your face partly as you moved across your apartment. Bucky noticed that your hair was done; you had opted to let your hair down, making it flow with each movement you did — he wanted nothing more than to bury his head in the crook of your neck.
"Hello to you too, what do you need?" He said quickly. Internally cringing to himself at his earnestness.
He saw how you bit your lip, second-guessing your decision to call him in the first place.
Bucky called your name.
"I told you whatever you need, I'm here. Tell me what it is."
You sighed, placing the phone right in front of you so you could see him properly, still only showing your face.
"I just hung up a two-hour call with my friends, I did my hair, and went through my whole closet." You grunted. "I don't have any idea what to wear. Their only advice is cleavage and a miniskirt, but I'm not sure."
"You want me to drive you to the mall?" Bucky glanced at the clock on his wall, "If we hurry up, maybe you can find an outfit."
You chuckled, "I appreciated, but I do think I can make out something out of my clothes, but —" you wetted your lips with the tip of your tongue. "I called you because I want your opinion on my options… you're also a man, I could use your feedback."
"Of course, sweetheart, show me." He said, interrupting your rambling, especially since you were already flushing.
You smiled at him, and then the image became a blur as you placed the phone against something so he could see you from head to toe. He wondered if this was the same angle that you were using with your friends from the quickness with which you set it up.
"Okay, I think you'll be able to see the look." You mumbled as you stepped away from the phone and then spun around. "What do you think?"
You were wearing a white blouse, paired with a pencil skirt that hugged your curves.
He hummed, "Where is said date?"
"It's a hole-in-the-wall restaurant, not too fancy and not too casual." You said.
"Next outfit then, you look like you're on your way to a job interview."
You gasped, offended. "Is the skirt, right?"
He nodded. "Yep. Next, sweetheart."
You exhaled and then disappeared from the frame.
"Ready? This is the next option." You said, stepping in front of the phone.
Bucky had to stop himself from dropping his jaw and making his eyes go full-on cartoon heart eyes. This outfit was simple, but it was so… you. A black top, with a jacket over it, paired with a long skirt — a long skirt with a slit that went up to your thigh.
"Are you there?" You called out when you stopped spinning.
Bucky blinked and cleared his throat. "Yeah, still here, my connection buffered for a second." He lied. "I think that looks perfect. It's very you."
"You think so?" You leaned towards the phone and smiled; that, and the glint in your eyes, was disarming.
He nodded, "Excuse me for a second." He got up from his couch and went to the kitchen. As he served himself a glass of water, Alpine jumped to the counter and meowed at the phone.
"Is that you, Queen Alpine?" You said. "Long time no see, beautiful."
Bucky frowned, "Do you know my cat?"
"Your mom asked me to go feed her when you went out during your vacations." You explained.
"I thought she had done it." He said as he picked up the phone again and returned to his living room.
"She tried, but Alpine kept acting weird. She asked me to go with her, and it turns out your girl loves me. She let me pet her and ate while I was there."
“She’s smart.”
“That she is.” You agreed. “So, this option?”
“I like that one. But it's your choice.”
“Great, it's my pick too. I have to go, now that I know what I'm wearing, I can do my makeup.”
“Remember, if you need to get out of there, call me, no matter what time it is. I’ll be waiting. Text me when you arrive and get home too, please.”
“Will do. Thank you, Bucky.” You said and then sent him a kiss, “Talk to you later, bye!”
And then you were gone.
He closed his eyes and leaned his head back on the couch.
Did it make him a bad person that he wished you had a bad date only so you could call him and hear your voice again?
At 6:55, his phone buzzed.
You
I’m here, apparently he's parking his car.
omg he's here
Bucky
Good luck
You left a heart on his message a beat later.
And so his torture began.
Bucky paced around the apartment without much direction. He went to his room and undid and did his bed again, he did his laundry, did the dishes, and started cleaning the apartment — all that with Alpine meowing at him from her spot on the window. Every few minutes, he put his phone out and stared at your text thread.
At 8 pm, he took the keys to his car out of the bowl near the door and put them in his pocket.
“If she needs me, I need to be able to get out quickly.” He said out loud, earning another meow from Alpine, even she could see through his bullshit.
That train of thought made him take a quick shower, change clothes, and put on his shoes.
He wondered if that guy made you laugh.
If he was letting you talk or interrupting you.
If he noticed whenever you wanted to keep talking about something or when you wanted to change topics.
If his eyes dropped to your lips, and if you did the same with his.
Bucky closed his eyes and groaned.
Why the fuck didn't he ask the name of the restaurant? Why didn't he offer to pick you up? Ah, yes, he didn't want to make you think he was a weirdo. Well, now Bucky was suffering the consequences of second-guessing.
By 9:30 pm, he wanted to cry because you hadn't called him yet, and that meant one thing: you were enjoying your date.
And if that was true, that meant that Bucky had lost his chance.
The truth was that Bucky had been harboring feelings for you for what felt like an eternity — even though it had only been less than a year since he had truly interacted with you; he had seen you before, of course, living near and having overlapping time at the same schools. But he was a coward. He liked what you two had, the easy-as-breathing type of friendship, a type of trust and reciprocated respect.
He tried to date other people, only to fully stop a few months ago, once he realized he felt like shit during and after each date. As if each attempt were a direct act of betrayal to you and to his feelings. He had convinced himself that having you as a friend was enough to make his heart stop aching, enough closeness to alleviate his yearning.
And it had been.
Until now.
He buried his face in his hands. He just hoped that this guy, whoever he was, would take care of you, love you the way you deserved.
It was close to ten pm when he gave up and decided to take his pity party to his bedroom. He would stay up until you texted him that you were safe and sound back in your home, but that didn't stop him from throwing himself on his bed and drowning himself in his misery.
He had already said good night to Alpine when he heard someone knocking on his door. Alpine perked her ears and let out a meow.
"Easy, Al, it's probably the neighbor," Bucky said, and then padded to the door.
He opened the door and froze the moment his eyes landed on the person outside.
You.
"Hi, do you mind if I come in?" You said, burying your hands inside the pockets of your jacket.
"Y-yeah, sure, of course, come in." He stuttered and moved aside.
He closed the door behind you.
You whistled, "This place looks and smells good." You said, looking around, then your eyes landed on Alpine. "Hi, Queen!"
Alpine meowed, jumping from her spot at the window and padding to you. You knelt on the floor and brushed your hand over her fur. "Such a pretty girl!"
Bucky was at lost of words, he blinked repeatedly.
Had he gone to sleep, and was this a dream?
"Totally real." You said, standing up and turning around with a smile on your face.
"Did I say it out loud?" Bucky asked.
You nodded, biting your lip and trying to muffle your laugh.
"How was your date?" Bucky wondered, after clearing his throat.
"The date was great, actually." You assured. "His name is Frank, he's a doctor, well, a pediatrician." You added.
"That's good." He croaked, rooted in his spot near the door.
"It is. He's a great guy." You sighed, and then you started pacing around the living room, your eyes scanning the room as you moved around. Bucky could only keep his eyes on you, still confused about what you were doing in his apartment. "The food was amazing. He was a good company too. Your advice helped a lot." You said the last part over your shoulder. "I really felt that the conversation flowed, I felt more confident too."
You turned to see him, and then slowly approached him. "But every single moment I kept thinking about something, and it didn't leave my mind since the moment I hung up our video call."
You stopped a few steps in front of him. "The whole time I kept thinking about another person. I kept comparing his questions to the way he would respond. The way he looked at me." You took a step forward until you had to lift your face to meet his eyes. "The way he made me feel."
"Who did you compare him to?" He whispered.
You tilted your head, a smile pulling the corners of your mouth. "I think you know."
"I — It will really help me if you say it out loud." He said, and you chuckled.
You took another step forward.
"I kept wishing that I was on a date with you." You said softly.
His breath hitched.
"I was wishing the same." He mumbled.
"Thank God, because if you didn't, this whole thing would have been so humiliating."
It was his time to chuckle. His eyes dropped to your lips and back to your eyes. "Can I kiss you?"
"Please."
Bucky lifted his hands and grabbed your face. The moment your lips touched, it was as if fireworks went off inside the room. He leaned into you, making you step back until the back of your thighs brushed the couch.
"Bucky," you whimpered against his mouth.
He broke the kiss and rested his forehead against yours, closing his eyes in an effort to calm himself down. Your breathing was ragged, as well as his.
"We shouldn't…" He choked out, with a pained look on his face, his control hanging by a thread.
"I want to." You said, reaching your hand to cup his cheek. He turned his face slightly, leaving a kiss in your palm and leaning into your touch. "I want you, and I need you, Bucky, only you."
He opened his eyes, his pupils were dilated, black pools of desire stared at you, and you were sure your eyes mirrored his need.
"Please." You begged with a whisper.
"Fuck." He cursed, the thread of control snapping like a twig.
And then he was on you. He kissed you, a possessive hand held you by your waist, pulling you to him as his tongue brushed your lip, asking for permission to deepen the kiss. Your hand traveled over his broad chest and slid under his shirt.
"I want to feel you." You whimpered. "Please."
"Not here. Come on." You thought he was going to move away to guide you, but instead, he braced an arm around your waist and the other under your knees and lifted you, carrying you towards his room.
With your hand, you guided his face back to you, joining your lips into another kiss as he walked blindly with you in his arms. You were lucky that he didn't bump into the wall or stumble during his path to his room. You assisted him, opening the door without breaking the kiss, and once you were inside and he had kicked the door closed, he let you go to lower you.
He removed his shirt, and you took off your jacket, and between kisses and giggles, the clothes pooled on the floor quickly until you were left in only your underwear, lying in the middle of the bed. He stared at you from the foot of the bed, and when he didn't join you in bed, you propped yourself on your elbows.
You felt heat flushing your skin as you realized he was staring at your uncoordinated underwear. The look on his face was pure hunger as he slowly approached. His hands found your ankles and slowly, oh, so slowly, crept up, leaving goosebumps in their way.
"You weren't planning this. Him having you like this." It wasn't a question. His voice was low and husky.
You shook your head.
"Good girl." He grinned and then, in a quick motion, grabbed you and pulled you down the bed. He held your legs open wide as he positioned himself between your legs and knelt on the floor.
You whined as he began kissing your thigh, getting closer and closer to your core, only to retreat and repeat the motion with your other thigh. "You look so beautiful like this. I've been wanting to do this the moment I saw that skirt on you." He said against your skin. "I thought of kissing every single inch of your skin, higher and higher," he left a kiss over your clothed cunt, "until I got here."
He looked up at you and rested his cheek against your thigh. "Would you let me taste you?"
You were panting as his hands traveled up and stopped at your underwear. You nodded, desperate.
"Use your words, baby." He said, and then let a playful bite in exposed skin.
You gasped. "Y-yes, yes, please."
He smiled and left a kiss on your thigh. "Good girl."
The moment his mouth latched onto your core, you moaned his name. His tongue drew circles around your clit, but his eyes remained on you, watching in awe every gasp and reaction his actions caused.
"Such a sweet pussy, and all mine." Your thighs closed around his head, your back arching as he pushed you closer and closer to your climax.
And then he stopped.
He moved away from you. When you lifted your head and looked at him, offended, you found him standing up and stroking his cock, a devil grin on his face.
"I wanna feel you coming around my cock, baby." He purred, dragging the tip of his cock between your folds, your slick mixed with his saliva, making him glide with ease.
"Please." You begged, mewling each time his tip brushed your clit.
"Please, what, sweetheart?"
"Put it inside, mmh."
"Do you want me to fuck you?" He cooed, "Make you mine inside out?"
"Yes, Bucky, yes."
He dragged his cock downwards and then pushed inside you, slowly, letting you accommodate him. "Fuck" He cursed, hanging his head low as he fought the urge to thrust inside you. "Relax, baby." With his thumb, he made tight circles around your clit.
"It's been so long," You said, struggling to take deep breaths as he pushed inside inch by inch.
"Don't worry, sweetheart, I'm gonna take really good care of you."
Once he was buried to the hilt, he leaned to kiss you. You latched onto him, one hand on his back and the other on his nape. Slowly, he started grinding his hips; each stroke brought more and more pleasure, until you were clawing his back. His shallow thrusts grew more desperate until he was pistoning into you with force.
His lips traveled down, leaving open-mouthed kisses on your jaw and neck.
"Bucky," you moaned.
"That's it, baby, you're taking me so well." He groaned against your neck.
Your back arched, and you digged your nails into his back.
"I'm…mmph."
"Let go, baby, I got you."
You came with his name on your mouth, locking your legs around him.
"So beautiful, my beautiful, perfect girl." He praised you as he fucked you through your orgasm. "Shit, sweetheart, I need to pull out."
You shook your head. "Cum inside me, please." You pleaded.
"Sweetheart." He furrowed his eyebrows, pushing away his own orgasm by pure will.
"I'm on the pill. I need you, Bucky."
"Fuck." His control snapped like a twig, his rhythm became erratic as he came, and the overwhelming sensation pulled another orgasm out of you, your walls spasming around him. "That's it, baby, take it all. Good girl."
He stayed inside you until your heart stopped hammering in your chest. He collapsed over your body, leaving kisses all over your face that made you giggle.
"You know what this means, don't you?" Bucky asked, bracing his forearm next to your head so he could look you in the eyes.
"Tell me."
"We need to plan a date."
"A date?"
"Yes, baby, it's time that you have the proper date that you deserve." He said, and with his hand, brushed your hair away from your face. "What do you say?"
"I'll love that." You nodded and smiled at him.
"Perfect, you won't regret it."
He left another kiss on your cheek and then buried his face in the crook of your neck, half draped over your body.
"Bucky," you called.
"Yes, sweetheart?"
"I have a question." He pulled away again.
"Tell me."
"Since you'll be my date… that means that you can't be my escape call, right?"
He huffed a laugh, leaning his head and leaving a playful bite on your shoulder.
"Hey, careful! No wonder Alpine bites everything that crosses her way. She got it from her daddy." He nibbled at your skin again and then, in a quick motion, turned until he was on his back and you were on top of him.
"To answer your question, yes, I can't be your escape call."
"Buu, bummer. You'd better behave on our date then." You mumbled before kissing him.
"I don't know, sometimes misbehaving leads you to wonderful places." He said against your lips as his hand traveled down and grabbed your ass, making your hips jerk and grind over his thigh.
You squealed, "You're trouble, Bucky Barnes."
"So I had been told, but you'll get to love it."
"I think I already do." You whispered.
"Good," He cupped your cheek. "Because I already love you, too."
taglist: @nikkitabarnes @houseofhyde @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @justwantsomeplums @thearchivistshaven @swimmingnightcolor @w1nter-fairy @sassandscribbles @opheliabbarnes @54nboo @buckyfmd @slutforsr @umbreoni @devililithh @colettebarnes @barnesandashes @metal-armed-muse @heldbybarnes @sheriff-bodecker @bckyslover @demiebarnes @amoremarveloustime @kqtholins @spidermanluvr444 @mathcat345 @singulartoast @erina00 @goldiegirl0312 (+ comment on this post to be added to the taglist)
if you liked it, feel free to leave a like, rb, a comment, or an ask! I'd love to read your thoughts!
pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader
wc: +2.4k
summary: The love of your life had been distant for the last few weeks, and reaching out for him had become harder and harder; the walls he had built around himself pushed you away. But they say true love is the greatest weapon to win the war against pain. Could that be enough to stop this love drought?
warnings/tags: +18 MDNI. Angst, smut, fluff, hurt/comfort, no use of y/n, established relationship, relationship problems, self-hatred, porn with feelings, post-movie: Avengers: Endgame, p in v, oral sex (m), missionary position, unprotected sex, english isn't my first language
a/n: Lemonade by Beyonce turned 10 years old a few days ago, and being one of my favorite albums by her i knew i had to make something to celebrate, and what a better way that going back to my roots and making a fic out of my favorite songs.
main songs that inspired this fic: love drought, forward, all night by beyonce. I also took inspiration from the poem's extracts that appear in the visuals, and, honestly, from the whole album in general.
beta read by w1nter-fairy and buckysdecaflove.
THIS WORK IS +18 MDNI. If you're a minor or an ageless blog and you interact with this work, you will be blocked !!
Read on AO3 | Masterlist and wips
Why do you deny yourself heaven? Why do you consider yourself undeserving? Why are you afraid of love? You think it's not possible for someone like you. But you are the love of my life. Love of my life, the love of my life, the love of my life
You were used to fighting foot and nail for the things that mattered to you. From the moment that you told Steve that you agreed to work with him and therefore the Avengers, fighting became second nature to you until it was etched in your bones.
If you wanted to live, you had to fight.
People around you had learned that lesson, too. Wherever you looked around you, there would be fighters. When you met Bucky back in Berlin after Zemo activated him, you noticed he was a fighter, too, a tired one — but a fighter at the end of the day.
Bucky had been a constant in your life since that day. You had decided to stay in Wakanda after the fight with Tony, watching over his inner war against his programming. He had joked once that you were like his shadow, always a few steps behind him, watching, always watching.
Until one day, he reached his hand back and told you that it was okay to walk beside him, as he watched over his goats.
“Are you afraid of me?” He asked that day, standing under the cover of a tree over the hill.
“No,” you replied, fast and secure.
He hummed, his eyes still trained on the horizon.
“Then why do you always stand far away?” His voice sounded unsure, afraid of your answer.
“I just wanted to give you space.” You explained.
“Why didn't you leave with Steve and the rest?”
“I didn't want you to be alone.” You said. “You don't have to fight alone.”
Finally, he turned to face you, finding that you were already looking at him.
“Thank you.” He flashed you a soft smile.
Since that day, you have stood side by side, helped him stay steady on his feet as he faced his inner demons, covered his six when Thanos’ army got to Wakanda, and when both had to navigate a world that had fast-forwarded 5 years without you both, you stayed together — somewhere between all of that, you fell in love.
When it was time to return to New York, you were with him, too, both getting back to a home that felt foreign. For you, as a forgotten Avenger, and him, after decades away from home, as the owner of his own body and mind. And you did that together, holding each other at night when the demons threatened to visit your dreams, nights that had become more usual than not; each on their own path of reclaim.
That was when you noticed that Bucky was retreating. As the months progressed, his hand hesitated whenever he reached for you, his touch didn't linger as much, and his lips stopped chasing yours after a kiss was broken. Sex became mechanical, just going through the motions until both came. He still held you afterwards, brief moments where his coldness cracked and allowed himself to kiss you, but after a few minutes, he rolled and faced the wall.
And then you noticed a pattern.
Each nightmare became a nail in the coffin of your relationship. Each time he woke up drenched in sweat, breath ragging, and confused, the next day you would find him further from you. Your love, that used to be an ocean, massive, a force to be reckoned with, and resilient, became a desert.
At night, you rested in your bed, staring at the ceiling, waiting for him to come to bed, only to later find him sleeping on the floor of the living room, the TV still on as background noise — those nights became your new normal. At first, you teased him, joined him on the floor, and then lured him back to bed with your kisses and touch, but that was when he responded with a smile that reached his eyes, not the tight-lipped smile that promised to join you later.
You got used to sleeping alone.
You allowed yourself to lick your wounds. Enough time to feel the agonizing, sharp pain of your heart being broken in real time. You tried to be fair and understand him, even if he kept you in the dark about whatever was going on. You tried to be there, show him that you cared, but it was as if he was blind to your attempts to reach him.
It was killing you.
You knew that you both could survive this, whatever this was; you had fought over and over again out on the field, life itself had tried to pull you apart, and you won. This shouldn't be different, right?
Bucky was standing in the kitchen that morning. He hadn't seen you yet, so you padded your way to him to hug him from behind, wrap your arms around his waist, and bury your face in his back — just like you used to do. But before you got to reach your arms, he dogged you, stepping to the side in a swift motion.
That was when you noticed it.
The glove.
He never used his glove in the house. He never hid himself from you. It was an unspoken truth. The moment he crossed the door, the glove was always off.
Tears gathered in your eyes before you could stop them.
"What did I do wrong?" The question left you like a whisper. A question you had repeated in your mind so many times that it had escaped your lips without you realizing it. His head snapped at you, and then he froze.
"Tell me, what did I do wrong?" You repeated.
He called out your name, and that made you sob. When was the last time he said your name?
"Just tell me the truth, Barnes."
"It's not you."
"Then what's going on? Why do I feel you're miles away from me when we are breathing the same air?"
"It's not you." He repeated, turning his face to the side.
"Don't you dare." You moved closer to him, grabbing his face and making you stare at you. "Don't you dare hide from me." Your voice croaked. "Whatever you have to say, do it to my face."
His eyes were as clear as the sky, and the red around his eyes made them hypnotic.
"Just tell me. I can take it. Whatever it is, we're going to face it together. Just be honest with me. Please, my love." You begged.
"How are you so sure?"
"Because you and I are stronger together, we have survived together. Because we can move mountains, we can stop rivers from running, we can build empires for all that I care. We can do anything together, and because I love you."
He scanned your face.
"How can you love a monster?" His voice cracked.
There it was.
"You're not a monster. You're the love of my life."
He hung his head, resting his forehead against yours, an old habit of his. You almost smiled between tears.
"I don't deserve it. I don't deserve you. Monsters don't get a happy ending." He whispered.
You cupped his face and forced him to look at you again. With your thumbs, you brushed his tears away. "Let me prove it to you." You said, and pulled him to you, sealing your lips against his.
He held on to you like a lifeline, his strong arms carrying you and setting you over the counter as he deepened the kiss. You kept mumbling against his lips.
I love you.
Believe me.
Let me help you.
"It's not that easy." He breathed out.
"It never is."
"You can walk away, find someone better than me. Someone with a better past. Someone without blood in his hands." He tried to move his gloved hand from you, but you stopped him.
"I want you." You took his hand and removed the glove. "My hero, the man who had been fighting by my side since I met him." You brought his metal hand to your face and kissed his palm, before resting your cheek on it. "The man who tries to be better each day."
He stared at you with adoration.
What had he done to deserve you?
"It's gonna take time." He said.
"We have time." You assured.
"It's gonna be ugly."
You snorted, "I have seen worse."
"I'm still thinking that I don't deserve you."
"Then give me the chance to prove it to you." You smiled when you felt his fingers caressing your cheek. "Let me love you, all of you. The good, the bad. The pretty and the ugly. And in exchange, do the same with me. I've seen your scars, and you have seen mine. I have my own demons to deal with, but we can fight them together. "
He stared at you for what felt like an eternity.
And then he nodded.
The kiss that followed sealed his promise, his hands sneaked under your thighs, pulled you up with him, and blindly carried you to your shared bedroom. Once he was by the bed, he deposited you with care over the mattress, and let you pull him down with you, slotting himself between your legs.
After a few minutes of kissing, you pushed him on his back and started undressing him, going for his shirt first. Once his torso was bare, your lips found their way to his chest.
He called out your name breathlessly.
"I said, let me prove it to you." You mumbled, tracing his scars with your fingers and leaving kisses all over the scar tissue. "I love every single part of you."
He nodded and allowed you to continue your worship. Your fingers trailed down again, towards his growing bulge, still confined inside his pajama pants. You brushed your fingers over his bulge, teasing him, and making his hips jerk up.
"Sensitive much?"
"Shut up." He said, covering his eyes with his fore arm, unable to hide his grin.
"Make me." You mumbled and then shifted to place yourself between his legs, lowering until your face was hovering over his navel. Without removing your eyes from his face, your fingers found his waistband and pushed down, freeing his cock.
He sucked a breath the moment you took him into your mouth. His fingers dug into the mattress, stopping himself from grabbing you while you worshipped him.
Minutes later, he was panting, whimpering your name between curses, then his control snapped, and his hips jerked up to bury in your throat. You stared at him as he came, swallowing every drop of him.
You crawled over his body, moving up as he caught his breath, returning your attention to the spot where flesh met metal. This time, your kisses traveled far the border, following the pattern engraved on the smooth surface of his arm.
I love you.
You kept mumbling between kisses. He tracked every kiss with devotion, falling even more in love with every inch of his body that you covered.
Bucky reached for you a few minutes later, pulling you up and demanding the same treatment on his lips, undressing you until you were both bare. He kissed you before flipping you on your back, and swallowed your gasp as he pushed inside you, careful of not to crush you under his weight by resting his weight on his arms.
He kept his movements slow and deep, enjoying every second he spent with you wrapped around him, pulling slowly out of you until only his tip remained inside, and then snapped his hips against yours in a decisive move.
He then shifted his angle, making you feel him reach deeper and with more pressure against your sweet spot. Your legs locked around him, bringing him closer to maintain that angle. Your hands sneaked around him, gripping the muscles on his back.
You moaned his name, clenching around him, your body begging to keep him inside. Bucky leaned in, searching for your lips, and after kissing you, he rested his forehead against yours, keeping his eyes shut.
“I love you.” He mumbled once he opened his eyes to stare at you.
Tears gathered in your eyes. Hearing him say it out loud, voice raw with emotion, after what felt like an eternity, it made you feel as if you had finally come out from underwater, gasping for air, lungs burning in a sign that you were indeed still alive.
“I love you.” You said back, and with a blink, tears escaped from the corner of your eyes, leaving a trail behind from your eye to your ear.
Instinct took over, Bucky leaned and kissed you, at the same time, he shifted his weight and reached your face with his hand. Bucky broke the kiss and turned to look at his hand that was hovering near your temple, the vibranium contrasted against the sheets and your flushed skin.
You removed a hand from his back and placed your hand over his, guiding his hand the last inch so it could touch you.
“You won't hurt me.” You opposed against the voice in his mind, the one that echoed with self-hatred, doubt, and fear.
Bucky scanned your face and then nodded. He brushed the tears off with his vibranium thumb, and then cradled your face, pulling you into another kiss without removing his hand from you.
His hips grinded after each stroke, enough pressure and friction to make you arch against him as fireworks went off inside you. Your orgasm made you claw at him, your nails left red marks against his skin.
“I got you, baby.” He murmured against your skin, leaving open mouthed kissed on your neck. “You’re so perfect, always doing so good for me.”
His rhythm went erratic, fucking into you with the goal of staying inside home, your body echoing his desire, pulling him in until he filled you up.
His forehead found its place against yours again, panting and sweaty, but with a saccied smile on his face that reached his eyes.
You cradled his face, and with your fingers you traced the lines of expression that his smile caused. His blue eyes, obscured by his dilated pupils, stared at you with awe.
Pure unconditional real love.
"How I missed you, my love." You mumbled, brushing your nose against his.
If we're gonna heal, let it be glorious
taglist: @satelluna @houseofhyde @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @justwantsomeplums @thearchivistshaven @swimmingnightcolor @w1nter-fairy @sassandscribbles @opheliabbarnes @54nboo @buckyfmd @slutforsr @umbreoni @devililithh @colettebarnes @barnesandashes @metal-armed-muse @heldbybarnes @sheriff-bodecker @bckyslover @demiebarnes @amoremarveloustime @kqtholins @spidermanluvr444 @mathcat345 @singulartoast @erina00 @goldiegirl0312 @buckysdecaflove @ghost-of-barnes (+ comment on this post to be added to the taglist)
The two wolves inside every writer: "this is genuinely the best thing i have ever written. i am gifted. i am changed. this paragraph alone justifies my entire existence on this planet." and then five minutes later, same paragraph: "who wrote this. who allowed this. this reads like a golden retriever trying to describe grief. i need to lie down and reconsider everything." both wolves are always wrong. the paragraph is fine. you need a snack.
✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦
✦summary: you fell for bucky a long, long while ago. and you think about him, every day and every night. if only you knew that he thought about you too.✦
✦warnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, friends to lovers, light emotional angst, everyone's bad at feelings, fluff, smut, plot and porn mix (dirty talk, use of sex toys , fingering, pussy eating like crazy, fantasization, praise kink, manhandling, perfectly "appropriate" use of bucky's metal arm, nipple play, dumbification, semi-public sex, dry humping, sensitive reader, finger sucking, masturbation, bucky gets nasty, body worship, overstimulation, mean!bucky, oral m!recieving, praise kink, monster dick bucky, he fucks like a machine), no use of y/n, no descrption of reader✦
✦wc: 7.5k✦
✦Author's Note: request! who wouldn't fantasize about bucky barnes?✦
You think you might be a freak.
Compared to everyone else in the building, you’re perfectly normal. On the outside. Where everyone can see. You don’t have any powers, and you’ve never been shot up with serums or infinity stones. You’re a human, with a sharp tongue and shaper brain, pretty features and a charming smile, and absolutely no desire to be anything else.
Tony even asked you once. If you’d consider it. The whole hero thing. You’d laughed and shaken your head. You told him that you’re not that kind of brave. That you prefer to stay behind the scenes, helping with the tech and med services. Tony had laughed with you, and remarked causally that you’d be good at it.
You’d smiled and waved him off. But he was wrong. Because you can’t be normal about anything.
You’re not casual. You’re obsessive, and quietly insane. You don’t become the top of your field like this while being anything else. It’s easy to contain yourself in this kind of work, in it’s order and chaos all at once. There are rules that you to follow, then break, and everyone praises you and you glow like a diamond catching sunlight.
Not absorbing it. Because it passes right through, and it’s never enough, and you get addicted to it. The praise, from these living gods. They all love you, and you bask in it, and then you look at him.
Bucky.
The only one who doesn’t praise you. Who doesn’t treat you like a good dog, bringing them treats and newspapers. When you met him, he barely treated you like anything at all. Tony had introduced you, he’d looked you up and down, shaken your hand, and walked away.
But you.
You’d been a fucking goner.
Bucky’s handsome in the way you used to only see in movies. Your exact type, from the hair to the eyes to the way he carries himself. Silent and in control, kind but not overly nice, polite without expectation. You’d made it two years without developing a crush on anyone. Somehow, surrounded by some of the world’s most handsome men, you’d maintained that tiny sliver of your sanity.
Then there was Bucky. And you lost yourself.
You’re not weird around him. You’re not a stalker, and you’re not that kind of insane. You’re perverted in the privacy of your head, drooling over his massive hands and muscles, but swallowing it before it leaks out of your lips. You don’t react when Tony says his name, save for a traitorous pulse in your cunt.
“You ready to look at his arm?” Tony asks, and you hum.
“Think so. Just maintenance?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Tony sighs. “I’d work on Terminator myself, but Cap says I spend the whole time looking like I want to throat chop him. So,” he shrugs. “Don’t look like you wanna throat chop him.”
You laugh softly, and grab the tools off the bench. It’s not a big deal. You’re the only person besides Tony, in the whole building, who’s qualified to work on Bucky’s arm.
But that means you get to be close to him. Just the thought of it makes your skin hot, your heart buzzing more than thumping, your fingers fidgeting with the straps of your toolkit as you restlessly wait.
Bucky says your name, and your head shoots up. He’s there. He’s right there, and watching you with those careful, beautiful eyes.
“Hi,” you say, and it sounds so pathetically breathless.
Bucky tilts his head. His hair looks soft. You want to run your fingers through it, to pull on it, to feel it tickling over your face as he ruts into your drooling pussy-
He’s staring at you. He must’ve said something that you didn’t hear. Fuck.
“What?”
His lips twitch. Just the smallest movement up, almost impossible to catch. Your heart skips, and you almost miss his words again.
“You the one workin’ on me today?” His voice is low. It rolls through the air like thunder.
You wonder, if there’s any part of him that isn’t addictive.
You’re here for a job. You’re here to give him medical treatment. You plaster a sweet smile on your face, and gesture to the chair. You can be normal about this.
“Tony has bad bedside manner,” you say smoothly, and Bucky chuckles.
God, that’s worse than the smile. It echoes through your chest, and you almost choke on it. How fucking bad you want him.
“He does call me Schwarzeneggerevery time I’m here,” he mutters, crossing the room. “Don’t even know what that means.”
You hum, pretending to look at your tools. He’s sitting down next to you. Your knees are bumping. You’re normal. “Arnold Schwartzinagor. Actor who played the Terminator.”
“Ah.” Bucky pauses. “Sam calls me that, too. It a good movie?”
“It’s fine.” You shrug. “If you like stuff from the 80s.”
“I don’t know things from the 80s.”
You laugh softly, and look up with an apology on your tongue. You find Bucky staring at you, and your breath catches in your throat.
His eyes are so intense, you think they can see right through you. To the lust, pounding in your bloodstream. You have to open your mouth to breathe. Bucky’s eyes flick down. Just tracking a movement. Nothing about you.
You kick yourself internally, and push the casual smile back into place.
“I think you’d like some of it.” You reach for his arm, and Bucky turns it palm up, still staring at you. “I mean, any decade will have it’s ups and downs.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You run your fingers over the plates of metal, and for a second, forget all about the Bucky attached to them. It’s a beautiful artwork of technology. Overlapping, gold-inlaid, smooth under your fingers. You turn the wrist slowly, and there’s only a faint whir. No clicks. Shuri must be using a muffler, or some kind of fluid that moves the wires instead of gears-
“You want me to go?”
Your head shoots up, a panicked flush spreading over your cheeks. “No- No- I- I’m just-“
Bucky raises his brows, light amusement dancing in his eyes. Your words falter. He’s fucking with you.
“Shut up,” you roll your eyes, and Bucky chuckles again.
God, that sound. It’s going to be the death of you.
“It’s just- It’s amazing technology.” You mumble defensively, and Bucky shrugs.
“I can tell, from the way you’re eye fuckin’ it.”
“Eye fucking.” You shake your head, biting back your smile. “How do you even know what that means?”
“Too much time with Sam.”
“Hm,” you grab your screwdriver, running your hands up the mock muscle—he should be thanking Shuri even more, she didn’t have to give him biceps—looking for a panel. “Tony told me you weren’t going to talk.”
“Tony’s got that bad bedside manner,” Bucky shrugs with his good arm. “You gonna be nicer to me, doll?”
You just hum, ducking your head to hide your flush. Doll. He called you doll.
And Bucky huffs an amused laugh, at your non-answer. But he keeps talking to you. He tells you what Sam’s already gotten him to watch, and what Steve’s trying to get him to watch next, and what Steve’s saving so they can look at it together.
“Is Star Wars any good?” He asks, and you snort.
“Do you like cowboys?”
“I’m neutral.”
“Do you like space?”
“Yeah,” he pauses, then mutters, “I wanted to go to the moon. When I was a kid.”
You look up, and find a faraway look, etched over his handsome features. Your smile softens, and you lower your voice to a whisper, because this feels like a secret. “Yeah?”
Bucky nods, his eyes finding yours again. “I heard we got up there eventually.”
“We did. A few times.” It’s hard to hold his gaze. An unbearable ache is staring to pool between your thighs. “But now there are aliens on earth, so the final frontier is less… Coveted.”
Bucky’s lips twitch. It seems to be the closest he really gets to smiling. You want to see it over, and over, and over again.
“I think you’d like Star Wars.” You’re still whispering. You don’t know why.
“Alright,” Bucky says. And that’s it. He just… Trusts your words.
He asks for you again, next week. Tony claps you on the shoulder and thanks you, because Christ, he stares at me and I feel like I’m under surveillance. You roll your eyes and don’t respond. It doesn’t feel like that when Bucky stares at you, but he also does stare at everyone. So you’re not special. You’re just another person in his line of sight.
“I tried those donuts you were talkin’ about,” he tells you one afternoon, and you hum.
It’s the new routine. Bucky comes for you to work on his arm. You’re normal about it. You talk like people, and his lips twitch, and you feel something press on top of your chest, trying to gnaw your heart right open.
“Liked them,” he adds, staring at you. As always.
You hum, looking at him under your lashes. “Did you have the cookies and cream?”
He nods. “Just like you told me to.”
You smile despite yourself. It’s those small confirmations that he thinks about you, which get you the most. It means you mean something to him. It drives you insane.
“Sam says there are all kinds of ice cream flavors now, too.”
“Sam’s right.”
Bucky sighs. “Hate it when that happens.”
You laugh, a bubbly, pathetic sound that only Bucky pulls out of you. His fingers twitch under your hand, and you glance up.
It would be wise, if you stopped doing that. Every time you find him staring at you, you feel fucking insane.
“You should try cotton candy ice cream,” you murmur. “It’s fucking crazy.”
“That is my favorite kind of thing.”
“I know.”
Bucky’s lips twitch, and your heart almost bursts. “You got a good place? For ice cream?”
You shrug. “The grocery store?”
Bucky grunts, and his fingers twitch again. You focus back on his hand, because you don’t understand why they keep doing that. The rest of the session passes, and Bucky smiles at you before he goes, and you hold onto it like he just handed you a pearl-strung noose. Clutched between your teeth and priceless, but making your breathing short.
The rest of the day always passes in a daze, after you see Bucky. The seconds rush past you in an avalanche, and then you’re in your room, and you let it take over.
How much you want him. How much you need him.
You lay, flat on your back in bed, and let your thoughts run wild. Bucky’s massive hands, one cool and one burning hand, would wander up your thighs. He’d shove your knees open, and kiss over the sensitive, hidden patches of skin. The stubble he’s been growing would scrape and tickle, as he kissed over your weeping pussy.
“All for me?” He’d murmur, and you’d nod helplessly. “You just walk around, pussy leakin’ because of how bad you need it?”
And you’d whimper. You do. There’s nothing you can do to help it, but save that desire for locked doors and hot, tangled sheets. Your fingers—smaller than Bucky’s, but all you have—rub over the swollen lips of your pussy, spreading your arousal as you picture that it’s Bucky instead. You push one finger in slowly, then a second one because you need them to stretch you like Bucky’s would.
“Messy girl,” he’d coo in your ear, and your back arches. You start to fuck yourself, slow and tentative as your thoughts run wild.
This is what just one of his fingers would feel like. Pumping in and out of you, his palm grinding down on you clit until you’re trembling beneath him. You’d try to push up into his hand, but he’d shove you right back down and kiss over your throat. Licking and nipping and driving you out of your fucking mind.
“Buckyyyy...” You moan at the air, and when you squeeze your eyes shut you can almost feel him.
“There you go, babydoll,” he’d kiss under your ear, his body pressing over yours. Warm and massive, pinning you to the bed, forcing you to just take it. “That’s it. You like that, don’t you. Like fallin’ apart on my fingers.”
You whimper and grab at the sheets. Your wrist aches, and you can’t hit that gooey, wet spot inside you, but god you just need to cum.
“I know,” Bucky would hit deeper. Wet, lewd sounds would fill the room, as he pounded his fingers into you at an unforgiving pace. “I know, sweet girl. C’mon, show me how pretty you are when you cum.”
Your back arches off the bed. Your hand shoots over your mouth as you moan and cry out his name, your thighs shaking and pussy squeezing down on your fingers. You lay there for a while after you’re done, holding the sheets in a vague form of Bucky.
Tomorrow, you’re going to see him again. Maybe just over breakfast, or passing in the hall. But you’ll see him. And you’ll have to look him in the eyes, and pray that he can’t see it just under your features. That all he’d ever need to do it touch your head, and you’d fall to your knees.
You’re devoted to him. He thinks of you as a friend, and he’s not your boss, but he’s boss adject, and there’s nothing about him that’s accessible. There’s no world where this ever goes beyond fantasy.
But god, you’re going to fantasize. You can’t hurt anyone, by just fantasizing.
That’s what you’ll tell yourself over and over, to avoid the guilt.
It’s all just a fantasy.
You‘re perfectly professional about it. It’s not Bucky’s fault that he’s so handsome it feels like you shouldn’t be allowed to look at him. You can keep your desire bottled up, keep in the warmest, wettest pits of your stomach. It can seep out between your thighs when it becomes too much to bare. It can breed into itself and spread up into your heart, festering in the dark. But Bucky will never see it. You’ll be good, and you’ll act sane, and that will be it.
He’s been through too much already, to add your insatiable, ardors devotion to his list of problems.
You’ve developed an easy friendship. That’s all you’ll allow yourself to have, all you let yourself think about in his presence. When you’re working on his arm, you don’t think about those big, cold fingers being buried in your pussy until you’re alone in your room. All your daydreams are trapped in your sheets, and your moans absorbed and locked in your pillowcase.
You think about Bucky pinning you down with a warm, splayed hand on your abdomen. About his smirk, as he bullies three metal fingers into your pussy, forcing a perfect stretch before fucking you like a toy. His cold thumb swiping over your clit, sending shivers through your body. His eyes gleaming and attention burning, as he drags out orgasm after orgasm.
That hand would be like having a personal fuck machine, and he’d act like it until the very end. All taunting and teasing until you were spent and limp below him. Then he’d kiss the corner of your mouth, your cheek, the space between your eyes. He’d coo about what a good girl you were for him, and you’d whimper, your voice lost from screaming his name.
“What’re you thinking about?” Bucky says, sitting next to you at the kitchen counter.
You swallow, and shrug meekly. You never feel small around anyone but him, but you’ve never been this lost in anyone but him. It’s a miracle no one’s noticed, how Bucky shows up and suddenly you’re all flushed cheeks and girly giggles. You might as well be twirling your hair and kicking your feet. It’s pathetic. You can’t stop.
“Nothing?” Bucky pushes a little, and you give him a close-lipped, full smile.
“Nope.”
“You looked like you were thinkin’ about something.”
“I wasn’t.” You look back to the sandwich you’d been working on. Bucky keeps staring at you. He always does. “Nothing going on up here, Barnes.”
Bucky’s lips twitch.
The whole world seems brighter, like he’s just like some holy kind of candle.
“I don’t believe that,” he murmurs, and you shrug.
“You don’t have to.”
“Well, I don’t.”
“Good for you.”
“It is, isn’t it,” he chuckles. “I’m gonna love being right.”
You blink, shooting his a sideways look. “Being… Right?”
“I know you’re thinkin’ about something.” He shrugs. “I’ll figure out what.”
Oh. Under no circumstances can he find out what you’re thinking about. “It’s not anything interesting,” you try lamely, and Bucky smirks.
“Ah. So it’s something.”
“I- That’s-“ You sputter. “Why do you even care-“
“I like knowin’ what you’re thinking,” he shrug. “It’s always interesting.”
You blink at him. For some reason, that makes your throat close up, your eyes burning with embarrassing tears. Your knees are wobbling, and you’re sitting down. You grunt and look back to your sandwich, and Bucky chuckles.
“C’mon. Tell me.” He leans closer. There’s a gravity, from his heat, and it makes you want to just collapse over his chest.
You look at him from the corner of your eye, and you won’t tell him. That’s against the rules. It defeats the purpose.
But god, he’s looking at you. Really looking at you. You can count each shade of blue in his eyes. If you move just an inch, your noses might bump.
“I’m hungry,” you whisper, and Bucky’s brow knits.
He looks down to your sandwich. Then back to you. Adorable confusion flashes over his face. “You should… Uh- Eat.”
You nod, and he clears his throat, leaning back. You wish you could grab the collar of his shirt, and drag him back.
“You ever seen this thing called the Princess Bride?” He asks, not touching any food himself.
Just sitting there. With you. You try not to think about it too much.
You nod, chewing on your sandwich with puffed out cheeks. “’S a really good movie-“
“Chew then swallow, doll.” Bucky’s lips twitch, and you flush and obey.
“It’s a good movie,” you mumble, giving him a sheepish smile. “Sorry.”
Bucky shrugs, his gaze dropping to your mouth. Your breath hitches. You go perfectly still, afraid that if you shift, he’ll look away.
His tongue darts over his lips. He tips his head, his forearm flexes as he curls his fingers, and your breathing gets shallow. Something electric has shifted in the air, and it’s making you dizzy. Bucky reaches up slowly, and if you weren’t rooting in place, you think you’d fall out of your chair.
His thumb wipes the spot right above your lips, and a shock rushes through your body. His nostrils flare, his eyes lock onto yours, and his touch lingers.
When he pulls back, the movement is slow. Controlled. Your tongue flicks out, to lick where his thumb had been. Bucky’s nostrils flare.
There’s something on his thumb. Tiny little breadcrumbs that must’ve been stuck to your cheek from the sauce. Bucky brings the finger up to his mouth, holding your gaze, and sucks the crumbs away. Heat pools in your tummy, and your thighs press together.
Bucky stares at you. You grab the edge of your seat with white knuckles, trying to keep yourself from falling off.
“Crumbs,” he mutters, and you nod.
“Yeah.”
“I- Uh-“ He coughs, and looks away. Disappointment sinks like a boulder into your stomach.
You don’t know what you expected. Hell, you’ve told yourself what to expect. You’re not allowed to be disappointed by him. You’re not allowed to want anything from him, except for what your head can offer.
“Sam’s been tryin’ to make me watch it,” he mutters, and you blink.
“What?”
“Princess Bride.”
“Oh.” You’re still a little drunk on his proximity. He smells like something rich and spicy, and it’s fogging up your brain. “Cool.”
Bucky nods. “We’re gonna watch it next Friday. In that common room, where Stark makes us do game nights.” He gives you a sideways look. “I never see you at those.”
You shrug. “I’m not an Avenger.”
“Stark says you get invited.”
You do. But that would be a night of drinking and laughing and being closer to Bucky than you can handle, so you usually lock yourself in your room and pretend he’s fucking you stupid.
“You’re invited to movie night, too.” He adds casually, and you swallow.
Movie night. Where Bucky would be near you. In the dark. You can’t go there. You’ll lose your mind.
But he’s looking at you with such dim, cautious light in his eyes. There’s no expectations. Just hope. And it pulls the words out of you before you can stop them.
“Oh- Okay.”
Bucky beams, and that makes it worth it. The risk, that he might brush your hand in the dark and you’ll moan loud enough for everyone to hear.
He reaches up, and wipes a few more breadcrumbs from your cheeks. Time seems to stop, when he touches you. It’s dangerous, and you barely manage not to fall all over him before he pulls away.
“You get messy,” he mutters, and oh, God.
You shouldn’t have said yes. Why the fuck did you say yes. Now you’re going to have to sit next to him, after that.
You get messy. He has no idea.
That night, you end up back in your bed with a vibrator pressed over your panties. It makes the feeling stronger, with the friction of the fabric, and you toss your head back. It’s easier and easier to get lost in the fantasy, lately. The better you know him, the clearer it gets.
You can almost feel his hands, mapping over the curves and soft dips of your body. You can almost smell him.
He mouths at your breast, pinching and rolls your nipple between metal fingers. You make a broken, pathetic sound, and he smirks.
“I know, doll. Too much, isn’t it?”
You whimper, pressing the vibrator down. Bucky hums, his hand wrapping around yours, and your hips jerk when he angles it to shove right against your clit.
“Too much,” he coos, making out with the softness of your breast. “I’m barely even touchin’, and you’re already about to fuckin’ fall apart for me.”
Your eyes roll back, as Bucky starts to guide the vibrator up and down. Your mouth falls open in a long moan, as he grabs your hips and pushes them higher, further exposing your pussy. He bites at your nipple, then turns his attention to the neglected one. You writhe in the sheets, gasping his name, and he smiles.
“Dirty girl.” He pushes your hand back, just enough for him to rip away your panties, exposing your cunt to the cold air. “Look at that, pretty little pussy fuckin’ shining for me.”
You grind down, trying to find friction on the sheets. Bucky pushes the vibrator against your bare pussy, and your eyes roll back in your head. He starts kissing all over your chest, pawing at your breasts and swirling his tongue around you nipples, sending electric shock through your body. He licks the sensitive buds the same way he licked his thumb. Your hips start to roll mindlessly, as the coil in your stomach threatens to snap.
When you cum, it’s with a cry of his name. The coil snaps, and heat floods out of your pussy, all over the vibrator and your hand. Your body convulses with the sheer force of it, and Bucky kisses down. Over your abdomen, your hips, your inner thighs.
“What a mess, baby.” He mocks, before pressing the sweetest kiss to your clit.
You sob, trembling in the sheets, and grab at his hair.
But your hand finds nothing.
Because it’s just another fantasy, kept in the confines of your mind.
Movie night was a bigger mistake than you could’ve ever imagined.
You show up, and it’s just Bucky and Sam. Sitting on opposite ends of the couch, because men are strange creatures.
“Stevie’s on a mission,” Bucky says, staring at you like he’s seeing an angel. Like he didn’t invite you.
There’s an odd rasp to his voice, too. Maybe he’s just tired.
Sam says your name, that signature, I know something that everyone else doesn’t smirk on his face. You don’t think much if it. He always has it, even when he doesn’t know shit.
“Buck told me you’d be comin’. I didn’t believe him.”
“Sam.” Bucky grunts, and Sam shrugs.
“What? I didn’t.” He grins at you. “You never leave your lab-“
“She leaves her lab.” Bucky gives you an apologetic look, but you just laugh.
“No, he’s right. I really don’t.”
Bucky sighs, rolls his eyes, and pats the seat next to him. You smile to yourself, taking a long breath before you move. You’re going to be normal about this. Very, incredibly normal. So normal, they’ll think something’s wrong, because no one’s ever been this normal in history.
You last ten minutes.
The movie starts. You’ve seen it before, but you try to pay attention to every, tiny detail. The only other option is paying attention to Bucky. To the weight of him at your side, the way his knee brushes against yours and his arm is slung over the back of the couch. You’ve never seen him so relaxed and tense, all at once. He’s sunken into the cushions, but whenever you look over, his jaw is tight.
You could swear you catch his gaze, once or twice. If you do, he looks away immediately. And you feel it, that buzzing heat over your skin. But you’re supposed to be watching the movie. He’s supposed to be watching the movie. So you really, really try not to look over.
Bucky’s knee pushes against yours, and you swallow. His fingers trail near your shoulder, and you wrap your arms around your stomach to suppress the shiver. He’s warm. So fucking warm you can feel it, blooming in your core. You shift in your seat, and you’re already wet.
The movie isn’t even a third of the way done.
Bucky’s fingers rest on your shoulder. It’s so light, so casual, you’re not even sure he knows he’s doing it. You take the risk, and turn to fully look at him. He’s gotten even more relaxed, the knit of his brows loosened, pretty pink lips parted as he watches the TV. You want to reach up, and trace the stubble of his jaw. Maybe kiss up the column of his throat, dig your nails into his pecs and make out with that full, perfect mouth.
You let out a tiny sigh. Bucky doesn’t react to it. Too lost in the movie. Not paying you any mind.
And you should look away. You’re not here to Bucky watch.
You turn your head for three whole seconds, before your eyes start to ache. As if they can’t stand not to look at him. You try to resist it, but it plays over and over, on a loop in your brain. The image of him in the dark. The heat from him, almost penetrating under your skin and making you rise up like a balloon. Your head is in the clouds. You have to look at him.
You close your eyes, trying to fight it. Bucky’s hand drops from your shoulder, down to your upper arm, and your breath hitches.
Your eyes shoot open, and Bucky’s right there. Staring at you, with the same intense, focused need that’s clawing at your ribs and up your throat.
He grabs your chin, between strong but gentle fingers. You swallow, letting your gaze trail down his body. His massive chest, torso that looks perfect to hook your legs around, his thick thighs and his crotch.
The bulge, pushing through his sweats. It looks thick. Long and thick, demanding some attention. You look back to Bucky with your best, doe-eyed pout. He smirks, and leans down to kiss you. It’s slow and deep, his tongue swiping over your lower lip before pushing into your mouth. You moan, and Bucky weaves his hair through your hair, tugging slightly. Your second moan is downright pathetic. You grab his thigh, letting your nails brush against the outline of his cock.
Bucky hisses against your lips, and pulls back. You bat your lashes at him, and his lips twitch.
“Messy girl,” he mutters, before pressing a sweeter, mocking kiss to your lips.
He pulls away too quickly, but before you can give chase, you’re lost in a daze. Bucky’s pulling down his pants, taking his boxers with him. His cock springs free, thick and veiny, massive even in his own hand. He strokes himself slowly, giving you a prompting, amused look. You swallow, licking your lips.
“C’mon, doll,” he beckons. “Show me what you can do.”
Almost in a trance, you nod. Bucky’s eyes darken, as you crawl over his lap. You move his hand away, and fist his cock in one hand. He grabs the back of your neck, not to push, but for balance. A low, guttural sound rolls through his chest as you start to pump him, and you smile to yourself.
He really is perfect. A heavy, certain weight in your hand, jumping slightly whenever you squeeze him near the base. You shift back on your knees, using your other hand to massage his balls. He hisses, his grip tightening on your neck, and you smile.
When you look at him, there’s nothing but pure devotion in his gaze. You squeeze again, then pick up your pace, and he groans out your name.
You kiss him, pushing his head back against the couch cushions. He grunts, but lets you guide him. As if he knows that it’s all just a show, before you let him fuck your face like an animal.
“Relax, baby,” you breathe against his lips.
Bucky lets out a deep, rough laugh. “Little hard to do that right now.”
You giggle, swiping your thumb over the slit of his cock. “Is it? Hard?”
Bucky groans, and deepens the kiss. You slide off of him, before he can just grab your hips, pick you up, and sit you on his dick.
You move back, lowering down to your stomach so you’re eye level with his dick. He’s pulsing in your hands, trying to hold himself back. You don’t want him to. You want him to cum everywhere. Down your throat and over your face and tits, claiming you in one of the most primal ways possible.
“Doll…” Bucky rasps, and you look up at him under hooded eyes. He’s a wrecked. Bulging muscles and sweat, slicking on his brow. “Don’t tease- Jesus-“
You wrap your mouth around him, and take him as deep as you can go. He bumps against the back of your throat, but you suppress your gag reflex, relaxing to try and get even more. Your nose brushes against the hair at base of him. Your tongue presses flat against Bucky’s shaft, your fingers still working his balls, and he fists his hand in your hair.
“So- So fuckin’ warm-“ He chokes out. “Holy- You’re somethin’, sweetheart- God-“
You hum, and Bucky’s hips jerk up. He stutters out an apology, but you just moan again. He tries to pull you off, muttering more apologies, and you dig your nails into his thigh. You want it. You want him to use you.
He gets it, after a moment. His grip on your hair tightens. He starts slow, jerking his hips up as he pushes you a little further down, before yanking you back. You moan around his cock, drool falling from your swallow lips. Your eyes roll back. He’s using you, god, he’s using you, and it’s the best fucking thing in the world.
Bucky fucks your face like a fleshlight, and you grind your ass up against nothing. He hits the back of your throat, over and over, salty and heavy on your tongue. The sounds he makes are beautiful and sinful, and-
“Something on my face, doll?”
You blink, and Bucky’s cock isn’t in your mouth anymore. You smack your lips, trying to find it. Bucky frowns at you, the light of the movie making him even more, impossibly handsome. Sam ignores you both, popcorn stuffed in his mouth.
Bucky looks worried. He said something.
“Hm?”
“You were, you were- Uh-“ He clears his throat, then shakes his head. “Never mind.”
He looks back to the TV, and your face burns. His thigh is pressed right against yours. You can swear, when you lick your lips, you can still taste his dick.
You’re so, so fucked.
It only gets worse.
Eating breakfast becomes a trial, because Bucky is always there, and you’re always thinking about his fingers while he eats. How they’d feel stuffed down your throat, gripping your hips, scissoring deep inside of you. He wipes cream cheese off your cheek, and you almost moan.
“You feelin’ alright?” Bucky says, always so caring and worried, and you nod weakly.
“Yeah. Just- Just tired.”
He looks at you like he doesn’t believe you, but lets it go. If you were smarter, you’d be avoiding him. But you’re not. And you still have to work with him, anyway. It makes avoiding him rather impossible.
For a while you cling onto the idea that work would be sacred. That while Bucky’s in your office and you’re examining his arm, it’s purely professional. Not a single dirty thought.
You last about a week, with that one. Bucky startles you walking in. You trip, and he catches you around your waist.
“Careful,” he smiles down at you, all handsome and stupid.
“Uh huh,” you breathe out, and you could’ve sworn a flood gushed out between your legs.
Bucky’s nostrils had flared, and he’d helped you up to your seat. You’d already had the new fantasy, blooming in your mind like the little fucking pervert that you were. You’d tried to shove it down, swaying in the middle of the room, but then you’d looked at him. Sitting with his legs spread in your chair. And you’d been lost.
You imagined climbing into his lap. His arm wrapping around you as you sat down on his cock, grinding slowly, lashes flutters as he kneaded and pulled at your hips and breasts. He’d stand up, taking you with him like you weighed nothing, and pin you to the wall. One arm would stay around you, holding you in place as his mouth started to explore your dripping cunt.
His tongue would work you open, pushing in and out of your pussy. He would’ve already cum inside of you, and every stroke of his tongue would send a wave of your mixed arousals over his beard. You’d watch him, moaning his name, and his thumb would bully and flick and tease your clit, until your were dazed and gasping for air and-
Bucky says your name, and you could slap yourself. This is getting out of hand.
“Sorry,” you mumble, sitting next to him. He smiles at you, so kind.
Always so kind.
“You’ve been kinda out of it, lately.” His words are casual. You still daydream about shooting yourself and running away.
“Just getting lost in thought,” you murmur, and he hums.
“Anything I can help with?”
You shake your head, because if you speak you’ll start begging. Please, please, please, he’s the only one who can help you, you’re going insane with how much you need him, and he could save you, he could really save you-
“Movin’ usually helps me.” He offers softly. You almost don’t hear him. “Y’know. Using my body. Remembering that it’s mine.”
“Yeah?” You say softly, cleaning the panel near his shoulder. He looks at you, and you risk looking back.
You can’t read that expression. You’re not sure you want to.
“Yeah,” he mutters. His gaze might flick down to your lips, but you don’t trust your own mind anymore. “You wanna try it with me? I head to that gym in the basement every night. It ain’t bad.”
And you should say no, but you can’t help it. You nod, and Bucky’s lips twitch, and God, what you won’t do just so he smiles.
You will torture yourself, apparently. Bucky’s too hot to be allowed in a gym. Wearing a tank top that shows off his massive arms, smiling at you all lazy, in the way that’s more of a guard than the slip that you always crave, but a smile all the same.
First, you try walking on the treadmill and just watching him the mirror. He’s lifting weights, and his arms, they should be classified as weapons. You want those biceps keeping you in a head lock, against his chest or at his side. Keeping you still, while his cock pounds relentlessly into your pussy.
Bucky meets your gaze in the mirror. His lips twitch, and you look away, face burning.
You feel him, more than you see him coming over. The gravity of his presence, you think you’d be able to feel him blindfolded and dropped in a crowd of a million people.
“Come on,” he offers you a hand. “Lemme show you something.”
And you can’t say no to him. You really should learn how.
Because the something is training. Wrestling. Throwing fucking punches and trying to get the other down.
“Bucky, I can’t-“
“Yeah, you can.” He raises his fists, nodding to your own. “Up, doll.”
You sigh, raising them slowly. “You’re going to kick my ass-“
“I am. And then you’re going to get better.”
You scoff—he’s ridiculous—but listen. Bucky smirks, and lunges. You yelp and try to scramble away, but he’s too fast. You’re pinned under him in seconds, whacking at his arms and wiggling.
“Bucky- Get off-“
He laughs, standing up with a proud grin. You’ve never seen him so relaxed, so confident. It makes you hornier than you ever could’ve imagined.
He’d been over you. Everywhere over you. Pinning you down and manhandling you, and- Oh God-‘
“Up,” he beckons, and you swallow.
“I- I don’t know-“
“Yeah, you do.” He gives you a playful smile. “Get up.”
You sigh, and scramble to your feet. Bucky raises his fists again. You narrow your eyes, and match.
He chuckles. “Getting competitive?”
You shrug. “You wanted me to.”
Something flashes in his eyes. You’re not sure how to read into it.
“Damn right I do,” his voice is lower. You’re not imagining that.
You don’t get time to think about it, before he’s moving again. You hold your own exactly a second longer than before, but it ends the exact same way. You, pinned under Bucky’s broad, strong body. His face is pressed near your breasts, his fingers digging into your hips, his legs shoving yours apart to stop you from flailing around.
It goes on longer than it shoulder. This strange game that you like playing more than you should. Bucky starts trying to properly get you to throw a punch, but he gives up fast. Soon you’re more play wrestling than doing anything else. You’re giggly and dazed, charging at him like a bull, and he acts as bored and collected as always, but you can see the amusement dancing in his eyes, every time you try to climb him like a tree.
Then something shifts.
He gets you beneath him, and you try to shove at his chest. He catches your wrists and pins them up over your head. Your breath hitches, and he blinks. His hips drop against yours, and you can feel it. The bulge of his cock, pressing into your core.
He’s hard.
Not fully, but enough. Enough that you can imagine every ridged and curve of him, sliding between the puffy lips of your pussy. Your thighs clench, and Bucky grunts, rutting forward.
You both freeze, and your eyes lock. It’s one of those seconds, where you just stare hopelessly at each other. You almost apologize, but your tongue is limp. Bucky’s face is redder than you’ve ever seen it. His cock twitches in his pants.
And this isn’t a dream or fantasy. Bucky mutters your name, and it’s so real you think your heart might pound of your chest.
Bucky moves first. He clears his throat and moves to his feet.
“Better.” He offers you a hand. “That was…”
He trails off. You stare at each other, lost for words.
Bucky turns, and leaves without another word. You sway in the center of the room, breathing shallow, head spinning.
What the fuck just happened.
Bucky kisses up your spine, his mouth hot and possessive. His tongue flicks against your neck, and his fingers dig into your hips. He drags your ass up in the air and you mewl, pressing your face into the sheets.
“Ah,” he scolds, slapping your soaked, swollen pussy. “Lemme hear you, doll.”
You turn your head, moaning loud and shamelessly. Bucky chuckles, kissing a soft spot on your neck.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, notching his cock against your entrance. “Good girl.”
You coo like a baby bird, flushed and dazed. He’s big, so big that it almost hurts. He doubles over you with a groan, pressing his face into your shoulder as he slowly pushes every inch inside of you. The stretch burns in the best way, and you clench down around him.
“No,” Bucky leans down, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Nothin’ to apologize for. Just gotta relax, babydoll. Lemme do the rest.”
You hum, and take a deep breath. You’re grounded, in the feeling of Bucky everywhere. His warmer arm wraps around your neck, forcing you up enough for his lips to trail open kisses over your face.
“That’s my girl,” he mutters against your ear, bottoming fully out. “That’s it. Just take it for me, just like that.”
You mewl, pushing your ass back up, then crying out with delight as Bucky pulls out, and slams back in. He’s met with no resistance, from how your pussy is gushing out with every thrust, every touch, every hot kiss.
But there’s nothing else to be expected. Not with how Bucky’s using you, how worshipful his every touch and kiss is, all while he fucks into you so hard you think the bed is going to break. His breath is hot on your back, the head of his cock drill against that one, gooey spot deep inside you. His cold arm locks around your middle, and his fingers tease and graze over your clit. Rubbing in tight little circles, making your eyes roll back in your head.
Bucky grunts, hauling you up so you’re pressed against his chest. You’re pinned down on his cock now, wet and warm and tight. So fucking tight that it pulls a low, rumbling moan from his chest. His hips slam up in a barely controlled rhythm, chasing more of your heat. You’re limp in his arms. Dazed and smiling like you’re drunk. Bucky uses his arm around your neck to push your head further back, and you have the nerve to fucking giggle.
You’re so beautiful like this that he almost cums right there. Fluttering lashes and the sweetest sounds, you pussy milking him like a machine. He kisses you because he can’t help it, and you hum happily, grinding your ass down into him.
He needs you to cum first. He gropes at your clit, letting his fingers fumble for a second to work you up into a teased, messy frenzy, before he pushes down and rubs in a steady, unyielding rhythm. You cry out his name, squeezing down so hard on his cock, and Bucky buries his face in your neck.
He cums, so hard that his vision goes white. Thick ropes of cum spurt over his hand, squeezing hard at the base of his cock.
It’s not as warm as you’d be, he thinks.
And he thinks. All the time, Bucky just thinks about you. About how you’d feel, molding around him. About how you’d sound right in his ear, how you’d get smiley and drool, and he’s feed you his fingers just so you have something to do with that pretty mouth. You’d moan around them, and he’d thrust up into you so hard he’d knock the damn worries out of your head.
It’s his favorite time of the day, this. Your rooms are closer than you seem to think, or you just forget how good his hearing is.
And every night, right before bed, he gets to settle into the mattress and beat his cock into his hand, listening to you moan and call his name. He’d never tell you. You deserve better, than a broken robot like him. He counts himself lucky he even gets to be your friend, because he’s a man well practiced at restraint. At not getting what he wants.
But this space, where no one can see, he allows himself things. He allows himself you.
But only ever in his head.
✦End note: this might be one of my fave bucky fics i just got to be soooo horny with it✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis x coach's goddaugther!reader
⟡ Main Index | ⟡ Archive for Earth-66
a/n: Thank you so much for all the love shown to my first Dean fic! Here’s a little extra so you guys can see what my blog has to offer. I’ve created the masterlist and more is coming (not only smut but I need to get through the horniness first).
Summary: You were always off-limits. The coach’s goddaughter, the team’s PR girl and the one woman Dean couldn’t have...but the thing about limits was that it was still a line to skate over.
Classification: Smut +18 | voyeurism/exhibitionism, detailed mutual masturbation, forbidden romance, risk of getting caught / secret relationship tension (coach’s goddaughter + player dynamic) and pining
Word count: 5,2k
Divider by me ;)
You were the embodiment of ‘off limits’.
A PR and communications student assigned to the hockey team to learn the ropes, glued to a camera, phone or a laptop half the time, always lingering somewhere between the locker room and the rink with that little furrow between your brows whenever the boys gave you trouble.
And worse, you were the coach’s goddaughter, practically raised by the man and threaded into Briar hockey long before Dean had ever pulled on the jersey.
You attended Sunday dinners at his house and there probably were childhood photos stacked in dusty albums somewhere in his office. Those were years of trust Dean had absolutely no business threatening.
Off. limits.
Dean repeated it to himself constantly over the last year, as if repetition alone could beat the impulse out of him. He did so in empty equipment rooms when you brushed past him carrying stacks of media packets, in hotel lobbies during away games when you sat cross-legged on a couch editing footage at two in the morning while the rest of the team got drunk upstairs and during practices when he’d glance toward the bleachers and immediately regret it the second he spotted you there, bundled in team colors, chewing absently on the cap of a pen while watching the ice with sharp, attentive eyes.
It wasn’t harmless anymore and that was the problem.
At first he’d told himself it was mere attraction…temporary and easy to bury, but months kept passing and somehow every woman he brought home blurred together because none of them were you, none of them looked at him with restrained annoyance whenever he pushed too far and none of them straightened his collar before interviews with distracted but perfectionist little tugs of your fingers.
Hell, he couldn’t even get it up anymore and the few times he tried sleeping with someone else ended badly enough to bruise his ego.
You hadn’t even touched him yet and somehow you’d ruined him completely.
You hadn’t shown up to practice that afternoon, choosing instead to camp out in your godfather’s office to finish assignments, legs curled beneath you on the couch while the muffled sound of pucks slamming against boards echoed through the walls. By the time practice ended, you’d gathered your folder and headed out to finish your actual responsibilities before the boys disappeared for the night.
You caught Garrett first on the way toward the showers, then Logan and Tucker, who exchanged immediate shit-eating grins before inevitably dragging Dean into it. Completely wrecking your original plan of quietly emailing him the document later and pretending not to care when he probably ignored it for three whole days.
The hallway outside the locker room had mostly emptied by the time he appeared.
Dean strode toward you lazily, sweaty hair sticking slightly to his forehead, gear half removed, skates still carving heavy sounds against the rubber flooring. The second he noticed how empty the corridor was, his mouth tilted upward slowly, something pleased and dangerous settling into his expression.
“Did you need me, Hawkeye?” he asked as that grin widened once he stopped directly in front of you…far too close.
Only then did you realize your mistake, standing near the wall like an idiot, leaving nowhere to go once his frame crowded the space. He towered over you already and the skates only made it unfair. Heat rolled off him fresh from practice, sharp cologne mixing with sweat and cold air from the rink.
“You need to stop calling me that,” you said flatly, immediately looking anywhere but directly at him.
Dean’s eyes fixed on your face with infuriating patience. “Why?” he asked lightly. “Thought your whole job was noticing everything.”
You finally looked at him then, holding his stare in what you hoped translated to ‘behave yourself for once’.
His expression barely changed but something darker flickered behind his eyes anyway.
A quiet sigh left him. “What’d you need me for?” he asked softer this time, voice dropping into that maddening tone he reserved only for you. Gentle and careful, like he was handling something delicate instead of actively making your life harder.
It only got worse when he stepped closer.
Instinctively, you stepped back. Your shoulders nearly hit the wall, breath catching painfully in your lungs at the sudden lack of space. You straightened afterward, forcing your posture taller like it would somehow help. It obviously didn’t because Dean was already bigger than you, even more when he was standing there in skates, looking down at you like he had all the time in the world.
“You need to approve the questions for the next team interview,” you told him, pulling a printed sheet from the folder you carried.
Dean glanced down at the paper briefly but made no effort to take it. His eyes found yours again, gaze lazy and unwavering. “I don’t need to,” he said. “You wrote them.”
“It’s protocol.” You insistently lifted the page higher between you both.
“It’s you,” he replied, like that alone justified everything.
Your expression flattened. “So if someone asks you ‘how many strokes it takes you to nut’ mid-interview, you’re just gonna roll with it?”
A grin spread slowly across his face, brow lifting. “Depends.” He mirrored your earlier shrug casually, though his attention never once left your face. “Will you be the one asking me the question?”
You glanced down the hallway again before answering. “I won’t be there.”
“Then no,” he decided immediately.
“It would still be bad,” you stressed, pushing the page against the center of his chest. The paper bent slightly over the hard padding beneath his gear. “My entire job is making sure things like that don’t happen. Read them and approve at least three.”
Dean looked down at your hand where it rested against him but his own still didn’t move.
“I’m a hockey player,” he reminded you solemnly. “Reading’s already asking a lot from me.”
“Email me your pick.” You pressed the page harder against his chest when he still refused to take it, annoyance sharpening your movements enough to wrinkle the paper more under your palm.
“Can’t,” he replied easily. “She’s standing right in front of me.”
“Of the questions,” you clarified firmly which finally earned a quiet laugh from him.
Dean took the page at last, fingers dragging against yours for a second too long before pulling away. It was entirely intentional, you knew that much from the way his mouth twitched afterward.
“Then I’ll text you.”
“You’ll send your answers to my school email,” you corrected quickly. “Texting is unprofessional and it’ll get you blocked.”
You conveniently left out the real issue, which was that the two of you absolutely should not be texting each other in the first place because every interaction already lingered too long and every conversation slipped somewhere dangerous eventually.
Dean studied you for a moment, his expression soft and voice quieter underneath the teasing. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
You nodded once because denying it would’ve been pointless. “I’ve been busy.”
His head tilted slightly, lips pressed in a tight line. “With what?”
“Avoiding you.” The smile that pulled at your mouth betrayed how true the answer was. “The world doesn’t revolve around you,” you continued. “If I get one bad grade, I lose this job and you are the epitome of a distraction.” You paused, letting the silence stretch as you waited for his answer. “Epitome means–”
“I know what it means,” he cut in, grinning wider now. “Your godfather’s not gonna fire you.”
“No,” you corrected, poking a finger into his chest. The impact hurt you far more than him against all that equipment. “Your coach will. Then he’ll give me some speech about loving me and wanting what’s best for my future, which honestly makes it worse because he’ll be right.”
Something changed in Dean’s face as the grin began fading. “I missed you,” he admitted quietly, the words slipping out before he could stop them.
You saw it happen in real time too, the brief regret flashing behind his eyes after saying it aloud but it was already there now, hanging heavily between you both.
“We’re already stuck doing this…” He gestured vaguely between your bodies, frustration roughening his voice. “‘Almost’ thing and now you wanna disappear too?” He shook his head once, jaw tightening. “We need to figure something out because I can’t think when you’re around.” His eyes dragged slowly over your face before settling back on your eyes again. “And somehow I can’t think when you’re gone either.”
Your brows pulled together, trying very hard to stay serious despite the smile threatening at your mouth. “Can’t fix the lack of a brain, Di Laurentis.”
“Funny,” he murmured flatly, nodding once. “No, actually, that was hilarious. I almost believed you didn’t care for a second there.”
Your mouth opened with a rebuttal ready, but voices suddenly echoed further down the hallway and they got progressively louder and closer. Dean reacted instantly. His hand found your waist before you could protest, firm and warm even through layers of clothing, steering you quickly down the hall toward the nearest side room.
Once you entered, the door shut softly behind you both.
Your nose scrunched. “What the–,” you whispered harshly. “It fucking stinks in here.”
Your eyes adjusted enough to make out scattered hockey equipment piled around the cramped storage room. Gloves, pads and jerseys that, judging by the smell alone, hadn’t been cleaned recently.
Dean stood directly in front of the door, broad shoulders blocking it almost entirely. “It was either this or getting caught.”
“Oh, so you are aware there’s an issue here.” You nodded slowly. “That’s amazing progress for you, actually.” You pointed toward the door behind him. “Can I go now?”
He shook his head once, decisive even in the cramped, sour-smelling storage room. “I wanna see you tonight.”
You let out a breathy laugh before you could stop it, the sound slipping out lighter than you intended. “I’d like to see me too,” you decided, adjusting your grip on the folder like it could anchor you back into something sensible. “I’ve got things to turn in. Between that and this job I’m trying very hard to keep and deserve despite the obvious nepotism allegations, I barely have time to do anything else.”
“Perfect,” he said, as if you’d just agreed with him. “So I’ll be your distraction.” He paused, then carefully added, “From a…appropriate distance.”
Your brows pulled together. “Are you even listening to me?” You reached up on instinct, tilting his head down slightly like you were physically trying to redirect his attention. “Didn’t know hockey required ear plugs.”
Dean’s grin turned sharper. “You know exactly what hockey requires,” he countered, voice low. “You just wanted to touch me.”
His hand softly caught your wrist halfway before he seemed to remember himself and let go as quickly as he’d taken it. Still, he stepped closer right after, restraint only applying in pieces. Your breath caught on the way in, shallow and inconvenient, as his nose nudged yours gently, forcing your gaze up.
“An hour,” he murmured softly, almost in a begging tone. “Two tops…I’m going through withdrawals here.”
You huffed out a quiet laugh, the word choice alone almost ridiculous enough to cut through the tension. “I don’t think that’s medically accurate,” you said.
“You wouldn’t want to be the one explaining it to the coach,” he continued, unfazed, “or posting it on socials.”
“No,” you agreed, lips twitching despite yourself. “It wouldn’t get the right statistics. It’s bad rep for the team.”
The humor didn’t quite hide the way your breathing slowed, attention narrowing until it was just him, too close in a room that suddenly felt smaller than it should’ve. You breathed him in without meaning to, realizing it was the first time you’d allowed yourself the space to notice everything without immediately stepping away.
So for one weak second, you indulged in it…and if something happened because of it, if lines blurred and boundaries slipped, you’d blame the idiot currently brushing his nose against yours like he had no self-preservation instinct whatsoever.
You swallowed. “It’s a bad idea.”
Dean shrugged, entirely shameless. “I’ve had plenty of those before.” His lips curved. “Came out alright every time.”
You exhaled and this time your hand came up to his chest pushing lightly to create space. To his credit, he allowed it, always did when it mattered. “You can’t get it up,” you reminded bluntly, “there’s nothing ‘alright’ about that.”
His eyes narrowed slightly, head tilting like he was recalibrating you, yet amusement still flashed across his face. “How do you know that?”
“Voices carry in these hallways,” you replied, momentum making it worse instead of better. “And it’s suspicious when the team’s resident roller coaster suddenly stops offering rides to every girl with a pulse.”
His grin only widened. Fuck, he was enjoying this…and worse, so were you.
“So maybe it really is withdrawals,” you decided.
“Then help me with it,” he added, as the simplest solution in the world.
Silence followed immediately after as you held his gaze while the seconds stretched painfully long, until even the smell of old gear faded, drowned out now by the overwhelming presence of him.
You eventually cleared your throat, stepping back carefully until your shoulder nearly brushed a stack of equipment. “I’m gonna go now,” you announced, voice steadier than you felt. “I’ll go one way–” you gestured vaguely toward yourself, then the door, drawing boundaries in the air. “And you’ll go the opposite way.”
“And then what?” His voice matched yours, it was quiet and careful.
There was no teasing left in it anymore. Dean was used to this part, used to you pulling away at the last second, both of you pretending restraint still meant control but even now, he stepped aside from the door without argument, giving you space to leave because as badly as he wanted this, he wanted you to want it too.
You moved toward the exit slowly, fingers wrapping around the cold handle before glancing back at him one last time. “I’ll see you around,”
You opened the door and stepped back into the hallway, letting cold, clean air replace everything that had been pressing in on you.
The door clicked shut behind you as Dean exhaled hard through his nose and stayed exactly where he was because the worst part of the entire interaction wasn’t the rejection, it was the reminder that he wasn’t broken at all…the unmistakable hardening tent in his hockey pants made that painfully obvious.
Dean stayed home that night.
For probably the first time in months, he skipped the party the team had been planning all week. The excuse came easily enough, he’d faked discomfort in his ankle the second he got back to the locker room after you left, enough grimacing and irritation to keep the guys from questioning him too hard.
By the time everyone headed out, the house had finally gone quiet and now he sat alone on the edge of his bed staring at the blank wall across from him with the concentration of a man trying not to lose his mind.
His phone rested facedown on the desk a few feet away, intentionally dead. He had watched the battery drain without plugging it in, convincing himself this counted as effort…progress or even detox. Maybe if the phone died, the temptation would too. This way he couldn’t text you or call, or even stare at your contact until his self-control caved in around midnight like it usually did.
You had become a habit too quickly…worse than a habit honestly, because Dean had given up plenty of things before. Bad grades, classes and women whose names he should’ve remembered to moan instead of yours, but trying not to reach for you felt violent in comparison.
A frustrated breath left him as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, glaring toward the dead phone anyway. Fucking hell, even silence tempted him.
He could already picture it perfectly if the phone still worked, he would send one stupid text, something harmless enough to start things off. You’d reply annoyed within minutes with sharp little responses pretending indifference while still answering too fast. Then eventually one of you would push too far and suddenly the conversation would drift past every boundary you both kept swearing mattered.
Dean scrubbed a hand down his face roughly then froze when a noise sounded outside his window.
For half a second he thought he imagined the house creaking or branches scratching against the siding just as your head appeared outside his second-story window.
You shoved the unlocked frame forward with visible irritation, balancing dangerously on the ladder propped against the house. “Are you gonna help me,” you hissed, “or just fucking stare while I die?”
Dean moved instantly and crossed the space in seconds, grabbing the window and holding it wider as he reached out for you. The original intention probably involved helping you climb inside normally, maybe by steadying your arm or something. Instead, the second his hands landed on your waist, instinct completely took over and he hauled you inside too quickly.
Your balance disappeared entirely and the both of you toppled backward onto the bed in a mess of limbs and startled noises. You landed squarely on top of him hard enough to knock a grunt from his chest.
Dean looked up at you already grinning while you were certain your eye twitched with annoyance so visibly he almost laughed again.
“Hurt ankle, my ass,” you muttered, pushing yourself upright swiftly and moving off him, sitting cautiously on the edge of the mattress for approximately two seconds before your expression changed.
A look of sudden reconsideration crossed your face making you stand right back up.
Dean watched in amusement as you wiped your palms against your jeans, glancing around the room instead of at him.
“Fuck knows what’s happened on that bed.” You mumbled under a breath.
“You came to check on me,” he said instead, smile widening as he propped himself up on his elbows. “Thought you didn’t do house calls.”
You shrugged lightly, immediately reaching for technicalities the way you always did whenever you crossed one of your own rules. “I didn’t call,” you pointed out. “Or text.”
Dean’s grin softened at that. “Did you get my email?” he asked, weirdly proud of himself.
“I did.” You finally looked at him properly again…with annoyance, of course. “Though signing it ‘Big Dick Dean Di Laurentis’ felt incredibly tasteless.”
He sat up fully now, visibly delighted. “That was obviously a typo.”
“Then why are you smiling?”
Dean climbed to his feet slowly, attention locked entirely on you as he stepped closer. “You could’ve used the front door,” he pointed out. “There’s no one else here.” His gaze dropped pointedly toward where you still hovered beside the bed instead of sitting. “And it’s clean,” he added. “Thought you knew all about how little play I get these days.”
That comment earned him a look, one of those quiet staring contests the two of you somehow kept having lately, where neither person moved first because both of you wanted the other to crack beforehand.
Eventually, you sighed and sat down on the bed properly.
Dean dragged his desk chair around and dropped into it, hands resting on his evidently muscular thighs as he faced you.
“Should we unpack that a little?” you asked teasingly, your tone mischievous. “I almost majored in psychology.”
“There’s nothing to unpack.” Dean leaned back in the chair, watching you carefully while he spoke. “Everything works perfectly fine.”
The pause afterward felt challenging. You held his gaze stubbornly at first, refusing to give him the satisfaction of reacting but eventually your eyes betrayed you, flickering downward despite yourself and straight to the growing outline beneath his sweatpants and judging by the smug look spreading across Dean’s face the second it happened, he noticed.
You dragged your eyes back up to his face with visible effort. “Well,” you started carefully, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from your jeans, “I won’t ask what the issue is then.” Your mouth curved. “Wouldn’t wanna embarrass you.”
Dean let out a quiet laugh through his nose, low and knowing. “You won’t ask because the issue is sitting right in front of me.”
The words settled heavily between you both.
His gaze dropped briefly as you shifted on the mattress, one leg crossing slowly over the other without much thought. Unfortunately for him, the movement dragged the fabric of your jeans tighter across your thighs.
Dean’s jaw flexed once as his eyes lingered there for a second too long before he forced them back upward. “You’re torturing me,” he rasped. “And the worst part is you know exactly what you’re doing.”
You said nothing, you couldn’t, not when he looked at you like that.
Your attention stayed locked on him completely, unwilling to miss even a second of whatever this had become. The room felt smaller now, warmer somehow despite the cold night air drifting through the still-open window behind him. Every tiny movement seemed louder, from the creak of the desk chair when he leaned back, to the faint rustle of fabric when you adjusted your legs again and the quiet exhale Dean took afterward like he regretted noticing.
“Why are you here?” he asked suddenly.
You shook your head once. “I don’t know.”
Dean watched you for a long moment, expression unreadable for approximately half a second before he gave a small nod, already deciding you were lying and unfortunately, he was probably right.
“You do,” he corrected, eyes never leaving yours. “You’re lying to me…and normally I’d let you get away with it,” he continued. “But not when you’re sitting on my bed rubbing your thighs together.”
Your breath caught at the change in his tone. He spoke each word gently, letting them land with intent as his gaze dipped again, tone turning sultry while his hand slid down and disappeared into the waistband of his sweatpants. “You need something from me,” he decided.
The sentence barely sounded like teasing anymore. Your pulse thudded painfully hard against your throat and between your legs as the silence stretched. You uncrossed your legs in response, your fingers inching toward the button of your jeans.
“Something,” he continued carefully, not wanting to rush this. “to take the edge off.”
The air thickened as you popped the button open, the soft rasp of the zipper following as you drew it down slowly. Your jeans parted enough to reveal the edge of your lace panties, the fabric already damp against your skin.
Across from you, his hand moved inside the cotton of his sweatpants, the outline of his cock thickening under his palm as he began to stroke in long, unhurried pulls.
The mere sight of it sent a fresh pulse of heat between your thighs.
You slipped your hand beneath the waistband of your panties, fingers gliding over the slick heat of your pussy. A quiet sigh escaped you as you traced your folds, circling your clit with firm pressure while he watched every motion, his own hand working steadily as the head of his cock peeked above the waistband with each upward stroke.
Precum glistened at the tip, catching the low light as he smeared it along his length.
Your fingers moved in slow circles, spreading the wetness that coated your sensitive skin, each pass making your hips twitch involuntarily on the bed's edge.
His breathing grew heavier as he adjusted his grip, pulling his sweatpants lower to expose more of his shaft. The veins along his cock stood out prominently under the firm strokes of his fist, the skin stretching taut with every upward motion.
You could see the way his thumb brushed over the head on each pass, gathering more of that shiny fluid to ease the slide. The visual made your own touch quicken, your middle finger pressing firmer against your swollen clit while your other fingers teased at your entrance.
Drawn by the growing ache, you leaned back until your shoulders met the mattress. The sheets carried his scent of warm musk and faint soap, filling your lungs and making your clit throb harder under your circling fingers.
You spread your knees wider, jeans still hugging your hips as your hand worked faster inside the panties. Every inhale pulled more of him into you, fueling the slick glide of your fingertips over swollen flesh. The mattress dipped slightly under your movement and you turned your head to press your cheek against the sheets, breathing deeper to draw in that intoxicating aroma. It wrapped around you like an invisible touch, making your nipples tighten against the fabric of your shirt.
He stroked himself openly now, full length exposed to your gaze, firm grip twisting at the head with each slow pass as his eyes landed on your noticeably hardened nipples.
You pictured him rising from the chair, crossing the space between you to bury that thick cock deep inside your aching pussy, stretching you open with one thrust. The fantasy burned even hotter because you were both holding back, letting the forbidden tension build instead. Your fingers dipped lower, parting your lips to press inside, the wet motion of your touch mingling with the rhythmic slide of his fist. He groaned softly, the sound vibrating through the room as you felt your walls clench around your own fingers in answer.
Your free hand clutched the sheets, twisting them as your hips rocked lightly to meet your own touch. Wetness coated your fingers, dripping down to the fabric inside your jeans while across the room Dean’s breathing grew ragged, eyes half-lidded while he watched your body arch and tremble in his bed. The scent of him made your head spin, your pussy fluttering around nothing as you finally thrust two fingers deeper, curling them against that sensitive spot inside. Every curl sent sparks of pleasure radiating outward, your thighs trembling as you imagined the weight of his body pressing you down, his cock replacing your fingers in one smooth motion.
The pressure coiled tighter in your core, every stroke of your clit sending sparks up your spine as you watched his cock twitch visibly in his fist, a bead of cum welling at the slit before he spread it down his length again.
You moaned, the sound raw and needy and his pace quickened in response. Your jeans restricted your movements enough to heighten the friction, the denim pressing against the back of your hand as you worked yourself closer to the edge. The room filled with the soft sounds of your mutual pleasure, his low grunts mixing with your gasps.
You allowed yourself to keep your eyes locked on him, watching intently as his fist pumped steadily along the rigid length, the skin sliding taut over the swollen and pinkish head with each upward pull.
Below, his balls hung full and heavy at first, swaying slightly with the motion of his strokes but as the tension kept building, they began to draw upward, the loose skin tightening and wrinkling as the muscles contracted. You watched the way they pulled closer to the base of his cock, tensing visibly with every twist of his wrist.
His thighs flexed in the chair as he spread them wider, offering an unobstructed view of the entire scene.
The veins along his cock stood out even more now, pulsing in time with his quickening strokes, the skin pulling smooth and firm as his breathing grew shallow and urgent, mirroring your own.
The sight pushed you harder against your own fingers as his body locked, balls pulling up completely into a tight, rounded shape at the root of his cock. A restrained groan tore from his throat as the first thick rope of cum surged free, jetting over his knuckles in a hot, white arc that landed across his clothed stomach. His balls pulsed visibly with each spurt, contracting and releasing in waves as more cum erupted, splattering higher and dripping down his shaft.
Your orgasm hit shortly after. Your back bowed off the bed, thighs quaking as your pussy pulsed and gushed around your fingers, sending waves of pleasure rolling through you in hot, liquid surges that left you quivering and whimpering on his bed watching as immediate relief hit the both of you.
His grip loosened slightly, cock jerking uncontrollably while his balls finally relaxed, emptying in long, forceful pulses that left him trembling and spent. Thick strands continued to ooze from the tip as the last tremors faded, his hand slowing to gentle strokes that milked out every last eager drop.
As relief and pleasure eased through your spent forms, you both were left boneless and utterly relaxed. You slowly withdrew your hands from between your thighs, the evidence of your arousal glistening on your fingers as they lingered for half a second like your body hadn’t fully caught up to your brain yet. Staring up at the ceiling, you caught your breath, while he gazed forward, both of you panting as though you had just sprinted straight through every boundary you’d spent months trying to maintain and were only now realizing there was no finish line waiting on the other side.
Neither of you spoke because what exactly was there to say?
Congratulations on making things infinitely worse?
You sat up slowly and met his eyes briefly in the heavy silence before looking away, your hand moving to zip and button your jeans as you tried to act like nothing extraordinary had occurred. You pushed yourself to your quivering legs, balance threatening to betray you for a second before steadying. You stepped towards him as his gaze tracked you the entire way.
Standing in front of him felt strangely so, even more intimate after everything else, which honestly seemed ridiculous considering what had just happened. Still, your throat tightened slightly when he looked up at you flushed and wrecked, pupils blown wide enough to swallow the blue in his eyes almost entirely.
Your hand lifted toward his face before you could think too hard about it and his lips parted faintly against your palm the second you covered his mouth. You pretended not to notice him inhaling the scent of your essence deeply as you pressed a slow kiss to the back of your own hand, right over his lips.
"I’m glad that question won’t be asked," you murmured, straightening up. Dean’s brows furrowed slightly, still dazed enough that it took him a second. "Couldn’t keep count of the strokes."
With that, you crossed the bedroom, opened the door and disappeared into the hallway before he could answer, your pulse still hammering against your ribs.
Behind you, Dean licked slowly over his lips where your hand had been, head dropping forward afterward as a quiet curse left him under his breath.
His cock throbbed and began hardening again, muscle starting to draw upward once more with renewed tension, the loose skin tightening as his shaft swelled visibly under the fresh surge of arousal.
a/n: Comments, likes and reblogs really do mean the world and help more than you know! More stories will be added to the archive soon, so stay tuned for new content. Thank you so much for reading! 🤍
All my stories are R18. I write smut, and I may touch sensitive topics or topics that are not intended to be read by minors.
YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR YOUR OWN CONTENT CONSUMPTIONS.
Masterlist
Pairing: Mob! Bucky Barnes x F!Reader
Warning/Tags: MOB AU, Fluff, Light Angst, Emotional Cheating, Reader is in a shitty relationship.
Word count: ~4.1k
Summary: After a night with Bucky, you realize you can't keep lying to yourself and the way you feel about him.
Author's Note: Here she is! I'm having the worst day of my month, so you can have this as a reward for me. lol. Enjoy this part 2, and again... we all can say this can have even more parts hehe.
thank you as always to my babiesss @kileyking @herejustforbuckybarnes @w1nter-fairy for betareading and proofreading <3
“Summers’ Cottage.”
The pretentious name on the threshold made you shiver.
Scott’s family always invited you to the cottage in the Hamptons every six months, but this was the first time you weren’t sure if you felt comfortable going. Between Banner asking you to stay at home to avoid problems, Barnes’ silence, and now your conflicting feelings towards him.
You were walking from his truck to the main entrance, where his parents waited for you.
His mother called your name as she hugged you. “We’re so happy you’re here!”
You smiled and hugged her back, “Scott told me you have a lot of plans ahead.”
“You have no idea, this week’s gonna be amazing!”
“Mr. Summers.” You looked at his father, and he hugged you immediately.
“When are you gonna stop calling me that? It’s been years.”
You shrugged your shoulders, “I don’t think I can stop.”
Some kind of tension in the air could be felt. They were explaining the plans for the week while you looked around, only thinking about what Bucky could possibly be doing.
In the middle of the dinner, your phone rang. You peeked and noticed his name lighting up your screen.
“Who’s it?” Scott furrowed, and you shrugged.
“Oh… Uh… Work.” You lied, standing up, “I’ll be back in a minute.”
You walked upstairs and hid yourself in your room.
“Hi, sunshine.” His voice came weary through the phone.
“Oh, James. You got me all worried.” You hurried to answer.
“Where are you?” You could hear a hurt tone in his voice.
“How do you know I’m not at home?”
“Do you really think I didn’t ask Banner to take care of you?”
“Fair point. I’m in the Hamptons…”
“Still with Scott, huh?”
“Yeah… this was planned.”
“Honey, you don’t have to excuse yourself with me. I don’t care if you’re with him or not…”
You didn’t want to take it to heart, but his tone came harshly, and you felt guilty. You were trying to find words to answer, but you remained silent.
“No… Fuck… I’m sorry, sweetheart. I didn’t want to make it sound like that.”
“It’s fine… James… Can we talk later? I was in the middle of the dinner.”
He growled.
“I’ll see you when I get back to the city.”
“See you, James.”
You got back to the table, and they were back to talking about business.
“Everything alright, babe?” Scott placed his hand on your leg as you sat.
“All fine. The new girl is still adapting.” You smiled wryly.
“They should be ready for your leaving.” His mother spoke, “It’s gonna be soon. They need to be prepared.”
“Huh?” You tilted your head. “I’m not planning on changing jobs soon.”
Scott coughed, trying to ease the tension.
When the night ended, the words of your mother-in-law were now imprinted on your mind. You have never told anyone you were even thinking about leaving your job. Yes, you hated it with a special heat, but that didn’t mean you wanted to leave.
Scott had blacked out in bed, and you stood up to take a walk in the cottage’s garden. When you crossed his father’s studio, you could hear his voice coming from there. He was talking with his wife.
“Well! I didn’t know she was planning to keep that shitty job after the wedding…” She mumbled through her teeth.
“Maybe she doesn’t know he wants to propose… Maybe he’s not even planning on proposing soon… Maybe we misunderstood.”
Your world fell to your feet immediately.
You were about to break up with him… and he was planning on proposing?
You decided to stop eavesdropping and walked towards the door. The air outside was thick and humid, and your skin felt sticky.
Then, his name showed up again on your screen.
“Hi, James.” You answered immediately.
“Someone’s waiting for you at the back entrance. You got ten minutes before he goes and knocks on the door.”
“What?”
“Ten minutes. The clock is ticking.”
He hung up, and you decided not to waste any minute. You knew him. You knew he was not lying. Now, your short and revealing pajama set felt completely inappropriate as you ran to the back door of the villa, your bare feet hurt from the feeling of the ground and the garden.
When you arrived, a black car waited for you. There, Clint, with a fed-up expression, opened the back door for you to get in.
The gate creaked as you opened it, but it was too far to be heard by anyone in the main house.
“Good night, Clint.”
“Night.” He answered, not even looking at you.
It was partly out of respect, partly out of being mad for having to do this.
“Where are we going?”
He didn’t answer.
“Is he mad?” He growled, “Clint…”
“Not with you if that’s your question.”
“Oh…”
“Is he fine?” You were now worried.
“He will be.”
The drive was short. The cottage was big, not as big as you could think a property of a made man should be.
Clint parked out of the main entrance and walked you through the house to an office in the back of the place.
“He’s there… Just… Be ready…” He opened the door and stepped aside.
“Thank you, Clint.”
You walked in, and your barefoot steps echoed through the room. He was sitting on a chair with his back to the door.
“James?” You mumbled.
He turned around, and you finally noticed his face. His cheekbones were completely shattered, his lips were busted, and some dry blood stained his face.
“What the hell happened to you?”
He drank from a glass, “Occupational hazards…”
“No, those are not…” You grunted and went back to the doors, “Clint?”
He opened the door immediately and looked at you, “Yes?”
“You have something to clean up his wounds?”
He chuckled and nodded.
You were facing the door, waiting for him as he came back with a first aid kit.
“Thank you, Clint.”
You walked towards him, and he had remained silent since you turned your back on him. You sat on the desk in front of him and leaned in to start cleaning his wounds.
He was grunting, gripping the mahogany desk you were sitting at.
“You don’t have to do this,” he mumbled, “Sweetheart, I was an asshole earlier.”
You shook your head and took more alcohol, dampening the cotton.
“This’ gonna hurt, James.”
He chuckled, “Probably not as much as it hurt when it happened.”
“Wanna tell me what happened?”
“Not really.”
“Fair.”
You were looking at his eyes, those blue eyes kept you completely out of your right mind. What were you doing in a mob’s vacation home when you were supposed to be sleeping next to your… apparently future husband?
“Fuck it,” He took you by your waist and made you sit on his lap—you were sitting on just one leg, but something inside made you move your legs to straddle him. His hands gripped your waist, and you turned around to dampen the cotton again.
“Look at this. Tell me the man who did this isn't still alive?” You furrowed when you were finally able to clean a blood stain on his cheek.
“He wishes he were not…”
“Ok… Ok… Stop… I don’t know why I asked that…” He chuckled.
Furrowing and whining, he gripped your waist while you finished cleaning him up.
“And now, look at you. As beautiful as always.”
“James…” The tone in your voice was pathetic.
“Let me do the talk first.” He begged, “I was an asshole, and I’m tired of pretending that I don’t care that you’re still with Scott, and knowing you’re there with him… it’s killing me…”
“That’s why you came all your way here?”
He nodded.
“James…” You sighed, “I think I’m getting married.”
He choked on his own saliva, “The fuck you mean?”
“His parents were talking about me quitting my job, and then I eavesdropped, and they were talking about him proposing or something like that…”
“And do you want that, sunshine?”
You shook your head, “But I think that’s next… Isn’t it?”
“Not necessarily…” His hand found a strand of hair and tucked it behind your ear. “Well, then... If I know you well... This could be one of the last times we see each other, right?”
“Why would you think that?”
“Because I’m about to do this…” His hands cupped your face, and he kissed you like he was starving, like your lips were the last meal he was ever going to have. Your fingers grasped his suit, without realizing that you pulled him incredibly closer, you were panting as his tongue found yours and made you wish this could last forever.
“And a sweetheart like you would never engage in something like this while being married.”
A tear left your eye.
“No… No… Don’t… Fuck… Don’t cry, sweetheart. Don’t do this to me. You’re gonna kill me…”
“I don’t want to get married, James…” You whined.
He stroked your hair and placed you in the crook of his neck, “You know you don’t have to, right?”
A knock on the door startled you both.
“It’s time,” Clint claimed from the other side of the door. You looked at him, tilting your head.
“I knew we weren’t going to be able to decide to bring you back home on time, so I asked Clint to do it for us.”
You pursed your lips and nodded. Carefully, he took you off his lap and walked you to the door.
“When are you coming back?” You turned to face him.
“I’ll be there when you get back if you still wanna see me when you get back.” He ticked his jaw.
You stood on your feet and kissed him on the cheek. “Don’t get in too much trouble.”
He scoffed, “Same to you.”
The way back home was silent. When he parked in the same spot where he had picked you up from, you looked at the big house.
“They haven’t woken up. Someone has been checking up.” You nodded.
“Clint, can I ask you something?” You looked at him through the rearview mirror.
“Go ahead.”
“What is this with Bucky and I?” He turned around, looking at you.
“If you are asking me if he’s interested in you, I think you know the answer.”
A note of his perfume still lingered on your clothes, and the earlier kiss still burned your lips.
“And is it real?”
He shrugged. Men in this field didn’t have the privilege of finding a woman like you, who was not interested at all in their money and power, but at the same time, he knew well Bucky at this point, and he knew he was capable of doing anything for you… For the best and the worst.
“It’s time for you to go, they haven’t woken up, and you’re still on time to sleep at least a few hours.”
“Good night, Clint.”
“Night.” He waited for you to walk into the house.
The morning had been hurried—you noticed how Scott kept avoiding you, and the more he did it, the more nervous you got. You didn’t want to get to the point where he was going to ask you to marry him, and now you had on your shoulders the kiss you and Bucky had shared earlier.
You were sitting in front of the mirror while you put your makeup on when Scott arrived and sat on the couch next to you. You noticed he was nervous; he was not even looking you in the eyes as he always had before. His hands kept toying with his fingers.
“It’s everything alright, Scott?” He shook his head.
“Promise me you won’t get mad.”
“Huh?” You put down the brush, “Why would I get mad?”
“I know this is not… the best moment to do it… but… I think this isn't going anywhere anymore.” He hurried to say.
You were trying to wrap your mind around the word that had just come out of his mouth.
“Come again?”
He sighed and stroked his hair. “I know it's a bit impractical to do it this way, but you love these trips, and you were so excited about seeing my parents, and they love you…”
You were seeing red. Your mouth was sealed in a line.
“Why would you invite me to a whole fucking weekend at your parents’ cottage just to break up with me halfway through?!” You shouted.
“I know… But I just realized I don’t feel the same about you anymore… This feels wrong but… I want you to have a good last weekend here… and we could keep it a secret till we go back home!”
You stood up.
“Are you being serious?”
“Yeah… I mean… We can skip the touching… Unless you want it…”
There were not enough words in your dictionary to respond to the nonsense he was saying.
“You know you're a piece of shit, right?”
You grumbled and stood up, starting to pack up your things.
“What… What are you doing?”
“Packing up, don't you see?” You motioned, “I'm not staying to help you keep up your image.”
He chuckled. Cynically. That mocking laugh that always made you mad.
“And how do you think you're leaving?”
“Oh, you don't have to worry about me…”
“My parents are not taking you back home.”
“I’m not saying that.”
Once he noticed he was not receiving any responses he left your shared room. You kept packing up until you had everything in your suitcase. When you finally found your suitcases all done, you took your phone out.
His number was the last in your call log.
Not even a second ring had sounded when he answered.
“I’ll be there in an hour. Time enough for you to pack up?”
“I’ve already packed up.”
“Back entrance?”
He joked.
“What about a main entrance meeting?”
A small chuckle could be heard on the other side of the line.
“Twenty minutes, I’ll be there for you.”
“See you in a minute, James.”
No one was to be seen, and you took your suitcases to the main entrance. You logged in the PIN to open the gate, and then, a black Audi arrived—ostentatious, pretentious.
Bucky—himself—got out of the car; black suit, face healing, woodsy scent filled up your lungs even from a distance. He stood still and stoic in front of you.
“Morning?” You smiled shyly.
“Is that all?” He tilted his head when he saw the three suitcases.
“It was a full week trip!” You whined. He shook his head and started to load his trunk while you remained silent.
And then, you finally came to a realization.
“James… How did you know where to find me?” You crossed your arms on your chest.
“Are you really asking me that?” He was organizing the suitcases in the truck. You nodded. “Well, one call and I found the address.”
“And why did you come today, and didn’t send Clint again?”
“I thought you needed me more than Clint.”
“Good call.” You smiled.
“Where the fuck do you think you are going?!” Scott's voice came loud from the entrance. Bucky smiled mischievously.
“James. Don’t.” You stopped him by his chest, “Let me take care of it.”
He sighed and kept going with your belongings.
“Where the fuck do you think you’re going, and who the hell is this idiot?”
Bucky didn’t even bat an eye at him.
“He’s a friend. He’s taking me home.” Bucky chuckled and shut the trunk.
He walked like a gazelle to your side. He didn’t touch you; he just remained by your side, letting you handle the situation.
“You’re not fucking leaving… I told you you were going to wait till the end of the week.” He tried to yank you by the waist, but Bucky was faster and gripped Scott’s waist to push him.
You knew Scott was not an aggressive man, but you also knew he depended on his parents’ money, and he had been on a tight line for months, and he was about to lose everything as soon as they knew you were leaving.
“Scott, it’s for the best.” You pulled Bucky back and put yourself in the middle of them both. “James, go to the car.”
There was no living man who had ordered Bucky to do anything. And there you were, asking him to restrain himself from defending you.
“I prefer to stay.” His gravelly voice made Scott take a step back, “But I’m gonna stay aside.”
“Now, Scott. Your parents are a second away from coming. Do you really want them to know why I left? ‘Cause I’m completely ready to tell them what’s going on.”
“Are you cheating on me with him?” The cynicism in his tone was completely unbelievable.
“He’s just a friend.” You used the exact tone he had used with you every time you confronted him.
Bucky scoffed a laugh. “Sunshine, we need to leave. I have some things to do.”
You nodded and patted Scott’s chest. “If you need to blame me to try to keep your parents happy, just tell them I cheated… Or whatever makes you feel happy. I’m removing my name from the lease, and I’ll be leaving as soon as possible. You won’t see me at the apartment when you come back.”
“Oh, you are gonna leave?” He chuckled, “And how are you gonna do that?”
“Well, as you said, every time your parents removed their help from you, I always find my way to solve problems… So, I’ll find my way again.”
The open door was waiting for you, and Bucky offered his hands to help you get in. Then, he walked directly to his door. “Nice to meet you, Scott. I’m the way.”
Heat crawled to your cheeks when you saw Scott’s jaw drop to the floor.
“James!” You scolded him, and he just laughed.
He was talking on the phone while you typed on yours, trying to contact your landlord. You wanted to solve everything as soon as possible—even more when you thought about going back to him just to keep the peace.
“Yes. That address.” Bucky talked to his phone. “Uh… at least four men, I need that to get done today.”
"Do you have pets?” He talked to you.
“No?” You answered doubtfully.
“No pets. Yeah. I’ll send you the list of things.”
He hung up and handed you his phone.
“Send a text to that last dialed number with the things you need to take.”
“I… don’t… We don’t own too much. Most of the furniture was bought by his parents… Maybe just my clothes? I don’t care for the furniture…”
You started texting them a list of your things. When you finally finished typing everything, you gave him back his phone.
“Now… Do you wanna tell me what happened?” He was driving, but his hand found your leg, his thumb traced circles in your thigh; it was delicate, more like a tender gesture.
“Apparently… Scott was not going to propose…”
Bucky’s jaw clenched.
“And then?”
“He broke up with me… and he expected me to stay the whole week to keep pretending we were a couple in front of his parents.”
“Why?”
“His parents have been threatening for years to stop the support because he can’t hold a job… I was the most stable thing he had…”
“Look at him. Losing the only good thing he had.”
A twitching smile showed on his lips.
“Now… Where are we going?”
“Well… Your favorite person is waiting for you at my place. I’ll go and handle some things, and then I’ll bring your things to your new place.”
“James… I’m not living with you.”You hurried to interrupt, and he chuckled.
“As much as I wished that was real, I’m gonna find you a nice place, and you will be living there.” He looked at you, “Besides… Who do you think I am? I’m gonna let you take your time, and when you’re ready, I’m gonna take you on the most beautiful dates and give you flowers… I’m gonna show you what a real man can do.”
“You’ve already done that for the last few months… What’s gonna be the difference?”
“I was respecting that you were a taken lady… Now you’re completely free to fall in love with me.”
“Oh, you were respecting that?” You mockingly asked, raising your eyebrow.
“Oh, she’s got jokes now.”
You chuckled and finally held his hand. For the first time in months, it didn’t feel wrong to touch him; it felt like it was meant to be, and you loved the fact that he never crossed any boundary you had set previously. He was a powerful man; he could’ve had everything he wanted, but even he knew he had to fight for you. He had to fight to have a real place in your life, and he was willing to take every step to fit in your life.
“James…”
You interrupted his thoughts.
“Mhm?”
“You need to promise me you’re not gonna do anything against Scott.”
He furrowed. “Why not?”
“‘Cause it’s over. We don’t need to do anything else.”
“If he starts bothering you, I’m gonna do something about it.”
“Deal.” He smiled.“So… My Nat’s waiting for me at home?”
‘Home…’ He thought. He loved the way you called his house ‘home’. Even if you had been there just once, he knew you knew that it was completely yours to possess.
“Your Nat?” A fake tint of jealousy could be heard.
“My Nat. That’s my Nat.” You claimed proudly. And he knew you were only teasing.
“Don’t make me question if I still want her on my side, because now I’m not gonna feel safe leaving you alone with her.”
“Oh… you weren’t joking?”Your voice changed immediately; he noticed you were disappointed.
“What do you mean?”
“Are you really gonna leave?”
“Well... I was... But that voice makes me want to leave everything a mess and just hug you to my chest as soon as we get home.”
“That would be nice.” You admitted.
“Can you accept that I leave you with Nat for a little bit while I take some calls… and then I’ll be all yours.”
“I thought you were already all mine?”
He grunted. “Don’t make me question my decision of forgetting I’m respecting your time to heal.”
You lifted your hands in fake surrender.
When you finally got to his place. He made you wait and opened your door for you. At the main entrance, Natasha was already waiting for you. When you were about to run at her, he stopped you by the wrist.
“Have a great evening, and I’ll see you tonight.”
You nodded and smiled, “Promise you won’t arrive as beaten as I found you last night?”
“I’ll try my best.” You nodded and tiptoed, cupping his face with your hands.
Your fingers traced shapes in his cheeks. When you gathered enough courage, you kissed him fearlessly. His hands found your waist and embraced you, just to cup the back of your neck, his tongue found yours like he was starving.
And he felt like he was.
He had been waiting for this moment since the first time you kissed his cheek in farewell.
And now that he had you in that exact place, he was enjoying how soft your velvety lips felt, how your breath hitched with every grip of his hands.
“James…” You mumbled between kisses. “Please tell me you’re coming back.”
“What are you even talking about? I’m finally able to touch heaven with the tip of my fingers by kissing you…” He pecked your lips, “I’ll be back, my sunshine.”
“When’s my turn?” Natasha teased, getting closer to you.
“Fuck you, Natasha.” Bucky flipped her off.
You giggled and looked at her. Bucky was still holding you by your wrist, and now your hands rested on his arms.
“Be glad that I know you would never betray me.”
You shook your head, “We will be fine, James.”
He didn’t waste any chance he got and kissed you again. “I need to get going, I think it’s the third time we've tried to say goodbye.”
You created a distance and decided to walk to Natasha, who greeted you with a hug and a tight grip to keep you by her side. You waved bye at him, and finally, he left to run some errands.
word count | 13.5k words
summary | you had the house. the husband. the hollow life. but every tuesday and thursday at 10:45 AM, you opened the door to something sweeter—a young mailman with a mouth full of yes ma’am and hands made for sin.
tags | 18+ (MDNI), EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT, unprotected sex, suburbia au, pwp, cheating sex, infidelity, age gap, power imbalance (but consensual), marital infidelity, dom/sub dynamics, begging, doggy style, overstimulation, light dirty talk, reader fantasises about bucky during sex with husband, tw: br*ck r*mlow, mention of emotional neglect in marriage, praise kink, creampie, bucky is obsessed, lowkey inexperienced!bucky, subby!bucky, bucky calls you ma’am and then fucks you stupid, he leaves your pussy full of mail, cuckold core, possessive!bucky, pussy drunk!bucky, heavy praise
a/n | tbh this could’ve taken place in the 50s or 2000s, nobody knows. this was inspired by desperate housewives but i made it sluttier (if gabby and bree were one person)
likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨
MASTERLIST
divider by @enchanthings
There’s something peculiar about the way a woman can be broken without ever making a sound.
No cracks. No gasps. No shattering porcelain on the floor.
Just a quiet kind of nothing that settles behind her eyes like dust on a windowsill, inevitable and slowly turning everything gray.
You were folding laundry when you found it.
One of Brock’s white shirts. The expensive kind. Egyptian cotton, triple-stitched, with his initials monogrammed just inside the collar—BRR—like a cattle brand stamped into the fabric. You’d pressed it yourself that morning, running the iron over the sleeves in slow, methodical passes, breathing in the steam and starch and the faint ghost of his cologne.
And then you saw it.
Lipstick.
Not yours.
Too red. Too loud. The kind of colour worn by women who laugh too hard at dinner parties and drink too much gin straight from the glass. Women who don’t bother to wipe the smudge off the rim before they hand it back to the waiter.
Right there, faint but certain, a smear near the collarbone. Just a whisper of crimson against the white. Like a signature. Like a taunt.
You didn’t scream or crumble. You just held the shirt between your fingers and stared at that mark like it was a wine stain on the wallpaper. Inconvenient and not even worth fussing about.
Because this is what it meant to be Mrs. Rumlow. And you had no one to blame but yourself.
After all, you weren’t swept off your feet. You were just worn down.
Brock pursued you the way a dog gnaws a bone—persistent and aggressive. He asked you out eight times before you said yes. Called your job every afternoon until the receptionist started putting him through just to shut him up. Sent flowers to your apartment; carnations, always carnations, because he never bothered to learn what you actually liked. Showed up at your mother’s dinner parties with that performative charm, shaking hands, kissing cheeks, grinning like he’d already won.
And everyone else loved him.
Your friends said he was handsome. Your mother said he had prospects. Your father just nodded and shook his hand and called him a good man.
You didn’t feel anything at all really.
But the word “yes” started falling out of your mouth like clockwork. Yes to dinner. Yes to letting him in. Yes to the ring—heavy and perfect and exactly what a girl should want. Yes to the house with the white picket fence and the immaculate lawn. Yes to the title—Mrs. Rumlow.
Yes. Yes. Yes.
Until suddenly you were thirty, standing in your laundry room at two in the afternoon, holding a man’s shirt that didn’t even smell like you anymore.
And what now? You could confront him. Cry, maybe. Throw a tantrum. Smash a vase against the wall and watch the pieces scatter across the hardwood.
But for what? To make him feel bad for fifteen minutes before he went right back to doing whatever he pleased? To force an apology you knew wouldn’t mean a thing?
No, thank you.
You hung the shirt neatly over the back of the chair, the way you’d been taught, and went back to folding towels. Matching corners. Smooth stacks. The rhythm of it steadied something in your chest.
That afternoon, you made a lemon cake.
You creamed the butter and sugar until it was pale and fluffy. You zested the lemons until your fingers smelled sharp and bright. You poured the batter into the pan and watched it rise through the oven door, golden and perfect. You whipped the frosting by hand until your arm ached, then spread it in smooth, even layers across the top.
And when you sat down in your immaculate kitchen—surrounded by the hum of the refrigerator and the ticking of the clock, with a slice of cake on a china plate in front of you—you took a bite.
The frosting was just a little too sweet.
You felt absolutely nothing at all.
Dinner was silent.
You set the pot roast on the table, the porcelain platter warm against your palms, steam curling upward like cigarette smoke in a half-empty bar. The scent of rosemary and roasted carrots hung in the air, filling the dining room with something that smelled like home… even if it didn’t feel like one.
Brock thanked you without looking up from the newspaper.
The words came out flat, automatic, as if spoken by a machine. He ate quickly, efficiently, like everything in his life. Fork, knife, chew, swallow. A rhythm of consumption without pleasure. He checked his watch between bites, that little gold-faced wristband catching the chandelier light, and you wondered if he ever really tasted anything at all.
You nodded at the right moments. Smiled when he made a dry comment about work… something about a man named Alexander Pierce, a deal gone sour, a shipment delayed. You didn’t really listen. You just let your mouth move in practiced curves while your eyes drifted to the lipstick stain you’d pressed out of that shirt hours ago.
You poured him another drink when he tapped the glass. The two clinks of his wedding band against the crystal, a wordless request you had long since learned to obey without thought.
You didn’t bring up the lipstick.
Why would you? He would deny it. Or worse—he would tell the truth like it was trivial, like it was nothing more than a spilled drink at a work function, a kiss on the cheek from a client’s wife. He would wave his hand and say you know how these things go, sweetheart, and then he’d go back to carving the roast.
So you kept your mouth shut and your hands steady and your face smooth as porcelain.
After dinner, you washed the dishes while he stood behind you. His hands found your hips in that familiar way, yet less like a husband touching his wife and more like a man checking the fence posts on his property. You didn’t flinch or lean back into him. You just let the warm water run over your fingers and watched the soap bubbles pop one by one against the stainless steel.
He guided you upstairs without a word.
In the bedroom, he didn’t turn on the lights. He never did when he was in this mood. It was easier for him to pretend you were anyone he wanted. Easier for you to pretend you didn’t know who he was imagining. Easier for both of you to exist in that shadowed space without having to look each other in the eye.
He unbuttoned your dress halfway, just enough to get what he needed, and pushed inside you with a sigh. The same tired exhale he gave when he loosened his tie after work. A release. Not affection. Not even desire. Just pressure leaving the body, a valve opened after a long day.
He moved like a man finishing a task before bed. His breath warm and stale against your neck, tinged with whiskey and gravy. Your cheek pressed into the pillow, eyes open in the dark, staring at the faint crack in the ceiling where the moonlight bled through the curtains.
You didn’t make a sound. You didn’t tremble or cling or gasp. You just lay there, letting him take what he thought was his, feeling nothing but the soft thud of your heartbeat in your ear and the slight friction of the sheets against your thighs.
When he came, he groaned your name like an afterthought and rolled off you immediately. A completed chore. The mattress shifted as he settled onto his back, and within minutes his breathing evened out into the low, rough snore you’d grown accustomed to.
You pulled the sheets back up to your chin and lay on your back, staring at the ceiling.
The moonlight cut pale lines across the room, sharp and silver, like broken glass scattered on the floor. You traced them with your eyes, following the angles where they crossed the crown molding, the light fixture, the corner where the wallpaper had begun to peel ever so slightly.
They didn’t point anywhere. They didn’t mean anything. They were just lines of light falling across a dark room where a woman lay next to a man who didn’t see her.
The ache between your legs was faint now, fading into something distant and numb. You folded your hands over your stomach, fingers interlaced, like a woman lying in a casket.
The ceiling fan hummed above you, a low mechanical drone that filled the silence with something almost like comfort.
Then you let sleep pull you under, still hollow, still quiet, still waiting for something to crack.
Tuesday
You sat in the kitchen with a cigarette burning between your fingers and your second cup of coffee growing cold on the counter, wearing a satin robe the colour of pale champagne; too soft, too pretty, too delicate for a life this dull. The fabric whispered against your skin with every small movement, a reminder that you still had a body, still had nerve endings, still had wants that went unacknowledged.
The floor was spotless. Linoleum gleaming under the morning light, every crumb swept, every scuff wiped away. The breakfast dishes were stacked neatly in the drying rack, porcelain and ceramic arranged like soldiers at attention. Everything in its place. Everything perfect.
And for a moment, just one dizzy, suffocating moment, you considered what it would be like if you just… walked out.
Not packed. Not explained. Not left a note. Just stood up, pushed back the chair, and let the front door click shut behind you without a backward glance. No destination. No plan. Just the simple, radical act of leaving.
You thought about the other wives on the block. Margaret with her twin boys and her perpetual exhaustion. Doris with her tennis club and her too-bright laugh. Eleanor with her country luncheons and her gossip that cut like a finely sharpened knife. All of them busy, all of them pretending they weren’t slowly going mad in their identical houses with their identical husbands and their identical lives.
You didn’t have a baby. You didn’t have a career. You didn’t even have friends you really liked—just women you drank tea with because it was expected, because the calendar said Monday and Wednesday meant bridge club whether you wanted it or not.
You had a house that stayed clean and a husband that didn’t. And every day felt the same.
Breakfast. Clean. Grocery store. Smile politely. Dinner. Dishes. Sex if he remembered. Sleep. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
You stubbed the cigarette out in the ceramic ashtray, the ember hissing against porcelain, and let out a long, slow breath. Maybe you’d bake something today. A cheesecake, perhaps—the one your mother had taught you, the one that took two hours and left your hands smelling of cream and sugar. Or maybe you’d just sit here, watching the clock tick toward noon, counting the minutes until the day blurred into the next one.
Knock. Knock.
Your head turned, like a reflex you hadn’t trained but couldn’t control.
The clock on the wall said 10:45. Which meant it was Tuesday. Which meant—
You already knew before you opened the door.
The morning light spilled across the porch, catching in his hair, turning it something between caramel and chocolate. He stood there in his postal uniform; navy trousers pressed sharp, shirt buttoned to regulation, the leather strap of his mailbag cutting across his chest.
But beneath the uniform, he wore a white t-shirt, the collar just visible at his throat, and he’d cuffed his sleeves once, twice, to show his forearms. Tan skin dusted with fine golden hair, muscles that moved beneath the surface with a boyish, easy strength.
There was a curl stuck to his forehead, dark and damp from the morning humidity. Your fingers itched to push it back.
He smiled when he saw you, that wide, eager grin that made him look like he’d just found something he’d been searching for. “G’mornin’, Mrs. Rumlow.” His voice had a rumble to it, low and warm. “You’re lookin’ mighty pretty this mornin’.”
The words landed somewhere in your chest, like a stone dropped into still water. You didn’t smile back, not the full thing, anyway. Just a curve at the corner of your mouth, a softening of your eyes. You held the doorframe with two fingers, the satin of your robe draping against the painted wood.
“Thank you, James.” His name felt intentional on your tongue, drawn out just a little longer than necessary. “Right on time, I see.”
Bucky scratched the back of his neck, a gesture so young, so unpolished, it made something tighten in your stomach. “You know me, ma’am. Gotta keep to a schedule.” He laughed once, a short breath of sound. “Wouldn’t wanna disappoint.”
Disappoint. The word hung in the air between you, weighted with something neither of you acknowledged aloud.
He pulled the letters from his bag with careful hands; one bill, one catalog, one cream-coloured envelope with your mother’s looping handwriting on the front. He offered them to you, and you reached out to take them, your fingers brushing his in the exchange.
A whisper of contact. Barely anything at all. But your skin remembered it. Tingled with it. Held onto it like a secret.
You looked down at the envelopes, then back up at him. His cheeks were flushed, that telltale pink climbing up from his collar, and he was looking at you like you were something more than a housewife in a bathrobe holding a stack of bills.
“You have a good day now, ma’am,” he said, quieter this time, as if the words were meant only for the space between you.
The ma’am made something in your chest loosen. It wasn’t condescending, not the way Brock said it when he was irritated, a dismissive verbal pat on the head. This was different. Like being called something sacred.
“Thank you, James.” Your voice came out steadier than you felt. “I’ll see you Thursday.”
His grin widened, a flash of white teeth, and he touched the brim of his cap like a soldier saluting. “Yes, ma’am. Thursday.”
Bucky turned and walked back down the path, his stride easy and confident, the mailbag swinging against his hip. You watched him go, fingers still pressed to the doorframe, the letters clutched against your chest. He glanced back once, just before the hedge swallowed him from view, and caught your eye.
He didn’t wave. Neither did you.
But the look he gave you lingered long after he disappeared.
You closed the door slowly and leaned against it, the wood cool against your back through the thin satin. And suddenly, all you could think about was Thursday.
All you could think about was him.
Thursday
You put on lipstick before breakfast.
Not the usual pale pink you wore to bridge club or church, the kind that barely registered on your lips, a ghost of colour meant to be respectable and forgettable. No. Today, you reached for the tube tucked behind the vanity mirror, the one you’d bought weeks ago on a whim and never worn. A glossier red. Crimson. The kind of shade that demanded attention.
It wasn’t quite as brazen as the stain on Brock’s collar’ that shade had been brighter, cheaper, applied with less care, but it was close. Close enough to feel like a statement. Close enough to feel like your own small rebellion.
You curled your hair, too. The iron hissed against the strands, shaping them into soft curls that brushed your shoulders. You ironed your best blouse, cream silk with mother-of-pearl buttons, and paired it with a navy skirt that cinched at your waist and fell just below your knees. You dabbed perfume behind your ears, at your wrists, between your breasts, letting the scent settle into your skin like a secret.
All for what? A two-minute doorstep exchange.
Maybe.
But it had been a long time since you got ready for someone. A long time since you’d felt the flutter of anticipation in your chest, the nervous checking of your reflection, the quiet thrill of wondering if he would notice.
And Bucky? He always noticed.
The morning moved slowly. You tried to busy yourself—made the bed with hospital corners, scrubbed the kitchen counters until they gleamed, cleaned out the icebox with methodical precision. But your hands went through the motions while your mind wandered elsewhere.
You kept glancing at the clock.
10:32.
10:39.
The coffee grew cold in your cup, untouched.
10:44.
Your pulse quickened, an involuntary flutter against your ribs. You wiped your palms on your skirt, smoothed a hand over your hair, touched your lips to check the lipstick was still perfect.
Then—
Footsteps on gravel.
Your breath caught. You straightened your posture, squared your shoulders, and walked to the front door with a calm you didn’t feel. You opened it before he could knock, the morning light spilling across the porch and catching him mid-step.
“Well, good mornin’, Mrs. Rumlow.”
He stood there with a toothpick tucked in the corner of his mouth, rolling it lazily between his lips. Same cuffed sleeves, same easy stance, same sunshine grin, but something shifted when his eyes landed on you. The grin faltered, just a fraction. His gaze traveled down, then back up, taking his time. Top to bottom. Appreciative. Hungry.
Your skin warmed under the weight of it.
“Why, James,” you said, your voice light and teasing, carrying the faintest lilt of surprise. “You’re lucky I’m dressed. Another ten seconds and you might’ve caught me in a robe.”
He laughed, a low, full sound that rumbled from his chest. “Guess I showed up just in time, then.” He pulled the toothpick from his mouth, tucking it into his shirt pocket, and let his eyes linger on your lips. “You look real nice today, Mrs. Rumlow. That colour suits you.”
You felt the compliment settle low in your belly. You leaned against the doorframe, letting your hip jut out just slightly, letting him see the curve of your waist beneath the silk. “Thursdays feel longer than Tuesdays,” you mused, taking the mail from his outstretched hand. Your fingers brushed his on purpose this time. “I think I like Tuesdays better.”
He cocked his head, watching your fingers trace the edge of the envelope. A slow smile spread across his face, not shy now, not boyish. Something else. “Then I guess I’ll have to make Thursdays worth your while, won’t I?”
There it was. The cocky edge under all that charm. The faintest bite, the shift from sweet to knowing. He wasn’t just flirting anymore, he was answering you.
You felt it in your chest. In your thighs. That quiet, familiar clench that hadn’t visited in years, the one you’d thought had died somewhere between Brock’s indifference and your own resignation.
“You always this flattering to the women on your route?” you asked, tilting your head, keeping your tone airy. But your eyes held his, unflinching.
He chuckled, shaking his head. “Only the pretty ones.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Oh? So just Mrs. McCall across the street, then?”
He laughed again, and God, that laugh. It was warm and genuine, a sound that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest. He placed a hand over his heart, feigning offense. “You wound me, Mrs. Rumlow. You know you’re my favourite.”
The way he said it. That confident little smirk. The way his eyes dropped to your lips again, just for a second, before returning to yours, like he was memorising you.
It shouldn’t have made your thighs press together. But it did.
He made no move to step back. You made no move to end the conversation. The morning stretched around you, the only sounds the distant hum of a lawnmower and the thrumming of your own pulse.
“You got plans this weekend?” he asked suddenly.
The question caught you off guard. You blinked, your composure slipping for just a moment. “No,” you admitted. “Just the usual. Laundry. Groceries. Maybe lunch with some women I don’t particularly like.”
He smiled again, wide and wolfish this time. “I could think of better ways to spend a Sunday.”
Your lips parted. You could feel the weight of his words, the implication wrapped in that easy grin. But you didn’t speak.
He stepped back then, finally, breaking the spell slowly. He tipped two fingers to his forehead in a mock salute, his eyes never leaving yours. “See you Tuesday, Mrs. Rumlow.”
“Tuesday,” you repeated, your voice softer than you intended.
He turned and walked down the path, his stride easy, his shoulders broad beneath the blue uniform. You watched him go, watched the way his hips moved, the way his hair curled at the nape of his neck. And this time, when he glanced back, just before the hedge swallowed him, he didn’t just look.
He winked.
You closed the door slowly, and exhaled through your nose, a long, shaky breath you hadn’t realised you were holding. Your heart rattled against your ribs. Your lips still tingled from the weight of his gaze.
You were old enough to know better. Old enough to recognize the danger in a boy who looked at you like you were the sun. But today? You didn’t feel old. You didn’t feel married. You didn’t feel like a housewife in a quiet suburb with a cheating husband and a hollow life.
You felt looked at. You felt chosen. And maybe Bucky had other girls. Maybe he had dozens, scattered across his route like wildflowers. But when he looked at you like that, like you were the only woman on the planet, you let yourself bask in it.
Saturday Night
Brock wanted sex, again.
You could always tell by the way he stood in the doorway after his shower, towel slung low around his hips, rubbing the bridge of his nose like the very thought of wanting you exhausted him. It never felt like desire. It felt like appetite, hunger without taste, a reflex he performed out of schedule rather than longing. He never looked at you the way Bucky did. He looked through you, like you were a task to check off before sleep.
You were propped against the headboard, a copy of Ladies’ Home Journal open in your lap, your eyes scanning the same paragraph three times without reading a word. The magazine had been a shield. A pretense of being occupied. But when Brock padded over and plucked it from your hands, his fingers brushing yours without lingering, you didn’t protest.
He placed it on the nightstand and you watched his shadow fall across the bed.
“You ready for me?” he asked, already knowing the answer. His voice was flat, perfunctory.
“Mhm,” you murmured, the sound soft, neutral. Invitation enough.
He climbed on top of you, the mattress dipping under his weight. His lips found yours in a single, dry kiss , just a press of mouth against mouth before he pulled back. His lips were damp from the shower. Impatient. He pushed your nightgown up over your hips, the cotton gathering in wrinkled bunches around your ribs. The air hit your thighs, cool and indifferent.
“I missed you,” he whispered, but the words were hollow, a script he recited by rote. He didn’t mean it. He never meant it. But the sound still filled the room, settling between you like dust.
You opened your legs because that was the routine. That was marriage. That was being Mrs. Rumlow, a woman who spread her thighs for a man who forgot she had a name beyond the ring on her finger.
He entered you with a grunt. As you felt the familiar weight of a man claiming what he believed belonged to him. His hips settled against yours, and he began to move, steady, mechanical, like the piston of a machine. In. Out. In. Out. His breath hot against your neck.
It didn’t hurt. It didn’t feel good. It felt like nothing.
You stared over his shoulder at the wall. The pattern in the wallpaper blurred as your focus drifted. The lamp on the nightstand flickered once, a tired bulb. The headboard creaked with each thrust, a rhythmic complaint that had long since become white noise. You counted the creaks. Six. Seven. Eight. You wandered through the numbers like hallways, searching for somewhere else to be.
Your mind wandered. It always did. But tonight it wandered somewhere new.
James Buchanan Barnes.
You pictured him without even meaning to. The curve of his smile, that boyish confidence that didn’t know its own power. His hands, rough and calloused from sorting mail and lifting parcels, curling around envelopes with a casual grace. Forearms tight and sun-browned, taut with youth and strength, so much younger than they should be for how much they made you ache.
You imagined those hands on your waist instead. Sliding over the curve of your hip. Fingers digging in like he was afraid you might slip through them, like he wanted to hold on so tight he’d leave bruises you could press in the morning and remember.
Brock groaned into your shoulder. A sound of effort, not passion. You barely heard it.
Your mind was in your foyer. Sunlight streaming through the side window, catching the gold in James’s hair, turning it to chocolate brown. His eyes dropping to your lips and the quiet hitch of his breath when he realised you were wearing red today. The way his tongue touched his bottom lip before he spoke.
You imagined him standing too close. Close enough that you could smell the soap on his skin, the faint salt of a morning’s work. You imagined him saying your name with that low rasp, Mrs. Rumlow, not as a title, but as a confession. Almost shy. Almost cocky. Almost daring you to stop him.
You imagined him whispering something filthy in your ear. Something a young man should never say to a married woman. Something you would let him say anyway, would crave him to say, would press your thighs together under the kitchen table and pretend not to hear.
“I think about you when I’m alone, Mrs. Rumlow. Late at night. Do you think about me?”
Brock picked up his pace. His breathing turned heavy, tight, a rhythm he knew by heart. His hips slapped against yours, harder now, more insistent. Your body moved out of habit—a practiced arch of your back, a soft sound you’d learned to make at the right intervals. But you weren’t there.
You were in the kitchen with Bucky, morning light streaming through the lace curtains. Your robe hanging open. His mouth hot on your throat, trailing down, down, tasting the perfume you’d dabbed there just for him. His voice unsteady and hungry, cracking with want. His hand sliding up your thigh, like he had been dreaming about the feel of your skin for months.
“Tell me you want this,” he’d whisper. “Tell me you want me.”
You imagined him losing control. The careful restraint crumbling. The boyish charm replaced by something ravenous, something that needed you so badly it frightened him. You imagined him taking you right there against the counter, your back arching, your fingers tangled in his hair, every sound you made pulling him deeper.
Your breath caught. Heat crawled up your spine like fingers tracing vertebrae. Your nails dug into the sheets, white-knuckled, pulling the fabric taut.
Brock didn’t notice.
You came quietly. An involuntary gasp against his shoulder, a tremour that ran through your thighs and settled deep in your belly. You bit down on the sound, swallowed it whole. You didn’t want him to know why. You didn’t want him to know it wasn’t for him.
He finished thirty seconds later with a strained grunt, his body tensing, his release hot and forgettable. He collapsed on top of you, a dead weight, sweating and satisfied, completely ignorant. His breath evened out against your neck, slowing into the rhythm of a man who had taken what he wanted and was already forgetting he’d had it.
“I missed you,” he said again. A kiss pressed to your shoulder, empty of meaning.
You closed your eyes. Your pulse settled slowly, like dust after a storm.
Your husband had made you orgasm for the first time in years. And he would never know that he had nothing to do with it.
You lay there under Brock’s weight, the lamp flickering, the headboard silent now. Your fingers still curled in the sheets. Your skin still tingled where you’d imagined Bucky’s hands.
You thought about Tuesday. You thought about the red lipstick in your vanity drawer. You thought about the way James’s eyes had dropped to your lips this morning, hungry and hopeful, like a boy ready to sin.
And you smiled in the dark.
Tuesday came again.
And so did you.
Not physically. Not yet. But God, did you want to.
You spent the morning choosing your clothes with the kind of care you usually reserved for holidays or funerals. A blush pink blouse with three buttons undone, sleeves rolled just past your elbows. An indecent skirt that hugged your hips when you walked. You applied your lipstick slowly, blotting against tissue paper until the colour was perfect, a deep, shameful red that screamed look at me.
You heard the mail truck before you saw him. The low rumble of the engine, the crunch of gravel, the squeak of brakes. Your pulse quickened. You stepped onto the porch just as he rounded the corner of the driveway, satchel slung over one shoulder, a stack of envelopes in his hand.
He looked up. Saw you. Stopped.
The sun caught the sweat on his brow, glistening on his temple. He was so young. It made your stomach tighten.
“Mornin’, Mrs. Rumlow.” His voice came out a little rough. He cleared his throat. “Got your usual. Couple of bills. A catalog.”
You smiled and stepped forward. Close enough that the breeze carried your perfume straight to him. You saw his nostrils flare, just slightly—, efore he caught himself.
“That’s very kind of you to bring them right to the door,” you said, letting your voice dip low. “Y’know most mailmen would just toss them in the box.”
“I like makin’ sure you get yours proper.” He held out the envelopes. His fingers brushed yours when you took them. Lingered. You didn’t pull away.
You looked up at him through your lashes. “You’re good at your job, James.”
He smiled, crooked and shy. “Only ‘cause the scenery’s nice.”
You laughed softly. “Careful. You’ll spoil me.”
“Well, maybe you deserve to be spoiled.”
The words hung in the air between you, heavy and warm. He didn’t look away. Neither did you.
Thursday came with a different kind of heat.
Thick and humid, the kind that clung to your skin and made everything feel slow. You wore a sundress, thin straps, low neckline, the fabric loose enough to hint at what lay beneath without giving everything away. No stockings. No slip. Just your body and cotton and the knowledge that the afternoon sun would make the dress cling to every curve.
You heard the truck at the usual time. You opened the door before he could knock.
This time you leaned out a little too far as you reached for the envelopes. Let the neckline gape. Let him see the swell of your breasts, the shadow between them, the way your skin glistened from the humidity.
His eyes dropped.
It was only for a second. Less. But you saw it. The way his jaw twitched. The way his hand tightened around the mail he was holding, crinkling the edge of an envelope.
“Thanks, James.” You straightened slowly, letting him see the smile playing on your lips.
“Y-yes ma’am.” He swallowed. “You have a good day now.”
“I plan to.”
You closed the door and leaned against it, heart pounding. That night, you ran a bath so hot the mirror fogged over. You lay in the water with your knees bent, steam curling around your face, and you let your hand drift between your thighs.
You imagined him on his knees in front of the tub. His hands gripping the porcelain. His eyes on you, dark and hungry. The way he’d look up at you before lowering his head.
“Please, Mrs. Rumlow. Let me taste you.”
You pressed your fingers deeper, biting down on your own wrist to muffle the sound. You came with his name on your tongue, barely whispered, lost in the steam.
Tuesday
The heat came early that morning, crawling through the window screens like something alive. Thick and unforgiving. By the time the clock struck ten, the air in the house had gone still and heavy, pressing against your skin like a warm palm.
You didn’t bother dressing.
There was no point. Brock had left before sunrise, a muttered goodbye and the slam of the front door, off to wherever it was he went when he wasn’t here. The house was yours.
You slipped into your favourit pink champagne robe. You tied it just once at the waist, loose enough that the fabric fell open when you moved, baring the slope of your collarbone, the shadow between your breasts, the long line of your thigh as you walked from the bedroom to the kitchen.
No bra. No slip. Just your skin beneath the silk, damp from the humidity.
The clock ticked to 10:45.
Right on schedule.
You’d been standing at the kitchen window, watching the street through the sheer curtain, a glass of ice water sweating in your hand. You saw the mail truck pull up. Saw him step out, satchel slung over his shoulder, wiping the back of his hand across his brow.
He looked up at your house. Paused. Adjusted his collar.
You smiled to yourself, set down the glass, and walked to the door.
Knock, knock.
You waited two beats—long enough to seem unhurried, not long enough to seem reluctant. Then you turned the knob and pulled the door open.
The heat hit you first, a wall of it, thick and wet. It smelled like cut grass and pavement and the faint, clean sweat of a young man who’d been working under the sun.
And there he was.
Bucky Barnes, all six feet of him, backlit by the morning glare. The light caught his cheekbones, the sharp line of his jaw, the brown strands of his hair darkened with sweat and plastered to his forehead. His uniform shirt was unbuttoned halfway, the fabric gaping open to reveal the smooth plane of his chest, the sun-warmed skin, the fine sheen of sweat that made it gleam.
He had a stack of mail in one hand. The other hung loose at his side, fingers twitching like he didn’t know what to do with them.
His eyes met yours.
And then they dropped.
Down your body. Over the open V of your robe. Down to your bare legs, the curve of your calf, the way the silk shifted when you breathed. It wasn’t a glance. It was a slow and helpless look and he didn’t even try to hide it.
You saw the exact moment his brain caught up with his body. His throat moved. His jaw tightened. His gaze snapped back to your face, but it was too late. You’d already seen everything.
“M-Mornin’, Mrs. Rumlow.”
The stutter was tiny. Barely there. But you heard it, felt it like a small victory.
“Good morning, James.”
Your voice came out low, syrupy, the kind of voice you used when you wanted a man to lean in closer. You let your hand drift up to the doorframe, the movement casual, but it pulled the robe just a fraction tighter across your chest.
“Hot one today,” you murmured, tilting your head. “I thought I’d stay in something a little lighter. The heat’s been unbearable.”
He opened his mouth. Closed it. His eyes flickered down again, just for a second, just a brief, helpless slip, before he forced them back up.
“Yeah,” he said, and his voice cracked on the word. He cleared his throat. “Yeah, it’s—real hot. Humid, too.”
“You must be dying out there in that uniform.”
“It ain’t so bad.” He shifted his weight, licked his lips. “Got a good schedule. Nice houses. Nice people.”
He held out the mail. You took it, slowly letting your fingertips brush against his. His skin was warm. His pulse jumped under your touch.
“Thank you,” you said, soft. “I notice you always bring it to me personally. You don’t do that for anyone else, do you?”
He blinked. “I—no, ma’am. I usually just leave it in the box.”
“So why do you bring mine to the door?”
The question hung in the air between you, sweet as poison. He stared at you, and you watched him search for an answer that wouldn’t give too much away.
He failed.
“Guess I like seein’ your face.” His voice dropped, quieter now, almost rough. “You’re always real nice to me. Not everyone is.”
You stepped closer, just enough to bring you into the wedge of sunlight spilling through the doorway. The robe shifted, gaping open at your thigh. You saw his eyes track the movement.
“You like talking to me, James?”
“Yeah.” The word came out breathless. “I really do.”
You let a small smile play at the corner of your mouth. “I like talking to you too.”
A silence settled between you. The air itself seemed to thicken, you could hear the hum of a lawnmower two streets away, the distant bark of a dog, the ragged rhythm of his breathing.
The sun spilled across his shoulders, catching the sweat on his collarbone. Your robe was loose, barely tied, the silk shifting with every shallow rise and fall of your chest. Just standing there, two feet apart, was a kind of intimacy.
You could have kissed him then. You knew he would have let you. You knew he wanted you to. You could see it in the way his pupils had swallowed the blue of his irises, the way his throat worked as he swallowed, the way his gaze kept dropping to your mouth and then darting away, like he was afraid of what he might do if he looked too long.
Instead, you smiled.
“Would you like some lemonade?”
The question hung in the air like a dare. His eyes snapped to your mouth, then back up, and you watched him process what you’d just offered. The invitation. The implication. The fact that you weren’t asking him to leave.
He nodded. Too quickly. His voice cracked when he spoke.
“Yeah. Sure. I’d—I’d like that.”
Come in.
You didn’t say it. You just stepped back, letting the door swing open wider, and turned without another word. Bare feet on cool tile. The soft whisper of silk against your thighs. You walked ahead of him, letting him follow, letting him watch.
The robe shifted when you moved, slipping off one shoulder, brushing the backs of your knees, the hem fluttering just above the curve of your calf. You didn’t look back. You didn’t need to. You could feel his gaze on you like a hand at your waist, trailing down your spine, settling low.
The house was quiet. Too quiet. No radio humming. No laundry churning. Just the low buzz of the ceiling fan from the living room and the soft, steady tick of the wall clock over the sink.
The kitchen blazed with sunlight pouring through the open windows, catching the dust motes drifting in the still air. The counters gleamed. A half-used lemon sat on the cutting board from this morning. The whole room smelled faintly of citrus and sugar and the clean scent of dish soap.
“Sit,” you said gently, motioning toward the stools at the counter. “I’ll get the lemonade.”
He obeyed. Quietly. He set his satchel down on the counter, then pulled out one of the stools, the legs scraping against the tile. He sat, watched you, said nothing. His hands rested on his thighs, fingers flexing.
You moved unhurriedly. Opened the refrigerator door. Let the cold air wash over you. Bent slowly, reaching all the way to the back for the glass pitcher, knowing exactly how the robe tightened across the backs of your thighs, knowing exactly how the hem rose just a little higher when you stretched.
When you straightened and turned, his eyes snapped up too fast. A flush crept up his neck. He’d been staring. Caught.
You didn’t acknowledge it. Just smiled to yourself and poured two tall glasses, condensation already beading on the glass.
You set one in front of him. Then took the stool across the counter, crossing your legs as you settled. The robe fell open at the knee, baring the length of your thigh. You saw him glance down, then force himself to look at the lemonade.
You brought the glass to your lips. Sipped. Let the cold sweetness coat your tongue. When you set it down, you licked a stray drop from your lower lip, slow enough to make him shift in his seat.
“Still hot out,” you said, your voice light, conversational. “Not used to this kind of heat. Makes a woman crave something cold.”
He swallowed. “Yeah. It’s—it’s bad this week.” His voice was rough, like he’d been shouting, though he’d barely spoken a word.
You tilted your head, studying him. “You alright, sweetheart? You look a little flushed.”
His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “Just warm,” he managed.
“Mmm.” You rested your chin on your palm, elbow on the counter, watching him. “You know, you’re always so nice. I really like that about you.”
He blinked, caught off guard. “Ma’am?”
“A lot of boys your age wouldn’t be so kind to someone like me.”
His brow furrowed. “Someone like you?”
You smiled, bittersweet, letting your gaze drop. “A housewife,” you murmured. “Married. Boring. A little past my prime, I suppose.”
The words hung in the air. You felt the weight of them, the small lie you were telling, the way you were baiting him.
He sat up straighter. His jaw tightened. “You’re not past anything.”
You looked at him, surprised by the sudden heat in his voice.
“You’re—” He broke off, dragging a hand through his damp hair. His ears were red. “You’re beautiful, Mrs. Rumlow.”
The silence stretched between you. The ceiling fan turned overhead, stirring the warm air. Somewhere outside, a bird called. The ice in your glass settled with a soft clink.
You held his gaze a second longer than was appropriate. Then you took another sip of your lemonade, letting the moment breathe.
“That’s very sweet of you to say, James.” Your voice was quieter now. Softer. “Very sweet.”
He swallowed hard. His fingers tightened around his glass, knuckles white, like he was bracing himself against something.
For a while, neither of you said anything.
Just sat in the sun-warmed silence, pretending to be casual while the air thickened between you like honey left too long on the stove. The whole world had narrowed to this kitchen, this counter, this boy with his hands wrapped around a glass like it was the only thing keeping him tethered.
You shifted in your seat, uncrossing your legs and recrossing them the other way. The silk whispered against your skin.
His eyes dropped. You felt them like a touch, the way they traced the line of your thigh where the robe had fallen open, the way they lingered on the curve of your knee, the shadow above it. He watched the slow slide of your fingers over your glass, watched the way you wet your lips without thinking, and you watched him right back, cataloging every small tell.
The way his breath stalled when you moved. The way his knuckles went white. The way he bit his lower lip—just the tiniest flicker of restraint cracking, the pressure of his teeth against the soft flesh making you feel something warm and dangerous coil low in your belly.
You caught him. You didn’t say a word. Just smiled, the kind that said, I saw you. It’s alright. I wanted you to.
He bit his lip harder, then let it go. His mouth stayed parted, pink and slightly swollen.
You leaned forward, elbows on the counter, voice dropping to just above a whisper. “Do you like coming here, James?”
The question was simple. Innocent in its phrasing.
He looked up. Met your eyes. Nodded, like he was admitting something he’d been holding back for weeks.
“Yeah,” he said, like gravel scraped smooth by water. “I really do.”
You let the silence fall again, full and heavy and humming. And then, with the softest, most dangerous smile you owned. “Good,” you whispered. “Me too.”
You stood from your stool, the wood scraping softly against the tile. Took your empty glass to the sink, and rinsed it slowly, letting the water run over your fingers, watching the last traces of lemon and sugar swirl down the drain. The tap hummed. The water was cool against your heated skin.
You lifted your eyes to the window above the sink, watching his distorted reflection in the glass. He was staring at your back. The curve of your spine through the thin silk. The dip of your waist. The way your hips swayed just slightly as you shifted your weight from one foot to the other.
Finally, you turned off the tap. Shook the excess water from your hands. Dried them slowly on a dish towel hanging from the oven handle.
Then you spoke.
“Tell me something, James.”
Your voice was soft. Curious.
“Yes, ma’am?”
You turned around slowly, hips resting against the counter’s edge, the thin silk of your robe parting just a little as it settled around your waist. The morning light caught the curve of your hip, the shadow of your navel, the soft swell of your breasts beneath the fabric.
You watched his eyes follow it.
“Do you flirt with every woman on your route,” you asked gently, tilting your head, “or only me?”
His mouth opened, then closed. He actually blinked, like he needed to reset his brain, like the question had short-circuited something vital. His ears reddened. His hands tightened on the glass again, then relaxed as he set it down carefully, as if afraid he might break it.
“Only you,” he said quietly. The words came out steady, but his voice trembled at the edges. “Only ever you.”
You nodded once. As if that confirmed something you already knew, something you’d suspected since the first time he lingered a little too long at your door, since the first time his fingers brushed yours when he handed you the mail.
Then you walked toward him.
Slow steps. Bare feet on cool tile. The sun fell across your path, warm on your shoulders, and you felt beautiful in a way you hadn’t in years. Not for Brock. Not for anyone else. For yourself. For the way this boy’s eyes followed every inch of you like you were something sacred.
When you reached him, you placed your hand lightly on the counter beside his shoulder. Not touching him. Close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from your skin. You leaned in just slightly, letting him smell your perfume.
His breath hitched so sharply it almost broke your composure. You felt a thrill run through you, sharp and electric.
“Look at me,” you whispered.
He did.
You let your gaze drag over his face, the strong line of his jaw, the delicate curve of his lips. The way his blue eyes had gone dark, pupils blown wide, the colour swallowed by want. The way his throat worked as he swallowed again, the Adam’s apple bobbing.
You let your fingers trail down his forearm. Barely a touch. The lightest brush of your fingertips over the fine hair on his skin, over the warmth of him, over the tremour that ran through his muscles when you made contact.
“You know,” you said softly, your voice a murmur, “you have been very good to me these last few months.”
His chest rose. Fell. His lips parted.
“I like our chats, James.”
Your fingers continued their lazy path, tracing the line of a vein, the curve of his wrist. You felt his pulse jump beneath your touch, rapid and wild.
“And I like how you look at me,” you added. “Even when you try not to.”
He swallowed hard. His jaw worked. When he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper, rough and honest and cracked at the edges.
“I am trying real hard right now.”
You smiled. A slow, sinful curl of your lips. “You don’t have to.”
Then, in the softest voice you had used with him yet, “Stand up for me, James.”
He obeyed before he realized he had moved. The stool scraped back against the tile, and suddenly he was towering over you—tall, flushed to the tips of his ears, trying not to tremble.
You stepped closer. Close enough that the fabric of your robe brushed his barely opened shirt. Close enough that your breath touched his mouth. You could feel the heat radiating off him, the slight shake in his hands as they hung at his sides, not quite daring to reach for you.
“You want me,” you said. Not a question. A truth spoken plainly, laid out on the counter between you like a confession.
He nodded. Hard. His jaw worked, and when he spoke, his voice cracked on the first word.
“I been tryin’ not to,” he whispered. “Swear I been tryin’, ma’am. Every time I see you at that door, I tell myself—” He broke off, swallowing. “I tell myself to just hand you the mail and go. Just walk away.”
“But you don’t.”
“No, ma’am.” His eyes dropped to your lips. “I can’t.”
You touched his jaw. The barest brush of your fingertips against the stubble along his cheekbone. He shivered under your touch.
“I don’t want you to try anymore.”
His eyes darkened. Something shifted behind them, the last thread of restraint snapping. What was left was something hungry. Something young and desperate and finally set free. His breathing turned shallow. His hands curled into fists at his sides, then released.
“M-Mrs. Rumlow,” he breathed, voice shaking, “if I touch you I’m not gonna be able to stop.”
You tilted your chin up, lips inches from his. Close enough to taste the warmth of his breath, to see the fine tremor in his lower lip.
“Good.”
That was it. That was the spark.
He grabbed your waist with both hands, strong fingers digging into silk and skin, pulling you into him with a force that stole your breath. His mouth crashed into yours. Hungry and messy and eager. A young man who had been imagining this for months and finally snapped.
You gasped against his lips, and he swallowed the sound, took the chance to push his tongue into your mouth. He tasted like lemonade and something masculine. His hands moved without permission, shoving your robe open at your hips, dragging you against his body like he needed to feel every inch of you through the thin silk.
He kissed you like he was starving. Like you were the first taste of anything real in his short, hungry life. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of your hips, and you felt the tremble in his arms, the barely leashed violence of his need.
You let him. You let him take. You let him lose control.
Because you had been waiting for this. For this exact moment.
You pulled back just enough to whisper against his lips, “Take me, James.”
The hallway was a blur.
You didn't remember crossing it. You didn't remember the robe slipping from your shoulders and pooling on the floor. You didn't remember the bedroom door swinging open, or the way the afternoon light fell across the bed in golden stripes.
What you remembered was the moment Bucky lost control.
The moment his hands gripped your thighs like he needed to hold you in place or he’d fall apart. The moment he lowered you onto the mattress, his body covering yours, the weight of him pressing you into the sheets.
The moment he said your name.
Not ma’am. Not Mrs. Rumlow. Not anything polite or proper.
But your name, whispered like a sin he was dying to commit, like he’d been saving it for this exact moment, tasting it on his tongue for the first time.
“Please,” he breathed, hot against your neck, lips brushing the thrumming pulse at your throat. “Please let me.”
And then he pushed inside you.
Your gasp broke in half. Your fingers clutched the sheets. Your breasts arched into his chest on instinct, a reflexive surrender.
You cunt was soaked, open and ready, aching for him in a way you hadn’t ached for anything in years. But he still felt too big. Too deep. The stretch of him made your eyes roll back, made your breath catch in your throat.
You hadn’t been touched like this in years. Not with intention. Not with fire. Not with the kind of desperate, worshipful need that made you feel like you were the only woman in the world.
“You feel so good,” he groaned, burying his face in the crook of your shoulder. His voice was muffled against your skin, rough and broken. “God, you feel—fuck—”
Each thrust was harder. Needier and more frantic. The headboard knocked against the wall in a steady rhythm, the sound mixing with the ragged fall of his breathing, the wet, slick sound of him moving inside you.
He fucked you like he was making up for every time he watched you from the sidewalk and imagined what you’d sound like under him. Like he’d been storing up this hunger for weeks, months, and finally had permission to let it out.
You dragged your nails down his back and he trembled, a full-body shudder that made him bury himself deeper.
“Easy,” you whispered, breath hot in his ear. “Slow down, sweetheart.”
He shook his head, fucking into you harder, faster, his rhythm falling apart at the edges.
“I can’t,” he said, voice cracking. “I can’t, I’m sorry, I—been wanting you so long—”
You grabbed his jaw. Forced him to look at you.
His pupils were blown, dark as ink. His cheeks were flushed, his lips red and swollen from kissing you too hard. A strand of hair had fallen across his forehead, and he looked wrecked in the most beautiful way.
“Then take what you want,” you said softly, stroking his cheek with your thumb. “Come on, baby. Don’t hold back.”
He broke.
His mouth crashed onto yours again, sloppy and desperate. His hips snapped forward in a brutal rhythm, the headboard slamming the wall in a steady, percussive beat. Each thrust drove the air from your lungs, your tits bouncing with every impact.
He stared at you like he’d never seen a naked woman in his life, like you were something sacred and filthy all at once. His gaze traced the curve of your breasts, the flush spreading across your chest, the way your body moved beneath him.
“You’re so beautiful,” he gasped, the words tumbling out broken. “Been dreamin’ about you in this bed—fuck—thought about it every damn night. Every time I walked past your door, I’d picture you right here, spread out for me.”
You moaned, loud and shameless, your fingers threading through his damp hair and tugging him down. Your mouth met his in a kiss that bruised, tongues sliding, the taste of salt and lemon mingling between you.
He kissed like he fucked. All tongue and breath and raw, unfettered hunger. He sucked your bottom lip into his mouth and moaned into the kiss, his cock still pounding into you with that relentless, youthful urgency.
“You like this?” he panted, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. His were glassy, pupils blown wide. “You like how I fuck you? Tell me. Please—I need to hear it. I need to know I’m doin’ it right.”
Your voice came out broken, barely recognizable. “Yes. God, yes. Harder—don’t stop—”
His grip shifted. One hand stayed firm on your hip, fingers digging into the soft flesh. The other slid under your thigh, lifting it higher, angling you deeper, opening you to him in a way that made stars burst behind your eyelids.
“Shit—James—”
“I know, I know—feels good, right?” His voice was ragged, breath sawing in and out of his lungs. “I can feel you—fuck—you’re squeezin’ me, ma’am. Like you don’t wanna let me go.”
He was falling apart. You were too. Your nails dragged down his shoulders, leaving red crescents in their wake. Your breath hitched, stuttered, dissolved into a whimper. Your thighs quivered around his waist, the muscles trembling with the effort of holding on.
“Don’t stop,” you whined, the plea ripping out of your throat. “Don’t you dare stop—”
His voice broke completely, cracking under the weight of his own need. “I’m not. I’m not. I’m gonna stay right here—gonna give you everything, Mrs. Rumlow—everythin’ I got—”
Your orgasm hit you so hard you didn’t even register your own moan. It tore through you like a wave, white-hot and blinding, clamping down around him in rhythmic pulses that stole your breath and turned your limbs to jelly. Your back arched off the bed, your fingers twisting in the sheets, your vision going white at the edges.
Bucky’s breath caught in his throat as he felt you clench around him, a sudden grip that dragged him over the edge with you.
“Oh—oh my God—” he gasped, his rhythm faltering, his hips stuttering. “You’re—fuck—you’re cummin’—”
And then he fell apart inside you.
A guttural, broken groan tore out of his chest as he thrust deep burying himself to the hilt while he spilled into you with an urgency that bordered on desperate. His body shook, every muscle taut, his hands clutching your hips like you were the only solid thing in a world that had just tilted sideways.
His forehead fell to your shoulder, his breath hot and uneven against your sweat-slicked skin. He breathed you in; the scent of your perfume, the salt of your skin, the lingering musk of sex, and let out a shuddering exhale.
“Mrs. Rumlow…” he whispered, like a confession. His voice was raw and hoarse. Then, as he slowly pulled out, the loss of him making you feel suddenly empty, he added, “I… I don’t wanna stop.”
You stroked the back of his head gently, your nails grazing the nape of his neck, tracing the fine hairs there. His skin was damp, warm, trembling slightly under your touch.
“You don’t have to, sweetheart,” you murmured, the words low and honeyed.
He lifted his head. His eyes were blown wide, dark and glassy. His hair was a wild mess, plastered to his forehead with sweat. His cheeks were flushed, his lips red and swollen, and under all that, still hard, still pressing against your thigh with stubborn, unapologetic desire.
“I can go again,” he whispered, almost frightened of his own need. “Please let me. I know I just—but I need—please, I ain’t done with you yet.”
Your fingers raked through his damp hair, smoothing it back from his brow. He was so young. So pink. So earnest in his hunger. You’d just let him cum inside you, and he still looked like he wanted to say thank you.
You kissed the corner of his mouth, tasting the salt of his skin.
“Breathe, honey,” you whispered, your lips brushing against his. “You’re not done yet.”
And before he could even answer, you shifted from underneath him, a slow, fluid motion that left him blinking, confused, his body still humming with unspent need. You climbed onto all fours, and looked back over your shoulder at him. The afternoon light caught the curve of your spine, the dip of your waist, the soft swell of your hips.
You looked over your shoulder at him, a lazy, knowing smile curving your lips.
“Come here, James. Show me what else you’ve been dreaming about.”
His eyes went wide. The pupils had already swallowed most of the blue, leaving just a thin ring of colour around the black. His chest heaved, still slick with sweat, a fine sheen glistening across his collarbones and the hollow of his throat.
You didn’t have to tell him twice.
He was already fully hard again, flushed tip, veins twitching along the shaft, the head glistening with a mixture of your combined slick. When he slid behind you, it wasn’t with the frantic rush you expected. He took his time. Let his hands trace the curve of your ass first, palming the roundness like he couldn’t believe it was real.
“Fuck,” he breathed, voice hushed and awed. “You’re perfect. I swear to god—”
“Show me, then,” you said. “Show me how perfect I am.”
His hands tightened. Fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips, anchoring himself. And then, he pushed in again. Thick and warm, the slick heat of you parting around him like you’d been waiting for this very moment. You moaned like you meant it, your forehead dropping to the sheets as he filled you inch by inch.
“Jesus—still so fuckin’ wet—” he hissed, hips stuttering as he bottomed out, pressing flush against you.
You were. Dripping with the evidence of his first release and still greedy for more. The feeling of him sliding into that already-fucked heat sent a shiver through you, your inner walls clenching instinctively around him.
“Harder,” you rasped, cheek pressed to the mattress, the words muffled but clear. “I can take it. Come on, honey. Fuck me.”
His grip on your hips turned bruising, fingers pressing deep enough to leave marks you’d find tomorrow. His thrusts came harder, deeper, desperate and sloppy with sound. The wet, obscene noise of his cock driving into you filled the room, mingling with his ragged breaths and your broken moans. He was panting behind you, fingers digging in as he drove into you like he wanted to climb inside, to bury himself so deep you’d never forget the shape of him.
You arched your back, pressed into him, gave him more. Your breasts swung beneath you, nipples dragging against the sheets with each impact. The sensation sent sparks through your chest.
“That’s it, baby. That’s it. Use me.”
“You’re gonna ruin me,” he gasped, his voice cracking. “You’re gonna fuckin’ ruin me, ma’am. I’m never gonna be able to look at another woman without thinkin’ of you.”
And you smiled, even as your mouth fell open with another moan as his cock hit that spot deep inside you, the one that made your vision blur and your toes curl.
The room was hot. The sheets wrinkled and twisted beneath you. Skin stuck together wherever you touched, his thighs against yours, his chest against your back when he leaned forward, his breath hot on your shoulder blade. The scent of sex clung to every inch of air; sharp and sweet, salt and musk, the metallic tang of arousal and the warmth of two bodies pushed past their limits.
Slap—slap—slap of skin meeting skin. The desperate whine building in his throat. The soft chant of your name breaking from his lips like a prayer, ma’am, Mrs. Rumlow, please, please, each syllable punctuated by a thrust.
“You like this?” you managed to gasp, your voice frayed at the edges. “Fucking a married woman? In her bed? Filling her up like a good boy?”
He whimpered. The sound was raw, stripped of all pretense.
“Yes—yes, ma’am—fuck—” His rhythm faltered, his hips stuttering as he fought for control. “Please let me cum again. Please. I’ll do anythin’—I’ll be so good—”
You reached between your legs and rubbed your clit with two fingers, the pressure just enough to send sparks up your spine, to tighten the coil building low in your belly. Your hips pushed back to meet his thrusts, driving him deeper.
“Then do it,” you moaned, the words thick with approaching release. “Cum in me, James. Again. Show me how much you want me.”
He buried himself so deep you swore you could feel it in your throat, a fullness that stole your breath, that made your eyes roll back. And with a strangled grunt, he came again.
Pulsing inside you like he never wanted to leave. You felt each spasm, each flood of warmth, each desperate clench of his hands on your hips as he emptied himself into you.
The sensation pushed you over the edge. You followed hard, clenching around him, crying out into the sheets as your body finally gave out. The tremors ran through you in waves, stealing your strength, turning your limbs to jelly. Your arms collapsed beneath you, and you sank into the mattress, cheek pressed to the damp fabric.
But he stayed inside. Held your hips. Rested his forehead on your back and just breathed, hot, uneven puffs of air against your spine.
You didn’t move at first. Didn’t speak. Didn’t reach for the sheets to cover yourself. Just lay there, chest pressed to the mattress, skin hot and slick with sweat and the evidence of what you’d done, your breath slowing in the heavy stillness of the room.
The clock on the nightstand ticked. Somewhere outside, a bird sang. Life continued in the world beyond these walls, oblivious to the sin unfolding in this bed.
You felt the soft drag of Bucky’s fingers down your spine. Tracing each vertebrae like he was memorising you.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispered, voice still shaking, still raw. “I can’t believe that just happened.”
You smiled into the pillow, eyes closed, lips curving against the cotton.
“Believe it,” you murmured, voice rasped and ruined. “You earned it.”
He laughed, a breathless sound that didn’t quite mask the wonder in it, and pressed a kiss between your shoulder blades. His lips lingered, warm and soft.
And then another. And another. Trailing up the ridge of your spine to the nape of your neck, where he nuzzled into the fine hairs there and let out a contented sigh.
“I don’t wanna leave,” he mumbled against your skin. “Ever.”
You hummed, a low, pleased sound. Your hand reached back blindly, finding his head, patting it once.
“Then stay a little longer, sweetheart. Clock’s not even at twelve yet.”
He shifted, pulling out slowly, the loss of him making you feel suddenly empty, a faint ache in its wake.
“Are you okay?” he asked quietly, nosing into your hair, his breath warm against your scalp. The question came out hushed, almost fragile. “Did I—was I too rough?”
You shook your head, eyes half-lidded, a lazy smile tugging at your lips. The pillowcase was cool beneath your cheek, a soft counterpoint to the heat still radiating from your skin.
“No, honey. You were perfect.”
That made him groan, the sound vibrating against your back where his chest pressed flush against you. You could feel his cock twitch, still half-hard against your thigh, a stubborn pulse of warmth that refused to fully subside.
He shifted beside you, curling around your back, fitting himself to the curve of your spine like he’d been made to fill that space. His mouth kept moving, over your shoulder, across the delicate skin where your neck met your collarbone, pressing featherlight kisses that made your breath catch.
“I’ve never…” He paused, his lips still against your skin. “I’ve never felt anything like that.”
His hand slid up your stomach, palm flat, fingers tracing lazy circles into the soft plane of your belly. It came to rest just beneath your breasts, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his palm.
“You’re so fuckin’ soft,” he whispered, wonder threading through the words. “I can’t stop touching you.”
“Then don’t.”
You meant it. Let him have you. Let him touch and kiss and worship every inch of you until your skin felt new again, until the ghost of Brock’s careless hands was erased entirely, replaced by the devotion of this boy who acted like you were something special.
His lips found your jaw. Your cheek. The slope of your neck where your pulse still fluttered. He kissed the hollow of your throat, and you felt the tip of his tongue.
“Can I stay a little longer?” His voice was quieter now. Stripped of the confident swagger he’d worn on your doorstep. This was the boy beneath the uniform, the one who still got nervous around pretty girls and asked permission like he expected to be denied.
You turned your head, looked him in the eye for the first time since you’d let him fuck you senseless. The blue of his irises was hazy, pupils still blown wide, but there was something raw there too. Something that needed to hear the answer.
“You can stay as long as you want, honey.”
His exhale was shaky. His forehead dropped to yours, nose brushing against your cheek, and he let out a sound that was half-sigh of relief.
“Yeah?”
“Yes, James.”
He smiled. A real one, boyish and crooked.
You lay there for a while, tangled together in the wreckage of the sheets, letting your heartbeat settle, letting the room breathe around you. The afternoon light had shifted, softer now, casting long shadows across the floor.
Bucky eventually had to pull away to dress again. He stumbled a little getting off the bed, his legs still unsteady, and you watched him gather his uniform from where it lay scattered across the floor. He flushed every time he caught your eye, a pink bloom creeping up his neck and across his cheeks.
He kept looking back at you. At your thighs still parted, at the imprint of your body on the mattress he’d just ruined.
You watched him pull his uniform pants back up, hands shaking as he fumbled with the zipper. His tucked-in shirt stuck to the sweat drying on his chest, and he smoothed it down like he was trying to make himself look respectable again.
Like he hadn’t just spent the last hour moaning into your pillow.
When he reached the doorway of your bedroom, his steps slowed. His hand came up to grip the doorframe, knuckles whitening. He hesitated. Then lingered.
“Um… I should… I gotta get back,” he muttered, voice small, almost apologetic. “My route. They’ll notice if I’m gone too long.”
You nodded gently, propping yourself up on one elbow.
He looked down at the floor. At the worn wooden boards. Then at you again, as if drawn by some invisible force.
“Was that… was this just…?”
He swallowed, his jaw flexing as if the words hurt to push past his teeth. “Was it just a one-time thing?”
You didn’t move. Not at first. You let him stand there, already addicted, already terrified of losing something he never thought he could have. The silence stretched, just long enough to make him fidget.
“I… I didn’t mean to cross a line,” he said quickly, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I know you’re married. I just— I couldn’t help it. Every time I saw you at that door, I couldn’t think straight. And if you don’t want to see me again, I—”
You didn’t let him finish.
You slid out of bed, the sheets pooling at your feet, not bothering to cover yourself. The air hit your skin, but you didn’t shiver. You walked toward him slowly, each step intentional, the floorboards creaking beneath your bare feet.
When you reached him, you put your hands on his face, palms against his stubbled jaw, fingers threading into the hair at his temples. His skin was warm, and he leaned into your touch like a man starved for it.
His breath stopped altogether.
And you kissed him.
A slow, sultry kiss, tongue sliding into his mouth, your body pressed against his until you felt the hard line of him through his uniform pants. He groaned softly against your lips, the sound swallowed by the kiss, his free hand coming up to grip your waist like he might fall without you.
His fingers curled into the doorframe with his other hand, white-knuckled, like he needed the support to stay upright. His chest heaved against yours.
When you finally pulled back, his eyes were dazed. Puppy-soft.
You brushed your thumb over his cheek, feeling the faint stubble, the heat still lingering in his skin.
“Baby,” you whispered, lips grazing his, close enough that you felt his breath ghost across your mouth. “I’ll see you again on Thursday.”
He exhaled like you’d just saved his life. Like you’d reached into his chest and wrapped your hand around his heart and told him it was safe to keep beating.
“Thursday,” he repeated, dazed, the word rolling off his tongue like a prayer. “Yeah. Okay. I’ll… I’ll be here.”
You smiled. Soft and sure. A promise sealed in the space between your bodies.
“I know you will.”
He stared at you one last time, like he didn’t want to look away, like leaving meant losing something he’d only just found. His eyes traced your face, your lips, the line of your throat where his mouth had been. Then he forced himself to turn, to walk out of the bedroom, down the hallway, toward the front door.
You followed at a distance, leaning against the wall just inside the living room, watching through the sheer curtain as he stepped outside. He paused on the porch, shoulders tense, one hand pressed over his mouth like he was still trying to understand what you’d done to him.
He walked down the path, past the rose bushes, past the mailbox, towards his truck, his steps heavy and light all at once. At the gate, he stopped. Turned back. Looked at the house.
At the window where you stood, half-hidden behind the curtain.
He didn’t wave, he just looked. A long, searching look that said everything his stammering words couldn’t.
Then he turned and disappeared down the street, his mailbag slapping against his hip, his life forever changed by the woman in the window.
After that Tuesdays and Thursdays became your favourite days of the week.
The clock became your accomplice. You’d watch the hands crawl toward 10:45, feel the familiar flutter build in your chest, absolute anticipation. That electric hum that made everything sharper, brighter, more alive.
By the time his footsteps sounded on the porch, you were already at the door.
He never had to knock again.
The first Thursday after that Tuesday, you opened it before his knuckles could meet wood, and he stood there, mailbag slung across his body, cap in hand, that boyish grin already spreading across his face. But his eyes were different now. Hungrier. Like he’d spent the the last two days reliving every second.
“Good mornin’,” he said, voice low, glancing down the street before stepping inside.
You didn’t bother with pleasantries. You grabbed his collar, pulled him into the kitchen, and pushed him against the counter.
He laughed against your mouth, surprised and delighted. “Damn, woman—”
You bit his lower lip. “Shut up and kiss me.”
He did.
The kitchen became a playground. Flour dusted the counter where he’d lifted you onto it, your legs wrapped around his waist, his hands gripping your hips as he fucked you slow and deep. The sun streamed through the window, catching the sweat on his chest, and you remembered thinking, this is what mornings should feel like.
“I couldn’t stop thinkin’ about you,” he murmured against your throat, thrusting up into you. “All day. Every night.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He buried his face in your neck, breath hot and ragged. “Kept seein’ you in my head. The way you looked at me when I—”
You pulled his head back, made him look at you. “When you what, honey?”
His cheeks flushed. “When I came inside you.”
You smiled, slow and wicked, and clenched around him. He groaned, head falling forward.
“Good,” you whispered. “You keep thinking about it.”
The stairs came next.
It was Tuesday, and you’d been waiting at the top of the staircase when he walked in. You’d worn nothing but his cap, the mailman’s cap you’d stolen from his head the week before, and peered down at him from the landing.
His eyes went wide. His mouth dropped open.
“Mrs. Rumlow…”
“You coming up or not?”
He took the stairs two at a time, but you didn’t let him reach the top. You met him halfway, pushed him onto his knees, and let him bury his face between your thighs right there on the steps. His hands gripped your hips, his mouth worked you until your knees buckled, and you came with your fingers tangled in his hair, your back against the banister, the wood creaking beneath you.
He looked up at you afterward, lips slick, eyes dazed. “I’m gonna get fired if I keep this up.”
You helped him stand, kissed the taste of yourself off his mouth. “Then get fired. I’ll keep you.”
He laughed, breathless, and pulled you into the bedroom.
The dining table became an altar.
It was a Thursday, and you’d set it for two; plates, silverware, a vase of fresh roses, but lunch sat untouched. Instead, he bent you over the mahogany surface, your palms flat against the wood, his body pressed against your back. The china rattled with every thrust. A glass clattered to the floor, shattering.
“Sorry,” he gasped, stilling for a moment.
“Don’t stop.” You pushed back against him. “Don’t you dare stop.”
He didn’t.
Afterward, you lay tangled on the rug, your head on his chest, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your arm. The afternoon light filtered through the lace curtains, casting patterns across the floor.
“I ever tell you what I think about?” he asked quietly.
“What?”
He turned his head, kissed your hair. “When I’m out on my route. Walkin’ up all those driveways. I pretend every door is yours. Every house. Just… imagine your face, waitin’ for me on the other side.”
You lifted your head, looked at him. “That’s sweet, James.”
His ears went red. “Yeah, well. Don’t tell nobody.”
The Cadillac was your pièce de résistance.
Brock had taken it out just once that month, to some dinner with his boss, and he’d left it in the garage, waxed and gleaming, untouched. You knew exactly where he kept the spare key.
You led Bucky out there with your fingers laced through his, past the gardening tools and the oil-stained floor. When he saw the car, he stopped.
“Shit. You’re not serious.”
“Open the door.”
“Mrs. Rumlow, your husband will kill me if he finds out—”
“Bucky.” You turned, pressed yourself against him, looked up through your lashes. “Don’t you want to know what it feels like to fuck another man’s wife in his own car?”
His breath caught. His hands trembled. And then he was fumbling with the door handle, pushing you into the backseat, following you in.
The leather was cool against your skin. The windows fogged up fast. He moved above you, inside you, his mouth against your ear, whispering things that would’ve made a priest blush.
“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he breathed.
“Then die happy, sweetheart.”
He came with a shudder, his face pressed into your shoulder, his body shaking. You held him through it, ran your fingers through his damp hair, felt the last tremors ripple through him.
He pulled back, looked at you like you’d rewritten the stars.
“I don’t have much,” he said softly. “But everything I got? It’s yours.”
You cupped his face, kissed him slow. “I know, baby.”
And every time, he looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.
The way he’d trace the lines of your face afterward, like he was memorising you. The way he’d whisper your name. The way he’d hold you after, his arms wrapped around you like he was afraid you’d disappear.
Maybe you weren’t in love. Not the kind you read about in books, anyway. Not the kind that lasted.
But you were wanted.
Every Tuesday. Every Thursday. Every time he stepped through that door, you saw it in his eyes; that hungry, desperate, devoted look that said you were the best part of his week, the secret he’d carry to his grave, the woman who’d ruined him for anyone else.
And for now, that was enough.
a/n | yeah reading back on this, it’s very repetitive in some parts, maybe that’s why i didn’t post it, srry for keeping this fic hostage for eight months chat
but… Yeah! thx for reading
Bubu Barnes @herejustforbuckybarnes - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
