[iayiia]

･ ⟢ ⋮ About — ゛༝. layla˚⟡˖ ࣪ twenty-two˚⟡˖ ࣪ she/they˚⟡˖ ࣪ lesbian ˚⟡˖ ࣪ lovely gf of mine ˚⟡˖ ࣪

･ ⟢ ⋮ Warnings — ゛༝. this blog is 18+, minors do not interact !! ageless blogs will be blocked ! Given that I am a woman, all of my content will be catered to women/fem-presenting unless otherwise stated. Lastly, I write what I want, when I want, and how fast I want. If there is any issues, please just block and continue on with your day, thank you !!

･ ⟢ ⋮ Misc. — ゛༝. masterlist!!

[urfavgirllll]

Saw this in a tik tok comment section beefy bucky we will always love you ❤️

[starling-in-the-sky]

old times

Brother’s Best Friend!Bucky Barnes x Steve’s Sister!Reader

Summary: After being absent from your family’s annual summer cabin retreat for several years, you finally make an appearance after your college graduation. Bucky can’t help but notice how much you’ve changed.

Word Count: 8.2k

Content: yearning, age gap (four years), brief drug use (marijuana), alcohol consumption, smut MDNI (mentions of masturbation, oral m receiving, facefucking, swallowing, dry humping, fingering, unprotected p in v (don’t do that))

As soon as Bucky sets his duffle down on the cabin floor, he feels his shoulders loosen. The familiar smell of the wood finish fills his nostrils, and it smells like every single one of his summers since he turned thirteen.

It's good to be back.

This has been Bucky and Steve's stomping grounds for one month a year, ever since Steve picked a fight with the wrong bully in middle school and Bucky had come to the rescue. That moment sparked a lifelong friendship, one that had lasted through high school and college, those first early years of adulthood. A friendship with roots so deep that Steve's family doted on Bucky, considering him as good as blood.

This year, things are a little different. Steve's parents have stayed behind, embarking on a trip of their own to Europe in a week. While the parents are away, the young people will play — Steve and Bucky invited a handful of friends and cousins, to drink and swim and make the most of the summer sunshine.

And for the first time in years, you’ll be back in attendance at the cabin.

Bucky remembers you fondly as Steve's kid sister, a little spitfire who hung fearlessly off the back of his bike growing up, all uncoordinated limbs and wild freckles and toothy smiles. When he and Steve went off to college, you were just starting high school, and the most he’s connected with you since has been through Facebook ‘happy birthday’ posts and the occasional Instagram comment. 

You were serious about your academics, about making something of yourself, which is what kept you away so long. A real smart cookie, he’d always called you. You'd graduated college in just three years, thanks to all your hard work. Internships and summer courses and work studies have stolen you away for so long that Bucky has nearly forgotten what your laugh sounds like. 

Until he hears it echoing off the trees outside, like a long-forgotten favorite song.

Bucky abandons Steve while he loads up the fridge with groceries (aka beer and liquor), and jogs out onto the front porch.

Coming down the dirt path is a small group of Steve's cousins, laughing boisterously, talking plans for the three weeks ahead at the cabin. A flash of hair catches Bucky's eye. You have an arm slung over your older cousin’s shoulders, laughing along with the rest.

Your smile is exactly the same, but it fits your face better now, Bucky notices. You look… grown up. The untamed spirit of your youth still lives in your eyes, but you’ve matured considerably elsewhere. 

He can’t help the way his eyes wander to your frayed jean shorts and the way they hug your hips, the expanse of thigh that lays below their ripped hemline. He tries to pulls his gaze away, but it lands on your freckled shoulders, your tank top, the neckline that slopes down to frame breasts that developed quite nicely while you’ve been away.

Bucky looks down at his feet, feeling like the world’s biggest creep.

Steve had made him promise years ago to never touch you. It was long enough ago that Bucky had never even thought he’d have to worry about keeping it. Bucky wouldn’t have dreamed of it — you were Steve's kid sister. You were never even on his radar in that way before.

Suffice to say, his radar is definitely picking you up now.

“Bucky!”

He glances up to see you running full tilt towards him, bounding up the steps with your smile overtaking your whole face. You crash into him, your arms looping around his neck in a tight embrace. Bucky stumbles back slightly from the force of it, and his hands find your waist to steady you as he huffs a laugh.

He breathes you in, sunscreen and clean sweat and something fruity that makes his mouth water. You give him a squeeze, holding on for a few beats before releasing him.

Your eyes still have that familiar, impish sparkle. “Hi.”

“Long time, no see,” he drawls, trying to keep his eyes where they won’t get him into trouble. It doesn't work.

A large hand claps him on the shoulder, startling Bucky. Steve shoves past him and sweeps you up into a hug, spinning you around in greeting while you squeal and laugh.

It only serves to remind him of his promise. Bucky sighs and rubs the back of his neck. It's gonna be a long couple of weeks.

You have been hopelessly in love with Bucky Barnes since you were nine years old. Since the time your cousin had wrestled you into the dirt and Bucky nearly put his lights out, then cleaned the scrape on your knee with great care.

He’d never noticed you that way, and you’d resigned yourself to that a long time ago. Mostly.

You threw yourself into your studies with zeal and occasionally entertained the idea of a boyfriend. They never lasted long — A, because they were a distraction, and B, because they weren’t Bucky Barnes. Not their fault, but not something you could tolerate, either.

But now, school is behind you. For now, at least. You had been toying with the idea of a masters, but right now the idea of more school makes you want to puke. You have three weeks ahead of you with no books, no plans, no demands or schedule.

Just your family and friends and Bucky.

The moment your eyes meet his on the front porch of the cabin, you can tell something has shifted.

His hands are warm on your waist even though your clothes, and the way he looks at you makes you preen a little with satisfaction. I'm a woman now, Bucky. Surprised?

He, on the other hand, hasn’t changed a bit. He still has that slightly grown in stubble and those infuriating muscles that he started sporting in high school, much to the chagrin of your raging hormones at the time. The only thing that is different about him is the glimmer of interest in his expression, interest that has never once been directed at you before.

Every time his eyes stray towards you that afternoon, it feels like glitter rushing through your veins, shimmering and hot. You feel it everywhere.

Once everyone is sufficiently unpacked, the group loads up a cooler of drinks and grabs their bikes. The plan being to head down to the pier and watch the sunset, as a reward for a long day of driving.

You hang off the back of Bucky's bike like you’ve done a thousand times before, your feet on the rear axel pegs, your hands on his shoulders. But this time, his shoulders flex lightly underneath your touch, his jaw ticks when you lean down to speak into his ear, and he keeps his eyes firmly on the road despite your attempts to distract him.

At the pier, the sun turns everything gold and red, slowly descending to kiss its reflection in the water. You glance at Bucky to find him already looking at you, and he quickly turns his head away, caught.

You grin and take a swig of your beer. This is going to be fun.

Bucky is being tested. He's sure of it.

That night, he stares at the ceiling in the top bunk until exhaustion pulls him under. He tries and fails to think of anything other than you. Those eyes. That mouth. Those thighs peeking out from those god-forsaken shorts. 

In the morning, he climbs down the ladder, creeps past Steve snoring softly on the bottom bunk, and out to the kitchen to start preparing breakfast for the group. He'd gotten the short straw last night, so no rest for the wicked.

The living room is littered with sleeping bodies. There's only so many beds in the cabin, and they were first come, first serve. Which had resulted in you and two of your female cousins crashing on a large air mattress in a tangle of limbs.

In the adjoining kitchen, Bucky earnestly tries to keep his eyes to himself. But you’re splayed out on the air mattress, in nothing but an oversized t-shirt that has ridden up your stomach and flimsy pajama shorts that leave nothing to the imagination.

When Bucky starts on the bacon and pancakes, the noise stirs you. You stretch, your t-shirt riding up even higher, letting out a soft little groan that doesn’t help his morning wood in the slightest. He fixes his attention on the pan and resolves to keep it there.

It wanders anyway. When it does, he finds you looking right back at him from where you lay on the mattress, watching him with interest and a little amusement. His first instinct is to immediately look away, the way he did yesterday. But he doesn’t want you to know how much you’ve rattled him, so he holds your gaze for a beat before returning his focus to flipping pancakes.

He thinks that’ll be the end of it, but of course it isn’t. Before long, you untangle yourself from your cousins, who groan in protest and roll over as you stand. Bucky can hear the sound of your bare feet padding across the wooden floor toward the kitchen.

“Morning,” you greet him in a slightly gravelly morning voice.

“Morning,” he replies casually.

“That smells so good.” You pluck a grape from the bowl of fruit sitting on the counter and pop it into your mouth. “I’m starving.”

A muscle ticks in Bucky's jaw. He's not sure what’s worse — if you’re unaware of the effect you’re having on him, or if you are aware, and doing it on purpose.

“It’ll be ready in a few,” he declares, pouring the last of the pancake batter into the pan. “So, you enjoying your freedom from school?”

“Definitely.” You hoist yourself up to sit on the counter, placing yourself very much in the way, but Bucky doesn’t have the heart to ask you to move. especially when the position grants him another tempting view of your thighs.

“You miss me?” you purr, playfully nudging his hip with your foot.

He doesn’t take the bait. Flipping pancakes is simple, so that’s what he does. “Of course I missed you. The place isn’t the same without you.”

You smile, and Bucky gets stuck on it momentarily. A moment passes, tense and delicious at the same time. You just watch him, content to wait, to sit in the tension winding tighter between you.

Bucky reaches up by your head, opening a cabinet and fetching a plate. His hip brushes the outside of your knee, and he doesn’t move away immediately.

“You planning on helping, or are you just gonna sit there staring?”

“I’m appreciating the view,” you counter, your eyes dragging over his frame as you steal another grape from the bowl.

A chuckle slips out of him at your boldness. “You're trouble, you know that?”

Your eyebrow ticks, a silent dare.

And then Steve stumbles in, bleary eyed, and the moment shatters.

“Please tell me there’s coffee,” Steve mumbles, rubbing his eyes.

As inconspicuously as possible, Bucky shifts a respectable distance away from you to plate the bacon and quietly clears his throat. “By the microwave,” he says.

Steve doesn’t appear to have noticed the atmosphere he walked into, but Bucky still scolds himself internally. You make it way too easy for him to forget where he is, forget his promises and responsibilities to his friend. Too easy to forget that he shouldn’t be looking at you like that in the first place.

He shoves all of it down and brings plates of breakfast out to the picnic tables outside, leaving you and your dangling legs and sharp eyes behind.

“Hey.”

Bucky's voice rings out from behind you, into the open air of the night. You turn to see him descending the cabin steps, towards where you’re sitting on top of a picnic table, your feet resting on the bench. 

You'd come out here to be alone, just to have a quiet moment, while the muffled sounds of laughter and celebration from the cabin underscore your solitude. But you find that you don’t mind having your solitude disrupted, if Bucky is the one to do it.

“What are you doing out here all alone?” he asks, circling the table to face you.

You glance up at the sky. “Too much light pollution at school to really see the stars. Thought I'd remind myself what they look like.”

It really is a sight to see. Swirls of stars glittering in the dark expanse, configurations and constellations you never get to see in the city. All around, crickets chirp and cicadas sing, a familiar song floating on the balmy summer air.

Bucky looks up right along with you, just as appreciatively. Even with several feet of space between you, you can feel that tension that’s been winding tighter ever since you arrived yesterday. You wonder why he came out here tonight. If he came to find you.

“I thought all you boys were playing beer pong,” you say with an arched brow.

Bucky smiles sheepishly, as if he’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. From within his pockets, he produces a joint and a lighter. “I’m being selfish. Don't tell on me.”

“I can keep a secret,” you reply conspiratorially as you pat the space beside you on the picnic table. “C’mere.”

He hesitates, and you wait ever-patiently, watching him carefully as his brain wars with itself until he finally gives in. Keeping a careful distance — not too far to be cold, but not close enough to touch — he sits beside you and sparks up.

The cherry of the joint glows in the darkness as he takes a drag, and tendrils of smoke curl out from behind his lips when he exhales. Bucky looks briefly surprised when you reach for the joint, plucking it from his grasp to take a drag of your own.

Smoking isn’t new for you — you’ve indulged a handful of times at the handful of college parties you’d attended between school obligations. But seeing you smoke, smoking with you, is very new to Bucky. Hypnotized, he watches your lips as they wrap around the joint, where his mouth had just been. He only manages to break his gaze away when you breathe out and let the current of smoke escape.

He shakes his head in disbelief. “If Steve knew I was getting his little sister high, he’d beat my ass.”

Your older brother is the last subject you want to discuss right now. You pass the joint back to him, letting your hand linger just a little against his. “What Steve doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

Following up on that comment feels a little too dangerous, and so the two of you sit in silence for a moment, passing the joint back and forth underneath the canopy of smoke and stars.

Before long, you start to feel it. That slight, pleasant heaviness in your limbs, that heightening of your senses. That warm, fuzzy feeling settling over your mind. The high is better here, in this place that has known you since you were a child, shared with someone you’re completely at ease with. You shift closer to him, your knee bumping his.

“This is nice,” you sigh.

“Yeah,” he agrees, something bittersweet in his tone. “Real nice.” 

“Just like old times.”

“I can think of a few things that are different,” he chuckles.

“Such as?” you ask, deftly snatching the joint back from him.

“You’ve grown up.” He looks at you pointedly as you take a long drag. “Quite a bit. It's kinda…complicating things for me.”

You hadn’t expected him to own up to it like that, this newfound attraction. You turn to him, passing back the joint, head tilted in curiosity. “Complicating things how?”

He fidgets with the joint between his fingers, as if he’s debating what to say or how to say it. When his eyes meet yours again, they’re warm and dark and full of want.

“Steve made me promise. That I wouldn't touch you. That I wouldn't even look at you that way.”

You hadn’t known about this, not really. But it doesn’t surprise you in the slightest. Steve has always been protective of you, even when he didn’t have to be.

“What do you call how you’re looking at me now?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Complicated.” 

His gaze drops to your mouth and stays there. The night seems to fold around the two of you, heavy and hot and close.

You shift closer to him, your thigh now pressing against his.

“I’m not a kid anymore, Buck,” you murmur as you slowly lean into him. “I don’t need a big brother to protect me. I can make my own decisions.”

For a fleeting moment, you’re close enough to breathe the same air as Bucky, lips nearly brushing his. But then he pulls away, gets to his feet, runs a hand through his hair as he looks firmly at the ground.

“I can’t. I'm sorry.”

You don’t have the chance to say anything else, because he walks with quick strides up the cabin steps, disappearing through the screen door. The joint lays on the picnic table beside you, half-smoked and smoldering.

You sigh, frustrated, head in your hands.

Bucky should have known that wouldn’t be the end of it. Maybe if he had never said anything at all to you, it would have been easier. But now it’s out in the open, and you seem to be intent on torturing him.

It’s already difficult to avoid your presence, with everyone cramped into one cabin. Even still, you’re almost always in his orbit, your laughter in the air around him, your eyes occasionally finding his across bonfires and picnic tables. Then there’s the seemingly endless parade of tiny shorts and barely-there tops and strappy little sundresses. He's sure Steve will catch him staring at some point, because he just can’t seem to keep his gaze from wandering in your direction, snagging on whatever new inch of exposed skin he finds there.

At the end of each day, Bucky forces himself under the cold stream of the shower, shamefully stroking his cock as he tries in vain to think of anything other than your hands on his skin and the way you’d looked at him that night.

On the fourth day, the group heads down to the lake for a proper swim. Bucky finds himself woefully unprepared for the toll it takes on his sanity.

The trek down to the lake isn’t long, but with the noonday sun high in the sky, everyone is sweating by the time you arrive down at the dock. Clothes are eagerly shed in favor of sinking into the cool lake water. You waste no time, pulling your tank top overhead and wiggling out of your shorts.

It's not the first time Bucky has seen you in a bathing suit. But that was a different time, a different you. Gone are the sweet little one-piece swimsuits of your youth, replaced by a very enticing little bikini. Every curve of your body that the passage of time has wrought is on full display. Of course, you catch him staring, and you smile coyly before catapulting yourself off the end of the dock and into the water.

You resurface, laughing and gasping, as Bucky sets down the cooler and removes his shirt. He doesn’t have to look to know you’re watching, but he does anyway. He sees you floating on your back, observing him with a siren’s gaze.

Behind him, Steve smacks a mutual friend in the back of the head for staring at you. “That’s my sister, man,” he warns.

Bucky's chest tightens with lingering guilt, and he hopes against hope that the water will cool the afternoon off, so to speak.

Wishful thinking.

Everyone else whiles away the hours laughing and splashing and relaxing, while Bucky is wound tight as a spring. He watches as Steve hoists you onto his shoulders, watches you squeal in delight as he tosses you into the water, and remembers the times when things could be easy and fun with you, in that way. But he can’t seem to trust himself around you anymore. It makes him feel sick to his stomach, sick of himself.

He sits on the edge of the dock, feet dangling into the water, a beer in his hands that is rapidly turning tepid from the summer heat. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots you hoisting yourself out of the water and onto the dock, lake water sluicing off your body. Bucky peels the label off the bottle and stares at the horizon while you dry yourself off.

A nudge at his shoulder grabs his attention. You’re standing over him, a bottle of sunscreen in your hand and a smirk on your lips.

“Could you get my back?”

Swallowing with difficulty, he looks back out towards the water where Steve and three other cabinmates are engaged in a game of chicken. He appears otherwise distracted, and it would be weirder of Bucky to refuse than just help you. It's an innocent enough activity, after all. Or it should be.

Bucky sighs and turns towards you, taking the bottle from your hands as you sit down in front of him.

You pull your damp hair over your shoulder and out of the way, glancing back at him. Bucky squeezes a dollop of sunscreen into his palm and begins to apply it to your shoulders. He works in silence and keeps his touch perfunctory, but he can’t help but note the warmth and softness of your skin.

His hands work lower and lower, until he has to slip his fingers beneath the strap of your swimsuit. He's a gentleman about it and doesn’t linger longer than he needs to, though he can feel a flush creeping into his face.

It’s so quiet for a moment that when you speak, it almost startles him. “Are you planning on ignoring me the whole rest of the trip?”

“I'm not ignoring you,” Bucky counters.

“Bucky.” You shoot him a skeptical look over your shoulder. “I've known you for, like, two thirds of my life. I can tell when you’re lying.”

Bucky sighs again as he finishes working the sunscreen into your lower back and lets his hands fall away. “What do you want me to do?”

You turn towards him. “I think you already know,” you reply smartly, with an arch of your brow.

“Jesus, I mean…” He rubs his temple, looking everywhere but at you. “I already told you why this can’t happen,” he says quietly.

You huff in annoyance and pick up the bottle of sunscreen off the dock. “Well, I think your little bro code is stupid.”

Bucky chuckles under his breath in spite of himself at your bluntness.

Placing a hand on his shoulder, you turn him until he’s facing away from you and begin to apply sunscreen to his back now, without having been asked. Bucky grows very still underneath your touch, trying desperately not to be affected by it. It's not really working.

“You made your little promise when I was… what, fourteen?” you continue. “We're both adults now.”

Bucky frowns. “Steve is my friend.”

“Steve is a big boy. He'll get over it.”

Bucky feels your hand run along his spine, nails dragging slightly, and he hates the way his cock stirs at the feeling.

“I’m not gonna touch you,” he says firmly. “Not like that.”

“You don’t want to?” You’re closer now, close enough that he can feel the warmth of your body inches from his back, your breath at his ear.

Bucky takes a deep, steadying breath. “It's not about what I want.”

Finally, your hands leave him, and Bucky doesn’t know whether to be thankful or disappointed.

“Maybe it should be,” you muse softly, before getting to your feet and diving back into the water.

It's nearing the end of the first week. You've been so very, very patient. But you’re done waiting around for Bucky to stop torturing himself over nothing.

After dinner, everyone gathers around the bonfire to make s’mores for dessert. And you’re on a mission. 

You take up the seat directly across from him instead of next to him, where you know you’ll be right in his eyeline all night. And as soon as the marshmallows come out, you put on a show.

For Steve's sake, as well as your cousins, you keep it on the subtle side. You craft a s’more in a less-than-neat fashion, so naturally it makes a bit of a mess as you eat. And naturally, it leaves a few stray smears of chocolate and melted marshmallow on your fingers. And there’s no harm in licking away the evidence, not among friends and family. You're very thorough about it, not missing a single sticky morsel.

As you drag the pad of your thumb along the corner of your mouth and close your lips around it, you glance at Bucky across the fire pit.

Admittedly, he’s doing an admirable job of keeping it together in front of Steve, but the tell is in his eyes. They're hungry, and they don’t waver when they connect with yours. It almost makes you shiver, despite the balmy temperature, and it makes you press your thighs together on instinct.

Because you know you’ve got him — hook, line, and sinker.

Phase two begins. You announce to your cousin sitting next to you that you’re heading inside to wash your hands. You make meaningful eye contact with Bucky as you stand. You turn to walk up the front steps of the cabin, screen door swinging shut behind you.

And you wait, your heartbeat thrumming in your ears.

Bucky is going to hell. He's sure of it. His fate is sealed as soon as he walks up the front steps.

But he does anyway, two minutes after you left the bonfire. It's a small consolation that no one seems to notice when he slips away.

He closes the screen door quietly, aware that this is probably the point of no return, his last chance to turn around and preserve his friendship with Steve from unnecessary risk.

He doesn’t turn back.

Light glows from the crack underneath the bathroom door down the hall. Swallowing back his nerves, he raps his knuckles softly on the door.

The door swings open, revealing you, excitement and a hint of smugness glittering in your eyes. You reach for his hand and gently pull him through the doorframe, and he shuts it behind him.

His back meets the cool wood seconds after, and his lips meet yours in a tangle of heat and desperation. 

You still taste sweet from your little performance with the s’more, the smell of woodsmoke clinging to your skin. Bucky expects you to at least play at innocence first, but there is nothing innocent about this. It’s immediately filthy, your tongue in his mouth and your hands in his hair and your entire body pressed against his.

His hands find your hips, partly to steady himself and partly to bring you even closer. He tells himself that he’s going to stop, that he just needs a taste of you and then he can go back out there like nothing happened. But you moan softly against his mouth, and he can already feel himself getting addicted.

Bucky had already been half-hard at the bonfire, watching you suck your fingers clean right in front of everyone without an ounce of shame. Now, as your lips wander across his jaw and down his neck, as you subtly rock your hips against his thigh, it feels like all the blood is rushing out of his brain and straight to his cock. He’s harder than he’s been this entire trip so far, which is saying something, because he’s been very hard, very often.

You reach for the button and zipper on his pants, and it snaps Bucky back to reality for a split second. He still has a chance to stop, to be the good guy, to not let this go any further.

“Baby,” he pants. “I can’t—“

“You're not touching me.” Holding his gaze, you slip your hand past the waistband of his boxers and wrap your fingers around his cock. “I'm touching you. It's okay.”

It’s more following the letter than the spirit of the law. but when you stroke him, slow and firm from base to tip and back again, Bucky’s head thuds back against the wood of the door. He knows he’s not going to stop you. He's already going to hell, so he might as well enjoy the perks.

Once you’ve successfully freed him from the confines of his shorts, you sink to your knees in front of him. Bucky's eyes widen as he looks down at you. Fuck, he really is going to hell, because he’s about to let you do this. He’s about to let you suck his cock, all while your brother sits right outside the cabin, unaware.

Your hand slowly works him as you experimentally swirl your tongue around the tip, and Bucky lets out a shuddering breath. “Jesus, you’re—“

The words die on his lips as you lick a long stripe along the underside of him, stroking a particularly sensitive vein. He lets out a startled moan, his hand finding your hair of its own accord.

“Holy shit,” he whispers.

You don’t tease him for long. Perhaps you sense that he’s too worked up for that, or perhaps you know time is limited before someone comes looking for one of you. Soon enough, you take him fully into your mouth, sinking down slowly.

Bucky watches, hypnotized. “Look at you,” he murmurs, brushing your hair back from your face so he can watch how his cock sinks into the wet heat of your mouth, how your perfect lips wrap around him like you were made to ruin him. “Gorgeous.”

You moan around him, the vibration traveling down his cock and settling into his bones. His abs twitch and his hand tightens in your hair, and Bucky can tell this is going to be a pathetic showing of his stamina. You've barely started, and already he’s starting to lose it.

Your head begins to bob, finding a rhythm as you work to take him further and further down your throat, applying the perfect amount of suction on the uptake. Bucky has to make a considerable effort to keep quiet, lest everyone outside hear exactly what the two of you are doing. 

Eventually, you take a long breath to prepare and take him so deep, your nose brushes the hair at the base of his cock. For a brief moment, Bucky wonders where you learned this, who you’d practiced on at school, and the thought turns him a little bit feral.

You stay where you are for a moment, your throat tensing and relaxing as you struggle to accommodate him. And all of a sudden, Bucky becomes a man possessed.

His other hand tangles into your hair alongside the first. his hips twitching with the effort of keeping still, and he begs in a wrecked voice, “Sweetheart, please, I need— I need to—“

Your hands slip to the backs of his thighs, squeezing lightly as you hum your encouragement.

With your permission granted, Bucky takes control. With his hands fisted in your hair, he fucks your face with with as much control as he can muster. He’s far gone, but not quite far enough where he can bear the idea of really hurting you.

You gaze up at him with hazy, dark eyes as you let him use you, saliva pooling at the corners of your mouth as he feeds his cock down your throat.

“That's it,” Bucky groans, low and filthy. “You take it so fuckin’ good.”

He starts to lose the fight for control, his thrusts becoming a little rougher, a little sloppier. Tears collect at the corners of those wide eyes, and he can feel and hear you gag around him.

“I know, honey, I’m sorry, I — I’m almost done,” he gasps, teetering on the edge, guilt and shame and arousal swirling in his gut. 

You gag again, and even though Bucky is seconds away from finishing, he loosens his grip on your head to give you room to pull away. He warns you in a strangled voice, “I’m gonna come, baby, fuck—“

Your grip tightens on the back of his thighs. Stubborn and determined in spite of your need for air, you take him down your throat again, eyes locked on his. Bucky shoves his fist into his mouth to muffle his groan as he comes down your throat, shuddering as he feels you gag and swallow around him. You take every single drop, only pulling off when there’s nothing left to take. You cough and gasp for air and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand.

Bucky gazes down at you in disbelief — you on your knees in front of him, hair wrecked, face flushed, lips swollen. Guilt surging hot through his veins, he gently helps you to your feet.

“Honey, I’m so sorry, I—”

“Don’t be.” Those lips curl into a satisfied smirk.

“You taste even nicer than I thought.”

Bucky stands there in shock as you stretch up onto your toes to kiss him again, and he moans softly when he tastes himself on you. He responds with just as much enthusiasm, just as much hunger as before, in spite of how thoroughly you’ve wrecked him. 

You pull away first, and he chases after your lips, still starving for more of you. Gently pressing one last kiss to the corner of his mouth, you murmur, “People are gonna be wondering where we are.”

His arms tighten around your waist as he protests, “What about you?”

“Later.” 

Bucky hisses as you gently tuck him back into his shorts, straightening out his clothes and hair with a smile.

“Meet me at the dock after everyone’s asleep.”

You turn to the mirror and fix your own face, smoothing out your hair to look slightly less debauched.

“Okay,” Bucky replies, a little bewildered.

Nudging him out of the way, you pull the door open, looking much more composed than he feels. “Wait a couple minutes before you follow me out.”

You slip out of the bathroom without another word.

When Bucky finally leaves the bathroom, he grabs another six pack of beer and tries not to look too visibly shaken as he heads back out of the cabin. You're already laughing with the group like the past five minutes didn’t even happen. Steve throws an arm around Bucky’s shoulders when he sits back down, and it seems that nobody suspects a thing.

When your eyes meet his across the fire pit, they still glimmer with mischief and desire and the promise of more to come. And Bucky can already feel his body stirring in response, his hunger for you only momentarily sated. 

It's only the beginning.

The moon is a spotlight on the water as you look out from the dock.

The bonfire smoldered out about two hours ago, and you’d snuck out almost an hour ago after your cousins had collapsed onto the air mattress, exhausted. The night air is cooler than it has been, a breeze coaxing goosebumps up the back of your neck. 

And you wait. It's made tolerable by the fact that you know you won’t be waiting much longer.

Underneath the cicada’s song, you hear footsteps coming down the path. Bucky approaches, clad in a hoodie and pajama pants, looking almost shy with his hands in his pockets. A thrill of excitement runs down your spine just at the sight of him.

You lean back on your hands, looking him over openly. “I was starting to think you wouldn’t show.”

“I'm not that much of an asshole,” He chuckles sheepishly. Walking about halfway down the dock towards you, he stops for a moment, still hesitating after everything that has passed between you.

It's a little endearing and, at the same time, almost frustrating. Most of all, it makes you hungry. 

“You just gonna stand there, or are you gonna come kiss me?” you ask, a smile playing at your lips.

Bucky rises to the challenge, closing the distance and sitting next to you on the wooden dock. He reaches out a careful hand, brushing your hair back from your face in a surprisingly tender gesture, considering what transpired in the bathroom earlier. Maybe because of it. Maybe he feels a little guilty about it, though you know he shouldn't. He wouldn’t feel that way if he knew how much it had turned you on.

This time, he kisses you first, slow and sweet and entirely too patient for how long you’ve been waiting for this.

Your fingers curl into his hoodie, pulling him closer. You invite him in, opening your mouth for him and letting out a soft whimper when he accepts the invitation, his tongue sliding against yours. 

It doesn’t take long for the kiss to turn messy, needy, heated. You’re not sure whose idea it is for you to climb into his lap, who exactly initiated that particular move. But there you are, your hips flush against him, his cock already rising to the occasion and pressing where you’ve been aching for him all night.

“You got any idea,” he mumbles against your lips, “how crazy you’ve made me these last few days?”

You pull back with a smirk.

“Consider it payback.”

“Payback for what?”

“All those years I was following you around like a lovesick puppy,” you explain as you play with the strings of his hoodie, “and you didn’t even look in my direction.”

“Yeah?” For the first time since the two of you arrived at the cabin, he breaks out into that boyish grin you’ve always adored, the one that made you fall for him in the first place. He leans in and kisses the soft skin just below your jaw. “You had a crush on me?”

“Don't pretend you didn’t know, you dick!” You smack his chest playfully, fighting a sigh as he drags his lips along your neck. You can feel the ghost of that smile against your skin as he laughs softly.

“Okay, okay,” he concedes. “I might have had an inkling.” Another kiss, this one pressed to the hollow beneath your ear, earning another quiet whimper from you. “But I didn’t want to encourage you.”

You like how playful he’s being with you now. It's how things always should have been between you — easy, familiar, natural, without all that guilt in the way. Without your brother’s masculine pride and overprotective nature looming over your heads.

“This is pretty encouraging,” you reply breathlessly, rolling your hips against his. His hard cock grinds into your clit through the layers of clothing between you, and you both gasp nearly in unison.

“Jesus.” Bucky grasps your hips to still you, looking at you seriously for a moment. “If we do this… we can’t tell Steve."

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

You wish he’d let you move again, but his eyes grow worried. “I don't… I don't have anything with me. I wasn't exactly expecting...”

Leaning to press a brief kiss to his lips, you whisper, “I'm clean. And on the pill.”

His eyes darken with want. “You really have grown up, sweetheart,” he remarks, chasing after your lips again.

Bucky loosens his grip on you, and his breath hitches as you slowly grind in his lap again.

“I’m clean, too,” he murmurs, pulling back far enough to get a good look at your face. “But only if you’re sure.”

You nod as you reach for the zipper of his hoodie. “I’m sure.”

You’ve never been more sure of anything in your life.

Bucky generously allows you to remove his hoodie and tug off his shirt, even more generously allows you to look your fill. You’ve seen him shirtless probably dozens of times over the years, but it never fails to spark your excitement. You run your hands down his chest, his abs, your nails dragging just slightly. He groans under his breath, the sound an echo of the ones he’d made in the bathroom.

Only now, the two of you don’t have to be quiet. You're far enough away from the cabin that your moans are swallowed up by the cicadas in the trees.

Warm, calloused fingers curl beneath the hem of your t-shirt as Bucky's lips brush against your sternum. He peels the garment off of you, his eyes full of wonder and desire as he takes them over your bare chest. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he mutters, cupping your breasts in each hand.

His mouth descends to one, his hand idly exploring the other, and your gasp pierces the night air. You've waited years, a decade and some change, for him to touch you like this. His tongue carefully strokes your nipple, and it makes you ache and pulse and want him so badly you can barely breathe right.

You want to let him take his time, to stretch this moment as long as it can last. But his ministrations soon have you rocking rhythmically in his lap, seeking relief as the ache between your legs builds.

“Bucky,” you whimper, “please.” 

Bucky reluctantly breaks away from worshipping your chest, and a small crease forms between his eyebrows. For a moment, you worry that the old hesitation is back, that things will stall.

“Just… gimme a second here,” he mumbles as he reaches for his hoodie.

He shifts you off his lap and spreads the hoodie out on the cool wood of the dock. Then he guides you backwards until you’re laid on top of it. The gesture makes you giggle affectionately.

“Such a gentleman,” you tease.

But he doesn’t laugh. He wears a hangdog expression as he leans over you, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “I'm sorry. You deserve nicer than this.”

You tilt your head. You're exactly where you want to be. What could be nicer than this?

Sensing your confusion, he rubs the back of his neck and addresses the trees. “Inside, in a real bed. Not a secret hookup in the middle of the woods.”

You can see the guilt, the shame resurfacing his eyes, and you’ll have none of that. So you reach up and take his face in your hands.

“Bucky. Look at me.”

He does, albeit reluctantly.

“This is perfect. I'm under the stars, in my favorite place in the world, with someone I trust.” You weave your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, hoping that honesty will break through the guilt. Softly, you amend your statement. “Someone I love.”

It might be too much, but it’s true. You've loved him for practically your whole life. As a friend, and as more than a friend. As a fixture in your life as constant as the sun. And it feels right to tell him, even though part of you is worried that it could ruin everything.

Bucky is silent for a moment, realization filling his eyes. There's something else, too — something like discovery, like finding something.

The silence extends long enough that it starts to make you nervous.

“Too much?” you ask, so quiet it barely disturbs the night air.

“No,” Bucky replies. “Not at all.”

His mouth dips to meet yours again, and you don’t even mind that he doesn’t say it back. You know that he loves you, even if it’s not the exact same way, and you can feel how he wants you. That's more than enough. 

Fingers slip past the waistband of your pajama shorts, past the fabric of your underwear, until they drag through the slick mess gathered between your legs. The sound you make in response is equal parts relief and need.

Ever the gentleman, Bucky works you open, not exactly rushing, but not exactly taking his sweet time either. You can feel how bad he wants this as his hard cock nudges at your thigh, that he wants this just as bad as you do.

Then he drags your shorts and underwear down, down, until you’re naked underneath him, under the stars and the moon, in the open night air where anyone could see you if they happened to walk by. You don’t give a damn in the slightest, because Bucky is looking at you like you invented having a body, like he can’t believe you’re real.

At last, Bucky settles between your legs, shoving his pajama pants down just far enough to free himself. A slow drag of his cock against you coats him in your wetness, both of you panting in anticipation.

 Carefully as he can manage, he pushes inside, and you gasp at the sudden fullness. It's overwhelming and right and everything you knew it would be.

Bucky's forehead drops to your shoulder, clearly struggling to keep it together, breath ragged. “Jesus christ, you’re so fuckin’ tight.”

“You feel so —“ You cut yourself off with a moan when he moves, hips withdrawing and then snapping them into yours, driving himself into you. “—so good, Buck.”

“Baby,” he nearly growls, hips snapping perfectly against yours once again, “you feel like you were made for me.”

As he moves inside you, everything else disappears — the trees, the dock underneath you, the stars above you. You could be in a five star hotel, as far as you’re concerned. You're on cloud nine, because after years of dreaming of this moment, it’s finally real. Bucky on top of you, inside of you, his moans and encouragement and endless praise on your ear. Every sound, every word, every thrust driving you closer and closer to climax.

His hand slips between your bodies, finding your clit and making your body arch beneath him as he rubs tight little circles into it. Your body clenches around him as you cry out, your pleasure climbing higher and higher. His words turn to stream-of-consciousness, rambles of pleasure and praise.

Somewhere in the middle of it, something slips out that sends you reeling through space.

“So good,” he groans softly, his mouth lowering to taste the sweat on your neck. “Love you so much, honey.”

You’re not sure if he even meant to say it out loud, but the effect is immediate and all-consuming. You clutch him against you, your heart swelling, your lips crying his name as you come apart around him. 

A wrecked moan spills out of him as his rhythm falters, thrusts turning sloppy and rough. “Fuck, i’m close,” he pants, his eyes finding yours. “You want me to—“

“Inside,” you beg, clutching him tighter, aftershocks of pleasure still pulsing through you. “Please, I want it.”

With a shudder and a curse, he buries himself inside you, hot pulses of his spend filling you as he thrusts shallowly to push it deeper. You feel claimed, marked, owned. What a glorious thing, to be claimed by him. You think if you could see yourself from the outside, you’d be glowing all over like a bonfire.

As the two of you come back to yourselves, Bucky brushes a tender kiss against your jaw and carefully pulls out of you. He rolls off of you, his back meeting the wood of the dock, his chest still heaving as he recovers.

For a few moments, the two of you stare up at the glittering sky, the reality of the situation settling in now that the intensity of sensation wanes.

You turn, curling into his side, and his arm drifts around you on instinct, natural as breathing.

“Did you… did you mean it?” you ask quietly.

It could have been the heat of the moment, and you wouldn’t blame him if it had been. People say all kinds of things when they’re about to come, things that look different in the afterglow and in the light of day. You know he cares about you. But you need to know how much truth lived in those words.

“Yeah.” He looks down at you, his eyes so soft and affectionate that it almost makes you want to climb on top of him again. His hand finds yours, fingers weaving together and resting against his chest. “I did.”

That's when it sinks in. This isn’t a one-time, clandestine rendezvous in the woods that you’ll both carry to the grave. It’s not something that will fade in the daylight. It will repeat itself. It will make demands. It will not keep to the shadows. It will not be easy to hide.

You sigh. “We have to tell Steve, don’t we?”

Bucky's sigh mirrors yours. “Yeah.”

“He’s gonna kill you.”

“Yeah.” 

His lips brush against the crown of your head, his voice already resigned to his fate. “Still worth it.”

Bucky taglist: @globetrotter28 @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @stokzr @buckys-dollface19

[danysdaughter]

Girl, so confusing

꒰ pairing ꒱ fratboy!bucky x fem!reader

꒰ wc ꒱ 20k words ꒰ summary꒱ bucky barnes can handle almost anything except the way you make him feel chosen one moment and disposable the next. loving you would be simple, if you weren’t so fucking confusing.

.ᐟ contents | 18+ (MDNI), college au, situationship, bucky pov, avoidant!reader, lovesick!bucky, mutual pining, asshole!bucky miscommunication, commitment issues, yearning!bucky, toxic relationship, reader is emotionally avoidant, alcohol and weed use, unprotected piv sex, drunk sex, oral sex (f receiving), multiple orgasms, creampie, rough sex, dirty talk, jealousy, bucky goes through ittt, .ᐟ lizzy’s note | it has been such an honour being apart of this collab. i love it so much. thank you so much to @iamthatonefangirl and @barnesonly for hosting this beautiful cutesy collab, and putting all this effort and thought in, love you bwabies. on another note this fic has also been the bane of my existence. literally created this fic for one scene in mind, only to not add it because i didnt have time, im actually devastated. anyway enjoy my loves <3

BWAT MASTERLIST — MASTERLIST

divider by my bby @barnesonly

The night was going perfectly until you walked in.

Bucky had a sweating bottle of beer hooked between two fingers, the label curling pink under his damp thumb.

Sam was pressed against his side, yelling something loudly idiotic directly into his ear; something about a bet, or a dare, or a girl whose name Bucky would forget by morning. He caught none of it.

The kitchen was chanting his name. The sound bounced off the sticky counters and the sweat-slick walls, a drunk, gleeful roar for a drinking game he didn’t remember starting, let alone winning.

He bared his teeth in a grin, let the noise wash over him like a wave of approval he was too buzzed to question.

Some girl he couldn’t name had dragged her glitter-dusted fingers across his cheekbone an hour ago, leaving a streak of lime-green that caught the strobe light like a neon sign against his skin.

Steve had been pretending not to laugh about it for the last twenty minutes, mouth tight, eyes bright with amusement every time he caught Bucky working the room with a fresh smear of sparkle on his face.

The whole house smelled like it was sweating out its own wild heart; weed smoke curling thick through the pulsing lights, cheap perfume wrestling with spilled beer and tequila, the sour-sweet musk of bodies pressed too close for too long.

It smelled like a night everyone would be pretending not to regret by the time the sun burned through the blinds.

A girl from Tony’s econ class—Eden… or Edith, he couldn’t remember—had her fingers locked around his wrist, tugging him toward the hallway where the bass bled into something slower, heavier.

The lights back there flickered green, pulsing like a heartbeat under the floorboards. She was pulling him toward the dark, and her lips were parted, and she was saying something he didn’t need to hear to understand.

Bucky let himself be pulled.

One step. Part of a grin. His thumb dragging across her knuckles in a promise he had made to a hundred girls before her. He was already opening his mouth, ready to offer something charming and perfectly hollow.

Then the front door opened.

He didn’t hear it. Not over the bass that was rattling the drywall. Not over Sam’s drunken cackle. Not over the sharp crash of glass shattering somewhere behind him, Thor probably, baptising another piece of the house with whatever expensive bottle he’d smuggled in from Norway. The kitchen cheered.

But Bucky’s head turned anyway.

Like gravity had taken the decision out of his hands.

You stepped in behind Natasha, Gamora a quiet shadow at your shoulder, and you were already laughing, hand pressed to Natasha’s forearm, mouth shaped around a sound the party swallowed whole.

You hadn’t seen him yet.

That, he thought, was always the worst part. Those few seconds where he got to want you without having to hide it. Where he could let the grin slide off his face and just look at you.

Let himself want, openly, stupidly, while the party roared on around him and his hand was still wrapped around some other girl’s wrist.

He must have gone still. Must have stopped grinning, because Sam followed the line of his stare like a bloodhound catching scent.

Sam groaned, and slapped a heavy hand against Bucky’s shoulder.

“Oh, here we fucking go.”

He felt like an impatient puppy, and he hated it, hated the way his pulse had picked up, the way his palm had gone clammy around the bottle, the way he couldn’t stop tracking the curve of your ass as you drifted through the crowd.

Eden/Edith was still talking. Her fingers were sliding up his forearm, nails scraping lightly, trying to reclaim the heat she’d had a lock on before the front door opened.

She didn’t know it yet, but she had absolutely no chance.

Bucky let her touch linger for a beat longer than polite, just long enough to make her think she was still in the running, then he let his gaze drift past her face like she’d already become background noise.

She was still talking, something about a quieter room, a better view from the upstairs balcony, but her words were just shapes in the air, meaningless vibrations against the bass.

He waited. Watched you, Natasha and Gamora carve out a corner of the living room, claiming a sagging couch and a half-empty bottle of something pink. You settled into the cushions like you owned them, one leg tucked under you, head tilted toward Gamora as she said something that made you smile.

And then Scott Lang appeared, as if summoned by the scent of a female audience, already gesturing wildly with both hands, launching into a story that was probably 80% fabrication.

The girl from econ was still talking. Bucky shrugged her hand off his arm and walked away mid-sentence.

He crossed the room with the lazy, unhurried confidence of someone who knew exactly where he was going and knew he’d be welcome when he got there. Scott was still going, his voice rising in pitch as he reached the climax of whatever tall tale he was spinning now.

“—and I swear to God, Hope looked me dead in the eye and said, ‘If you can’t fit it through the door, it’s not coming home with us.’ And I said, ‘Watch me.’”

“That did not happen, Lang,” Natasha cut in, shaking her head, but the smirk tugging at her lips betrayed her.

“On Hope’s life it did,” Scott insisted, pressing a hand to his chest. “Would I lie to you girls?”

The three of you exchanged a look. It was skeptical, humoured, a shared hum that was more mocking than affirming. Scott opened his mouth to continue, but Bucky was already moving into the gap.

“Ladies,” he said, drawling the word like it was a gift he was bestowing. He smiled, a little lopsided, the lime-green glitter catching the light as he shouldered his way into the space between you and Gamora on the couch.

“For fuck’s sake, Barnes,” Gamora muttered, but she shifted, grudgingly making room. Bucky’s focus was already locked on you, his body angled toward yours like a compass needle finding north.

He settled in, his thigh pressing against yours, the heat of him bleeding through the thin fabric of your jeans. He slung an arm across the back of the couch, his fingers dangling just behind your shoulder, claiming the space around you like it was his by right.

“Party started at nine,” he said, his voice already slurred with alcohol and the kind of confidence that came from knowing he was the best thing in the room. He was grinning, his pupils blown wide in the dim light. “It’s almost twelve. What’s your excuse?”

You laughed, and the sound of it hit him somewhere low in his chest. “You’ve never heard of fashionably late, Buck?”

He rolled his eyes, the gesture exaggerated and fond. “Whatever, doll.”

The word hung between you, before your hand moved almost on instinct. Your thumb came up to his cheek, pressing gently against the glitter clinging to his skin. The green flecks caught the dim light, and your touch was featherlight, curious, your brow arching as you rubbed at the shimmer.

“And where is this from?” you asked, your voice carrying that edge of playful interrogation he knew too well.

Bucky’s brain short-circuited. The warmth of your palm against his cheek, the way your fingers lingered just a second too long ,it was enough to make him forget his own name, let alone the girl whose hands had been all over him an hour ago. He blinked, swallowed, and the lie came easy.

“Barton.” He said it flatly, like it was obvious. “Got bored. Started throwing glitter at people. You know how he gets.”

He held your gaze, hoping the alcohol flush hid the flicker of guilt. He didn’t want to say some girl blonde chick whose face he’d already forgotten. Didn’t want to see that hint of something—jealousy? disappointment?—cross your features. Even if he wasn’t sure it would.

Before you could press further, his hand shot out, wrapping around your wrist. His fingers were warm, slightly sticky from condensation and beer, and he tugged gently, an insistent pull that was more plea than demand.

“Come with me.”

You didn’t move. Your grin was still in place, but your body stayed rooted, and you tilted your head, giving him your best scolding look, the one that made his stomach twist because it meant you were about to say no.

“I just got here, Buck. Don’t be rude.”

He huffed, the sound escaping him like an impatient child denied a treat. His jaw tightened, and he turned his head, addressing the two women lounging beside you with exaggerated politeness that was almost ridiculous given his disheveled state.

“May I steal your friend for a few moments? Please?” He even tacked on a smile, though it came out a little strained.

Gamora didn’t bother hiding her irritation. She shot him a look that could curdle milk, muttering something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like dumbass.

It was Natasha who answered, her eyes flickering between the two of you with an amusement that made Bucky feel like a specimen under a microscope.

“Just bring her back in one piece,” Natasha said, raising her glass in a lazy toast. “Preferably still clothed.”

Bucky’s mouth opened, but no words came out. He didn’t have time to form a response, because you were already opening your mouth to protest, and he wasn’t about to give you the chance.

He tugged. Harder this time. You stumbled forward, a surprised laugh escaping your lips as he pulled you off the couch and into the crowd. His hand stayed wrapped around your wrist, a warm anchor as he weaved through bodies and noise, dragging you behind him like a prize he’d won.

“Where are you taking me, Bucky?” you called over the music, your voice half-laughing, half-breathless.

“You’ll see,” he shouted back, not bothering to turn around. His eyes scanned ahead, spotting the staircase, the path clear for now. He felt your wrist shift against his grip, and without thinking, he slid his hand down, interlacing your fingers with his.

Behind him, across the room, Edith/Eden was still watching. Her glare burned against the back of his neck, but he didn’t feel it. He didn’t feel anything except the warmth of your palm pressed against his, the sound of your laughter cutting through the bass, and the need to get you alone.

By the time the door slammed shut behind them, the bass from downstairs was just a dull throb through the walls, a welcome relief from the chaos of the party.

Bucky’s room was a disaster; clothes spilling out of an open drawer, the sour tang of old beer cans mingling with the familiar musk of his cologne, a single lamp casting a weak amber glow over the wreckage.

He didn’t spare it a second glance, making a beeline for his dresser like a man on a mission.

You lingered by the door, arms crossed, taking in the scene with a slow, deliberate sweep of your eyes. “Jesus Christ, Bucky,” you said, your voice flat and deeply amused. “You’re a pig.”

Bucky snorted, a low, warm sound that vibrated through his chest. He didn’t bother turning around. His fingers dug through the wreckage of his top drawer, pushing aside a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a stray condom wrapper that had seen better days.

“Crash here tonight,” he tossed over his shoulder, the words slurring just a little around the edges, “and you can be my maid of honour. Organise my sock drawer. Judge my questionable life choices.”

His fingers finally closed around the small metal tin hidden at the very back. He pulled it out like a trophy, turning just in time to catch the affronted scoff that escaped your lips.

“You wish, Barnes.”

Your voice was sharp, dismissive, but there was a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.

Bucky held your gaze for a beat too long, something hot and unguarded flickering in his chest. His mouth moved before his brain caught up. “Yeah,” he murmured, turning to his desk to hide the sudden heat creeping up his neck. “Sweetheart, I wish every damn night.”

He busied himself with the familiar ritual of rolling; paper, weed, a careful distribution; refusing to look back, refusing to see if your expression shifted.

A beat of silence. Then your voice came again, softer now, laced with amusement. “You know, you’re cute when your brain-to-mouth filter is busted.”

He snorted, ducking his head to hide the grin spreading across his face. “Shut up.”

He was methodical despite the drink swimming in his veins, surprisingly steady. He sprinkled the weed, spread it even, and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger with a practiced ease that came from plenty of late nights just like this one.

His tongue darted out to wet the edge of the paper, sealing it shut with a final, satisfied press.

When he turned around, holding the blunt up between his fingers like a prize, his grin was crooked. “Look what I got.”

You had perched yourself on the edge of his bed, hands planted behind you, legs crossed. The springs creaked under your weight. That same infuriating, amused smile was painted across your face, like he was a puppet and you were the one pulling the strings.

Like his entire purpose in the universe was to make you laugh, to make you roll your eyes, to make you look at him with that perfect mix of exasperation and warmth.

And God help him, he’d take it. He’d take every scrap of attention you threw his way.

“On a scale of one to ‘I’m about to make a terrible decision’,” you asked, tilting your head, “where exactly are you right now, Bucky?”

He crossed the room in a few long strides, closing the distance until he was standing right in front of you. The blunt hung loose between his fingers.

“Enough that I know exactly how bad of an idea this is, sweetheart.” His hand shot out, wrapping around your wrist, fingers warm and calloused. He pulled you to your feet before you could brace yourself.

You stumbled into him, palms flat against his chest, the blunt pressed gently between your bodies for a fleeting second. “And I’m doing it anyway.”

He didn’t let go. Instead, he slid his hand down, threading his fingers through yours, and tugged you toward the window, the one that led to the fire escape.

“C’mon. Let’s get high.”

Fifteen minutes dissolved into a warm, syrupy haze where time stopped mattering and the only gravity left in the universe was the curve of your body against his.

Bucky was laughing; a low, breathless, almost giddy sound; right against your open mouth. The space between you had surrendered completely, chest to chest, your thighs brushing his, the bitter-sweet taste of the blunt lacing every shared exhale.

He’d stopped passing the joint a while ago. Now it was just a prop, a thin ember burning slowly between his fingers while he held it up to your lips like he was feeding you something sacred. You took a drag without him asking, lips parting automatically, eyes never leaving his.

“That was my last,” you murmured as you pulled back, the smoke curling from your lips in a lazy ribbon.

You didn’t bother aiming it away from him. He wished you’d blow it directly into his mouth so he could taste you.

“No such thing as ‘last’ with me, sweetheart.” His words were slow, syrup-thick, drunk on you more than the alchol in his system. “You started this. Gotta finish what you started.”

He brought the blunt back to your lips before you could argue, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. You took another hit, holding his gaze like a challenge.

“You’re such a bad influence on me, Barnes.”

Bucky huffed a laugh, shaking his head, the dopey grin on his face mirroring yours. “I’m the bad influence?”

He leaned closer, his nose brushing the shell of your ear, voice dropping to a rough, amused murmur. “Baby, I’m just following your lead. You walked into that party looking like a full-course meal. You climbed out my window. You’re the one keeping me out here, freezing my ass off, just to watch you smoke my weed and smile at me like I’m your favourite toy.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, pupils blown wide, lips parted.

“If anyone’s the devil here, sweetheart… it’s definitely you.”

Your dopey smile stretched wider, pushing up your cheeks, eyes crinkling at the corners. He almost groaned at the sight. The way you looked at him; like he was a puzzle you were enjoying taking apart, piece by piece.

“Shut up,” you said, your voice soft, fond, dismissive.

The words were barely a whisper before his came, immediate and rough.

“Make me.”

The air between you snapped taut. Your smile faded into something heavier, something that made his pulse skip and slam double-time. He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. He just stared you down, waiting, daring you, his arm tightening around your waist like he was ready to hold you there forever if that’s what it took.

Your eyes dropped to his lips.

Yes. Yes. Close the distance. Kiss me. Let me feel those lips against mine.

He watched you watch him. Watched the hesitation flicker behind your hooded eyes. Watched the want and the caution war inside you. He wanted to beg. Wanted to grab your jaw and bridge the gap himself.

But he held still, letting you make the call, letting you feel the weight of the choice hanging between you.

Instead, you broke the spell with a grin, that same infuriating, playful grin, and shoved him square in the chest.

“As fun as this is, watching you turn into a lovesick mess, Nat’s gonna send a search party if I’m gone much longer.”

You didn’t wait for an answer. You twisted out of his grip, the hem of your shirt riding up just enough to flash the smooth skin of your lower back as you climbed back through the window.

Bucky bit back a groan so sharp it almost hurt. He dragged a hand down his face, letting out a frustrated breath that fogged in the cool air. His entire body was humming, wired, aching.

He didn’t give himself time to think. He followed you on your heels, dropping through the window and landing in the mess of his room just as your feet hit the floor. His hand shot out, catching your wrist, spinning you gently but firmly back to face him.

“You’re gonna pay for that, you know.”

Your eyebrows lifted, amused. “Pay for what?”

“Leaving a man hanging.” His voice was lower now, rougher, stripped of the playful buzz. “Making me follow you around like some puppy. Dangling yourself in front of me and then slipping away.”

You tilted your head, that infuriating smile still playing at your lips. “Poor Bucky. Must be so hard, wanting something you can’t just charm your way into.”

His jaw tightened. There was no malice in your voice; just teasing, still wrapped in that same playful edge that had been driving him up the wall all night.

But something in him snagged on it anyway.

Maybe it was the weed, loosening the screws in his head. Maybe it was the beer, sticky and warm in his bloodstream.

Maybe it was the simple, agonising fact that you were standing in his room with your mouth still soft and swollen from smiling at him, your wrist warm and alive under his thumb, acting like he was insane for wanting the very thing you kept placing just out of reach.

Bucky’s thumb pressed into the delicate skin over your pulse. He felt it skip. Felt the flutter of it beneath his touch, like a bird trapped in a cage of bone and breath.

“Maybe I’m not trying to charm my way into it.”

Your smile didn’t fall all at once. That would’ve been merciful.

It faded slowly, like a candle snuffed from across the room, a gradual dimming that left shadows in its wake. Your brows pulled together, the teasing tilt of your head softening into something careful. As if you were reading the fine print of a contract you hadn’t agreed to.

Bucky should’ve stopped there.

He knew he should’ve. He could feel the edge of it under his feet, that familiar precipice where the air changed and you started looking for the nearest exit without ever moving toward the door. Your eyes flickered, just once. Toward escape.

But he was drunk. He was high. And he was so goddamn tired of wanting you like a dog waiting under a dinner table for scraps, hungry and patient, and always left with nothing.

So he kept going.

“Maybe I’m just trying to figure out what the hell you want from me.”

Your eyes searched his face, hunting for the joke, the punchline, the easy way out.

For one second, you looked almost wounded. Like he had reached past the game and touched something raw without asking first. Your lips parted, and something flickered behind your eyes.

Then you blinked, and it was gone. Wiped clean like a slate.

“Bucky.”

He hated the way you said his name then. Soft. Gentle. Like a warning whispered to a child on the verge of a tantrum. Like you were trying to calm something down before it made a mess.

“What?” he asked, though his voice had already lost its bite, gone flat and hollow.

“You’re drunk.”

He laughed once, short and humourless, the sound scraping out of his throat. “Yeah, you said that already.”

“And high.”

“And still not stupid.” His voice cracked on the last word, betraying him.

Your lips pressed together into a thin, unreadable line.

There it was. The wall. Not slammed up, not obvious enough for anyone else to notice, but Bucky felt it like a physical shift in the air. Your wrist went still in his hand, no longer warm, no longer responsive. Your shoulders drew back half an inch, a subtle retreat.

Your gaze flicked past him, toward the door, toward the party, toward anything that was not this room and the thing he had just dragged into the light.

His stomach dropped before you even spoke.

“I should go back downstairs.”

Of course.

Bucky let go of your wrist like it had burned him. His hand fell to his side, fingers curling into a loose fist, the ghost of your pulse still tingling against his palm.

“Right.”

Your expression shifted. Something tight and wounded flickered across your features before you smoothed it over.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That.” You gestured vaguely at his face, at the flatness in his eyes, the bitter set of his jaw. “Act like I did something.”

He stared at you.

You stared back.

Downstairs, someone screamed with laughter, swallowed by the bass that kicked harder for a few seconds, rattling an empty beer can on his desk. The sound skittered across the wood like a nervous heartbeat.

Bucky dragged his tongue across his teeth, tasting smoke and bitterness. He nodded once, like he had just figured something out. Like the pieces had finally clicked into place, and the picture wasn’t pretty.

“You didn’t,” he said, and his voice came out rougher than he intended. “That’s kind of the whole point, isn’t it?”

Something flashed across your face.

Hurt, maybe. Guilt. A flicker of recognition at the truth buried under his words.

Or maybe he was making things up again because he wanted so badly for there to be something underneath all that pretty nothing you kept giving him. Wanted it like a bruise he couldn’t stop pressing.

Your voice was quieter when you said, “I was just joking with you.”

“Yeah,” he said, forcing a smile that felt wrong on his mouth. “You’re good at that.”

The air stalled between you.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. You stood there in the weak amber light of his disaster of a room, the glow spilling from the desk lamp casting long shadows across the cluttered floor.

Close enough that he could still smell smoke on your breath, mixed with something sweet, your lip gloss, maybe, or the conditioner you used. Far enough that he knew if he reached for you again, you would probably let him.

That was the worst part.

You would let him.

You would let him touch your waist, pull you into him by the hand. You would sigh against his mouth like you had been waiting for it. You would make him feel like he had finally cracked through every wall you built.

And then tomorrow, in front of everyone, you would smile at him like none of it had happened. Like he was just another face in the crowd.

Bucky swallowed. His throat clicked dryly.

“Go on, then,” he said, nodding toward the door. “Nat’s waiting, right?”

Your eyes lifted to his.

He could tell you didn’t like that. Could tell by the tiny pinch between your brows, the way your mouth parted around a response you didn’t seem to have ready. He had pushed too hard, and now you were scrambling for solid ground.

But you still went.

You brushed past him, shoulder grazing his chest, and he hated himself for noticing the contact, the warmth of you through the thin fabric of your top. Hated himself more for wanting to turn his head and follow the line of your back as you moved away.

At the door, your hand closed around the knob. The metal turned with a soft click.

Then you paused.

“Buck?”

He looked at you because he always looked when you said his name like that.

You seemed to regret calling for him the second he did. Your face softened, and for one stupid, awful second, he thought you might come back. He thought you might say sorry. He thought you might say anything real enough for him to hold onto.

Instead, you gave him a small smile.

“Don’t sulk too much.”

Then you slipped out, leaving the door half-open behind you. The hallway light bled across the floor, carrying muffled voices and the thrum of music.

Bucky stood there for a few seconds, heart punching slow and heavy against his ribs, listening to the party swallow you back whole.

Then he laughed under his breath,low and mean and mostly at himself. The sound scraped out of his chest and died in the empty air.

“Yeah,” he muttered to the cluttered room. “Sure.”

Bucky hated spring festivals.

That was a lie.

Usually, he loved this shit. Loved the noise, the way the quad swarmed with bodies in a heat that felt almost reckless for April, the sun bleaching the grass and pavement into something too bright, too clean.

Loved the cheap beer poured into plastic cups and hidden inside soda cans, the shameless excuse to get drunk in broad daylight and call it school spirit.

Usually, he would have walked in like he owned the whole fucking place.

Today, he trailed Sam and Steve through the crowd with his hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets and a mood that sat heavy in his chest; sour, curdled, thick enough to spoil the entire afternoon.

Sam was talking. Steve was answering. The two of them had been at it for at least five minutes about something Bucky couldn’t muster the energy to care about.

Something about whether Clint could legally enter the pie-eating contest twice if he changed his shirt between rounds.

“He wore a wig, man,” Sam was saying, his voice threaded with genuine affront. “Like that was supposed to make people forget he’s still Clint fucking Barton.”

Steve exhaled a short, tired laugh. “The volunteer was a freshman. She panicked.”

“She panicked because he called himself Clara Barta.”

Bucky stared past them at a girl in a neon-green cowboy hat trying to scale someone’s shoulders and nearly eating shit in the grass.

He wasn’t hearing any of it properly.

His eyes kept drifting before he could stop them. Over the food trucks. Across the knot of bodies near the makeshift stage. Past the sorority booth selling overpriced lime slushies.

Toward every flash of gold jewelry, every laugh that pitched too close to yours, every figure moving beside a redhead or a girl with a glare sharp enough to cut glass.

He was not looking for you.

He wasn’t.

He had told himself that before they even left the house. Had stood in front of the bathroom mirror, dragging his toothbrush across his teeth with too much force, and decided it with a mouthful of mint and stubbornness.

He did not care if you were there. He did not care if you saw him.

He cared, specifically and deeply, about not caring if you didn’t.

If you came up to him, he would be normal. Worse than normal. He would be casual. Cold, even. Polite in a way designed to make you feel stupid for once.

He would not give you that pathetic, eager opening you always seemed to find in him, the one you could press your fingers into until he forgot every reason he had to be angry.

No.

This time, if you wanted his attention, you could fucking work for it.

“You good?” Steve asked.

Bucky blinked.

The question cut through the static in his head like a blade he hadn’t realised was already buried there. Sam and Steve had both stopped walking.

They were looking at him now. Sam with one brow arched high enough to belong on its own zip code, Steve wearing that careful, irritating brand of concern that made Bucky want to throw something soft and harmless directly at his face.

The sun was hot on the back of his neck. The breeze carried the scent of grilled meat and spilled soda, and somewhere a group of girls screamed with laughter over the loudspeaker.

“What?”

Sam’s mouth twisted into a grin that was half amusement, half disbelief. “He lives.”

“I’m good,” Bucky said, the words flat and dismissive.

“You sure?” Steve pressed, his voice quieter now.

“Christ, Rogers, I said I’m good.”

Sam lifted both hands in surrender, palms out. “Nobody said you weren’t. You just looked like you were trying to blow up a lemonade stand with your mind.”

Bucky looked over.

Sure enough, he had been glaring in the vague direction of a table draped in yellow streamers, a handwritten sign propped crooked against a stack of plastic cups reading FRESH LEMONADE $3.

The freshman behind the table, a blonde in a floral sundress, met his stare for half a second before quickly dropping her gaze to the pitcher, her shoulders hitching like she’d been caught stealing.

Great. Perfect.

Now he was terrorising citrus vendors because some girl with pretty eyes and a talent for emotional warfare had ruined his entire fucking week.

“I’m getting a drink,” he muttered.

“From the lemonade stand?” Sam asked.

“Fuck off.”

Steve sighed, a long, tired exhale that Bucky knew too well, but by then he was already walking.

The festival sprawled across the quad in every direction, bright and loud and obnoxiously alive.

Someone had draped green streamers from the trees, their edges curling in the afternoon breeze. The grass was littered with crushed cups and abandoned flyers and bodies lounging in the sun.

A group of guys from the rowing team were shouting around the dunk tank, already shirtless, already sunburnt to a shade of pink that had to hurt. Music pulsed from the stage where some sophomore with a guitar was butchering a song Bucky vaguely recognised.

Normally, it would have been easy.

Smile. Drink. Flirt. Win something stupid from one of the booths while the crowd cheered like it mattered.

Let a girl press herself against his side, her fingers trailing his arm, while Sam heckled him from the sidelines and Steve pretended he wasn’t entertained by the whole spectacle.

That was what pissed him off most.

Everything used to be so fucking easy before you.

Bucky grabbed a red plastic cup from one of the coolers near the fraternity table, the ice water sloshing over his fingers, and took a long drink without bothering to ask what was in it.

Too sweet. Sharp underneath, a chemical bite that tried to singe the back of his throat. Probably spiked by Thor, judging by the way it burned all the way down.

Good.

He drank again, letting the cold settle in his chest like armor.

“Bucky!”

He turned, half out of reflex.

A girl from his psych lecture waved at him from beside the ring toss booth, her hair catching the sun, her smile too eager.

She was wearing a tiny green top that probably would have interested him three months ago, or three weeks ago, or any other version of himself that had not become clinically insane over a girl who called him needy like she knew exactly where to press and exactly how much pressure it would take to make him explode.

Her name was Mia.

Maybe. Maya? No. Mia.

Bucky smiled anyway.

There. Easy. He could do easy. He’d been doing easy his whole damn life.

“Hey,” he said, walking over with the lazy confidence that still fit him when he remembered how to wear it, “You runnin’ this scam?”

She laughed immediately, like he had given her something better than the joke deserved. Her eyes roamed his chest, his arms, the casual way he held his cup. “It’s not a scam. You’re just bad at aiming.”

“That’s hurtful. I’m great at aiming.”

“Prove it, then.”

Bucky leaned one hip against the edge of the booth, letting his grin widen. Behind him, he could practically feel Sam and Steve watching from somewhere near the food trucks, probably exchanging some kind of wordless commentary with their eyebrows.

Mia handed him three plastic rings, her fingers brushing his palm. She let them linger a second longer than necessary, her smile softening into something intentional.

Bucky noticed.

He also noticed that he felt nothing.

Not nothing exactly. He felt the dull satisfaction of being wanted. The little ego-stroke of someone looking at him and deciding he was worth the chase.

He felt the shape of his old self settle over him for a second, familiar as a jacket he had left hanging in his closet, still fitting, still comfortable.

But underneath it, his attention kept pulling elsewhere.

He threw the first ring.

The plastic sailed wide, skimming the neck of a glass bottle before spinning uselessly into the trampled grass.

Mia laughed, bright and sharp. “Great at aiming, huh?”

“Wind interference,” he said, already reaching for the next one.

“There is no wind.” She laughed again, softer this time, her fingers finding the bare skin of his forearm.

“Spiritual wind, then.”

Bucky made himself look at her. Really look. He cataloged the curve of her mouth, the warm spread of her smile, the little glitter sticker pressed beneath one eye.

She was pretty. Genuinely pretty. Warm and open and offering him something he didn’t have to work for.

He should have wanted that.

He wanted to want that. He wanted to feel the familiar heat of being chosen, the lazy satisfaction of a girl deciding he was worth her time.

But the wanting felt hollow. A reflex without the fire behind it. His body was here. His mind was already somewhere else, straining toward a frequency he couldn’t stop chasing.

Then, somewhere behind him, a laugh cut through the noise.

Nat’s laugh, recognisable even in the middle of a crowd.

It wasn’t yours. He knew the difference better than he wanted to. Yours was quieter, wryer, often aimed at him rather than with him. But Natasha was the anchor of your little constellation, and where she was…

Bucky’s whole body went tight.

The casual slouch of his shoulders hardened into something rigid. The easy smile on his mouth faltered at the edges, cracking just barely before he caught it.

He hated himself before he even turned his head. Hated how transparent he was.

Slowly he glanced over his shoulder.

And there you were.

By the slushie booth, standing in the loose triangle you always formed with Natasha and Gamora. Sunlight was threading through your hair, setting the edges of you on fire. A lime-green cup was balanced in your hand, the crushed ice inside melting into a watery gradient against the plastic.

You were listening to something Natasha was saying, your head tilted at that familiar angle, your mouth curved into the shape of a smile that didn’t quite touch your eyes.

You looked beautiful. You looked miles away. You looked exactly the way you always looked when you were present but not entirely there.

Bucky went still. Like a fucking idiot.

After that, Mia became background noise.

Pretty background noise, sure. The kind that came with a sugar-sweet laugh and a glitter sticker catching the late-afternoon sun beneath one eye. Smiling background noise with soft fingers that kept finding excuses to graze his wrist every time she handed him another plastic ring, letting her touch linger a beat longer than necessary.

But background noise all the same.

Bucky tried. He really fucking tried.

He let his weight shift onto one hip, leaning against the edge of the ring-toss booth with practiced ease. He laughed when she laughed, let his eyes drop to her mouth once because that was the sort of thing he used to do without thinking, a reflex he’d honed over years of easy conquests.

He even let her fix the collar of his jacket when she reached for it. Her knuckles grazed the side of his throat, a brief pressure against the warm skin just above his collarbone.

It should have sparked something smug and familiar in him, a pleasant shiver of being wanted.

Nothing.

Worse than nothing.

Because the whole time she was talking all he could think was that her laugh was too bright. Too clean. Too eager to please. It didn’t catch him under the ribs the way yours did, didn’t hook into something raw and leave him breathless.

Her teasing landed too soft. Too safe. Not sharp enough to make him want to chase it, to earn it, to prove himself.

She touched him like she knew he wanted to be touched, generous and open and unquestioning.

And he hated that too, because you never gave him anything that simply.

You made him work for scraps and then looked surprised when he started starving.

Mia said something. He missed it entirely.

“Right,” Bucky said, because it sounded safe enough.

Her brows lifted, “You have no idea what I just said.”

He smiled, charming and empty, a reflex that had never failed him. “I was distracted by your beauty.”

She laughed, pleased despite herself, and shoved lightly at his arm. Easy. So fucking easy.

His gaze still slid over her shoulder.

You were still by the slushie booth, one elbow propped on the counter, the heel of your palm digging into the wood. Your head was tilted toward Natasha, who was gesturing emphatically about something.

Gamora stood half a step behind you with her arms crossed, like campus security hired by hell itself. You had a lime-green straw between your fingers, the plastic bent near the top from where you kept worrying it with your thumb.

You were not looking at him.

Good. Fine.

Bucky turned back to Mia and threw another ring. It sailed in a shallow arc, bounced uselessly off the neck of a bottle, and dropped onto the trampled grass at the base of the booth.

Mia made a sympathetic noise, her lips pursing. “Spiritual wind again?”

“Violent spiritual wind.” He grabbed another ring, testing its weight in his palm.

“You’re terrible at this.” Her hand landed on his bicep when she laughed, staying there a little too long.

Bucky let it.

He let it because maybe you would look over and see it. Maybe you would see her hand on his arm, see her leaning into his space, see him not pulling away. Maybe you would realise he had options. Lots of them.

Girls who laughed easily and touched without hesitation and made him feel like he was winning instead of losing.

He did not need you.

He didn’t.

He had never needed any girl to want him. That was the whole point. Girls liked him. Girls came easy. Girls wanted to be chosen by him, and he had always been good at choosing, at taking what was offered, at moving on before anyone could get too attached.

So maybe you should see that.

Maybe you should watch someone else touch him, watch someone else laugh at his jokes, watch someone else look at him like he was something worth having.

Maybe you should feel even half as stupid as he had felt standing in his room after you left, the silence still ringing in his ears.

Your eyes moved.

Just once.

A quick glance over Natasha’s shoulder, brief enough that anyone else would have missed it. A flicker of movement, a shift in focus. You looked at him and then away again.

Bucky should have felt triumphant.

He should have felt vindicated. Relieved, maybe. Like he had finally managed to press one finger into the soft place beneath all your careful indifference and prove there was something there.

Instead, his stomach twisted into a knot that sat heavy and cold.

Because you did not look angry.

You looked away too fast for him to understand anything at all.

And that was worse.

Mia was still smiling up at him when he turned back, her head tilted just enough to catch the tail end of the afternoon light across her cheekbone.

Her mouth was parted, ready to laugh at whatever he said next.

“You want to try again?”

No.

The word cut through him clean and fast.

He wanted to walk across the quad. He wanted to cross the trampled grass and the careful, deliberate distance you had carved between you like a border he wasn’t allowed to cross.

He wanted to stand in front of you and ask why you had looked at him like that—like he was the one doing something wrong just by existing, just by letting someone else’s hand rest on his arm.

He wanted to grab your stupid green cup out of your hand and press his mouth to the plastic rim, taste whatever sugar-sour thing you had been nursing all afternoon, because, for a reason that made him feel deeply, disgustingly pathetic, he wanted his lips to touch where yours had been.

He wanted to ask why the fuck you got to look wounded when he was the one bleeding out all over the place.

He set the last plastic ring down on the counter.

“You know what?” His voice came out easier than he felt, smooth and practiced. “I’m gonna quit while I still have some dignity.”

Mia laughed, “You had dignity?”

“Once. Briefly.” He dragged a hand through his hair, let his mouth curve into something rueful and self-deprecating. “Freshman year, I think. It was a Tuesday. I peaked early.”

She shifted closer, the toe of her sneaker brushing against his. Her fingers grazed his wrist again. He could feel the opening there, easy, the way girls always were.

All he had to do was lean into it. Let the conversation carry. Let his hand find her waist. Let himself get lost in something simple for once.

Instead, he stepped back.

“See you around, Mia.”

Her face flickered. The smile didn’t drop, but something behind it cooled. A subtle tightening around her eyes, a slight press of her lips.

“Maya,” she corrected.

Fuck.

Bucky blinked.

He smiled anyway, because what else was he supposed to do?

“Right. Maya.” He let the apology bleed into his voice. “Sorry.”

Her smile thinned.

Bucky deserved that too.

He turned and walked away before he could make it worse.

For the next two hours, Bucky made a point of being seen and not approaching.

He let Sam drag him toward the food trucks, let himself be pulled through the thick crowd of students and families and drunk upperclassmen.

He let Steve talk him into watching Clint get disqualified from the pie-eating contest. Thor had stood up from the judges’ table, pointed a finger the size of a hot dog, and loudly accused Clint of being “the same small blond criminal in a wig.”

The crowd erupted. Clint flipped him off with a mouthful of whipped cream. Steve laughed so hard he had to brace himself on Bucky’s shoulder.

Bucky laughed too. He did. It came out at the right time, in the right pitch, convincing enough.

He stood by the dunk tank while Rhodey heckled Tony into climbing onto the seat. Tony was wearing a linen shirt that probably cost more than Bucky’s entire closet, and he looked profoundly uncomfortable with the idea of getting wet.

He kept his distance. But never so much distance that he could not see you.

That was the pathetic part.

His body moved on its own, tracking you like a compass needle finding north. He always arranged himself somewhere with a clear line of sight. Near the stage when you drifted toward the booths.

By the food trucks when you wandered toward the grass, your silhouette cutting through the golden haze.

Close to Steve when Steve decided to talk to Natasha, because then Bucky had an excuse to stand twenty feet from you and pretend it wasn’t intentional, pretend he was just hanging with his friend while he watched your every move.

But every time your face turned away, his mood soured. Every time you smiled at someone else, he wondered what they had said, what they had done to earn that warmth that he couldn’t seem to coax from you.

He was exhausting.

But he couldn’t stop.

By late afternoon, the sun had started to dip behind the science building, turning the quad warm and gold at the edges. The light slanted long across the grass, casting everything in a honeyed haze.

The air smelled like fried dough, cut grass, spilled beer, and the sharp chemical sweetness of the slushie machine that had been running too hard all day, its motor grinding low and tired.

Bucky had finally lost sight of you.

At first, he told himself it was a relief.

Good.

Great.

Maybe you had left. Maybe you had gone back to your dorm. Maybe the festival could go back to being a festival instead of a slow, public study in how little self-respect James Buchanan Barnes apparently had left.

He lasted thirty seconds.

Then his eyes were moving again, dragging across the quad like a searchlight. Toward the drink stands. Over the line at the food trucks, scanning faces. Past the stage, where the band was packing up their equipment.

Back toward the slushie booth, where Natasha was now talking to Wanda, their heads bent together in quiet conversation.

You were not beside her.

Gamora was there, though, standing with her arms crossed in that way she had. Her eyes cut toward him like she had known exactly where he would be looking.

Bucky looked away immediately.

His pulse hammered in his throat.

Fuck.

He shoved both hands into his jacket pockets and turned in the opposite direction, jaw tight, pulse irritated beneath his skin. He was not looking for you. He was not going to walk around this whole fucking festival like a lost dog because you had vanished for five minutes.

“Hey.”

Bucky turned too fast.

And there you were.

Standing behind him. Sunlight soft around your shoulders, spilling through the gaps in the trees behind you, catching the faint sheen of condensation on the clear plastic cups in your hands. Two iced coffees.

For one stupid second, he forgot to be angry.

The feeling arrived in his chest before he could stop it. A loosening. A warmth. The same stupid, gravitational pull he had been fighting all day, undoing him with a single glance.

Then you smiled at him.

Not the teasing, knowing curl of your mouth that made him want to grab you by the waist and pull you into somewhere quiet. This one was smaller. Softer. Almost shy. The corners of your lips lifted slowly, like you were testing whether it was safe to show him that part of yourself.

He did not trust himself to name it.

“They messed up my order,” you said, lifting one of the cups a little. The ice shifted inside, a soft, crystalline sound against the plastic. “Gave me hazelnut instead of caramel.”

Bucky stared at you. He could smell the coffee now, faintly bitter, cut with something sweet.

You held the cup out toward him.

“I remembered hazelnut’s your favourite.”

That was all.

One sentence.

One stupid fucking coffee.

And Bucky felt every cruel, petty thing he had been rehearsing all day loosen in his hands. They slid through his fingers like water, leaving nothing but the raw, embarrassing truth beneath.

He was supposed to be cold. He had planned it. If you came over he was going to look at you the way you looked at him in dayligh; casual, polite, with nothing owed. He was going to make you work for his attention. Make you feel the distance.

Instead, he took the coffee.

His fingers brushed yours around the damp cup. Your skin was cool and wet from the condensation, and the contact was brief but electric. He felt it in his fingertips, up his wrist, settling somewhere low in his chest.

“Thanks,” he said.

The word came out awful. Pathetic. Barely even mean. It was soft when he had wanted it hard. Grateful when he had wanted indifferent.

Your eyes searched his face, careful and quiet. There was something watchful in the way you looked at him, like you were reading a line of text you had read before but were trying to understand differently this time.

“You haven’t talked to me all day.”

Bucky gave a shrug. The motion was stiff, defensive. He brought the straw to his mouth and wrapped his lips around it, buying himself a second.

“Been busy.”

“I saw.”

The straw stopped against his lips.

There it was. Not an accusation exactly. Not jealousy either. Just two words, soft enough to slide under his skin. They found the tender places, the ones he had been trying to protect, and settled there.

He took a sip to give himself something to do.

Hazelnut. Sweet. A little bitter underneath. Warm on his tongue despite the ice.

Of course you remembered.

He lowered the cup. The plastic was slick in his grip.

“Did you?”

Your mouth tightened slightly. A small, almost imperceptible press of your lips that told him the words had landed where he meant them to.

“Bucky.”

He hated that too. The softness. The warning.

“What?” he asked, and even to his own ears it came out harder than he intended.

“You’re being weird.”

He let out a short laugh. It was hollow, barely more than a breath. “I’m being weird?”

Your eyes dropped to the coffee in your hand. The condensation had started to pool between your fingers, and you shifted your grip, watching the water trail down the plastic.

That should have helped him. That should have given him something solid to stay angry with. He wanted you to roll your eyes. He wanted you to smirk, to toss some sharp little joke at his feet and dare him to pick it up. He wanted you to give him a reason.

But you did not.

You just stood there, looking smaller somehow in the middle of all that noise. The festival kept spinning around you and you were still. Quiet. Waiting.

Then you said, “Are you mad at me?”

He was finished.

He hated that he was finished before he even opened his mouth. Hated that the question undid him so completely, that it found the lock and turned it without effort. Hated that you could stand there with a small, uncertain crack in your voice, and he would fold every single time.

Bucky looked away. He dragged his tongue along the inside of his cheek, tasting coffee and bitterness and something that felt too much like surrender.

He brought the coffee to his lips again. Just to have something to do with his hands. Just to keep from saying something he could not take back.

“Why would I be mad?” he asked, because apparently he had decided to be a dick anyway.

You did not answer immediately.

The silence stretched between you like a thread pulled taut, and Bucky watched the shape of your mouth as it hovered around words you weren’t ready to say.

When he looked back at you, your face had gone still in that careful way he was beginning to recognise. The muscles around your eyes had softened, your lips parted just slightly, and there was a patience in your expression that felt heavier than any accusation.

“I don’t know,” you said, and your voice was thinner now. “I thought maybe the other night…”

You trailed off.

The sentence hung in the air, unfinished, fragile. The kind of opening that could be filled with anything; with hope, with blame, with the truth neither of you had been brave enough to say aloud.

Bucky’s grip tightened around the coffee cup. The other night. So you did remember. You weren’t pretending it hadn’t happened, weren’t going to let it dissolve into the haze of party noise and cheap beer.

“You thought maybe what?”

Your lashes lifted. Your eyes met his, and there was no deflection in them now. No clever sidestep.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel stupid.”

The words went straight through him.

Clean through the ribs, past the armour he had spent the last three days layering over his chest, settling somewhere deep and tender. It was meaner than anything cruel would have been.

Because that was it. That was the thing he had been carrying around and dressing up as anger, because anger looked better on him than humiliation. You had made him feel stupid. Stupid for wanting you.

And now you were standing in front of him with hazelnut coffee and remorse in your eyes, saying the one thing he had not known he needed to hear.

His anger lost its shape.

It did not vanish. He could still feel it, somewhere under his breastbone, hot and sore, a bruise that had not finished healing. But it had nothing to hold onto now.

Bucky swallowed. The motion was dry, his throat tight.

“You didn’t,” he lied.

Your brows pinched. The disbelief was immediate, a small furrow forming between your eyes that told him you had seen right through the denial.

He sighed, hating himself, hating you a little, hating the way his body was already angling toward yours like it had forgiven you without consulting him.

“Fine,” he muttered, the word scraping past his teeth. “Maybe a little.”

Your mouth softened. The corners of your lips turned down in a way that was not quite a frown, more like a quiet admission of guilt.

“I’m sorry.”

There it was again. Another scrap. Barely enough. Two words that should not have been enough to undo the knot in his chest, but somehow they were.

Bucky looked down at the coffee in his hand. The ice had melted more now, the water pooling at the bottom of the clear plastic. Then he looked back at you, and the corner of his mouth lifted despite himself.

“You always apologise with beverages?”

“Only when I’m feeling generous.”

“Dangerous habit.” He tilted his head, letting the smirk settle into something more real. “I’m very bribable.”

Your smile came back slowly. It started in your eyes first, a flicker of warmth that spread to your lips, and God, there he went. There he fucking went.

All that resolve, all that careful, bitter distance, folding inside him like wet paper because you looked at him with warmth again.

“You’re cheap,” you said.

“Not cheap.” He shook his head, the coffee cup swinging in his grip. “Accessible.”

“That’s worse.”

“You say that like you’re not standing here trying to buy my forgiveness with six dollars of iced coffee.”

“Seven fifty,” you corrected, and there was a spark of humour in your voice now. “Campus pricing is criminal.”

He laughed before he could stop himself. The sound came out rough and surprised. But there it was, and it loosened something between you, closed the last of the distance.

Your smile widened at the sound, and something in his chest went soft and stupid and loyal.

Across the quad, Sam caught his eye from beside the food trucks. He was standing with a paper tray of fries halfway to his mouth, staring at Bucky over the top of them with an expression flat with disbelief.

His eyebrows were raised, his head tilted in a slow, accusatory shake.

Bucky ignored him.

He looked back at you, and the festival noise swelled around you again, but it felt distant now. Muffled. He nodded toward the far end of the festival where the temporary rides had been set up near the parking lot.

A cheap spinning thing with hanging seats was creaking in slow circles, its lights flickering green and white even though the sun had not fully gone down yet.

Nearby, a smaller ferris wheel groaned every time it moved, looking only slightly safer than a lawsuit.

“You wanna go on a ride?”

You glanced over, your gaze following his nod. Your brows lifted, a flicker of amusement crossing your face.

“With you?”

“Don’t sound so horrified.”

“I’m not horrified.” You turned back to him, and there was a glint in your eye now. “I’m considering the risk.”

Bucky tilted his head, trying for careless and landing somewhere much softer. The words came out before he could stop them, “C’mon, sweetheart. Let me be a bad influence.”

You looked at him for a second too long.

Then you stepped closer, just enough that your shoulder brushed his arm as you moved past him.

“Fine,” you said, the word carrying a reluctant smile. “But if I die, I’m haunting you.”

Bucky followed immediately, coffee in hand, heart gone embarrassingly light.

“Good,” he said, “Then at least you’d be consistent.”

For the last three years at NYU, Tony Stark had treated the end of spring semester like a religious holiday.

A very expensive, deeply obnoxious holiday that involved a beach house weekend at his parents’ sprawling Malibu mansion, that forced you to acknowledge how much money some people had just by existing in its shadow.

First-class flights for anyone he deemed entertaining enough to invite, which was a broad and chaotic metric.

Enough alcohol to poison a small country, and a guest list he described as “intimate” in the same way someone might call a riot “spirited,” given that it usually hovered somewhere around fifty people.

Closest and dearest friends, Tony called it.

Which, for Tony, meant anyone he had laughed with more than twice, anyone who looked good in bikinis, anyone who owed him money, anyone he owed money, and at least three people he claimed were “essential to the ecosystem” despite no one else being entirely sure who they were.

Bucky had always loved it.

How could he not?

It was a weekend designed for him to love. Sun-warm skin and salt-crusted hair, the sharp iodine scent of the Pacific mixing with expensive cologne. Music vibrating through the glass walls deep into the night, until the floors hummed under his feet.

Top-shelf liquor sloshing into cheap red cups because Tony loved the visual dissonance of it, the clash of refinement and raucous excess. People half-dressed and fully drunk before the sun had even properly set.

Bodies, careless and comfortable, everywhere, draped over pool chairs, melting into leather couches, disappearing into guest rooms with sheets that cost more than his tuition.

And this year was supposed to be the best one.

Senior year.

The final spring before reality politely asked everyone to grow up. Before the forced enthusiasm about internships, leases, and entry-level jobs that paid barely enough to justify the commute.

Before the slow, quiet humiliation of being twenty-two and realizing the world had never promised to stay exactly how it was.

The last Malibu trip had a gravity to it, even if no one wanted to say that out loud. Everyone could feel it pressing down on their shoulders.

Steve said it once on the plane, because of course he did.

Mid-flight, with the Pacific stretching blue and endless beneath them, he said something earnest and quietly devastating about how strange it was that they would probably never have this much time together again.

Sam threw a pretzel at his forehead with surgical precision. ”Stop making the trip sad, Rogers. You’re gonna manifest a bad vibe.”

Bucky had laughed along with everyone else.

He was good at that. Keeping things light. Acting like the future was just some vague concept waiting politely far away from him, instead of a door already clicking shut in slow motion while they weren’t looking.

Besides, he had more pressing things to occupy his head.

Like the fact that you were coming.

Not that he was thinking about that. Not obsessively. He hadn’t checked the group chat four times to see if Natasha had confirmed the flight details. He hadn’t hovered near the baggage claim exit a little too long, pretending to stretch his shoulders out, stomach tightening every time the automatic doors slid open.

He hadn’t carefully packed the black shirt, the one you had touched once, months ago, fingers smoothing the collar, your smile going slow and private in a way that he had replayed more times than he’d ever admit.

He was just excited for the trip.

That was all.

The house came into view just as the car turned up the long private drive, a ridiculous sprawl of glass and white stone sitting above the water like it had been dropped there by God specifically to make poor people feel unwelcome.

The Pacific flashed blue beyond it, bright enough to hurt, the sun catching the surface in a million tiny explosions of light. Palm trees leaned over the road, their fronds swaying lazily in the salt-warm breeze.

The afternoon sun poured itself across everything, turning the windows gold and the pool a hard, glittering turquoise, the kind of color that looked fake in photographs but was somehow real here.

Tony stood out front in linen trousers and sunglasses, arms spread wide like a cult leader welcoming his congregation home.

“My children,” he called as soon as the car doors opened. “You made it.”

Sam stepped out first, stretching his arms over his head, his spine cracking in a way that made Steve wince sympathetically. “You say that like we survived war and not a six-hour flight where you slept through turbulence.”

“I survived being seated beside Barton,” Tony said, pulling his sunglasses down his nose just enough to make eye contact. “Which is worse.”

Clint, emerging from the next car with his hair flattened on one side. “I heard that, Stark.”

“You were meant to.”

Bucky climbed out after Steve, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, the warm Malibu air hitting him all at once. The air was different here. Thicker. Slower. It made you want to breathe deeper.

Somewhere inside the house, music was already playing, a low, thrumming bassline that vibrated through the glass walls. Someone had arrived before them and started early, because of course they had. Tony’s parties never waited for the host.

Bucky looked toward the road before he could stop himself, his gaze dragging along the curve of the driveway.

No other car yet.

He looked away immediately, his jaw tightening.

Sam, because he was a terrible person and a worse friend, noticed.

“Subtle,” he said, the word drawn out.

Bucky frowned. “What?”

“Nothing.” Sam’s grin widened, but he didn’t push further. He knew better than to push Bucky when he was already coiled tight.

Steve had the decency to say nothing, but his mouth did that thing where it pressed flat at the corners, the kind of silent judgment that was almost worse than Sam’s teasing.

Bucky shoved past both of them, his duffel bag thumping against his hip, and grabbed his bag from the trunk before anyone else could offer to help.

“I’m getting a room before all the good ones are gone.”

Tony scoffed. “Please. Your rooms are assigned. I’m not running a hostel.”

Sam paused mid-step, his duffel slung over one shoulder. “You assigned rooms?”

“Obviously.” Tony turned on his heel, leading the way inside. “I’m not having a repeat of the Cabo incident. Some people don’t know how to handle free choice sleeping arrangements.”

Clint, trailing behind, muttered, “That was one time.”

“It was twice,” Tony shot back, not looking back.

The inside of the mansion was already half-chaos. Suitcases abandoned in the entryway, a pair of heels kicked off and left under a marble console table, a half-empty bottle of champagne sweating on the counter of the kitchen island.

A bowl of limes sat on the kitchen island, untouched and decorative for now, though Bucky gave it six hours before Thor tried to bite into one whole.

Bucky followed Tony upstairs with Sam and Steve, his bag slung over one shoulder, his footsteps padding on the wide wooden staircase. He tried very hard not to wonder where you would sleep.

Tried and failed.

Which room would you get? Would you be on the same floor as him? Across the hall? At the other end of the house, where he’d have to walk past a dozen doors just to catch a glimpse of you?

Tony stopped at the end of the hall and pointed at a door like a bored hotel concierge, his hand a lazy gesture. “Rogers, Wilson, Barnes. Try not to destroy anything structural.”

Sam pushed open the door and whistled low, the sound echoing in the high-ceilinged room. “Damn.”

Steve stepped into it after him, his gaze sweeping across the king-sized bed, the floor-to-ceiling windows, the balcony that jutted out over the lawn. “This is excessive.”

“That’s the family motto,” Tony said, already turning away, his phone buzzing in his pocket. “There’s food in the kitchen. Drinks on the terrace. Don’t break the bed, I’ll know.”

Bucky went in last. Ocean-facing, because Tony was an asshole who pretended not to be thoughtful.

The room was huge, the bed draped in white sheets that looked impossibly soft, the glass doors slid open to let the breeze in. The water was visible beyond the slant of the lawn, a deep, endless blue that seemed to go on forever.

He dropped his bag on the floor by the bed and walked to the balcony, his hands gripping the railing.

The warm Malibu air hit him again, thicker now. The sound of the party drifted up to meet him, carried on the breeze; the low thrum of music from inside the house, the clatter of ice in glass.

Down below, the patio had already started filling.

Someone was carrying crates of alcohol toward the outdoor bar, bottles clinking with every step. Rhodey was arguing with Tony about speaker placement, his hands moving in broad, frustrated arcs while Tony gestured at the pool like he was explaining architecture to a child.

A few girls Bucky vaguely recognised from campus were stretched near the pool on lounge chairs, their sunglasses pushed up into their hair, laughing too loudly at something Thor said while he stood at the edge of the water, gesturing broadly.

Still no you.

He let his gaze sweep the patio once, just once, the way you might check a clock you already knew the answer to.

Fine.

He had time.

He could get settled. He could take a shower, let the hot water loosen the knot wedged between his shoulder blades.

Behind him, Sam appeared in the open doorway of the balcony, his silhouette filling the frame.

“Don’t start,” Bucky said, not turning around.

Sam leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. “I just came to tell you Tony’s making drinks downstairs.”

“Great.”

“And to remind you that this is supposed to be a fun weekend.” Sam’s voice was light, conversational, but the words had edges.

Bucky turned from the balcony then, the ocean falling away behind him. The breeze caught his hair, pushing it across his forehead. “I know how to have fun, Sam.”

“Historically, yes.”

Before Bucky could respond, Steve appeared behind Sam in the doorway, his shoulder brushing the frame as he stepped up.

He looked between them with that resigned expression, the one that said he had walked into the middle of something and would now be forced to participate, like it or not. “What are we talking about?”

“Nothing,” Bucky said.

“His disease,” Sam said at the same time.

Bucky stared at him. “My what?”

Sam held up a hand, ticking off fingers. “Symptoms include staring at doors. Emotional constipation. And abandoning perfectly nice girls mid-conversation when a certain someone walks into a room.”

Steve sighed. “Sam.”

“What? He needs medical attention.”

Bucky grabbed one of the pillows from the bed behind him and threw it at Sam’s head. Sam caught it easily, looking infuriatingly pleased with himself.

“See? Irritability. Another symptom.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, but heat crawled up the back of his neck anyway. “I’m not doing this all weekend.”

“Good.” Sam’s voice dropped then, the grin fading around the edges, “Don’t.”

It was said lightly, but not entirely.

Bucky looked at him. For a second, the room shifted into something less like sparring and more like concern.

Sam’s shoulders loosened, the humor bleeding out of his face just enough to show the worry underneath, the part of him that had watched Bucky turn himself inside out over you for months and did not find all of it funny anymore.

Steve stepped forward, his voice gentler now. “Just... don’t spend the whole trip waiting for her to decide your mood.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. The muscle in his temple jumped.

He wanted to tell them they were wrong. He wanted to say you did not decide anything. That he was fine.

But the words sat heavy in his mouth, and he couldn’t force them out.

So he said nothing.

From downstairs, Tony’s voice carried up through the open doors, bouncing off the glass and the stone. “First round is ready, you ungrateful peasants!”

Sam clapped his hands once. “Saved by alcoholism.”

Steve gave Bucky one last look then turned and disappeared toward the hall.

Bucky followed, because staying behind would look pathetic, and he had already met his quota for the day.

Downstairs, the house had grown louder. More people had arrived while he was up there. Bags piled by the stairs, sandals kicked off near the sliding doors, laughter spilling in from the patio in overlapping waves.

Tony was behind the outdoor bar in sunglasses, pouring something violently green into a row of cups while Pepper stood beside him looking like she had already accepted God’s plan for her evening.

Bucky took a cup the second Tony handed him one.

It tasted like lime, expensive vodka, and exactly what he needed. The alcohol burned a clean path down his throat and settled warm in his chest.

Perfect.

He tipped his head back and drank half of it.

By eleven, Bucky was absolutely, spectacularly shitfaced.

The whole mansion seemed to tilt and breathe around him, swaying on its foundations in slow waves of green pool light, salt-scrubbed air, and the sweet, cloying scent of expensive liquor bleeding from every glass.

Someone had thrown all the glass doors to the patio wide open, letting the party spill out of the house and down toward the pool, toward the dark strip of beach below, toward the ocean rolling black and endless under a crescent moon.

Bucky was having the time of his fucking life.

He had spent the last hour ricocheting between Sam’s shoulder and Steve’s long-suffering presence, laughing so hard his ribs ached and his vision blurred.

Tony had climbed onto the kitchen island at some point to deliver a toast no one had asked for, sloshing amber liquid onto the pristine marble. Bruce had lost a sandal. Rhodey had found it in the freezer, holding it up like a trophy.

Thor had challenged half the house to a drinking competition and laid them out, one by one, a trail of empty glasses and ruined egos stretching behind him like a battlefield.

Bucky, because he was an idiot and because the liquor had convinced him he was invincible, had tried to take him on.

Thor drank like he had been weaned on kerosene and raised by wolves. Bucky had made it three rounds before Sam materialised at his elbow and physically removed the cup from his hand.

“Too pretty to die on Tony Stark’s imported marble,” Sam had said.

Bucky had laughed in his face.

Then his heel caught on nothing and he nearly pitched headfirst into a decorative fern the size of a small car, catching himself on the wall at the last second.

And you had seen it.

You had seen him almost eat shit beside a fern, and instead of looking unimpressed, instead of giving him that careful, distant smile he had grown to hate, you had laughed.

Your head tipped back, the long column of your throat exposed, one hand pressed to your mouth as your shoulders shook. Natasha leaned in to whisper something in your ear, and you laughed harder, nodding.

It was the best sound he had heard all night. The best thing he had seen all month.

You weren’t ignoring him tonight. Not even a little. He had been braced for it, waiting for the familiar wall to go up, but it never came. Since the moment you arrived, you had been sweet. Warm. Present in a way that made his chest feel too tight and his hands itch to reach for you.

Honey, he kept thinking, the word a stupid, syrupy refrain in the back of his mind.

You were warm like honey tonight, golden and thick and spilling over everything. He was a fly caught in it, too far gone to care.

And fuck, you looked good.

That was the other problem, the one pressing insistently against the front of his jeans with every glance you threw his way.

You were trying to kill him. There was no other explanation for the top you had chosen. Thin and tight, clinging to the curve of your torso like it had been made specifically to undo him.

The fabric shifted with every breath, catching the light, and the neckline dipped just low enough to make his mouth go dry. Every time you lifted your arms, your boobs shifted and threatened to spill out entirely.

A possessive, animal part of him wanted to cup them in his palms, slide his thumbs over the soft swell, tuck them back in himself and never let them go.

Your shorts were no better. Sitting high on your thighs, hugging the flare of your hips, leaving acres of bare skin on display. He kept wondering how you had managed to squeeze into them and whether he was going to survive watching you walk away in them one more time.

He was not proud of himself. He wanted to pounce on you right there, in front of everyone, sink his teeth into the curve of your shoulder, taste the salt and sugar on your skin.

He wanted to haul you against him and find out if you felt as soft as you looked.

You wandered back to him sometime after Tony’s third terrible toast, barefoot now, your sandals abandoned somewhere by the pool. In your hands, you held two little glass shot glasses, the liquid inside them a violent, fluorescent pink that glowed under the patio lights like a dare.

Bucky looked at the shots, then at you.

“No.”

You blinked at him, a pout already forming on your lips. “No?”

“I challenged Thor,” he said, as if that explained everything. “I’m cut off. Sam declared a moratorium on my alcohol intake for the sake of my liver and the integrity of the marble flooring.”

“That was stupid,” you said, but your eyes were warm, amused.

“Thank you, sweetheart. I’m acutely aware.”

Your smile widened. God, there it was. That specific, dangerous curve of your mouth that made the bottom drop out of his stomach every single time.

You stepped closer, close enough that the cold plastic rim of one shot glass pressed lightly against his chest, just over his heart. “Come on, Buck,” you said, your voice soft and honeyed beneath the thrum of the bass. “One more. Just for me.”

He should have said no. He had every intention of saying no.

Then your fingers curled into the front of his shirt. Just the tips of them, hooking into the fabric, not enough to pull him toward you, just enough to hold him there.

“Fine,” he heard himself say, the word a complete and total surrender. He was weak and you were evil and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

The two of you clinked the plastic cups together and threw them back.

The liquid hit his tongue. Sugar first, cloying and thick. Then vodka, sharp and medicinal. And something aggressively sour that made his jaw clench and his eyes water.

You made a face immediately, your nose scrunching up, your eyes squeezed shut, a soft sound of disgust escaping your throat.

Bucky laughed so hard he had to brace one hand against the edge of the counter behind him. “Awful, right?”

“Awful,” you croaked, coughing once into your fist.

“You brought it to me,” he pointed out, still grinning.

“I wanted you to suffer with me,” you murmured, your voice hoarse from the liquor.

“Romantic. You really know how to make a guy feel special.”

“Don’t get excited.”

“Too late.” The words came out rougher than he meant them.

He was already excited. Had been excited since you walked through the door in that top, looking like everything he had ever wanted and had no right to touch.

You leaned your shoulder into his side, just for a second. Maybe for balance. Maybe because you wanted to. The weight of you pressing into him, fitting too perfectly into the curve of his body.

Bucky looked down at you. Your mouth was wet from the shot, shining under the dim glow of the patio lights. Your eyes were heavy-lidded, warm, fixed on his mouth.

He didn’t think about it. His hand found your waist, fingers spreading over the bare skin exposed by the crop of your top. You were soft and warm and solid under his palm, and the contact sent a shiver of heat up his arm.

“You’re drunk,” you murmured, your breath brushing his collarbone.

“So are you,” he countered, his thumb tracing a slow, idle circle on the dip of your hip.

“Mm. Maybe.” You didn’t pull away.

“Definitely.”

“You always this handsy when you’re drunk, Barnes?” The question was velvet over steel, a challenge wrapped in silk. But you leaned into him instead.

Bucky’s thumb shifted against your waist, sliding higher, tracing the edge of your ribcage through the thin fabric of your top.

He felt the soft intake of your breath, the way your stomach tightened under his touch. “No,” he said, the word dropping an octave, sliding under the bass of the music, rougher than before. “Just when you’re dressed like that.”

You sighed against him, warm and tipsy, your cheek brushing his shoulder as if you had every right to be there.

“I think I need to call it a night.”

Bucky’s head snapped down so fast the room tilted with him.

“No.” The word came out instantly, offended and pathetic. Then again, worse. “No, no, no.”

You laughed, and he felt it more than heard it, the soft shake of your body against his side. He had one arm locked around your waist, fingers splayed over the exposed strip of skin where your tank had ridden up.

“It’s only eleven,” he protested, tightening his grip like you might dissolve into the party if he let you breathe too freely. “Party’s gonna go on for another couple of hours.”

“That sounds like a threat.”

“Don’t leave me alone.”

Your smile curved against his neck. “There’s like forty other people here, Buck. I’m sure you won’t be that lonely.”

He made a wounded noise into the crown of your head. “None of them are you.”

The words came out before he could dress them up as a joke, before he could hide them behind a grin or a roll of his eyes.

You went quiet for half a second.

Then you tilted your face up to him, eyes glassy-bright from alcohol and the green spill of party lights. “I wanna explore Malibu tomorrow. I’m not wasting the whole day hungover because you need attention.”

“You’re so boring,” he groaned, dropping his forehead briefly to your temple.

“And yet.”

“And yet,” he repeated, the words heavy, loaded, full of everything he couldn’t say.

“I’ll let you take me to my room, then.”

Bucky pretended to consider it. Really sold it too, eyes narrowed, mouth pursed like this was a difficult sacrifice and not the only thing he wanted in the world. “If that’s the only way to keep you with me.”

“It is.”

“Well.” He pulled you closer, his hand sliding more securely around your waist, his fingers pressing into the warm skin of your hip. “Who am I to deny a lady?”

“Oh God.”

You laughed again, the sound soft and breathless, and Bucky started walking before you could change your mind.

Or tried to.

The first few steps were a test of faith. The floor seemed to tilt and roll beneath him like the deck of a ship, and the hallway stretched and contracted in confusing rhythms.

You pressed tighter against his side, your arm sliding around his waist to steady both of you, and every time your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, Bucky had to remind himself that he was escorting you to bed, not dragging you into his mouth.

The mansion blurred around him. He passed a painting of a sailboat. Then another painting of a sailboat. He definitely took a wrong turn past a large, ugly vase.

Behind him, Sam called out something that got swallowed by the bass. Someone else whistled, low and knowing.

Bucky ignored all of it.

All he cared about was the feel of you tucked under his arm, the soft drag of your breath on his neck, the way your hip bumped against his thigh with every stumbling step. The air through the open windows smelled like jasmine and salt and the faint, clean scent of your perfume mixing with the liquor in his veins.

“Is this even the right way?” you asked as he led you past a framed painting of something expensive and ugly.

“Yes.”

“You’re lost.”

“I’m exploring Malibu.”

“That is not what that means.”

He shushed you, then immediately turned down the wrong hallway.

By the time he found the staircase, both of you were laughing too hard to move quietly. You clung to his shirt as he guided you up the stairs, your body shaking against his, and every time your fingers curled against his chest, Bucky’s pulse kicked harder.

He opened the door with the confidence of a man who had absolutely no idea what he was doing.

The room was dark except for the moonlight spilling through the balcony doors, silver and heavy, painting everything in soft shadows.

The bed was massive, white sheets tangled from where he had thrown his duffel earlier. His shirt hung off the back of a chair. His shoes kicked carelessly near the dresser. The balcony doors were open a crack, letting in the sound of the waves and the cool night air.

You stepped in beside him, looked around for one long second, then burst into laughter.

“This is not my room, Buck.”

Bucky blinked.

Looked at the bed. Looked at his duffel on the floor. Looked at you.

“Oh.”

He turned back to you, trying very hard to arrange his face into something less guilty.

“Oops.”

You laughed harder, your head tipping back, your hand pressing to your stomach like this was the funniest thing that had happened all night. And maybe it was. The sound was bright and unguarded, and Bucky wanted to bottle it.

“I cannot believe you,” you said.

“Honest mistake. Tragic, really. Very confusing architecture in this house.”

“Sure.”

You should have turned around.

You should have made him find the right room. Should have rolled your eyes and dragged him back into the hallway before he could get any more ideas, before Bucky remembered exactly how little space there was between want and stupidity.

Instead, you walked farther in.

Then you collapsed backward onto his bed.

You fell into the mattress with a soft, breathless sound, the white sheets whispering beneath you. Your hair spilled loose across his pillow. The tank top had ridden up from the fall, baring the soft curve of your belly, the delicate jut of your hipbone just above the line of your shorts.

The moonlight sliced silver across your thighs, caught the damp shine of your lips, traced the lines of your body and turned your skin to shadow and glow.

You looked obscene.

You looked perfect.

Like you had been poured into his bed by some cruel, generous god.

Bucky stayed frozen at the foot of the bed. His hand was still on the doorknob, a solid point in his grip, the only thing keeping him upright. His blood was too loud in his ears. He was wrecked.

Thrown off.

Completely, catastrophically fucked.

“You’re in my bed,” he said, the words scraping out of him rough and disbelieving, a rasp that barely carried over the sound of his own pounding heart.

You stretched one arm over your head, a slow motion that arched your spine against the sheets and made the fabric of your top strain across your chest. Your ribs lifted. Your shorts shifted. You looked soft, drunk, a problem he wanted to have forever.

“So I am.”

Bucky swallowed, his throat clicking audibly in the quiet hush of the room.

The alcohol was a warm, syrupy fog settled deep in his skull, blurring his edges and dulling his sense, but some sliver of awareness remained, sharp enough to recognise the disaster unfolding in front of him.

He tried to keep the mood light, to sound like the version of himself that could laugh this off and walk away.

He let out a breathy, unconvincing laugh.

“C’mon, get up. Let me take you to your room.”

“Mhm-mhm,” you hummed, a sound so lazy and content it made his stomach clench.

You closed your eyes and arched your neck, baring the long vulnerable line of your throat to the mercury glow of the moon. Your pulse beat visibly just beneath your skin, a delicate, rhythmic flutter that made his mouth water. 

Fuck, he wanted to sink his teeth into that skin. To taste your heartbeat on his tongue. To mark you. “But I’m so comfortable here, Buck.”

His mouth was sandpaper. He tried to swallow again and failed, the motion scraping against his dry throat.

“You gonna get me in trouble, honey.” The words came out rough, a warning wrapped in something that sounded almost like a plea. Please don’t make me do this. Please don’t let me do this.

You lifted your head from the pillow, your hair spilling across his sheets and gave him a slow smile. It was the smile of someone who knew exactly what she was doing.

“Yeah?” you murmured, your voice turning syrupy. “How?”

You weren’t just looking at him. You were fucking him with your eyes, taking him apart piece by piece without lifting a finger.

“For fuck’s sake,” he heard himself mutter.

He felt the last thread of his self-control snap. The sensible part of his brain went entirely offline, leaving nothing behind but pure, aching, consuming want.

He pounced on you, covering your body with his, the mattress groaning under his sudden weight. You met him halfway, surging up to meet him, your hands fisting in the front of his shirt and yanking him down into your mouth.

The first taste of you was sweet, fucking relief.

Expensive vodka, the lingering sugar of your lip gloss, the faint salt of your skin, and something purely you. It flooded every empty space inside him, drowning out every doubt, every hesitation.

He groaned loudly into your mouth, a raw, animal sound that vibrated through his chest and into yours.

He couldn’t get enough. He forced your mouth open wider with his tongue, sliding inside, tasting. Shit, he couldn’t stop. He didn’t want to stop.

Every rational thought dissolved into static, overwhelmed by the wet heat of your mouth, the soft give of your body beneath him, the way you kissed him back like you wanted to devour him too.

He wrenched his mouth away, just far enough to pant against your lips, his forehead pressing to yours. His breath came in ragged, desperate heaves.

“We’re drunk,” he breathed, the words scraping out of him like a confession he didn’t want to make. “We... we shouldn’t do this.”

And then he felt it.

One of your legs slid up, the smooth, warm skin of your thigh brushing his hip before your calf hooked around his waist, locking him firmly against you. There was no escape now. You had him trapped.

Your hand came up, your palm cupping his jaw, your fingers threading into the hair at the nape of his neck. You pulled his mouth back to yours, your lips brushing his as you spoke.

“But I want to,” you murmured against his lips. “Don’t you?”

Bucky never claimed to have any strength. He had never pretended to have a strong will. Not when it came to you.

He dove back into your mouth like a man starving, like a man drowning who had finally found oxygen. His hands were everywhere now, making up for every moment he had held back.

They roamed down your sides, feeling the heat and softness of your body beneath. Down to your waist, gripping the bare skin where the fabric had ridden up. Lower still, over the flare of your hip, the silky expanse of your thighs.

And then your ass. Fuck. Perfect and full, fitting into his palms like it was made for them. He grabbed handfuls of it, squeezing, kneading, pulling you harder against him as he ground his hips into yours.

The moan you let out was muffled against his mouth, a broken, breathy sound that vibrated through his entire body and went straight to his cock.

His hips rolled forward in a rough, involuntary thrust, grinding his aching hardness against the heat of your cunt, the friction electric even through the thin layers of fabric separating you.

A guttural groan tore from deep in his chest, swallowed by your mouth as he kept moving against you.

Your moans were muffled against his mouth, your fingers twisted in his hair, holding him to you like you were afraid he’d disappear. The world had narrowed to the slide of his tongue against yours, the damp heat of your breath mingling with his.

But he couldn’t get enough. Every taste made him hungrier. Every sound you made drove him further past the edge of reason.

He broke the kiss with a ragged gasp, pushing himself upright, his chest heaving. Your hands followed him immediately, desperate fingers catching at his shirt, trying to pull him back down, trying to keep his mouth on yours.

“Sit tight, honey,” he breathed.

His hands were already moving, clumsy and urgent, fumbling at the button of your denim shorts. The thin metal slipped through his fingers once, twice, before he got it free.

His eyes met yours, dark and serious despite the haze of alcohol.

“Tell me to stop, baby.” The words came out low, a last gasp of something that might have been conscience. “Tell me to fucking stop.”

You shook your head hard, the motion fierce and immediate. Your hips lifted off the mattress as you shoved at the waistband of your shorts, helping him drag them down your legs along with your panties.

“Please don’t stop, Bucky.” Your voice cracked, “Please. I’ll die.”

The raw desperation in your voice hit him like a punch to the sternum. His cock throbbed painfully in his jeans, and he had to bite back a groan, had to clench his jaw to keep from spilling right there like a fucking teenager. Christ.

But first, he needed to see you.

He settled back on his heels, his hands braced on your thighs, and let his gaze travel down the length of your body. His eyes traced the curve of your hips, the soft swell of your belly, and finally, finally, to the place he had been dreaming about for months.

He stared.

It felt like the air left the room. His mouth went dry, then flooded with saliva.

She was beautiful. Perfect. Pretty and glistening, the soft folds glistening with your arousal, the little hooded pearl peeking out like she was waiting for him. He felt like he was going to drool.

A sharp shove hit his shoulder, rocking him back.

“Bucky.” Your voice was a whine, “Stop staring. You’re making me shy.”

He let out a laugh, shaking his head slowly. Shy. After everything, you were shy.

He lowered himself, pressing his mouth to the inside of your thigh. Then higher. Another kiss, closer. His lips dragged along your skin, following the sensitive line of your inner thigh.

“M’sorry, sweetheart.” His voice was a murmur against your flesh, “She’s just so pretty. Been dreaming about her.”

You sighed above him, the sound dreamy and soft. “Really?”

He didn’t answer with words. He pressed his mouth to your clit, a single, gentle kiss. You gasped, your hips twitching.

Then he went for the kill.

He dragged his tongue up in a long, slow stripe, from your entrance to your clit, savouring the taste of you; salty and sweet and everything. And then he closed his lips around that little pearl and sucked. Hard.

Your moan was loud, broken, spilling out of you like you couldn’t hold it back. It hit him straight in the gut, a jolt of electricity that traveled down to his cock, making him grind helplessly against the mattress, seeking any friction he could find.

He didn’t stop. He couldn’t. He buried his face in your cunt like a man starved, his tongue sliding through your folds, dipping inside you, then back up to circle your clit. He ate you out with messy, desperate strokes, his moans vibrating against your sensitive flesh.

He fucked you with his tongue, pushing inside you, tasting your heat, your want, your need.

Your hands fisted in his hair, pulling him harder against you, and he went willingly, eagerly, lost completely in the taste and the sound and the feel of you falling apart under his mouth.

You moaned at the intrusion, a broken, breathless sound that vibrated around his knuckles as he sank his middle finger deep into your slick heat.

You didn’t need the encouragement, your hips were already rolling, riding his hand with a desperate, frantic rhythm that made the mattress creak beneath you.

He could feel it building in the way your walls fluttered and clamped around him, chasing that peak with a single-minded hunger that made his mouth water.

“Want another one, sweetheart?” His voice was honey and gravel, the pad of his thumb dragging a lazy, torturous circle over your clit.

You glared down at him from above, your frown sharp and impatient. “Stop fucking with me, Bucky.”

He grinned, and pushed a second finger into you without breaking eye contact. The stretch pulled a sharp gasp from your parted lips, and he started thrusting harder, deeper, the wet, obscene sound of it filling the quiet room. “Don’t wanna fuck with you, baby. I wanna fuck you.”

He felt you clench around his fingers immediately, a violent, fluttering grip that sent a tremor up his arm. A loud, broken moan tore out of you as you came, your body shuddering against his hand, your slick coating his palm and dripping down his wrist. 

Fuck. He stared down at the way you pulsed around him, and his brain short-circuited. If this was how you came on his fingers, his cock was going to be absolutely fucking suffocated inside you.

He didn’t give you a second to recover.

He pulled his fingers out and brought them to his mouth, stuffing them past his lips, tasting you. He sucked them clean, groaning around the flavour of you, before he was crawling up your body, dragging his chest over your damp, trembling skin.

He thrust his tongue into your mouth without warning, sharing the taste of yourself with you. You opened for him eagerly, moaning into the kiss, your hands tangling in his hair and pulling him deeper.

Your fingers found his belt, the buckle clicking open under your quick, determined hands. He heard the rough rasp of his zipper, felt your palms push his jeans down over his ass, and you paused just long enough to squeeze, an appreciative grip that made him groan against your lips.

Holy shit. Holy fucking shit. He was about to fuck you. Actually, really, truly, about to fuck you.

He had to contain his excitement, had to focus on his breathing, or he was going to spill like a goddamn virgin before he even got close to being inside you.

And then your hands were flat on his shoulders, shoving.

He pulled back, frowning, ready to ask what was wrong, but the look on your face stopped him cold. You were grinning up at him, wicked and beautiful.

“Let me suck your cock.”

You didn’t give him a chance to respond. You shoved him sideways, trying to climb on top of him, trying to get your mouth on him, and the thought of your lips closing around him almost made his vision go white.

“No, no, no, no.” He caught your hips, tried to wrestle you back down onto your back. “No, sweetheart, just—stay—let me—”

You were laughing, light and playful, but he was deadly serious.

“If you even breathe on my cock, I’ll cum on the spot. I promise.” His eyes met yours, desperate and honest. “Please. Not tonight. Just let me have you. I’ve been waiting for this—waiting for you.”

You paused on his lap, considering. The laughter faded from your face, replaced by something softer, something thoughtful that made his chest ache.

He had to close his eyes. He had to focus on his breath.

Because your cunt was right there. Right on top of his dick. The heat of you seeping through his skin, the dampness of you threatening to coat his aching length.

He could feel every inch of your weight pressing down over him, and if he looked, if he moved, if he so much as twitched his hips, he was going to lose his entire fucking mind.

And then you began to slowly rock up and down his dick, the friction of your slick heat dragging against him like a live wire. You looked down at him with that small, knowing smile, the one that made his chest ache and his cock throb.

“You’re really that desperate for me?”

Bucky nodded, his jaw tight, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. Painfully. Desperately. A confession without words.

You leaned down, your lips brushing his in a kiss so quick and soft it was almost cruel. “Okay, baby.”

He let out a shuddering sigh of relief, of gratitude… and then his eyes flew wide.

Because you were rising. Rising off his lap. Reaching down between your bodies. Taking hold of his dick in your warm hand, and positioning it exactly where you wanted it.

He was hypnotised. Transfixed. The sight of his own flushed tip nudging against your soaking, glistening entrance made his brain short-circuit.

He felt a drop of saliva escape the corner of his mouth, rolling down his chin, and he couldn’t even muster the shame to wipe it away.

Jesus fucking Christ.

You were so tight. The first inch of him sliding into you felt like being wrapped in molten silk, searing and perfect. His eyes flicked up to your face, and he found yours squeezed shut, your lips parted, your breath catching in broken little gasps as you fed yourself his cock inch by agonising inch.

It felt like an eternity before your hips met his, before he was buried to the hilt inside you, and the sight of his cock disappearing completely into your body made his vision haze.

Your thighs settled flat against his, skin to skin, and he gripped your waist so hard he knew he’d leave bruises.

“Don’t move,” he rasped, his voice ragged. “Stay still for me. Just… keep still.”

You clenched around him involuntarily, a soft, reflexive squeeze that made him groan deep in his chest.

“Don’t do that. Don’t do that.”

You pouted, your bottom lip jutting out, eyes still hazy with pleasure. “I can’t help it, Bucky.”

And then you clenched again. Accidentally. Deliberately. He couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He tried to think of other things. Disgusting things. Anything to keep from spilling inside you like a goddamn teenager.

Cut toenails. Moldy fruit. Steve’s ass. None of it was working. Not when your heat was wrapped around him, not when you were sitting there looking so soft and sweet and patient, waiting for his permission.

He gave a strained nod, his voice barely a whisper. “Okay. Go ahead, baby.”

You smiled and then you rose. Rose until only the tip of him remained inside you. And then you dropped.

Violently. All the way down, slamming into his hips, the force of it knocking the air from his lungs and making him grit his teeth so hard his jaw ached. And then you were bouncing, riding him like he was a fairy pony, your pace frantic and relentless, your walls gripping him with every upward stroke.

All he could do was try to keep up. He dug his fingers into your hips, his hands guiding your rhythm, and began to fuck up into you matching your wild tempo, chasing the heat pooling at the base of his spine.

Bucky was pretty sure if his heart gave out right now; if he dropped dead beneath you, buried to the hilt, watching you fall apart on his cock, he’d die the happiest man alive.

This was heaven. You were heaven. The way you moved on top of him, taking everything he had, stealing his breath, his sanity, every coherent thought he’d ever had.

And then he realised.

You were still wearing that top.

The thin fabric clung to your skin, damp with sweat, hiding the one thing he needed to see more than his next breath.

Concealing the soft bounce of your tits with every roll of your hips. He reached up with both hands, fisting the hem, and you didn’t even notice, too busy fucking yourself on him, too lost in the rhythm to pay attention to anything else.

Until the violent shrrrip of cotton splitting in two cracked through the air like a gunshot.

Your eyes flew open, head jerking back. “Bucky!”

“’M sorry.”

The apology came out wrecked, and completely insincere. There was zero remorse in his voice, none in the greedy way his hands immediately found your bare chest, cupping the soft, heavy weight of your tits, his thumbs dragging over the stiff peaks of your nipples.

The moan that slipped past your lips was immediate.

“Needed to see them,” he rasped, watching the way they filled his palms, the way your back arched into his touch. “Needed to feel them.”

A breathless laugh escaped you, a soft shake of your head as you planted your hands flat on his chest and steadied yourself. And then you were bouncing harder, riding him like he was made for this, like you were trying to wring every last drop of sanity from his bones.

But he needed more.

The angle wasn’t deep enough. He couldn’t get close enough. Couldn’t be buried deep enough inside you.

Gathering every ounce of strength he had left, his hands locked onto your waist.

In one fluid, powerful motion, he used his hips to wrench you off balance and flipped you onto your back, twisting your bodies until he was hovering over you, and never once did he slip out of the slick, perfect heat of your body.

A delighted, breathless cry tore from your throat at the sudden shift in power. Your legs wrapped instinctively around his waist, pulling him deeper.

He reached up, one hand curling around the wooden slats of the headboard. The frame groaned under his grip as he pulled back and snapped his hips forward. Harder. Deeper. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room mixing with your ragged breaths and the desperate groans rumbling in his chest.

Bending down, he pressed his mouth to the sweat-slicked curve of your neck, biting down just hard enough to make you gasp, to feel your pulse flutter against his lips. “I need you to cum,” he grunted against your skin. “Please, baby. Need it.”

“Huh?” The word came out dazed, strangled. You hadn’t heard him. Your eyes were half-lidded, your lips parted, completely lost in the relentless rhythm of him pounding into you, too far gone to process anything beyond the next wave of pleasure building in your core.

“Cum now,” he grunted, the words ripped from somewhere deep in his chest. “Shit… now.”

He drove into you harder, each thrust a desperate, punishing demand. The headboard groaned against the wall, the frame shuddering with every brutal snap of his hips.

Your nails raked down his back, sharp, frantic lines of fire that he felt all the way down to his bones. And then he heard it; a choked sob that broke past your lips. Not pain. Release.

There. He’d found it.

“Right there, Bucky—right there—”

The cry was wrecked, broken, a plea that sexed through him like a current. He zeroed in on that spot, that deep, swollen place inside you that made your voice crack and your back arch off the mattress.

He bullied it with his cock, over and over, relentless, until your moans dissolved into something shattered and raw.

Then you broke.

He felt it in the way you clenched around him first; a sudden, violent flutter that turned into a pulsing grip, suffocating his cock, milking him with wave after wave of your release.

Your nails dug into the meat of his shoulders, your thighs locking around his waist, and the sound you made, a broken, keening gasp, was the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard.

It was enough to push him over.

Bucky let go.

His balls drew up tight, a hot rush of pressure building at the base of his spine, and then he was coming… violently, uncontrollably, his hips stuttering as he emptied himself into you with a guttural groan that sounded more animal than human.

He stayed buried deep, pumping into you through the aftershocks, his body trembling above yours, every nerve electric and raw.

For a long, suspended moment, there was nothing but the sound of ragged breathing and the slick, wet press of skin against skin.

Then his body went lax.

He collapsed onto his elbows, forehead dropping to your shoulder, his weight pinning you into the mattress as he tried to remember how to breathe. The high was liquid and warm, a blanket of bliss settling over his bones.

And then—

“You’re not gonna be weird about this, are you?”

The words came soft. Disarmingly soft. That was the cruelest part of it.

You pressed them into his skin, your cheek turned against his hair, your voice a low, sleepy murmur. One hand rested loose at the nape of his neck, thumb tracing an idle, almost tender path across the damp skin there.

Like you hadn’t just carved something out of him.

Bucky went still.

He forced his lungs to keep moving. Forced the tension in his shoulders to dissolve before you could feel it. His face was still buried in the curve of your shoulder, his mouth hot and wet against your collarbone, his body a weighted, useless thing draped over yours.

The room smelled of them. Sweat and salt and the crushed-flower sweetness of your perfume, tangled with the raw musk of sex that clung to the sheets.

Below, the house was still alive. The bass was a distant heartbeat through the floor, the drone of voices rising and falling like surf against stone.

Ten seconds ago, he had been floating in it.

Ten seconds ago, he had felt stupidly, dangerously complete.

The whole night had collapsed into this single moment; this bed, this room, the slick, fluttering grip of your body around his, your fingers knotted in his hair, holding him at the center of something that felt, for one perfect, delusional instant, like it mattered.

He had let himself think—

No.

He didn’t get to finish that thought.

Bucky exhaled slowly through his nose. Then he laughed, a short, easy sound that he shaped into exactly the right shape.

“Weird?” He lifted his head just enough to meet your eyes. “Me?”

Your mouth curved, “Yeah. You.”

He gave you the grin. The practiced one. The one that had saved him from worse than this.

“Sweetheart, I’m the most normal guy you know.”

A beat. “That is deeply untrue.”

You laughed then, and the sound hooked into his ribs. He let himself feel it, just for a second. There. It’s fine. Keep it light.

He could do this. He could keep the room warm if he didn’t push. He could lie here, tangled in you, and pretend the words hadn’t hit him like a fist.

Slowly he shifted his weight and pulled out of you. The sound was wet, obscene in the quiet, and it twisted something low in his gut. The heat he had been drowning in vanished the second he was empty.

The chill that replaced it crept up his spine and settled cold in his chest.

Still, he didn’t move away.

His arm stayed heavy across your waist, palm spread flat against the curve of your hip. His thumb began a slow, lazy stroke against your skin, a betrayal of every intention he had to act unaffected.

Bucky swallowed the bitterness climbing his throat and ducked his head, pressing his mouth to the warm skin just under your jaw. Not quite a kiss. Soft enough to deny.

“Relax,” he murmured against you, the words a low vibration. “I’m not gonna propose before breakfast.”

Your fingers paused against his cheek. For one terrible second, he thought he had said the wrong thing.

Then you huffed a laugh, thinner than before. “Good.”

Good.

Bucky smiled anyway, pressing it into your skin.

“Would’ve been a nice proposal, though.” He said it like a joke, because apparently he couldn’t stop picking at the bruise. “Real romantic. Me, you, Tony’s guest room, half the house tanked downstairs.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Yeah,” he said softly, lifting his head to look at you properly. “Probably.”

Your smile flickered.

There it was. That tiny break in you, so fast he would have missed it if he hadn’t spent months training himself to read your face. Your eyes searched his, and for a breath, he thought you might take it back.

Thought you might pull him down and kiss him until the hollow ache in his chest stopped screaming.

Instead, your gaze dropped first.

“I just don’t want things to get complicated.”

Bucky stared at you.

Complicated.

You were in his bed. Your body was still warm and pliant beneath his hand. You were still wet with him. The scratches from your nails were still raised and stinging on his back. His heart was beating so hard it felt exposed, shameful.

And you were talking about complicated like it was something waiting outside the door, not something you had already dragged in by the throat.

He nodded once. “Right.”

Your eyes flicked back to him. “Buck—”

“No, I get it.”

He didn’t get it, yet he got it perfectly.

Both were true. It was becoming a theme with you.

He pulled the blanket up over your hip because some stupid, aching part of him noticed you shiver. Then he settled back beside you, close enough for your shoulder to press against his chest, close enough to pretend nothing had shifted if he tried hard enough.

And he did try. God, he tried.

He let his lips graze your temple. Let his hand find yours under the sheet. Let himself feel the way your fingers curled, briefly, around his before loosening again.

Downstairs, someone screamed with laughter, a bright, drunken shriek that cut through the bass like glass.

The music kicked louder, the walls shuddering with it, the whole house groaning under the weight of bodies and noise.

You closed your eyes.

Bucky stayed awake, watching the ceiling blur above him.

Your warmth was pressed all along his side, your thigh hooked loosely over his, the damp glide of your skin against his making it impossible to forget where they had been ten minutes ago.

And your words were still lodged cold beneath his ribs, sharp as swallowed glass.

Not weird. Not complicated. Not a thing.

He turned his head and looked at you anyway, because he was weak, because he was stupid, because he had apparently decided that dignity was optional where you were concerned.

Your face had softened into sleep. Lashes dark against your cheeks, lips parted just enough to let the slow rhythm of your breath slip through.

You looked younger like this. Softer. Less like the girl who could walk into a crowded room and tilt his whole goddamn world sideways without breaking stride.

He hated you a little then.

The thought came sudden and ugly, rising from his chest like bile.

He hated you.

Hated the way you could lie here, still slick with him, your body still marked from his hands, and ask him not to make it mean anything.

Hated the way you took his wanting like it was expected, like it was easy, like he hadn’t spent months carving pieces of himself off and pressing them into your palm while you barely noticed.

Selfish, he thought.

And yet his arm tightened around you anyway.

Selfish fucking brat.

You take and you take and then you get scared it might mean something, so you push it away before it can push back.

The words burned through him. He imagined saying them. Imagined the way your mouth would part, the little furrow between your brows, the wounded look you would try to hide.

Good, some cruel part of him whispered. Let it hurt. Let you feel stupid for once. Let you feel even half of what I feel right now.

He wanted that. For one vicious, starving second, he wanted to hurt you exactly where you had hurt him.

Then you shifted in your sleep. Barely a breath of movement, a sigh, the slow curl of your fingers against his chest, your palm pressing flat over his heartbeat.

And Bucky melted.

He looked down at your hand resting over his heart and felt the anger lose its teeth.

Not disappear,it stayed there, sore and simmering beneath his ribs, but it had nowhere to go when you were tucked against him like this, soft and warm and trusting him with your sleeping body even while you refused to trust him with your heart.

His throat tightened.

“You’re so fucking confusing,” he whispered, the words barely a vibration against your hair.

He turned carefully onto his side, gathering you closer despite every reasonable part of him screaming to pull away.

His arm slid around your waist, his palm spread wide against the dip of your back, and you came easily, your forehead finding the hollow beneath his jaw as if your body knew where to belong.

The party roared on beneath them. Drunk and careless and alive. The whole house shaking with it.

And Bucky lay there, holding you, feeling like someone had cracked his chest open and left it that way.

He should have moved away. Should have rolled onto his back and let the cold settle between them, let it harden into the shape you had asked for.

Should have protected himself before morning came and you slipped back into whatever version of yourself could smile at him over breakfast like he hadn’t been inside you, like you hadn’t held his face in your hands and asked him not to love you.

Instead, he held you tighter.

Because this was still more than he had before.

Because despite everything, you had become the shape of his world.

His want began and ended with you. His mood rose and fell on the sound of your laugh, the lift of your eyes, the careless brush of your fingers against his.

You made him desperate and angry and embarrassingly alive. You made him feel chosen. You made him feel disposable. You made him feel completely insane.

And he would take it. Every scrap. Every confusing, contradictory piece.

He would take it because he didn’t know how to stop.

Bucky closed his eyes, his jaw tight enough to ache, his arms locked around you like holding on hard enough could keep the morning from coming.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he murmured into your hair, almost mean with the tenderness bleeding through it. “I won’t be weird.”

a/n | my initial plan was after the smut reader avoids, and then bucky freaks out and screams at her during another party and lays out all his frustrations that steve and sam have to physically remove him. three months pass without contact until you two see each other again and we finally get a look at what’s going through reader’s mind and ends with hurt/comfort and hopeful ending

oh well…

[itzzkaylaaa]

ִ ࣪ ˖ ࣪ 𝗴𝘂𝗲𝘀𝘀 𝗶𝘁’𝘀 𝗮 𝘀𝗶𝗯𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗰𝘂𝗿𝘀𝗲…

[emmcfrxst]

recently discovered archive photograph of Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes of the 107th Infantry of the U.S Army Forces, taken by Hydra after his capture in enemy territory in Azzano, Italy, October 1943.

[laceandtears111]

save me natasha romanoff in the beginning of black widow save me please oh my god please

[robbuckys]

mjolnir would never deem steve worthy if it knew how he betrayed bucky and also me

[chrishayley]

bucky barnes + 👋✌️

[buckyscumjar]

𝘛𝘍𝘈𝘛𝘞𝘚!𝘣𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘺 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘣𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘮𝘦.

𝘨𝘪𝘧𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘦

[aroace-ryland-grace]

I NEED to write fanfiction <- guy who is not writing fanfiction

[winter-seance]

The Bucky Swagger (AKA The Murder Strut)

[iayiia]

If you add 3 sentences to your work in progress and show me, I will add 4 sentences to my work in progress and show you.

You’re on friend, let me finish work and I got you 🫡

[iayiia]

I don't know if this counts cause it's basically all dialogue

[nadacarcan]

my drafts keep growing…

[iayiia]

If you add 3 sentences to your work in progress and show me, I will add 4 sentences to my work in progress and show you.

You’re on friend, let me finish work and I got you 🫡

[iayiia]

I swear guys… it’s coming, I just work at a snails pace and am a crippling perfectionist

[wandanatsgirl]

I hope sexy Nat fanart makes up for the lack of stories

[wandanatsgirl]

Black pantyhose... black high heels... her signature smirk... mmmmm...

[wandanatsgirl]

Natasha Romanoff knows no fear