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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bubu_barnes on AO3 | bubu_barnes on X (Twitter)
| 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 💕🥀❤️🔥
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
SUMMARY. What’s so bad about Bucky Barnes? The fact that he watches you or calls you kid while he does it?
WORD COUNT. 12.2K
WARNINGS. age gap, dad’s best friend, bucky calls reader ‘kid’ but she’s 25, MDNI, smut, forbidden relationship, guilt, mutual pining, first time, virginity loss, oral (f receiving), unprotected pnv, breeding kink, cum play, possessive language, bucky is obsessed with reader’s stomach, soft aftercare, porn with plot sprinkled, no use of y/n.
FROM KIE. The summary makes it seem like he’s some sleazy asshole, he’s not. I tried real with the title and summary, and that’s all I could come up with. Sigh.
Kid. The word has always been there between you, too worn-in to sound accidental now. Kid at nineteen, when you came home during college break and saw him for the first time, sitting at your father's dining table, quiet and so beautiful it annoyed you for three straight days. Kid at twenty-one, when you brought home cheap wine and he took the corkscrew from you while you were mangling it, his fingers brushing yours, that you almost dropped the bottle opener entirely. Kid at twenty-four, when your dad started leaving tools here and Bucky started appearing in your kitchen with excuses thin enough to see through.
Kid, so he could look away.
Kid, so you'd stay safe.
You've been watching him for six years now. Learning the way he takes his coffee, the tells when he's had a bad night, how he'll rub at his left shoulder where metal meets flesh, like the junction still aches. You've seen all of it, studied all of it. Sometimes you think about making a list, just to prove to yourself how pathetic you've become. Line item number one: he takes his coffee black but adds sugar when he thinks no one's looking. Line item number seventy-three: the nightmares are worse in winter. You could write a dissertation on Bucky Barnes and never run out of material.
You've watched him go from your dad's traumatized war buddy to something resembling human again. Watched him learn to laugh at your dad's shitty jokes and argue about sports teams and pretend the nightmares didn't still wake him up sometimes.
Watched him, lately, watch you back.
It's different the way he watches you. You don't think there's a name for it, or if there is, it is too scandalous to say out loud. His gaze will catch on your mouth when you're talking, or track the movement of your hands, or linger on the strip of skin between your shirt and jeans when you reach for something on a high shelf. Then he'll look away fast enough to give himself whiplash, and call you kid again like the word's a shield against whatever he's been thinking. It's one of those 'say it enough times, you'll start believing it' situation.
The first time you caught him staring at your mouth, you'd forgotten what you were saying mid-sentence. Just stood there like an idiot while he blinked and looked away. Your dad asked if you were feeling okay. You weren't. You haven't been okay since you were nineteen and saw him for the first time.
What's killing you now is that you don't know what happens next. You've played out a dozen scenarios in your head — him kissing you against the kitchen counter, you finally calling him on his bullshit, the world ending before either of you has to acknowledge this thing happening between you two. But you can't predict Bucky Barnes. He's controlled but also has triggers you don't know from stories he won't tell, and trying to guess his next move is like trying to catch smoke.
When you let yourself into your apartment on a Tuesday and hear him at your sink, you're not even surprised anymore. This has become routine. Your dad forgets his stuff more often than not, Bucky shows up to collect them, the excuse wearing thin each passing day. Both of you pretending this is normal.
"Kitchen," he calls before you've closed the door.
You don't question why he's here before you're even here. To be honest, it makes you happy, to see someone else — no, to see him. The henley he's wearing enhances his biceps, you almost want to chew through it. You've seen him in this shirt before. You know you have. But every time feels like the first time, like your brain can't quite process the reality of him. There's grease smudged on his jaw that he's completely missed while washing, all you want to do is let your fingers touch him under the guise of removing it. His hair's getting long, and you have approximately thirty seconds before you do something stupid like offer to trim it for him.
"Where's dad?"
Bucky glances at you, a fractional hesitation before he shuts off the water. "Got held up at work." He reaches for the dish towel — the one you've told him a hundred times not to use for his greasy hands — and starts drying off. "Said he'll grab the bike next week."
"Right. Next week." You drop your bag on the counter, not surprised once again. Your dad's been saying next week for three weeks now. At this point, the bike is practically furniture. Why does he leave his things over here if he never cares enough to get them back himself?
"Well, he's busy."
"So, he sent you?"
"He didn't send me, I offered," he says. The way he's looking at you now makes your aware of your heartbeat, the steady thunk it used to be is now replaced by this erratic energy that has nowhere else to go.
The kitchen suddenly feels too warm. Or maybe you're too warm. Maybe you've been too warm since the moment you walked in and saw him standing at your sink. You shrug out of your jacket, feel Bucky's eyes track the movement, watching the fabric slide down your arms, every inch of your skin waking up under his gaze. When you look back at him though, his eyes are fixed on the ragged towel at his hand, like they weren't on your skin this whole time.
The grease on his face is starting to bother you. Though, bother would be a big word. You just want to rub it off. Why? You don't know. Maybe to get your hands on him. "You've got something on your face," you tell him.
His hand rises automatically, searching for the stain in the wrong place. "Where?"
"Other side. No — here, just —" You step closer, and immediately realise this is a mistake. You know it's a mistake even as you're doing it, but your hand's already there, thumb swiping at the smudge on his jaw.
Bucky goes still, that's the only way to put it. A whole-body freeze, every muscle locked down. You're close enough now to see his pupils dilate, to count his eyelashes if you wanted to, which you absolutely do not want to. That's what you keep telling yourself. Liar, something in you whispers. You've wanted to count them since forever. You've wanted to note every detail of him and keep them somewhere safe.
There's a faint knowing of the world running in the background, but nothing else seems to matter when he's still not moving. And neither are you. "Got it," you say, but you don't step back.
"Thanks."
Your thumb's still on his jaw, his stubble rasping against your skin. You can feel the texture of it, slightly coarse. Suddenly, you're struck by the intimacy of knowing how his face feels under your hand. This is the kind of knowledge that belongs to girlfriends and wives, not to the daughter of his best friend who's been harbouring increasingly inappropriate thoughts for years. You can feel his pulse jumping in his throat, like he's been running. Neither of you is moving. Neither of you is even breathing if you're entirely honest. There's a slow dance of his eyes, from your own to your mouth, then back to your own. Yours do the same, mirroring him in the most minute way possible. There's about three inches of space between your mouth and his.
"This is a terrible idea," Bucky says as he leans in, which in turn makes you lean in. The distance closes in itself by excruciating degrees.
"The worst." The two words from your mouth are swallowed by his own, the space between you both narrowed to a negative as his lips touch yours. The first graze of it is gentle, testing. Like he's afraid you'll shatter or bolt or realize what a stupid thing this is. But you've been waiting for this. There's months — no, years — of watching, wanting and pretending you weren't doing either, years of lying to yourself that you could be satisfied with just existing in his orbit, and gentle just isn't going to cut it. You fist your hand in his shirt and pull him closer, breaking whatever thread of control he's been clinging to.
Bucky makes a low sound in his throat and kisses you harder, hand coming up to cup the back of your head, metal arm sliding around your waist. The metal is cool even through your shirt, a shock of temperature that makes you gasp into his mouth. He tastes like coffee and mint gum, the taste so unique because it's him. When his tongue sweeps into your mouth, you forget how to think in complete sentences. Language becomes optional, unnecessary. Who needs words when you have this, have him finally, finally touching you the way you've dreamed about. Your free hand finds his shoulder, gripping hard enough to feel the shift of muscle under skin, as he backs you up until your hips hit the counter.
The kiss turns messier and desperate. His beard scrapes your chin, fingers tangling in your hair, pulling small sounds from you. You'd be totally embarrassed if you had any capacity to think. But, you're drowning in it, in him, in six years of wanting finally combusting into this.
The limbo of the kiss, the existence narrowed down to the dance of your lips is mercilessly interrupted by his phone buzzing in his pocket.
Bucky tears his mouth away from yours with a curse that would make your father blush, his forehead finding residence at your temple, both of you panting. You can feel his breath on your skin, uneven, matching your own. His hand shakes slightly as he fumbles for his phone.
"It's your dad."
The words are a bucket of ice water, waking up fear and shame, squashing any leftover desire. Guilt crashes over you in waves. This is your dad's best friend. Your dad's traumatized war buddy who he trusts completely, who he invited into his life, into your life. And here you are with swollen lips and shaking hands, having just had his tongue in your mouth.
Bucky steps back, puts physical distance between you before he answers the phone. The loss of his warmth feels physical, like something's been ripped away. "Yeah?" His eyes are still on you, pupils still blown, gaze oscillating between your parted lips and your pleading eyes. "No, just wrapped up. Heading out now." A pause where he could take a deep breath, but doesn't. "Yeah, she's good. I'll tell her."
When he hangs up, the silence that follows is excruciating.
Expectant eyes search his face, his mouth, guilt threading through your own features as you take in his. Whatever you'd expected him to say, it wasn't this, "I should go," Bucky says
"That's it?" The words tear through you, frustrated and angered by his choice, his decision. "That's all you're gonna say?"
"What do you want me to say?"
"I don't know. Maybe any sentence that doesn't make me feel like I imagined the last five minutes."
His jaw clenches and unclenches. You can see him thinking, the gears turning behind his eyes, weighing what he should say versus what he wants to say. He looks like he's choosing his next sentence carefully. But when it does come out, it doesn't seem all that careful. "You didn't imagine it."
"No? Great. Very comforting." You cross your arms, looking like the very kid he claims that you are. "So what, you kiss me like that and then just leave?"
Bucky doesn't quite meet your gaze as he grabs his jacket and starts his way away from you, stillnot looking at you.
"Why?" You prod.
"You know why." Finally, he looks at you, whatever you see on his face makes you want to hit him or kiss him again. Pain, maybe. Regret. Want that he's trying desperately to bury and failing. Not trusting your body to keep its distance, you put some between you, stepping back. Bucky sighs, and runs his metal fingers through his hair. "Your dad's my best friend. I'm too old for you. This is — we can't —"
"I'm twenty-five, Bucky."
"I know how old you are. You think I don't know exactly how old you are? You think I — Fuck!" The frustration in his voice borders on anguish, like the knowing is what's killing him.
"Then what's the problem?"
"The problem is that your dad would kill me. The problem is that I've got no business touching you. The problem is that I can't —" He runs his hand through his hair again, and you think he might pull it off if he's not careful. "I need to go."
Bucky walks out, leaving you standing in your kitchen with kiss-swollen lips, racing heart, and anger. You're furious. At him for kissing you and leaving. At your dad for existing. At the whole goddamn universe for making this so complicated. At yourself most of all, for still wanting him even as he walks away.
A week. Seven days of you jumping every time someone knocks on your door, checking your phone obsessively like he's going to text you, half-expecting Bucky to show up with another tissue-thin excuse about tools or motorcycles or whatever.
He doesn't.
Day two, you convinced yourself you hallucinated the whole thing. Day three, you stared at your kitchen counter trying to remember the exact spot where he'd backed you up against it, like if you stand there long enough you'll be able to conjure the feeling of his hands on your waist.
Your dad picks up the bike himself. Mentions Bucky's been busy with some job for Sam, says it casually, disinterested. That means he has no idea anything's changed. You smile, nod and try not to think about the way Bucky's mouth felt on yours.
It doesn't work.
You replay the kiss in your mind so many times it starts to feel like fiction. But, you can still feel the ghost of his metal arm around your waist, still taste coffee and mint when you close your eyes.
On day seven, you've nearly convinced yourself to show up at his apartment and demand answers.
But he shows up at yours.
It's Tuesday night, exactly one week later. You're in old sweats and a tank top, halfway through a pint of ice cream you're eating straight from the container.
The knock is an inconvenience at this time, perfectly ruining your plans of rewatching Brooklyn 99, turn your mind off and eat the damn ice cream. You almost don't open, 9 PM is hardly any time for visitors, hoping that person takes the hint and fucks off.
The second knock comes up more insistent, a hurry in the air, forcing you to pad towards the door, ice cream in hand.
And there's Bucky.
Bucky, who looks terrible, dark circles under his eyes, wearing an expression like he hasn't slept in days. He looks how you feel, which is both gratifying and heartbreaking. His hair is damp. It takes you a moment to understand it's drizzling. Drizzle would be a stretch, for the raindrops are the size of a pomegranate pearl, dropping down with vigour.
"Hey," he says.
"No." You start to close the door, even though all you want to do is haul him inside, towel off his hair, dry those strands that are matted together.
His boot hits the doorframe, an obstacle in your plans, a test on your self-preservation. "Wait —"
"I don't want to hear it, Bucky. I really don't." You try to push the door close anyway, mustering up the courage. But he's stronger than you physically, stronger than your thinning anger, which is dissipating by the second. "Move your foot," you try somehow.
"Not until you let me talk."
"Why should I?"
"I don't know. Maybe you're a nicer person than I deserve."
A smile starts to break into your features, but you quickly tone it down. He's not playing fair, showing up here looking lost and using that voice. "Flattery's not gonna work."
"I'm not trying to flatter you. I'm trying to apologize."
You stop pushing on the door, the bare minimum you could do without showing all your cards. "Then apologize."
"Can I come in?"
Now, that would be a tremendously bad idea. If he comes in, you're not sure where else he'll be coming in.
"You can apologize from right there."
Bucky's quiet for a moment, studying your face. You try not to show your true feelings,keep your expression neutral, unaffected, like your heart isn't actively trying to beat its way out of your chest. "I'm sorry. For leaving like that. For not calling. For —" He looks like he's frustrated with himself, abruptly stopping the sentence. He takes a deep breath before continuing, "for all of it."
"Okay." You still don't open the door wider. "Apology received. Have a good night."
"Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Shut me out. I know I fucked up, but —" He runs his hand through his hair, the water droplets cascading down his skin. You hate that you find it endearing, that even now, even angry and hurt, you're memorising the way the water runs down his temple, the exact shade of misery in his eyes. "Can we talk? Please?"
The 'please' is what does you in. You've never heard Bucky Barnes say please about anything, the sheer novelty of it makes you hesitate just long enough for him to see the weakness in your armor. "Five minutes," you tell him, stepping back.
You close the door behind him as he enters. When you turn around, he's closer than you expected, your back hitting the door with the need to put distance between you both. "You said you wanted to talk," you remind him, voice breathier than you'd like.
"I can't stop thinking about it." His gaze drops from your eyes to your lips. "About kissing you. About how you tasted. About the sound you made when —"
Feigning indifference seems like the only way out of this. "Okay." You try to sound unaffected, like your pulse isn't racing, like you haven't been thinking about it too. Obsessively, unhealthily, to the point where you can't focus on anything else. "So you've been thinking about it."
"That's not okay."
"No?" You raise an eyebrow, daring him. "Sounds like a you problem."
Bucky takes a step closer, trapping you between him and the door, the distance feeling anything but threatening, not having felt this alive in seven days. "I've been trying to do the right thing. I know that sounds like garbage from where you're standing."
"It does have that smell."
His lips curve into a smile. You wish you were immune to that, to his smile, to him. His hand comes up, hovering near your waist but not quite touching. "Your dad trusts me. He's trusted me for years. And here I am, showing up at his daughter's apartment, thinking things I've got no business thinking."
"What kind of things?"
"Don't ask me that."
"Why not?" You're goading him, and you both know it. "Afraid you'll tell me the truth?"
His hand finally makes contact, just a light touch on your hip, just over the fabric of your top. "I've thought about you in every room of this apartment. I've thought about you when I shouldn't, in ways I definitely shouldn't. I've tried to stop, and I can't, and it's driving me out of my mind."
"You should suffer a little. You left me standing in my kitchen like what happened meant nothing."
"It meant everything." His other hand finds your waist, both of them spanning your hips, and you wish you weren't wearing anything, just so you could feel his hands on your skin. "That's the problem. If it meant nothing, I could've walked away and stayed away. But it meant everything. I still tried to stay away — tried to do the right thing, but here I am."
His breath comes out hard, he's so close you can clearly see the flecks of gray in his blue iries, which are turning black by the moment. You can smell the rain on him, soaked strands falling in front of his face, begging to be brushed away from his eyes.
"Stop calling me kid," you tell him.
Bucky's hands tighten on your hips. "I didn't call you that tonight."
"Not tonight. In general."
Bucky doesn't respond, but his hands move a fraction, the metal in his arm grazing your skin, cool even through your thin tank top.
"Say my name."
He hesitates like the word might burn him. You watch him struggle with it, something like pain or hurt flickering across his face before he utters, "sweetheart."
"That's not my name."
"Please." His voice is rough, pleading.
"Say it, Bucky."
"Please don't make me."
The vulnerability in it catches you off-guard. "Why not?"
"Once I say it, that's it. I can't take it back. Can't pretend this is something I can walk away from."
"So you do want to walk away still?"
So soft, so fragile, your name leaves his mouth. It sounds different in his voice, shaped by his accent, rough with want. You've heard your name a thousand times but never like this.
"Was that so hard?" Your own voice is softer now, your hands somehow having found their way to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket.
"Yes." All that want he's been trying to bury, is written across his face in sharp relief. His eyes are almost black, pupils blown wide, grip on your hips tight enough to bruise. "You have no idea how hard it is."
"Saying my name is hard?"
"Saying your name while I've been watching you, wanting you, knowing I shouldn't touch you. That's hard."
"You want me?" The question comes out barely above a whisper.
"Don't ask me that." It sounds like it's being dragged out of him. "Please."
"Why not?"
"You know why."
"No, I don't."
Bucky makes a sound that just might be the frustration in him seeping through, but his eyes are full of want. "Yes. Fuck, yes, I want you. I want you so much it feels like it's killing me. Happy now?"
"Not yet," you tell him befote smashing your lips into his. Anything but gentle, absolutely no testing the waters thing he did the first time. This is want distilled into action, six years of waiting and pretending all combusting at once, every fantasy you've ever had, every late-night thought you've tried to suppress, finally made real. Your hands fist in his damp hair, tightening his grip on your hips, bruising. When you bite his lower lip, he groans into your mouth like you've wounded him.
"We shouldn't," he speaks against your lips, but he's doesn't pull away, not even close. "Your dad —"
"Is not here." You pull back just enough to look at him. "Do you want to stop?"
Bucky looks at you like you're asking him to cut off his other arm. "No."
"Then stop talking about my dad while you're kissing me."
That startles a brief laugh out of him. Without wasting another second, he's kissing you again, walking you backward through your apartment. You're vaguely aware of furniture and doorways, of his jacket hitting the floor somewhere, of your ice cream forgotten on the counter. None of it matters as much as the slide of his tongue against yours, the taste of him, the way his hands are mapping your waist like he's memorizing you.
When the backs of your knees hit the couch, you try to pull him down with you, but Bucky resists. His hands find your hips, steering you around until you're standing and he's sitting, thighs spread wide to make room for you between them. The position puts you above him, taller for once. On his face, theres a crack in the armor where you can see straight through to the want underneath.
He looks up at you, and you've never seen him like this. Vulnerable doesn't seem like the right word for Bucky Barnes, but it's close. It's in the way his hands rest on your hips, loose enough that you could step away if you wanted. In the tilt of his head, exposing his throat, how he's letting you see him want you without the usual defenses. It makes you feel invincible and terrified both.
"Still time," he says.
"For what?"
"For you to tell me to leave."
You reach down, fingers sliding into his hair. The strands are cool and wet against your palm. When you drag your nails lightly against his scalp, his eyes flutter close. "I don't want you to leave."
Bucky leans forward, resting his forehead against your stomach. The intimacy of it steals whatever breath you have left. His hands tighten on your hips, thumbs stroking small circles through your tank top, the warmth of his breath you can feel through the thin fabric.
"Should've done this right," he mutters into your stomach. "Should've taken you to dinner. Somewhere nice. Not just shown up at your door like some —" he stops, breathing into you, the warm breath wet against your skin even through the flimsy cloth.
"Like some what?" You prod.
"I don't know. Obsessed asshole with no self-control."
That makes you laugh, earning a smile from him that you feel against your stomach. "I don't want dinner," you say.
"You should want dinner. You should want the whole thing — flowers, romance, somebody who isn't —" He sighs, not able to finish what he was going to say. If he says it, it will be real.
"Who isn't what?"
"Too old for you. Too —"
"Bucky." You tug his hair until he looks up at you, mouth parted, so gorgeous. "I don't care about any of that."
"You should."
His hair is soft under your touch, your fingers playing with them as you speak. "Well, I don't. And for the record, I hate fancy restaurants. They never give you enough food, and everyone whispers."
His mouth quirks into the fondest of smiles. "That's your objection? Portion sizes and volume?"
"I'm serious. I went to this place once where they served a single scallop on a plate the size of my head. One scallop. I'm supposed to eat one scallop and pretend I'm satisfied?"
"Sounds terrible."
"It was. I stopped at McDonald's on the way home." It had been a date, actually. Some guy from your office who'd taken you where the menu didn't have prices and the portions were insulting. You'd been hungry, bored and wishing the entire time that you were with Bucky instead.
Bucky's hands slide under the hem of your tank top, fingers finding bare skin. "No famcy restaurants where they serve a single scallop. Noted."
His touch almost derails your thoughts, you have to work to keep your voice steady. The rough calluses on his fingers drag against your skin, leaving trails of fire. "Anyway, you're here now. That's worth more than some overpriced shit."
"Is it?" There's doubt clouding his eyes, you can see clearly.
"Yeah. It is." You just hope he understands how much you mean this.
His hands move higher, taking your shirt with them, bunching the fabric above your waist. The metal hand is cool against your overheated skin, cold enough to make you gasp. Bucky stops his touch on its tracks. "Is it cold?"
"A little."
He starts to pull back, his touch leaving you becoming a physical thing you feel the loss of. Catching his wrist, you hold the metal hand flat against your stomach. "Don't."
"You sure?"
"I like it." The contrast, the warm flesh on one side, cool metal on the other, makes your skin feel alive. You've thought about his arm before, late at night when you shouldn't. Wondered what the metal would feel like against your skin, wondered if he'd let you touch it, trace the plates. "Feels good."
His grip tightens, both hands spanning your waist now, the slight tremor in his fingers you feel more and more each passing second. Like he's overwhelmed by being allowed to touch you like this. Like he can't quite believe you're real. The next thing you know, Bucky is leaning in, pressing an open-mouthed kiss just above your navel.
The wet heat of his mouth against your skin makes your knees weak, almost wobbling. He does it again, lower this time, tongue tracing a path across your stomach that has you gripping his shoulders for balance. His stubble scrapes your skin, adding another layer of sensation you've never felt. When he bites down gently on your hipbone, a soft gasp leaves you, like there's not enough oxygen in this room for the both of you, especially not with the way he's pressing these kisses.
The silence while he's kissing your stomach is too much. You need to fill it with something before you combust entirely. "Been thinking about this?" Your voice comes out breathy.
"Yes." Bucky doesn't even attempt to lift his head, continuing his way across your stomach, hands holding you steady.
"How long?"
Bucky's mouth stills against your skin. For a second you think maybe he won't answer, maybe he'll pull back, and this is it. But almost soft as a whisper, his words come. "Long enough to feel ashamed about it."
"How long is that?"
"Remember that barbecue last summer?" His lips brush your navel as he talks. "You were wearing that black top, and you bent over to grab a beer from the cooler? Yeah, I spent the next twenty minutes trying not to stare at your ass."
"That was July."
"I know when it was." His hands slide higher, taking your shirt with them. He pushes the fabric up and over your head, dropping it somewhere behind you, leaving you in just your bra from the waist up. The air feels cold against your exposed skin, but Bucky's gaze is hot enough to burn. "Been drivin' me crazy for months."
You remember that day. Remember catching him staring and thinking you'd imagined it. Apparently, you hadn't. Bucky looks at your bra, but decides against it, pushing it up too, just shoving it out of the way, pulling you down into his lap. The position puts you straddling his thigh, friction of his jeans against your sweats making you acutely aware of how wet you already are. Embarrassingly wet. He's barely touched you and you're already soaked through, probably leaving a damp spot on his jeans.
Bucky's mouth finds your breast, and whatever coherent thought you had left scatters like startled birds. He sucks your nipple into his mouth, tongue working the sensitive peak. Your hips roll forward involuntarily, the pressure against your clit perfect but not nearly enough, chasing more friction, grinding down on his thigh.
"That's it," he murmurs against your breast, switching to the other side. "Take what you need."
His metal hand cups your neglected breast, thumb brushing over your nipple, the cool touch making you gasp. He seems to like that reaction, doing it again with more pressure. Having him like this, puts all your fantasies to shame, your fingers threading through his hair to hold him close.
You didn't know it could feel like this. This consuming. Every nerve ending in your body is focused on the wet heat of his mouth, the cool press of metal, the friction building between your legs. You're making these small desperate sounds you can't control, hips moving faster now. Bucky groans against your breast like watching you get off on his thigh is the best thing he's ever seen.
"Bucky —" You're close already, wound too tight, and it's almost embarrassing how fast he's gotten you here.
"I know." He bites down gently on your nipple, soothing it with his tongue. "Can feel how wet you are through your sweats. Gonna cum just from this, aren't you?"
The words almost send you over, but before you can, he lifts you off his lap, laying you down on the couch. You barely have time to process the change before he's hooking his fingers into your waistband, dragging both your sweats and underwear down your legs in one smooth motion. Your bra which was previously pushed atop your breasts, is discarded too, and you're naked. Completely naked while he's still fully dressed, and somehow that makes this hotter. There's this moment where neither of you moves, stuck in a limbo, where he just looks at you, sprawled across your couch. You watch him take in every inch of exposed skin. You watch him watch you.
"Jesus," he breathes.
"Are you just gonna stare, or —"
Bucky kisses you, cutting off whatever sarcastic remark you were about to make, mouth insistent, tongue tasting yours. When he pulls back, you try to follow, chasing him, but he's moving down your body.
He kisses your jaw, your throat, the hollow at the base of your neck where your pulse is racing. You wonder if he can feel how fast your heart is beating, if he knows what he does to you. He takes his time with your breasts again, like he can't quite believe he gets to touch them. His mouth blazes a trail down your sternum, mapping the soft plane of your stomach with lips, teeth and tongue.
When he reaches your navel, his tongue dips inside, circling, your back bows of the couch in response. "Bucky, please —"
"Patience. Wanna look at you first." His hands are on your thighs, pushing them apart. The first brush of cool air against your wet core makes you shudder. You should be self-conscious about this, spread open for him, the position in itself making you vulnerable, but the way he's looking at you makes you feel like a goddamn masterpiece, killing any embarrassment before it takes root.
His finger traces your slit, so light it's almost not there, and you try to cant your hips up for more pressure. Bucky's metal hand presses down on your lower stomach, holding you still.
"Stay," he says, like you're a misbehaving dog and not someone who's writhing for breath beneath him. It's not quite a command but close enough to make you clench around nothing.
Bucky explores you with devastating thoroughness, tracing the shape of you with one finger, learning what makes you gasp and what makes you whimper. He spreads you open with two fingers, just looking. "She's so pretty," he murmurs, almost to himself. "So fucking pretty."
He leans down to lick a stripe up your center, tongue flat and broad, and you forget how to breathe. Even the first touch of his mouth is too much, when you're already so worked up, so close from grinding on his thigh. The wet heat of his tongue against your clit makes you cry out, not even embarrassed about how loud you are. Let the neighbors hear. Let the whole building know. He seems encouraged by the sound, doing it again with more pressure. He eats you out like it's the only thing he wants to be doing. Like he could spend hours between your legs and die happy. His tongue works your clit in slow circles, alternating between broad strokes and focused attention that has you squirming. When he closes his lips around the sensitive bud and sucks, you nearly come off the couch entirely. "Oh god — Bucky —"
He slides one finger inside you while his mouth stays focused on your clit. Your fingers on his hair tug them harder with each pass of his tongue, almost scaring you with how tight you're pulling and whether you're hurting him. You might actually rip his hair out, but you can't bring yourself to care because it feels too good. None of that even seems to cross his mind as his finger curls, finding that spot inside you that makes your whole body tense. He works it mercilessly while his tongue keeps that same steady rhythm.
You're pretty sure you're babbling now, saying his name and god and please in an endless stream, nails of your one hand — the one not currently buried in his hair — grasping his flesh shoulder, hard enough that it has to hurt. Again, Bucky doesn't seem to care. If anything, he doubles down, adding a second finger and increasing the pressure of his tongue. He's going to ruin you for anyone else. Not that there's ever been anyone else to compare with, but after this, you're done for.
You can feel the release gathering in the clench of your thighs, in the way every muscle in your body goes tight. Bucky seems to sense how close you are, his free hand gripping your hip to hold you steady as he keeps that relentless pace. "C'mon," he says against your clit, the vibration of his voice sending shockwaves through you. "Let me taste it."
The orgasm crashes over you, your whole body seizing as pleasure tears through you. With your hands, it's never been like this. Never this intense, never this all-consuming. This feels like you're coming apart and Bucky's the only thing holding you together. You're dimly aware of crying out his name, your thighs trying to close around his head, the way your inner walls clenched rhythmically around his fingers. Bucky works you through it, tongue gentling but never stopping, drawing out every last aftershock until you're pushing at his head from oversensitivity.
When he finally pulls back, his chin is glistening. He looks obscene, debauched, like something out of your dirtiest fantasy. The satisfied look on his face would be smug on anyone else. On him it's just honest satisfaction, like getting you off was the highlight of his month. "You good?" His voice is rough.
Words seem far away right now, you can barely remember your own name. You just nod, boneless, wondering if it's possible to die from pleasure.
Bucky crawls up your body, settling his weight on top of you carefully. Even wrecked with want, he's careful not to crush you. When he kisses you slowly, you can taste yourself on his tongue. It feels filthy and intimate at the same time, sending a fresh wave of arousal through you despite having just come. "That was —" You still can't form complete sentences. "You're really good at that."
He grins against your mouth. "Yeah?"
"Don't let it go to your head."
"Too late." Bucky is smiling, you realize this might be the most relaxed you've ever seen him. Happy. He looks happy. When was the last time you saw him look happy? "You have no idea how long I've wanted to do that."
"Since July, apparently."
His thumb traces your lower lip, smearing spit. "July's when I stopped being able to pretend."
"What changed?"
"You looked at me." He says it simply, like it explains everything. "Just me. After that, I couldn't pretend anymore that I didn't want you looking at me like that all the time."
You've been looking at him since the day you knew him. You don't tell him that, those demons can stay where they lay. You pull him down into another kiss, slower this time, trading breath and heat. When you finally break apart, you can feel how hard he is against your hip, still fully clothed and probably painfully uncomfortable.
"Your turn," you tell him, reaching for his belt. Bucky catches your wrist, slowing you down, thumb stroking across your radial pulse, eyes pleading, saying everything his mouth can't. The gentle touch is at odds with the hunger in his gaze. You feel your pulse jumping under his fingers, giving away how badly you want this.
"I want to," your voice is barely a whisper. You need him to know, to understand that this isn't one-sided, that you've been wanting this just as long. That seems to be all the permission he needs. He releases your wrist and lets you work his belt open, the metal buckle clinking as you pull it free. Your fingers are shaking slightly, adrenaline and want making them clumsy. His jeans follow, while he watches with those hooded eyes, like this is some kind of religious experience.
When you get his shirt off, you take a moment to just look. God, he's a masterpiece. You've seen him shirtless before, but never like this. Never laid out for you, never yours to touch. There are scars you knew about, the ones you've seen at pool parties and barbecues, the ones your dad mentioned in passing when he thought you weren't listening. But there are others you didn't know, smaller ones scattered across his ribs and chest, a puckered bullet wound near his collarbone. Each one tells a story he's never shared, pain he's survived, and you want to learn every single one. The place where metal meets flesh is a work of terrible artistry, plates and skin fused in ways that probably hurt more than he'll ever admit.
You lean in and press your lips to his shoulder, right where metal becomes man. Bucky goes very still. Like he's holding his breath, waiting for you to recoil, to change your mind. "You don't have to do that."
You don't respond him with words, just another kiss to the seam, the metal cool under your lips, then lower, across his chest, the skin warm, the contrast intoxicating.You work your way down his body, following the trail of dark hair that disappears beneath his boxers, wanting to map every inch of him with your mouth, memorize the way he tastes. Bucky's hand leaps to tangle in your hair, gentle but insistent nonetheless, pulling you back up.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong. But if you put your mouth on me right now, this is gonna be over embarrassingly fast," he answers. The admission goes to your heart and cunt at the same time, the idea that you affect him that much doing things to you.
That makes you pause, a laugh threatening to bubble out of you, but you keep it contained. "How fast we talking?"
"Thirty seconds, maybe." He doesn't look embarrassed about the admission, though there's a slight red tinge to the tip of his ears. That blush, that tiny hint of vulnerability, makes you want him even more. "I've been half-hard since I kissed you in the doorway, and I've been thinking about this for months. So unless you want me coming down your throat before we even get to the good part, you're gonna have to wait."
The bluntness of it sends heat racing through you, right between your legs, warmth spreading over the apples of your cheeks. Glancing down to not meet his eyes, you're met with the unevenness of this situation, suddenly very aware that you're naked while he's still got his boxer briefs on. "That's not fair."
Bucky manoeuvres you, hands on your hips, guiding you back down to the couch with a gentleness that contradicts his size. "Life ain't fair, sweetheart."
Bucky's body looms above you as he settles between your thighs. The breadth of his shoulders blocks out the light from the lamp, casting shadows across his face that make him look almost dangerous, but he's soft to you. You watch him shove his boxers down, cock springing free, curved slightly towards his stomach, thick and flushed, bead of precum spilling over the tip. It's bigger than you expected, thicker, and for a moment anxiety spikes through your arousal. His flesh hand wraps around himself, working his cock, while the metal one is braced against the couch, framing your head. And you realise this is quite possibly the hottest thing you've ever seen.
"Like what you see?" You'd assume it was asked out of cockiness if you didn't know him better. You know him better, and there's genuine curiosity in his question, mixed with almost boyish shyness.
"You already know the answer to that."
"Maybe I wanna hear you say it."
"You're fishing for compliments now?"
"Is it working?"
"Yes," you admit, earning a bright eyed and genuine smile from him,transforming his whole face, making him look younger, happier, and you want to be the reason he smiles like that forever. "You're gorgeous, okay? You're so hot it's actually annoying."
"Annoying?"
"Yeah. You walk around being all broody and hot, and I'm supposed to just — what? Pretend I don't notice?"
"You can notice me all you want, sweet girl."
Sweet girl. You like the sound of it, somehow much more intimate that anything he's ever called you. It's not really an accomplishment because all he's called you before is 'kid'.
Bucky laughs, a sound you want to bottle up and listen when your days get dark. His fingers are between your legs again, two of them sliding inside easily, thanks to your orgasm from earlier, still wet, still open. But the stretch makes you gasp anyway, an open-mouthed silent cry, that he swallows for himself with a kiss. He works them slowly, watching your face, conflict playing across his features. Want versus restraint. Need versus caution.
"You're so tight," he mutters, almost to himself, fingers pumping in and out. Each slick sound makes your face burn, embarrassingly loud evidence of how much you want this. "Gonna have to take my time with you."
"I can take it," you tell him, voice fracturing with need, the ache to be filled by him. His cock stands proud against his abdomen, jerking with every motion of his fingers, taunting you. You want to feel the weight of him inside you, splitting you open, claiming you completely.
"I know you can." He curls his fingers, finding that spot inside you that makes your back arch, and does it again just to watch you squirm. "But I'm not gonna hurt you. Not if I can help it."
He leans down to kiss you, slower this time, thorough, his tongue plunging into your mouth, remnants of your own juices lingering, while his fingers keep that steady rhythm. You're climbing toward another orgasm already, your body wound tight and responsive. Bucky breaks the kiss, only to pepper a few more on your jaw, the corner of your mouth, breath coming in hot.
"Have you taken cock before?"
The question catches you off-guard, the blatant crudeness of it. Stilling beneath him, you will your breath to come, his fingers slowing on your cunt not being of much help.
"Baby." His free hand comes up to cup your face. The tenderness in the gesture makes your eyes sting. "I need to know. Need to know how careful I gotta be."
The truth sits in your throat, heavy as a stone. You could lie, tell him you've done this a dozen times, that you're experienced and worldly and this is no big deal. But lying to Bucky feels wrong, feels like starting this thing between you on a foundation of sand.The way he's looking at you, open and honest, worry lines framing his face, also makes it impossible. "No," you finally whisper.
His fingers stop moving, just frozen inside you while he stares at you with an expression you can't quite read. Shock. Concern. Fear? "What?"
"No. I haven't."
Bucky starts to pull his fingers out, a pained expression on his face, like the knowledge of it physically hurts him. "Jesus Christ. You should've — I wouldn't have—"
No, no. He can't do that. You catch his wrist, holding his hand in place. "Don't."
"We can't —"
"Yes, we can." You roll your hips, taking his fingers deeper, and watch his eyes go dark, control slipping. "I want this. I want you."
"Your first time shouldn't be — It should be special. Someone who —"
"Someone who what? Takes me to a fancy restaurant and serves me one scallop?" You're babbling now, words tumbling out, desperate to keep him in. "I don't want that. I want you. This is special."
"I'm too old for you. Too fucked up. Your dad's gonna —"
"I don't care about my dad right now." You tighten your grip on his wrist, needing him to see that this isn't some impulsive decision. "I care about you. And I'm not some delicate flower you're gonna break. I can take you."
Bucky looks at you like you've wounded him, like the trust you're placing in him is almost too much to bear. You can see the war happening behind his eyes, and you hope he loses, you hope the walls he'd erected within the past twenty seconds crumble and he comes back to you. "You're all I want, Buck," you press.
A long sigh leaves him, but finally he says, "you tell me if it's too much." The words sound torn from him, reluctant but resolute. "The second it's too much, you tell me and we stop. Understand?"
"Yes."
"Say it."
"If it's too much, I'll tell you." You pull him down into a kiss, teeth claiming his lips. You bite down, tasting copper, needing him to feel something, anything. "Now stop treating me like I'm made of glass and fuck me already."
That startles a laugh out of him. You wrap your fingers around his length, almost pulling him by his dick, he doesn't seem to care though. The skin is hot and silky under your palm, cock twitching in your grip, precum leaking from the tip. Bucky pulls his fingers free, positioning himself at your entrance. The blunt head of his cock presses against you, even that initial pressure making you tense. "Breathe," he instructs. "Just breathe for me, sweetheart."
You force your muscles to relax, and he pushes in. Just the tip at first, just enough to make you gasp at the stretch of it. It's immediately more than his fingers, wider and so overwhelming you forget how to think in complete sentences.
Bucky freezes, his hard length stuffing you halfway. "You okay?"
"Yeah. Just — a lot."
"I know, sweet girl." His metal hand comes up to cup your face with a gentleness, it in itself bringing you to tears, cool metal against your overheated cheek grounding, keeping you anchored. "We go slow. As slow as you need."
He works himself in gradually, stopping every time you tense, giving you time to ease yourself. It's torturous, this slow invasion, your body struggling to accommodate his size. But his words keep you company, praise, reassurance, sometimes filthy little things he'd want to do once you get used to this. Things about how he'll fuck you in every room of this apartment, how he'll bend you over the kitchen counter, how he'll wake you up with his cock inside you. About how good you're doing, how tight you are, how perfect you feel. When he's about halfway in, tears fully start leaking from the corners of your eyes. You don't think it's from the pain, just from the overwhelming fullness of it, the sensation of being split open, claimed and filled so completely there's no room for anything else.
Bucky immediately senses the tears and stops, jaw clenching with the restraint of holding himself still above you, trembling with the effort of not moving. "Too much?"
"No." Back of your hand rushes to wipe your eyes impatiently, frustrated that your body's betraying you like this, showing weakness when you want to be strong for him. "Don't stop. Please don't stop."
"You're crying."
"I know I'm crying. It doesn't mean —" You roll your hips, to show him that you can take him deeper, that these are good tears, from pleasure alone and nothing else. At another roll of your hips, Bucky groans. "See? I can take it."
Bucky stays still, his hand finding your lower stomach, pressing down gently. The added pressure makes everything more intense, even fuller. "Can feel myself inside you," he mutters, almost wonderstruck. "Right here. Can you feel it?"
"What?" You're barely coherent, too overwhelmed to process what he's saying. You think he's trying to distract you, the palm on your abdomen pulls you enough from whatever discomfort you might feel from your first time. You welcome it.
Bucky takes your hand and presses it against your lower stomach, right where his hand was. You can feel it, feel the solid presence of him inside you, the way your body's stretched around him. "Oh my god." The realization is visceral and overwhelming. "That's — you're —"
"Yeah. That's me, fillin' you up, sweetheart." Sounding wrecked, Bucky pushes the rest of the way in. The slide of it, the final inch that seats him fully inside you, makes you both freeze. You just lie there connected, trying to adjust to the reality of this. Through hooded eyes, you look at him. He's focused, jaw tightening as his gaze is fixed on the way your cunt swallows him whole.
"You okay?" His eyes tear from your place of union reluctantly to look into yours.
"Ask me that one more time and I'm gonna hit you."
That makes him laugh, the movement jostling where you're joined, making you clench around him involuntarily.
"Can you —" You shift your hips experimentally. "Can you move? Please?"
"Yeah." He pulls out slowly, so slowly that you can feel every ridge and vein, before he pushes back in just as carefully. The slide is easier now, your body adjusting, learning to take him. "This okay?"
"More." You're chasing the friction, hips canting up to meet him. "I need more."
Bucky is so careful, watching your face for any sign of discomfort. But when you urge him on with hands, hips and broken pleas, his control starts to slip gradually. The thrusts get deeper, the couch creaking beneath you, until you're making sounds you didn't know you were capable of.
It's never this good when you're alone. Bucky seems to have woken up your body from a slumber you didn't know it was in. Every sensation is not only new but also heightened.
"So fucking tight," he groans, his hand pressed to your belly again. "Can feel my cock moving inside you. You're takin' me so well, sweetheart. Look at you."
You can't look at anything except him, his jaw is clenched with effort, pupils blown so wide there's no blue remaining, just black, the flush spreading across his chest. The still slightly damp hair falling in front of his face, but he makes no effort in moving it off, the salt and pepper stubble that scratches your cheek everytime he pushes forward, everytime his pelvis meets yours. He's gorgeous like this, desperate and wanting.
"Bucky —" You're climbing again already, wound too tight to last much longer. "I'm gonna —"
"I know, baby." His thumb finds your clit, circling with devastating precision. "Can feel you getting tighter. Squeezin' me — fuck —"
The added stimulation is almost too much. You're right on the edge, balanced on that knife-point between pleasure and too much. Already at the verge of losing, made worse by Bucky leaning down to suck a mark into your neck while his hips keep that relentless rhythm. "Wanna fill you up," he mutters against your throat. "Wanna fuck you full of my cum. Wanna fuck a baby into you."
"Yes — Please —" You are completely disconnected from your mouth, it being a separate thing only remembering words that are his name, yes and please.
"Gonna make sure it takes." His thrusts get erratic, control fraying. "Gonna keep you full of me until your belly swells. Until everyone can see what we've been doing."
The image he's painting is filthy and visceral. Your hands fly to his hair, gripping tight, verge of telling him yes to everything when he keeps going. This is not just distraction anymore, the farthest part of your brain whispers.
"Think about it," he groans, hand spanning your stomach again. "You round and full with my kid. These perfect tits getting bigger." His thumb presses harder on your clit, while he bends to take one nipple into his lips, neck straining. "So full of milk you'd need me to help you, need my mouth on you. They'd be so heavy, baby."
That's what sends you over. The orgasm tears through you, whole body seizing as pleasure obliterates thought, ears ringing, not even hearing the way you scream his name. Your inner walls clamp down on him so hard, he curses, loses his rhythm, your nails digging into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks.
Bucky fucks you through it, chasing his own release. "That's it. Milk my cock. Show me how much you want it. Want me to breed you properly —"
He comes with your name on his lips, hips grinding against yours as he spills inside you. The warmth of it, the sheer volume is startling, pulling soft noises from your wrung out body. You can feel it coating your walls, filling you up exactly like he promised, marking you from the inside out.
Boneless like you, Bucky balances himself on top of you, forearms braced against the couch, not pulling out. You feel his cock twitching inside you, spurting the remnants of his release, and feel the wet slide of cum down your inner thighs. Through the haze of your orgasm, something clicks into place. The way he'd been fixated on your stomach from the beginning, how his hands always found their way there, pressing, holding and claiming. The breeding talk that seemed to come so naturally to him. He'd been obsessed with it, with your stomach, with the idea of filling you up, you'd just been too overwhelmed to notice.
"You're obsessed with my stomach," you say, still trying to catch your breath.
Bucky lifts his head to look at you, and there's no embarrassment in his expression. If anything, there's pride there, satisfaction. "Yeah. Have been since you wore crop tops all summer."
"All summer?"
"I'm not proud of it." But he's smiling slightly, thumb stroking across your stomach where he's softening inside you. "Couldn't stop thinking about marking you here. Putting my hands on you. Making you mine in every way that matters."
The possessiveness in his tone, the raw need, stirs something primal in you, that wants to be his. The fact that this is your first time ever doesn't concern you, just makes you feel wanted and claimed in the best possible way.
He finally pulls out, and you both wince at the sensitivity. The slide of him leaving you feels like a loss, an ache of emptiness. "Did I hurt you?"
"No." You cup his face, forcing him to look at you. Those worry lines are back, you want to smooth them away. "That was perfect. You were perfect." You kiss him softly. "I'm fine. Better than fine."
He still looks unconvinced, but before he can spiral into guilt, you pull him down on top of you. His weight is comforting rather than crushing, and you wrap your arms around him, holding him close. His arms band around you, face buried in your neck.
For a while, he stays where you put him, his body heavy over yours, warm and shaking in small, leftover ways he would probably deny if you mentioned them. His face remains tucked in your neck like he can hide there from every terrible, responsible thought trying to crawl back into his head. You can feel the guilt gathering anyway. It keeps making itself known in the careful way he holds his weight off you, the tiny pauses before his mouth touches your skin, the way his arms tighten whenever you shift. The guilt doesn't get to settle in though, because you thread your fingers through his hair and tug gently, pulling him back to look at you. "Stop thinking so loud."
"I'm not —"
"You are." Your thumb traces the crease between his brows. "I can hear it from here."
Bucky huffs a laugh, pressing a kiss to your collarbone before starting a slow path downward. His lips drag across your sternum, then lower, mapping ribs and soft flesh. Each kiss is soft and slow, like he's got all the time in the world to learn what makes you sigh. When he reaches your navel, his tongue dips in the same way it did earlier, circling, and your hips twitch involuntarily.
"Stay still," he murmurs against your skin, quiet want in his tone. His mouth continues lower, across the plane of your stomach, and this is where he lingers. Open-mouthed kisses pressed to skin that's still flushed and overheated, his stubble scraping in ways that make you squirm. Both hands splay across your belly, spanning the width of it, metal and flesh holding you like something precious. He's almost worshipful about it, pressing his lips just below your navel and staying there, breathing you in.
"What are you doing?" Your voice comes out soft.
"Thinkin' about how good you'd look." His thumb strokes back and forth across your stomach. "Round and full. Wouldn't be able to keep my hands off you."
Bucky's orgasm doesn't seem slow him down, he's only edging you towards the start of another one, the words sending signals straight to your core. "You already can't keep your hands off me."
Bucky laughs as he presses another kiss lower, then another, working his way down until he's kneeling between your spread thighs.
You're about to pull him up, tell him you're still not recovered, but Bucky's not looking at your face anymore. His gaze is fixed between your legs, watching as his cum starts to leak out of you, painting your inner thighs white. "Fuck," he breathes, his fingers gathering the mess and pushing it back inside you. "Can't waste it," he mutters, almost to himself, two fingers pressing deep, pushing his release back where it belongs. "Gotta make sure it takes. Gotta keep you full."
You're boneless, can't do anything but lie there and let him have this strange, filthy little ritual, watching through dazed eyes. The room smells like rain and sex. Your couch is absolutely never recovering, and maybe neither are you. He keeps his fingers inside you with that focused, almost frightening devotion, pushing the mess back where he thinks it belongs, one open-mouthed kiss landing on your lower stomach as he does it.
You reach down and catch his wrist, stilling his hand. "Bucky. I'm not going anywhere. It's not going to leak out in the next five seconds."
He looks up at you, a bashfulness in his face you've never seen on him before, caught doing exactly what he wants with zero shame left to hide behind. "I know. I just —" He trails off, fingers still buried inside you.
"You just what?"
"Like seeing it," he admits. "Like knowing I put it there."
The honesty of it makes you want the next round desperately, and before that thought could take root, you tug on his wrist, pulling him towards you. He withdraws his fingers reluctantly, wiping them on his discarded shirt before crawling up your body. When he settles next to you on the couch, you turn into him, tucking yourself against his chest. His arm comes around you, metal hand cool against your overheated skin.
"So that happened."
"Yeah. That happened." His lips and hands keep mapping your body in small increments, like he's making up for lost time, like he doesn't want to let you go.
The silence stretches. You count his heartbeats — twelve, fifteen, twenty — before he eventually says, "your dad's gonna kill me."
"Probably." You trace patterns on his chest with one finger, following old scars, the raised tissue telling stories he won't. "But at least you'll die happy."
"Small comfort."
"I could tell him it was my idea," you supply.
"That'll make it worse. Then he'll kill me for not having more self-control." He catches your hand, stilling your wandering fingers mid-trace. "He trusts me. Trusted me with you. And I just —"
"Fell in love with me?"
The words shatter between you. You've never said them out loud before, never put a name to this thing that's been building since you were nineteen. Bucky goes very still at that, body stopping everything, even breathing. "What?"
"That's what this is, right?" You prop yourself up on one elbow to look at him. "Because if this is just some — I don't know, some itch you needed to scratch, you should probably tell me now before I —"
"It's not." He cuts you off urgently. "It's not that. It's —" The struggle plays out on his face, words getting stuck somewhere between his chest and his throat.
"It's what?"
"It's me being stupid in love with you for the past six months and trying real hard not to be," he finally says. The confession comes out rough, like it's been dragged from deep inside him. "It's me seeing you and forgetting how to be a person. It's me lying awake at 3 AM thinking about your laugh. It's — fuck, I don't know. I'm not good at this."
"Doin' fine so far," you tell him softly.
"I'm old. You just graduated college a few years ago. Your dad's my best friend. I got no business —"
"Bucky." You cup his face, forcing him to look at you, meet your eyes, the intensity in them hopefully squashing any lingering doubts. His eyes do that thing where they won't hold yours for more than two seconds, darting away like he's afraid of what you'll see if he stays. "I'm twenty five. I have a job, an apartment, a 401k that I don't understand but I have one. I'm not some kid you're taking advantage of."
"I know that. I do. But —"
"But what?"
"But I've been to war. I've killed people. I got nightmares that wake me up screaming and a metal arm because I got fucked up and — You should want someone normal. Someone who doesn't have to check the exits in every room and who doesn't flinch at loud noises."
You think about all the times you've watched him scan a room, cataloging threats that aren't there. How he never sits with his back to a door. How he jumped that time your neighbor dropped a toolbox in the hallway. "Should I? Is that what I should want?"
"Yeah."
"Well, I don't." You lean in and kiss him before he can argue, or state reasons why this shouldn't happen. You continueto speak against his mouth, "I want you. Nightmares, metal arm, all of it. I want you at 3 AM when you can't sleep. I want you checking exits. I want all the parts you think are too broken to love."
A frustrated sound leaves him, sounds like a laugh but could easily be anything else. "You're gonna regret this."
"Let me worry about that."
"When your dad finds out —"
"When my dad finds out, we'll deal with it. Together." You settle back against his chest, listening to his heartbeat, its jumping out of his ribs. "Besides, he likes you better than me anyway. I'm pretty sure if it came down to it, he'd keep you and disown me."
That actually makes him laugh. "That's not true."
"It absolutely is. You fixed his transmission. I can't even check my own oil."
"I'll teach you."
"See? This is why he likes you better." You press a kiss to his sternum. "Useful."
"That's me. Useful." You can hear the smile in his voice now, the tension finally bleeding out of him.
"Among other things." Your hand drifts lower, fingers trailing down his stomach.
He catches your wrist, halting its path. "Again? Already?"
"What? You get to be obsessed with my stomach but I can't appreciate yours?"
"I don't —" He stops when you look up at him. Your expression must give away exactly what you're thinking, Bucky's jaw tightens, Adam's apple bobbing on a hard swallow. "Okay, yeah. I'm obsessed with your stomach. Happy?"
"Very." You kiss his jaw. It's hard to keep your hands to yourself when he's laid out beside you like a Greek statue taunting you. "For the record, I'm obsessed with your arms. Both of them. And your shoulders. And this thing you do where you bite your lip when you're concentrating."
"I don't do that."
"You absolutely do. You did it like three times while you were trying to get my bra off."
"I was nervous," he admits. There's a pink tinge creeping up his neck, faint but visible. "Kept thinking you'd realize this was a mistake and change your mind."
"Not a mistake." You tilt your head up to look at him properly. "Best decision I ever made, actually. Well, second best. First best was wearing that black crop top to the barbecue."
He groans. "Don't remind me. I had to hide in the garage for twenty minutes."
"Why?"
"Why do you think?" He shifts, and you feel the evidence of why pressing against your hip. "You bent over to grab a beer and I thought I was gonna die right there."
"Poor baby. Must've been so hard for you." You're not even a little bit sorry.
"Not funny."
"It's hilarious." You kiss him again, deeper this time. His tongue slides against yours lazily, like you have all the time in the world. When you pull back, his eyes are dark again. "Also, we should probably move to the bedroom. This couch isn't big enough for both of us."
"Can you walk?"
Good question. Your legs feel like overcooked pasta, your body wrung out and remade into someone new. "I — Maybe?"
Bucky sits up, taking you with him, and before you can protest he's scooping you up. "I got you."
"I can walk," you insist, even as you're wrapping your arms around his neck. The automatic way your body curls into him feels like muscle memory you haven't earned yet.
"Sure you can." He's heading down the hallway. "But let me do this."
"Such a hardship, carrying me around naked."
"The worst." He's grinning, and when he lays you down on your bed, carefully, like you're precious cargo. He stands there for a second, just looking at you sprawled across your sheets. You should feel exposed — you are exposed, completely bare under his gaze — but the way he's looking at you kills the urge to cover up.
"What?" you ask.
"Nothing. Just —" He shakes his head. "Can't believe this is real."
"Want me to pinch you?"
"Smart ass." He crawls onto the bed, settling beside you and pulling the blanket over both of you. You curl into him automatically, throwing one leg over his hip, and he makes this satisfied sound in his throat. Out of content, maybe. Or possession. Hard to tell the difference.
"Gonna stay?" you ask, even though you already know the answer.
"Yeah." His arm tightens around you. "If that's okay."
"More than okay." You press your face into his neck, breathing him in. He smells like yours. "Bucky?"
"Hmm?"
"I love you too. Just so you know."
For three full seconds, he doesn't move. Doesn't even breathe if you're being honest, his ribs don't move. You're about to take it back, pretend you were joking, anything to break the awful stillness — "Yeah?"
"Yeah. Have for a while now. Since before the barbecue, even. Maybe since I was nineteen and saw you sitting at my dad's table looking all broody and tragic."
"I wasn't broody."
"You were absolutely broody. You still are. It's annoyingly attractive."
He huffs a laugh against your hair, the warmth spreading to your neck, raising goosebumps. "Attractive, huh?"
You bite his shoulder lightly, teeth scraping enough skin to make him hiss slightly. "Everything about you is attractive."
"Everything else like what?"
"You don't cut your hair unless it bothers you, until it falls over your face and blocks your vision, like now. You like it when I ask you things, when I need help… I think it makes you feel wanted, you don't know that I always want you." Your mind goes to your windowsill. "You always fill the bird feeder, even if I forget."
"You noticed all that?"
"I've been studying you for six years, Barnes. I could talk about you in my sleep."
"That's — That's a little creepy, actually."
"Says the man who just spent ten minutes trying to plug me up with his cum."
A soft laugh vibrates from him as his fingers trace idle patterns on your hip. "Go to sleep, sweetheart."
There are a hundred things you could say. Practical things about what happens now, how this changes everything, whether he'll still come over for coffee on Saturday mornings with your dad or if this makes it weird. But your eyes are heavy, body sated and wrung out, not enough energy to keep the conversation going, even if you so badly want to.
"Buck?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't leave before I wake up."
"Not going anywhere. Not anymore, sweet girl." A soft lingering kiss to your forehead is all you remember, the ghost of its touch following you to dreamland.
MY MASTERLIST!
EXTRAS. what can i say i love the concept of dbf bucky, i have like 15 more dbf pwp in mind lmao… also no taglist bc this is queued.
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, Angst, Smut, Hurt / Comfort, Blood, violence, blood, violence, punishment against a woman, age gap, smut, dubcon, arranged marriage, kind of second chance trope(?), mention of cheating, insecure thoughts, misunderstanding/miscommunication, alcohol consumption, swearing, lots of nicknames, mention of infertility, if im forgetting any warning im adding it late.
Word count: ~6.6k
Summary: You were forced to get married to the newest and most powerful mobster in town. Your father always got you as a bargaining chip to the highest bidder.
Author's Note: First, thanks (as always) to @kileyking for being so patient and for reading this like four times, you're the best! I’ve had this on my mind ‘cause Mob/Dark Bucky makes me feral, enjoy whatever is this… (also, this is not the second part of Treat You Better, that will come by Wednesday or so...)
This is a repost; if you've seen it before, feel free to read it again. I'll also appreciate support to get back to the community I had.
If this is the first time you've read me, I'd love for you to read this post.
James was never meant to be the leader of the pack—before everything, he used to be this reckless, daredevil, but hardworking man. He never meant to lure your father into becoming the man he is now. He used to be your Jamie, and you were his princess, no more.
He was some years older than you—nothing to worry about in other circumstances; your father could even have let it pass—your parents’ age gap was way worse. But James was no one for him; he saw how James tried his best to give you what he could, how much he worked to bring you those flowers, to take you to fancy restaurants on your dates, but then he would spend the rest of the week hustling people to make ends meet.
Since your father had grown up as the heir to everything your grandfather had built over the years, he was not going to accept anything less than what he could give you in the blink of an eye. How could he accept it? Your mother had everything since day one—you had even more than they did, and you weren’t going to fight to have anything just because you fell in love with a poor devil.
And you tried, you tried to make your father see he was a great man, that James could be the greatest possibility for you, but he had no intention to let you struggle in the meantime. He has no patience for the rest of the world, and that was not going to change for a stupid short-term boyfriend of yours.
When you turned eighteen, your father decided he had had enough of letting you and James play around. One morning, without previous warning, you were taken by their men to another country. You couldn’t even fight; they just took you by your shoulder while you were getting ready to go to school—there was blood, spitting, biting, cursing, one of the men even gave you a bruise on the arm because of how they were manhandling you. By the time you realized, three of your father’s men and you were walking to the airport bound for Mexico.
It was not a surprise that you were led to Mexico, your father had most of his connections there, most of his family there, and he always said that if he had to run away, you would go directly there—and there you were flying to your grandmother’s home now.
You never had the opportunity to say goodbye to James; you just disappeared from everyone’s lives. Your mother visited you often, your siblings did too, but nothing was ever the same, and that was everything that was left of your previous life.
You always knew you were almost a bargaining chip for your father—almost in a nice way. He was always telling your mother you were going to marry a very powerful man, the first man who overpowered him, and that man was not born yet.
Years went by, and for your sake, you decided just to forget and accept you wouldn’t ever see James again—it was more likely to get married to a Mexican mobster than to see James once again in this lifetime.
Before you could even blink, your twenty-fourth birthday came, and along with it, your whole family’s visit. They granted you a big, pretentious celebration—and rumors here and there about James. He left the city months after you; no one knew about his whereabouts anymore, as if he had never existed.
You also got to know that a new mobster was in your hometown—someone who climbed the ladder faster than anyone. By the age of twenty-eight, he owned a pretty big corporation, he had moved most of the smuggling, and your father was eager to make him his partner. Your younger sister even heard him say, “he was the living man he was waiting for you,” and hadn’t even met him in person.
That made you tremble—that was a given promise since you were younger, but you never thought a man could catch your father’s eye enough for him to even think about it.
Months passed by, and as you predicted, your father sent his men to pick you up from the city where you had lived for the last few years. The exchange was cleaner than the first time. You were still the feisty girl from your younger years, but now you knew better than to fight them.
You were in no position to deny yourself—you hadn’t worked a second of your life, you had everything you wanted, and the deal was clear: you had to marry the man your father handed you.
When you arrived, your father was there, ever the most elegant and clean man. He looked even younger now that all your siblings were out of town—out of this life. But you were different; he always knew that his reckless oldest daughter would take his place and would marry a man as powerful as him to make an empire out of it.
And there you were, to comply with your part of the deal.
“You look beautiful, my honey.” Your father said, kissing your knuckles. You smiled, hiding your teeth.
“Let’s get out of all the pleasantries, just give me the information.”
He sighed. He knew well what he was dealing with. But he always thought that those years studying far away would make you kind of softer.
“I just want to know who I’m gonna marry, just tell me it’s not a fucking old man—I will kick his balls if he even tries to come near me.”
His smile grew wider, mischievously, and his eyes started to lighten up. He had the jackpot in his hands, and he knew.
“Oh, my honey. You have no idea. This is—is perfect for you. He became perfect for you—and for me.” He almost murmured the last part.
“Oh, that's it? We will see.” You raised your eyebrow and started walking.
“He is known as The Winter Soldier, it’s a very cold, calculating, bloodthirsty, hardworking man,” he extended his arm to wrap yours, and you started walking to the mansion in front of you two, “you will see he is not playing games when we talk about two things.”
“What two things?” You asked with curiosity.
“His business—and you.” A smug, almost cynical laugh slipped from you when you entered the living room.
“Laugh all you want, but I worked my ass off just to get you, princess…”
That voice—that nickname, even the perfume that wrapped the whole place made you tremble, made your knees weak and your breath catch.
When you looked straight ahead, he was there on the threshold of the living room and a hallway that connected to your father’s office.
Your Jamie… or what was left of him.
“Bucky Barnes, or Winter Soldier, as those idiots call me now.”
He was talking, you knew he was, but your mind was in other places—in other years, to be more specific.
All those promises you made when you were two idiots in love, all those times you escaped by the window in the middle of the night just to see him—even your very first time—that pretty baby face he still had back in time, somehow was imprinted on your mind.
“Bucky made clear he could give his whole fortune away just to have you—I felt generous, so I just asked to merge our businesses.”
You nodded, you were really trying to look nonchalant, but you were in shock, speechless; your whole life was changed in that moment. You were facing the reality now, you were going to get married to—physically—the love of your life, but he was now a man changed. You probably did not even know who he was now.
By all the ghost stories you have heard over the months, you imagined a completely different man, not your Jamie, but there he was— his tattoos were now covered by a black, tailored, expensive suit, short well-done hair, sharp jawline, fierce ocean blue eye gaze, and some new scars decorated his face.
“I’ll give you some space.” Your father said walking to the hallway.
You couldn’t see, but that smug smile that you used to hate was there. He knew he had won a battle—a battle you didn’t even try to win back in time.
“Did you miss me, princess?” He walked slowly to you; his heavy footsteps echoed in your ears.
“I—This— Are you really Jamie?” Your voice was a mess; you could not even deny it anymore.
He scoffed, a little smirk showing on his face. “Bucky, princess. Now I prefer Bucky.”
You shook your head.
“How did—this happen?” You stuttered.
“I told you. I told you several times that I’d do anything for you, and that included being the fucking boss of all of the people who worked near your father. Not gonna lie, it wasn’t easy. But after the first pack was down, it got easier, and then—your father contacted me without even knowing who I was. He said he was interested in having businesses.”
He shrugged.
“I accepted but made it clear that I wanted more than just money—the whole city knew he was willing to hand you to the higher bidder. And that was me at the moment.”
“How—did he accept?”
“He couldn’t say no; I had most of his ex-collaborators on my hands. And you cost me some millions, princess.”
That really hit a chord in your body. “What did you just say?”
“Oh, princess. Don’t be like that—You know how this works. Money had to be involved.”
He was now in front of you. He tried to touch your cheek, but you slapped his hand.
“Who the fuck are you?!”
“We are not gonna do that, princess.” He sighed, “You were all willing to get married to a fucking pig twice your age, but if it’s me, you draw the line?
“‘Cause I have no fucking idea of who you are!” You shouted, almost afraid.
“I’m your fuckin husband, better get the idea sooner than later.” He gripped your chin; it felt almost like a betrayal.
He had never even thought of raising his hand at you cause he used to know well how you hated it when your father did these kinds of things—not that he ever slapped you or hit you, but he tended to grip your chin, your arms, the back of your neck, just like a kind of reminder of who was in charge.
“I worked my ass off just to get you back to me,” he looked directly into your eyes, “and now you will get all dolled up for me. You will use a beautiful, white, and expensive wedding dress that I will completely destroy on our honeymoon, and you will do it with that fucking smile that made me fight all these years.”
Your chest heaving, you could feel the hot air coming through your nose. You didn’t even realize when you started crying, but black tears were streaking down your cheeks.
He scoffed almost cynically. “You and I both know you hate to cry, princess. Stop the act. Now, give me the kiss we both know you have saved for me the whole time you were there in Mexico.”
You swallowed. How did he know? You never told your father you didn’t even date anyone there—quite the opposite, you were always making fun of him by telling everyone you were playing and dating around the city, despite your father.
“What? Did you really think you were making a fool out of me?” He chuckled, “You could’ve lied to your father, but the first thing I did after getting the means was to have an eye on you. Always.”
He cut the distance between you two; his eyes were locked with yours. “You were not fooling around, you did not even talk to men—I saw you so many times in the club turning down all those fucking idiots who thought they had an opportunity with you.”
“If you fucking knew where I was, why didn’t you do something?! We could’ve been together way sooner—and not in this fucking way.” He tsked and smiled.
“No, princess. You deserved a man, and what kind of man would I have been if I did that?”
“You are a fucking asshole, and I fucking hate—I hated every fucking second in Mexico, I missed you like a fucking idiot, I cried my ass off half the time there… And you knew I was suffering and did nothing just to prove to my father you were man enough?!”
His grip on your chin got stronger; you could see his knuckles becoming white.
“Don’t you fucking ever dare to tell me I’m trying to prove anything to fucking anyone. I wanted to give you the life you deserve, and that needed time.”
He released his grip forcefully, making your head turn around.
He took his phone out of his pocket and dialed a number. Walking out of your reach, you walked off to the living room, shouting, yelling, cursing everyone and everything that crossed your path till you found your mother.
“What the hell was that?!” You asked when you found your mother in her bedroom.
“I see you are not as happy as we thought you were going to be as soon as you saw Bucky.”
“That’s exactly my point—That’s… Bucky, not Jamie, not my James. Who the hell is that man?!”
“That’s who you always wanted to get married to. He did what he had to do to achieve it.” You yelled; you could swear your throat hurt after that.
“You ruined my Jamie! You ruined him, fucking assholes.”
“Well, you knew the deal, he knew the deal, and made it his—that’s now your future husband. Suffer.”
The wedding was horrendously perfect—it was your dream wedding; he remembered everything and paid good money to make it happen. Every fucking detail. Your favorite flowers decorated the entrance exactly as you told him when you were only seventeen and stupid, the theme and colors around the venue were the fucking exact shade you explained to him.
And you hated it. You hated every fucking detail. You hated how perfect you looked in the dress your mother chose, you hated how well collected everyone looked as if you were not forced to get married to—yes, the love of your life. But not exactly who you used to call like that.
The ceremony was private—just you, your parents and family, and his family. Nothing more. But the reception was huge—enormous.
You didn’t even know how many attendees were invited. Your only job was to be there. Beautiful, smiley, chatty as always. You walked through the whole venue with Bucky’s arm. He never let go of you, not even once.
“This is what you always wanted—why the fake smile, princess?”
“Fuck off, Bucky. Just accept I’m trying my best and live with it.”
His hand moved from your arm directly to your low back, stroking it low enough that you could feel his strong hand on your butt, even over all the layers your wedding dress had, without even realizing—not even sure if you wanted it, you trembled. Your cheeks flushed, and you looked up at him, trying to stop him.
“Ah—there she is. My beautiful princess. All flushed with only my touch. Don’t worry, I’ll give you everything when this shit–show ends.”
Your breath got stuck in your throat. You surely missed his touch—the memory of it was a lifeline back in time, but you weren’t really sure what you needed to expect now with this new man.
When the reception ended, Bucky’s men guided you to one of his armored trucks. He was guided to one completely different security matter, said his chief guard. You were used to that; your mother and your siblings never rode in the same cars as your father.
When you arrived at his mansion, the chief guard helped you to arrive at the master bedroom. The fucking door was decorated with red roses, and as you opened it, you realized it was—or at least, it smelled like no one had ever touched it, like no one had ever been there.
You roamed through the bedroom—nothing you have never seen, a walking closet, a big ass bathroom, everything you have always had. The walking closet was filled with clothing that you assumed was all yours. Everything new, everything your style. God, how much you hated how he still knew you that much.
“All in here is new—even the bedroom.” His hands gripped your waist.
“Huh?” You asked, trying to make space between you.
“Yeah. When I bought the house, I closed this room with keys. I swore it was not going to be used until you came back to my arms.”
You swallowed hard; you could even feel the saliva getting stuck in your throat.
“Bucky—I don’t… I don’t think I can…” He made you closer to him. His smirk made you tremble.
“Oh, yes you can, and you will, princess,” He kissed your neck, his hands working the corset of your dress.
“No—I… need time, Bucky. This is not what I wanted.”
“Is it not?”
When your dress fell to the floor, he slipped his hand through your torso, dancing slowly till his fingers touched the hem of your lingerie. A sudden gasp left your lips.
“Tell me you didn’t think about me all these years.”
His fingers worked their way until they found your most sensitive nook.
“I’m sure if I go further, I will find a very—very wet spot.”
Your mind was foggy, you really tried to shake your head, but his woody scent lingering on your nostrils made you feel like speaking was not a practical choice.
“C’mon—where’s my feisty little girl?” He murmured in your ear, nipping your lobule with his teeth.
“Fuck—stop, please.” His middle finger made its way into your cunt.
“I think I can’t, you’re squeezing me enough to remember how much you used to ask me to finger you even on my stupid beaten car,” He chuckled and rested his forehead on your shoulder. “God, I missed you.”
Your hands were gripping his arm, and your nails were digging into his arm to try to make him stop, but you could even think he was enjoying that pain.
“Honey, I’ve had bullets on my arms, on my legs, one or two on my torso—do you think these pretty acrylic nails are gonna do any harm?”
When you tried to answer, he hooked a second finger on your slit. The overwhelming feeling was enough to make you feel sinful—as if you were cheating on someone who didn’t even exist anymore.
He stopped his curling painfully fast, taking them out of you just to lift you by your waist and tossing you to the bed. “What about we make up for the lost time?”
His gaze only reflected lust, his raspy voice was something else—something you didn’t even recognize in him.
He took one of your hands and made you work on his belt, pulling it lazily, slowly out. You were shaking your head, trying hard to close your legs.
With one knee, he made himself in, kneeling just in front of you while making you undo his zipper. Your chest was still going up and down, almost betraying you, your core completely damp with arousal, and your flushed cheek as a reminder of how much your body wanted this, even if you were denying it.
When his pants were down on his knees, he took them off and stood up at the edge of the bed and dug his fingers into your thighs, bringing you closer to him. You closed your eyes, waiting for the inevitable, but a sudden thump made you lift your head.
The sight was almost angelical—he was kneeling on the edge of the bed, his hands caressing your legs slowly. His gaze followed those movements, slowly, deliberately, tenderly.
“I have seen you growing up—I saw you on your twentieth birthday, and I can swear I wanted to make you mine.”
He was tugging your panties down.
“Do you remember that night?” He hummed as he saw your bare core, smiling as if we were worshipping it. “You were so drunk that you fainted—no, it wasn’t because you didn’t eat.”
The memories of that night came back to your head. You swore you drank one too many, that you didn’t eat, that you were tired—your mind started to think about that night, but his wet tongue took you out of your thoughts.
His tongue slipped from your whole to your bud, nipping it enough to make your back arch.
“Oh, princess. Don’t think anything wrong—I didn’t do anything.” His breath made you shiver; he talked in almost a whisper, letting his air wrap your damp core.
“That—that was you?” He kissed your core, just to suck a bit to make you stop thinking, to make you feel you didn’t need to dig more.
“Of course it was me. I pay good money to spike your drink,” he stood up, leaving the cold air touching your bare cunt, “those idiots you called friends were nothing but greedy people—I didn’t have to ask twice after they saw the money.”
“What did you do?!” You lifted your body, resting it on your elbows. He chuckled while he unbuttoned his perfectly white shirt.
“Do you really think I would do something that terrible to you?”
He stopped at the last button. You could see the undershirt inviting you; you swallowed, shaking out your thoughts.
“I just saw you close—close enough to smell you one more time. You were sleeping heavily on that private booth; I let those fucking idiots know that if someone even thought of touching you, they were going to be dead before they even could touch a hair from that pretty head.”
He smirked at the memory. He kneeled now on the mattress, his hands covering your whole body.
“Just a few minutes to admire you, and then I left. I was not going to screw my whole plan—it was too soon to make my appearance on your daddy’s business.”
“You are a fucking psycho,” you shook your head, and really tried to move your body, but his hands caught yours in a grip.
“Princess, don’t break my heart,” his lips found your neck, biting it. “God, how much I missed you.”
Suddenly, you felt his length; he was pumping himself slowly, steadily, while slipping the tip through your entrance, and without much warning, he put himself in. You sobbed, and you dug your nails into his back; this time, you could really feel wetness from—probably—blood that came from the scratch.
“Don’t you tell me you didn’t miss me, I know you didn’t let any man touch you as I did.”
And that’s when you knew you were as fucked as he was—the sudden memory of all your nights together made you moan, made you feel yourself again in his arms, made you feel it didn’t matter in that moment if he had to kill thousands of men just to get to you. Everything was worth it.
Five years later.
The first months were rough; he was always busy. The business merging between your father and him made both of them busier than before, making him stuck between wanting to show he didn’t change as much as you thought and reminding the mob society who he was, that even when he got married, he could kill a man in cold blood, and with no remorse.
Years went by, and you found yourself accepting what you had to endure; you even made yourself fall in love again with that version of him. He was attentive, he paid attention to the details, and tried his best, even with his schedule. And you played your part well, being the perfect wife, helping him when it was necessary, not showing off too much, parading yourself with all the things he bought. You understood he was not coming back, and you only had one possibility: letting his past self stay there and accepting what was given.
You were sitting at your table. It was one of those days when you felt nostalgic, when all those memories came back to you—when you missed your old you, his old version, everything before any decision was taken from you both.
You were lying down on the bed with the photo album you could save from all your moves, there you found a younger version of Bucky, a version that your father… or maybe you killed—Jamie. Those photos hurt, hurt like a needle breaking your skin, hurt just enough to remind you there was nothing you could do to go back.
The door suddenly opening didn’t take you out of your hands, not even his expensive shoes echoing on the marbled floor, but you saw him in front of the hairdresser on the corner of the bedroom, taking his tie off, just to comb his hair back with a tired sigh.
“Princess.” He greeted you while smiling through the mirror.
“Hi, honey.” You said, not even batting an eye at him. He tilted his head; he was not used to you being this cold.
“Something wrong?” He came closer with curiosity, “or too interesting to pay attention to your loving husband.”
You chuckled and closed the album, “Just ghosts from the past.”
“The day you least expect it, I will burn that shit.” He said, looking at the photo album with disgust.
“If you even try it, I will cut your balls, then burn them in front of all your men and workers.”
He knew well you weren’t even joking—in these five years you had trashed three cars, thrown and broken expensive cellphones, slashed tailored suits—just because he didn’t pay enough attention to you when you needed it.
“Fine, I won't touch that shit, I just don’t get why you are so obsessed with that sorry ass man—I buried him long ago, and you still think about him.”
He tended to talk about his old past as if it were someone else—as if it wasn’t his past. And it was not something out of dismissing what he went through, but he hated to remember how conformist he was in the past, and how much he endured just to be the fucking man he was now.
“C’mere, princess.” He sat himself on the edge of the bed, patting his leg to invite you.
You stood up and sat on his leg; he wrapped his arms around your waist and inhaled your scent like a lifeline.
“Princess, haven’t I given you everything in this life?”
“Sometimes I wish you hadn’t.” He scoffed.
“All because you miss a lame ass youngster?”
“Stop—you were different, you were mine, you didn’t look for my father’s approval, you made your way to me and didn’t mind anything…”
“Yes, and they took you from my hands— I didn’t see you for a fucking year, and then I had to fucking drug you just to watch your pretty face—pay your father to marry you, hand him half my business, just for you to be disgusted from my mere presence half the first year of marriage.”
You knitted your brows. “I was not disgusted—I was disappointed.”
He tilted his head, surprised, “Why were you disappointed?”
“‘Cause we made you do that—we made you kill my Jamie and make all this fucking Winter Soldier persona, and—” you started sobbing, your breathing became erratic, tears streaking your face.
“No, no. Please. Don’t cry.” He sighed, “I know you miss it, but I try my best to give you everything, to show you we are better than ever.”
“My Jamie didn’t have to be reminded by a fucking stupid ass blonde assistant of our fucking anniversary.”
He groaned. He was tired, angry, and he hated how much you hated his assistant; he didn’t even choose her. It was the fucking idea of Steve to pick her up, and since day one, she had been a problem in your marriage. Her very deep cleavage, unlike his very short pencil skirt, and fucking perfect makeup day by day.
“There it is—that’s all your fucking problem. Elsie is your fucking problem.” You opened your mouth—offended, tired.
“She is not my problem—you are my problem. You are now too immersed in all of this world that you forget about me. And supposedly I’m the reason for all this emporium, and you can’t even give me a complete day just for me.”
He sighed. He knew you were right; he had always tried to give you everything he could, and sometimes got caught up and didn’t make enough time for you.
“I’m sorry, okay? I will try my best. Just… I know I’ve been neglecting you, but for the love of God, can you stop accusing me of screwing that fucking blonde? I didn’t even choose her—Steve did.”
“Well, you kept it!”
“Yeah, ‘cause she’s productive, and reminds me that I should praise my beautiful, gorgeous, and needy princess once in a while.” You rolled your eyes.
“Just—leave her alone, princess. She gets Steve entertained and leaves my ass alone in the meantime.”
“And gets you entertained.” You crossed your arms on your chest.
“Cut it off.” He grumbled.
—
You were walking toward the kitchen when you saw Steve walking with Elsie, digging his fingers into her arm. For a moment, you stood still. Steve was this ever–loving man, flirtatious, relaxed, you had seen several times your husband beating the shit out of men twice his size, and yet never seen Steve doing such—he was more discreet, he never liked to brag about his strength.
And there he was—dragging Elsie by the hand and one hand tugging her hair. Karma was a bitch. She must have made a huge mistake.
But then, you saw Natasha—high heels, red hair, tired and almost lifeless, staring. Shit. She was in a huge problem. She was a mercenary; she had no mercy, and she was brought in when women engaged in business, and things were starting to get hard.
Your curiosity took the best of you and made you walk in their direction— as soon as they got to the warehouse, you snuck in and hid behind some boxes.
“Why the fuck did you think it was a fucking good idea to be spreading those stupid ass rumors?!” Steve yelled, tossing her on the floor.
She whimpered, and he took a step back.
Natasha passed his hands through his face. “What exactly did she do?”
Steve shook his head. “Ask her.”
“I didn’t lie! He told me they’ve been trying for years and she’s a fucking useless who can’t even give him offspring!”
The blood in your veins started to run cold—almost freezing.
It was something you had just talked with Bucky; no one else even knew that you were struggling with that. Maybe Steve had always been his sidekick, but besides that, you didn’t expect that he was out there for the public.
A hard, shattering slap sound took you out of your thoughts—Natasha was now caressing her own hand while Elsie was fully lying on the floor.
Steve was still pinching the bridge of his nose, exasperated. “I can’t believe I fucking fight with Bucky just to keep this dumbass.”
Natasha chuckled, “When have you been good at choosing girls to fuck?”
“Shut up. What do we do with her? If Bucky or she finds out she’s been running her mouth, she’s gonna cut my fucking balls, and it’s gonna fucking set the whole mansion on fire.”
By that moment, you weren’t even fully paying attention—now you were sure Bucky was cheating on you with her, there was no other way. How could she know something that sensitive? Steve could’ve been an idiot, but knew better than to spill that kind of thing, even more to someone you hated that much.
You walked back to your room, and he was there on his daily routine after a workday, getting ready to be in your bedroom the rest of the evening, with an undone tie, disheveled hair, and tired gaze.
“Where have you been, princess?” He asked, smiling at you. You stood still, tilting your head, watching.
You could not even answer; every piece of dignity on your body was abandoned and forgotten in that warehouse.
“Are you still mad?” He chuckled on the bed; you shook your head and walked to the balcony.
“How long have you been fucking her?” You turned around to face him.
“Oh god, are you still with that fucking idea?” He was exasperated.
When you were about to shout, a knock on your door interrupted you both.
“Buck, I need to talk with you.”
Steve’s voice was on the other side of the door. You chuckled.
“What’s so fucking funny? I’m gonna deal with you later.” Bucky pointed at you and walked to the door.
When he opened the door, Steve's appearance was disheveled; he looked tired, angry, and even frustrated. You walked behind them; you were on Bucky’s back with your arms crossed.
“How’s Elsie doing? Did she endure Nat’s slaps?”
Steve’s mouth was wide open. Bucky turned his head to you; his eyes were a poem.
“What the fuck is she talking about?”
“That’s—that’s the reason I’m here… Elsie—She’s…”
“She’s all over my damn business, telling everyone and their mother that apparently I’m a fucking waste who can’t provide with children to the precious James Buchanan Barnes.”
When his government name slipped your lips, his hand found your arm, softly, grounding.
“I’m a fucking idiot.” He said, surprisingly to you.
“What?” Both you and Steve said at the same time.
“I—I thought I could trust her, I had to stay late with her for something, we were coming back from another fucking doctor appointment. But I swear to God I never said something like that—I just said I wish I could help you. Fuck.”
His free hand combed his hair. Steve was looking directly at you, completely avoiding his friend's direction.
You wanted to believe it. You really wanted it. But you saw all those years how your father always had his own Elsie, how your mother didn’t even care anymore, and why would Bucky be different? He fought to be in the same spot as your father; he was going to follow his steps to the T.
“Let’s go.” Bucky let go of your arm and started walking with Steve.
“The fuck are you going?” You yelled while walking behind them. “I’m going, I don’t care what you have to say.
Bucky growled and continued walking while holding your hand.
As soon as you came to the warehouse, the sight was horrid. Nat’s hand was crimson.
Bucky was about to talk when you walked fast enough to leave them behind. You walked your way directly to her, you squatted down in front of her, and Nat took three steps back.
“Elsie, right?” You said, looking at her. She nodded.
“I know exactly why you are here, but I want to hear it from you.”
“I—I’ve been screwing up your husband.” She said shamelessly, and you were sure she just wanted a reaction.
You chuckled, “You know? I would believe you, really. If I were another mob wife, I would believe everything your pretty mouth is saying. The situation here is… that man there, that fucking idiot put his life on risk for years and years just to have a slight opportunity to marry me.”
You sighed and stood up.
“But what I do know is that he is that fucking dumb to trust in an idiot who wants to fuck him and fuck his marriage.”
One of your hands gripped her face, putting her closer to you.
“So, let’s get something straight,” you locked eyes with her, “yes, I can’t give him the children he wants, but all this fucking shit you see is mine. He’s mine, he’s been mine our whole lives, and a fucking bimbo is not changing that, are we clear?”
She nodded, and before she could say anything, you pushed her, already marked face, making her trip again. Natasha came to help you stand up.
“Take her out before I regret letting her leave, and I fucking beat the shit out of her.”
She nodded, and you walked directly to Steve.
“If you ever hire another girl like that, I’m gonna make sure it’s the last fucking thing you do.”
“Oh, c’mon. It was a one-time thing.” Bucky hit his chest, making him shush.
You walked fast, didn’t even wait for Bucky.
When he was able to go back to your bedroom, you were a mess—the whole room was destroyed, the mirror in front of the bed was shattered, your hands gripped your dress with anger, and you could not stop crying.
The mafia was always proud of having an inheritance, of having heirs, and there you were, not able to do the one thing you were supposed to.
He ran and knelt in front of you, taking you by your hands and making you hug him.
“I need you to stop. This—this is not who you are. You are stronger than this, than anything you’re punishing your head with.”
“Were you thinking about leaving me for her?” You said as you sobbed, your voice was almost inaudible.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” He said creating a distance between you just to look at you directly.
“That’s why you told her, right?”
“Of course not. I was sensible, and being an idiot, I didn’t want to look fragile in front of Natasha or Steven, and—I don’t know. I’m an idiot. It's just that.” He said fast, anxious.
“Are you still gonna love me even if I can give your children?”
“God, that fucking stupidity of having a successor?” He said, laughing.
“Don’t laugh!” You whimpered.
“Sorry. Sorry, this is not funny. It’s serious. But—really, I don’t care. I can always take under my arm any of those kiddos there whom I hire, just like my mentor did with me. I don’t fucking care about having kids. You said it there; I risked my whole life just to get a chance to marry you.”
He kissed your temple.
“I wouldn’t throw my whole life just because we can’t have kids, not for a fucking blonde who would leave me the first time she saw how I kill a man. I know how the rest of men are in this kind of life, but you can bet my ass that I will never be like that.”
“Really?”
He nodded, “Now, let’s get comfortable in the guestroom. I need someone to clean and fix this, and you need to learn your fucking lesson and stop being a fucking pain in my ass. You’ve been accusing me for days of nothing horrible, and I need to fuck the thought out of your mind.”
wc: +7.6k
warnings/tags for this chapter: THIS WORK IS +18 MDNI. Fluff. Smut. Siblings banter. Good parent Bruce Wayne. Praise kink, fingering, p in v, oral sex, aftercare.
Beta read by @w1nter-fairy @buckysdecaflove
AO3 | Navigation | Bucky Barnes Masterlist
Laughter.
That was the first thing that Bucky registered when he opened his eyes the next morning. You had woken him up a few hours after you went to sleep — after, well, you know — whispering that your family was back and that you were going to join them as they had their early breakfast before they went to bed. He had stayed in your room, still blessed out of the night you had shared.
When you came back, you were snuggling when you told him you told him all about that night's impromptu mission, finally at ease since they were fine. Fortunately, everything had gone according to plan; it had taken time, but finally they had succeeded with no harm to any of the family.
Before he fell asleep again, he returned to his room to avoid getting caught in your room, and of course, minutes later, you followed him and fell asleep for a few more hours with him. He had teased you, but still lifted the covers so you could crawl into his bed and cuddle with him.
Bucky reached for his phone. It was a little bit past noon, so that meant that lunch would be ready soon. He got up and got ready for the day.
After his shower, he went out of his room, finding that the more he walked down the hallway, the louder the laughter and chatting became.
“Good evening, Mr. Barnes. Lunch will be ready in a few minutes, if you want to take your seat.” Alfred greeted him as soon as he stepped inside the dining room.
“Thank you, Al.” Bucky flashed him a smile before walking towards the seat next to you.
“Oh, sleeping beauty is finally up!” Jason said with a teasing smile as soon as Bucky sat down between him and you.
“Leave him alone, Jay.” You said, leaning into Bucky. “Hi, baby.”
“Hi, sweetheart.” Bucky looked at you with a dumb smile, leaning his forehead against yours and making you giggle.
“Oh my God, they are being disgusting again,” Cass mumbled from her seat; however, there was no sharpness to her words like they used to be. Either way, you ignored her.
Bucky watched from the corner of his eye as Bruce turned away and took the opportunity to give you a quick kiss on your lips.
“Hello, family!” Dick announced his arrival, earning a chorus of hellos from everyone at the table. “Hey, sis, I wanted to ask you something.” He said, taking his seat next to you.
“What is it?”
“The strangest thing happened in my room. I noticed when I went back to my room last night, every frame that I had hung up on my wall had fallen — it wasn't like that when we left. Any idea what could have caused?” Dick asked.
Your mind quickly went back to last night. Bucky behind you, drilling into you over and over again. The headboard hitting the wall repeatedly, in unison with his movements. The same wall that you shared with your older brother.
No fucking way.
You did everything in your control to school your reaction.
“That’s so weird.” You said, frowning, to sell your confusion.
Bucky, next to you, looked as if he wanted the earth to swallow him, and you couldn't blame him, but, goddamn it, if someone looked up the definition of guilty in the dictionary, his current face would appear right next to it.
"Well, if you find something, tell me. I'll have to replace all my frames since they broke.” Dick said, and then took out his phone to do the purchase.
You smiled at him and shifted in your seat, your elbow discreetly hitting Bucky square in his side, making him huff.
“Sorry, baby, ‘m still getting used to my strength, I’ll have to be more careful.” You mumbled.
He nodded.
“Yeah, I agree,” Bucky said, keeping his eyes on his empty plate to hide his blush.
Some minutes later, and after Bucky finally recovered, Alfred stepped into the dining room, announcing that lunch was ready. The whole family got up, plate in hand, to serve themselves.
“Oh, Miss Wayne, I found this in the mail after our talk this morning,” Alfred said when you stepped inside the kitchen.
Bruce tensed, still on high alert after weeks of overseeing your safety. “Is it safe?” Your father mumbled.
“Yes, it is, Master Bruce.” Alfred nodded and passed you a folded note.
Your eyes scanned quickly what it said, at first your face dropped, but then a big grin appeared in its place.
“No fucking way, he didn't.” You muttered, covering your smile with your hand.
“What does it say?” Jason asked, taking a peek over your shoulder. “No way.” Jason smiled widely once he got to the final sentence, taking you by the shoulders and shaking you. “Oh my God!”
“What? What? Share it with the fam!” Dick exclaimed, looking over his shoulder from the stove.
“Dear Batsy,” You began to read out loud. “It breaks my heart to inform you that I won't be able to make it to this year's Christmas dinner. Kara needs some assistance off the planet — yes, again, I will tell you everything once I’m back.”
“He'd better do,” Bruce muttered.
“Unfortunately, I couldn't say goodbye to you in person without disturbing your sleep. I hope you and your family can forgive me, and I wish you all can enjoy the surprise I left as an apology. Hopefully, you all have your ice skates ready. With love, Clark.” The moment you finished reading, you heard the squealing of your siblings.
“Before everyone asks, yes, your skates are ready and lined up. I even found a pair for Mr. Barnes.” All of you cheered at Alfred’s words. “Now, eat before it gets cold, and then we can all go out and see Mr. Kent's surprise.”
The kitchen got loud with excitement, everyone walked back to their seat, full plates in hand, ready to eat and spend the whole afternoon outside. One by one, everyone retired to their rooms to change into warmer clothes.
The moment Alfred opened the door that led to the back patio, you and Jason were the first to run out, with your skates in hand, towards the now frozen lake.
“I’ll give you a hundred dollars if you can catch me,” Jason said, sliding through the ice once he had his skates on. "I win if I take out your scarf!"
“Hey! I’m not ready!” You exclaimed, rushing to tie your skates, and quickly got up and began chasing him.
At an unhurried pace, the rest of your family walked to join you. Bucky couldn't hide his smile while watching you. You were laughing, face flushed because of the cold, your bright scarf dancing in the air behind you as you chased your brother.
Bucky was a few feet away from the lake when he saw you tackle Jason from behind after faking a turn.
“That’s my girl.” He said under his breath.
He was the last one at the edge of the lake when you began to skate in his direction. Once you were close enough, you reached your hand.
“Come on, baby!” You exclaimed, making grabby hands towards him.
“Is it a bad moment to tell you that I don't know how to skate?”
Your jaw dropped.
“I’m just kidding!” He laughed at your expression, and he stepped into the ice, smoothly skating towards you. "I used to go with my family to the Rockefeller Center."
“Ha ha so funny.” You said sarcastically, taking the hand he was offering, and started skating side by side.
“So, the bats like to skate?” He asked, looking at the way everyone, including your father were having the time of their lives.
“Yes, you can say that. It began with Bruce training us for a different environment during winter — on the ice, with snow, rain, you name it — then after training, he would let us mess around. Eventually, we started doing it just for the fun of it.” You said with a nostalgic smile.
“That explains how easy you tackled Jason.”
You laughed. “Yeah, it does. I have tons of experience; he's faster now, but I still managed. Each year he tries.”
After circling the ice, you guided Bucky to the middle, where the family was reunited, and an improvised showcase of figure ice skating was taking place.
Cheering, laughing, and several falls later, Cass and Damian skated out of the lake, by instinct you followed them with your eyes, curious about what was going on.
“— sure the snow is soft enough.” You heard Cass saying as she kneeled next to Damian.
“Let me check,” Damian mumbled, cupping his hands and grabbing a fistful of snow.
“Oh no,” you whispered, and quickly took Bucky’s hand, moving both of you away from the center.
A beat later, a snowball hit Dick square in his back. Cass was holding her belly, laughing hysterically at your older brother’s face.
“Who is in for a good old snowball fight?” Damian shouted.
“You know the rules!” Bruce exclaimed, looking at Dick. "Two teams, the last one standing wins."
You leaned towards Bucky, “Since Damian hit Dick, that means both of them are captains.” You whispered.
Dick grinned. “Jason, you’re with me.”
Jason rotated his shoulders, warming up to throw, and moved next to him.
“Hey, Bucky! You’re with us!” Cass shouted.
“Did she just—” Bucky said, wide-eyed.
“Uh-huh, I…” You were equally shocked.
“She called me Bucky.” He whispered, voice quivering with emotion.
You nodded. “Yes, she did.”
“Hurry up, Barnes!” Cass said next.
You gasped.
“She knows my last name,” Bucky choked.
“Go, go!” You said with your eyes teary-eyed, pushing him towards your younger siblings.
Dick then called your name.
“We need to be balanced, sorry Sparrow.” Your brother said when you glided next to him.
“I would've done the same, big bro.” You shrugged, even if you were bummed down at not being paired with Bucky.
“And, since apparently Cass is already with Damian, Duke, you’re with us.”
“Father, with us!” Damian said with a grin.
Dick leaned towards you. “Wh—”
“Steph!” You called out. “Moves fast, smaller target, too.”
Dick nodded.
Cass whispered something into Damian’s ear.
“Duke!”
“Tim!”
Both Damain and Dick called out at the same time.
“Get down.” You heard Dick shouting as he threw another ball, giving you enough time to hide behind a mound of snow that he and Jason had made in record time.
“Your boyfriend is really good at this, sis,” Steph told you, landing next to you as she dodged a snowball. “Can he stay longer now that the snow is on its point?”
“I can ask.” You smiled to yourself, working on making snowballs for Jason and Dick to throw.
“We need to move,” Tim said, getting cover. “They are surrounding us.”
You looked over your shoulder, towards the line of trees.
“Dick, Jay, keep cover, we need to make them follow us to the trees, then we strike from a higher point.”
“Copy that. Go, we got this.” Jason said between his teeth, eyes frantically moving around to locate everyone on the other team.
You gave your siblings a sign and, keeping low, you all rushed to the back, running between the trees until you found one that could be climbed and with packed branches enough to cover you on top.
“Dick?” Jason asked, kneeling to pick more snowballs.
“Yeah, bro?”
“Have you seen Bucky?”
The question sent alarms in Dick’s mind. He had hidden behind the mound when Bruce and Bucky shot from opposite sides, and when he had peeked, he had only managed to hit Bruce; Bucky was nowhere to be found after that.
Dick cussed under his breath.
”I don't know, Damian, Cass, and he are the ones still on the game, we should —”
Two snowballs hit consecutively, one dead on Dick’s chest, and another one on Jason’s side.
Damian and Cass laughed in unison.
“You’re out!” Cass exclaimed, but just as she said it, a snowball hit her from behind.
“I can say the same!” Steph, exclaiming, hid on top of a tree, one of her purple boots picking out from the foliage, giving away her position.
Damian rushed to the line of trees, dodging Steph’s attempts to hit him; her cry that followed a couple of minutes later confirmed that she was out, too.
Now it was Damian and Bucky against Tim and you.
Contrary to your siblings, instead of running straight, you had turned to the right, surrounding the lake area, in an attempt to circle back and attack them from behind.
You had been running for a few minutes when you heard Tim and Damian bickering, their cries in unison only meant that they had downed each other.
You didn't know who was left now, you tried to strain your hearing to pick up any other fight or chatter, but you were met with silence; only the sound of nature surrounded you.
You could see the back of the manor now, just behind the greenhouse, and just as you left the safety of your cover, you heard something behind you. Instinct took over, so you bolted, wanting to create enough distance for you to be able to get down to pick some snow and throw it.
Tempted, you tried to look over your shoulder, but it was too late. You felt a pair of hands around your waist, tackling you and bringing you to the ground.
“Bucky!” You shrieked mid-laughter, as he made you roll down a few times in the snow until you were on your back, with him over you.
Bucky looked down at you with a bright smile, his cheekbones flushed due to the cold. You were still laughing, with a similar state of your skin, your scarf had come undone, resting bright against the snow. Your hair formed a halo around your head.
Maybe your carefree nature at home had begun to rub off on him.
Maybe it was his fascination with seeing you so full of joy.
But the words spilled out of his mind without him realizing.
“God, you have no idea how much I love you.” He mumbled, removing some snow that had found its way to your cheek.
Your laughter didn't cut off abruptly; it just became quieter, swiftly dying down to just a sparse giggle and some shaking of your shoulders.
“You do?” You asked.
He frowned at your words, and then realization hit him. You felt him tense over you; the panic was evident in his eyes, and you were sure what was going on in his mind.
“It’s okay.” You scanned his face. Your voice was tender, barely above a whisper. “I love you too.”
Another giggle escaped you.
“Oh my God, I’ve been biting my tongue because I thought you would think I was rushing things, —" You lifted one of your hands, cupping his cheek. “I love you, Bucky Barnes, more than you can imagine.”
His blue eyes got teary-eyed, just as yours did.
“You do?”
You let out a wet laugh.
“I do.”
And then he leaned in, brushing the tip of his nose with yours.
“I love you even more, Miss Wayne.”
He closed the distance between you, his body melting against you. You parted your legs to accommodate him more comfortably.
The kiss was tender, his lips dancing against yours, his tongue teasing the near the seam of your lips, asking for permission, and when you granted it, pulling him closer as his tongue brushed yours, you felt your heart burst into fireworks.
Reality downed to you.
This man loved you.
He had seen your worst.
He had seen your inner demons torment you from the moment he met you.
And he had decided to stay with you. Not to fight them, but to support you during your own battle, ready to jump in to help if you ask for it. Respecting your stubborn nature.
Your partner.
In every sense of the word. Both on and off the battlefield. Your teammate. Your friend. Your equal.
He was patient with you, even though you sometimes snapped at him. No matter how many times your stubbornness pushed him away, he had fought against it.
He had chosen to stay. He had chosen not to let you go. He had chosen to love you.
Bucky had chosen you.
Happy tears left your eyes that got quickly brushed off by his touch.
Time ceased to exist with him close to you, and you didn't care; you let yourself be.
You let yourself be loved.
“We should get inside, it's getting colder, I don't want you to get sick,” Bucky said.
“We don't know if I can get sick yet.” You tried to chase his lips and pull him down to you, but he braced his arm to not fall.
“I know, but I wouldn't be okay knowing that you got sick because of me.”
“Fine, but we’re getting extra cuddle time tonight, got it?” You said.
“Got it.” He kissed the tip of your nose, got up, and then offered his hand and pulled you up.
Both brushed off the snow and, holding hands, walked back to the house. You were a few feet away from the door when you remembered something.
You let go of his hand with the excuse of fixing your appearance, and when he turned away, you knelt.
A beat later, Bucky felt something hitting his back.
“What the —?” He turned around and found you kneeling in the ground, shoulders shaking with laughter and brushing the snow out of your hands. “What was that?”
“I won!” You exclaimed.
Bucky frowned. “Didn't the game end when I caught you?”
“It was a snowball fight, baby.” You shrugged, getting up to walk to him. “And a snowball never hit me.”
You smiled triumphantly.
Bucky shook his head, chuckling. “I guess you're right.”
“I usually am, get used to it.”
Just when you crossed the back door of the greenhouse, he pushed you against the wall and kissed you deeply. You shivered against him, heat pooling quickly inside you.
“You’re so evil.” You breathed out, choking on a moan, when he tugged your scarf softly, undoing it to leave kisses on your neck. “You know we won't have alone time until much, much later.”
“That's why I need to work with the time we have.” He said against your skin.
A few minutes later, just as your hands found their way under his shirt, you had to pull away, hearing steps and voices approaching.
“Fuck,” you groaned, leaning your head back against the wall.
“We will continue later.” He promised, and after kissing your cheek, he pulled away from you and guided you back to your family, curious to learn how the winning team celebrated.
Turns out, winning anything inside the Wayne household meant purely bragging rights, unless a bet had been made, and the power to say they have the final word whenever a decision had to be made. The family reunited in the common room, chatting and spending the day inside, drinking hot chocolate and cookies.
The domesticity in your house always caused Bucky whiplash. It was hard to believe that the same people who fought over which movie to pick and for a good spot in front of the large TV were the same people who kept the city safe every day.
Later that night, once you had made Duke believe that it was his idea to take care of Titus during the night, you received Bucky inside your room.
Now, in your bed, things escalated quickly. What had started with talking while cuddling had turned into soft touches; his hand had traveled from its grip on your waist to your thighs, and under your clothes.
Bucky had you on your back, with him next to you, lying sideways as he devoured your mouth and had his hand under your panties, his fingers working you up.
“Jesuschrist.” Your head thrashed back as he shifted his hand, two fingers inside you, with the heel of his hand grinding against your clit with a rhythm that was sending you closer and closer to your climax.
“Want me to stop?” You grabbed him by the neck with a hand, forcing him to look at you.
“I’ll kill you if you do that.” You threatened.
He chuckled and then muffled your cries with his mouth when you came around his fingers.
“My beautiful girl.” He mumbled as you pushed him to be on his back, and straddled him, lining up your socked panties over his bulge.
You rolled your hips, grinding against his covered cock and enjoying the way his heavy-lidded eyes looked at you.
“Do you wanna ride my cock? Be a good girl and fuck yourself while I watch?”
You nodded.
“Then do it, baby. It’s yours.”
You shifted and pulled his boxers down, freeing his leaking cock. Not wanting to take more time, you pulled your panties to the side and guided him into you.
Both moaned each other's name as he pressed into you.
“Fuck, you feel so good. So wet and tight. Just for me, right, baby?”
“Yes,” you croaked, bracing yourself on his naked chest as you started rolling your hips once you adjusted to his length. “Only for you.”
“That's it, sweetheart, make yourself feel good.”
“Bucky.” You whimpered.
"You're doing so good, baby. That's it…" He groaned, throwing his head back on the pillow, only to return his eyes to you in a beat. "You look so gorgeous, bouncing on my cock."
His hands sneaked under your shirt, taking it off and leaving you only in your panties. He pressed a palm on your back, making you lean in so he could wrap his mouth around one of your nipples, switching after a few moments to the other one.
"God, I can't get enough of you." He mumbled, grabbing you by the hips and aiding you. "You feel so good, I can stay the rest of my life buried in your pussy and die like a happy man."
You let out a breathless laugh.
"Has anyone told you that you're very vocal during sex?" You asked. "Don't get me wrong, I love it, it's just…"
He bucked his hips up, reaching deeper inside you, and made you moan loudly. Your hand shot up quickly, trying to keep quiet.
"You were saying?"
"Jesus, Bucky, we have to keep it quiet.” You whimpered.
“I thought you said this room is soundproof.” He said, his eyes going from your eyes to your parted lips.
“It is.” You pressed your lips to keep another moan in. “But better be safe.”
“What do you suggest, baby?”
You stared down at him, grinding your hips and making him shudder.
“Let me ride your face.”
His eyebrows shot up, his surprise shifted quickly to a smug smile.
“You want that baby? Do you want me to eat you out as you ride my face?” He asked, while his hands caressed your hips.
You nodded.
“C’me here.” He grabbed your face and pulled you down, kissing you as he kept bucking his hips up. When he let you go, he lifted your hips off his cock and kept you steady as you bracketed his head with your thighs.
“My perfect girl, I’m gonna make you feel so good.” He muttered, his hot breath made you almost choke on your own spit. “Get lower, baby, I can take it.”
Looking up at you, he held your legs open, spreading you over his mouth, then he buried his tongue between your folds.
“Oh, fuck.” You cried out, your hands shooting forward to grip the headboard to keep you upright.
You kept your eyes on him, jaw slack as he encouraged you to ride his face, rolling your hips with precise movements to make your mind spin. The moment he began sucking your clit, you had to press your mouth on your forearm to stop yourself from moaning too loud.
“Just like that, keep doing that.” You whispered, voice wrecked.
He moaned against you; the vibration made you jerk your head back, lost in the feeling of him. You kept one hand on the bed frame, while the other found its place resting over his metal hand, treading your fingers with his to ground you.
Behind you, he started to stroke his cock, bucking his hips to fuck himself into his fist.
“You’re so good.” You let out, feeling your thighs trembling as your climax sent a shudder all over your spine. “So fucking good, Bucky.”
You kept whispering praises between some unintelligible gibberish. When you came back into your body, you looked over your shoulder, noticing how he was gripping his cock, keeping himself from coming.
Still trembling, slightly overwhelmed, you lifted your hips and went back to straddle his hips. He had his eyes closed, body taut, just on the verge of his orgasm.
“Can I…” You said, hovering just behind his cock.
He nodded.
You took over, replacing his fist with your pussy, sliding over it for a few seconds, and then, when you pushed back, you felt him slip inside you.
Bucky groaned your name, and before any other sound could come out, you leaned over him, muffling his cries in your mouth. He cradled your head to deepen the kiss.
He braced his feet on the mattress, and with his arm wrapped around your waist to keep you flush against his chest, he pistoned his hips up with force, fucking you deep with a fast pace as he chased his climax.
“I love you.” You chanted between kisses, “I love you.”
He whimpered your name, and with a groan that resembled “I love you,” he came.
Once he regained control of his body, he carried you to your bathroom, and then he placed you down on the counter. He turned and readied a warm, bubbly bath.
“You okay, baby?” He asked as he cleaned you up with a warm cloth.
“Perfect.”
He picked you again and let you step first into the bathtub; he followed, sitting behind you with you between his legs and your back against his chest.
“Do you think anyone heard?” He asked after a few minutes.
You chuckled, leaning your head back on his shoulder. “God, I hope not.”
He echoed your laugh, and kissed your cheek. “I will try to be less vocal then.”
“Don’t. I like it.” You side-eyed him. “It helps me know you're enjoying it as much as I am.”
“As long as you do the same.”
You giggled. “Believe me, you make it easy.” You closed your eyes.
“Good.” He kissed your shoulder.
His hands underwater, caressed you, grounding and reminding himself that you were in his arms, and that you loved him.
Both stayed in a peaceful silence, just enjoying the tender moment after such an intense rush.
“I think —” You stopped, opening your eyes, and wetting your lips. “I think I’d like to come back to New York after the holidays.”
Bucky blinked behind you. “Are you sure?”
You nodded.
“I was offered a spot in the New York Bulletin days before you arrived, actually, that offer and others had been sitting on my desk since I resigned.” You stared at the ceiling. “I’d like to say yes. It's a good offer, flexible hours, hybrid, I won't be chained to a desk, allowing me free time to follow leads. It's based in New York, so I’ll be close to you and some of my friends. I… I miss my job, my formal one. It's part of who I am as well, so I think it's time.”
“Baby, that's great!” He exclaimed with a big smile. “I’m so happy for you.”
You smiled, lip trembling, but relieved that you had finally shared it.
“I was talking with Alfred this morning, before lunch." You continued, more relaxed now. "I’ll have to talk with my father first, but near the Avengers Compound, there's a property that we already own. It's stupidly close.”
Bucky stayed silent, tracing figures in your wet skin, noticing the caution in your voice. He knew that tone; you were voicing whatever you had been rambling in your mind.
This was your future you were talking about. Big decisions that implied you setting roots elsewhere.
You sighed.
“I could build my own place. Alfred suggested that I could do my own Sparrow Nest there, too. Have my own team…”
Oh.
You felt the hitch in his breath.
“I love working with the Avengers, but, their approach is not the same as mine.”
You tried to move forward, put distance between you and him, fear creeping back at his stillness, but he anchored his hand on your waist.
“It’s okay.” He mumbled in your ear. “Please, keep telling me. Don't shut down.”
You took a deep breath, and he let you shift until you were slightly turned towards him.
“You know me. You have been out there in the city with me. Do you see Iron Man or Captain America stopping a robbery or rescuing cats from the trees?” You asked. “While the Avengers try to save the world, I’d like to keep the city safe. Offer what I can, as my father taught me.”
“You’ll need a team.” He said matter-of-factly.
“I know, eventually, I can start asking Peter, he’s already covering Queens, and maybe in Hell’s Kitchen—”
“I’d like to join you.” He said firmly.
Finally, you met his eyes.
“Bucky, I can't make you choose between Steve and me. The Avengers —”
He shook his head.
“You’re not making me choose. I—”
It was his turn to be vulnerable.
“I’ve been thinking about it for some time, actually.” You took his hand, underwater. “I’ve been jumping from war to war, I just don't want to be a soldier forever. Patrolling with you showed me another side of this, closer to the people we want to help, and I want to explore it before I decide to retire definitely.”
You nodded.
“Of course, if that's what you need, I respect it.” You smiled at him. “Besides, you have shown yourself to be an amazing trainer. I’m sure we can make it work.”
He smiled, he lifted one of his hands and cupped your cheek, you leaned into his touch.
“Thank you for trusting me.” You said, and then you kissed his palm.
“I can say the same.” He pulled you closer and kissed you.
2 YEARS LATER
Turns out building a paramilitary infrastructure underground and a mansion over it was quicker than you thought, especially having access to the appropriate resources. You had thought that the only hiccup in the whole plan was going to skim over the fact that it was on your property, but the moment you added Bucky and his Avenger status to the mix, it made it easy.
Tony sulked for months, arguing that he could offer a better tech, but he shut up the moment Bruce showed him a similar but upgraded setup like the one at the Batcave.
You had moved in a few months ago. Even though there were parts of the house that were still being worked on under Alfred’s supervision, he had also been preparing an old friend of his — Niles — so he could help you in your new home. Niles had a similar background to his, which meant that he was more than capable of also aiding the team of vigilantes.
The past year and a half, you had been working with the Avengers, staying at the compound as the construction started, balancing preparing a small team to protect the city, and adjusting to your new job. Training and team drills had to be done until you were confident enough to start coordinating shifts.
Bucky.
You.
Peter.
Yelena.
And Nina.
Nina had been added to the team by pure coincidence. A couple of months ago, during one of your routine patrols, you had met another runaway mutant, and after a talk, he had agreed on you taking him to the X-Mansion.
Nina had cornered you on your way out, and after telling you she had heard that your team was an X-Men ally — something you had made sure to inform Professor X the moment you came back to NYC — she had asked for an opportunity to join you.
“Are you sure?” You had asked. “You have higher chances to join the X-Men since you already study here.”
“I’m sure. I told you I wanted to join you when we met. That hasn't changed.” Nina said without leaving room to doubt.
You looked at her and then gave her a curt nod.
“Text me your schedule. If I find a way to make it work around your classes, consider it done.”
She hugged you, and over her shoulder, you saw Charles, who was staring at you with a satisfied smile. You squinted your eyes at him.
I knew that you mentioned her on purpose early. You said in your mind, calling back to your early conversation, where he had been listing every improvement that Nina had been showing up since you brought her there years ago.
I told you she was ready. She has been training for this moment since she got here. He responded. I know she is in safe hands with you, and she knows it too.
I won't fail her, nor you.
Believe me, I know so. Have a safe trip back home, Miss Wayne. I’ll be waiting for the wedding invitation.
You blushed as you let go of Nina and watched her walk beside Charles back inside the mansion.
Bucky had proposed on your first day in the new house, something simple and romantic, as he had come to learn that it was your personal preference — the grand gestures were reserved for your public persona only, since Miss Wayne had a reputation to keep. The ring rested for now in a chain tucked under your shirt, since both had decided to keep it a secret until everything in the house was complete.
For now, only Bruce and Steve knew. And once you told them, in pure Wayne nature, a betting pool started with the question of who else would find out about the engagement without the help of anyone who already knew.
“Honey, did Yelena confirm you if she wanted to come live here too? She told me that she was still thinking about it last week.” Bucky asked when he found you in the common room, sitting on the large couch with Alpine in your lap, with a book in hand, after you had come back from a visit to the Compound after your office hours.
“She told me she wanted to stay at the compound at least a few months more, she wants to make up for the years she was apart of Nat.” You responded, lowering your book when he approached.
“You were right then.” He chuckled, leaning in to kiss you.
“I’m always right.” You said with a smile.
“Oh, believe me, I know.” He took the book from your hands when you passed it and put it on the coffee table.
“Did Alfred and Niles let you go already?” You asked, petting Alpine.
Bucky nodded.
“We finished setting up the security update that Bruce sent. They stayed to wait for Babs to connect them to the Batcave.” You shifted so he could sit next to you, but instead, he picked up Alpine from your lap. “Sorry, Al, but I want to cuddle with mommy, and I can't do that if you’re in the middle.” He said to her face and then placed her on the floor.
Bucky then took you in his arms and sat with you across his lap.
“Happy now?” You asked.
“Much better.” He hugged you, and buried his head in your neck, taking a deep breath of your perfume. “I missed you today. How was the interview? Did your lead tell you everything you needed?”
You nodded. “Almost everything, he lied about some stuff but I have enough to write the article.”
“What gave him away?”
“Heartbeat and he was stuttering. I don't get why they get into shady business if they can't lie to save their asses.”
“Getting bored?” He asked, noticing the irritation in your voice.
“He made it so easy, Buck.”. You whined. “But good news, I have a new case for us.”
“That’s my girl.”
He squeezed your leg and then lowered himself onto the couch, lying down so you could spread over him. You shifted into a comfortable position, falling into the familiar position.
You continued talking about your day, with your chin propped up over his chest to keep your eyes on him. One of his hands caressed your back up and down, while the other was tucked under his head.
It was still early; in a few hours, you would have to go downstairs to the Nest — since the name had stuck — and oversee Yelena, Nina, and Peter patrolling on their own. Even though this new house, as well as the Nest, was run by FRIDAY, you still didn't feel comfortable delegating comms completely, which meant that you were back in the chair monitoring everything.
You relaxed in Bucky’s arms, feeling safe and protected. Once you were back in New York and your new work started, he had also made this moment part of your routine. Hearing you rant and yap about what happened during the day, and him telling you the same about his while he held you over his chest.
Eventually, once you were caught up with everything, the hands started to wander, as they usually did. It started innocently, his hand on your back brushing against your waistband. Your fingers that had been tracing figures on his chest as he talked, slowly moved to touch his jaw.
And then the kisses started, it was always unclear who initiated them, but in a fast second your lips found each other with a magnetic attraction. His hand fully groped your ass now, briefly lowering to grab your thigh and forcing you to straddle him, opening your legs more to allow some friction between the two.
His other hand found its place under your untucked blouse, touching your back, waist and making its way up your breast.
When things got even more heated, the grinding began. A jerk of his hips. A roll of your hips. A breathless moan between kisses.
You sat straight on his lap, ready to move to the next step of removing your clothes, when you froze.
A beat.
“You heard that?” You whispered, barely audible to a non-enhanced individual.
His metal hand squeezed your thigh once.
Yes.
Another sound came from outside.
He sat straight, almost knocking you out of his lap if he hadn't held your back steady. Both were now with your heads turned to the front door.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
You were off his lap in record time, without looking you pulled out a knife from under the couch.
You kept your breath steady, straining your hearing.
Someone was outside your home. That was for sure. Something that should have been impossible since the house was far from the main road and consequently, far from the fence and the gate.
No alarms had gone off, not even FRIDAY. The thought of having your house hacked made your stomach drop.
You didn't have to look behind you to know that Bucky had silently rushed to the kitchen exterior door, on his way to circle the house and position himself behind the unknown threat. Under your panic, you reminded yourself to tell Bucky that you had been right about planning drills for circumstances like this.
The knocks resumed when you got to the door. And placing the most charismatic mask that you could conjure, you opened the door with a smile, holding the knife behind your back.
“Jaime?” You almost choked on your saliva when you saw him outside.
“Miss Wayne! Thank God you're home!”
In front of you, under the light of your porch, stood an older version of your friend, Jaime Reyes. The teenager who had been helping you keep an eye on your family and Clark using the articles of the Daily Planet and several magazines.
“How did you know that I lived here?” You asked, careful to keep the warmth in your voice.
There was no way he was a sleeper agent of HYDRA. Right?
The grip on your knife tightened.
“Scarab told me.” He replied, and then the weirdest thing happened: he turned his head over his shoulder and muttered under his breath. “Hey! She's a friend, I told you we can trust her. That's why we are here, remember?” He returned his eyes to you, flashing a smile. “Sorry, I know you'd get mad, but I needed your help, well, Sparrow’s help, so Scarab tracked you down, and this was the —”
“Sparrow?”
“I know you're her.”
“Jaime, I think you—”
“Don't lie to me. I know as a fact that you are her. I,” you saw him doubt for a second. “Scarab hacked into your comms the other night… I recognized your voice.”
Okay, you had tons of questions, but you had to start with the first one that had been running through your mind.
”Who’s Scarab?”
Just as you asked, you saw Bucky positioning himself over his shoulder. Even if you made the effort of not following him with your eyes, it was as if Jaime had sensed him, because the next thing you knew, he was moving.
“Careful, Miss Wayne!” He exclaimed as he turned around, covering you with his body.
In a blink, his body was covered by a blue-and-black insect-like exosuit. Jaime lifted his arms, which had become energy blasters.
“Jaime! Don’t” You cried out, throwing yourself on his back and making him miss by an inch. The knife clanked as it hit the ground.
“Scarab! Stop!” Jaime said, stopping the sharp leg that came out of his back from piercing your skull.
“You have a lot to explain.” You said, looking at Jaime once he retracted his helmet.
“Yeah, I know,” he said, sheepishly.
Bucky approached carefully, tracking Jaime with his eyes as he positioned himself by your side.
“Long time no see,” Bucky told him, recognizing him from that morning he had taken you to the Daily Planet, before HYDRA attacked. “Are you okay, baby?” He mumbled to you.
“I’m okay.”
“Aww. I have forgotten he's your boyfriend. My apologies, I should have considered the possibility that you would get defensive. Scarab tends to override my control if there's danger.”
“You don't have full control.” You pointed out.
“Correct.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Most of the time I do, though.”
“Why are you here?” Bucky asked.
“I heard you're forming a team. I want to learn how to be a better hero, and what better way than with you two? Keep the city safe as you do.” Jaime said, and then he clasped his hands together in front of him. “Please, I promise I will train so hard and make you proud.”
You could feel Bucky staring at you, waiting for your decision.
You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose.
“Get inside, to the right, there's the common room, first you need to tell me more about,” you gestured to his exosuit, “all of this.”
“That’s a yes?”
“Get inside the house, Jaime.”
“Wah! Thank you! You won't regret it!” He rushed to you, hugged you, and then he rushed inside the house, leaving both of you outside.
Bucky kept his lips in a tight line, entertained by the whole interaction.
You gasped, realizing something.
“Oh my God, I’m turning into my dad.” You said, horrified.
Bucky chuckled, putting his arm over your shoulder and side-hugging you. “At least they have already outgrown the Robin mantle — only young adults for now. No kids. And so far, none of them call you Mom, that we know of.”
“Bucky!” You buried your face in your hands.
“I’m joking.” He laughed and then kissed your temple. “But think about this, they are 4, enough to let us train before we start working on filling every room with our own children.”
You turned to see him.
“Let’s get married first, can we?”
“I know, baby, as we planned. For now, just… practicing.” He said, pulling you close by your hip.
“Practice raising them?” You feigned innocence.
“That, and making them, of course.”
You snorted when he leaned in and buried his face in the crook of your neck.
“You really have a dirty mind, Bucky Barnes.”
“All your fault, Miss Wayne, you corrupted me. I was a good old 40’s innocent guy.” He bit your neck.
“Mhm, right.” You cradled his face. “I love you.” You whispered.
“I love you more.” He kissed you and then wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you up, walking blindly until he was at the doorstep, a snapshot that mirrored your first kiss.
Hand in hand, you walked back inside, closing the door behind you.
The future was uncertain, especially with your lifestyle, but one thing was sure — you had the best partner that you could have wished for. Someone who would have your back in every context and, more importantly, someone who loved you reciprocally,
Not because you were Miss Wayne, Batgirl, Sparrow, or the soldier you were raised to be, but because you were you.
And you loved him back as well — the Avenger, the hero, the Sergeant, the soldier, the survivor, your partner.
Every version of you.
Every version of him.
Loved.
Fin.
a/n: pictures taken from pinterest only for aesthethic purposes, dividers made in canva by me.
Thank you so much for reading! I'll miss these two so much, so don't get surprised if one day I come back to this AU for some one-shots or drabbles. (If anyone has any requests, my asks are open! I'll do my best!)
To those who stayed chapter by chapter, thank you so much! I couldn't have done this without you. Reading your comments, feedback, or just seeing your user in my notifications helped me a lot, and kept me motivated to keep writing!
I hope you enjoyed their journey as much as I did. I love you so much
- Bubu
if you liked it, feel free to leave a like, rb, a comment, or an ask! I'd love to read your thoughts!
taglist: @satelluna @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 @erina00 (+ comment on this post to be added to the taglist)
"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!
First of all, Bubu baby, thank you for such an amazing work! I can't believe you have us this... AND FOR FREE?!
Im not even a fan of DC but this series made me re-consider it for how well explained the characters were...
Bubu, I think I've told you everything during the reading process but this made me threatening you with a good two or three punches... but it was all worth it!!!
I can't express how in love I am with how passionate you were with this. Im gonna miss it on my daily work out or staying late at night to read it!
Oh and a Warning! If you all are gonna read it... the slow burn IT'S SLOOOOOOOOOOW. (JUST HOW I LIKE IT)
pairing: Frank Langdon x Mel King (mention of Mel King x John Shen)
wc: 3074
summary: Rumor has it that a night shift attending and a day shift resident are engaged. Frank's mind quickly jumps to the conclusion that said rumor is about Mel and John — the problem isn't that she's his friend and didn't tell him, but that he has fallen for her and feels that he has lost his chance, even if he had already lost hope.
warnings/tags: angst, light fluff, emotional hurt/ no comfort, character study, not actually unrequited love, ambiguous/open ending, miscommunication, not canon compliant - the pitt (tv), inspired by The Truth Untold (BTS), english isn't my first language
Read on AO3 | Navigation | The Pitt Masterlist
In the time Frank had been working at the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center, he had learned several things. From medical interventions to many ways to improve his bedside manners, to mundane things like the perfect caffeine intake to let him power through a shift, or the most efficient footwear to stay on his feet for long hours.
One thing he had also learned is that gossip, especially hot, juicy gossip, travels fast. He could compare it to a virus; someone could say something in an apparent private spot, and next thing you know, every member of the staff — and sometimes even patients — knew about it, both in the ER and on the higher floors of the medical center.
It had also become a skill to distinguish factual gossip from gossip that had suffered from its phone-to-phone kind of spreading. Frank, personally, was proud of himself for having mastered said skill.
Maybe that's why his blood ran cold the moment he heard a night shift nurse gossiping near the lockers that morning.
“I’m telling you, the night shift’s attending proposed this weekend! — Yes! Of course, with that resident on the day shift, with whom else? They hadn’t been dating for so long, but it seems that nothing can keep them apart.”
If Frank hadn't already been kneeling to put his stuff in his locker, he might as well fall on his knees right there.
They can be talking about anyone.
He tried to convince himself, as he took more time than necessary to accommodate his backpack inside the compartment.
“Does over a year seem like a short time for you? They started dating after —”
After the Pitt Fest.
Frank completed in unison in his mind. He sucked a breath in, closing his eyes. He had to stop himself from closing the locker door too hard.
“Wait, but don't say anything, apparently they don't want people to know, yet. I saw her saving the ring in her locker when she arrived.”
This wasn't happening.
There was no way.
He left the room with a much quicker pace than he wanted, as if running from the conversation would undo the facts.
It didn't.
"What's with the long face, kid?" Dana asked from her spot at the hub the moment he approached.
"I'm fine. It's nothing." He rested his forearms on the counter.
“Whatever you need, I’m here. I know that divorce can be hard.” She softened her voice.
He huffed.
“That’s an understatement.”
“Have you figured out the custody yet?” She removed her glasses, recalling the last time he had opened up about his personal life in the break room.
He sighed.
“We're getting there. It's difficult to get to a settlement considering my work hours.”
“You’ll get there.” Dana gave him a soft smile and then put back her glasses. She started talking about something, looking down at some papers, but his attention was elsewhere.
The source of his dreams. Next to the source of his nightmares.
Dr. Mel King and Dr. John Shen, standing side by side across the hub.
Bilis went up Frank’s throat.
“You listening to me, Langdon?” Dana called him. She followed his eyes, finding the couple talking, when she turned back to see him, there was a pity look on her face.
“I know.” He choked out. “I’ll go to see if Abbot is ready for the handoff.”
Dana tracked him with her eyes as he disappeared into the chaos of the early morning in the emergency department.
She was probably the only one who knew directly from him about his affliction with Mel — at least in ED, since he had shared his feelings with Yoyo over brunch a few months after his suspension.
Mel had gained a special place in his heart long before he was even conscious of it. She had been like a bath of sunlight during that shift, and she had remained being for the next months as his life turned on its axis.
She had reached out, of course, a couple of days after his downfall.
“You don't need to tell me the details, but I'm here if you need someone to talk…” Her text had read.
They kept texting from there, at first he had kept it vague about his absence in the Pitt. But eventually he confessed. He had been afraid, rightfully so, that it would change things, that the knowledge of him succumbing to his addiction and his wrongdoings would push her away.
It didn't.
In fact, it strengthened their bond.
She stood by him as his whole world shattered. The divorce had come sooner than he expected, things hadn't been good with Abby for months, and his suspension had been the final nail in the coffin of his marriage.
They had met briefly during his rehabilitation, but it had been enough for her to find a permanent home in his heart.
Frank wondered if Mel pulling away would have hurt more than the current situation.
Because 10 months later, at the end of his first shift back, something he had been brushing off hit him like a truck.
“What are you doing out here?” Frank asked, stepping out into the ambulance bay.
“I was just talking with my sister while I wait for my ride; she’s staying at her boyfriend’s tonight.” Mel put her phone back into her back pocket.
“Is that a good thing? Earlier seemed… complicated.”
“It's still complicated. Since my parents died, I’ve been focusing so much on her and her well-being. Finding out she was hiding something like this,” Mel sucked a breath in, “but I can't be mad at her, not if I’ve been doing the same.”
Frank lifted his eyebrows in surprise.
Mel pressed her lips into a thin line, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her shirt.
A beat passed.
“I haven't been completely honest with her either.”
“Mel…”
“I feel like the worst person on the planet, you know? My sister trusts me to take care of her, and what was I doing? Lying to her?” Her breathing became rapid and shallow. “This has been going on for months, and I—”
“Mel, hey, easy, breath. It's just me.” Frank searched her eyes, breathing with her.
“I’ve been seeing someone.” The words stumbled out of her mouth rapidly, and Frank had to make sure he had heard correctly. “At first it was nothing, it was supposed to be nothing but —”
“Then it wasn't?”
She nodded.
“It was meant to be casual, a week after my first shift on the Pitt. He asked me out, and I said yes. ”
A week…
Frank forced himself to keep his composure.
A week after that day, Frank had begun texting with her.
“I needed a break. I realized how much I was missing out on my life that I… I said yes. And now — well, we've been dating for quite some time now.”
Frank felt as if he had received a punch on his stomach.
“I’m sorry I never told you, either. As I said, at first it was nothing, but things escalated quickly. Abby had just asked you for a divorce, and I didn't want you to feel uncomfortable with me —”
“Having a love life that wasn't crumbling down?” He completed.
Mel looked at him apologetically, the corners of her mouth curled up shyly.
“Yeah, something like that. There wasn't a really good time to tell you that.”
“Melissa, I’m your friend.” Something in his chest twisted at that. “There's nothing else in the world that I’d like more than you being happy.”
“Really?”
“Really. That being said, are you?”
“Am I what?” She furrowed her eyebrows.
“Are you happy?”
This time, she let her smile shine. “Yeah. I am.”
He inhaled through his nose. “Then I’m happy too.”
There was that tightening in his chest again.
“When can I meet the lucky guy?”
“About that…”
A car stopped on the opposite side of the street. Mel tilted her body to catch sight of the car and waved.
“I'd better go now. Have a good night, Frank.” She picked up her backpack and crossed the road as Frank echoed her goodbye.
Just as Frank was about to enter the building, he watched in shock as John Shen stepped out of the car, took Mel’s backpack, and kissed her on the cheek before opening the passenger door for her.
The memory still haunted him to this day. Sometimes it was easy to forget. Thanks to the rapid pace at the ED and the way Mel was private about her life, they rarely talked about her relationship unless the topic was brought up or asked directly. He had been shocked to learn that HR already had knowledge of the relationship, and that it hadn't been brought up during the whole shift by anyone, at least not to him, knowing how fast gossip traveled there.
The times they hung out together after a shift with Shen were scarce since he was on the night shift and could only join during his off days. And even if he preferred to smash his head on a wall rather than watch his crush with her boyfriend, Frank had to suck up his feelings and be a good friend to Mel.
A few hours into the shift, Mel found Frank in the break room. He wasn't ready to talk about Mel marrying Shen, so of course, he opted to avoid her, which hadn't been difficult after working on several trauma patients back-to-back.
“Hey, you.”Mel took the seat across from him. “I feel like I have barely seen you today.”
“Busy day, what can I say?” Frank mumbled, staring down at the napkin he had been tearing with his fingers. There was a pile next to his hands with several pieces.
Mel hummed, her frown deepening with concern.
“Are you sure you are okay?”
“I am. I promise.”
“Did Robby say something again?” It wouldn't be the first time the he closed off after a clash with Robby.
“He always does.” Frank lifted his face, finally meeting her eyes. "I'm fine, Mel."
“Can you blame me for worrying? You're my friend.”
Ouch.
Frank tightened his hold on the napkin.
“How are you? You seem off today.”
Mel widened his eyes, stunned by the change of topic. Frank once joked that she looked like a deer in headlights. A cute, pretty deer. The last part he hadn't said out loud.
“I - I don't know what you're talking about.” She stuttered, her cheeks turned red under his scrutiny.
Frank tilted his head, wearing the smug smile that always appeared when he made Mel this nervous. He sobered up once he realized what Mel was hiding from him.
A ring.
Her engagement.
His smug smile dropped, softening into a faint smile. “I think you do.” He mumbled. “But I won't pry, I’m here whenever you want to talk.”
That seemed to relieve some nervousness in Mel.
“Thank you, Frank.” She smiled, “I can say the same.”
Dana knocked on the door a beat later, urging them to receive a trauma patient and forcing them to go back to work. The day passed by without many hiccups. Frank and Mel got back to their usual synergy, working side by side. Things between them got even more tense.
Frank caught Mel staring at him almost as much as he looked at her without her noticing. Dana had called him out when he had almost stumbled over an occupied wheelchair while scanning the room in search of his favorite blonde. When they were talking with each other, outside of the medical talk, they stumbled over their words.
Frank had to remind himself that his best friend, his crush, was getting married, and that the crush he had been harboring for a little over a year needed to be buried and forgotten for good.
But God, all he wanted to do was to kiss her and tell her to forget about Shen, that he could be a better man for her. Did he believe it? Not really. Frank knew he was flawed. His flaws had been what had stopped him from acting on his feelings the moment he realized Mel meant more to him.
He knew that she deserved better. And it pained him that he couldn't be that. For months, he had struggled to trust himself and his medical abilities. He still wondered if his addiction had done more damage to him than he had pondered. He knew the weight of his addiction and his recovery; he knew the shame it brought, and the exhaustive self-checking.
The constant thought that poisoned his mind: Is this the day he relapsed?
He couldn't do that to Mel.
He knew how it would end. He had lived it with Abby. He had hurt her. He had hurt his kids.
He couldn't lose her.
The ambulance bay was empty when Frank stepped out later that day. The shift was going to end in a few hours, so he had enough time to mentally prepare to see Mel and Shen together again. He had practically run out as soon as he overheard Samira asking Mel about her relationship — he definitely didn't need the reminder, so he didn't stay to hear her reply.
To no one's surprise, Mel found him in record time. He had to bite back his smile the moment he saw her stepping out; just a few hours ago, someone had teased about them being attached to the hip.
“Miss me already?” Frank teased when her eyes found him.
She blushed.
“I needed a minute, nothing to do with you.” Mel defended herself.
Frank placed a hand over his heart and threw his head back. “You wound me. Here I thought I was your best friend.”
Mel chuckled, approaching him. “You are. Just don't let anyone else hear that.”
“My lips are a tomb.” He gestured, zipping his mouth with two fingers. “How are you? Really? Do you need me to leave to have a second alone?”
“No, no. Don't go.” She said rapidly. “I mean — I’m just stressed, that's all… confused,” Mel muttered, frowning as she stared at the ground.
Frank couldn't hide his surprise.
“Well, Mel. The good thing is that I have experience, so I can help you.”
Her frown deepened.
“You do?”
Frank gave her a curt nod. “Yes.” Then squinted his eyes. “Well, kinda, Abby did most of the planning, and since we did it so fast, it was small and simple, more private — but I do remember a thing or two!”
Mel stared at him as if he had grown an extra head.
“What are you talking about?”
“The wedding.”
“Whose wedding?”
“Your wedding.”
“My wedding?” She pointed at herself, emphasizing each word.
Frank forced a smile.
“Of course, whose else?”
“I think I’m missing some information here — if not all.”
Frank’s smile dropped, finally noticing the genuine confusion and discomfort in Mel’s entire body. “You don't know?” She shook her head. “I heard this morning…” He closed his mouth.
“Continue.”
Frank dragged his hand over his face. “I heard this morning that a night shift attending and a day shift resident got engaged this weekend."
“And it didn't occur to you to ask me directly? Or even thought of the other couple that matched that description?”
Frank closed his eyes, ashamed.
Of course, he hadn't thought of Abbot and Samira, who had been dating almost as long as Mel and John.
“Mel…”
“I was just talking about that with Samira; she doesn't know where the rumor came from. They are not getting married. Neither Dr. Shen nor I.”
Wait.
Dr. Shen?
Since when in a private setting did she refer to her partner like that? He was always John or Shen, Doctor was exclusive when it came to patients or formal paperwork.
“You are not getting married.” His voice quivered.
She shook her head. “I’m not. Did you really think I would hide that from you? Had that been true?”
“You didn't tell me about dating him in the first place.” He said.
“Right.” Mel looked away from him, to the busy street.
A pregnant silence followed, both staring at the cars that were passing by, with their hands buried in their pockets to hide their fidgeting. Back inside, the hospital kept running, outside, it felt as if the world had stopped breathing, waiting.
Frank could say whatever he wanted.
He could ask Mel about what was bothering her, and if it was related to her relationship… or past relationship, if his theory was correct.
He could take the conversation to any other topic they had found as common ground in all these months, ask her about that movie she told him she wanted to see, or invite her even if she hadn't gone yet.
He could tell her of the Renaissance event he had heard about on Facebook, out of all places.
He could ask about Becca, but that would probably sidetrack them back into the topic of relationships.
He could say anything and hear her talk about whatever she wanted.
Frank could confess his feelings.
Instead of any of that, as sirens were heard in the distance, Frank turned to her and asked:
“If he had asked… would you have said yes?”
Mel blinked and slowly turned to him.
Frank gulped, staring from her open mouth to her eyes. His tongue darted out of his mouth, wetting his lips.
Mel’s reply was on the tip of her tongue.
A single word.
Simple and direct, not leaving a doubt about where she stood.
“Would you marry him?” He insisted.
Mel let out a shaky breath, her mouth gaped, struggling to utter a word.
“I —”
An ambulance stormed into the ambulance bay, sirens blasting. The doors opened, and the paramedic inside rapidly began gathering the patient's information and their status as soon as they saw them standing out there, all while lowering the gurney.
Frank and Mel broke from their stupor, assuming back their roles as emergency doctors, asking questions and their minds running over their medical knowledge to find a better treatment for the newcomer patient.
Whatever Mel was going to say remained a secret. As well as Frank’s confession. They would probably resume their conversation as soon as the shift ended and one of them had the guts to reopen their dialogue.
From the rest of their shift, however, their truth would remain untold.
a/n: my first kingdon fic and of course is angst without a happy ending, for now im planning a MCU x The Pitt crossover (Bucky Barnes x Reader) so expect that soon
taglist: @buckysdecaflove @kileyking @sassandscribbles (+ comment on this post to be added to the taglist)
ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ › bucky moves into your spare room expecting nothing more than four walls and a place to sleep. instead, he finds floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, sticky note conversations, late-night takeout, and a girl who always puts herself last.
ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ › roommate!bucky x female reader
ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ › roommates trope, post tfatws, sticky note communication, friends to lovers, roommates to lovers, slow burn, domestic fluff, many many hot dog mentions, anxiety, work stress/burnout, author has mini geek speak moments, anthropology reader, emotional intimacy, quiet romance, self-doubt, mild emotional hurt/comfort, sticky note love language, reader insecurity, loneliness, not beta read we die like men.
ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ › 11.3k
ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ › and they were roommates.... oh my god they were roommates
The number sits in his phone for three days before he uses it.
Three days of bad apartments and worse brokers. Places with paper-thin walls and windows that looked directly into brick. Places that smelled like mildew and old cigarettes. Places so expensive they made his jaw lock before the realtor even finished speaking.
He tells himself he's only looking because he has to. Not because he misses hearing another person in the next room. Not because going back to the apartment in Brooklyn every night feels too much like walking into a museum exhibit dedicated to a man he doesn't know how to be anymore.
Louisiana had almost made sense for a second.
He can still picture the dock at sunset, the water catching orange light, the sound of Sam's nephews shouting somewhere down the road. He can still hear Sam leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, pretending not to look too concerned.
“You could stay here for a while,” Sam had said.
“No.”
“You don't even gotta stay with me. The VA's offering assistance out here now. They can help you get your own place.”
“No.”
Sam had looked at him for a long second then, the kind of look people get right before they decide whether or not to push.
“You know, accepting help doesn't mean you're weak.”
Bucky had laughed once under his breath, sharp and humorless. “Not taking charity.”
“It ain't charity.”
“Feels like it.”
Sam had sighed through his nose, digging through a kitchen drawer before pulling out a scrap of paper with a number scribbled across it.
“I know somebody in New York. Friend of mine has a spare room.”
Bucky remembers immediately opening his mouth to refuse, Sam had beaten him to it.
“You won't be coddled or given the sugar treatment,” he said. “You'll pay rent, keep your mess clean, same as anywhere else. I bet you'll like it too.”
That had been the only reason Bucky took the number at all.
Now, three days later, he stares at it again from the edge of a too-small hotel bed in Queens. The room hums around him. Old air conditioner rattling in the window. Pipes knocking somewhere in the walls. The smell of industrial detergent trapped in the sheets.
He types the message before he can talk himself out of it.
Sam Wilson gave me your number. He said you had a room for rent.
The response comes less than ten minutes later, not much text, no small talk. Just a picture. The room is simple. Bigger than he expected. A bed frame without a mattress, a dresser by the wall, a window overlooking the street below. Hardwood floors. Clean lines. Nothing flashy.
Underneath the picture is the address and rent amount. Reasonable, more than reasonable, honestly.
Then another message.
He told me you'd message. If you're interested, you can come look at it tomorrow. I work late tonight.
What would probably seem forward to others Bucky sees as efficient, Sam's recommendation is starting to make sense now. The building is in Brooklyn, far enough from the center of everything to be quiet but not isolated. The brick outside is old, the kind that has survived decades without anybody bothering to make it prettier.
There is a sticky note taped to the front door when he gets there.
Spare key is under the plant. Let yourself in.
He stares at the note for a second longer than he needs to. Something about it feels strangely normal. The kind of thing people do when they trust that the world isn't always waiting to hurt them.
The apartment is quiet when he steps inside, his shoes echoing off the walls. It's not empty per say, just still.
There are a pair of sneakers and loafers by the door lined up neatly on a tray. A light jacket tossed over the back of the couch, s mug sitting in the sink, a blanket folded over the armrest like somebody had smoothed it down before rushing out the door.
The place is nice. Not too fancy, not overly cluttered. There are soft colors everywhere. Cream walls. Warm wood floors. A kitchen with magnets on the fridge and a bowl of fruit on the counter. It feels lived in in small ways, like somebody exists here just hardly.
The bedroom at the end of the hall is bigger than he expected. Master bedroom with a bathroom attached, an amenity he hadn't lived with in too many years to count. Enough room for his duffel bags and the few boxes he still carries from place to place without unpacking.
But it isn't the room that makes him stop.
It's the hallway.
Bookshelves run from floor to ceiling along both sides of it, turning the narrow stretch between the living room and bedrooms into something else entirely. There are hundreds of books. Maybe more. Old hardcovers with cracked spines. Paperbacks with folded corners. New glossy editions wedged beside books that look older than he is.
His eyes catch on familiar titles. The Great Gatsby, A Farewell to Arms, The Hobbit. A worn copy of The Catcher in the Rye sits crooked on a shelf near the middle. Some of the older books have faded cloth covers, titles nearly rubbed away with time. He reaches out before he can stop himself, fingertips brushing the spine of one that looks like it has been opened a hundred times.
It reassures him in a way he can't explain. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, he can picture himself somewhere without immediately wanting to leave.
He pulls his phone out.
Nice place. I'll take it if it's still up for offer.
The reply comes before he even reaches the kitchen.
It's all yours. Lease is on the kitchen counter. Bring your stuff in whenever. I won't be back until late again.
He looks over at the stack of papers sitting beside the fruit bowl. A little strange and fast, maybe. But he isn't complaining. The lease is simple. Month to month, rent due on the first. No smoking inside, clean up after yourself. No coffee grounds down the drain.
That last one almost makes him smile.
He signs his name at the bottom then he goes back downstairs to start bringing his things in. Which, after a century of life, turns out to be less than he thought it'd be. It only takes him three days to move in.
Three days of hauling boxes up narrow stairs and carrying duffel bags that feel heavier than they should. Three days of unpacking only half of his things because there isn't much point in settling too deeply into anywhere anymore.
He never sees you once.
The first night, he hears the front door unlock sometime after midnight, quiet footsteps, the soft rustle of a jacket being hung up. Cabinet doors opening and closing in the kitchen. He stands frozen in the doorway of his room for a second, listening.
Then he hears the bathroom door shut down the hall and waits for some awkward introduction that never comes. By the time he wakes up the next morning, you're gone again.
There is a sticky note on the fridge.
Working late all week. Feel free to use anything in the kitchen except the leftover Chinese food. Learned that lesson already.
He pulls the note off the fridge after reading it, folding it once before sticking it in the pocket of his sweatshirt without really knowing why.
The second note comes two days later, left beside the coffee maker.
Heading upstate for work tomorrow. Back Friday night.
Then another on the kitchen counter.
If the sink in the kitchen makes that awful screeching noise again, jiggle the cold water handle.
It's strange, living with someone he has never met.
You exist in pieces to him. A mug left drying by the sink, a pair of shoes by the door one night and gone again by morning, a blanket folded on the couch in a different way than he remembers leaving it.
The faint smell of shampoo lingering in the hallway bathroom after he knows you've been home.
Sometimes he catches the sound of you moving around at night. The creak of floorboards in the hall. The soft thud of something being set on the kitchen counter. Once, half asleep, he hears quiet music drifting from somewhere in the apartment before it disappears again.
You are becoming something blurry around the edges, more presence than person, a ghost.
Not that he's one to complain. The arrangement works and for the first few weeks, he mostly keeps to his room anyway. He gets used to the attached bathroom. The way the pipes knock whenever somebody runs hot water. The patch of afternoon sun that lands across the floor by the window around three o'clock every day.
He unpacks slowly. One shirt at a time, one book at a time. He leaves most of his things in boxes because it feels safer that way. Temporary. Like if he has to leave suddenly, he can.
He still goes out most nights, he doesn't cook much.
The kitchen feels too personal somehow, like crossing into territory that belongs more to you than him. So he eats at diners, cheap takeout places, little delis with too-bright lights and menus that haven't changed in twenty years.
Eventually he starts stopping at the same hot dog stand three blocks from the apartment. The guy who runs it is older. Loud, talks too much, calls everyone sweetheart regardless of age or gender. The first time Bucky goes there, the guy takes one look at him and says, “You look like you need two hot dogs and a nap.”
By the third visit, he doesn't even have to order.
“Mustard, onions, no kraut,” the guy says, already reaching for the buns. “And a Coke.”
“You're getting too comfortable,” Bucky tells him.
“You keep showing up, that's on you.”
He reminds Bucky of Sam if Sam were louder and somehow even more annoying.
The guy asks questions constantly.
You got a girl? No. Job? Sort of. Why do you always look like somebody just kicked your dog?
Bucky never answers half of them, still, he keeps coming back. Mostly because the hot dogs are decent. Partly because it is nice, sometimes, to have somebody expect you to show up somewhere.
Back at the apartment, another sticky note waits for him on the kitchen counter.
Sorry for basically haunting the place. Work has been insane lately.
He stares at it for a second, then longer than that. A ghost with good handwriting, at least now he knows you know it too.
The first time he sees you, it feels a little like walking into the wrong apartment.
He comes back later than usual, the city already washed in blue evening light, a paper tray from the hot dog stand balanced in one hand and a soda in the other. The apartment door sticks a little when he pushes it open.
He hears your voice before he sees you. It's soft, firm yet an edge of exhaustion to it.
“You can tell them whatever you want, but I'm not driving six hours for a meeting that could've been an email.”
He stops just inside the doorway.
You're standing by the living room windows with your back to him, one arm folded across your middle, phone tucked between your ear and shoulder.
For a second, he just stares. Because he had almost forgotten, not completely, but enough. Enough that your existence had turned into sticky notes and moving shadows in the hallway. Coffee mugs in the sink. A coat that appeared on the hook by the door and disappeared again before morning.
He had built you into something abstract in his head.
Not a real person.
Certainly not a woman.
Not because Sam had said otherwise. Sam hadn't said much at all.
Just because there had been nothing obvious about you in the apartment. No perfume bottles cluttering the bathroom counter. No makeup bags. No floral blankets or pastel throw pillows or whatever other lazy stereotypes his brain had apparently reached for without him realizing it.
The place is sparse, practical. Books and soft lighting and a single plant by the window that looks one missed watering away from death. He mentally scolds himself for the assumptions.
You don't turn around right away, you're still talking and Bucky begins to wonder if he should walk out. Keep to the ghostly sticky notes and mugs in the sink.
“Yeah, well, that's not my problem,” you say into the phone, quieter now. “I sent everything over already.”
Then your eyes flick toward the entryway. Toward him.
You freeze.
It happens so quickly he almost misses it. The slight widening of your eyes. The way your mouth parts for a second before you catch yourself. It's clear you hadn't expected to see him either.
“Hold on,” you murmur into the phone.
For a second, neither of you says anything.
You are not what he expected either. You're standing barefoot on the hardwood floor with your heels kicked off next to you, hair a little messy like you've been running your hands through it all day and a suitskirt that's been smoothed down one too many times.
There are tired shadows under your eyes that make you look… real. Not like the blurry version of you he'd made up from scraps. He realizes, distantly, that this is probably the first time you've really seen him too. Not just the sound of boots in the hallway or the evidence of him in the sink.
The metal arm. The size of him. The way he takes up space without meaning to.
You recover first.
“Sorry,” you say, pulling the phone away from your mouth. “I didn't know you were coming home.”
“Yeah.”Brilliant move.
You blink at him once, then glance down at the hot dog tray in his hand. “Hope that's not dinner.”
He looks down too. “It was the plan.”
You huff a laugh through your nose, small and tired. “You eat like a divorced dad.”
He doesn't know why that almost makes him smile. Into the phone, you say, “I have to call you back,” before hanging up without waiting for an answer.
The apartment goes quiet, not awkward exactly. Well it's a little awkward but it's more unfamiliar than anything. Up close, he notices things he couldn't piece together from the notes. You look younger than he expected. Softer too, somehow. Not fragile, just... warm around the edges, like somebody people trust without thinking about it.
“Sorry about that,” you say, gesturing vaguely with your phone. “Work call, you know. I, uh... didn't expect it to go like this.”
There's something awkward in the air still, that strange lingering feeling of two people trying to fit reality over the outline they'd already made of each other.
“Don't worry about it.”
You shift your phone into one hand and hold the other out toward him.
“I don't think we've actually been properly introduced.” You say, offering your name. He looks down at your hand for a second before taking it carefully.
“No. I don't think we have.” His hand slips from yours after only a moment. “I'm Bucky.”
“I know. I suppose that's mainly my fault.” You give him a small apologetic smile. “I'm sorry. My job is very… time demanding and that won't really be changing anytime soon. But I'm glad to meet you, Bucky.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Good to meet you too.”
Silence settles between you again, not uncomfortable, just unsure. Then both of you speak at once.
“So what do you do?”
“How are you liking the place?”
You stop. He stops.
“Sorry,” he says, motioning for you to go first.
“I was just asking how you're liking the place.” Your arms fold loosely over yourself again. “Have you settled in well?”
“Oh, yeah.” He nods once. “Place is great. Thank you.”
And it is.
He likes the quiet. The neighborhood. The bookshelves. The fact that the apartment feels like somewhere a person could stay for a while without being swallowed by it.
You smile a little at his answer. “Good.”
More silence, then you clear your throat slightly.
“And you? Were gonna say...?”
“Oh.” He glances down for a second like he'd forgotten his own question. “I was just wondering what you do... that's so...” He makes a vague motion with one hand. “Time demanding.”
“Oh. Right.” You shift your weight against the windowsill. “I work in the anthropology division at the American Museum of Natural History.”
He blinks once. “Wow.”
You laugh softly at the look on his face.
“That sounds awesome.”
“It used to be,” you say with a wry little smile. “Now it's mostly a thousand phone calls and endless trips upstate to deal with the collections.”
He leans back slightly against the doorframe.
“If you work down there, why live in Brooklyn?” he asks. “Nasty commute.”
You glance around the apartment like you haven't looked at it properly in a while.
“I got this place before I got that job,” you say. “And I liked it.” Then, quieter, “Still like it.”
Your eyes move briefly toward the hallway. Toward the bookshelves, the kitchen, the little corners of the apartment that feel soft even when no one's in them.
“That's actually why I wanted a roommate,” you admit. “I love this place, and I want it to be loved, but...” You shrug one shoulder. “I just don't have the time to do that.”
Something in his chest shifts a little at that, because he understands. More than he wants to. What it feels like to care about something and still not know how to be present for it.
“Well,” he says, voice quieter now, “I'll... I'll do my best.”
You smile then, not the tired, polite kind you've been giving him all evening. Something warmer. Something that catches him off guard a little, like maybe you believe him.
“I'm sorry I've basically been living here like some weird cryptid,” you say. “Work's been insane.”
“You leave good notes.”
The second the words leave his mouth, he wants them back.
Your eyebrows lift. “That's maybe the weirdest compliment I've ever gotten.”
You open your mouth, like you're about to say something else, then your phone rings. The sound cuts through the room sharply. You look down at the screen and make a face.
“Sorry,” you say, already answering it. “I have to take this.”
“Yeah. Sure.”
You offer him one last apologetic smile before turning and disappearing down the hallway toward your bedroom.
A second later he hears your door close softly, then your voice again through the wall. Professional, calm and little tired. He stands in the entryway for another minute after that, hot dog gone cold in his hand. The apartment feels different now, smaller somehow. Not because there is less space. Just because now, finally, you are real.
The apartment feels different after he meets you.
Not immediately and nothing dramatic.
You still leave before sunrise some mornings, slipping out with your bag over your shoulder and your hair still damp from the shower. You still come home long after dark, moving quietly through the apartment like you're trying not to wake someone even when he isn't asleep.
But now there is shape to your absence. Before, the apartment had just been quiet, now it feels empty. Bucky notices things he shouldn't. Whether your shoes are by the door, whether the light under your bedroom door is on.
The difference between the sound of the upstairs neighbors moving furniture and the sound of you dropping your keys onto the kitchen counter.
He lingers in the kitchen longer now too. Sometimes with coffee growing cold in his hands while he leans against the counter pretending not to listen for the front door. Sometimes he catches himself glancing toward the hallway whenever the building creaks.
You still leave notes. One waits for him on the fridge Tuesday morning, tucked beneath a magnet shaped like a pear.
Upstate again. Back Thursday night. There's soup in the fridge if it hasn't gone bad.
He stares at it for a second, then longer than that. Before he can overthink it, he grabs a pen from the junk drawer and flips the note over.
Soup is still alive. I think.
He leaves it on the counter and immediately regrets it. Wondering if it's too weird, or too familiar. But when he gets back from a walk later that night, the note is gone.
Thursday comes, then Thursday night. He is standing in the kitchen making coffee he doesn't need when he hears the front door unlock. You walk in looking exhausted. Hair messy, tote bag slipping off your shoulder, coat half falling down your arms.
You stop when you see him.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
Your eyes land on the counter and you laugh. It's quiet, tired around the edges, but real.
“Soup still alive?” you ask.
“Barely.”
You drop your bag onto a chair.
“Well.” You glance toward the fridge. “Soup can't technically expire if you're brave enough.”
Bucky blinks, you smile a little wider and something warm settles low in his chest.
After that, the notes become something else. Not just reminders but conversations. You leave one on the coffee maker.
Radiator makes weird banging noises around midnight. Ignore it unless it sounds haunted.
He leaves one by the fruit bowl the next morning.
Upstairs neighbors were fighting at 2 a.m. Pretty sure someone threw a lamp.
Another day:
Please water the plant by the window before it starts holding a grudge.
He forgets. Two days later, there is another note waiting beside the drooping leaves.
You had one job.
Bucky snorts to himself, then digs out a pen.
Sorry. It does kinda look like one bad day away from death.
You leave back:
So do I.
He folds that note into the pocket of his jacket and carries it around for three days. Slowly, without either of you meaning for it to happen, the notes stop being practical.
One afternoon he comes home to find one waiting by the sink.
New coffee filters are under the sink. Also, if you ate my leftover pad thai I forgive you because it was probably bad anyway.
He smiles before he can stop himself, then writes back underneath it.
Didn't eat it. Thought about it though.
The next morning there is another note sitting beside the coffee pot.
I appreciate your honesty in this difficult time.
And just like that, the apartment doesn't feel quite so empty anymore.
As great as everything else is, Bucky gets tired of hot dogs eventually.
Not completely. He still goes to the stand a few times a week, still listens to the guy behind the cart talk too loud and ask too many questions, but after a while the thought of another hot dog starts to make him feel vaguely ill.
So one night he cooks, nothing complicated. Just pasta.
Too much of it, because he has never quite figured out how to cook for one person and because some part of him has started thinking in twos without permission.
The apartment smells different afterward, warmer. Like garlic and tomato sauce and something softer underneath it.
He leaves you a bowl in the fridge with a note stuck to the top.
Made too much. There's pasta in the fridge if you want it.
You don't come home until after midnight. He's already in bed when he hears the faint sounds of you moving around in the kitchen.
The fridge opening, a plate clinking against the counter. Silence. Then the microwave.
The next morning, he wakes up to a note sitting beside the coffee maker.
This is the first non-takeout meal I've had in two weeks. Marry me?
He stares at it for an embarrassing amount of time. Long enough that his coffee goes cold. Long enough that he folds the note once, then again, before sliding it into the drawer beside his bed with the others.
After that, you start seeing each other more. Not on purpose exactly. Just in the little spaces between everything else. Six in the morning in the kitchen while the city outside is still gray and quiet.
You standing in one of his sweatshirts that got mixed up in the laundry over leggings, blinking sleepily into your coffee cup while he leans against the counter waiting for toast to pop up.
Passing each other in the hallway at night. Your shoulder brushing his as you move around each other in the narrow space between the dining room and kitchen.
Once, on a rainy Thursday, you both end up home at the same time. You sit on opposite ends of the couch, you with your laptop balanced on your knees, him with a book open in his lap.
The television hums quietly in the background, something neither of you is actually watching. At some point, without looking up from your screen, you stretch your legs out until your socked feet bump lightly against his thigh.
You don't move them away. Neither does he and slowly, you become easier around each other. You stop apologizing every time you leave dishes in the sink. He stops retreating to his room the second he hears you come home.
One night he brings back burgers and fries from a diner down the street.
You appear in the kitchen halfway through, hair damp from the shower, looking at his takeout bag like it personally offended you that he didn't ask if you wanted anything.
“Rude,” you say.
“You weren't home yet.”
“You could've texted.”
He tears the bag open and slides the fries toward you. You grin immediately and steal three before he even sits down.
“You're lucky you're cute,” he mutters.
You freeze for half a second, then keep eating like you didn't hear him. He fixes the sink handle one weekend after it starts making that awful screeching noise every time you turn it.
You come home to find him under the sink with a wrench in one hand and his sleeves pushed up to his elbows.
“What are you doing?”
“Fixing it.”
You lean in the doorway watching him for a second. “You know, normal people usually just call maintenance.”
“Normal people don't have metal arms.”
That makes you laugh. “Fair point.”
Then one evening he comes home and finds you asleep on the couch. The apartment is dark except for the lamp in the corner, there are papers everywhere. Open folders spread across the coffee table. A legal pad on the floor. Your laptop still glowing beside you, your glasses sit crooked on your face, one hand is still wrapped loosely around a pen.
You look exhausted. Like you've simply run out of steam halfway through existing. He stands there for a second longer than he means to, then quietly sets his keys down.
He grabs the blanket folded over the arm of the couch and drapes it carefully over you.
You stir a little, brows furrowing, but you don't wake up. His hand lingers for half a second near your shoulder before he pulls it back. Then he turns off the kitchen light and disappears down the hallway.
The next morning, the blanket is folded neatly over the back of the couch again. And beside the coffee maker, there is a note.
Thanks for the blanket.
Below it, in smaller handwriting:
That was very disgustingly nice of you.
A few nights later, Bucky wakes up thirsty. The apartment is dark except for the light over the stove.
He can hear pages turning before he even reaches the kitchen.
You're sitting at the table in one of your giant sweatshirts, laptop open, papers spread out around you in messy little stacks. There are sticky notes stuck to the edge of your screen, a half-drunk cup of coffee by your elbow, and your glasses are slipping down your nose again.
You don't notice him at first. Your mouth is moving slightly while you read through something under your breath.
He leans against the doorway. “Do you ever sleep?”
You jump a little in your seat, then you look up at him and huff out a tired laugh.
“Sometimes.”
“You sure?”
“Not particularly.”
He moves farther into the kitchen, grabbing a glass from the cabinet. “You know it's two in the morning, right?”
You glance down at your laptop clock. “Oh.”
“You didn't know?”
“I thought it was maybe midnight.”
He shakes his head a little as he fills his glass. “What are you even doing?”
You look down at the folders spread around you and for a second, you seem like you're deciding whether or not to tell him. Then you let out a breath.
“I'm… up for a promotion.”
Bucky looks over at you. “What kind?”
“A curator position.”
He leans back against the counter. “At the museum?”
You nod.
“In the anthropology division.” Your fingers start absently straightening the edge of one of your papers. “If I got it, I'd oversee acquisitions, exhibits, research trips. Most of the collections work too.”
As you talk, something about you changes, your shoulders loosen and your face softens. There is something brighter in your voice than he's heard before. You look almost younger like this, less tired, more like the version of you that exists underneath all the stress and late nights and rushed mornings.
“That sounds...” He shakes his head once. “That sounds awesome.”
“It would be.” You smile a little, staring down at your notes. “I mean, it would be everything.”
You glance around at the papers spread across the table. “I've wanted it for years.”
Then, just as quickly, you pull back from it. You shrug one shoulder like it doesn't matter as much as it clearly does.
“But it's probably unrealistic anyway.”
Bucky frowns. “Why?”
You laugh softly to yourself.
“Because you don't just get the job to be a curator at the American Museum of Natural History,” you say. “It's something holy that gets bestowed upon you with the anointed oil they gave Queen Elizabeth II.”
That gets a surprised laugh out of him. You smile faintly, but it doesn't quite reach your eyes.
“It's just wishful thinking,” you say quietly. “Then you die trying.”
He hates how fast you do that. How quickly you take something you want and turn it into something impossible before anyone else can.
He sets his glass down on the counter. “That sounds like exactly the kind of job you'd be good at.”
You look up at him, really look at him. Like you're waiting for the joke, but there isn't one.
“You know that, right?” he says. “The way you talk about it.”
Your expression shifts a little, because most people do not usually say things to you that plainly. You look down at your hands.
“I don't know,” you say after a second.
“Yeah, you do.”
The kitchen goes quiet, the radiator knocks somewhere in the wall. You sit there with your hands wrapped around your coffee cup, staring at him like he has said something far more important than he meant to.
Then you smile. “Thanks, Buck.”
And for some reason, it feels like being handed something fragile.
A few days later, Bucky finds himself standing in the hallway again.
It happens more often now. He'll be on his way to the kitchen or coming back from the shower and suddenly stop in front of the bookshelves like he forgot where he was going.
The shelves are uneven in places.
Some rows are organized by author, others by size or color or absolutely no logic at all. There are books stacked sideways on top of other books, faded bookmarks sticking out between pages, cracked spines and bent corners and little slips of paper tucked into random places.
It feels lived in, it feels like you.
He stands there for a minute, eyes tracing over the titles. Then he grabs a sticky note from the kitchen and presses it onto the edge of one of the shelves.
You actually read all of these?
He forgets about it after that. Until later that night when he gets home and notices something tucked into the spine of a book halfway down the shelf.
He pulls it free.
Used to. A lot. Some are mine, some were my dad's, some I found secondhand. I used to collect old editions too before work swallowed my entire personality.
He reads it twice. Then, without really meaning to, he starts paying closer attention. Not just to the titles, to the books themselves.
There are old clothbound covers with gold lettering worn thin at the edges. Tiny notes scribbled in pencil in the margins. Bookstore stamps from places all over the city. One copy of a novel has a dried flower pressed between the pages.
Some of them are old enough that even he remembers when they were new. One night he pauses in front of a shelf near the living room and pulls out a familiar green book.
The cover is faded, the spine is worn soft from use. He turns it over in his hands, then glances down at the copyright page. 1942. He stares for a second, then reaches for another sticky note.
You have a 1942 copy of The Hobbit.
The response is waiting for him when he wakes up the next morning, tucked beneath his coffee mug.
I know. Found it in a shop upstate for twenty dollars because the owner didn't know what he had. Second greatest moment of my life.
He smiles despite himself, and there is another note beneath it.
You can read whatever you want, by the way. And if there are books you like, you can add them.
He stands there in the kitchen holding that note a little longer than he should. Because nobody has said something like that to him in a very long time. To make yourself at home, that there's room for you here. It's such a small thing, just books, just shelves.
But it feels like more than that. That night he pulls one of the older novels from the shelf and reads half of it sitting on the couch while rain taps softly against the windows.
A few days later, when he finishes it, he leaves it on the coffee table. When he comes back from a walk the next morning, there is a sticky note tucked inside the front cover.
Well?
He snorts quietly to himself and grabs a pen.
Liked it. Ending was more depressing than I remember.
The next day:
That's because you have bad taste and no appreciation for tragedy.
He leaves another book out after that, then another. And you start leaving notes inside all of them. Little questions in the margins. Favorite character? Did you cry? Be honest, did you skip the boring parts? And without really realizing it, the shelves stop feeling like just yours.
They start feeling like something the two of you are building together.
One evening Bucky comes back from a walk and stops in the hallway without meaning to. Something looks different. It takes him a second to realize what it is. Wedged between two thick hardcovers near the end of the second shelf is one of his books, old and worn.
A history book about the forties that he'd unpacked weeks ago and left sitting on the edge of the end table next to the couch because he never knew where to put it. Now it's there between the others like it has always belonged.
Like you made room for it without asking. He reaches out and pulls it from the shelf. Inside the front cover, there's a sticky note with your handwriting:
Thought this looked lonely.
Something in his chest aches a little. Because it's such a small thing, nobody has made space for him somewhere in a very long time, but it shifts something inside of him. Something warm and soft blooming beneath his ribs as he slides the book back onto the shelf.
After that, you start spending more actual time together. Not just in passing, not just in notes and hallway conversations. Real time. He brings home takeout and the two of you end up sitting cross-legged on the living room floor because neither of you feels like cleaning off the coffee table.
You steal pieces of chicken off his plate. He lets you. You start walking to get coffee together on mornings you're both free, slow and sleepy and still half wrapped in hoodies.
Sometimes you don't talk much, sometimes you talk about everything. The museum. His nightmares. Books. Childhoods. Things that happened too long ago and things that happened yesterday.
One afternoon he comes back from the hot dog stand carrying two paper trays instead of one. You're in the kitchen when he gets home.
“You got me one?”
“You looked tired.”
You smile at him in a way that feels dangerous.
The hot dog guy notices eventually.
“Where's the pretty museum girl?” he asks one day while handing Bucky his usual order.
Bucky frowns. “Who?”
“The roommate you said you have.” The guy grins. “I wanna meet her.”
“No. Not happening.”
The guy laughs. “Oh, so that's what we're doing now.”
Bucky grabs the food and leaves before he can say anything else. You notice his mood immediately when he gets back.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Mm.”
You take the hot dog from his hand. “You have a very specific face when you're annoyed, you know.”
He mutters something under his breath that makes you smile. That night the two of you are sitting on the floor in front of the couch, books spread around you, some old movie playing in the background.
Bucky glances over at the shelf. “You said finding that copy of The Hobbit was the second greatest moment of your life.”
You look up from your book. “Yeah.”
“So what was the first?”
You smile immediately.
“There was this used bookstore in Queens,” you say. “I was seventeen. They had this old locked case near the register and inside was the first book from a vintage set of The Canterbury Tales.”
He watches your face change as you talk.
“The cover was all cracked leather and gold leaf and completely falling apart. It was beautiful.”
You tuck your legs up closer to yourself.
“I used all the money I had to buy it.”
“And then?”
“And then I spent the next ten years trying to find the rest.” You laugh softly. “That was kind of it. That was the start of the whole problem.”
“You found all of them?”
“Almost.” You shake your head. “Never found the last one.”
There's something quietly sad in the way you say it. Like it's less about the book and more about what it meant to give up looking. Bucky watches the way your face slowly changes, something in the edge of your eyes shifting until you're looking at the floor. It hurts, and it makes him think that he would do anything to see you smile.
In a weak attempt he pushes the last of his fries to you, claiming they're too salty for him. You both know they're not but the small quirk of the corner of your mouth makes it worth it. The rest of the night passes in between condiements and bubbled laughter at the QVC channel, listening in to the televised conversations like they're the next hit reality show.
After a few days Bucky notices the calendar in the kitchen. Not because he is looking for anything in particular. Just because he is waiting for the coffee to finish brewing and his eyes drift to the wall.
The square for next Thursday is crowded with your handwriting.
Your own birthday is written last. Small enough that it almost disappears between everything else. Something about that sits badly in his chest. Because of course it does. Because even on your birthday, you have managed to make yourself the least important thing on the list.
He knows immediately you're going to forget it.
And you do. The morning of, you're rushing around the apartment before sunrise with one shoe on and your phone wedged between your ear and shoulder.
“I already sent the file,” you say into the phone, trying to shove your arm through the sleeve of your coat. “No, I know, but if they wanted changes they should've said that yesterday—”
Your bag slips off your shoulder and your keys hit the floor making you curse under your breath. Bucky is standing in the kitchen holding a mug of coffee when he says it.
“Happy birthday.”
You stop and blink at him.
“Oh,” you say after a second. “Right.”
You laugh softly, but it sounds tired. “I completely forgot.”
Then the person on the phone says your name and you hurry out the door with a quick apology before he can say anything else. It bothers him more than it should because birthdays are supposed to mean something. Yours especially.
So after you leave, he decides to do something about it. He remembers the bakery on the corner had a strawberry shortcake in the display case. Just something small, nothing flashy, whipped cream and strawberries layered across the top.
It reminds him of you somehow. Soft-looking and sweet to the core. He buys candles too. Then he spends the rest of the afternoon searching for the perfect gift. It takes him a few blocks of wandering around to think of what to get, but when it hits him he knew he found his mission.
He spends hours going from used bookstore to used bookstore. By the sixth one, he's almost ready to give up. Then, in a dusty little shop that smells like old paper and mildew, he finds it. Old leather cover, gold embossing faded at the edges a slight water stain on the back. Perfect.
That night, the apartment is dark except for the kitchen light. Bucky stands awkwardly by the counter with the cake in front of him, candles lit, the wrapped gift sitting beside it.
He has no idea what he's doing. But there's no going back now.
The front door opens a little after ten. You walk in looking exhausted, shoulders slumped, shoes dragging. Your hair falling out of whatever messy attempt you made to keep it back this morning. You stop dead when you see him. Then the cake lit with candles, the small box beside it.
Bucky shrugs one shoulder like he suddenly regrets all of it.
“You forgot your birthday,” he says.
You stare at him for a second too long. Nobody has done something like this for you in a very long time. Maybe ever. You don't look like you know what to do with being cared for.
“Bucky...” is all you manage.
He gets flustered immediately.
“It's not a big deal,” he says quickly, motioning vaguely toward the cake. “I just...” He looks down for a second. “Figured somebody should celebrate you.”
The look on your face almost undoes him. You set your bag down slowly and walk over.
“You got me a cake?”
“Yeah.”
“With candles?”
He glances at the little crooked row of them.
“That's usually how birthdays work.”
You laugh then. A little watery around the edges. You walk farther into the kitchen like you're afraid if you move too quickly the whole thing will disappear.
The candles flicker softly between you.
“You didn't have to do this,” you say quietly.
“I know.”
“But you did anyway. Why?”
He doesn't know what to say to that. So he just shrugs again.
You look down at the cake then back up at him.
“Okay,” you say softly. “Then I guess I should make a wish.”
You lean down and hover there for just a moment, the golden glow of the flames casting a light across your face that highlights features he doesn't think he's ever seen. A small beauty mark tucked under your eyebrow, a slight jagged silver scar down the bridge of your nose. He'll never not see them now, a gift of his own he thinks. You close your eyes and hum quietly to yourself before letting out a short breath to blow out the candles.
The apartment goes dark for a second after the smoke curls up into the air. He flicks the stove light on, then Bucky reaches for the wrapped book beside him and holds it out awkwardly.
“And this is... also a thing.”
You blink. “You got me a present?”
“You don't have to sound so surprised.”
You take it from him carefully, with a growing smirk on your face. The paper crinkles softly beneath your fingers as you unwrap it. Then you go still. Completely still. He watches your eyes move over the cover. The old leather, the faded gold lettering.
Your fingers hover over it like you're afraid touching it too hard will make it disappear.
“The last one,” you whisper. Your voice sounds a little broken around the edges. “The last volume of The Canterbury Tales.”
Bucky shifts awkwardly on his feet as you look up at him. Your face is fallen with a joy he's never seen, as if he just hung the moon and painted the stars.
You shake your head in disbelief. “Where did you even—”
“Just found it.” He shrugs.
“Bucky.”
“Took a couple bookstores. Made a deal with the owner once I found it, he was an old history buff on WW2 so…” he admits.
You look up at him then. And there is something in your face he has never seen directed at him before. Something soft, something overwhelming as a clear line starts to well at your eyes. You clutch the book to your chest like you don't know what else to do with it.
"Thank you, Bucky," you whisper, shaky lip tucked betwen your teeth.
A warm silence blooms between you two and Bucky is stuck under your stare, watching the soft dialtion of your pupils. Entranced by them he didn't even notice you had gotten so close, not until he felt the gentle brush of your lips against his cheek.
Words have never failed him like now, stuck and jumbled in the back of his throat only to come out like a garbled hum.
“What'd you wish for?” Bucky asks abrutly as he starts pulling the candles out one by one.
You smile a little, wiping quickly beneath one eye.
“Can't tell you,” you say. “State secrets now.”
He snorts quietly and grabs two spoons from the drawer. You end up on the couch sharing the cake straight from the container, knees brushing every so often in the small space between you. The television is on, though neither of you is paying attention to it. You eat strawberries off the top first and work your way down and Bucky follows suit.
You stay on the couch long after the cake is gone.
The empty container sits forgotten on the coffee table, two spoons abandoned beside it. The book never leaves your lap. At some point, you curl your legs up beneath you and start telling him about the first time you found one of the volumes. How you were seventeen and awkward and had spent an hour pretending to browse because you were too nervous to ask the owner to unlock the glass case.
Bucky laughs.
“So you've always been weird about books.”
“That's rich coming from a hundred-year-old man who still reads history books for fun.”
“Those are different.”
“They're really not.”
You grin when you say it. That soft, sleepy grin he thinks he could spend years chasing. Eventually the conversation drifts. To old bookstores, to the hot dog guy, to Sam, then to terrible movies. You insist he has never properly experienced bad cinema until he has seen Attack of the 50 Foot Woman.
He insists there is no way it can be as ridiculous as you are making it sound. Twenty minutes in, he realizes you were underselling it. By the middle of the movie, you're both laughing. Not polite little laughs either, real ones. The kind that make your stomach hurt and your eyes water and force you to pause because neither of you can hear the dialogue over the sound of the other person losing it.
He can't remember the last time he laughed like this.
By the time the movie is ending, your head is tipped against the back of the couch and your eyes are half closed.
He notices you fighting sleep before you do.
“You're falling asleep.”
“No, I'm not.” You yawn immediately after saying it.
He smiles. “You absolutely are.”
You make a soft noise of protest, but it doesn't have much conviction behind it.And a few minutes later, when he glances over again, you're out completely. Your head has tipped against his shoulder at some point, one hand still loosely wrapped around the book in your lap.
For a second, he just sits there. Listening to the sound of your breathing, the soft hum of the television, the city outside the windows. Then he carefully takes the book from your hands and sets it on the coffee table. He slips one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back.
You stir a little when he lifts you, brows furrowing for a second before you settle again against him.
“Buck?” you mumble sleepily.
“I got you.”
You make another quiet sound and let your head fall against his chest as he carries you down the hallway and into your room. The bedside lamp is still on, there are clothes draped over the chair in the corner and papers stacked haphazardly on your desk, everything is so utterly you.
He sets you down carefully on the bed and pulls the blankets up around you. You don't wake up, not really, you just shift a little beneath the covers and settle. He brushes a piece of hair back from your face and his hand lingers there for a second longer than it should.
Something overcomes him and he leans down, and presses a kiss to your forehead.
“Happy birthday,” he whispers.
As he walked out of you room he saw the book on the table, with a gentle hand he picked it up, brushing a thumb over the pages as he walks down the hall. The rest of the set is on the second highest shelf, lined up together. He slides in the last edition, eyeing the aligned spines with a ghost of a smile before walking off to his room.
The call comes on a Tuesday.
Bucky knows because you walk into the apartment looking vaguely shell-shocked, still clutching your phone in one hand.
You don't even make it all the way into the kitchen before blurting it out. “I got an interview.”
He looks up from where he's sitting at the table. “What?”
“For the curator position.” You blink at him like you still don't believe it yourself. “Next week.”
For a second, all he sees is the excitement on your face. Bright and hopeful, then it disappears almost as quickly as it came.
“Oh,” you say quietly. “Oh no.”
The spiral starts immediately after that. By the end of the week, the apartment is covered in notes. Practice questions taped to the bathroom mirror, flashcards on the kitchen counter, museum reports spread across the couch cushions.
You pace while talking to yourself, you stop sleeping, you definitely stop eating properly. The night before the interview, Bucky finds you sitting cross-legged on the living room floor in sweatpants and one of his old shirts, papers spread around you in uneven piles.
Your glasses are slipping down your nose and your hair is a mess. You look like you're about ten minutes away from a complete breakdown.
“You okay?” he asks, already knowing the answer.
“No,” you say immediately.
He sits down across from you. “What's wrong?”
You stare down at the papers in your lap. “What if I embarrass myself?”
“You won't.”
“What if they ask me something I don't know?”
“You'll know it.”
“What if I freeze?”
“You won't.”
You glare at him a little. “You don't know that.”
He leans back against the couch.
“I know you.”
That quiets you for a second.
Only for a second. Then you start rambling after that. About the anthropology wing. About acquisitions. About field research and exhibit planning and the exact kind of curator you would want to be if anyone ever actually gave you the chance. You talk about preserving history, about wanting people to care. About how every object in the museum used to belong to someone. How every piece of history was once just somebody's normal day.
Bucky listens every time. He listens while you talk yourself into circles. Listens while you explain all the reasons you think you aren't good enough for this.
“I didn't go to the right schools,” you say finally. “I don't know the right people. Everyone else interviewing for this is probably smarter than me and more qualified and—”
“They're gonna be lucky if they get you.”
You stop and the apartment goes quiet around you, scattered notes and pages from your journal fluttering in the air current. Bucky looks at you from across the floor, expression calm like he hasn't just said something that cracked you open right down the middle.
“You mean that?” you ask softly.
“Yeah.” He doesn't even hesitate. “I do.”
You stare at him for a second. Then you move before you can think too hard about it. You lean across the space between you and kiss him. It's quick and impulsive, your hand catches against his shoulder and your mouth brushes his once, soft and startled.
Then you freeze.
“Oh my God,” you whisper, pulling back immediately. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—”
Bucky cuts you off by kissing you again, this time slower. Deliberate. His hand comes up to cup your face and suddenly the whole world narrows down to the warmth of his mouth and the way he is holding you like you're something precious.
You melt into it, your hand tangles in the front of his shirt and a soft hum slipping past your lips against his as his thumb brushes softly along your cheek.
When you finally pull apart, both of you look a little stunned. Like neither of you knows what to do with the fact that this has been here all along.
“Okay,” you say softly.
“Okay,” he echoes.
After that, the air between you changes, not in some huge dramatic way. Just softer. He starts brushing his hand against your back when he passes you in the kitchen. You lean against his shoulder on the couch without thinking about it. He kisses your forehead when you leave for work. You steal his hoodies and stop pretending they're yours.
Sometimes you fall asleep together on the couch with the television still on and your legs tangled beneath the blanket. Somewhere in the middle of all of it, Bucky realizes he's stopped thinking of the apartment as somewhere he lives.
Now it just feels like home.
Bucky tries to wake up before you the morning of the interview.
He fails.
By the time he walks into the kitchen, you're already there in nice clothes, standing in front of the coffee maker with your arms crossed and that thousand-yard stare people get right before something important. You look beautiful, terrified and a little bit sick. Your hair is done. Your makeup is subtle. There is a necklace at your throat he thinks he's seen maybe twice before.
You don't notice him at first. You're staring at the coffee pot like if you look away it'll stop working.
“You okay?” he asks softly.
You blink. “No.”
He smiles a little. “You're gonna do great.”
You snort quietly and reach for your mug. “You legally have to say that because you live with me.”
“No,” he says. “I have to say it because it's true.”
That makes you look down for a second as you take a sip of coffee.
“Still feels like I'm gonna throw up.”
“You'll throw up after,” he says. “Like a professional.”
That earns him a small laugh. By the time you're ready to leave, you're standing by the front door shoving things into your bag with shaky hands.
“Keys,” you mutter to yourself. “Wallet. Phone. Museum badge—”
“Hey.”
You look up. Bucky steps closer and reaches for the necklace at your throat.
“It's crooked.”
“Oh.”
His fingers brush softly against your skin as he straightens it and your breath catches a little. So does his. For a second, neither of you says anything. Then he leans down and kisses you. It's quick and soft but it leaves your cheeks warm when he pulls away.
“You got this,” he says.
You nod once then you're gone.
The whole day, Bucky is restless. He tells himself he isn't waiting for you but he definitely is. He tries reading, and ends up readin gthe same page three times. He almost goes to the hot dog stand twice. He paces around the apartment, reorganizes the fridge for no reason, checks the clock so many times it starts to feel personal.
By the time the front door finally opens that night, he looks up so fast it nearly gives him away. You walk in looking different immediately. Not upset exactly, just strange and quiet. Very quiet. Like your thoughts are somewhere else entirely.
He assumes that means you got it. That you're in shock, that you're already halfway out the door toward whatever comes next.
“Hey,” he says carefully from the couch. “How'd it go?”
You stop in the doorway. You still have your bag over your shoulder, coat still on. You look at him for a second before letting out a slow breath.
“I didn't get it.”
The words land strangely between you, it makes Bucky sits up a little straighter.
“Oh.”
You laugh softly, but there isn't much humor in it. “Yeah. They said they wanted to move in a different direction.”
He doesn't know what to say to that. Because he knows how badly you wanted it, knows how much time and sleep and pieces of yourself you've poured into this thing.
But then you shrug one shoulder.
“But...” You look down for a second. “They gave me a raise.”
He blinks, surpised. “Okay.”
“And they're opening a new assistant position to ‘lessen my workload.’”
That takes him a second to process.
“So...” He leans forward a little. “You still got something?”
“I guess.” You look exhausted more than anything. “I don't know if I'm supposed to be happy or devastated.”
Bucky nods slowly.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I get that.”
Because he does. Because sometimes life gives you something almost-good and you don't know what to do with that. He watches you for another second, then he stands.
“Come on.”
You look up. “What?”
“Let's go get hot dogs.”
You stare at him for a second. Then, finally, you smile.
“Okay.”
The hot dog guy takes one look at the two of you and immediately points his tongs in your direction.
“Uh oh,” he says. “This feels emotional.”
You laugh for the first time all day. Real laughter. Bucky feels something unclench in his chest at the sound of it.
“Don't encourage him,” he mutters.
“Too late,” the guy says. “I like her.”
Bucky rolls his eyes and you smile into your sleeve. He pays before you can argue about it, and when you open your mouth to protest, he just gives you a look.
“You had a bad day.”
“So?”
“So let me buy you a hot dog.”
You don't fight him after that.
On the walk back, you stop for ice cream too. Now you're both carrying melting cones down the sidewalk, the city quieter around you than usual. Streetlights glow gold against the pavement. Somewhere in the distance, somebody is playing music with their windows open.
It feels a little like being kids. Or maybe just people who don't know exactly where their lives are going yet. It warms your chest either way. You walk beside him in comfortable silence for a while.
“Hey, Buck?”
“Yeah?”
“You ever hear that whole ‘rejection is just redirection' thing?”
He glances over at you. “...No?”
You laugh softly under your breath. “It's just this thing people say.”
“Okay.” He nods once.
“But that's not what I was getting at.”
He waits as you look down at your ice cream for a second before looking back up at him.
“You know on my birthday you told me to make a wish?”
“Yeah?”
Your smile is smaller now.
"I think it just came true.”
He frowns a little. “You… wished to get passed up on the promotion?”
“No,” you say with a breath of laughter. “No.”
You look at him then, really look at him.
“I wished...” Your voice goes quiet. “That I could spend more time with you.”
Everything in him goes still.
The city. The sidewalk, the half-melted ice cream in his hand. All of it. For a second, neither of you moves. Then Bucky smiles, small at first then bigger.
He ducks his head, shaking it a little.
“State secrets, huh?” he teases softly.
You blush immediately. “Shut up.”
But you're smiling too. You slip your arm through his as you keep walking and Bucky thinks maybe this is what happiness feels like. Small and warm and a little sticky from melted ice cream.
A week later, you come home before sunset.
Bucky is in the kitchen making coffee when he hears the front door open.
“You're home early,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. You lean against the doorway with your bag still hanging off one shoulder.
“I know. Weird, right?”
He smiles a little. “You get fired?”
“Not yet.” You step farther into the kitchen. “I actually have tomorrow afternoon off.”
“Wow.”
“I know,” you say again. “I'm trying not to be overwhelmed by all the free time.”
He laughs quietly and you watch him for a second, seemingly contemplating.
“Do you wanna come by the museum?”
He looks up. “The museum?”
“Yeah.” You shrug one shoulder, suddenly looking a little shy about it. “I could show you around. My favorite exhibits and stuff.”
He tries to act casual. “Sure.”
But secretly, he's thrilled. Because this is your world. He's seen pieces of it before in papers spread across the table and half-finished stories told at two in the morning, but this is different. This is you handing him something important.
The next afternoon, he meets you outside the American Museum of Natural History.
You're waiting near the steps in your work clothes with your ID badge around your neck. You look different now, more awake than he has seen you in weeks, more comfortable.
Like this place fits around you in a way most things don't.
You smile the second you spot him.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
You take him inside to see the old fossils first. You tell him which dinosaur skeletons kids always lose their minds over and which exhibits people walk right past even though they're some of the coolest things in the building.
You talk with your hands when you're excited.
You move quickly from one thing to the next, almost tripping over your own thoughts because there is so much you want to show him.
“And this one,” you say, pointing toward an old display case, “people never pay attention to, but it's one of my favorites.”
Inside are old tools and worn pieces of pottery. Tiny, simple things. You tell him where they came from, who used them, how old they are. Every exhibit comes with a story.
Bucky spends half the time looking at the displays and the other half looking at you. Because you light up here. Your voice gets faster, your smile gets bigger, you stop apologizing for caring too much. It's the happiest he has ever seen you.
At one point, you take him into the giant blue whale room. The enormous whale hangs suspended overhead, casting soft shadows across the floor below. You tilt your head back to look up at it.
“Every museum employee has a designated crying-under-the-whale moment at least once,” you say.
Bucky looks over at you. “Yours probably happened after a meeting.”
You scoff. “No. Mine happened because somebody mislabeled a Bronze Age artifact.”
He laughs harder than he should an you grin.
“I'm serious. It was humiliating.”
“You cried over a label?”
“I care deeply about accuracy.”
“You're insane.”
“Maybe,” you say, smiling up at the whale. “But I'm right.”
He shakes his head, still laughing quietly, standing there beneath the whale with you smiling beside him, he thinks he has never seen anything more beautiful. Eventually, you take him into the Milky Way exhibit.
The room is dark and cool, lit only by thousands of projected stars stretching across the ceiling and walls. Soft bands of white and blue curve overhead, and everything echoes slightly. Your footsteps, his breathing, the sound of the door shutting quietly behind you.
You lead him to one of the benches in the center of the room and sit together. For a while, neither of you says anything. The quiet feels different here. Not empty but peaceful. Bucky leans back and looks up at the stars overhead.
They're beautiful.
But not as beautiful as the look on your face when you stare up at them.
“I used to come here when I first got the job,” you say softly.
He looks over at you, your eyes stay fixed on the ceiling.
“I'd get so stressed and overwhelmed and convinced I wasn't cut out for it.” You smile faintly to yourself. “So I'd come sit in here.”
You lean back a little farther against the bench.
“It helped me remember how small I am.” A pause. “How insignificant everything is.”
You glance over at him. He looks down at his hands for a second before looking back up.
“You're probably the most important thing...” He swallows a little. “To me.”
The room goes quiet again. You blush immediately and turn your face back toward the stars and Bucky does too. For a second. Then he looks back at you, the way the light from the projections catches in your eyes and across your face. It softens every edge of you.
You turn toward him slightly, feeling the gaze from him.
“It's pretty, huh?”
He smiles.
“Yeah...”
But he isn't looking at the stars, you realize after a second, and the mood shifts. Like all the air between you changes. He leans in first this time, a soft breath fans across your face before you meet him halfway. The kiss is slow and gentle, the kind that feels like something settling into place. Your hand finds his without thinking about it, his thumb brushes softly across your knuckles.
When he pulls back, you're both smiling a little and he looks up at the stars again, then back at you.
“What are you gonna do now?”
You blink. “With what?”
“No promotion on the horizon. New assistant to keep you free. What's the future have in hold now?”
You let out a quiet breath, thinking.
“You know,” you say, “I have no idea.”
You lean your head against his shoulder. “For as long as I've been doing this, all I've ever wanted was that job.”
He tilts his head lightly against yours. “What do you want now?”
You look up at him and smile softly.
“You.” Then, after a second, "and a hot dog.”
He laughs and the sound echoes quietly through the stars, you both lean into each other, and suddenly the future doesn't feel so frightening. Because whatever it looks like now, you'll be in it together.
Sinopsis: Clark Kent has spent months trying to get your attention in the only way he knows how: quietly, sweetly, and awkwardly. But when Superman saves your life and begins visiting your apartment at night, Clark realizes he may have accidentally made things far more complicated for himself.
If Clark counted the times he tried to flirt with you, they would be in the thousands. But the funny thing was that his way of flirting was so subtle that it almost always got mistaken for his everyday kindness. Clark was affectionate with everyone; that was how he had been raised back home in Smallville, where being gentle and thoughtful was as natural as breathing.
That was why, when he bought coffee in the mornings, he never arrived with just two cups, but four: one for Lois, one for Jimmy, one for himself, and an extra one that he always handed to you. And of course, you were his coworker, even if your desk was nowhere near his the way Lois’s was. Yours sat almost four meters away, far enough for anyone to think there was no reason to include you in his coffee runs. But Clark always found an excuse.
He said Perry, the boss, had mentioned that you did excellent work whenever you collaborated with him, and that was why he wanted to get along with you. You never turned down the coffee, because there was always a smile on your face whenever he walked over to hand it to you.
Still, you were a serious person at work, the kind who avoided talking about your private life, your weekend plans, or whether you had a date on Friday night. But that did not mean you were rude. On the contrary, you carried that same warm professionalism with everyone: you greeted people politely, asked how they were doing, remembered birthdays. And that exact mix of seriousness and warmth was what intrigued Clark the most.
Because he noticed that when you laughed with Lois, it was not a professional laugh or a polite one. It was genuinely friendly, the kind of laugh that slipped out unexpectedly, the kind that made you blush a little and lower your gaze while absentmindedly touching your hair. Clark kept asking himself over and over again: what did you talk about with Lois that made you laugh like that? What topic made you let go of that professional armor you guarded so carefully?
And even though Clark had that other side, that side of Superman who flew between buildings and saved people, he never wanted to mix it with you. He did not want you to meet Superman first, nor did he want you to mistake grand heroic actions for something heartfelt. He wanted you to see only Clark: the clumsy but kind reporter, the one who sat next to Lois and handed you coffee every morning.
He did not want to compete with his own other self, because he knew perfectly well that many women mistook Superman’s idealism for love. They saw the red cape and the muscles beneath the blue suit, and they never looked beyond that. The mere thought made Clark sick, the idea of having to compete against himself just to make you like him.
Because if you did not like Clark as he was, with his sleeves half rolled up and his glasses sitting slightly crooked on his nose, then you would never like what he truly wanted you to love about him. And the worst part was that he had no idea whether you were capable of seeing beyond that. Whether you could look at the Daily Planet reporter who worked with you from time to time and find something special in him, something that did not need a cape to shine.
But anyway, that was not the point right now.
The point was that you ended up meeting him, and not in the quiet way he would have wanted. Of course not, because you specifically had to be on that bus heading toward the Daily Planet.
The very same bus that would derail when the bridge was struck by something nobody was sure about: maybe a bomb, maybe an attempted attack. The only thing anyone knew for certain was that the explosion caused the bus to fall and hang dangerously off one side, suspended over empty air.
While everyone scrambled out screaming and shoving each other, Clark could hear your heartbeat. He had memorized it without meaning to during the investigation you had been working on together over the past few weeks. He remembered exactly what your heart sounded like whenever you leaned closer to him and shook your head while the two of you reviewed documents together.
“No, I actually think we should go after the drone company,” you had whispered that time, without looking at him, your eyes fixed only on the investigation papers.
“Why?” Clark asked, leaning slightly closer to your desk.
“Because they have more connections than they seem to,” you replied, sliding a page in front of him.
“Connections to who?”
“To Luthor,” you added, and that was when you finally looked up. Your eyes met his for only a second, and Clark felt warmth spread through his chest.
That was when he blushed, but he loved the sound of your confident voice, the way your mind worked. That was why finding you in the middle of a crisis was the last thing he wanted. He did not want to see you frightened. He did not want to see you hanging from a broken bus.
But that was exactly what happened.
Clark saved people as best he could, helping down those who stumbled, those who lagged behind. In the middle of the chaos, you helped an elderly woman who could not climb through the emergency window. Everyone else was too terrified, thinking only about saving themselves, but you took the woman’s hand and helped her climb out.
Then the bus jerked violently, and you nearly fell, but you managed to grab onto the edge of the window frame. When the woman finally made it out, you reached your hand toward a man standing outside, waiting to help pull you up.
But then the bus shifted again, this time even harder. You felt the floor tilt beneath your feet, and you closed your eyes. You thought it would be the last time you ever saw the world. You thought about your family, about your empty desk at the Planet.
But Clark was never going to let anything happen to you.
He moved so fast you did not even hear the wind. In a single second, his firm hands were around your waist, holding you safely in the air. You opened your eyes on instinct and wrapped your arms around him as tightly as you could, without thinking, without hesitation.
When you looked down, you saw solid ground beneath your feet. The people around you began cheering and clapping excitedly. Slowly, you pulled away from him, still trembling slightly, and lifted your gaze.
Superman stood in front of you.
Your eyes shone like two coins beneath the sunlight. You looked at the dark blue suit, the red and yellow emblem across his chest, the red cape flowing in the wind. It was him. It was really him.
“Are you alright?” Superman asked, his voice deep yet calm.
You simply nodded without saying a word. You could not speak. You could not stop staring at him.
“Are you sure?” he insisted, tilting his head slightly.
You nodded again, but this time with a small smile you could not hold back.
Superman smiled too, quick but genuine. “Good,” he said, and with a soft rush of air, he lifted into the sky, turning before flying away between the buildings.
You remained standing there, your heart still pounding, watching the blue-and-red figure grow smaller and smaller until he disappeared completely.
No one was injured. Nothing terrible had happened. Superman had saved the day once again.
Little by little, the people on the street stopped screaming, the children stopped crying, the cars began moving again as though nothing had happened. The damaged bus was already safely on the ground, and all the passengers were unharmed, hugging one another or calling their families to tell them they were okay.
You stayed there for another moment, your hands still trembling slightly from the shock, but quickly you did what you knew best: being a journalist.
You approached people, pulled a small notebook from your jacket pocket, and began asking questions.
“How did it feel when the bus tilted?” you asked an older woman with gray hair.
“Did you see how Superman arrived?” you asked a young man who was still shaking.
You moved from person to person, taking notes, listening to every testimony, and once you had gathered enough information, you practically ran back to the Daily Planet.
There, in the newsroom, you stood before all your coworkers and recounted everything in vivid detail. You told them about the bridge, the explosion, the hanging bus, and you also told them how Superman had appeared out of nowhere to catch you in midair and bring you safely down.
Clark listened to you from his desk, his elbows resting on scattered papers and his beard pressed against one hand. He watched you gesture excitedly, watched you smile whenever you mentioned Superman, and he thought everything was fine.
It was only one interaction, he told himself. Sooner or later Superman was going to save you. I should not be afraid. I should not worry.
You were just his coworker. Nothing more.
But maybe what happened afterward was his own fault.
Because that same night, Clark could not help himself.
After finishing his shift at the Planet, after waving goodbye to Jimmy, after walking several blocks until he reached a dark alley where nobody could see him, he removed his glasses, straightened his back, pulled open his shirt, and revealed the blue suit hidden underneath.
A second later, he was already flying above the rooftops of Metropolis.
The cool night wind brushed against his face, the city lights glowing below like countless tiny stars. But he did not patrol the city the way he usually did. He did not go searching for trouble or stopping thieves.
He went straight to your building. Straight to your window.
He hovered there in the air, his boots barely grazing the ledge, and looked at you through the glass.
You were inside, holding a cup of tea, still dressed in your work clothes. You looked up and saw him. Your body tensed slightly at first, but you did not scream or panic. You only stared at him with curiosity, as though you were trying to understand why the most powerful man in the world was floating outside your window on a Tuesday night.
You slowly opened the window and remained standing in the frame, the cool air moving through your hair.
“What are you doing here, Superman?” you asked nervously.
Of course you were nervous. Your voice sounded slightly higher than usual, and your fingers tightened around the tea cup more than necessary.
Superman looked directly into your eyes. He tried to smile calmly, confidently, even though inside his heart was pounding like a drum.
“I… always make sure the people I save are truly alright and get home safely,” Superman said, using that firm yet kind voice he always used.
You nodded slowly, never taking your eyes off him. Your nervousness gradually shifted into something closer to amusement. Tilting your head slightly, the same way you did whenever you cornered someone with questions at the Planet, you asked:
“And… have you already visited the nearly twenty people you saved besides me?”
One eyebrow lifted slightly.
Of course you were not easy to fool.
She’s a journalist, Clark thought. She questions everything. She finds logic where everyone else sees coincidence. She likes being right and uncovering the truth, even when it hurts.
But right now, with Superman floating outside your window, you did not seem to be in investigation mode.
You only seemed curious.
You only seemed… interested.
“Yes,” Superman answered quickly, maybe too quickly.
Your eyes widened slightly in surprise. You had not expected that answer.
“Really?” you asked skeptically.
“Really,” Superman insisted, although inside Clark thought, I’m such a liar.
He had not visited anyone else. He had flown directly to your window without thinking about anything else. But he could not tell you that. He could not tell you that your heartbeat was the only one he wanted to hear that night.
Three days passed. Clark thought it would not happen again, that the visit had been a mistake, a foolish impulse he should not repeat. But then the thing he feared most and wanted most at the same time happened.
He came back.
He could not help it. Once again, he was floating outside your window, another night, once again wearing the blue suit and the red cape flowing behind him. You opened the glass as if you had already been expecting him, and in your hand you held a small plate with a slice of chocolate cake, a shiny metal fork resting beside it.
“Come in,” you said, nodding toward the inside. Superman stayed floating for a moment, not knowing what to do.
“Don’t just stay out there. It’s cold. Well, I suppose you don’t feel cold, but it still looks weird. Come in.”
Superman entered slowly, almost fearfully, as if it were the first time he had ever stepped into a normal place. He stood in the middle of your living room, still wearing the suit, not daring to sit on the couch or touch anything. He looked as if he did not want to be in the way, as if he were afraid of breaking something just by existing.
You laughed a little at how stiff he looked.
“Sit down, Superman,” you told him, placing the plate with the cake in his hand. “It’s to thank you. For the bus.”
He took the plate carefully.
“Thank you,” he said softly. “You didn’t have to.”
“Of course I did,” you replied, sitting across from him on the couch with your legs crossed. “A flying man doesn’t save your life every day. That deserves at least some cake.”
Clark, disguised as Superman, felt his chest fill with warmth. It was so easy to be like this with you. He did not stutter or say ridiculous things that made him look foolish, the way he did when he was Clark at the office. With the suit, with the deeper voice, with the confidence that came from not having to hide, he could smile for real. He could joke. He could make you laugh.
And you liked it. He could see it in your eyes. He could see it in the way you relaxed around him.
The following week, you invited him inside again. You no longer asked why he was there. You simply opened the window, he came in, and you continued doing your own thing while he stood nearby or sat on the edge of the couch without bothering you.
One night, you were cooking, and the aroma filled the whole apartment. Superman was floating near the window, looking outside, when you called him.
“Hey, Superman, since you’re here, do you want dinner? I made extra. It’s incredible having Superman as a friend. Not everyone can say that.”
Clark smiled inwardly.
Friend, he thought. Friend is fine. It’s a good start.
So he walked over to the table, sat down on a chair that creaked slightly under his weight, and you served him a plate of your dinner: rice, beans, a warm tortilla, and some shredded chicken. He ate slowly, enjoying every bite, not so much because of the food, but because of the moment. Because he was there with you, in your small kitchen, with the sound of the television in the background and the sound of your laughter every time he said something funny.
After two months, you were already joking with Superman as if he were your lifelong best friend. You let him see that side of you that you only showed Lois: the funny side, the one that teased affectionately, the one that made bad jokes and laughed at them before even finishing them.
And now you shared that with Clark.
Well… with Superman.
But to Clark, that was fine. As long as it was with you, he did not care what name you used for him.
One night, after dinner, you were washing the dishes and Superman was leaning against the kitchen wall, his arms crossed over his chest. You had a stain of sauce on the sleeve of your sweater and were scrubbing it with a cloth using your “secret cleaning recipe for small stains.”
“Please, Superman,” you said, turning to look at him with a teasing smile, “I can’t believe Superman doesn’t know this secret for removing stains from clothes. What, do you use your laser vision to get stains out and then just buy new clothes?”
Superman placed a hand over his chest, pretending to be offended.
“Miss, I also have a life of my own. I have to wash my clothes from time to time too.”
“Really?” you asked, laughing. “With what? Rainwater from the clouds? Kryptonite soap?”
“You’re very funny,” Superman said, shaking his head. He took one step closer to the kitchen and rested one hand on the counter. “My apologies, Miss Perfect. Although weren’t you the one who said you had never burned a tortilla in the pan…”
Your eyes widened.
“What?”
“…while you were burning a tortilla in the pan,” Superman finished, nodding toward the stove. In the pan you had left on the burner, a tortilla was slowly smoking, its edge already black as coal.
“Ah!” you shouted, rushing toward the stove to turn off the flame. You grabbed a spatula and lifted the tortilla, which crumbled into black pieces over the pan. You stared at the remains and let out a laugh. “This… this doesn’t count. I was distracted.”
“Of course it doesn’t count,” Superman said, his smile growing wider.
“Shut up!” you replied, throwing a wet cloth at him, which he caught in midair without even looking.
The two of you ended up laughing.
You stood there with your hands on your waist, pretending to be angry but unable to hold back your laughter. He kept his head lowered, laughing softly, enjoying every second as if it were a treasure.
That became his favorite part of every day.
Because Clark did not talk much at the office. When he was near you as Clark, the words got tangled on his tongue, his hands sweated, and he always ended up saying something awkward like “what nice weather,” even if it was raining.
But in the evenings, when he put on the suit and flew over the buildings of Metropolis, everything changed. After patrolling the whole city, after making sure there were no thieves in the streets or fires in the buildings, he always ended up in the same place: outside your window.
And you were always there waiting for him, with a ready smile, with a plate of warm food or a steaming cup of tea. Sometimes you told him how your day at work had gone. Sometimes you read him some bad joke you had found online. Sometimes you simply stayed in silence watching television, and that silence was better than any conversation.
Clark had never felt so lucky in his entire life.
Because he had someone waiting for him.
And that someone was you.
That was how, in the third month, the night Clark would never forget finally arrived.
You were working on something for the Planet, your laptop resting on the dining table and a pile of messy papers scattered around you. Superman sat on your couch, even though the hero was enormous and his broad shoulders barely fit between the cushions. He had to arrange his red cape to one side so he would not sit on it, then crossed one leg over the other as if he were just another guest in an ordinary home.
In one hand, he held the little bun you had given him, the warm bun with jam that you always prepared for him when he arrived. He took a slow bite while watching you curiously from the couch. He saw the way you frowned while reading a document, the way you bit your lip when something did not convince you, the way you turned the pages quickly.
And then, in the middle of that comfortable silence, an idea lit up in Clark’s mind.
Oh, God, he thought.
He had the chance to do what he had been thinking about for months. He wanted to see if Superman could make you jealous. Of course it would hurt to know that you were in love with Superman, because that would mean you, like so many others, only saw the cape and the emblem.
But he still wanted to test it.
He needed to know.
So he cleared his throat, a dry sound that broke the silence in the room.
“What’s wrong?” you asked, glancing at him for only a second before lowering your gaze back to your computer. Your fingers kept typing quickly, without stopping.
Superman straightened slightly on the couch. He placed the bun on a plate sitting on the coffee table and clasped his hands over his knees. He tried to sound casual, as if your answer did not matter too much, even though inside, his heart was pounding.
“Well… today, a woman I saved from a money robbery told me that… I was the most handsome man of all,” he said, looking directly at you, waiting for your reaction.
His blue eyes did not blink. They observed every small movement of your face, every shift in your expression.
You looked up and laughed. A short, sincere laugh, as if you had just heard the silliest joke in the world. You shook your head and looked back at the screen.
“Oh, really? How nice,” you said, giving it no more importance.
Clark felt his hope deflate like a punctured balloon.
He began to think it had all been his imagination. Maybe nobody caught your attention at all. Maybe neither Superman nor Clark could ever reach your heart. Maybe you were too focused on your work, your reports, your investigations, to notice anyone. That thought tightened around his chest with a cold sadness.
Then you sighed, pushed your computer slightly to the side, and removed your glasses to look at him better. You folded them carefully and placed them on the table. You leaned back in your chair and crossed your arms, your expression relaxed, almost amused.
“Although I don’t believe that,” you said, tilting your head as if analyzing him without any shame, thanks to the trust you already had in Superman.
You picked up your glass of soda, took a long sip, and then set it down beside the laptop.
“I know someone more handsome than you,” you added, and your eyes shone with something almost tender.
Superman felt disappointed inside, but he did not show it. His face remained the same: calm, confident, with that faint smile he always wore. Although inside, Clark was dying of curiosity and fear at the same time.
“Really? Who?” Superman asked, leaning slightly forward. His voice sounded calm, but in reality, every fiber of his being was on alert.
He would finally know who you were in love with. It had to be someone from the Daily Planet, he was sure of it. Lois had said it once; he had heard her when she told you in the newsroom, “If you don’t speak, he won’t know you like him either. Looks aren’t enough.”
Clark remembered those words as if it had been yesterday. So he waited for your answer slowly, holding his breath without realizing it.
“Man, he interviewed you. You’ve seen him up close. Clark Kent, of course,” you said with complete certainty, and a smile appeared on your lips. “He’s handsome, isn’t he? More than you.”
Superman lowered his gaze.
He could not look at you. If he looked at you in that moment, he would give himself away. He would smile like an idiot or say something stupid that would ruin everything. So he kept staring at his own red boots, his hands clenched over his knees.
You noticed his silence, and your tone softened a little.
“Don’t feel bad,” you said, your voice kind, almost affectionate. “You have to understand that I’m always going to put the person I like first. And I like Clark.”
That made everything worse.
Because just as you finished saying those words, Clark felt his throat close up. The piece of bun he had been nibbling on a moment ago went straight down his throat, making him choke. It was not truly dangerous, of course; his lungs could handle far more than that. But the shock, the emotion, and the surprise made him cough like a normal person. A dry, strong cough that shook his whole body.
Your eyes widened, and you immediately stood up. You grabbed your glass of soda and brought it to his mouth without hesitating for even a second.
“Drink, drink!” you said, panic in your voice.
Superman took the glass with trembling hands and drank a couple of long sips. The cold liquid slid down his throat, and the bun finally went down. He coughed twice more and then took a deep breath.
You looked at him with a frown, still worried.
“Are you okay?” you asked, your hand still close to his shoulder, as if you wanted to hold him but did not quite dare.
Superman nodded slowly.
“Too many buns,” he said in a hoarse voice, touching his chest with one hand.
You smiled and nodded, relieved. You sat back down in your chair, but you no longer looked as relaxed as before. Something in your gaze had changed.
Superman, or rather Clark inside the suit, stayed silent for a moment, thinking quickly. He had to ask. He had to know more. He could not leave without understanding how it was possible that you, such an intelligent journalist, so observant, so good at your job, had not realized he was the same man who sat at the desk nearby.
“Hey… but… how…” Superman began, then stopped. He ran a hand over the back of his neck, pretending to be confused. “Clark Kent… I didn’t think he was your type,” he said, trying to sound like a curious friend and not like Clark himself, dying to hear your answer.
You laughed, soft and sincere, and closed your laptop with a gentle tap. You leaned back in your chair again, your arms crossed over your chest, and looked at him with a calmness that made his knees tremble inwardly.
“He is my type,” you answered, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
Then your gaze turned a little sad, a little embarrassed.
“But… I’m bad at showing someone I like them. I don’t speak. I don’t make the first move. I think a look can be enough. Lois scolded me… surely you know Lois. She’s the only one who knows at work.”
Superman’s eyes opened a little wider than usual.
“Lois knows?” he said, almost startled, his voice coming out higher than he intended. He cleared his throat again. “And she never…?”
He stopped himself just in time. He swallowed and lowered his eyes to his hands.
“I never imagined,” he said quietly.
You tilted your head, studying him with that journalist’s gaze of yours that noticed everything.
“Are you okay?” you asked, and then your voice became more serious, almost a whisper. “Hey, don’t tell him. Clark, I mean. He seems intimidated by my presence, and I don’t want him to pull away from me. At least this way, I can keep him close, even if it’s only through work.”
Clark felt his stomach flip.
“Intimidate him?” Superman asked, his voice louder than he intended, almost a strangled shout.
You nodded slowly, your lips pressed together.
“Clark… well… I don’t know. I feel like maybe he thinks I’m weird. He always pulls away and then he’s kind. It’s confusing. He’s always kind. It would be bad to mistake him doing something because he likes me. Maybe that’s just how he acts with everyone,” you admitted, and for the first time all night, your gaze became uncertain.
You played with the edge of your shirt without realizing it.
Superman shook his head slowly, with a smile he could not completely hide.
“No…” he said, and you lifted your gaze toward him. “Clark… he’s actually… weird.”
You let out a short laugh.
“I already know that.”
“But he might like you,” Superman said, and the sentence left his mouth before he could stop it.
He stood up abruptly, almost tripping over his own cape.
“I… I’m leaving. I think… something is happening,” he said, walking toward the window with long steps.
“Suddenly?” you asked, standing up too, one hand on your hip and one eyebrow raised.
Superman nodded without looking at you. He was nervous. Too nervous. If he stayed one second longer, he would tell you everything. He would remove his imaginary glasses and say, It’s me. I’m Clark. The one you like.
So he simply nodded again, harder this time.
“Fine,” you said, your voice calm, confident. “Then save the city.”
Superman smiled, a huge smile that filled his face and carved dimples into his cheeks.
“I will,” he said, and before you could answer, he was already jumping through the window, floating into the dark air of Metropolis.
Clark flew as fast as he could. He left all of Metropolis behind in a second, then the entire state, then the whole country. He flew around the world. Literally.
He felt the cold air strike his face, felt the wind whistle between the folds of his cape, felt his cheeks burning from emotion and not from speed. He reached space, where Earth looked small and blue and beautiful, and there, where no one could hear him, he screamed.
He screamed with all his strength, a cry of happiness with no end.
He dropped back into the atmosphere with a smile so wide his cheeks hurt, his dimples marked like two little lines on his face.
Nothing else mattered.
Only you.
Only you saying Clark was handsome, more than Superman. Only you saying you liked Clark.
Now he knew what to do. It did not matter how foolish he acted. It did not matter if he stuttered or said something ridiculous. It did not matter if his hands sweated or if he turned as red as a tomato.
He was going to ask you out.
That was a fact.
He only needed to find the courage, and right now, after hearing your voice say his name with so much certainty, he felt like he could move mountains.
