Just a lurker

She/her | 35 | I just reblog things... mostly Bucky things.... I may have an addiction...

[indigo123789]

Welcome to my page!

On this blog I'm obsessed with Bucky x Reader stories. Every once in a while I'll reblog something marvel related.

I've got another blog @blurple123789 where I reblog other fandoms. I'm currently obsessed with F1 over there.

My profile pic is my cat. :3

[heldbybarnes]

lately i’ve been plagued with the thought of reader getting like ridiculously turned on but trying to tough it out, only for bucky to figure out what’s going on and getting all teasy about it…..if you’d be interested in smth like this. love your work! love the way you write relationship dynamics!!

Lately, you’ve been questioning every life choice that led you to this exact moment.

Movie night at the compound should not be this difficult. It should be easy, actually. Sit on the couch, watch whatever action movie Sam picked, make a few sarcastic comments, steal some popcorn, and go home. Normal. Simple.

The problem is that Bucky Barnes is sitting beside you.

Not doing anything particularly outrageous, either. He’s just existing. Existing in a dark henley with the sleeves pushed up to his forearms, leaning back into the couch with one arm stretched along the cushion behind you. Every so often he laughs at something Steve says, or mutters a dry comment under his breath, and somehow each little thing feels like a direct attack on your ability to function.

You try to ignore it. Really, you do.

You focus on the movie. You focus on the bowl of popcorn in your lap. You focus on literally anything that isn't the man sitting inches away from you. Unfortunately, the harder you try not to notice him, the more aware of him you become. Every brush of his shoulder against yours seems amplified. Every shift of his weight draws your attention. Every low rumble of his voice settles somewhere beneath your ribs and refuses to leave.

By the halfway point of the movie, you're miserable.

Not because anything is wrong. Quite the opposite.

You're so ridiculously attracted to your boyfriend that it's become embarrassing.

The worst part is that you're determined to power through it. You're not going to make a thing out of it. You're not going to climb into his lap in front of the entire team. You're not even going to acknowledge it.

You're just going to survive the evening with what little dignity you have left.

Apparently, that would be much easier if Bucky wasn't so good at reading you.

"You're quiet tonight."

His voice is low enough that only you can hear it.

You keep your eyes fixed on the television. "I'm watching the movie."

"Hm."

The sound carries just enough amusement to make your stomach drop.

You glance at him. Big mistake.

His mouth is twitching.

"Bucky."

"What?"

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Like what?"

You narrow your eyes.

His smile widens.

Oh no.

The realization hits all at once.

He knows.

Somehow, impossibly, he knows exactly what's going on.

The smug look on his face confirms it.

You immediately look away again.

Beside you, Bucky lets out a quiet laugh.

The absolute menace.

For the rest of the movie, he doesn't say much, but somehow that makes it worse. Every now and then you catch him glancing your way. Sometimes his knee brushes yours. Sometimes he leans closer to make a comment about the movie, his voice warm against your ear. None of it is inappropriate. None of it is obvious.

It's just enough. Enough that your pulse never quite settles. Enough that you know he's entertaining himself. Enough that Natasha eventually notices and smirks from across the room.

You refuse to acknowledge that, too.

When the credits finally begin to roll, relief floods through you.

You stand almost immediately.

"I'm getting a drink."

Bucky rises with suspicious enthusiasm.

"I'll come with."

"You don't need to come with."

"I know."

That answer alone tells you everything.

The second you step into the kitchen, you hear his footsteps behind you.

You don't even bother turning around.

"Bucky."

"What?"

"You are insufferable."

His laughter follows you to the fridge.

When you finally face him, he's leaning casually against the counter with his arms crossed, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

"You've been staring at me all night."

The accusation makes him grin.

"I have not."

"You absolutely have."

"Maybe I was concerned."

"Concerned?"

"Yeah." His expression turns mock-serious. "You kept squirming around like you were trying to escape your own skin."

Heat immediately crawls up your neck.

"Oh my God."

"There she is."

You groan and cover your face.

Bucky laughs harder.

When his hands gently catch your wrists and pull them away, the teasing in his eyes has softened into something far warmer.

Something that always gets you.

"You know," he says quietly, stepping closer, "you could've just told me."

"Told you what?"

His eyebrows lift.

You glare.

He looks delighted.

"Told me you were having a hard time."

"You are never letting this go, are you?"

"Not a chance."

You hate how much you love him.

Because beneath all the teasing, beneath the smug smiles and knowing looks, there’s something impossibly sweet about it. Bucky notices everything about you. The little shifts in your mood. The things that make you nervous. The things that make you happy. The things that make your breath catch and your cheeks warm.

He pays attention because he loves you.

The realization steals every ounce of annoyance you were trying to hold onto.

His grin softens when he sees your expression change.

"There she is," he murmurs again.

You roll your eyes, but your hands find his shirt anyway, fingers curling into the fabric.

"You're the worst."

"Funny," he says, dipping his head to press a kiss to your forehead. "I was just thinking how adorable you are."

You groan dramatically.

He only laughs and pulls you closer.

And judging by the entirely self-satisfied look on his face, Bucky Barnes is going to be living off this victory for a very, very long time.

[azriona]

June 1 Drabble: She's Singing

A NAFTK prequel drabble. Eventual Bucky/Reader, General Audiences, 100 words exactly. This drabble meets the requirements for @marveldrabblechallenge June Challenge (New Teammate) and @societynsoelsscribbles June Jukebox Scribbles (Joy to the World by Three Dog Night).

Summary: Why is Bucky's new teammate singing?!?!?

She's singing. They're in the middle of a mission, and she's singing.

"If I were the queen of the world..."

Bucky flashes a look at Barton, who just shrugs—and annoyingly, sings along.

"…I'd tell you what I'd do…"

It's a good song! protests Barton, as his arrow sends the Doombot spinning.

Bucky turns to her, ready to tell her to shut it.

"…And make sweet love—"

She stops abruptly, staring at him in utter shock, the song stuttering on her lips.

"Um," she stammers, "Next target?"

"Yeah," chokes out Bucky, and tries to ignore Barton laughing behind him.

Drabble Masterlist -=- Next Drabble->

[navybrat817]

Last Call

Pairing: Soft!Dark Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: Bucky helps you out of the bar after a few drinks.

Word Count: 300

Playlist Prompt: Joy To The World - Three Dog Night / “I never understood a single word he said”

Warnings: Soft!Dark tone and vibes, tipsy reader, possible drugging, possible dubcon/noncon, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).

A/N: Day 1 of the June Jukebox Scribbles Challenge by @societynsoelsscribbles . ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Bucky edit by the amazing @nixakimbo. Divider by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications as I no longer do taglists. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

You giggled as you walked out of the bar, the cool night air hitting your exposed skin and the loud conversations behind you fading once the door shut. Well, stumbled out was the more accurate description. You knew you shouldn’t have worn heels. At least you didn’t fall on your face with how tingly your legs felt. 

Though you had Bucky to thank for keeping you upright.

Did you really drink that much?

It was supposed to be a couple of drinks with the crew to unwind. A fun night. Bucky made sure you had a seat right next to him and never took his eyes off you. He even brought your last drink over for you. Your favorite.

How did he know?

“Jeremiah was a bullfrog. Was a good friend of mine. I never understood a single word he said…” You giggled again, leaning on the bulky super soldier for support as he helped you walk. “I haven’t heard that song in ages, and now it’s gonna be stuck in my head.”

“I think I was on ice when that song came out,” he tried to joke, giving you a lopsided smile. It looked a little sinister under the harsh street lamp. “But we can listen to music when we get back to my place.”

Your eyes lit up, even with how blurry your vision was getting. “Really?” you asked before your brows furrowed. “Wait… your place?”

You didn’t recall saying you’d go to his place. 

His grip tightened as he pulled you closer. “Yeah, my place,” he replied, bringing his mouth to your ear. “You can even sleep over.”

You shivered but not from the chill in the air. “Oh, I wouldn’t… want to impose.”

“You’re not,” he promised, smirking to himself. “I’m gonna take care of you.”

I would've gone willingly! Love and thanks for reading. ❤️

Masterlist ⚓Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

June 1: Break and Entry

For the June Jukebox Scribbles event

Warning: implied noncon

Prompt: Joy To The World - Three Dog Night / “I never understood a single word he said”

Character: Lee Bodecker

I know it’s short but please let me know your thoughts and reblog. Also, would love to discuss any ideas these little snippets inspire!

Love you! 💞

“He didn’t say anything?” Officer Bodecker flashes his light around your apartment.

“I never understood a single word he said.” You press your hands to the side of your neck, shoulders tight and tense. “I just woke up and… he pinned me down…”

Your voice cracks and you gulp before another sob can break. You sniffle as the Sheriff finds the light switch. He turns back and examines the door.

“No sign of forced entry.” He clucks.

“I don’t know how…”

“And where did he go after?” The sheriff asks.

“I don’t… I was scared… crying.”

“Come on. Show me the bed.” He commands.

“Yes, sir.” You shiver and hug yourself.

You lead him to the bedroom. The blankets are on the floor, the pillows are scattered, and the lamp on the night table is overturned. He stands in the doorway as you cower against the wall.

“This is why young things shouldn’t live alone.” He tuts.

“I locked the door, I know I did.”

“And you screamed?” He ignores your explanation.

“I… I tried. I couldn’t. He was so heavy on top of me.” You quiver and shake your head. “I didn’t want it…”

He’s quiet as he nears the bed, flashing his light over it, bending to inspect the sheets. He hums and it slowly climbs, crawling into a chuckle. He stands with a smirk.

“Nah, sugar. I know you didn’t scream. Just laid there and whined as he got up all in you. Stretched you all out.” He tilts his head. “Thick, wasn’t it?”

Your lips trembles. “What?”

“Most girls can’t take it all the first time.” He winks.

[blue-eyes-in-august]

Oh. My. God! He's so damn evil! You know he was getting off on her terror and helplessness as she slowly realizes just what he's saying. He has all the power and can get to her whenever he wants. Who is she going to report it to? He's the law in this town.

I'm curious what his plans are. Was this just a one-and-done attack? Does he plan on doing it again? Is he planning on taking her as a wife?

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Thank you for reading and reblogging! Lee is so scary here! And the fact he could do anything is more so

[dei-dreamz]

I’d Love to See Me from Your POV - 2

Spin The Tropes: Roommate + Chubby @artficlly

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Bucky Barnes × Chubby!Reader

Summary: You finally get your head out of your ass long enough to try to confess your feelings for your roommate. But when he beats you to it, your mutual confessions lead to an immediate relationship consummation.

Word Count: 4.3k

Warnings: Language, Smut, BIPOC Curly-Haired Reader

A/N: I’m pretty sure this in the dirtiest smut I’ve ever written. Lemme know if you want to be added to the series tag list.

Taglist: @fandomfoodiedancer | @ozwriterchick | @3xclusivemariii | @dugiioh | @justherefortheficandsmut | @freshbonggwater |

You knew that living in the Big Apple, you’d eventually do the walk of shame, but shame wasn’t what you felt at all. Water cooler guy was a pretty good lay, and y’all spent not one but two days together. 

Neither of you planned on seeing each other again, of course, but it was still a good time to forget your worries and your silly little crush on your roommate. 

Speaking of your roommate, Bucky had been blowing up your phone all weekend. It had gotten to the point where you’d temporarily blocked him. 

When you walked into your apartment the next day at close to 6 pm, you assumed your roommate might be asleep or even be entertaining company.

You never would have guessed in your wildest dreams that he’d be sitting on your couch, running his hands through his hair, and by the way it was sitting on his head, he’d probably done so dozens of times.

“ Buck, what’s wrong?”

“ What’s wrong?” He asked with a dry laugh. “ What’s wrong is that I haven’t seen or heard from you for the past two days.”

“ Jeeze, dad. I met this guy at the bar, and we’d been hanging out. I figured you’d have your own company to entertain here, so I stayed there,” you said, with a shrug.

“ Well, even if I had company here, you can’t just go radio silent for more than twenty-four hours!”

“ Buck, I’m a big girl, in more ways than one. I don’t need to check in with you every damn day. I just wanted to have fun. I’m single, I’m young, and I wanted to blow some steam.”

“ Well, I thought that my roommate wasn’t the type of girl who would blow off her friends for a hook-up.”

“ Hold up, you need to pause. I wouldn’t have to avoid coming home if you didn’t have bitches, in our apartment every other day. Yeah, I don’t text you back while I was busy getting my back blown out, but you kick me out of our apartment so often that it feels like less than a home and more like a storage unit!!” You panted, practically running to your room, slamming the door.

“ Peach, we’re not done with this conversation.”

“ Well, I’m done with you. I can’t believe you’d be so sexist and hypocritical. Leave me alone, Bucky,” you cried out from behind your door. 

You turned your tv on and the volume up to max level, so that you didn’t have to hear your shitty roommate beating on your door anymore. You changed into sweats and started watching Love Island, you didn’t even realize you’d fallen asleep until you opened your eyes and Rupaul’s Drag Race was on. 

You were starving, and since you couldn’t hear any movement outside your room, you decided now was as good a time as any to make something to eat. When you walked into the kitchen, you were surprised to see Bucky plating food for two. 

“ Oh, come on, Buck. Do I really have to leave again?” You said, with a huff.

“ No, Peach,” your roommate said with a chuckle. “ This is for you, I owed you a meal, remember?”

“ Yeah, but I didn’t think you were like, serious, you know?”

“ Peach, I may be a lot of things, but I ain’t no liar. Plus, we need to talk.”

“ Bucky, I really don’t want to rehash things. Thanks for dinner, but—”

“ Look, I don’t want to fight. I’m so sorry for making you think I was just judging you for spending the night with a guy and for being inconsiderate with the way I use the apartment. But I’m hoping you’ll sit down and have these porkchops with me, while I explain myself. Is that ok?”

“ Fine, but only because I know how good your porkchops are,” you said before plopping down on one of the chairs at your small dining wood table. 

“ So you know that I lost my best friend, Steve, last year. Right?”

“ Yeah, it’s the reason why you were looking for the roommate. And I’m still sorry for your loss,” you said, patting Bucky’s muscular arm. 

“ Thank you. But I never told you how he died. And I want to do that now so you can better understand why I was so freaked out earlier.”

“ Ok, but let me drink some of this wine first, I have a feeling I’ll need it.”

“  Probably a good idea.” 

After you chugged half your glass of pinot, Bucky started his story.

“ Basically, what happened is that Steve was going to visit his girlfriend, Peggy, in London. He was so excited even to have met someone. You see, Steve used to have trouble getting girls cause of how scrawny he was.”

“ Wait, he was scrawny? He looked so buff in all the pictures I’ve seen, including at the bar.”

“ Yeah, well, he had really bad asthma, astigmatism, and issues gaining weight. But he was part of a trial for a new medication for immune system support and asthma attacks. It worked, and he was less sickly and was able to hold onto weight, could run without getting winded, and invested in laser eye surgery before becoming a total gym rat. He always said that while his body was improved, it was up to him to maintain his health. Anyway, he’d actually met Peggy before he got all buff, and she liked him then. So while girls started throwing themselves at him, he stayed with her cause he knew she loved him for him.”

“ Awww, that’s so sweet.”

“ Yeah, it was. Anyways, before he died, he planned on spending a few weeks in London with her, and it was all he could talk about. But when he was driving to the airport, he got in an accident and was totally t-boned by some type of company van. I hadn’t heard from him in about three days, but I just thought he and Peggy were too busy banging it out. About five days later, Peggy called me, frantic, wondering where he was. By the time I found out which hospital he was taken to, it was way too late, the morgue had already cremated his body, thinking he was a John Doe, cause no one, including me, was there to claim his body.” Bucky’s eyes began to water. 

“ I felt like I failed him. I should’ve checked in. If I had, at least we could have had a real funeral. But I didn’t, so yeah, I always check in with my friends now, and I get extremely anxious when I don’t hear back, so—”

“ … When I didn’t respond to your calls and texts, you thought something had happened to me.”

“ Yeah, yeah, I did. Peach, you’re so much more than just my roommate. I promise I’ll be better at being considerate with all my dates, if you could even call them that, but please don’t just go radio silent.”

“ Ok, Buck, I promise, I won’t ever go radio silent again,” you said, placing your hand on top of his.

You guys fell into a comfortable silence before the topic changed to lighter things, and you went to bed with a much better understanding of who exactly your roommate was. 

—————

You and Kate were at your usual biweekly Sunday class at Atelier Pilates, the most exclusive pilates studio in the city. You guys were a few minutes early, talking about work, your tryst with water cooler guy, Kate’s dog, and she invited you to have lunch with her godfather, Clint, in a few days. 

You both were chattering away when two women, you know the type, probably didn’t have jobs, older husbands, treated their kids more like accessories that they could pass off to their nannies, unfortunately, similar to Kate’s own mother. They side-eyed both you, you more than Kate, before claiming their jump boards. “ I guess they’re letting anyone in here these days.”

“ Yeah, I mean, I might have to find a new place if this class had students maintaining a muffin top.”

And Kate, well, Kate wasn’t having it.

“ You do realize that your tight little bodies don't equate to a brain. And when your geezer husbands die, you’ll be nothing.”

The women appeared shocked by her outburst. Kate was ready to continue her rant, but you shushed her when the instructor came into the room. 

“ Kate, it’s ok, they’re just insecure losers. It’s cool,” you whispered.  

And you continued on with the rest of the class, like nothing happened. 

But you heard Damienn’s voice again, “ You know, it’s looking like all that yoga you’re doing isn’t doing much for your body. If you ate a little less, you might actually look like you do yoga, rather than someone who thinks it’s a yogurt parfait or something.”

—————

When you came back to work after lunch with Kate, Eleanor, and Clint, you were feeling pretty good. Some clients were waiting to see Eleanor, so you led them to the waiting area and offered them some refreshments. While they declined, one of the women stopped you, saying,” I really love your blouse.”

“ Thank you, the long sleeves of the pleasant blouse are really good at hiding any potential arm jiggles,” you said with a giggle, even though it really wasn’t funny.

“ No, that’s not what I meant, I just—”

“It's ok, I’ll be right back with your spring water ma’am.”

—————

You’d noticed that Bucky didn’t have any girls over as much. He’d asked to use the apartment, maybe once or twice, which was a major reduction from the normal five to six times he used to. Clearly, he was taking his promise to ease up on the girls seriously. You almost wish he hadn’t because the less and less of a man whore your roommate was, the more your feelings for him grew. 

You noticed it during dinner one night, this time you cooked. Garlic Parmesan wings, collard greens, and fries. Bucky was talking about the recent fire he and the other firehouse volunteers were at. His crew was with two girls, Ava and Yelena, and three guys, John, Alexei, and Bob. 

From what you could tell, John was a bit of an arrogant tight ass, Yelena was a bit of a wild card, Alexei was a teddy bear who didn’t take things too seriously, Ava’s dry sense of humor matched well with Bucky’s and Bob, well Bob, seemed to sweet and anxious to even be a volunteer but he always was there doing the damn thing, well. 

The sparkle that your roommate got in his eyes when he talked about volunteering was beyond beautiful. It was clear he did this job for the fulfillment and not just ‘cause he did it for free. You realized, as Bucky talked with his hands, the sleeves of his flannel crooked, and his beard growing in, that you were in love with him, and there was no way he’d ever feel the same.

When you went to bed that night, you kept having to wipe the tears streaming down your face. Damienn, with his smug smile, used to say, “ I love you, sweet pea. I’m the only man whose gonna love you. So there’s no point in wasting your time on all these fuckboys, you’re mine.”

And to be honest, maybe he was right. 

—————

Wednesday night was one of the busiest nights at the Howling Commandos bar. That was probably because girls got their drinks half-priced, and a place full of girls tended to attract large groups of guys. Sam was pretty pleased with himself for making this happen, even if he had to deal with Bucky fighting him all the way, until he himself saw the profit. 

That night, you and Kate were there hanging out with Yelena, Bob, and Alexei. While sparks flew between Kate and Yelena, you and Bob were at the bar talking about the anxiety you shared riding the subway. 

“It's always so damn crowded, and you have to worry about pickpockets,” Bob said over the indie music playing.

“ Forget the pit pockets, how about giant rats or people with their shoes off,” you said, taking a swig of your beer. “ One time I saw a rat the size of a cat, and on the other side of me was a lady pumicing her damn feet.”

“ Eww, that’s foul.”

“ I know, right, I would get a car if it wasn’t for the—”

“ … Traffic,” Bob finished, causing you both to crack up.

Bucky had just taken over for Sam behind the bar, which meant your beers were refilled before you even finished them. Bucky had refilled your last beer about three minutes ago and was currently talking up blonde with an extreme need for a root touch-up. 

“ You should see the decor in my place. I recently got a cherry wood table and a second Navajo-style rug.” 

You internally rolled your eyes because you were the reason the decor of Bucky’s used to be naked apartment. 

“ Well, maybe I can see it sometime? Maybe even tonight.”

“ Ooh, I’d like that, you can definitely—” Bucky’d cut himself off when he saw you glare at him. You did not want to have to spend the night at Kate’s. Especially since you may have to worry about crowd control, the way that she was making heart eyes at Yelena.

“ But you know what, I gotta make sure to close this place up today. Maybe this weekend?”

“ Ok, big business man. Yeah, this weekend could be good.”

Your heart pinged seeing Bucky schedule another at-home session. Yes, he was being considerate, but all you really wanted was for it to be you. And no matter how hard you tried, those feelings just wouldn’t go away. You hadn’t even realized you’d started to tear up until Bob handed you a napkin.

“ Oh god, I’m sorry, Bob. I didn’t mean to get all girly. Let's, um, let's talk about your job.”

“It's ok, YN, I get it. He’s really great. And you’re really great, and one day he’ll see it.”

“ What are you talking ‘bout, Bobby?” Bob’s sad smile dropped a bit when you used that name.

“ Bucky. I can tell you like him. And I know it must hurt when he does the whole Fabio routine,” Bob said, gesturing towards your roommate.

“ Oh, that's, that's, nothing Bob. I’ll get over it.”

“ Does he know?”

“ Of course not.”

“ Maybe you should tell him.”

“ No, I can’t,” you said, the tears flowing even more freely.

“ I already know a guy like that would never go for me. I couldn’t even keep my ex happy, and he wasn’t even half as sexy and successful as Bucky. And I really can’t risk losing our place. I think, I think, I’ll just go home.” 

The stool you were under scraped against the floor when you got up to leave. You didn’t notice that Bucky noticed you leave, or the love-struck look he had whenever he came over to refill your beers. But Bob did, and all he could do was wait for the two of you to get your heads out of your asses. 

—————

Bucky didn’t come home until after you’d fallen asleep that night. So you didn’t see him until you got home from work. You’d been thinking about what Bob had said last night all day and you were fully prepared to take that leap of faith, but when you opened the door you were met with Bucky, having his tongue down some girl’s throat( not the one from the night before), her skirt riding up on your new sofa shrug, that you’d probably have to burn.

“ Shit, sorry. I thought you’d still be at work, ” Bucky said after tearing his face from the redhead, who was now panting.

“It's nearly 8 pm,” you said, crestfallen. 

“ Again, sorry, Peach. Monique can go right?” He asked, looking at his ‘date’, who by the look on her face was not named Monique. 

“It's Marlene, jagoff. And yeah, I can go, maybe you can get some from your roommate.” She got up, grabbing her purse. “ He’s all yours, Peach,” she said, spitting venom on the pet name.

“ Wow, what a bitch,” Buck said, barely waiting for the door to close behind her.

“ Takes one to know one,” you said, barely holding your rage, as Bucky started scrolling through his phone, probably looking for a new booty to call. 

“ What was that?”

That did it. There was no way you could push down everything that you felt anymore.

“ Why are you like this, Bucky? I tried to make excuses for you that you're grieving or you just don’t do relationships, but this is ridiculous. You act like this good guy, and maybe you do cook for your conquests and make them feel special. I’m sure that you probably make them cum a ridiculous amount of times from the few times I’ve heard you. Not that I’d know for sure, because for some reason you’ll fuck anything but me. I mean, I’m right here, I’m single, and I’d say maybe I’m too fat for you, but I know that’s cause I heard you tell Sam about the nearly 300lb girl you banged and how good it was. So why not me? What’s so wrong with me that you don’t want me?”

Bucky practically dropped his phone from his hands. The size of your apartment felt like it felt ten-fold. 

“ Why does it matter if I want to sleep with you?”

“ Because I’m in love with you, James. I’ve been in love with you for months, and all I could do was watch you hit on everything with a cunt, everything but me.” You hated how your voice broke, but it did.

“ So what’s so wrong with me, wrong with this, that you’ve never wanted me?” you said, gesturing to your body, the curves, the chub, but also the tits and the ass, you had. 

Bucky’s eyes were bigger than saucers, and then they darkened before he hopped to his feet in one fluid motion. Six feet of sculpted muscle crossed the small space between you and the couch where he’d previously sat, not stopping until he was right in front of you, his scent, ok his scent of cedar and bourbon, made you weak at the knees. 

“You think I don’t want this body?” he murmured, his gaze searing. “That I don’t want You?”

His hands came up to your face, resting on the curls that’d started to fall out of the bun you’d had them in for work. 

“YN, I’ve wanted you since the day you answered my ad on Facebook Marketplace. Peach, I started falling for you the moment you moved in, immediately bringing life to this apartment that was full of death and the dark cloud of losing Steve. But I… I’ve been damaged goods for so long. Terrified that getting close to someone would kill me if they left. I didn’t want to screw up this, this living situation, probably the best thing in my life right now, but putting myself out there. I mean, you’re so you, together, beautiful, and kind. I couldn’t risk losing you, so it was just easier to push the feelings down and bury them.”

Tears had started streaming down your face, but you couldn’t help but laugh at your roommate’s reasoning. His logic was so stupid, yet so sweet, like him. 

“ And all the girls?”

“ They meant nothing,” his voice gravelly. 

“ They were just distractions. Sad attempts to get you out of my head and my heart. But they never worked. I was always stuck comparing them to you,” he said, his hands moving from your hair closer to your cheek. Such a sweet gesture, yet it caused you to feel heat in your core.

“ Peach, tell me I’m not too late.”

“You… you’re not too late, Buck, you're right on time.” 

Once those words left your lips, Bucky surged forward, closing the last inch between you. His mouth, that perfect cupid’s bow, was hungry, demanding you open for him, which you did, without hesitation. 

Bucky’s tongue swept into your mouth, a low groan coming from his chest, at the taste of the cinnamon flavored gum you’d spit out before entering the apartment. Your hands moved on their own accord, your fingers gripping his hair, pulling him even closer to you. You could feel his firm abs against your soft stomach, proving that this wasn’t a dream, it was oh so real. 

He breaks the kiss, panting, “ Bedroom?”

“Yeah, but mine not yours, cause you know…” You didn’t even have to finish that sentence.

Bucky just nodded before sliding his arms under you, one behind your knees, the other on your back. He lifted you like you weighed nothing, making you gasp, as your own arms looped around his neck. He carried you down the short hall, his eyes never leaving you. 

Bucky kicked open your bedroom door and laid you gently on the bed, before following you down, his weight settling over you in the most delicious way. His mouth finds yours, but his hands are moving. Sliding under your blouse, before he started the process of unbuttoning it. His palms were hot and just as rough as you imagined them to be, when he finally finished with all your blouse’s buttons, breaking the kiss to pull the shirt down your shoulders, tossing it aside.

His breath catches. “Jesus.”

His gaze took in the sight of you in your lace bra, your full tits swelling over the cups of it. 

His gaze took in the sight of you in your lace bra, your full tits swelling over the cups of it. 

His gaze took in the sight of you in your lace bra, your full tits swelling over the cups of it. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Bucky said in awe, before he leaned down, taking one of your pebbling nipples into his mouth, lace and all. It was almost comical, how quickly you’d started arching of the bed, with a whimper. 

He made quick work of unclasping your bra, and the second he pulled it off, he groaned. His hands were everywhere, cupping your boobs, his thumb brushing over your hardened nipples. “So perfect,” he murmurs against your skin, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down the valley of your tits, over the curve of your tummy.

Bucky’s fingers fell behind you, onto the zipper of your pencil skirt, dragging it down much too slowly, before finishing, dragging the skirt and with it your panting and pantyhose, down your legs. The cold air of your room made you shiver, before you felt the warmth of his body as he laid down between your thighs. He stopped looking at you for a moment, his eye dark, and his breath on you. 

“Bucky, please…”

He didn’t need anymore coaxing, shedding his henley and allowing you to finally run your hands across the hard ridges of his abs, the way you’d dreamt of for so long. Bucky kicked off his jeans and boxer briefs, and you couldn’t help but moan. There he was over you, deliciously naked, his cock sitting eagerly against your thigh.

He reached down, his calloused fingers running along your slick heat. You gasped when he stroked you before sliding one and then two fingers inside of you, causing you to cry out as he curled them. 

“So wet for me,” Bucky growled.

“ Yes, it’s for you, only for you,” you cried. When you felt his tongue lick a stripe against you, you felt pleasuring coiling in your belly. You were already puddy in his hands. 

“Now, Buck,” you beg. “ Please, I need you now.”

Bucky positioned himself at your entrance, the broad head of his cock rubbing against you. His eyes locked on yours. “Look at me, Peach,” he commanded softly. And you did without hesitation. And he finally pushed himself into you. 

You felt every inch of him as he pushes his length into you fully, causing moans to come from both of your mouths. Bucky paused, burying his hilt, as he let you adjust to him, and you were nearly in tears at the fullness you felt. He dropped his forehead to yours, “You feel so…” he started, but words seemed to fail him. And then, then, he started to move. 

Bucky’s first thrust was deep and slow; he pulled almost completely out you before pushing back in, faster and so much deeper. Each thrust made you see stars, your legs wrapping along his slutty waist, pulling him deeper, your fingers digging into his shoulders. 

His pace builds. The slow, deep strokes become harder, faster. The sound of your ragged moans, his throaty moans, and skin slapping on skin began to fill your bedroom (for the first time, mind you). Bucky shifted slightly, hitting your G-spot with the angle change, leading you to cry out full of an ecstasy you thought was only real in porn.

“Oh god, Peach,” Bucky rasped, hammering that spot over and over again. “That’s it. Cum for me, baby. Let me feel you.”

Your climax crashed over you without warning, causing your entire body to convulse. The feeling of you clamped around him, your walls, milking his cock, sent Bucky over the edge. With one final thrust, he buried himself in you, a raw shout coming out of him as he emptied himself inside of you. 

He collapsed onto you, his face buried in your neck, sprinkling kisses on you. You guys lied there, on your bed, sweaty, as your hearts pounded frantically. 

After a while, Bucky lifted his head. His sea blue eyes are soft. “No more girls,” he whispers, his voice rough. “Just you. From now on, it’s only you.”

“ So does this mean you're asking me to be your girlfriend?” You asked with a giggle.

“Yes, Peach, it does.”

“ Ok, Bucky. I’ll be your girlfriend.”

“ Yes,” he said, pumping his fist in the air.

“ And now, girlfriend, are you ready for round two?”

You felt like your breath had just been knocked out of you. So yeah, it was going to be a long night.

To be continued…

[dei-dreamz]

I’d Love to See Me from Your POV - 1

Spin The Trope: Roommate + Chubby @artficlly

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Bucky Barnes × Chubby!Reader

Summary: You’re adjusting to living in Brooklyn, a new city, your new job, your new place, and your new ridiculously sexy & sweet roommate

Warnings: Language, Implied Smut, Past Emotionally Abusive Relationships, BIPOC Curly-Haired Reader

Word Count: 1.6k

A/N: This chapter is definitely more of an introduction into your marvel au life and I hope you enjoy it. Lemme know if you want to be added to the series tag list.

Taglist: @fandomfoodiedancer | @ozwriterchick | @3xclusivemariii | @dugiioh |

“Hello, you’ve reached the office of Bishop Security. How can we assist you today?” You always said that same greeting with your ‘phone’ voice, aka the whitest-sounding voice possible. 

“ Yes, I understand why you’d want to speak directly with Mrs. Bishop; unfortunately, she is out of the office today. But I will happily take a message, and I can set you up with an appointment with  Ms. Victoria Kafka, our lead site supervisor.”

“ You wanna do both. Ok, good man. Being thorough is always the best way to ensure maximum security, especially for a UN ambassador. I’ve taken down your message, and Ms. Kafka will reach out to you within the next two business days. Alright, have a great day.”

You hadn’t even noticed Kate standing over the reception desk until you hung up and she said, “ Are you sure you’re gonna be able to unscrew your smile after that?”

“ I think I'll be fine, Katie. Don’t you have some interning to do?

“ Yeah, well, when you came out of the CEO’s vag, you can play hooky once in a while.”

You tried and failed not to laugh. “ Well, Katherine, for those of us working here, who weren’t expelled from Eleanor Bishop’s womb, we have to focus.”

“ Ok fine, but you’re no fun,” Kate whined. 

“I don’t get paid to have fun.”

“ That’s true. But being my best friend requires you to have fun.”

“ At work, I’m your mother's employee.” Kate pouted at that, so you amended, “ However, after work I’m your bestie, and we can go to the Howling Commando bar for unlimited drinks on the house.”

“ Bucky will seriously go for that,” Kate said with a squeak.

“He'd better be with how lenient I am with all the broads he brings over.”

“ That’s true, you’ve been at my house so much I’ve started considering getting you your own parking spot.”

“ Yeah, well, he just lost his childhood best friend last year, and I just know that people grieve in different ways.”

“ Ooh. It sounds like somebody’s in love,” Kate said, poking your arm. 

“ Oh hell no. Fuck boys with puppy dog eyes aren’t for me. But fuck boys with puppy dog eyes, who have a big ass Brooklyn apartment that I only have to pay a quarter of the rent on, can definitely get a few free passes to use the place.”

“ Well, alright. I’ll pick you up at 8,” Kate barely suppressed her giggle as she took off to do whatever ‘laid back’ heiresses do.

—————

As soon as you stepped into the threshold of your apartment, you were ready to rip your spanks and pantyhose off your body. Instead, you opted to take off your kitten heels, setting them onto the shoe rack by the door. 

Bucky wasn’t home yet; he’d let you know when he dropped off lunch for you during your lunch break. He’d be spending all day at the firehouse. Because, of course, the sexy ass bar owner was also a softy who worked as a volunteer firefighter. 

You moaned the second you snatched your spanks off, letting your pooch breathe for the first time in eight hours. You quickly threw on a velour tracksuit before heading to the kitchen to fix yourself a snack. You’d already dived into your homemade pizza bagels when your roommate walked in, wearing his blue duty pants and a too-tight station tee. 

“ Hey, Buck,” you called out from the couch. 

“Hey, peach, ( you rolled your eyes at the pet name). How was work?”

“ I should be asking you that, Mr. Firefighter intern,” you teased. 

“ Hey, hey, hey. That’s Mr. Fireman Volunteer to you. And I asked you first.”

“ Okay, that’s fair. It was ok. I learned how to politely say fuck off in several different kinds of vernacular. For some reason, all potential clients think they have a right to speak to the CEO when they call us.” 

“ Oh yeah. I assume you have both Karens and Kyles calling.”

“You’d assume correctly, sir. So now it’s your turn. How was your day?”

“ Busy. Sam had to take his nephews to school, so I had to run the cash balances and pick up the restock. Group therapy ran long when this one guy switched from talking about grieving his mother to losing his family dog. And somehow, training at the station was the most relaxed part of my day. Well, that, and having lunch with you,” Bucky finished before snagging a pizza bagel off your plate. 

“Aww. Sounds like you had a really long day, Buck. You want a shoulder rub,” you said, half-joking.

“ You know what, I would. Thanks, Peach.”

You were shocked he’d agreed, so now stuck between a rock and a hard place, you patted the floor below you.

Your roommate instantly plopped down on the Navajo-style carpet, which you’d gotten for a steal at the flea market. 

As you rubbed his shoulders, you couldn’t help the heart rising to your cheeks as you realized he was sitting between your legs, his back pressed against your pum-pum. You were suddenly very grateful for how thick your sweatpants were. 

Then this fool had the nerve to start moaning, and you felt the heat move from your cheeks to your core, and you knew you needed to stop.

So you let go of his shoulders, practically jumping from your position on the couch.

“ Hey, Buck. I promised Kate that you’d give us the hookup at the bar tonight. And I’m hoping you’d be down with that so I don’t have to go with her with my tail between my legs,” you asked, giving him your best Bambi face. 

“ Well… how can I say no to that face? You can, but I need a favor in return.”

“Oh, ok. What do you need?” You couldn’t stop the part of you that hoped this favor involved him fucking the shit out of you, oh, how wrong you were. 

“Do you think I could have the apartment tonight?”

“Why?” You inquired, already knowing the answer.

“Well,” Bucky said, rubbing his neck with his arm nervously, “I’m cooking for this girl we hit off at the bar last night…”

“ Is this the same girl from two nights ago or a new one?”

The flush on your roommate’s face said it all.

“ Ok, new girl, got it. I can probably spend the night at Kate’s again. But Buck, you know I pay half of the rent here, I’d like to, you know, actually get to sleep in my own bed at some point.”

“ Yes, that’s fair, I promise I won’t bring any girls over for two weeks minimum.”

“ Ok, alright. You can have the apartment. But you owe me?”

“ How does a home-cooked meal sound?”

“ Not too bad, but it better not be the same thing you cook your date tonight, I don’t do sloppy seconds. And I want free appetizers tonight.”

“ You drive a hard bargain, lil lady, but since she’ll be here in an hour, you got a deal,” Bucky said, sticking his pinky out for you to lock yours around. 

“ Just give me twenty minutes to call Kate and get my shit in my duffle.”

While you were annoyed at having to leave your apartment for the night, again, you were even more bothered by the fact that all you wanted was to be that girl. 

The one Bucky cooked for, not to make up for fucking someone, on your shared couch, but because he wanted to. Of course, he didn’t want you like that.

As you packed your toothbrush, you heard your ex Damienn’s voice in the back of your mind, “ Sweetheart, you’re so beautiful. But you know that you’ll have trouble finding someone else as a big girl. That’s why you need me, so how bout you get your cute ass in the kitchen and make me some food. And try to make sure you don’t eat half of it while you’re cooking it for taste checking.”

Damienn said it with a laugh, like most of the hurtful things he said as a ‘joke’ or to ‘motivate’ you. Damienn wasn’t even half as attractive or successful as Bucky, so if you couldn’t get him to commit. What chance would you have with your roommate, a sexy ass volunteer firefighter/bar co-owner who can and does get any girl he wants? 

—————

Kate had taken picking you up two hours early in stride, when you told her she’d be getting free drinks and appetizers. 

So now you were situated at the Howling Commandos bar, in your favorite low-cut top, curls styled into a couple of bubble braids, sipping your cosmopolitan, while listening to Kate and Sam(the other co-owner of the bar) argue about what a ‘real’ old-fashioned is. 

You were bored and starting to get a bit grouchy when you felt a finger tap your shoulder. You turned around to see a guy who was built like a water cooler staring at you, well, actually, your tits, but who wouldn’t? 

“ Can I help you?” You asked, honestly prepared for him to ask you to introduce him to Kate.

“ I was just hoping I could buy you a drink since you appeared to be running low on what I believe is a cosmopolitan.”

“ Sorry, pal. I get free drinks, I know the owners.”

“ Well, how about an appetizer?”

“ Free apps too,” you said with a tipsy grin. 

“ Well, how ‘bout I buy you a dessert?”

“ They don’t serve desserts here.”

“ Well then, I guess you’ll have to let me take you outta here, so I can get you some then.”

You knew what he was doing. This was a booty call. Any other night, you would’ve laughed him off, but tonight, thinking about Bucky screwing a mystery girl in your apartment and wanting to prove your ex wrong, you checked to make sure your handgun was in your purse, ready in case this dude was an ax murderer, and let him take you out of the bar. 

Hoping you’d cum at least once that night. 

To be continued...

[artficlly]

hide & seek [one-shot]

marvel au tb*!bucky x fem!reader a simple game of hide and seek for bragging rights turns heated when you and bucky cram into the same hiding spot.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, v fingering, sexual tension, gags/underwear gags, forced proximity, soft dom!bucky (at times), kissing, angst, grumpy!bucky, smug!bucky, there's some plot if you squint, flashback/memories, thunderbolts* au, no use of y/n, gif does not represent readers physical looks, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 4.6k

A/N: hello! i've been on break awhile but this idea has been haunting me for months. still busy with uni, rip but i'll be on break again soon. thank you all for your kindness and patience! sorry for any typos - not proof read.

main masterlist

In all the months you’d worn the patchwork title of Avenger, or Thunderbolt—whichever shiny new label Alexei was spewing that week—you could only recall one moment where Bucky Barnes had truly seen you. 

Most of the time, you were convinced you existed somewhere in his periphery. A stray Val had deposited on his doorstep, and he hadn’t yet figured out the return policy. An obligation disguised as a teammate. 

That was the problem with Bucky: he was a reluctant leader. One who wore the mantle like an ill-fitted coat. Some days, you wondered if he carried it like a punishment. Like you were his punishment. He scowled through the endless missions, debriefs and press conferences, shouldering the team’s chaos as though it were his personal penance. And whenever his gaze happened upon you, it lingered—not warmly, not cruelly—but just long enough to remind you that Bucky Barnes had no fucking clue what to make of you. 

It might have been easier to stomach if you didn’t catch yourself enjoying that scowl, or the way his eyes stripped you bare before dismissing you entirely.

You had been a late addition to the lineup, shoved into the mix courtesy of Val after she remembered you were another loose thread she hadn’t clipped yet. The others hadn’t exactly welcomed you with open arms—with the exception of Alexei, who would talk to a brick wall if it listened—no, the rest of them had eyed you like you were a trap waiting to be sprung. Cautious. That was the word. Cautious that Val had planted you as a spy, a saboteur, a fuse already lit and burning, placed directly into their laps. 

And you, if you were honest with yourself, hadn’t exactly helped their suspicions. 

You were awkward, brash in ways that rarely landed. Your humour had a habit of falling flat, your sarcam subtle enough to be mistaken for sincerity. It took weeks before the ragtag crew stopped stiffening every time you opened your mouth, bracing for a punchline to turn into a knife. 

You had always made people nervous. Not just because of your ineptitude at social interaction, but because of something much deeper—a fundamental unease sewn into the fabric of who you were. Their worries about you being a spy weren’t entirely unfounded when your greatest power was the one thing that guaranteed distrust: invisibility. The ability to vanish at will. To linger unseen. Unsurprisingly, it made people jumpy, especially a messy group of reluctant heroes with more skeletons in their closet than the natural history museum. And whether you were present or not, your teammates always seemed half-convinced you were right there in the room with them, hidden in plain sight, listening to secrets that were never meant for you. 

But over time, suspicion had given way to camaraderie. The wary glances, the stiff silences, the subtle double-checks that you were actually gone when you vanished… those had softened into something resembling friendship. Bob shared in your awkward humour, Yelena tolerated your vanishing act with an eyeroll. Even John had relaxed enough to grumble in your general direction without scepticism lacing every word.

But Bucky? He seemed inexplicably drawn to you, whether he was conscious of it or not. If it wasn’t the staring, it was a lingering—an ever-present awareness of where you were. At first, you’d told yourself it was distrust, his refusal to let you slip too far from sight in case you were truly up to something. But as the edges of that apprehension dulled with time, you were left with a more unsettling question: did he still see you as he had on day one, untouched by everything that had passed between you? Or was it something else entirely that kept him close?

And now—thanks to your own mouth and self-imposed hubris—you were shoulder-to-shoulder with the man himself

It had started innocently enough. Team bonding. Some backhanded comment from Alexei about the lack of wholesome group activities (though, Alexei’s idea of wholesome was sparring until blood was drawn). From there, the conversation had spiralled into a half-serious list of corporate-retreat level nonsense: trust falls, blindfolded obstacle courses, and Alcoholics Anonymous-level sharing circles. 

Then, inevitably—as was a recurring pattern with the group—the conversation turned competitive. One misplaced claim from Yelena, stating she’d wipe the floor with everyone in a game of hide-and-seek, turned the sarcastic mumblings and cackling into chaos. Ava had scoffed and remarked she wouldn’t stand a chance. And you, naturally, couldn’t resist chiming in. ‘Hello? Invisibility? This isn’t even a contest!’

That was all it took. The discussion devolved into a full-blown shouting match, arguments about rules and loopholes. Until Bucky, exasperated and weary, muttered: ‘Why don’t you just play the damn game instead of arguing?’

You’d seen the regret in his face the second he said it, jaw tightening as Alexei leapt up, already claiming seeker.

And now you were stuffed into a wardrobe, pressed against the back panel between coats, invisible and smug in the knowledge you’d already won. That was until Bucky found you almost immediately. No hesitation, no circling the room for show. He just swung open the door like he’d known all along, stepping inside and shutting the world away without a word. 

“You can’t hide in here with me—” You hissed, powers flickering out as you reappeared.

He shifted in place, his broad frame swallowing the narrow space, arm brushing yours as he settled in beside you. You held your breath, staring anywhere but at him, determined not to acknowledge how hot the air suddenly felt, or betray the way your body registered every inch of him. 

“Thought you said you were gonna win this thing?” His voice was low, close enough that you felt it against your ear. “Figured I might as well join you in victory.”

“You’re a leech.” You huffed, though it came out thinner than intended. “How’d you even find me anyway? You could’ve at least pretended to struggle before waltzing in—”

His reply was almost a smirk, gone before it fully formed. “I knew exactly where you’d go.”

That snapped your head toward him before you could stop it, temple brushing the cool wood. His face was far closer than you’d anticipated, close enough that you caught the sharp lines of his jaw in the dimness, the steady weight of his gaze pinning you where you stood. “What’s that supposed to mean?” you whispered.

His gaze flicked down, raking over you in a way that felt deliberate. Your pulse stuttered, traitorous.

“Means,” he said finally, voice low, the corner of his mouth twitching again, “you’re not half as unpredictable as you think you are.”

You scoffed weakly, trying to mask the thrum in your chest. Because the truth was—however ridiculous as it seemed—you had been in this exact position before. And the more you thought about it, the less you believed he’d simply stumbled upon this spot. No, Bucky Barnes wasn’t a man who relied on accidents. He’d chosen this spot, chosen to shut himself in the dark with you, close enough to feel your every breath. Not for some cheap, shared victory… but for the very same reason you had. 

—

Two months ago, Val had organised one of her endless galas for the sponsors of the New Avengers. In theory, it was a celebration of progress. In practice, it was a parade of donors, minor politicians and people who thought they were charming because they owned half of Manhattan. You and the rest of the team tried your best not to get too sucked into Val’s charades, but unfortunately, the Avengers Tower did need to get its funding from somewhere. 

The tower hummed like a hive beyond the walls, champagne glasses clinking, rich laughter and polite conversation stretched thin. 

You’d lasted all of twenty minutes, maybe less. Your fake smile had started to ache into something closer to a grimace by the time you slipped down a side corridor, ducking into one of the storage rooms the team used for overflow gear. 

The room smelt faintly stale, with a vague scent of dust and polish. Boxes were stacked high and crooked to the ceiling on one side, while others were scattered across the room in various stages of unpacking. You perched on one, a wooden crate stamped with something that looked suspiciously like a Stark logo. The expensive silk of your dress pooled around your thighs, the slit up the side suddenly feeling extra reckless in the cool air. You bent over one leg, frowning at the bent buckle on the strap. The clasp refused to catch, no matter how carefully you coaxed it. 

With a sigh, you fiddled and twisted the stubborn metal. It was nearly impossible to get a proper grip on the bloody thing with the perfectly manicured nails Val had insisted you had to match your outfit. You had laughed when the others had told you about Bob’s blonde moment under Val’s influence, but now you could only feel sympathy as you had fallen victim to her controlling ‘artistic vision’—

You jerked upright, nearly sliding off the crate as the door creaked open. 

Bucky Barnes filled the doorway—broad shoulders haloed by the dim hall light, black suit cut sharp against the rugged line of him. For a heartbeat, he scanned the room on instinct, quick and assessing, until his eyes found you. Surprise flickered there, gone almost before you could be sure, replaced by the cool, unreadable calm you’d come to expect. 

If you were the kind of person who bruised easily, you might have taken offence. From the day you’d joined the team he’d been courteous but distant, all clipped nods and careful silences. You’d long decided not to take it personally—Bucky distrusted everyone at first—but it didn’t stop the occasional sting. 

“Jesus,” you muttered, pressing a hand to the deep V of your neckline where your heart still thumped. “Thought Val had sent someone to drag me back.”

One corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile but something dangerously close. “If Val were going to send anyone, it wouldn’t be me.”

A beat passed and you anxiously watched him. 

“Relax. I’m hiding too.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the admission. Your head dipped as you glanced down at how you were sitting, and tried to subtly pull some of your skirt back over your thighs where the fabric had ridden up. “Bucky Barnes, party fugitive… didn’t expect that.”

His gaze lingered on you a beat too long before he stepped inside and let the door click shut behind him. “More common than you’d think.” He admitted it as if it were a guilty confession. He leaned a shoulder against a tower of boxes, watching you with that steady, unreadable look that always felt like it saw more than it should. 

You chuckled, feeling yourself burn up under his gaze as you eased back onto your perch. “Guess that makes two of us.”

An awkward silence washed over both of you, filled only by the muffled party noise. You searched your memory for another time the two of you had been alone like this and came up empty. The thought sent a flicker of heat to your cheek, and you ducked your head again, pretending to fuss with the stubborn buckle. 

“Something wrong with it?” His voice was closer now.

You jumped when you looked up—he’d crossed the room without a sound.

“The buckle….the buckles bent.” You stuttered, clearing your throat as you gave your foot a pathetic little wiggle. “Cheap metal. Or maybe I’m just cursed.”

“Let me see.”

Before you could protest, he lowered himself onto the boxes beside you. The cardboard dipped under his weight, bringing his shoulder almost flush with yours. His scent—cologne and faint leather filling your senses. 

“Foot,” he instructed quietly, extending a hand. The vibranium plates caught the light in muted golds and blues.

You swallowed hard, mouth opening and closing as you fought for an excuse or reason not to, but came up empty. Heat crawled up your neck as you placed your leg across his lap. His cool fingers slid beneath your calf, steadying your leg, while the warm flesh of his other hand bracketed your shin. You felt every point of contact, his calloused palm against bare skin, the faint vibration of hidden mechanics within the vibranum as he thumbed the bent clasp back into place. It made you jump, just enough for his grip to tighten. 

“Hold still,” he murmured, and you followed his command, lungs empty. 

The room shrank to the sound of his breathing and the slow, deliberate press of his thumb. The buckle yielded with a clean snap.

“Good as new,” he hummed, but didn’t move his hand. 

The metal plates cupped your ankle, thumb tracing the curve of your shin as though testing the smoothness of the skin. Slowly, almost lazily, his fingers slid higher, brushing the edge of your knee. A shiver climbed your spine, betraying you before you could hide it. For a breath, you could’ve sworn the air between you tightened.

Your pulse thundered. 

He looked up, eyes darker now, mouth parting as if to speak—

“Where the hell are they?” Val’s voice rang down the hallway, the unmistakable click of her heels following suit. “Honestly, where do they disappear to every time I need them?”

You both jolted upright. 

“Shit,” you hissed, and without thinking, gripped his wrist. There were little to no hiding spots in the room, not with it being practically bare except for the stacks of boxes and crates. Your only hiding spot loomed to your left, a tall, free-standing cedar wardrobe. Before either of you could process your actions, you yanked the door open and dragged Bucky in after you. 

He didn’t protest as you both crammed inside, bodies pressed from shoulder to knee, the dusty scent of old clothes wrapping tight around you as you shoved the door shut just before the hallway light spilt in. 

A soft, involuntary giggle escaped you, quickly swallowed by his palm as he clamped a gentle hand over your mouth. His other arm braced against the wall beside your head, caging you in.

Val’s footsteps paused outside. The door handle rattled once. You held your breath, Bucky’s palm firm and cool against your lips, his chest rising steady against your back. After a tense beat, the handle released, and Val’s voice retreated down the hall in a huff. 

“Unbelievable.” 

The silence left behind was electric.

Bucky slowly lowered his hand, the faintest brush of his fingers grazing your jaw. Neither of you moved, the heat of his body pressing through the thin fabric of your dress. A quiet laugh trembled out of you, shaky and breathless. He answered with a low rumble of amusement, though his eyes never left yours. 

When you finally dared to process your position, you truly realised how close he was—nose inches from yours, his breath a slow heat on your cheek. The laugh died in your throat. Neither of you moved.

Then, abruptly, he straightened, the spell breaking with a sharp inhale. He nudged the door open and slipped out first, his usual composure returning, though a faint pink hue brushed the tips of his ears. 

“See you back out there,” he murmured, voice a touch rougher than before.

—

The wardrobe seemed to shrink with every breath. Cedar walls pressed closer, coats brushing your arms like restless hands. You shifted, just a tiny adjustment to ease the cramp in your knee, trying to find space that wasn’t there. Every movement dragged you nearer to him, chest to shoulder, thigh to thigh, until there was no mistaking the heat bleeding off his body. 

“Not half as unpredictable, huh?” you whispered, partly to break the silence, partly to smother the pulse hammering at your throat.

Bucky tilted his head toward you, the faintest shadow of a grin touching his mouth. Even in the dark you felt the weight of his gaze. “You prove me right more often than you’d think.”

“Huh, You really think you’ve got me all figured out?” You challenged.

“Maybe.” His voice was rough, like gravel rolling over steel. Too low for anyone outside the wardrobe to hear, too close for you to pretend like it didn’t curl down your spine. 

Your laugh came out softer than you meant, threaded with nerves. “Pretty cocky for someone hiding in my spot.”

You heard him suck his teeth with a small chuckle.

“Cocky,” he echoed. “Or maybe I’m just observant.”

You tried to summon a quip sharp enough to sever the tension, but the words fizzled as his arm shifted—casual, maybe—but the brush of his knuckles against your wrist felt anything but. Just a touch, the barest drag of skin on skin, yet it sent heat flooding through you. 

You didn’t move away.

It was ridiculous, standing there in the dark, pretending not to notice the way your heartbeat had gone feral. You wondered, fleetingly, if he could hear it, if the silence were loud enough to betray you. And maybe he did, because as you leant back instinctively, spine pressing against the back panel, he followed that inch without hesitation. 

Your throat went dry. 

Your silence must’ve given you away. His gaze dropped, snagging briefly on your mouth before snapping back up as if he hadn’t meant to look. 

And then—god help you—his knuckles brushed your wrist again. Not an accident this time. Slow, deliberate. The feeling of it rolled through you and made your breath stutter. 

“Bucky—”

It came out as a warning, but it didn’t sound like one.

“Yeah?” His whisper rasped, smoke and frayed restraint.

The wardrobe might as well have been collapsing. Everything was pressing in until the only air left was the kind you had to steal from each other. 

And you did.

One breath, you were staring at him like the ground had vanished beneath you. The next, his mouth was on yours—hard, desperate, all the months of denial funnelled into a single, breathless crash. His hand caught the back of your neck, pulling you closer until your ribs ached against his chest. There was nothing cautious in it, nothing restrained. Just the dizzying reality that you had finally crossed the line you’d been circling for too damn long. 

The wardrobe shuddered as his mouth slanted over yours with a force that made your head knock the wall, coats swaying like startled witnesses. Your gasp broke against his lips just long enough for his tongue to sweep against yours. White-hot ricocheted through you, the cool of vibranium splayed low at your hip, dragging you forward until there was no space left. 

“Fuck—” you breathed, the word melting between sloppy kisses.

He groaned, low and guttural. It vibrated straight down your spine, and he deepened the kiss like he’d been starving for it. Stubble scraped your jaw and chin. Your hands, useless until now, finally found him. You clutched at the soft cotton of his shirt, fingers skimming down to the taut muscle beneath. He exhaled sharply at the contact, his whole body tightening, as if restraint hung by a single thread. 

The wardrobe creaked, a hinge whining in protest. 

Neither of you cared. 

He broke from your mouth only to trail along your jaw, down the column of your throat, teeth grazing just enough to draw a gasp that melted into a whimper as his tongue soothed the spot.

“Bucky,” you repeated, half warning, half plea. You clutched his shoulders now, nails catching the fabric. You didn’t even know what you were begging for—more? Mercy? Or just for him not to stop?

His grip tightened, holding you still. His voice came coarse against your skin, ragged with want. “You drive me fuckin’ insane.”

His words rattled through you, and before you could answer, his mouth was on yours again. Your mutual moans were swallowed in the heat, like he wanted to prove it. Claiming, tasting, and you gave back just as fiercely, matching the rhythm.

His hand had crept beneath the hem of your shirt now, calloused fingers splaying against bare skin, the cold edge of his metal thumb skimming the curve of your ribs. You broke the kiss just long enough to catch your breath, panting into the dark, head spinning.

“I thought—” you whispered, swallowing against the rasp in your throat, “—you didn’t like me.”

He laughed under his breath in disbelief. His nose brushed yours as he leaned back in, lips grazing your jaw. “You think I’d kiss you like this if I didn’t like you?”

Your stomach flipped, heat coiling low. 

“Bucky—” you hissed again, half warning, half plea.

He lifted his head, eyes catching what little light filtered through, pupils blown wide. His lips were swollen and glossy, breathing uneven. 

“You’re trouble,” he murmured, the words brushing your lips. “And I can’t stay the hell away from you.”

His hand slid higher, up your side, thumb grazing the curve beneath your bra, waiting to see if you’d stop him.

You didn’t. 

Your head tilted back against the wood as his other hand slid lower and lower down your stomach. You knew where it was going before you even felt the metal press between your thighs, and your body betrayed you, arching up into the touch.

“Shit—Bucky—” you gasped, the words dissolving into a moan as his fingers slipped under your skirt and pushed your underwear to the side. 

“Shhh,” he cooed, mouth hot against your ear. “You’ll get us caught.”

The sound you made next was nothing like quiet as his fingers slipped beyond the thin lace, finding wet heat. Thick digits swept through your folds, a bolt of pleasure shooting through you as he grazed your clit. He swallowed your needy noise with another kiss, teeth clashing against yours as he pushed two fingers inside, stretching you. Your legs trembled, knees knocking the coats around you. You clawed at his shirt, finding only muscle to hold onto.

“You’re so wet already,” he growled, voice low like it angered him to admit it. “So noisy too, I thought you wanted to win this game?”

You tried to answer, but the sound snagged in your throat as a strangled whimper. Panic and want tangled so tightly in your chest your couldn’t tell them apart. Bucky’s hand slid away only long enough to catch the band of your underwear and drag it down the smooth line of your thighs.

You wordlessly obliged, a hand gripping his shoulder as both of you awkwardly manoeuvred in the tight space.

The wardrobe was too small for anything graceful. You hip knocked his ribs as you braced against him. He bent lower, fingers tracing down the back of your legs as the fabric resisted, snagging at your knees. You bit back a breathless laugh, part nerves, part thrill.

“Hold still,” he murmured, voice vibrating against your skin. His hand steadied your calf, palm hot where it curved beneath your knee. The other worked the delicate fabric over the arch of your food and the heel of your shoe.

By the time the thin scrap of lace slid free, your chest was rising too fast. You pressed harder against the wooden panel, bare and dripping beneath your skirt. 

“Open.” he ordered. 

You drew in a startled breath, eyes wide, and parted your lips before you could think better of it. With a smirk, he pressed the balled scrap of fabric into your mouth as a makeshift gag, his knuckles grazing your cheek in the process. The taste of yourself hit your tongue, shame, excitement and heat roaring in your stomach. Your body clenched around nothing, desperately craving the return of his touch.

“Better,” he murmured, smug. His hand returned with deliberate precision, tracing slow, deliberate patterns along the inside of your thigh. You whimpered as his fingers slid back inside you with little warning. With better access now, he was merciless, curling deep. His palm ground against your clit, sending shocks through you with every pump. 

You writhed against the wood, muffled sounds spilling around the balled-up fabric. Your fingers clutched at his back, sliding under the hem of his shirt until felt the hard plane of muscle beneath. His breath caught as you raked your nails down his back. His mouth latched onto your throat, sucking and biting hard enough to leave bruises in his wake. 

Your hips bucked into his palm, shameless now, chasing every rough curl of his fingers. Your cries were muffled, teeth sinking into the soaked fabric between your lips, eyes squeezed shut as the coil of pleasure built in your gut. Every nerve ending was on fire, the wardrobe filled with the sounds of your muffled whimpers. His fingers moved impossibly fast, curling and pressing with an intensity that had you seeing stars. 

“Bucky—please…” you gasped, choked by the fabric, every word a tremor. 

His breathing was ragged, chest pressing your back into the panel wall, jaw tight as he drove you higher, teasing, coaxing, refusing to let you slip into oblivion too soon. Your hips jerked, grinding against him, desperate for more, begging for release.

His voice was hoarse against your ear, and every word he muttered, every shift of his body pushed you higher. “God, you’re so close, aren’t you?”

You back arched instinctively. Tears prickled the corners of your eyes as your nails scraped along his shoulder blades, your legs trembling and barely keeping you upright. 

You were teetering on the edge, pleasure coiling in your stomach, eyes rolling back as your body surrendered. A whine escaped your throat, soft and pleading, and Bucky caught it, groaning low, one hand pressed against your hip to steady you. 

“I—I can’t—” you gasped, hips jolting, “so close—oh, fuck—”

And then—just as the pressure inside you was about to break, walls clenching hard around his digits—a sound spilt the air. 

The storage room door had creaked open—

Panic ripped through you, and with an involuntary whimper, instinct took over. You vanished in a shimmer of displaced air, leaving only the faint disturbance of your breathless desperation.

Bucky’s head snapped towards the wardrobe door, eye flashing with irritation and amusement, but he didn’t falter. He had to act fast. His hand withdrew in a slow, reluctant drag before you could finish, your juices left smeared across your inner thighs. Your body spasmed against nothing, the climax slipping from you as you gasped out a ragged, frustrated whine. 

The choked noise slipped past the fabric in your mouth before you could stop it.

“Quiet,” Bucky hissed under his breath, brows furrowed. His eyes cut toward where he knew you still hovered invisible against the wardrobe wall. 

The door swung open wide with a cheerful slam.

“Ah, Bucky! Found you!” Alexei declared, grinning, completely unaware of the scene unfolding before him. 

Light spilt into the cramped wardrobe. Bucky leaned casually into it, shoulder filling the frame, a picture of nonchalance that did nothing to hide the faint flush at his throat.  

“You’re good at this, Alexei,” he said smoothly—too smooth. The faint curl of sarcasm in his voice was almost imperceptible. 

Alexei beamed, oblivious. 

“I know! I tell them all and they don’t believe me, I say ‘I am best seeker. Lena should know, we would play game when she was small!’” His voice faded as he turned back towards the hall. “Come, I need help to find others.”

Bucky let the wardrobe door swing shut with deliberate ease, unfazed, leaving you in the dark. Even as you heard his footsteps fade, the storage room’s door clicking shut, you knew, deep down, that this game was far from over. 

---

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[prizzylicious]

Apples & Aftermath (part 1?)

Bucky Barnes Mechanic AU

When your car breaks down in the middle of nowhere, the last person you expect to come to your rescue is your estranged childhood best friend. Except the chubby-cheeked boy you once stole apples with is gone. In his place stands a man sculpted like a Greek god from the softest stone—beautiful, sharp-edged, and nothing like you remember.

At first, he’s kind. Familiar enough to make you think the years apart haven’t changed everything. But beneath the warm smiles and bubbly words lingers something unresolved—hurt that never quite faded.

And you learn quickly that not everyone is happy you came back.

▸ PAIRING: Mechanic!James Bucky Barnes x Fem!Citygirl!Reader

▸ WARNINGS: NSFW 18+, reader pov, angst, slow burn, friends to enemies to lovers, mean reader, kinda grumpy x sunshine, no use of y/n, mentions of abandonment, description of male body, mentions of fingering, slight miscommunication?

(image does not depict reader, i just put that for funsies because i love manchild and it kinda fit)

▸ WORD COUNT: 15.6K

▸ A/N: This is my first time writing, all suggestions and corrections are welcome. Sorry for inconsistencies, if any. Also, should I make this a series?

You knew you shouldn’t have let your parents talk you into visiting them in the middle of summer. Every possible sign from the universe had tried to warn you.

First, when you bought your plane tickets on that “totally legit” website your cousin had recommended, only to find out it was a scam. Then your boss —who wouldn’t have approved your vacation unless someone held him at gunpoint— reluctantly agreed because you literally hadn’t missed a single day of work.

Yesterday your suitcase zipper exploded out of nowhere while you packed —seriously, how does a zipper just detonate?— so you threw everything into your backseat like a raccoon with a personal vendetta.

And now, your car had decided to die in the middle of the highway when you were so freaking close to home.

Your shirt clung to your back; the sun was so bright your eyes stung as you squinted at the faded road sign ahead.

15 Miles to Raybridge.

“Perfect,” you hissed, shielding your eyes as you leaned over the hood of your very hot, very dead car. Maybe some sort of mechanical enlightenment would strike you like a divine vision.

It did not.

All you saw was metal, wires, and a chaotic tangle of things you wished you’d paid attention to back when you used to hand your father his tools.

You tugged your phone out of your pocket—fine, you could call your dad or one of your neighbours— and unlocked it only to find… nothing.

Zero bars.

Absolutely no signal.

“You gotta be kidding me,” you lifted the phone toward the sky as if the universe might reward your efforts. You took a few steps. Tilted it. Stretched your arm like you were trying to make contact with extraterrestrial life.

You were so focused on your mission to summon a single bar of service that you didn’t notice the blue pickup truck slowing to a stop beside you.

A man’s voice called out your name, low, surprised, like he wasn’t sure you were real, cut through the shimmering heat. You turned from your screen, frowning, only to meet a pair of bright blue eyes. “Holy shit, it is you.” he breathed out.

“Uh… can I help you?” you murmured, lowering your phone as the stranger parked on the side of the road.

“I’m James.” he tapped a hand to his chest. “We were neighbors. We used to make mud pies behind the Carsons’ barn, remember? And hide in Roger’s apple field whenever we skipped Sunday mass….” his smile faltered when you continued staring.

“Our families spent Christmas together for years.”

“Oh! Right– Hi” you chirped, maybe a little too brightly. Relief washed across his face instantly, his smile blooming as he stepped out of the truck.

The last time you’d seen him, he’d been shorter than you, with braces the size of a small fence and cheeks so round the grandmas of both families fought over who got to pinch them.

Now…

Now he stood a head taller, all long limbs and broad shoulders. The braces were gone, replaced by high cheekbones and a sharp jaw that could probably cut . The soft blue T-shirt clung to him like it had personally signed up for the job, stretching over muscle and revealing a sliver of strong forearms where the sleeves were rolled.

“Car trouble?” he asked, snapping you out of the blatant staring you were definitely doing.

You cleared your throat. Violently. “I– yeah. My car’s trying to kill me, actually.” You gestured helplessly to the smoking hood. “At this point I’m tempted to leave it here and walk the rest of the way.”

“Don’t worry,” his voice dropped warm and confident. “I can handle it.”

He went to his truck, opened the passenger door, and pulled out a red toolbox like it weighed nothing. Sunlight caught in his hair as he leaned under the hood.

“Didn’t know you were coming back.”

He murmured, shooting a glance.

"I'm.. just visiting." You said, crossing your arms as you watched him, definitely interested in the car insides.

He glanced at you over his shoulder for a moment, the blue of his eyes vivid against the sunlight. It was different—and strangely unsettling— being under his gaze now for some reason.

“How long you’re staying?” He asked, disappearing back into the engine.

“A week, maybe two,” you replied, shifting uncomfortably on your feet. James knew you better than anyone here, more than your own damn family at times, or at least he used to.

But the silence between you somehow felt heavier than the heat.

He came out again, wiping a layer of sweat from his forehead with one arm and holding up a grimy tool in the other.

“Your alternator’s dead.” he informed you.

You cringed, nodding.

“That sounds… bad.”

He huffed a laugh, leaning over the hood again as he dug back in with the tool.

“Nothing I can’t fix.”

Your eyebrows arched. “You’re an expert car savior now, huh?”

He shrugged. “A lot of things changed while you’ve been gone. "

The statement hung in the air for a moment. There was something behind it, a thinly veiled accusation you couldn’t name.

“Right.” you said, suddenly uncomfortable. “I’ve only been gone a few years, James. What’s that supposed to mean?”

He paused whatever he was doing, straightened up to his full towering height, and turned back to you. Something close to a scowl darkened his features.

“You really need me to spell it out?”

A beat of silence settled in. He didn’t say anything more, but the sudden tension in his jaw said enough.

It shouldn’t have stung.

You’d left—you’d left for a reason, and you’d said your goodbyes. But somehow this new, sharp-edged James had you faltering more than the old one.

“I didn’t have much of a choice, James,” you finally broke the silence. “Everyone knows there’s no future here for people like me. I…” you swallowed dryly. “I had to leave.”

He snorted. “No future, huh?” his tone changed, mocking. “You sound just like your daddy.”

It felt like a slap more than any words could’ve done. All the air left your lungs, and the words spilled out angrily, without thinking.

“You mean the one you love? The man you practically worshipped?

James’ jaw clenched as the accusation hung in the air, heavy and damning. He took a step closer, towering over you. You tried to hide any sign of weakness, but your hands shook.

“Worshipped.” he echoed. “You think I worshipped the man that took my best friend away from me with a goddamn suitcase?” James’ voice rose, angrier than you’d ever heard.

Your eyes widened, but if he saw it he didn’t care. He took another step closer, a muscle in his jaw jumping as he leaned down to meet your gaze.

“You think I didn’t know you were leaving for months before you decided to tell me?” he hissed. “You could’ve been anywhere. But you left me here.”

The confession hit you like a punch, knocking the air out of your lungs. “I… tried to tell you….” you struggled to get the words out, but he shook his head, the anger making the blue in his eyes seem brighter.

"Forget it." He scoffed, before returning to fix your car.

You stared at him for a moment, mouth open in shock. He ignored you as he leaned back into the engine, shoulders rigid.

You crossed your arms, trying to control the swirl of emotions. He’d never been this angry with you before, never accused you of leaving him here. What the hell was his problem?

You tried to swallow the hurt as you leaned against the car, silently watching him.

His hands moved with practiced efficiency, tightening and adjusting. For a moment, you focused only on the way his fingers handled the tools, almost admiring.

You shook your head at the sudden thought.

Who the hell thinks about hands at a time like this?

You closed your eyes and let out a breath, trying to push away any confusing thoughts. As if he could feel your gaze on him, James straightened, grabbing the hem of his shirt with one hand and wiping his brow.

The strip of exposed skin revealed his waist—narrow, all muscle and strength.

Oh Lord.

Your cheeks flushed a beet red and you fixed your gaze on your shoes.

You waited in silence for a while, the heat nearly intolerable and the tension still heavy between you two. After what felt like an eternity, James finally finished up with the engine, closing the hood with a decisive slam.

His eyes flickered to yours. “You should be good now.”

You blinked, still trying to recover from your brain’s very inappropriate train of thought. “Oh. Good.” You cleared your throat, avoiding his gaze.

“How much do I owe you?”

He was silent for a moment, and when you dared to look up, the sharp edges were gone from his expression. He looked almost tired.

“It’s on the house.” he muttered before turning, toolbox in hand.

Your mouth opened then closed. "That's not.. I'll pay of course.. you don't need to do that." You said. He didn’t turn, just raised one shoulder in a half-shrug.

“Don’t worry about it.” with that, he tossed the box into the bed of his truck, not once looking at you.

He was actually just leaving? Like that?

You stared at him then frowned, annoyance mixing with hurt. “Are you seriously just going to ignore—”

James interrupted, the soft sound of your childhood nickname tumbling from his lips. You were stunned momentarily as he finally looked up at you. He shut his eyes for a second like he was gathering courage, and the look on his face was something you’d never seen on him before.

Vulnerable.

“Can you just… not.” he muttered. “Just please don’t.”

Your throat burned at the nickname, jaw working, before pride mixed with annoyance.

"Fine. Be that way." You muttered, before going back to your car and taking off.

If he said anything more you didn’t hear it. You got into the driver’s seat and slammed the door, turning the key to start the now-functioning engine.

You didn’t wait for James as you pulled back onto the road, away from him and the uncomfortable feeling in your stomach.

You couldn’t get his voice out of your head.

”A lot has changed since you left.”

He couldn’t seriously expect you to stay here. In this town where you knew everyone but they didn’t even know you. Where you were forced to be the version they wanted you to be instead of the person you’d always been.

No, leaving was the right choice. You knew that.

So why the hell did you feel so damn guilty?

"It's not my fault this shitty town has nothing." You scoffed to yourself.

You drove the rest of the way with your thoughts in a tangle and the music blasted loud enough to drown out any lingering words. Even though your AC managed to work properly now, you kept the windows down, hoping the summer heat would somehow burn away the heavy feeling in your chest.

You almost missed the sign towering over the side of the road.

WELCOME TO RAYBRIDGE

You slowed as you entered town, scanning familiar buildings and landmarks. The grocery store, the small movie theater. The park where you played as a kid.

Most people were heading home from work or running late afternoon errands—the ones you recognized did double takes when they saw you. It annoyed you for some reason, the way they stared.

Finally, you pulled into the familiar parking lot of your childhood home, noting the flower beds your mother had planted years ago and the curtains she’d put up just last week.

You switched off the engine and sat for a moment. Your parents knew you were coming, and you were already dreading the questions you’d have to deal with during your visit.

Not to mention you’d have to tell your father about the damn alternator.

You groaned, gathering your things and shoving open the car door.

Your gaze flickered once to the Barnes household next door, before shaking off your thoughts and walking up the steps.

The moment you opened the front door and saw the living room, the tension in your shoulders relaxed.

Nothing had changed in the years since you left. The couch was the same, photos on the mantel were the same, even those damn fake flowers from the early 2000s were still there. You shook your head, taking off your shoes as you called out.

“Mom? I’m here!”

You were immediately attacked by what seemed like a lump of yarns, wet kisses being planted all over your cheeks.

You grimaced with a laugh. "Alright mom, you can calm down now." You chuckled.

"My baby is finally here! Oh how I've missed you. I'm so glad you came to visit your old ass parents." She said, leaning into the dramatics.

You rolled your eyes. "Someone's gotta be the good guy I guess." You shrugged, before both of you fell into a fit of giggles.

"Okay, okay.. enough chittering missy, you go rest in your room and unpack.. or unload, I'll get something going." She said, briefly eyeing the lack of a suitcase.

You saluted her before walking up the stairs with half your clothes in your hands. You dumped them on a chair before plopping on your bed, staring at the ceiling fan.

Thoughts of Bucky crawled into your head again, unwilling, you told yourself.

James. You reminded yourself. He wasn't the lovely, chubby Bucky you knew anymore.

He was annoying, self centred, arrogant and full of biceps and long hair and wait- what were you thinking again?

You groaned and laid on your stomach.

Just as you were about to rant to the gods, a loud roar of a lawnmower interrupted your thoughts. "Who the hell-" you muttered, turning over, staring out the open window, and your mouth went dry.

Outside was possibly the most attractive human being you’d ever laid eyes on. He was standing next to a lawnmower, shirtless in the summer heat, his jeans riding low on his hips.

Your brain malfunctioned for a few seconds as the man ran a hand through his long hair, revealing a set of abs that looked like they’d been sculpted by some talented artist.

Holy Hell.

He was tall and muscular, his shoulders broad, his arms flexed as he leaned down and pushed the mower forward a few feet, a sheen of sweat covering his torso like some sort of hot, hot greek god.

You felt heat rising in your cheeks as you watched him move. His back was to you, but you were sure with a body like that, his front was just as good as his back.

You really needed to stop staring.

But you couldn’t rip your eyes away from him. He was pushing the lawnmower with all his weight now, and the muscles of his shoulders, back, and arms flexed in a way that made you want to fan yourself.

Your face heated up even more as he suddenly reached up to pull those black hair away from his neck, and you stared unabashedly at the way his bicep bulged.

You were in so much trouble.

Before you could fantasize more, he turned. Your mouth hung open, because there stood James.

Once again, you were sharply reminded of how much he had changed. There was barely a trace of the round-faced childhood best friend you remember, replaced by this man. A man who looked like he’d stepped out some hot fireman calendar while you’d been away, all strong muscles, jaw with a rough shadow of beard, and abs you could’ve made a religion out of.

Your eyes dropped from his face to travel down his chest, taking in pecs and abs that looked like they’d been chiseled by a master. They were dripping with sweat, and his jeans were just too low, exposing the top edge of his black boxers.

His skin was tan, smooth and flawless and perfect, and for a second you wondered how it must feel to touch him.

His face looked just as good as the rest of him… maybe even better. His lips were full, his jaw chiseled, that jaw that was still sprinkled with a layer of dark stubble.

You licked your dry lips involuntarily, hand itching to reach between your legs.

He took off his cap with one hand and ran his fingers through his sweat-soaked brown hair, cursing under his breath at the heat.

Your legs turned to jelly as you watched him rake the hair back, revealing a brow with a sheen of sweat, eyes sharp and focused ahead.

His jaw was clenched, and for a moment you wondered what he was thinking about before your eyes drifted to the strip of skin just above his jeans and you suddenly forgot what your own name was.

And somehow, things got worse.

He reached back to pull his shirt from the grass and slipped it on, giving you a perfect view of those arms flexing. A second later that delicious torso was covered and you tried desperately to control your breathing.

He walked over to his lawnmower, giving you a full view of his ass.

Good lord.

What were you witnessing right now? Was this some sort of hallucination? Some fever dream?

He turned back to his task, running a hand through his hair again, and you nearly collapsed into a heap. The muscles of his arms flexed again, and you wondered what kind of torture he put his body through to get that sort of muscle definition. Whatever the hell he was working with, it was doing things to you.

In the back of your mind, you felt ridiculous. Your first day back, and already you were getting flustered over a boy.

Even as you forced yourself to tear away from the window (only because his gaze flicked up once), the image followed you into your dreams the next day.

His face was the first thing you saw as you opened your eyes, and your mind immediately went back to the sight of him from the day before.

Those arms, his abs, the sweat on his biceps that had you practically drooling…

You squeezed your eyes shut again, trying desperately to shake away the memory.

It was just the heat messing with you.

Right?

Your thighs still felt sticky, sweat or uhm.. other things, you weren't sure. You huffed and trudged into the shower.

The cool water helped clear your head, and you were finally able to control your brain enough to think of something else… anything else.

You weren’t a kid anymore, you reminded yourself. You were a grown ass woman, for gods sake. You couldn’t still get flustered over a boy you hadn’t seen in ages.

You frowned at the obnoxious products on the shelf. But there wasn't much choice so you shrugged and hoped it wouldn't kill your hair. You washed the long strands with the strawberry shampoo, honey body wash scrubbing into the soft skin.

It took an insane amount of willpower to not let your hands wander as you washed, the image of him in your head and the memory of his sweat-slicked abs still burned in your brain.

You groaned in frustration and shut the water off. This was ridiculous.

You were drying your hair, dressed in shorts and a tank top, as you wandered into the kitchen.

"Mom, is there any-" you were cut off when a chuckle sounded through the kitchen.

Your mother’s surprised laugh was the first thing that registered, and then your jaw dropped.

James Barnes was standing in your house, his arms filled with food containers and a gallon jug of milk.

He looked just as good in a grey t-shirt as he did yesterday, only now his hair was tamed and combed back.

His blue eyes widened as he caught sight of you, and his hands froze where they currently were setting down the groceries.

“Uh….” he said intelligently, mouth opening and closing uselessly. His eyes ran over your face, your neck, and lower, taking in the bare legs he used to be so well-acquainted with.

“Good morning hun!” she said, clearly trying to break the sudden tension. “We have a… guest.”

"I can see." You murmured, shooting her a look.

You swallowed dryly and turned back to James, who was still staring at you.

“James.” You said stiffly. “Hi.”

[skaye44]

The Prince of Hell

Summary: The Prince of Hell must go to earth to retrieve one of his rogue demons. He sends his hellhounds instead who find you and adore you. You befriend them, giving them collars and food and when they return to hell, the Prince is annoyed and shocked his hounds let anyone get close to them. He goes to the earth realm himself since his hounds are useless, and understands why his dogs are so smitten.

Content warning: Language, reader is a teacher/part time sewer, rogue politician demon mentioned (He isn't who you think he is -  Please don't get political), mentions of torture, arson, Prince of Hell Bucky = tall, dark, powerful, and mysterious (need I say more?) but perhaps a little bit awkward because he's unfamiliar with certain customs of earth?, slight touch her and die vibes, fluff if you squint.

"One of yours is wreaking havoc on earth again." 

The prince looked up from his throne and watched the King of Hell stroll into his throne room unannounced. 

"Who is it?" 

"From your level. My sources tell me he's disguised himself as a politician this time around." 

The prince rolled his eyes and sighed. "Of course he chose a politician as his human disguise." 

"Get him and bring him back before he causes too much destruction. The higher ups aren't too pleased this time and would like to see more control over your demons." 

"You know I don't control what they do up there." The prince pointed up with his finger. 

"I know, which is why I'm here. You can control them, you just choose not to, or you send some lower minion to pass your message along, but the minion either gets corrupted along side the demon, or they end up staying and going rogue. This is a job for you to do this time so get your out-of-control demon and bring them back to me. Their time in the earth realm is over." The King glared at his prince before he left the throne room.

"...BrInG HiM BaCk To mE..." The prince mocked. 

He looked around his quiet throne room full of fire, a lava stream, and bubbling mounds of sulfur and sighed. Two of his massive hellhounds sat at his side, looking bored. 

He liked it on his level of hell. He dealt with low level demons who were granted time in the earth realm away from the bowels of hell to keep balance from the higher ups.

It has been around 35 years since the prince himself has been on the earth realm and he is not looking forward to returning. He has his minions to do that, but apparently, they can't handle simple tasks, so he looked to his next best thing. 

He peered at his hellhounds and said, "You know what to do. I want to avoid going up there as much as possible so if you must drag the demon back here by your teeth, and in pieces, so be it." 

Both hounds' eyes glowed an eery shade of red before they rose and trotted off to a portal to earth. The prince ran a hand over his face and groaned. 

Something tells him he's going to have to go to earth.

😈🔥🐕

"Thank you!" You smiled at the produce vendor and placed the bundle of carrots in your tote bag. 

You left the stand and went in search of breads and pastries. The opening weekend of the local farmers market was always your favourite. 

It was a nice spring day with the sun shining bright and the birds chirping off in the distance. Shoppers young and old perused the stalls and vendors, looking to purchase local goods. The weekend farmer's market was your happy place, and your almost full tote bag was proof.

 You found a bakery stand and got yourself a loaf of sourdough, some buns, and cookies to snack on before you decided to leave and head home.

You made your way to your little farmhouse, unpacked your tote bag and put your things away when you heard commotion coming from your front yard. 

"It's probably one of Mrs. Parkers chickens that got loose again." You mumbled, heading outside to see what was going on. 

You stood on your front porch and looked around, not seeing any escapee chickens on your front drive when you stopped. You saw what looked to be two large black dogs, both were standing near your car. 

"Oh, hello there." 

The animals looked like they were a mix of a Doberman pinscher and a Cane Corso. You were a little wary of them due to their overall size, pointy ears, and large heads, but they seemed to show no aggression. 

"Where did you both come from." 

You stepped onto your walkway and stopped while one of the dogs came walking towards you. 

"Are you lost?" 

You didn't notice them wear collars of any kind. 

Who did they belong to? 

You had never seen dogs like these before. The second one followed until they stood in front of you. Their dark black coats were shiny and glistening from the sun. 

"Are you thirsty?" 

You had a water bowl on your lawn for the local wildlife in the area, so you pointed to it to show them. They looked over at it and eyed the plastic bowl. You weren't supposed to provide for the critters who lived around you, but you didn't care. Foxes, raccoons, ground hogs, squirrels, and whatever else that lived in the bushes around your house frequently used your little water and food station. 

Often, you sat on your porch and watched the animals wander over to it and take their drinks of water and eat their seeds, nuts, and food scraps from your kitchen. One of the dogs stepped close to you, leaning in to sniff you. 

"Hello. You're not so scary, are you?" 

You knelt so you weren't a threat and put your hand out so it could sniff you. The other one stood guard next to it but was intrigued with you. Looking at them closely, you could have sworn you saw their eyes flash red, but when you blinked, they looked dark brown almost black. 

"You don't belong to anyone here, do you?" 

The one sniffing your hand stepped closer, nuzzling into you so you could pat it. 

"You're such a big old scary cutie, aren't you." You cooed at it and scratched behind its ear. 

The other one stepped close so you could reach for it and scratch behind its ears too. You were good with animals since they always responded well to you. 

"You are good beasties, aren't you." You smiled at the dogs. 

They both sat in front of you while you scratched them, fawning all over the dogs. 

"That's a good doggie." 

The second one to join you perked up a little and stepped to the side, looking to the left. He let out a growl and the other one followed.

 "What do you see?" You asked, looking where they were. 

You didn't see anything, so you shrugged. 

"What am I going to do with you two?" 

You knew calling the local shelter on a weekend wasn't going to work since they were closed, and animal control was a nightmare to deal with. 

"Do you want to come inside?" 

Both dogs seemed to look at each other before they trotted off to the bushes, leaving you behind. 

"Ok then." You stood, brushing some dirt from your clothes, getting a scent of ash and sulfur from your hands. 

"Weird." You headed back inside and washed your hands from the dogs.

The following morning, you went to your porch to sit outside to watch the little animal set up you had when you froze. Both dogs you met yesterday were there, lounging on your front lawn. 

"Hello." They turned and faced you. One of their tails wagged.

 "You can come here if you want, get out of the sun." You pointed to your shaded porch and patted your knee for them to come. 

The dogs both rose, stretched their big stretches, and trotted to you, up the stairs and sat on your porch. One sat near your feet and the other in front of the door like it was guarding it.

You enjoyed your coffee while the dogs lounged. 

"I still don't know where you're from." You reached down and petted the one at your feet. 

You managed to peek inside its ears but didn't see a tattoo. 

"I wonder if you're micro-chipped?" 

Something tells you both dogs are strays, but they're unusual. They are large, have short black hair, a shiny coat, and they both look healthy, not begging for scraps, injured, or frightened. 

Plus, the kind of dogs you see around here are mostly cattle/shepherd mixes and not elite looking guard dogs like this. You snapped a photo of them and texted it to your vet friend to see if they knew who the dogs were.

 A few minutes later, she replied saying she had no idea who they belonged to but would gladly take them off your hands. Nat would know since she's the only vet in the area in a 50km radius. 

"Weird." You said, looking at the dogs.

That's how it went for a few days. You sat on your porch, and the large black dogs joined you. You were thankful you had the summer off from being a teacher, so you were at home most of the time. Your side hobby was your sewing. 

You always dabbled with it thanks to your grandmother, and you made a bunch of things you sold online like tote bags, aprons, book sleeve covers, and other small items. You didn't have enough products to enter the farmers market yet, and you were hoping you could get a small table going in the later summer or fall. 

You had an idea form in your head when you looked at the dogs.

That night, you sat in front of your sewing machine and sketched out a dog collar pattern. You figured, if the dogs were going to spend some time with you, they should have a collar. You can put your name and number in it in case anyone finds them. 

The way you figured, if anyone finds them, they respond well to you so you can at least look after them. You tried getting the dogs in your house in the evening, but they never crossed the threshold. One was curious, but they usually stayed on the porch or lawn content to stay outside.

The next day, you presented them with their collars. You had some scrap fabric and made the collars with clips and a few fasteners you had in your craft stash, adjusting them to fit of their thick necks. You easily slipped them over their heads and adjusted the fabric. 

"There, how handsome you both are." You gushed at the large dogs. 

You smiled and made sure they sat correctly and were comfortable for them. 

"If you go missing, someone will be able to call me and I can get you." You cheerily said. 

They seemed to look at each other before laying down on your porch. You had some steak bites you made from the night before you offered them. 

They both inhaled the meat in one bite. 

"Woah." You watched them lick their chops. 

Their white teeth seemed razor sharp, and both their tongues were blood red. 

"You both are extraordinary." You said, watching them close. 

They seemed to move with ease even though they were the size of a Great Dane. You looked at their large paws and saw their shiny black claws, hidden among the pads of their feet. You swallowed thinking how with one swipe, an intruder or animal would be cut open. 

These two dogs were something.

😈🔥🐕

"Where have you been?" The prince asked, pacing his throne room. 

He saw his hellhounds saunter in. 

"Did you even find the wayward demon?" 

The hounds looked at each other then both sat in front of the throne. 

"What the hell are you even wearing?" The prince stepped close, inspecting the fabric around their necks. 

"What have you been up to?" 

One of the collars had what looked to be food and the other had some sort of small rodent pattern adorning them. The prince inspected them and found a name and a bunch of numbers. 

Was this a collar from a human? How could one even get close enough to them? The human must be a demon, there's no way a hellhound would let a human near them, let alone put a collar on them.

The prince huffed out an annoyed breath. 

"I send you to do a job, and you can't even do that." He rubbed his eyes with his fingers then looked at them and glared. 

"Did you even find the demon?" 

One of the hounds nodded but yawned and stretched out. 

The prince has never seen his hounds laze around. The hellhounds spend years in a pit, fighting to be the best. His demons train them to be vicious attackers and protectors of hell. Most hounds guard and protect the various levels of hell, and the prince chooses the best ones to be at his side in the throne room. 

"Why are you both so lazy? You certainly have never lounged like this before." The prince glowered at the hounds who chuffed out their breaths and watched him, as if annoyed. 

"It looks like I have to go to the earth realm myself then." The prince glared at his hounds. 

One of their tails wagged and his eyes widened at the beast. 

"Seriously?" He sighed, putting his hands on his hips.

He went to his chamber and dug through a closet. 

"It has to be here somewhere." He muttered, looking through clothes, weapons, and gear. 

"Ah ha." He smiled, looking at the rumpled knapsack, he used the last time he was on earth. He rifled through it and shrugged. 

"This should still work." 

In his mind, humans are a simple bunch as is their fashion. He knows he must change whenever he enters earth and if he doesn't, the humans will freak out, and he did not want to draw any more attention to himself when he's there. His goal is to get up there, get the rogue demon, and get back to hell as fast as possible. He quickly changed, grabbed his bag, and left his chambers, headed to the portal to take him to the realm. 

"Are you coming, or are you planning to lounge around here all day?" The prince glared at the hounds. 

They perked up and trotted ahead. 

"Now, show me what you've been up to."

😈🔥🐕

You hadn't seen your dogs for a few days, and you were starting to be concerned for their whereabouts. Did one get injured? Did one get hit by a vehicle? You lived a little way from the highway but still, gravel roads could be tricky, especially at night. 

You hadn't had any calls from anyone saying they have the dogs from their collars, so you decided to head to the market to see what was fresh. No use in staying behind to wait for animals that aren't even your own. If they show up while you're away, there's fresh food and scraps they can have.

"Hello." You smiled, greeting the produce vendor. 

You bought some fresh greens and potatoes when you put your wallet in your purse and headed towards the meat stand. You decided to get a few extra pieces, in case the dogs returned. You hadn't committed fully to getting any sort of dog food for them, but they seemed to like the scraps of food you tossed them. 

They certainly weren't malnourished and seemed healthy when they were around. After spending a bit more money than you should, you found a bakery and got some treats.

You noticed a few murmurs among the crowd, some looked concerned as you looked around you, seeing what the fuss was when you spotted the dogs. 

"Beasties!" You wandered over to them, petting their heads. The large dogs stood together and let you touch them. People gave you weird looks as you fawned all over the massive and scary looking dogs. 

"I've missed you." You smiled. 

"Let's head over here for a second, so I can check on you guys." 

You moved aside to get out of the way and they followed, eager to have more pets from you. 

"You're all good then?" You inspected one, then the other, happy they didn't seem to have any issues.

"What are you doing?" Came a stern deep voice from behind you. 

The dogs' heads snapped to the sound, ears becoming more alert and focused. You stood and turned to see who the voice belonged to. 

Your eyes bugged out, seeing a tall and very muscled man stand with his arms folded in front of him. He wore all black, but there was something off about him. 

He wore wide-legged black denim and a black mesh cropped top. 

Did he come from a gym? You looked at his feet and had to hide a chuckle. He wore platform black boots so no, he did not come from the gym. He looked like an extra from a bad 90's teen movie but as an adult.

"Uh, hello." You smiled, clearing your throat. 

He crossed is arms over his chest which made his biceps almost bust from the mesh top. His face was slightly pale and his dark hair was long and tied back. You had to fight the urge to run your fingers through his dark chestnut hair. How many muscles does this guy have and what kind of shampoo did he use? 

"I said, what are you doing?" He pointed to the dogs who now stood on either side of you. 

"Oh, I'm just checking them over, making sure they're ok." 

"Are you now?" He raised an eyebrow at you. 

"Y-yeah." 

"Are they yours?" 

You looked at them and shrugged. "I guess so." 

"You guess so?" 

"Well...they came by my house a week ago and have been there ever since. Well, apart from the past few nights. I haven't seen them, but still. I think they're strays, so I gave them collars, food and water, and a safe place to sleep." 

The large man looked you up and down, then he looked at each of the dogs in question.

"A-are they yours?" 

"Yes."

 "Oh." 

Your heart sunk at the thought the dogs had an owner. The prince was curious you seemed disappointed. Surely, you didn't think they were yours. 

"They weren't wearing any collars when they came to me." 

You pointed to the homemade ones you made them. The man's eyes narrowed on yours as he looked them over. 

"What are on them?" 

You smiled at his question. "Oh, I made them myself. One has little hedgehogs and the other has dancing hot dogs and sodas. I had some leftover scrap material, so I figured these guys should have collars. Aren't they cute?" 

"Cute?" 

The prince of hell's jaw almost fell on the ground. Cute would never be in the same sentence when describing his hellhounds. Ever. 

"Do you now?" The man seemed amused. 

"Well, yes. You need a license for the dogs, and they must have collars according to the town's bylaws. I didn't want animal control picking them up and putting them in the pound." 

The man seemed to scoff at that. 

"They can get out of a cage." He said it like they had thumbs and could let themselves out on their own. 

You were about to ask him how when he asked you another question. 

"What's your name." 

"Y/n." 

He looked you up and down. 

You almost stood proud as his eyes raked you over. 

"Where do you live?" 

You bristled at his question. You weren't about to tell a random man your address, especially one as dark and mysterious as this guy's energy seems. 

"That's not your concern." 

"It is if you're keeping my hounds as pets." Touche. 

You were about to tell him when you furrowed your brow. 

"Wait, what's YOUR name?" 

The man seemed taken aback. You could have sworn his eyes flashed red at the question but that could have been the sun.

The prince of hell looked around and shuffled his feet a little. If he tells you his own demon's name, you're going to wonder where he came from and he didn't want to tell you. The less time he spends on earth, the better. He looked around and saw a man's name hanging on a sign at one of the tables. 

"James Buchanan." 

You lifted an eyebrow at that. 

"James Buchanan?" You repeated like you didn't believe him. 

The man looked around again and muttered something else. 

"Barns..." The prince saw two red barns off in the distance.

"James Buchanan Barnes." He said more confidently. 

"Oh, ok. James Buchanan Barnes then." 

This man did not look like a James, but who were you to judge. The prince smirked at hearing you say his made up name. 

"So, do you have leashes for the dogs?"

 "No. I don't need them." He sounded incensed you asked. 

"You should. I mean they respond well to verbal commands, but some people may be scared at their appearance, and they should be leashed in case they see a bunny or something and decide to go after it." 

"You aren't scared of them?" He carefully asked. 

"No, I guess I'm not." 

"Why?" 

You shrugged and said, "Not sure. Most animals like me, so I guess I just have a way with them." 

You patted each dog on their head. The man watched his dogs preen at the attention. 

"Oh, what are their names?" 

He looked at you funny. 

"The dogs?" 

His hellhounds weren't named; they just did whatever the prince wanted. Names for his hounds weren't needed in hell. 

The prince shuffled on his feet. 

"I don't have them named." 

You looked at him funny. 

"Why?" 

"I just got them." He snapped back at you. 

"Well, you should give them names. Do you need my help with that?" 

"No." 

"Oh, ok. Well, I should head back to the market. I guess I'll leave you then." 

You crouched down and snuggled the dogs large head closest to you. 

"Bye beasties." You scratched their ears and then booped each of their noses. 

The man's mouth was gaping at you. 

"What?" 

"Nothing." He said almost in disbelief. 

"Well, goodbye James Buchanan Barnes." You turned and headed back to the market, readjusting the tote on your shoulder. The prince scowled at the hounds who were watching you leave. 

"So, that's where you've been then? With the human lady? Really?" 

The dogs looked between each other then back up at the prince. 

"Unbelievable." He muttered, then called them to follow him while he went in search of his wayward demon.

😈🔥🐕

"Hang on." The prince muttered at the back of the dogs. 

He followed the hounds to the rogue demon's place of work. "Mayor's office." The prince rolled his eyes. He looked around the small town and ran a hand through his hair. It was late and knew the office was closed, not open until the following day. 

"Where to?" He murmured. 

The hounds looked at each other then whimpered. 

"Seriously?" The prince scoffed at them both. 

"You want to go back to the pretty lady?" The prince asked. 

One of the hounds gave him a funny look. 

"I mean lady..." 

The prince blushed a little at admitting you were pretty but cleared his throat and schooled his features. He looked around the deserted town and sighed. 

"Fine, lead the way to her house then." 

The dogs trotted off in your direction.

😈🔥🐕

<knock knock>

"Hang on!"

You had been sewing a few new things for your online site when you were interrupted by someone at your door. You swung the door open and saw the man from the market, James. 

"H-hi." You looked down and saw the hounds standing on either side of his legs. 

"Did you need something?" You asked, a little confused why this man was at your door and how he found you. 

"Uh, well...I have an appointment tomorrow..." 

"Congratulations." 

James looked at you funny, confused why you would congratulate him in the first place. Was it for bringing his demon back to hell? What did you know? 

"I don't have a place to stay tonight so I was wondering..."

 You stood and watched him.

 "...If I can stay here. I'm leaving early in the morning but if you have a place I can stay tonight..." 

He gestured to your covered porch that had a swing and a few wicker chairs set up.

 "Where are you headed so early?" Your curiosity got the better of you. 

"I have an appointment with the mayor...And well..." 

"Oh, THAT guy" You interrupted. 

"I don't even know how he got elected in the first place." You rolled your eyes at your ridiculous mayor. 

He had been doing some crazy things lately that were borderline illegal, and the townspeople were getting irritated. You're pretty sure he's in cahoots with the Sherriff and is using the office to launder money. Combine that with his troubled past, it was a recipe for a disaster. He had also ended the local spring and summer fairs that came into the town and cancelled many summer festivals the town relies on to make money from tourists. 

The only thing going for you was the farmers market and you were praying that would stay open. 

"I need to speak with him." The prince carefully said. 

What he really wanted to say was, he was going to drag him back to hell to his dungeons, brutally torture him for the next 50 years, then once released, forbid him from returning, but he didn't think you would understand.

"Well, good luck with that. Many people have tried, but it's proven to be impossible. That jackass has cut so many good things...it's a wonder how he ever got the job in the first place. I sure as hell didn't vote for him. You know, he cut the school breakfast and lunch programs and afterschool drop-in programs I ran? Made me so mad...Last year, me and another teacher used our own money during the school year to help the kids you know? Some need a quick meal or a place to stay until their parents are done work and daycares around here are all full. Despite him cutting the program, we kept it running and rely on donations." You huffed but froze seeing James' face. 

He looked annoyed and his fist was in a ball. 

Did he not like you talking bad about the mayor? Maybe this guy was part of the corruption? Damn your mouth.

The prince felt discomfort in his chest at seeing you upset about his wayward demon-turned-mayor. How dare the demon make you work harder and put your own coin towards programs that were good? He amazed himself for thinking that seeing as how he could care less about the human realm, but he suddenly felt compelled to make you feel better. 

He adjusted his knapsack on his shoulder for something to do that wasn't returning to the town to kill the mayor in his sleep. 

"So, you need a place to stay?" You asked, now standing out on your front porch.

The wind had picked up, and the first storm of the early summer season was forecasted to begin within the hour. 

"I wouldn't refuse..." 

You waved him to your back yard. "Come on then. You're lucky I've got a place. You can stay in the guest house. It's a little small but it's clean and comfortable." 

Your brother, Steve, usually stays in it whenever he visits. 

"That'll do nicely for me. Come now." James pointed to the hounds, but they didn't move. 

"You still haven't named them?"  

"Not necessary." 

"But they should have names..." 

"Fine, I'll think of something." The prince sighed, plunking his bag on the ground. 

It had fallen over and the top of it came open, spilling its contents out. 

"Oh, what do we have there?" You pointed to the small pile of things. 

What had spilled out made you more curious about the dark mystery man and his nameless hounds.

On the ground sat an old cellphone, a black Nokia that looked like it came right from the 90's, followed by an old map of your town that was dated all the way back to 1990, a faded Minnesota Twins 1991 World Series Champions sweatshirt, and some old cassette tapes. 

"Oh wow, did you visit old man Fury's antique shop today? He's got quite the selection." You said, helping James re-pack his bag. 

He stood and gave you a funny look. 

"No, I wasn't at an antique shop..."

 "Oh..." You shuffled your feet awkwardly. "Well, I didn't see clothes in there, so I can lend you some if you'd like." You said, turning to head into your house. 

The prince wondered how he could fit in your clothes and had to hide a chuckle at this little human woman's need to help him. 

"I have to get the keys to unlock the guest house anyways, so wait here a moment and I'll be right back."

 You hopped up the back stairs of your house and went inside. The prince looked around your yard, then at the hounds. 

"I can see why you like it here." 

Both hounds looked at each other before you came back out. 

"Here, these should be close to your size. That top you are wearing will be too cold anyways." You handed him the pile of clothes. 

"Where did you get male clothes?" The prince seemed annoyed. 

"Is your consort not going to miss them?" 

"Consort?" You snorted. "I'm single. These are my brothers. He visits every so often from the city and won't miss them, I promise. I never really liked city life myself so that's why I took over my grandparent's farmhouse..." You stopped yourself from rambling to a stranger, but something about James didn't make you nervous. 

Sure, he was dark and mysterious, said funny word combinations, had two scary as heck dogs and dressed like he raided a flea market, but he seemed out of place, like he didn't belong here and you wanted to help him. 

"Where did you say you lived again?" You asked, heading up the stairs to the guest house. 

"South." Came his reply. 

"South of what?" You wondered, opening the door. 

He didn't have an accent of any kind from what you could hear. 

"The deep south...from this town where I am currently at." 

Weird.

You turned on the light which illuminated the dark space. 

"It's not much, but it'll be comfortable. My grandparents used this house for their farm manager when they used to farm. Bathroom through there, small kitchen I know, but the bed linens are somewhat fresh." 

You seemed a little nervous while James checked things out. 

He turned and nodded saying, "This will do." 

Before the dogs came inside to inspect their masters' quarters. 

"Well, I'm heading back. Make sure to lock the windows. The wind is picking up from the storm, and I don't want them being blown out. Flashlights are there if the power goes out." You pointed to a cabinet. 

"I don't have food in here, but I can bring you some from my house." 

James almost dropped his mouth to the ground. How were you so nice and welcoming to a mere stranger? The last time he was on earth, the humans he met were terrible and corrupt, stealing, drinking, and doing God knows what else. 

He barely tolerates humans, thinking they are inferior to him, but there is something about you that makes him want to be good, which goes against everything he stands for. He rarely helps anyone but himself unless he benefits from it and you made him think about others, for once in his life. Here you were just giving away your kindness; he had no idea how to react.

A rumble of thunder was heard off in the distance. 

"Well, I'll be back with some food for you." You said, heading to the door. 

The prince nudged his head at the hounds who followed. 

"Oh..." 

"Looks like they're staying with you tonight." James said. 

"Really? Is that ok?" You didn't want to take them with you, but if they followed, you weren't going to complain. 

You often thought about getting a dog for company and protection for living on your own, but you just hadn't gotten around to doing it yet. Maybe this would be a good practise. 

"I'll allow it." The prince shrugged a shoulder. 

"I'll be right back then." You left with both dogs following. 

The interesting thing about being in the earth realm was, he could enter the mind of his hellhounds and see what they see. He would check in once you left for the night and he promised himself to only check in if he heard something and not to ogle you through his hounds' eyes if you were changing. 

The old prince may have done that, but with you, he wants to behave himself but first, he's going to have a little fun with you.

You put together a bag of food for your unexpected guest, mainly of cold things like a sandwich, crackers, cheese, extra lunch meat, and a few cookies you got from the market. You were certain he probably eats a lot because of how large he is, so you threw in some extra snacks just to be safe. 

You headed up the stairs of the guest house and knocked on the door. A few seconds later, the door opened and you almost dropped the bag on the step. 

"Oh!"

James smirked at your reaction. He stood shirtless and put both arms on either side of the door looking like he was trapping you. 

"Umm..." Your face was fully flushed, looking over his broad chest and firm stomach.

You noticed a few scars and some uneven skin, like he had been burned, but shook your head. 

"So, uh, here's some food." 

You shoved the bag of food in front of him. His dark scent of woods and smoke surrounded you. He smirked, then stood straight, taking the bag and bottles of water from you. 

"I umm..." 

Your eyes zeroed in on his abs as they flexed with his movements which led your eyes lower to his hips, then over to the dark patch of hair that trailed below the waistband of his pants that were undone. It took everything in you not to reach out and play with the buttons of his pants and feel his soft warm skin beneath your hands. 

You couldn't look away if you tried. 

"Thanks." Your eyes shot to his making you blush, busted for checking him out. 

The prince smirked at your flustered state. He knew he was pleasing to the eye and wanted to see if he could somehow make you stumble and he was right, he could. It was too easy for him co corrupt you, which only made him more concerned. You needed to be protected at all costs in case any of his rogue demons ended up in your small town again. 

"Well, goodnight then." You cleared your throat and stepped back, turning to face the stairs. 

"Goodnight, Y/n." came the deep voice causing you to almost stumble. 

You grabbed the railing tight and headed down to the waiting dogs below.

You made your way inside the house, the dogs following close by. 

"Come on." You ushered them inside just as the first raindrops started falling. The dogs sniffed around your kitchen, then living room, exploring the space like they've lived there all their lives. 

"Ok then..." You said, heading back to your sewing room to turn the light and machine off. 

You went to your room and froze. Both hounds were lying on your bed, their long front paws crossed over each other while they watched you. 

"So, I guess you found your bed for the night..." You smiled, walking to them to scratch their ears. 

"I'm going to get ready for bed, but one of you has to move aside so I can get in." You pointed to your bedside table where your book and old alarm clock was. 

You dreaded possibly having to move one of them while you changed and brushed your teeth in your bathroom. When you finished, you took a quick peek out the bedroom window at the guest house, but no light was on. 

One of the dogs had moved slightly so you were able to get into bed without having to rent a crane to move them. 

"You two listen awfully well for doggies." 

One of them placed their head on your legs. You patted each of their heads and turned off your bedside light, putting the room into darkness.

😈🔥🐕

The prince quickly finished the food you had brought him and paced the little cottage you had provided him with. Sure, he could have easily compelled the inn keeper of the town the supposed mayor was and wrangle himself a night stay, but where was the fun in that? 

He knew his hounds had other plans when they led him here. He thought you would tell him to leave when he knocked on your door, but was pleased you offered him your cottage, even if it was simple compared to his standards. 

He looked around the cottage and inspected it, opening drawers and doors, not finding anything of use to him. In the bathing room there was a small bottle of soap he could use to wash himself with. 

He smelled it and it was a clean and fresh scent he came to instantly like. He looked out one of the small windows and saw a light go out, plunging your house into darkness.

He debated with himself whether to enter the mind of one of his hounds, but his curiosity got the better of him. He promised himself it was to make sure you were safe and not to watch you like one of the lower-level demons he tortures. 

He closed his eyes and entered the mind of one of his dogs, easily seeing in the dark with their supernatural vision. He forced the hound to look around your bed chamber, and he smirked to himself at what he saw. It was neat and tidy, seeing linens on your bed that had little white flowers on it. He scanned the room and was content you were safe, so he left the hound and opened his eyes, running a hand down his face. 

"What the fuck am I doing?" He muttered, heading to the soft bed to try and get some rest.

😈🔥🐕

The following day, you woke to large dogs, lying on either side of you keeping you warm, perhaps a little too warm. They were perfectly content while they watched you sleep. It SHOULD have unnerved you with their dark eyes watching you close, but it didn't. You felt comfortable with them by your side all night, so you rose and got yourself ready.

You peeked out the back door and found James sitting on the staircase. 

"Morning, would you like some breakfast before you leave?" 

His head snapped to yours and he seemed confused, but then he nodded, heading to your back door. The least you could do was send him on his way with a full belly. One of the hounds walked outside while the other headed around your house. 

"I've got some eggs and toast and some leftover ham."

 You stood at your stove and adjusted the dials. One of the hounds came back in and sat in the kitchen, close by the stove. 

"Oh shoot, my flame went out." 

You bent down to look for the gas. 

"Darn thing." You muttered, fiddling with the dial and the clicking sound. 

The prince looked at his hound who carefully moved himself closer to the element. 

"It goes out from time to time, I'll re-light it." 

You turned around and the hound had re-lit the gas with a small cough. You went to the drawer to get your lighter but froze when you saw the element was back on. 

"Oh, would you look at that." You smiled. 

"Must have decided to work after all. Let's get some food in you."

James looked around your kitchen, pleased with his hound for listening to you. 

"I think you should name this guy Blaze." You pointed to the hound who sat by your stove. He wore the hedgehog collar. 

"Oh?" 

The prince was amused at the look of horror on the hound's face. You turned and smiled at the dog. James cleared his throat while he watched you. 

"What do you say, Blaze?" James looked at the dog who watched him close. 

"Try it, for a little bit. He'll come around though, I can feel it." You assured him. 

The prince was highly amused at the name you gave his hound. Maybe he can use it to bother him when they return to their layer. He frowned thinking about his lair. 

Sure, he was comfortable there, it had the best views of hell, but there would be something missing. Something not right when he gets back. You wouldn't be there. He frowned at the thought.

You had finished eating you large breakfast, when you heard a commotion in your front driveway. 

"What is going on out there?" You walked through your front door and froze. 

The other hound was surrounded by Mrs. Parker's chickens, and they were all squawking at the beast. 

"What the?"

You walked to the flock only for you to gasp at what you saw. 

"Drop it!" You scolded the hound. 

The prince stood on the porch, and you could have sworn you heard him chuckle. 

"Your dog has one of Mrs. Parker's chickens in his mouth!" 

You shooed the other chickens away so only you and the hound stood. He carried the chicken in his mouth; its legs were hanging out of it and were wiggling. The dog stood and blinked a few times, trying to look innocent but was failing. 

"Y/n, be careful..." The prince warned. 

He was about to step in and control the hound when you yelled, "Drop it, bad boy." You scolded it, pointing your finger at it. 

The prince's mouth fell open in shock when the hound obeyed, dropping the chicken as it scurried away from the razor-sharp teeth it was being held in. 

"There. No more eating live chickens, got it? There's food inside, come on then." 

You turned and headed inside with the dog following while the prince gawked at you. If ANY of his demons would have scolded his hounds, the hounds would have instantly killed them. The prince was both amused and shocked it listened to you. 

It took years even for him to have complete control over their actions. You were something else while he followed you back inside.

😈🔥🐕

"So, you should be good to go. The mayor's office would be open by now." 

You stood on your front porch and watched James shove some snacks in his bag. He wore your brother's clothes, and you had to admit, they were a huge upgrade than the weird ones he had on the day before. He no longer looked like he's going to attend an all-night rave in an abandoned warehouse wearing a glow-stick necklace. 

"Oh, I figured out the name for this guy." You pointed to the dog who wore the hot dog and drink collar. 

"Oh?" James asked. 

"Fang." You giggled, scratching the large dog's head. 

"You know, because he tried to eat the chicken and has scary teeth?" 

The prince had to hide a smile when 'Fang' glared at him. His hounds were clearly not amused, but they seemed to accept their new human names when you bent down and kissed their heads goodbye.

"Well, bye James. Good luck with your meeting and all." 

You were a little sad your guest was leaving and taking his dogs with him. 

"Right, well. Thanks for having us." The prince said awkwardly; not one for formalities. 

He grabbed his bag and left, with his hounds following. You were a little bummed he never asked for your phone number, but you smiled knowing it was on the inside of both the dogs' collars should he choose to reach out.

😈🔥🐕

The walk to the rogue demon's office proved to be one where the prince thought about his past 24-hours on the earth realm. He was smiling thinking of his hounds and how you treated them, but then quickly schooled his features. 

He never smiled, particularly on the earth realm. He mainly scowled and glowered at people whenever he was up visiting, but somehow, a pretty earth woman had charmed him and his hounds. He frowned thinking of the last time he had used the word 'pretty' and he can't think of one. 

They got closer into town and saw people coming and going from the mayor's office. He knew this may draw some attention from the humans, so he formulated a plan.

One of his hounds growled the closer they got to the office. 

"You see him?" The prince asked. 

He watched the mayor through the window of his office. The mayor leaned back in his chair and was talking to someone on the phone with his feet on top of his desk.

 "Go on then." The prince nodded his head towards the office building. A few moments later, screams and shrieks were heard from inside while people fled the building making the prince smile with glee at the sounds of everyone's fear.

😈🔥🐕

The prince strode through his chambers, donning his leathers and weapons, on his way to the dungeons. He found the mayor turned demon and flashed a devilish smile at his cell. 

"My prince..." The demon sputtered. 

The prince's eyes flashed a dark red before they turned all black, then he opened the cell, grabbing the demon by his neck. 

"This is going to be so much fun. For me, not for you, obviously." He ominously said, grabbing the demon by the cuff of the neck and dragging him out of the cell.

😈🔥🐕

The prince had ended his torture session with the rogue demon, sitting back on his throne to relax when the king of hell walked in. 

"What?" 

"Is that any way to greet your father?" The King asked. 

"Whatever." 

"I heard you went to the earth realm." 

"Yeah." 

"So, you got the rogue? Are you done with him so I can have him then?" The King asked. 

The prince snorted and said, "He's all yours." 

"Good. I'll bring him back with me." 

The King stood watching the prince.

 "Yes?" 

"Nothing. Just wondering who lost their hand when putting those ridiculous collars on your hounds?" 

Both hounds growled at the King, but he was unbothered at their sounds. They sat at the prince's side. 

"She didn't lose her hand..." The prince instantly regretted his words when the King's eyebrows rose. 

"She?" 

"Get out." The prince scoffed making the King chuckle. 

"I've told you about interfering with humans." The King reminded the prince. 

"You have." 

"So?"

 "This one's different. I can feel it." 

The King gave the prince a look before he left the throne room. 

😈🔥🐕

The prince sighed, looking around his empty throne room. He was bored. Nothing excited him lately; handing out punishments, sharpening his weapons, and torturing his dungeon demons wasn't doing anything for him to pass the time. He almost gagged to himself for admitting it, but he missed the earth realm, which would mean, he misses you. 

What were you up to? Were you toiling away at your magic sewer machine? What new creations were you working on? Were you visiting the outdoor food market? 

He hoped you wouldn't have any more problems with those chickens and if he's being honest with himself, he misses your food. The meals he's eating all taste like burnt ash to him and are not as flavourful as yours was. 

"Damn it." The prince muttered, running a hand over his face.

😈🔥🐕

"Thanks." You smiled at Wanda, the herbal tea vendor you had come to befriend. She had gotten you an application for a table at the fall farmers market and had helped you fill it out. 

"Now, all you have to do is drop it off in town with the new mayor, and you're all set." 

You looked it over and smiled, pleased you finally decided to go through with your plan. 

"Thanks again Wanda." 

"No problem. I'm just glad deputy Mayor Wilson was left in charge after that unexpected accident with Mayor Pierce." 

"Yeah, I'm glad the fire didn't spread from his office." 

"I think he's going to do a good job and should consider running in the byelection once the investigation is over. I just wonder who would be appointed to the new Deputy Mayor roll?" 

"Me too." 

"Well, I'll see you next week." 

You waved and headed out on your shopping spree.

You wandered the bustling market, getting a few fresh items. You stopped and looked at a stall that sold jewellery, noticing a few sparkly pieces that caught your eye. You picked up a pendant and held it up in the light, admiring its sparkle. 

You moved away from the stall when someone jostled you hard, knocking you to the ground. 

"Watch it lady." 

"Rude." You glared at the man from the ground. 

"You were in my way." He scoffed.

 "I was not. I was minding my own business..." You got up and brushed yourself off. The man's eyes suddenly got wide, and he held up his hands. 

"Hey hey, I'm sorry, ok? D-don't send them after me alright?"

"What are you talking about?" 

You hefted your tote over your shoulder and that's when you heard it. A low menacing growl from behind you. 

"I-I don't want any trouble now." 

The man started backing away.

 Another growl came from your other side. 

"Umm..." You turned slightly to see what the man was turning pale over. 

"You touched her." Came a deep voice.

 "I-I..." The man's face was red as a crowd had now gathered around you. 

"I don't like it when something I admire gets hurt." 

You swallowed hard at the voice. 

"If I were you, I would apologize to the lady or else." 

"Or else what?" The man puffed out his chest.

 It was almost comical looking between the man and James since he towered over him by at least a foot and a whole bunch of muscle. James' eyes seemed to darken, and you noticed a brief flash of red in them making you scrunch your eyes at his. 

Did his eyes just turn red? Impossible. 

The man paled then looked at you and said, "I'm sorry for running into y-you and knocking you down, I-it w-won't happen again." 

Blaze had stepped in front of you, head level, alert, and was watching the trembling man but it was Fang who had walked right up to the man and stood in his space showing off his impressive teeth with a growl before both dogs were called off. 

"I-it's ok. It was an accident." You chuckled trying to lighten the mood. 

You looked over and saw James standing to the side, glaring at the man. James wore dark denim jeans, a black t-shirt and a black leather jacket, an odd combination for a late spring day but he made it work. 

"You're lucky I'm not taking you back to my dungeons to torture you. Leave." 

The man's eyes went wide then he scampered off while both dogs relaxed and walked towards you. 

Did he say dungeons?

 You shook your head telling yourself you've had too much sun for the day.

"Hello friends." You patted each of the dogs on their heads. 

"I didn't expect to see you." You stood and faced James. 

"Was still in the area." 

"I'm glad you managed to get your meeting in with the old mayor when you did. Did you hear what happened in the afternoon with the whole fire thing? It was tragic but I'm glad no one else died."

 James had to fight his eyeroll hard. 

"Yes, tragic." 

The demon in question was currently experiencing a pleasant stay in one of his dungeons. 

"So, what are your plans for the rest of the day?" 

"Not sure. Was just passing through." 

James looked around the market, both of his dogs were on either side of him. The three of them together were causing quite the looks from the shoppers. 

"Well, it was nice seeing you again James. Thanks for the rescue." You smiled, heading back into the market.

😈🔥🐕

The prince paced his throne room with his hounds at his side. 

They sat on guard, still wearing their collars. The prince had tried taking them off when they arrived on their level but every time he reached for them, he was met with growls and fire, so he left them. It had been a few weeks since he visited the market. 

He told himself he was just making sure there was no other residual issues that arose from the arson he set and there wasn't thanks to his plan. The prince stopped and sighed, running a hand over his face. 

"You miss her too?" he said to the hounds. 

Their eyes flashed a red colour and one of them, he thinks it was Blaze, let out a snort. 

"We can't parade around the earth realm. I need a cover. A job, you know, a pretend life if you want to spend time there?" 

The prince went to his throne and sat on it, deep in thought when his eyes flashed a red colour. 

"I have just the plan." He smirked, reaching out to pet his hounds.

😈🔥🐕

You heard commotion in your front drive, so you decided to investigate. 

"What now?" You opened your front door and smiled, seeing the large hounds on the grass. 

"Hey guys." You smiled at them.

One of them chuffed out a breath when they spied you. They trotted up to you and flopped at your feet. You looked around but didn't see their owner. 

"Where's James?" You asked. 

"Hello." 

You jumped almost a foot in the air when you saw him sitting on your porch swing. 

"Holy hell." You grabbed your chest. 

James' eyes seemed to spark a little at your outburst. He still wore his all-black clothes from when you saw him last. 

"Thought we would come by for a quick visit." 

You walked over and sat across from James. 

"I've made a decision." 

"Oh?" 

"I'm going to be moving to the town." 

"Work?" 

"I'm the new Deputy Mayor." 

You snorted but saw his face was serious. 

"Wait, you're serious?" 

"Why?" 

"You don't look very mayor-ally..." 

"What does that mean?" 

"Nothing...It's just...you know, the whole dark prince vibe you have going on..." You waved a hand around making him smirk. 

If you only knew... 

"I'll need someone to look after these two every so often. You know, when I am doing Deputy Mayor things." 

"I'd love to look after these guys." You cooed, scratching their heads. 

"Good. Well. We should go." James stood, then you did so you were in front of him. 

You remained close to him, able to smell his woodsy cologne that seemed to have a bit of smoke to it. 

"Well, it was nice seeing you again James." 

You had a hard time looking away from him. He flashed a small grin. The sun was starting to set so it cast a warm glow against the sky. James stepped close to you making you still. He reached out and took a strand of your hair in his fingers, twirling the hair around. 

He hadn't touched something this soft, ever. 

Your breath hitched at his closeness. 

"I'll see you around Y/n." His voice lowered sending shivers throughout your body.

 "Yes, right then." You cleared your throat but had a hard time separating. 

You felt one of the dogs stand close behind you, nudging you towards James. 

"Oh." 

You put your hands on his broad chest while his wrapped around you, steadying you. He was warm to the touch. You looked up into his eyes which were focused on yours. You saw a small flash in them but shook your head slightly. 

"Goodnight, Y/n." 

He leaned down and kissed your cheek making you freeze on the spot. He separated from you, taking a few steps away with the dogs following. 

"We'll be in touch." He said over his shoulder as he started walking down your driveway. 

Whoever this James Buchanan Barnes was, he was someone you were excited to get to know.

A/N - Before anyone asks, YES, I plan on doing another story with these characters/vibe, perhaps a smutty one and perhaps a fall themed one. So stay tuned.

😈🔥🐕😈🔥🐕😈🔥🐕😈🔥🐕😈🔥🐕

[blowingbarnes]

a throuple with stucky would...

pairing: steve x reader x bucky warnings: mention of threesome, free use, shower together, mfm, fingering, shower sex, throuple dynamics, sharing. +fran: honestly what I think followed after the ending of cahp....

steve didn’t make you choose, not really. after the night he shared you with bucky, he saw a different side of you both. and it just made him hungrier for more.

bucky was delighted when he got up to leave that night, leaving you laying on your side with steve behind you, almost dozing off, when you grabbed his wrist and softly asked him to stay.

steve didn't act any differently in public after that, its not like you had made a big announcement anyway when you both got together, you weren't gonna make a big one now that you've added bucky to the mix.

bucky, on the other hand, was glowing. beaming like a man who didn't have to jerk off into his own hand in silence anymore. he didn't even have to tell you anything.

steve noticed that even though you had someone else to take care of you along with him, you seemed needier, more insatiable than before.

the sleeping situation would usually be steve sleeping on his back, you tucked against his chest, leaned over the side of him, and bucky behind you, draped over you with one arm around your torso and the other one under your pillow.

you'd never shower alone once you asked bucky to stay.

steve would hop in the shower, wanting the hot water to soothe his muscles and not long after he’d feel your hands sneak around his waist, your nipples hard against his back as your hands roamed the plane of his torso and went lower and lower.

he’d groan when you wrapped a hand around him, stroking it lazily as the hot water splashed on him, shudders leaving his lips until he had enough and turned around.

he’d look down at your big, pretty eyes, water dripping from his hair and onto your cheeks as you smile delicately up at him.

steve’s big frame would crowd you onto the tile until he could grip the backs of your thighs and wrap them around him, hard cock between your folds rubbing up and down until he drove you as crazy as you drove him, until you’re begging him to fuck you.

sometimes bucky would be near, sometimes he’d be in the bathroom nonchalantly brushing his teeth, sometimes he’d walk in mid-fuck and undress and join you until you ran out of hot water.

you'd never be alone.

you'd lay on the couch with your legs on steve's lap, his hands absentmindedly rubbing up and down your calves, while bucky sat on the floor in front of you, letting you play with his hair.

bucky didn’t have to do much to move in, just brought his small collection of sweats and underwear and he was done.

steve would come home to you on the couch just in your underwear and bucky giving you a back massage and you’re in a different plane of existence bc it feels so good and “hey, sweetheart” and you just lift your head up barely to give him a kiss “hi stevie” and plop face down on the couch cushions again as bucky works your shoulders and steve chuckles and goes to the menu drawer to decide what to get for dinner.

bucky would be the easiest one of the two to rile up. you’d find yourself under him lazily and deeply making out as he ground his hips into yours more often than not.

they made good on steve’s promise. your pussy never went empty.

every time one of them was on a mission, you and the other would send him texts, pictures, videos, audio messages of the filth you’d get up to unsupervised.

and if both were gone? you wouldn’t be allowed to touch yourself for anything other than edging until they came back.

💌 permanent freaks taglist: @chateaubarnes @houseofhyde @heldbybarnes @iamthatonefangirl @superbassbuck @its-in-the-woods @wildflowersandvibranium @unificsation @flockoff-featherface @54nboo @earthsmightiestbenders @winterdecember18 @juniebjonesin @barnesonly @bckyslover @buckyfmd @starfire-irl @tw1sters @pinksplace @artficlly @daddysbitchybaby @globetrotter28 @epiphanyrogers @famoushoshi @avgdestitute @blobfishlol @buckysdecaflove @buckybsdoll @allthingswickedpodcast

[venigrantrogers]

Making a bracelet for roommate!Bucky [mdni]

⤷ read part one here

Roommate!Bucky who manages to keep his little perverted obsession with you mostly to himself. Mostly.

Roommate!Bucky who drapes his arm over your shoulders while watching a movie he couldn't care less about, only focused on keeping you close to him; your tits brushing against his ribs with every breath you take. Trying so hard not to peek down, not to bury his face down your tank top that shows just a little too much.

Roommate!Bucky who tries to hide his bulge...under the bag of chips you're sharing. Whose thighs twitch each time you brush against his hard cock while getting the last bits in the bag.

Roommate!Bucky who stares at the way your tits bounce as you jump up suddenly. Remembering what you had planned for the evening. Who looks at your ass sway in those tiny fucking shorts as you rush to your room.

Roommate!Bucky who smiles all big and wide as you bring out a plastic box with a hundred different kinds of beads and charms and strings. The way your face lights up during times like this, it's almost enough to keep the dirty thoughts away.

Roommate!Bucky whose heart threatens to burst out of his chest with how hard it's beating when you take his hand and place it in your lap. so very near to your clothed cunt. so close all he'd do was curl his fingers and he'd be met with your wet, drippy heat, all ready to welcome him in.

Roommate!Bucky who enjoys the feeling of your smaller hands trying to measure the size of his wrist. He is so much bigger than you, could do so many things to you, and you'd just take them, right?

Roommate!Bucky who goes to bed that night with smooth blue and green beads clad on his wrist. Who still feels your soft touch on his, as you put the bracelet on him, telling him just how pretty he looked with it on. How it matches his eyes just right.

Roommate!Bucky who takes the bracelet off, the beads rolling on his skin, before putting it back on--the smooth glass sliding with ease.

Roommate!Bucky who sheds away his boxers, kicking them off to somewhere towards the end of his bed.

Roommate!Bucky who takes off the bracelet yet again, only to place it on top of his hard cock, coating the beads in the precum that leaked out.

Roommate!Bucky who rolls the bracelet up and down, the sensation of the glass pressing in against his throbbing cock making his eyes roll back into his head.

Roommate!Bucky who laughs at how this bracelet was especially made for him, how you made it with so much love, just to make him cum tonight.

Roommate!Bucky who looks at the way the string threatens to snap when he reaches the base, the bracelet too small to fully take him all in.

Roommate!Bucky who cums and coats the blue and green with thick, hot spurts of white. Looking at the sticky mess for a long time, before deciding to let it stay like that, not wiping away the remnants of his feed.

Roommate!Bucky who smiles and hugs you the next morning, showering you with praises about your pretty blue dress, sliding the bracelet on your wrist.

"Just fits so good, angel."

yes i know this isn't a fic and it doesn't make sense. This was written in 15 minutes and with no intention to actually make sense. I'm still tagging everyone cus... it's bucky hehe🤭🤭

Tagging my cutie patooties: @ornateglass @epiphanyrogers @sassandscribbles @buckybunni @stanmarvelous @eterna1reverie @juniebjonesin @highonmarvel @pinksplace @sheriff-bodecker @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @blobfishlol @idkbeautiful @erina00 @sleepy-k0i @angelryex @laufeysonbarnes3000 @blue-eyes-in-august @buckybarneswife08 @elliestwoleftfingerss @swimmingnightcolor

[writingdose]

insane to me how, to some people, this is not a common sense

[dreamofbucky-deactivated2026060]

look away

MDNI 19.4K

warnings ۶ৎ 18+ mdni. modern au. explicit smut, body insecurity/body image thoughts, jealousy, miscommunication, pool party tension, wet swimsuit, oral sex, fingering, multiple orgasms, protected piv, dirty talk, praise, possessive bucky, semi-public tension, soft aftercare.

synopsis ۶ৎ bucky spends the whole pool party trying not to stare. you spend the whole pool party thinking he can barely stand to look at you. a slippery pool step, one bitter comment, and tony stark’s guest room fix that problem rather loudly.

evie’s input ۶ৎ not beta read. tumblr is a bitch for making my format go to shit. but please enjoy folks. dividers by @/cursed-carmine

you bought the swimsuit out of pure delusion. pure, bright, sun-drunk delusion, the sort that made sense at two in the morning with your laptop glowing against your face and natasha sitting beside you on the bed, eating chips directly from the bag while telling you that black one-pieces were for women hiding from federal charges or their own thighs. she had said that with such calm authority, such casual violence, that you had clicked away from the perfectly safe black one-piece and ended up on a page full of colors that made you feel personally attacked. cherry red. powder blue. white, which felt like an invitation for god to humiliate you. green, which nat said would look pretty on your skin and you said would make you look like a decorative salad, and then she had hit you with a pillow hard enough to send two chips flying into your blanket.

so you picked the dark blue one.

dark blue seemed mature. forgiving. almost responsible, if swimwear could be responsible. it had a low back that made you sit up straighter just looking at the model, and the top had little gold rings at the straps, small enough to pretend they were classy instead of slutty. the bottoms sat high on the hips, which nat called flattering and you called invasive. still, you ordered it. you even paid for express shipping, which felt like signing a contract with your own downfall.

now, standing in tony stark’s guest bathroom with the swimsuit cutting into places you had never invited fabric to develop an opinion about, the delusion had fully left your body. “this is a hate crime,” you mutter at your reflection, tugging the side higher, then lower, then higher again, like one of those positions will suddenly unlock a new body. “against me, specifically.”

the mirror gives you no sympathy. it just shows you exactly what you are trying very hard to survive. thighs. hips. stomach. skin. actual human flesh, very rude of it. you turn slightly, regret it, turn back, regret that too. the swimsuit is pretty. that may be the worst part. if it were ugly, you could blame the swimsuit. but it is pretty and soft and fitted, which means the problem is clearly you, and that feels legally actionable.

natasha knocks twice, then opens the door like locks are a decorative suggestion. she is wearing a black bikini and a loose white shirt, hair braided back, sunglasses resting on her head. she looks like she has never feared a changing room mirror in her life. maybe she killed that fear at sixteen and buried it in a forest. “if you’re dead in there, say something,” she says, leaning against the doorframe with a drink already in hand.

you glare at her through the mirror. “i’m suing you.”

“for making you look hot?”

“for elder abuse.”

“you’re younger than me.”

“for emotional elder abuse.”

her mouth twitches. she steps inside, closes the door with her heel, and turns you by the shoulders before you can protest. the inspection is quick and blunt, clinical in the scariest possible way, then her brows lift. “yeah. you’re wearing it.”

“you didn’t even pretend to think.”

“i did think. silently. very sexy of me.”

you pull at the bottom again, mostly so your hands have a job. it feels safer when your hands have a job. otherwise they might wander up and cover your stomach or your chest or your face, and then nat would make one of those sounds. a small sound, barely a sound, the kind that says she loves you and also wants to shake you until your bones make music. “it’s too much,” you say, quieter.

“it’s a pool party.”

“exactly. people will be near pools. with eyes.”

“tragic.” nat takes another sip. “people might also have necks. horrifying world.”

you make a face at her, but your fingers have started twisting the hem of the towel around your shoulders. the towel is the only thing keeping you from turning around, putting your shorts back on, and telling everyone you’ve developed a sudden aquatic allergy. chlorine intolerance. water-related moral conflict. any excuse with a medical-sounding word might work on steve. sam would ask questions. tony would ask if the water offended you personally, then offer to replace it with imported glacier melt.

bucky would look at you. that thought is the whole disease. bucky barnes looking at you in this swimsuit is either going to kill you outright or make you wish it had. he is already too much in normal clothes. jeans, shirts, those stupid henleys that cling to his shoulders with religious devotion. shirts in general seem desperate around him. fabric has never looked more underpaid. and now there is a very real chance that you will walk outside and find him shirtless by the pool, all broad chest and sun-warmed skin and dark hair falling around his face, and you’ll have to behave like someone who pays taxes and owns a toothbrush. impossible.

even worse, he may look at you and then look away. the thought is small. mean. familiar. he does that sometimes. looks away when you enter the room like your presence is a lamp turned directly into his eyes. you’ve built a whole religion around it. bucky finds you irritating. bucky tolerates you for nat’s sake. bucky can flirt with cashiers, grandmothers, dogs, possibly dangerous machinery, but when it comes to you, he either teases until you want to bite him or turns cold like you spilled something on his favorite memory.

“he’s already here,” nat says.

you blink at her. horrible woman. witch. spy. roommate. “who?”

“the pool boy.”

“tony has a pool boy?”

“no, but if he did, i’d respect his commitment to the theme.” nat watches you through the mirror. “barnes. he’s outside with steve and sam.”

your mouth goes dry. very mature reaction. very dignified. you deserve an award for remaining upright. “thrilling.”

“he asked where you were.”

“to insult me?”

“probably to write a poem.”

you snort despite yourself, then hate the sound for being too fond. bucky inspires many feelings in you, most of them medically confusing. rage, attraction, pettiness, fondness, the strange urge to press your face into his chest and stand there until society collapses. you used to think crushes were supposed to be fun. light. giggly. yours feels like chewing glass while a beautiful man laughs in another room. “i’m putting clothes on,” you announce, turning toward the pile you abandoned on the sink.

natasha catches the towel before you can turn it into armor. her face softens, which is alarming. she is much easier to handle when she is threatening people or calling men idiots. tenderness from nat tends to make you confess things. “you can wear whatever you want. but if you’re changing because barnes might see you, i’m going to be annoying.”

“you’re already annoying.”

“i have levels.” her hand squeezes your shoulder once. “he’s one guy.”

“he’s a large guy.”

“still one.”

“that’s debatable. he has the surface area of three men.”

she smiles into her glass. “come outside.”

you stare at yourself again. the gold rings at your shoulders glint under the bathroom lights. a soft breath leaves you, slow and unwilling. the girl in the mirror looks terrified, which is rude, because you were aiming for bored. maybe indifferent. possibly mysterious. something with less of a wet-cat energy.

bucky is one guy. one guy with eyes. one guy who probably won’t even look long enough to form an opinion. that is worse. “fine,” you say, grabbing the towel and wrapping it around your shoulders instead of your body. “but if i cry, i’m pushing you into the pool.”

nat opens the door, smug and fond. “deal. i swim beautifully.” you hate her. you follow her anyway.

sunlight hits you like a personal accusation. tony’s summer house is all glass, white stone, obnoxious wealth, and views so good they make you suspicious. the pool stretches across the back patio in a ridiculous blue sheet, bright enough to look fake, with lounge chairs lined along one side and a shaded outdoor kitchen on the other. music plays from speakers hidden somewhere in the landscaping, low and expensive. the air smells like sunscreen, grilled pineapple, chlorine, and the rosemary bushes tony probably paid someone to make look effortless.

everyone is already there. wanda is stretched on a lounger with sunglasses over her eyes, red hair spilling over one shoulder. vision sits beside her reading a book in the sun like a man who has never sweated once in his life. steve is by the grill, wearing swim trunks and a white shirt he left open, looking like a recruitment poster for sunscreen safety. sam is in the pool, arguing with clint over a foam football. tony is wearing sunglasses indoors, technically outdoors, but under the shaded bar, so spiritually indoors. bruce is speaking to pepper near a bowl of fruit like he has been assigned fruit diplomacy.

and bucky. bucky is near the far side of the pool, one foot up on the lower rung of a lounger, laughing at something steve says across the patio. shirtless, obviously. cruelly. swim trunks low on his hips, hair tied back in a loose half-bun, a pair of sunglasses hanging from the collar of the shirt he has abandoned on a chair. his skin is already touched by sun, golden at the shoulders, marked with faint scars and old history, and your brain takes one look at him and files for retirement.

of course. of course he gets to look like that near water. like some mythological punishment. like a sailor’s bad decision. like if marble got warm and developed a bad personality.

you stop near the sliding door. nat keeps walking. traitor. sam sees you first. “hey, finally! we were about to send a search party.”

“i was in the bathroom for seven minutes,” you call back, which is mostly true if you ignore the years spent negotiating with your own reflection.

“seven minutes in woman time,” tony says, lifting his drink. “so either twelve seconds or a fiscal quarter.”

“rich men shouldn’t speak,” you say, and tony points at you like you’ve wounded him.

“see, this is why i invite you. keeps the ego limber.”

that gets a few laughs, easy and warm. you can handle them. most of them. everyone here has seen you in pajamas, sick, angry, half asleep, and once crying over a video of a dog getting prosthetic legs. skin should be nothing. thighs should be nothing. a stomach should be nothing. human bodies have been happening for ages. terribly common things.

then bucky turns. it is fast. too fast. his smile is still there from whatever steve said, wide and relaxed, and then his eyes find you and the smile fades in pieces.

you go so still the towel slips down one shoulder.

he looks at your face first, then lower. hardly a second, maybe less, barely enough to count, but your body counts it. the line of his gaze touches your swimsuit, the bare places around it, the curve you have spent twenty minutes trying to negotiate with, and then he looks away.

just like that. his jaw tightens. his hand curls around the back of the lounger. his attention swings back to steve with such sudden force that you almost laugh. there it is. there it fucking is.

you knew this would happen. stupid, stupid girl. standing in a bathroom telling yourself he was only one guy when that one guy apparently needs to look anywhere else the second you show too much skin. amazing. beautiful. maybe you can walk straight into the pool and keep going until you reach a new continent. the patio sounds louder now. sam’s laughter, clint yelling about cheating, ice clinking in tony’s glass. everything keeps moving around you with obscene casualness. no one else saw it. no one else felt the tiny, sharp slice of it. bucky looked at you and looked away, and everyone else gets to continue eating fruit.

natasha glances back. you arrange your face into something flat and vaguely hostile. a familiar costume. better than the swimsuit.“drink?” she asks.

“yes.”

“alcoholic?”

“aggressively.”

tony hears that and brightens. “finally, someone with taste.”

you make your way toward the bar, aware of every step. the swimsuit feels too tight and too revealing and somehow too loud. bucky is across the patio, speaking to steve. he does not look again. that is fine. excellent. merciful, even. you hope he develops hiccups. tony slides a drink toward you. “for the lady with the aggressive liver.”

“thank you. sorry about your personality.”

“accepted. i bought another one.”

sam hoists himself out of the pool with a dramatic groan, water streaming down his shoulders. He grabs a towel, wiping his face, and his gaze flicks over your swimsuit without the weirdness men can sometimes bring to it. Just appreciative, warm, and easy. “Damn. Look at you.”

your fingers tighten around the glass. for one stupid second, praise lands in a place that has been sitting empty for too long. you lift your brows, aiming for casual. “is that surprise?”

“that’s respect,” sam says, pointing at the gold ring on your strap. “little fancy thing going on. i see you.”

“it’s swimsuit technology.”

“no, that’s a whole look. hey, buck.” sam turns his head before you can stop him. “you seeing this?”

murder becomes briefly understandable.

bucky’s shoulders go rigid. Steve looks between sam and bucky with the pained expression of a man witnessing a grenade roll under a picnic table. the second stretches. maybe two. your drink sweats against your palm. bucky does turn, but his eyes barely make it to your shoulder before skating away again. “yeah,” he says, voice rough enough that it sounds dragged from his throat. “i see it.”

that is worse than silence. you swallow. “fantastic. all votes counted.”

sam squints, sensing something in the air with the survival instincts of a man who has chosen chaos as a hobby. “you okay over there, terminator?”

bucky’s mouth moves into something that could pass for a smile in poor lighting. “fine.”

“sounds painful.”

“sam.”

“what? i’m checking on my friend.”

“check quieter.”

you take a long sip. It is sweet, cold, and strong enough to make your teeth feel clean. Wonderful. Tony Stark may be a public hazard, but the man stocks good alcohol. You let the burn settle on your tongue and decide, with the private little click of a door closing, that this is fine. Bucky can avoid looking at you. Great. Wonderful. Plenty of people have eyes.

Sam, for instance. Sam is grinning at you, towel around his neck, eyebrows lifted. He is handsome and safe and not Bucky, which immediately lowers his value in the ugliest part of your brain. But he complimented you. He looked at you without flinching. That counts for something. “you getting in?” sam asks, jerking his chin toward the pool. “or did you dress up to intimidate the tiles?”

“both can be true.”

“come on. clint’s cheating and i need a witness.”

you glance toward the water, then toward nat, who has settled beside wanda. Then, against all better judgment, toward bucky. He is looking at his drink. Very invested in it. Possibly falling in love with it. Good for them. your drink goes onto the counter. the towel slides off your shoulders and onto a chair before you can give yourself time to become normal again. Cool air brushes over your bare back. Too many places. Too much skin. Your arms fight the urge to cross over your middle.

Bucky’s head turns a fraction. You see it. You hate that you see it. The movement is so tiny anyone else would miss it, but you have a tragic little doctorate in James Barnes pretending indifference. His eyes make it to your legs this time. Then his mouth presses flat, and he turns away again.

Fine. Your chin lifts. “i’m a terrible witness,” you tell sam, stepping toward the pool. “i lie under pressure.”

Sam laughs and offers his hand from the water like he is helping royalty down from a carriage. “perfect. we’ll frame clint together.”

The pool is cold at first, a shock around your calves as you sit on the edge and lower yourself in. You bite back the sound that tries to escape, mostly out of pride. The water closes around your waist, then your ribs, and for a second the swimsuit stops feeling like a spotlight. Underwater, everything blurs kinder. Your hips, stomach, thighs. The body becomes a body again. Less evidence. Less argument. Sam tosses you the foam football. You catch it against your chest with both hands, splashing yourself in the face. “very athletic,” clint calls.

you wipe water from your eyes. “i’m preserving my mystery.”

“your mystery is that you suck at catch.”

“my mystery is that i haven’t drowned you.”

That gets a laugh from wanda. Nat smiles behind her sunglasses, proud and terrible. You start to loosen after that. The water helps. The drink helps. Sam helps too, in his loud, easy way, making you feel included without making you feel studied. He shouts fake strategies, accuses clint of crimes against recreational sport, and once spins you by the shoulders to aim your throw while you laugh so hard pool water gets in your mouth.

It should be enough. It almost is. Then you glance over and see Bucky watching. He is no longer pretending to listen to Steve. His sunglasses are on now, hiding his eyes, but his head is angled toward you. His arms are crossed over his chest, one shoulder leaning against a patio pillar, sun catching along the metal of his left hand where it grips his own bicep. There is nothing soft in his posture. Nothing open. He looks carved into place.

Caught, he turns his head slightly. Of course. Your laugh thins. Sam says something, but you miss it. Maybe your name. Maybe a joke. The pool sounds muffle, slipping in and out around your ears. Bucky can look from far away, apparently. From behind sunglasses. From a place where you cannot look back properly. The second you are close enough for him to have to acknowledge you as a body with feelings, he finds the nearest wall or drink or horizon.

There’s a special sort of humiliation in wanting someone who seems vaguely offended by the evidence of you. “you alive?” sam asks, splashing water near your arm.

You blink back to him. “unfortunately.”

“you looked like you were plotting.”

“I plot as cardio.”

“that explains the stamina.”

Bucky’s jaw moves across the patio. You see that too. Tiny. Annoying. Delicious, if you were a healthier person. A reckless little thing uncurls in your chest. It is petty and hot and stupid, so naturally it feels almost holy. You turn back to sam with a brighter smile, the sort that probably looks normal to everyone else and insane to Nat. Sam raises his eyebrows. Brave man. “teach me to throw better,” you say.

He narrows his eyes. “this a trick?”

“i’m asking for athletic help. cherish the moment.”

Sam laughs, then shifts behind you in the water, hands hovering over your elbows before settling lightly when you nod. It is friendly. It is nothing. It is two people in a pool with a foam football and a crowd of friends around them. But you feel Bucky before you see him. His attention has weight. A dark little weather system rolling over the patio. Sam adjusts your arm. “okay, elbow up. no, less like you’re threatening the ball’s family.”

“I am threatening its family.”

“gentle. release here.” His hand taps your wrist.

Across the patio, Steve says something to Bucky. Bucky does not answer. You throw. The ball arcs beautifully for half a second, then smacks clint square in the forehead. The silence is immediate. Then clint sinks under the water like a betrayed submarine. You clap both hands over your mouth. Sam loses his mind laughing, one hand braced on your shoulder as he folds forward. Wanda sits up. Tony lowers his sunglasses. Steve looks concerned. Nat looks delighted. Clint resurfaces, hair plastered over his face. “attempted murder.”

“self-defense,” you gasp, still half laughing, half horrified. “you had criminal energy.”

“You hit me in my innocent head.”

“no jury would convict her,” sam says, wiping his eyes. “that was art.”

A sound comes from the patio. Low. Short. You look before you can stop yourself.

Bucky is laughing. Not loud. Not like sam. Barely more than a breath, but his mouth has curved despite whatever terrible thing he has been doing with his face all afternoon. He is looking at you now. Fully. Sunglasses pushed up into his hair, blue eyes narrowed against the sun, and for one ridiculous moment, all the air in the day seems to gather in your throat.

Then he catches himself. The smile fades. His gaze drops to the water near your waist, moves away, and he reaches for his drink. It is a slap with no hand.

Your smile goes with it. The water suddenly feels too cold. “i need another drink,” you announce, heading for the stairs before anyone can see your face arrange itself badly.

Sam calls after you, still laughing about clint’s tragic head injury. Nat’s sunglasses follow you from the lounger. Bucky stays by the pillar, but the closer you get to the edge, the more you feel him there. A terrible awareness. Like walking past a stove you know is on. Your hands grip the metal rail as you climb the pool steps. Water streams down your body, cooler where the breeze hits. The swimsuit clings hard now, slick to your skin, making every curve more obvious instead of less. Wonderful design choice. Truly innovative cruelty. You reach for the towel on the chair, but it is farther than you thought, and the stone under your wet feet is slippery.

Your heel slides. For one bright, stupid second, you are suspended in pure indignity. Then a hand clamps around your upper arm. Not sam. Not nat. Not anyone safe enough to survive.

Bucky. His other hand catches your waist, broad palm spreading over wet skin, fingers pressing into the soft give above your hip. The contact goes straight through you with such force that your brain empties. Chlorine, sun, his skin, the faint spice of whatever soap he uses, all of it crowds too close. Your hand lands on his chest to steady yourself, and he is warm. Warm and solid and right there, which is deeply unfair for a man who has spent the afternoon treating eye contact like a hostage negotiation.

“careful,” he says.

One word. Low. Rough. Stupid. Your embarrassment catches fire. You laugh. It comes out bitter, thin at the edges, nothing like the easy laugh you gave sam. Bucky’s fingers tighten once at your waist, and that little pressure makes the whole thing worse. “relax, barnes.” You pull your hand from his chest, hating the wet print your palm leaves behind. “you don’t have to touch me longer than necessary.”

The whole patio seems to keep making noise, but in your little corner, the sentence has teeth. Bucky goes still. His hand stays on your waist for half a second too long, then leaves like he has been burned. The absence is immediate and awful. You hate him for touching you. You hate him more for stopping. His face has changed, though you refuse to name the change. His brows draw together, mouth parting slightly as if he has lost the next line. Good. Let him lose something. “What?” he says, quiet.

You grab the towel and pull it around yourself, too late to feel covered. “Nothing.”

His eyes narrow at that, and for once he does not look away. “That didn’t sound like nothing.”

“You’re very observant.”

“Don’t do that.”

A laugh tries to crawl out of you and dies ugly. “Do what?”

“Act like I did something to you when all I did was catch you.”

You look at him then. Really, probably too much. Big mistake. His skin is still damp at the temples from sweat or the pool water someone splashed earlier, and the sun catches the blue of his eyes so sharply you want to be mad at nature. His chest rises under your gaze. Your palm still remembers him, every warm inch. A handprint in reverse. “you looked away,” you say, and the words escape before pride can shoot them down.

Bucky’s face tightens. “When?”

You hate him. You hate him so much you could kiss him until both of you forget language. “Forget it.”

You turn away, but he catches the edge of the towel. Not enough to pull you back, only enough to stop the escape from being clean. “When?” he repeats, and the softness in his voice is so much worse than anger.

You should have kept your mouth shut. You should have stayed in the bathroom and sued Natasha from there. Instead you’re wet, half naked, humiliated, and Bucky Barnes is holding your towel like it matters. “When I came out,” you say, staring hard at the bar instead of him. “When sam called you. When I got in the pool. Pick one, you’ve been consistent.”

His grip loosens. For a second you think he will explain. He might laugh. He might say you’re imagining things. He might finally cut the whole sickness open and tell you he does not want to look, and then maybe you can be free through the healing power of public devastation. But he says nothing. Of course he says nothing.

Your eyes sting, which is unacceptable. Chlorine. Obviously chlorine. You pull the towel free and walk toward the bar with as much dignity as a woman can manage while dripping on expensive stone. Behind you, Steve says Bucky’s name. Low. Warning. Or concerned. You do not turn around. Tony is pretending very hard to examine a lime. “Drink,” you say, dropping onto a stool.

He pushes one over without commentary for maybe the first time in his life. “Hydration adjacent.”

“your discretion is unsettling.”

“i’m multifaceted.”

You take the glass. Your hand shakes once, barely. You curl it tighter until it stops.

Across the patio, Bucky remains near the pool steps, one hand low on his hip, the other rubbing over his mouth. Steve stands near him now, speaking quietly. Bucky shakes his head. His eyes cut toward you. This time, you look away first.

Pool parties become less fun once you have emotionally exposed yourself near a wet staircase. A tragic discovery. Someone should tell the youth. The afternoon drags onward with the mean persistence of a song you cannot skip. People eat. People drink. Sam retells the clint football incident with increasing betrayal of facts, making himself sound like a coach and you sound like a trained assassin. Clint claims he can see sounds now. Wanda orders him to stop making it tempting to hit him again. Tony brings out enough food for a wedding and calls it “light snacks,” which makes you wonder if billionaires understand hunger as a concept or merely as a branding opportunity. You sit with nat under the shade, towel around your shoulders, swimsuit drying tight against your skin. The drink has made you warmer, loose at the edges, but not enough to soften the place Bucky opened and then abandoned. He has stayed away. Not dramatically. Not in a way anyone could call obvious. He helps Steve with the grill, talks to Sam, lets Tony make jokes at his expense. He is normal.

That might be the ugliest part. You are sitting here with your nerves scraped raw, and he gets to hold a plate of grilled chicken. Do you want to talk about it?” nat asks.

“No.”

She hums, sipping from her straw. “Do you want to lie about it?”

“Desperately.”

“Go ahead.”

You stare at the water. Sam is trying to shove clint off a float. Clint has accepted death with more grace than expected. “I’m having a nice time.”

“Terrible lie. Try again.”

“I enjoy sunlight.”

“Worse.”

“Bucky Barnes is a normal man whose opinion does nothing to my blood pressure.”

Natasha’s mouth curves. “Almost funny enough to pass.”

You pick at a loose thread on the towel. The fibers are soft, expensive, probably worth more than half your closet. Tony’s towels have better career prospects than you. “He looked at me like he wished I’d worn a tarp.”

Nat says nothing for a second. Her silence is rarely empty. It moves around, checks exits, evaluates weak spots. “That’s what you saw?”

You glance at her, defensive already. “I have eyes.”

“Unfortunately, yes. Dramatic ones.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” She turns her head a little, and you follow her gaze against your will.

Bucky is standing at the grill beside Steve. His posture is casual enough for a stranger. Not for you. You know his casual. This is held too tight at the edges. His shoulders are set, left hand curled around a bottle of beer he has barely touched, eyes trained on the pool with such grim commitment that the pool may owe him money. “He’s been weird all day,” nat says.

“He’s always weird.”

“With you, yes.”

“That’s very comforting.”

She nudges your knee with hers. “You two are exhausting.”

“There is no two. There’s me, suffering heroically, and him, being confusing and broad.”

“Broad?”

“Don’t make me defend my vocabulary. I’m injured.”

“You slipped.”

“Emotionally.”

Natasha laughs softly, then reaches over and plucks the drink from your hand. “Slow down.”

You glare. “This is theft.”

“This is friendship.”

“Friendship would let me make poor choices.”

“I let you buy the swimsuit.”

“That was attempted murder.”

Her hand squeezes your knee once. “He’s looking again.”

Your entire body betrays you. It wants to turn. It wants to pretend it has not been starving for that exact sentence. You hold still with the grim focus of someone defusing a bomb under poor lighting. “Good for him,” you say.

Nat’s smile turns small and unbearable. “You’re allowed to like being looked at.”

“By normal people, maybe.”

“Barnes is many things.”

“Normal does seem optimistic.” The words come out light enough. The thought under them sits heavy. Bucky looking at you feels dangerous because you cannot tell what he sees. All day, you have been trapped between wanting his attention and being wounded by how he spends it. Too quick, too hidden, too late. You want him to look in a way that lets you rest, which is insane. A person should not need another person’s eyes to feel real in their own skin. There are self-help books about that, probably. You have not read them because they would tell you to journal and you would rather eat sand.

Tony calls everyone for food, and the shift saves you from Nat’s terrifying accuracy. Chairs scrape. People gather around the long outdoor table. You end up between wanda and sam, safe enough, with nat across from you and Bucky diagonally down the table beside Steve. Diagonally is awful. Diagonally means accidental glances. Diagonally means you can pretend to look at the salad and still see his hands. Diagonally means his knee might bump yours if the table were smaller, which it is not, thank God, or no thanks to God, depending on where you are in your moral development. 

Food helps. A little. Grilled corn, charred sweet at the edges. Watermelon with feta. Skewers. Tony’s obscene little sliders made with buns so soft you briefly understand wealth. You eat more than you expected, mostly to give your mouth a reason to stay busy. Sam leans closer while reaching for the corn. “You ever think about joining a league?”

You stare at him. “For what, pool homicide?”

“Foam football. You’ve got raw talent.”

“I injured one man.”

“That’s how legends start.”

You laugh, easier this time. Sam is lovely. Sam is safe. Sam has never once made you feel like a bug under glass or a prayer no one taught you how to say. His attention is warm and uncomplicated, and maybe that is why it fails to do the thing you wish it would. You want it to. That would be convenient. You could turn your head and smile at the man making you laugh, and your body could decide to be sensible for once. Across the table, Bucky’s fork scrapes softly against his plate.

You glance up. His eyes are on Sam’s shoulder, where it nearly touches yours. His mouth has gone flat again. When his gaze shifts to yours, it stays. No sunglasses now. No immediate retreat. You should feel triumphant. You feel pinned and furious and too warm under the towel.

Sam keeps talking. You answer. Probably. Words happen from your side of the table. Bucky looks away first, but slower this time, and that almost makes you angrier. 

After food, Tony declares a mandatory sunset swim like a man whose money has left him unfamiliar with the word optional. Wanda declines by pretending to sleep. Vision declines with such politeness that Tony thanks him. Steve gets dragged in by Sam. Clint goes willingly after shouting that the water may heal his head trauma. Natasha sheds her shirt and dives so cleanly that half the patio claps.

You mean to stay on the lounger. You really do. Then Bucky sits on the chair two spaces away with a beer and no intention of swimming.

You stand.

“Coming in?” sam calls from the pool.

“Apparently.”

Bucky’s head lifts. There. There it is again. That first startled drag of his eyes as your towel drops onto the lounger. This time you catch all of it. He looks at your shoulders, your chest, your waist, the high cut at your hips, the damp lines where the swimsuit still clings from earlier. His throat moves. His fingers tighten around the beer bottle.

Then he looks away. Again. The hurt comes faster now, less sharp and more tired. You have run out of ways to be surprised by it. “You coming?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

Bucky looks back. “What?”

“In the pool.” You gesture toward everyone else, voice mild enough to deserve applause. “That large wet rectangle behind you.”

Sam laughs from the water. Steve watches Bucky with the concerned patience of someone looking at a friend about to step on a rake. Bucky’s eyes flick toward the pool, then to you. “I’m fine here.”

“Tragic. We’ll notify the rectangle.”

That gets a laugh from Tony. Even Bucky’s mouth twitches, but it dies before it becomes anything useful. “You scared?” you ask.

The words are easy. The ache under them is less so. You want him to rise. You want him to refuse. You want him to look. You want him to leave. You want so many impossible things at once that your own skin feels crowded. Bucky leans back in the chair, jaw set. “Of you?”

“Of fun.”

“Terrified.”

“Figures.” You turn before he can answer, stepping into the pool with all the dignity you can scrape together. The water feels warmer now after the heat of the day, soft around your knees, your waist, your ribs. Sam splashes near you, and you splash him back half-heartedly. The game restarts in some altered form. Someone throws a beach ball. Tony judges from the side with a drink, claiming he is “morally participating.” The sky slowly bruises pink and gold over the trees.

You laugh again. You even mean some of it. But Bucky stays on the chair. He stays dry and distant, one elbow on the armrest, beer untouched, gaze roaming everywhere except you until it does not. Then you feel it between your shoulder blades, across the back of your neck, sliding down where the swimsuit reveals more than it hides. If he is disgusted, he has a strange way of torturing himself with it.

Maybe he is bored. Maybe he is judging. Maybe he is thinking about someone else. Maybe you are pathetic. That last thought arrives with such calm familiarity that you almost miss the ball flying toward your face.

“Duck!” Sam shouts.

You duck too late. The beach ball clips the side of your head, harmless but startling, and you stumble back with a laugh that turns into a yelp when your foot misses the pool step under the water. This time, you do not fall. This time, Bucky is already there.

The splash of him entering the pool sends water up over your arms. You barely process the movement before his hand catches your waist under the water, bare palm meeting bare skin, fingers firm enough to halt every thought you were trying to have. His other hand closes around your wrist, anchoring you while your toes find the step.

The whole pool erupts around you. Sam says something. Tony whistles. Clint declares another murder attempt. None of it matters.

Bucky is in the water. Bucky is touching you.

Bucky’s hair is wet now, loose strands clinging near his jaw. His chest is inches from yours, water beading on his collarbones, eyes fixed on your face with the sort of focus that makes you feel both held and dissected. The metal hand around your wrist is cool. The flesh hand at your waist is warm even underwater. Your body, treacherous little idiot, forgets every insult it has been rehearsing and leans a fraction closer. “Careful,” he says again.

The same word. Same roughness. Less distance. Your laugh barely works this time. It leaves your mouth thin and tired. “You need a new line.”

His eyes drop to your mouth. Stay there. Move back up. “You need to stop slipping.”

“I’m sure the tiles are honored you blame me.”

“Wasn’t blaming you.”

“No, you’re just leaping into pools now. Very casual.”

His hand slides half an inch on your waist as someone’s wave rolls against you both. The movement is tiny and devastating. Your stomach pulls in under his palm before you can control it, and his fingers flex like he felt the reaction and had to restrain his own. Sam clears his throat loudly. “Everybody alive?”

Bucky does not look away from you. “Yeah.”

“You sure? That looked like a rescue.”

“Wilson,” Steve says, warning plain in his voice.

“What? I’m just asking. Man moved like a torpedo.”

Your face heats, and that saves you. Embarrassment brings language back. “I’m fine,” you say, trying to step back.

Bucky lets go of your wrist. His hand at your waist lingers. You glance down at it. He follows your gaze and releases you, slow enough to feel intentional, quick enough to hurt. “Fine,” he repeats, almost to himself.

You step away, wrapping your arms around your middle under the water. The swimsuit feels nonexistent now, yet somehow everyone can see the exact place his hand had been. Maybe there is a mark. Maybe your skin has announced it to the patio in bright letters. “I’m getting out,” you say, mostly to the water.

Bucky’s brows pull together. “Again?”

“Try to survive it.”

Sam says your name softly as you pass him, but you keep moving. The pool steps are kinder this time. You grip the rail, climb carefully, and grab your towel with wet hands. The sky has gone warmer, streaked with orange, and the air makes goosebumps rise along your arms. You head toward the house before anyone can ask.

The sliding door is blessedly close. The kitchen inside is cooler, dimmer, quiet except for the hum of Tony’s expensive refrigerator and the muted thump of music through glass. You leave wet footprints across the tile and feel guilty for half a second before remembering Tony could probably buy new tile by blinking. The towel goes tighter around you. Your face feels too hot. Your chest feels worse. Everything is tangled. Bucky looked away. Bucky watched. Bucky refused to get in. Bucky jumped in without thinking. Bucky touched you like instinct. Bucky let go like regret.

A normal person would accept complexity. You prefer suffering. The kitchen island has a bowl of cut limes, a bottle of tequila, and a tray of tiny desserts covered in plastic wrap. You peel one back and take a mini tart just to have something to destroy. It tastes like lemon and butter and wealth. You chew angrily. “stealing dessert before dinner’s fully over?”

You close your eyes. No. Absolutely no. The universe can go bother someone else.

Bucky’s voice comes from the doorway behind you, lower after the pool, rougher around the edges. You keep chewing. Swallow. Pick up another tart because dignity left hours ago and dessert is here now.

“Tell tony,” you say. “He’ll have me arrested by the pastry police.”

Wet footsteps cross the tile. He has followed you in dripping too, which should make him less intimidating. It does not. The room fills with him, chlorine and sun and that clean masculine smell under it, the one that has ruined many evenings and one perfectly decent pillow you once pressed your face into after he left it on your couch. He stops on the other side of the island. You look at the tart tray instead of him.

“I was checking on you.”

“Very heroic. I’m eating a tart.”

“So I see.”

“Then your work here is done.”

The old rhythm tries to come back. Snap, deflect, survive. Usually he takes the bait. Usually he smiles or scoffs or says something that makes you want to throw a household object. This time he stays quiet, and the quiet crawls right under your towel. You reach for a third tart. His hand covers the tray.

You stare at his fingers. Human hand. Calloused. Thick. The same hand that had been on your waist in the pool, warm through the water, possessive for one second before he remembered he did not want to be. Your own hand hovers uselessly near his. Lemon sugar sticks to your thumb. “Move,” you say.

“Talk to me.”

Your laugh is small and mean. “About dessert?”

“About what you said outside.”

“I’ve said many beautiful things today.”

His fingers press lightly against the plastic wrap, making it crinkle. “At the pool steps.”

The room cools further. Somewhere outside, Sam laughs. The sound reaches the kitchen thin and far away, like it belongs to another life where people can swim and flirt and enjoy fruit without turning into an open wound near a marble island. “I said you didn’t have to touch me.” You lift one shoulder. The towel slips a little. His eyes move to fix on your face with almost painful discipline. “Seems clear.”

“No.” His jaw tightens around the word. “It doesn’t.”

“It really does.”

“Is that what you think I’m doing?”

There it is. Softer than you expected. Worse, somehow. He sounds angry, but the anger has nowhere clean to go. It sits between you, wet-haired and broad-shouldered and too close. You pick at the sugar on your thumb. “Standing in a kitchen?”

“Trying to stop touching you.”

A humorless sound leaves you. “Aren’t you?”

Bucky’s hand slowly leaves the tray. He comes around the island, and you hate yourself for how fast your body registers each step. Wet tile under his bare feet. The shift of muscle in his thighs. Water slipping from his hair to his neck. He stops beside you, close enough that you can see tiny droplets on his lashes. “You think that’s why I looked away?”

Your fingers curl into the towel at your chest. “I’m very tired of talking about where your eyes go.”

“I’m not.”

“Congratulations.”

His voice lowers. “Look at me.”

“No.”

He breathes out through his nose. A patient sound. Not gentle. Not quite. “Please.”

That word does the damage anger could never do. You look up, furious with him for asking nicely. His face is tense, mouth set, eyes darker in the dim kitchen. He looks too serious for a pool party. Too serious for you standing here in a damp swimsuit and a towel, lemon sugar on your thumb, embarrassment turning your throat tight. “Happy?” you ask.

His gaze moves over your face like he is trying to read something written under your skin. “No.”

That almost gets you. Simple answer. No joke. No little smirk to save either of you. Your own mouth opens, then closes again.

Bucky glances toward the patio doors. Outside, the others are loud and bright and drunk on summer. In here, the air holds still around the refrigerator hum and your wet footprints. “I looked away,” he says, each word measured like it costs him, “because if I kept looking, everybody out there was gonna know.”

You stare at him. It takes a second. Maybe more. Your brain receives the sentence, turns it over, rejects it, picks it up again, then shakes it until meaning falls out. “Know what?”

His laugh is almost silent, rough at the bottom. “Don’t do that.”

“I’m asking.”

“You know what.”

“I really don’t.”

His hand lifts, then stops before touching you. That restraint again. Always that. A hand held back like your skin has rules written over it. You hate it more than anything, and maybe you have loved it too, which is inconvenient and humiliating. His fingers curl into his palm. “That I wanted you.”

The fridge hums. Music thuds through glass. Someone outside yells for Tony to stop cheating at whatever stupid rich-man game he has invented. Your towel slips another inch down your shoulder. Bucky notices. This time, he does not look away fast enough.

Wanted. Past tense? Present tense? A cruel grammar question at the worst possible time.

“You’ve been acting like looking at me causes physical pain,” you say, and it comes out less sharp than you need. More wounded. Awful.

His eyes cut back to yours. “It does.”

You blink. Bucky looks almost mad at himself now, which is satisfying for one brief second before it becomes sad. “You walked out in that thing and I had two choices. Look away, or sit there with everyone watching me stare at you like I’d lost my damn mind.”

“That thing?”

His gaze dips. Brief. Hungry. No disgust in it. None. The realization makes your stomach hollow out and fill at once. “The swimsuit.”

“You hate it.”

His mouth parts, then closes. His brows draw down. “I hate that Sam got to tell you first.”

That sentence finds a deep, stupid place in you and presses there. You hate that place. It has no pride. “He was being nice,” you say.

“I know.” in his mouth, right now, it is not reassurance. It is surrender. It is a man admitting something he does not want to resent and resenting it anyway.

“He looked at you like a friend,” Bucky says. “That made it worse.”

You set the tart down slowly, afraid any sudden movement might shatter the room. “Why?”

His eyes come back to yours. “Because I didn’t.”

The answer moves through you like a slow spill. Outside, someone opens the patio door. You both turn your heads at once. Tony leans in halfway, sunglasses still on though the sun is dying. His gaze takes in the water on the floor, your towel, Bucky’s expression, the tray of tarts, and he immediately lifts both hands.

“Fantastic. Haunted kitchen. Love that for us.” He reaches blindly for a bottle near the door. “Pretend I’m rich furniture.”

“Tony,” Bucky says, voice tight.

“Gone. Emotionally, spiritually, legally.” Tony backs out with the bottle and slides the door shut.

The interruption should break the tension. It does not. It makes it worse. Now the world has peeked in and retreated. Now privacy feels chosen. You wipe your sticky thumb against the towel, then regret it. “People are going to come looking.”

“Let them.”

Your eyes flick to his. “That’s a bad idea.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re agreeing?”

“Trying something new.”

Despite everything, a tiny laugh escapes you. Bucky’s face shifts at the sound. Not a smile, exactly. More dangerous than that. Like the laugh handed him proof he had been starving for and now he is trying to keep from grabbing.

“I thought you were embarrassed,” you say, quieter. The words scrape more than they should. “Of looking. Of me.”

His whole body seems to pull toward you without moving. “Jesus.”

You flinch at the roughness, and he sees it.

“Hey.” His hand finally touches your arm, just above the towel’s edge. Warm, careful, barely there. Still enough to ruin you. “No. I’m angry at myself. Not you.”

“You keep looking away.”

“I was trying to be decent.”

“That felt awful.”

His thumb moves once over your damp skin. You wish it did less. You wish it did more. “I see that now.”

“Great. Character development.”

He huffs, but there’s no real humor in it. His eyes have gone to the place his thumb touches your arm. “I’m sorry.”

You blink again. Bucky apologizes sometimes. To other people. Usually with grumbles and half-smiles and enough charm to make forgiveness feel inevitable. With you, apologies are rarer. Maybe because both of you prefer biting to bleeding. Maybe because he never seems to understand where the wound is. 

This one is plain. You have no idea what to do with it. “I don’t want your pity apology,” you say.

His thumb stops. “Pity?”

“Yes.”

“You think I’m standing here half naked in Stark’s kitchen, dripping on a floor that costs more than my first apartment, apologizing out of pity?”

“When you put it like that, it sounds stupid.”

“It sounded stupid before.”

You glare up at him, relieved by the spark of irritation because anger is easier to hold. “Careful.”

That word. His word. It changes something in his face, turns his attention heavier. Your mouth goes dry. Bucky’s hand slides down your arm, slow enough that you could move away. You do not. His fingers find your wrist, then your hand, lifting it between you. Lemon sugar still clings faintly near your thumb. His eyes meet yours, asking nothing aloud, and maybe you nod. Maybe your hand simply gives up and lets him.

He brings your thumb to his mouth. The first touch of his tongue is warm and wet and obscene in its quietness. He licks the sugar from your skin like he has all the time in the world, lips closing around the tip of your thumb for half a second before he lets it go. Your knees forget their duties. The island is behind you, so you lean back against it before your body can embarrass you further.

Bucky watches the movement. “There,” he says, voice rougher. “No pity.”

You breathe through your nose, which is impressive since your lungs appear to have resigned. “That was unsanitary.”

“Pool water’s worse.”

“Comforting.”

His hand stays around yours. “You always do that.”

“What?”

“Make a joke when you’re shaking.”

You glance down. Your fingers are trembling in his grip. Treacherous little things. You consider cutting them off. Too messy for tony’s floor.

“I’m cold,” you say.

Bucky’s eyes drop to the towel, the damp swimsuit, the little bumps risen along your arms. “Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Want me to get you dry?”

There is nothing clean in that question. Maybe there could have been, from someone else. From him, with his mouth still wet from your thumb and his hand around yours, the words turn thick. You pull your hand back, mostly so you can breathe. “I can manage a towel.”

“I saw.”

“You saw me almost fall.”

“I saw a lot today.”

A pulse starts low in your body, slow and hot and deeply inconvenient. “You looked away for most of it.”

“I looked back.”

That shuts you up. His hand goes to the edge of the towel. He does not pull. Just touches the cotton near your collarbone, where it has started to sag from water and poor decision-making. “I looked back all damn day.”

You try to swallow. It takes effort. “Bucky…”

The patio door opens again. This time it is Nat. She takes one look at you, one look at Bucky, then at the wet floor. Her face gives away nothing, which means she has figured out everything.

“People are asking about dessert,” she says.

You stare at her helplessly. Bucky’s hand drops from the towel. He turns his head, expression suddenly murderous in a very contained, socially inconvenient way. “They can wait.”

Natasha’s brows rise. “Can they?”

“Yes,” he says.

Something about that single word, the calm certainty of it, makes your thighs press together under the towel. Nat’s eyes flick down for barely a second, then back up. You want the tile to open and swallow you. Preferably gently. With snacks. “Right,” she says. “I’ll tell them the kitchen is occupied.”

“Nat,” you hiss.

Her mouth curves. “What? By wet people.”

Bucky sighs like he is in physical pain. “Romanoff.”

“Relax, Barnes. I’m leaving.” She reaches for the tray of tarts, slides it away from you both, and pauses at the door. “Use one of the guest rooms. Tony has cameras in weird places.”

Your soul leaves your body. “What?” you choke.

Tony’s voice carries from outside. “I do not have cameras in weird places. I have cameras in strategic places.”

Natasha closes the door again. The silence after that is different. Less fragile. More aware of its own stupidity. You cover your face with one hand. “I’m moving.”

Bucky makes a sound that might be a laugh if he were less ruined. “Where?”

“Into the ocean.”

“Pool’s closer.”

“Too many witnesses.”

His hand returns to your waist, over the towel this time, and the casual possession of it melts the last few scraps of your brain. “Guest room’s closer too.”

You lower your hand. He is looking at you now. No retreat. No disgust. No careful sideways glance. He looks exactly how you had feared wishing for. Hungry and unsure and trying to make himself stand still. “This is a terrible idea,” you whisper.

“Probably.”

“People are outside.”

“Yep.”

“You were ignoring me two hours ago.”

His mouth tightens. “I was trying to keep my hands off you two hours ago.”

“And now?”

His fingers press into your waist, pulling you one inch closer. Not enough. Enough to make you greedy. “Now I heard what you thought.”

Your chest aches. “And?”

He leans in, slow. Gives you time. Too much time. Your eyes dip to his mouth, and he sees that too. Of course he sees that, the bastard. His lips brush the corner of yours, barely a touch, more breath than kiss, and your entire body answers like it has been waiting years for a command. “And I’m done letting you think it.”

The first kiss is almost gentle. Almost. That is what ruins it. Bucky’s mouth touches yours with restraint at first, warm and careful, and you stand there stupidly with your hand hovering near his chest. It has taken so long to get here that your body does not trust it. He kisses you once, then draws back just enough to look at your face, and something in that tiny pause makes you angry. “No,” you breathe, grabbing the wet hair at the nape of his neck.

His eyes darken. “No?”

“You don’t get to kiss me like I’m fragile after making me feel insane all day.”

The words are barely out before his hand slides behind your head and his mouth comes back harder. This kiss has teeth in it. Not cruel, not careless, but hungry enough to make your fingers tighten in his hair. He tastes like beer and lemon sugar from your skin. His other arm wraps around your waist, pulling you in until the towel is crushed between you and his damp chest, and you make a sound into his mouth that you would deny in court. Bucky answers with a low groan, and the sound breaks something open. The kiss turns messy fast. Your feet slip a little on the wet tile, and he catches you without breaking away, almost lifting you onto your toes. The island edge presses into your back. His hand spreads wide between your shoulder blades, then drags down over the towel, as if he hates every layer between his palm and the body he kept refusing to look at.

Outside, laughter rises. You jerk back. “Guest room.”

Bucky’s forehead touches yours for one second. His breathing is rough, uneven, gratifyingly ruined. “Yeah.”

He takes your hand. That simple thing nearly undoes you. His fingers lace through yours, warm and firm, and he leads you through Tony’s absurd house with far more purpose than a man dripping pool water should have. The hallway is cool and dim, lined with art that probably costs enough to rescue a small nation. You barely see it. You see his back, the muscles shifting under wet skin, the dark hair curling at his neck, your hand held in his like something he does not plan to misplace. A laugh bursts from the patio behind you, then the sound dulls as the hallway turns. Your pulse beats everywhere. Mouth, wrists, thighs, the places the swimsuit rubs too tight. You have spent hours wishing he would look, and now he is taking you somewhere private to do more than that, which means panic arrives right on schedule, prim little nightmare clipboard in hand.

What if he changes his mind when the door closes? What if this is heat and misunderstanding and chlorine? What if he touches you and finds every soft place you spent the day trying to hide? Bucky stops at the first guest room and opens the door. The room is airy, pale, ridiculous, with a king bed dressed in white and a view of the trees beyond the windows. Too pretty. Too clean. A room for people who have sex beautifully, probably, with matching underwear and no body anxiety.

You hover at the threshold. Bucky turns. His gaze drops to your face, then your hand still in his. “What?”

You hate the gentleness. You might start wanting it everywhere. “Nothing.”

He steps closer, slowly enough to make the hallway feel narrower. “Try again.”

Your fingers tighten around his. “I’m wet.”

His brows lift a fraction. “From the pool,” you snap, heat flooding your face. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Your face did.”

“My face is having a day.”

Despite yourself, a laugh slips out, small and anxious. His thumb strokes over your knuckles, and the laugh fades into something softer. God, this is bad. This is tender now, and tender is much more dangerous than horny. Horny you understand. Horny has a beginning and an end and terrible decision-making in the middle. Tender grows roots. Bucky steps into the room and draws you with him.

The door closes behind you with a quiet click. For one second, neither of you speaks. The silence fills with water dripping from both of you onto the floor, distant music, your own uneven breathing. His hand leaves yours. You miss it immediately, which is humiliating.

Then he reaches for the towel. “Can I?”

You want to say something sharp. Something clever. Something that protects the swollen, nervous thing in your chest. Instead, you nod.

He unwraps you slowly. Not theatrically. Not like some polished movie scene. His fingers fumble once at the tucked corner, and that fumble does more to you than smooth confidence ever could. The towel loosens, slipping from your shoulders, down your arms, catching at your elbows before he pulls it free and drops it onto a chair.

Cool air touches your damp skin. Your hands twitch toward your stomach. Bucky catches them. The movement is fast, but his hold is gentle. Both wrists in his hands, lifted slightly away from your body. His eyes stay on yours. “Don’t hide from me.” The words are low, quiet, and absolutely devastating.

You try to laugh. It barely forms. “That’s ambitious.”

“I can be patient.”

“You? Since when?”

His mouth twitches. “Since about three seconds ago.”

You breathe out, shaky but almost amused. He lifts your hands and kisses the inside of one wrist. Then the other. Your throat tightens. It is so stupid, how much that gets to you. A kiss there. Not your mouth. Not your chest. Just the soft skin where your pulse is making an idiot of itself. “I’m going to look at you,” he says.

Your face burns. “That sounds like a threat.”

“It’s a warning.” His thumb moves over your wrist. “A fair one.”

“Very gentlemanly.”

“Trying.”

You swallow. “Don’t try too hard.”

His eyes darken. The shift is immediate, and you feel it under your skin. The little softness remains, but something hotter moves through it, something less careful. His hands lower yours to your sides. He waits. Gives you the chance to lift them again.

You don’t. Bucky looks. This time, he lets himself. His gaze starts at your face, maybe for mercy, then slips down your throat, over the thin straps, the gold rings, the wet fabric clinging to your breasts. You feel each inch like touch. He looks at the curve of your waist, the high cut at your hips, the soft places you wanted to fold away. His jaw sets hard. A slow breath leaves him, and the sound is not disgust. Not even close. It is almost anger, but turned inward, like he cannot believe he denied himself this all afternoon.

Your eyes sting again. “Oh,” you whisper, then immediately want to slap a hand over your mouth. Not a standalone reaction, you tell yourself absurdly. Put it in a sentence, idiot. “You actually…”

Bucky’s gaze snaps back to your face. “Yeah.”

“You looked away.”

“I was an idiot.”

“That’s established.”

His smile is brief and strained. “Fair.”

His hands come to your hips, bare now, no towel, no water softening the contact. Skin to skin. You inhale too sharply and his grip steadies, thumbs pressing near the swimsuit’s edge. “You thought I didn’t like this?” he asks, voice dragging lower.

Your eyes drop to his chest, safer than his face by maybe half a degree. “You looked like you were suffering.”

“I was.” His fingers slide along the high curve of your hip, then stop there, squeezing once. “Sweetheart, I saw you come out in this and forgot what language I spoke.”

That sounds impossible. It also sounds like him. Rough, a little annoyed, painfully sincere under all that heat. “You recovered fast.”

“I didn’t recover. I panicked.”

The laugh that leaves you is shaky and wet at the edges. “That was panic?”

“Steve asked if I was having a stroke.”

Your mouth opens. “He did not.”

“He did.”

“Was he concerned?”

“Very.”

You laugh fully this time, and Bucky’s hands tighten like he wants to hold the sound against you. The laugh fades when he steps closer. His wet chest brushes the front of your swimsuit. Barely. Your nipples tighten under the damp fabric, and his eyes drop just long enough to notice before returning to your face. The restraint almost kills you. “Sam complimented you,” he says.

You blink, following the turn. “Yes.”

“You smiled.”

“He was nice.”

“I know.”

There it is again. Acknowledgment. His thumbs move, small circles over your hips that turn thought into warm static. “You hated that?”

“I hated how easy it was for him.” Bucky’s voice goes rougher. “He could just say it. Stand there in front of everyone and tell you that you looked good. I stood ten feet away acting like looking at you too long was gonna put me in the ground.”

You study him, the damp hair, the tense mouth, the eyes that keep trying to fall and climb back up. “Would it?”

“Yeah,” he says, and this time he does smile. Small, wrecked, honest enough to hurt. “Maybe.”

That does something worse than praise. Makes you ache. Makes you stupid. Makes you lift your hand to his chest, pressing your fingers over the warm skin where your palm had landed earlier. He looks down at your hand like he wants to thank it. “You could’ve said something,” you murmur.

“I thought I had time to figure out how.”

“Figure out how to say you liked a swimsuit?”

“How to say I wanted to peel it off with my teeth without getting slapped in front of Steve.”

Your fingers curl against his chest. He watches your face. “Too much?”

The question is sincere, but barely. Mostly he is reading you now, and whatever he sees in your expression pulls his mouth into something darker. “No,” you say, and your voice sounds smaller than you want. “Continue.”

His laugh is quiet. “Continue?”

“You heard me.”

“I did.” One hand leaves your hip and comes up to your jaw, thumb brushing near the corner of your mouth. “Trying to decide if I wanna continue with my mouth or my hands.”

Your knees feel untrustworthy. “You’re taking suggestions?”

“From you?” He leans in, lips grazing your cheek, not quite kissing. “Always.”

The word slides down your body and settles low, hot, awful. You press your thighs together, barely, but he is too close to miss it. “Yeah?” His lips brush your ear now. “That where it goes when I say that?”

“Shut up.”

“Been trying all day.”

“To shut up?”

“To keep from saying worse.”

His mouth touches your neck. Your eyes close before you can pretend dignity. It is only one kiss at first, warm and damp from pool water, placed under your jaw with almost unbearable care. Then another, lower. His fingers at your jaw angle your face up, and the little stretch of your throat makes the room tilt through your body without the phrase in your head. You grip his shoulder, nails pressing into skin.

“Bucky,” you whisper.

He hums against your neck. “That sounded nice.”

“Don’t get smug.”

“Too late.”

You would scold him, but his teeth scrape lightly over your pulse and the scolding falls apart into a weak sound. He hears it. Of course he hears it. His hand on your hip slides around to the small of your back, pressing you closer, and the hard line of him through his swim trunks meets your lower stomach.

Your entire body pauses.

Bucky goes still too, but only to let you register it.

“Oh,” you breathe, then rush to fix it, face flaming. “That’s, um. That’s there.”

He pulls back enough to look at you. His eyes are nearly black. “Yeah. It’s been there.”

Your mouth parts.

“All day,” he adds, almost cruel now, and the hand at your jaw keeps your face tipped up. “You want the truth? I had to sit down after you got in the pool.”

A tiny, helpless sound leaves you.

His thumb strokes your cheek. “No. Look at me.”

You do, barely.

“I’m gonna say things,” he says, voice softer but dirtier somehow, stripped of performance. “And you’re gonna believe me this time.”

Your throat works around nothing. “That’s demanding.”

“Yeah.”

“Usually people ask.”

“I spent all day asking myself if I was allowed to want you.” His hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers sinking into damp hair. “I’m done asking me.”

That should terrify you. It does, maybe. But it terrifies the part of you that has been begging for exactly this.

His mouth comes back to yours, and this time neither of you pretend at gentleness for long. You open for him almost immediately, and he groans into the kiss, the sound vibrating through his chest under your hand. His tongue slides against yours, slow at first, then deeper when your fingers dig into his shoulders. The kiss turns wet, hungry, breathing ruined between mouths. He walks you backward without breaking it, guiding rather than pushing, until your calves hit the bed.

The bed. White sheets. Guest room. Pool party outside. Bucky’s hands on you.

Your brain tries one last heroic effort at thought.

What if someone comes in?

Bucky’s hands move to your hips.

What if the door isn’t locked?

He turns you, sits on the edge of the bed, and pulls you between his thighs.

What if this changes everything?

His mouth leaves yours and moves down your throat, and your remaining thoughts scatter like birds.

He is sitting now, which makes him lower, makes your body the thing above him for once. It should help. It does not. His hands spread over your thighs, thumbs running along the place where the swimsuit cuts high, and he looks up at you with damp hair falling around his face. He looks wrecked. Actually wrecked. Like the sight of you standing between his legs has finished what the swimsuit started.

“You were hiding under that towel,” he murmurs, tracing the edge of the fabric at your hip.

You swallow. “It was cold.”

“Liar.”

Your face heats, but his mouth presses to your stomach before you can answer. Right over the swimsuit. Soft. Deliberate. You freeze.

He does it again.

Lower this time.

Your hands hover over his shoulders. You do not know what to do with them. Push him away? Pull him closer? Applaud? Cry? Move to Romania?

“Bucky…”

His eyes lift. His lips remain near your stomach. “Yeah?”

You hate the question. Hate how much room it gives you to stop him. Hate how badly you want him to keep going without making you beg for it. “That’s…”

“What?”

You glance away. “You don’t have to…”

He sits back so fast you regret speaking. His hands remain on your thighs, but the warmth of his mouth is gone. “Don’t.”

The single word is sharp enough to bring your eyes back.

His expression is serious again. “Don’t say I don’t have to. I know I don’t have to.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“I want to.” His fingers press into your thighs, almost too tight, then ease as he notices. “I have wanted to put my mouth on you since you walked outside.”

Your body responds so hard it feels unfair.

His eyes lower, following the tiny shift of your thighs. His jaw tightens. “Since before that.”

The room has become too warm. Your swimsuit is drying in patches, damp fabric clinging between your legs, and every tiny movement makes you aware of how wet you are under the pool water. Not just pool water anymore. Maybe not for a while. Horrible. Amazing. You may need medical attention. Or less medical attention and more of his mouth.

Bucky’s thumb slides along your inner thigh.

“You thought I didn’t wanna look.” He says it quietly, but the words carry a rough little bite. “You thought I looked away because I didn’t like your body.”

Your fingers curl into his hair. You do not answer.

He leans forward and kisses the inside of your thigh, just below the swimsuit’s edge.

Your breath leaves in a broken little rush.

His mouth lingers there. “I looked away because I wanted to do this in front of everybody.”

“Bucky,” you whisper, scandalized and so turned on you can barely feel your feet.

His lips move higher, still over skin, slow and warm. “Wanted to drag you out of that pool when Wilson had his hands on you.”

“He was helping.”

“I know.” His teeth graze your thigh. “Still wanted to.”

“You’re terrible.”

“Today?” His eyes flick up. “Yeah.”

His fingers hook under the swimsuit at your hips, then stop. The pause makes your skin prickle. He is waiting. Again. That careful, maddening decency under all the dirty want.

You nod, too fast.

His mouth curves, but it is not teasing. More relief than anything. “Words, baby.”

That name hits deep. Worse after the whole day of being looked away from. Baby means wanted. Baby means chosen. Baby means the towel can stay on the chair and the body you were trying to hide is now the only thing he seems able to focus on.

“Take it off,” you say.

Bucky closes his eyes for a second.

You almost laugh. Almost. Instead your fingers tighten in his hair, and that ruins him faster. His eyes open, and the polite thread in him snaps.

The swimsuit comes down slowly at first, peeled over your hips with such careful attention that you want to crawl out of your skin. The damp fabric resists, clinging where it can, and Bucky seems almost personally offended by it. He leans forward, mouth brushing your hip as he works it lower, then your lower stomach, then the soft skin above your mound. Every kiss makes the wait worse. Every inch exposed feels like a confession.

You expect him to look up at your face once you are bare.

He does not.

His gaze fixes between your thighs, and the sound he makes is quiet, dragged deep from his chest, almost pained. You try to close your legs on instinct, but his hands are already there, spreading warm over your thighs.

“Don’t hide,” he says again, rougher now.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“You’re staring.”

“Yeah.” His thumbs slide higher. “I missed a lot today.”

Your face burns so hot it almost hurts. “You can’t just say that.”

“I can.” He kisses the crease of your thigh, eyes still on you. “I am.”

The swimsuit slips lower, down your thighs, then to your knees. You lift one foot, then the other, and he drops the ruined damp thing somewhere on the floor. A wildly expensive room, white sheets, your swimsuit abandoned in a wet little heap. It should feel humiliating.

It does.

It also makes you throb.

Bucky’s hands return to your thighs. He sits there on the bed, still in his wet trunks, and looks at you like this is the first quiet moment he has had all day and he plans to spend it badly. Your arms cross over your chest, but he catches the movement at once.

“Hey.”

You glare, but there is no force behind it. “What?”

His hands slide around to the backs of your thighs. “Come here.”

“I am here.”

“Closer.”

“There is physically no closer unless I climb you.”

His expression changes.

Ah. Idiot mouth. Treacherous mouth. Mouth with no survival instincts.

Bucky leans back slightly, spreading his thighs more. “Then climb.”

Your body gives an almost embarrassing pulse at the command. “You’re very comfortable giving orders for someone who spent half the day staring at landscaping.”

“I had a hard day.”

“You had a chair.”

“I had you in that swimsuit ten feet away from me.”

“That must have been so difficult.”

He pulls you forward by the backs of your thighs, and the sudden movement makes your hands land on his shoulders. “It was.”

There is no joke in his voice now.

Your knees go onto the mattress on either side of him before you fully decide to move. Straddling his lap like this, bare while he is still partly clothed, feels obscene in a way full nudity might not have. His trunks are wet beneath you. The hard length of him presses up between your thighs, thick and hot even through fabric. Your hips jerk before you can stop them, and his hands clamp around you with a groan.

“Shit.” His forehead drops to your collarbone. “Do that again and I’m gonna embarrass myself.”

That should make you smug. Powerful. Instead it makes you needy in a way you did not agree to. You roll your hips again, smaller this time, dragging your bare pussy over the soaked fabric of his trunks. The friction is rough enough to make your mouth fall open. His hands grip your ass, helping and stopping at once, torn between instincts.

“Baby,” he says, warning and pleading in the same breath.

The word feeds something awful in you. You do it again.

Bucky’s head tips back, throat working, eyes squeezed shut for half a second. This beautiful, irritating man who looked away all day now looks as if your body might actually kill him. Good. Maybe balance exists.

“You like this?” you ask, and your voice is shaky, but the question still has a little bite. “Or are you going to look at the curtains?”

His eyes open.

You may have gone too far.

His hand comes up and catches your jaw, not hard, but certain enough that your hips still. “Say it again.”

Your lips part. “What?”

“What you said outside.”

The pool steps return all at once. Wet stone. His hand at your waist. Your own stupid voice, bitter and wounded.

“You don’t have to touch me longer than necessary,” you murmur, quieter now.

Bucky’s jaw flexes. His thumb strokes once along your lower lip, and the tenderness of it makes the shame worse somehow. “That.” His other hand presses at your lower back, bringing you down against him again. “Every time you thought that today, I want it back.”

You have no idea what that means until he kisses you.

It is not careful now. It is deep, claiming, his tongue sliding into your mouth as his hand guides your hips over him. The wet fabric drags against your clit, and you whimper into the kiss, the sound swallowed by him immediately. He does it again, rolls you down, grinds you over the hard shape of his cock, and the pleasure is dirty and sharp, mixed with the faint scratch of his trunks and the slickness between your thighs.

“Long enough?” he mutters against your mouth.

You clutch at him, face burning. “Shut up.”

His hand slips between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with such sudden precision that your whole body jerks. He rubs slow, tight circles, using your wetness and the water still on your skin, watching your face from inches away.

“Answer me.”

You shake your head, pride making a brave final appearance before dying in combat. “No.”

“No?” His mouth brushes yours, and his fingers press a little harder. Your hips chase the touch, humiliating you on contact. “Still not long enough?”

You hate him. You love him. You want to bite his shoulder until he says your name wrong. “Bucky…”

“That’s not an answer.”

His fingers dip lower, sliding through your folds, and his eyes go heavy at what he finds. “Fuck, sweetheart.” His voice drops into something rough and almost disbelieving. “You’re soaked.”

“Pool,” you manage, immediately ashamed of yourself.

He laughs then, a low sound against your mouth. “Yeah? Pool did this?”

His fingers push inside you, two at once, thick enough that your head drops forward to his shoulder. The stretch steals whatever joke you had left. Your hands claw at his back, and he groans like that hurts in the best possible way.

“Guess I owe the pool an apology,” he murmurs, pumping his fingers slowly. “Been mad at it all day for touching you more than I got to.”

Your laugh breaks into a moan. The sound is embarrassing, open, too needy, and he reacts to it with a thrust of his hips up against your bare thigh, his cock hard and trapped in wet fabric.

“Bucky,” you whimper, turning your face into his neck.

His fingers curl.

Your body goes liquid.

“There,” he breathes, and then seems to remember himself. “Yeah, right there?”

You nod into his skin, too far gone to be difficult.

“Use words.”

A sharp little pulse goes through you. He feels it. His laugh is quieter this time, almost awed.

“Oh, you like that.” His fingers press the same spot again, slow and deliberate, and his thumb finds your clit. “All that mouth at the pool, and now look at you.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” His mouth moves to your ear, breath hot over wet skin. “You hated thinking I didn’t want you.”

That one splits you open more than his fingers.

You try to lift your head, but he holds you where you are, face tucked into his neck, body in his lap, nowhere to go but the truth.

“You hated me looking away,” he continues, quieter, filthy and tender in equal measure. “Hated Wilson saying you looked good because you wanted it from me. Hated that I sat there like an idiot when all you wanted was for me to come over and put my hands on you.”

Your thighs shake around his. The pleasure is building faster than you expected, pulled tighter by every word. He is too accurate. Too close. Too deep, and it is only his fingers, which makes you dizzy with terror over what the rest of him will do.

“I didn’t…” You try. Fail. “I didn’t want…”

He kisses under your ear. “Liar.”

“Bucky.”

“You did.” His hand around your waist slides up your back, holding you as his fingers fuck into you a little harder. “You wanted me jealous. You wanted me to see you. You wanted me to stop acting like a saint and do something about it.”

Your nails dig into him.

“There,” he says, sounding pleased and ruined all at once. “That one.”

You are close. Horribly close. Hips rocking into his hand now, your body making choices your pride would never sign off on. His thumb rubs your clit steadily, and his fingers hit that same spot until your vision goes soft at the edges. You bite down on his shoulder to keep from being too loud, and he makes a strangled sound, hips bucking under you.

“God, do that again.”

You do. Harder.

His fingers slip out of rhythm for one second, and that small loss almost makes you sob. “No, no, no, don’t stop.”

Bucky’s hand tightens at your back. “I’ve got you.”

“You keep saying things like that,” you gasp, words breaking as he finds the rhythm again.

“Yeah?”

“It’s annoying.”

He kisses your temple, and the sweetness of it almost tips you over. “Cum, then complain.”

That should not work.

It works.

The orgasm rolls through you hard enough to make your mouth open against his shoulder without sound at first. Then the sound comes, muffled into his skin, high and wrecked. Your hips grind down on his fingers, chasing every last pull of it, and Bucky talks you through it in a rough whisper that barely sounds like him anymore.

“That’s it, baby. Fuck, there you go. Just needed someone to touch you right, huh? Needed me to stop being stupid and put my hands on you.”

Your body shakes in his lap, every muscle loose and trembling. His fingers slow but do not leave right away. He lets you ride the last of it, forehead pressed to the side of your head, breath rough in your ear. The patio music is still going somewhere far away. Someone outside cheers. Maybe a game. Maybe a toast. The world is criminally unaware that you have just collapsed into a man you were pretending to hate this morning.

Then Bucky starts to pull his fingers free.

You whine.

The sound is pathetic. Immediate. You wish to file a complaint against yourself.

Bucky freezes, then laughs under his breath. “Greedy.”

“Shut up.”

His fingers slide out fully, wet and obscene between you. You mean to look away. You fail. He watches your face as he brings them to his mouth, licking them clean with a slow, dirty satisfaction that makes your cunt clench around nothing.

His eyes darken. “Saw that.”

“You see too much.”

“Not enough.” His hands go to your hips again, turning you carefully and laying you back on the bed before you can protest. The white sheets are instantly doomed, damp under your body, but Tony’s laundry issues are not your ministry. Bucky kneels between your thighs, still in his trunks, cock straining hard beneath the clinging fabric. “I’m making up for it.”

A nervous laugh leaves you as your head sinks into the pillows. “By staring at my vagina?”

His brows lift.

Your face burns. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Your face again.”

“My face likes you.”

“Your face is an idiot.”

“Yeah.” He presses a kiss to your knee, then lower, then lower again, hands sliding under your thighs to open you wider. “It’s got company.”

The first touch of his mouth between your legs almost makes you levitate.

He does not ease in. Not really. Maybe he means to, maybe he has some beautiful plan involving patience, but the second his tongue parts you, his control seems to go with it. His hands hook around your thighs, dragging you closer to his mouth, and the sound he makes against your pussy is so filthy you cover your mouth with one hand.

Bucky stops.

Your eyes fly open.

He lifts his head, mouth wet, eyes furious in the best way. “Move your hand.”

Your fingers loosen over your lips. “They’ll hear.”

“Let them hear the pool wasn’t the reason you left.”

Your whole body clenches. He sees that too. Obviously. Curse him and his newly unleashed observational skills.

“Bucky,” you whisper, scandalized.

He kisses your inner thigh, close enough to make you twitch. “Move it, baby.”

Slowly, your hand drops to the sheets.

He smiles against your skin. “Thank you.”

Then his mouth is back on you, and gratitude becomes a weapon. He licks into you with slow, messy strokes at first, tasting you like he has been denied water and blames you personally. His tongue drags from your entrance to your clit, lingering there until your thighs tense around his head. Then he does it again. Again. Learning with horrifying speed what makes your hips jerk, what makes your fingers twist in the sheets, what makes your mouth form his name without quite saying it.

You understand, distantly, that he is good at this.

Of course he is. Of course Bucky Barnes eats pussy like he has a vendetta against sanity. Of course the man who looked away all afternoon now has his face buried between your thighs with a concentration that feels almost insulting. Like he is determined to win an argument you did not realize your body had started.

His metal hand slides up your stomach, cool against heated skin, holding you down when your hips lift. The contrast makes you moan. His eyes flick up. He does it again, palm pressing lightly between your ribs as his tongue circles your clit.

“Please,” you breathe, though you have no idea what you are asking for.

Bucky hums into you.

Your back arches. The hum vibrates through every over-sensitive nerve he has already ruined, and your hands shoot to his hair. He lets you pull. Encourages it, maybe, with another wet, open-mouthed suck that makes your thighs clamp around his ears.

“Sorry,” you gasp, trying to loosen your grip.

He pulls back just enough to speak, lips shining. “Do it again.”

“What?”

His teeth scrape your thigh. “Pull my hair again.”

You stare at him, then obey with trembling fingers.

His eyes close for a second, and the expression on his face is so openly pleased that something inside you folds. This is him. Not the cold look-away version from the patio. Not the teasing version with everyone watching. This man, wet-haired and greedy, kneeling between your legs like he has found religion and plans to be terrible about it.

He lowers his mouth again, and this time you pull when his tongue presses inside you.

Bucky groans into your cunt.

The sound is enough to make your hips jerk up against his mouth. He holds you down, but barely. Like he wants the fight. Like every needy movement makes him worse. His tongue fucks into you, then slips back to your clit, alternating until you cannot predict anything except pleasure. It grows too quickly. Your last orgasm has left you sensitive, swollen, every touch brighter than it should be.

“Bucky, I can’t,” you gasp, then hate yourself because you absolutely can and probably will.

He lifts his head, but keeps his thumb moving over your clit in lazy, devastating circles. “Can’t what?”

“Again. I can’t…”

His mouth curves, wet and wicked. “You can.”

“You have too much confidence.”

“I have evidence.” His thumb presses a little harder, and your legs shake. “Look at you.”

“No.”

“Yeah.” He leans up over you, thumb still moving, mouth hovering above yours. You can smell yourself on him. The realization makes you clench so hard his eyes drop. “You gonna get shy now? After soaking my fingers? After grinding all over me like you were trying to ruin my life?”

“I was making a point.”

“You made it.” His lips brush yours. “Very persuasive.”

You mean to roll your eyes. He kisses you before you can, pushing the taste of yourself into your mouth while his thumb keeps working your clit. The kiss makes it dirtier. More intimate. Your hand wraps around his wrist, but you don’t pull him away. You hold him there, grinding up in tiny helpless motions as the pressure builds again.

Bucky’s mouth leaves yours only to speak against it. “You’re gonna cum on my hand, then I’m gonna fuck you. If that’s what you want.”

If. Somehow that word remains. A door, not a trap. It makes your eyes sting again, which is so deeply inconvenient while naked with a man’s hand between your legs.

“I want it,” you say, voice shaking.

His forehead touches yours. “Yeah?”

“Yes.” Your grip tightens around his wrist. “I want you. I wanted you all day. I wanted you before today, and you were horrible and confusing and shirtless, which was unnecessary, and I hate that you looked away, and I hate that I cared, and I want you to fuck me so badly I can’t think about any of it.”

Bucky stares at you.

For a moment you regret speaking. Then his mouth crashes into yours, and regret becomes impractical.

His fingers replace his thumb, sliding down and pushing into you again, three this time, the stretch sharper after his mouth. You gasp into the kiss. He swallows it, pumps his fingers deep, heel of his hand grinding against your clit. The pleasure turns immediate and rough, your body already primed by his mouth and his words and the unbearable fact of being wanted after hours of believing the opposite.

“That’s it,” he mutters against your cheek. “There’s my mean girl. Thought I lost you under all that pouting.”

You whimper and slap weakly at his shoulder. “I was wounded.”

“You were jealous.”

“You were avoidant.”

“I was hard enough to see God.”

A shocked laugh bursts out of you, then breaks as his fingers curl. “That’s vulgar.”

“You asked for honesty.”

“I did not ask for theology.”

He laughs into your neck, and somehow the warm sound mixed with the filthy rhythm of his hand tips you closer. You clutch at his shoulders, then his hair, then the sheets. Nothing helps. The orgasm comes slower this time, dragged out of you with cruel patience. Your thighs tense, stomach pulling tight, and Bucky feels the change before you can warn him.

“Yeah, baby. Give me that one too.” His mouth presses near your ear, voice a wrecked whisper. “Need it. Need to feel you cum before I get inside you.”

Need. From him. Bucky Barnes needing anything from you.

Your body gives in.

The second orgasm is messier, wetter, less contained. You cry out before you can bite it back, hips bucking into his hand, and Bucky groans like the sound goes straight through him. His fingers keep moving, slower but deep, dragging the pleasure until you are shaking and trying to push at his wrist.

“Too much,” you gasp.

He stops at once.

The loss makes you whine again, and he laughs softly, kissing your cheek, then your jaw, then your mouth with absurd sweetness for someone who just fingered you into temporary stupidity.

“You’re impossible,” he murmurs.

“Your fault.”

“Yeah.” His hand smooths over your thigh, gentle now. “I’m starting to like that answer.”

You open your eyes. He is above you, wet hair falling forward, mouth swollen from kissing and eating you, eyes on your face with such naked affection that it scares you more than the hunger did.

Affection is hard. Desire has a script. Affection looks at you afterward.

Your hand lifts before you can stop it, touching his cheek. He turns slightly into your palm. That tiny movement ruins you.

“You really wanted me?” you ask, hating the softness in your voice.

His expression tightens. “All day.”

“Before today?”

He presses a kiss to your palm. “Yeah.”

“How long?”

A pause.

The room becomes too quiet again, but this silence is not empty. It is full of him deciding whether to lie. He does not.

“Long enough to act stupid about it.”

“That could be any amount of time.”

“Months.”

Your chest squeezes. “Months?”

“Maybe longer.”

“You’re terrible at flirting.”

“I panicked,” he says again, like that explains the whole tragedy of him. Maybe it does.

You laugh softly. He smiles this time, real and quick, then kisses you. The kiss starts gentle, then deepens when your legs wrap around his waist. His cock presses against you through his trunks, and the teasing drag makes both of you go still.

He looks down between your bodies. “I need these off.”

“Finally, a smart idea.”

His hands go to the waistband, then pause. “Condom?”

Reality returns in a less catastrophic way. Important. Practical. You gesture vaguely toward the side table, then remember this is Tony’s guest room, not a hotel minibar for sex supplies. “Unless Tony keeps them next to the complimentary existential dread, I don’t…”

Bucky drops his forehead to your shoulder with a pained groan.

A laugh bubbles out of you, helpless and mean. “Very prepared seduction, Barnes.”

“I was supposed to be ignoring you by the pool.”

“You did great.”

He bites your shoulder lightly. You yelp, then laugh harder. His own laugh shakes against you, warm and frustrated, and the absurdity of it makes the room feel human again.

Then he lifts his head. “I have one in my wallet.”

You stop laughing.

His brows draw together. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re judging.”

“I am judging.”

“I’m a grown man.”

“With pool-party condoms?”

“One condom. Singular. Emergency.”

“What emergency did you anticipate?”

He gives you a look. “Apparently this one.”

You should make another joke. You truly should. But the thought of him having one, of this actually happening, drains humor out of you and leaves want in its place. “Wallet,” you say.

Bucky’s eyes darken again.

He climbs off the bed, and the loss of his body makes you cold for exactly three seconds before he turns toward the chair where his discarded shirt must be absent, then remembers his wallet is out by the pool with his things. His face changes into genuine despair.

You clap a hand over your mouth.

“Don’t,” he warns.

“You left your emergency outside?”

“I didn’t plan to need it indoors.”

You dissolve into laughter. It is quiet, desperate, half muffled, but laughter all the same. Bucky stares at you, then shakes his head, smiling despite himself. He looks younger like this. Less impossible. Still shirtless and wet and hard in his swim trunks, which does complicate the innocence.

“I’ll go,” he says.

“You are not going outside like that.”

His gaze drops to the obvious tent in his trunks. “Fair.”

You look around the room and spot a folded robe near the bathroom door, white and plush. Perfectly Tony. “Robe.”

“I’m not wearing Stark’s sex robe.”

“Guest robe.”

“Same thing.”

“You want the condom or a philosophical debate?”

Bucky points at you. “Stay there.”

You sink back into the pillows, naked and grinning like an idiot. “Where would I go?”

“Knowing you? Window.”

“Only if things get worse.”

He grabs the robe, pulls it on with visible resentment, and the sight of Bucky Barnes in a plush white guest robe with wet hair and a furious erection is so absurdly beautiful that you almost cry. He catches your face and pauses at the door.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

He narrows his eyes. “That smile says something.”

“It says hurry.”

That works. He leaves, closing the door behind him.

The second he is gone, you become aware of yourself again. Naked on white sheets. Swimsuit on the floor. Body cooling, thighs damp, mouth swollen. The laughter fades slowly, leaving a trembling little silence behind it.

This is real.

Bucky wanted you. Bucky is coming back. Bucky went to fetch a condom wearing Tony’s guest robe like some obscene, damp ghost of poor planning.

Your hand presses over your stomach. Not hiding now. Just grounding. It feels different under your own palm after his mouth, his hands, his eyes. Still yours. Still soft in places. Still carrying every insecurity from the bathroom mirror. But his wanting has touched it now, and you hate how much that helps. Hate how badly you needed someone else’s hunger to quiet the awful little voice in your head. Maybe you can work on that later. Maybe growth can wait until after orgasms.

Voices rise in the hall.

You freeze.

Sam: “Barnes, why the hell are you wearing a robe?”

Bucky, low and deadly: “Move.”

Tony, delighted somewhere farther away: “That is Egyptian cotton, by the way.”

Natasha laughs. “Let him live.”

Sam again, audibly grinning: “Is there a fire?”

Bucky says something too low to hear.

A beat of silence.

Then Sam barks out, “Oh my god.”

Your soul exits again, does a lap, returns out of morbid curiosity.

The door opens. Bucky steps in, face red, jaw tight, wallet in hand, robe still tied around him. He closes the door and locks it this time.

You stare.

He points at you again. “Don’t.”

“I said nothing.”

“You’re laughing with your whole face.”

“I would never.”

He stalks back toward the bed, tugging at the robe tie with enough aggression to threaten the cotton’s lineage. “Wilson knows.”

“Oh no.”

“Tony knows.”

“Tony knew before we did.”

“Steve looked proud.”

That breaks you. You roll onto your side, laughing into the pillow. Bucky tosses the wallet onto the bed and grabs your ankle, pulling you back toward him. The movement turns your laughter into a gasp. The robe falls open as he kneels on the mattress, and there he is, absurdity gone in a single second, his body over yours again, desire returning like a hand around your throat.

“Laughing at me?” he asks.

“Yes.”

His hand slides up your calf, over your knee, spreading your leg aside. “That’s brave.”

“I’m very brave.”

“You slipped twice today.”

“Physically brave and spatially cursed.”

His mouth twitches. He bends down and kisses the inside of your knee, then the thigh, and the laughter fades into a softer sound. “You okay?”

The question is quiet. It stops the teasing better than any command could. You look down at him, fingers resting in his wet hair.

“Yes,” you say. Then, more honest, “Nervous.”

His hand stills on your thigh. “About me?”

“About you seeing me.”

His face changes again, but he does not use any of the easy lines. No polished praise. No smooth answer. He moves up your body instead, covering you with his warmth, bracing one arm beside your head. His other hand cups your cheek, thumb damp against your skin.

“I see you,” he says. “I want you. Same sentence.”

Your throat tightens. “That’s unfairly effective.”

“Trying to be clear.”

“Terrible habit.”

His mouth brushes yours. “Can I keep seeing you?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

His lips press to your cheek, your jaw, your neck. “Can I keep touching you?”

Your legs part wider around him. “Yeah.”

His hand slides down between your bodies, and your hips lift when his fingers stroke through your folds again, gentle now, checking. Teasing. Both. “Can I fuck you?”

The bluntness sends a hot pulse through you. Your fingers tighten on his shoulders.

“Yes,” you breathe. “Please.”

Bucky’s eyes close for a beat, and when they open, patience is hanging by a thread.

The robe is shoved away. His trunks follow, dragged down his hips with a wet, clinging sound that would be funny if you had enough brain left. You do not. You are too busy staring. He is thick, heavy in his hand, flushed at the tip, and your mouth goes dry so fast it is almost comic.

Bucky notices. Naturally.

“Still judging my emergency condom?” he asks, tearing the foil with his teeth.

You look up at him. “Less now.”

“Thought so.”

The condom rolls on. His hand pumps once, twice, and your thighs press together around empty air. He sees that too, then settles between your legs and guides them open again. The head of his cock drags through your wetness, and both of you go quiet.

The first press against your entrance is almost too much.

He pauses there, forehead lowering to yours. “Tell me if you need slow.”

You hate that. You love that. You want to ruin him for it.

“I need you to stop talking like a responsible adult,” you whisper.

A short laugh leaves him, strained. “Sweetheart, I am hanging on by a thread.”

“Then stop hanging.”

His hips push forward.

The stretch is slow and full and immediate enough to make your mouth fall open. Bucky watches your face as he enters you, jaw clenched, breath breaking through his nose. He gives you the first inch, then another, then stops when your nails dig into his arms.

“Okay?”

You nod too quickly, body caught between ache and hunger. “More.”

His control slips for half a second. His hips roll deeper, and the sound that leaves both of you is ugly and perfect. He is bigger than his fingers, thicker than your imagination had kindly prepared you for, filling you in a way that makes thought stagger. Your legs wrap around his waist. His hand grips the sheet beside your head.

“Fuck,” he breathes, almost helpless. “You feel…”

You wait for the line. Pretty. Tight. Perfect. Something dirty and easy.

He lowers his face to your neck. “I’m gonna lose my mind.”

That is better.

You clench around him, and his hips jerk. His teeth press into your shoulder. “Do that again and this ends fast.”

“Maybe I want that.”

He lifts his head, eyes dark. “No, you don’t.”

Your body gives you away, warmth spreading under your skin. “Annoying.”

“You want me to take my time now.” He pulls out slightly, then pushes back in, slow enough that you feel every inch. “You wanted me to look, right? Wanted me to stop looking away?”

Your hands twist in the sheets.

He does it again, dragging the pleasure into something deep and almost unbearable. “I’m looking.”

You cannot answer. There is no room. He fills too much of you, his body heavy over yours, wet hair brushing your cheek, the scent of chlorine and him wrapped around every breath. His eyes hold your face as he starts a slow rhythm, each thrust smooth and deep, his mouth parting when you tighten around him.

“Bucky,” you moan, and his name sounds ruined.

His hand slips under your knee, hitching your leg higher. The angle changes, and his next thrust hits so deep your back bows off the bed. He groans, dropping his head to your shoulder.

“There?” he asks, already doing it again.

You nod, frantic. “There, please, there.”

“Yeah, baby.” His pace picks up, still controlled but rougher now, bed shifting under both of you. “Knew you’d sound pretty begging.”

Your face burns. “I’m not begging.”

He thrusts harder.

The words vanish.

“That sounded like begging.” His mouth presses to your cheek, deceptively sweet while his hips drive into you with enough force to make your fingers claw at his back. “Pool made you mouthy. My cock’s fixing it.”

The filth of it makes you clench.

Bucky laughs, but it breaks halfway into a groan. “Shit, you like that.”

“You’re so smug.”

“I’m inside you,” he says, breath hot against your mouth. “I earned a little.”

You would argue, but his hand slides between you and finds your clit. The first touch makes you jolt. After his mouth and his fingers, you are too sensitive, every nerve overfed and greedy. He rubs tight circles as he fucks you, watching your expression collapse.

“Oh, that’s it.” His voice turns thick, affectionate in the dirtiest possible way. “There’s my girl.”

My girl.

You fall apart a little just hearing it.

His eyes sharpen. “Yeah? That one?”

“Bucky…”

“My girl,” he repeats, and his hips hit deeper, harder. “Mine to look at. Mine to touch. Mine to pull out of the pool when she’s trying to make me jealous.”

You shake your head, but your body is a liar and both of you know it.

“No?” His thumb presses harder on your clit. “You didn’t like me jumping in after you?”

“You looked ridiculous,” you gasp.

“Yeah, well. You looked wet and half naked and mad at me. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

A laugh escapes you, then turns into a moan when he rolls his hips. He smiles against your mouth, kissing the sound away, and for a few seconds the rhythm becomes messy. Kissing, thrusting, breathing into each other, his hand working between you, your nails leaving half-moon marks in his shoulders. No clean choreography. No grace. Just damp skin, white sheets, the slap of his hips against yours growing louder, the ridiculous fear that someone outside might hear and the worse realization that you want them to know he came after you.

You turn your face into the pillow to muffle yourself.

Bucky catches your jaw and pulls you back. “No.”

“They’ll hear.”

“Good.”

“Bucky.”

His eyes are dark, almost feverish. “Spent all day watching you think I didn’t want you. Let them hear me prove it.”

Your orgasm rises so fast it scares you. It starts low, tightening through your stomach, then spreads until your thighs tremble around his waist. He feels it. His thrusts lose some smoothness, turning heavier, more desperate.

“You close?”

You nod, helpless.

“Say it.”

“I’m close.”

His mouth brushes yours. “Ask me.”

Your eyes open. “What?”

“Ask me to make you cum.”

The request should annoy you. It does. It also sends pleasure twisting sharply through your body, so your irritation lacks credibility.

“You’re impossible,” you whimper.

“Ask.”

His hips slow.

That is evil.

You grab at his shoulders. “Don’t slow down.”

“Ask me, baby.”

A second passes, filled with the obscene pressure of him buried deep and almost still, his thumb barely moving over your clit. You glare at him with whatever strength remains.

“Please,” you say, hating how breathless it is. Loving how his face changes. “Please make me cum.”

Bucky groans, and the restraint goes.

His hips drive into you hard enough to shove you up the bed, one arm hooking under your back to keep you close. His thumb works your clit faster, and his mouth moves over your jaw, your cheek, your lips, wherever he can reach while he fucks you. He is talking now, rough and uneven, less like performance and more like words escaping under pressure.

“Wanted this so bad. Wanted you so bad, sweetheart. Sitting out there in that fucking swimsuit, looking at me like you wanted to scratch my eyes out. Thought I was gonna snap when you smiled at Sam. Thought I was gonna drag you inside when you said I didn’t have to touch you. Stupid thing to say to me. Like I haven’t been thinking about putting my hands on you for months.”

Months. Again. The word breaks over you with the thrusts, with the pressure, with the hard heat of him inside you.

Your orgasm hits with his name in your mouth.

It is bigger this time, deeper, pulled from every place he touched and every place he looked. You cry out, hips lifting into him, cunt clenching around his cock so hard his rhythm stutters. Bucky curses against your throat, fucking you through it with short, rough thrusts that make the pleasure keep sparking long after the first wave should have ended.

“That’s it,” he groans. “That’s it, baby. Fuck, you feel so good when you cum.”

You cannot answer. Your body is trembling too hard, arms wrapped around him, face pressed into his neck as he loses the last of his rhythm. His thrusts turn desperate, deeper and less controlled, and something about that undoes you almost as much as your own release. Bucky, who spent all day looking away, is now buried inside you and shaking apart over it.

“Where?” he rasps.

The condom. Practicality. Again, somehow.

“Inside,” you breathe. “You have the condom, inside, please.”

He makes a sound against your skin, broken and almost grateful. His hips slam once, twice, then bury deep as he comes. His whole body tenses over yours, breath caught against your shoulder, hands gripping you like he needs somewhere to put the force of it. You feel the pulse of him through the condom, feel the weight of him, the shudder that runs across his back under your hands.

Then he softens by degrees.

His forehead rests against your shoulder. His breathing is rough, warm, damp over your skin. Your own body feels boneless, wrung out and too sensitive, thighs still locked around his waist like they have not received news of the ending.

Outside, someone cheers again.

Bucky huffs a laugh into your neck. “If that’s about us, I’m moving to Siberia.”

You laugh weakly, fingers combing through the wet hair at his nape. “That was my plan.”

“We can carpool.”

“After you get off me. You’re heavy.”

He lifts his head, affronted and beautiful. “You wound me.”

“You crushed me.”

“You wrapped around me.”

“You were available.”

His smile comes slowly this time, soft and disbelieving, and the sight hurts in a new way. Not bad. Just big. Too big for a guest room during a pool party. Too big for a body still buzzing from sex.

He kisses you once, gentle and quick. “I’m gonna move.”

You make a deeply embarrassing sound of protest before you can stop it.

Bucky pauses. The smugness returns in miniature. “Yeah?”

“Don’t start.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Your face is speaking.”

“My face has been through a lot today.”

He eases out carefully, and even that makes you wince. His hand strokes your thigh in apology, and the tenderness of it makes you look away. He handles the condom, ties it off, finds a trash bin in the bathroom, washes his hands. Normal things. Human things. Meanwhile you lie in Tony Stark’s guest bed naked, damp, and fucked so thoroughly that your bones feel rearranged.

When Bucky returns, he grabs the towel from the chair and wipes gently at the wetness on your thighs. The care makes your throat tighten.

“You don’t have to do that,” you murmur, then immediately regret the phrasing.

His eyes lift.

Right.

You both hear the echo.

This time, he does not get angry. He leans down and kisses the inside of your knee. “I want to.”

The answer settles over the old wound quietly.

You nod, unable to make a joke fast enough.

He cleans you with warm water from the bathroom after that, careful between your legs while you try not to squirm from sensitivity. Then he finds another towel, pats the sheets around you with the resigned air of a man who knows Tony will make comments for the rest of his life. Your swimsuit remains on the floor. He picks it up, holds it between two fingers, and gives it an unreadable look.

You lift your head. “Don’t insult it. We’ve all grown.”

Bucky’s mouth twitches. “I owe it an apology.”

“You owe me an apology.”

“I gave you one.”

“I want another.”

He climbs back onto the bed beside you, still naked, shameless in a way that should be illegal. The mattress dips under his weight. “For what?”

“For being weird at the pool.”

“I’m sorry.”

“For looking away.”

“I’m sorry.”

“For making me think you hated it.”

His face softens in that unbearable way again. He reaches for you, then pauses until you shift closer yourself. Once you do, his arm slides around you, pulling you against his chest. His skin is warm now, less wet, still smelling faintly of chlorine. “I’m sorry.”

You rest your cheek against him, listening to his heart. It is beating fast. Not hammering. You refuse to give it dramatic language. Just fast enough to comfort you.

“And for making me feel like I needed sam to tell me I looked nice,” you add, quieter.

His arm tightens.

A few seconds pass. Not empty. Not awkward. Full of that sentence sitting between you and breathing.

“You looked beautiful,” he says, voice low. “You looked so good I forgot how to act like a person. And that’s on me, not you.”

Your eyes sting again, which is becoming repetitive and rude. “You need to stop saying decent things after sex. It’s confusing.”

His lips press to your hair. “Would it help if I said something indecent?”

“Yes.”

“Your thighs almost killed me.”

A laugh bursts out of you, wet and startled. “Bucky.”

“I’m serious. National threat.”

“You’re so stupid.”

He kisses your forehead, smiling against your skin. “Yeah, but you like me.”

You go still for half a second.

He feels it.

The words sit there, too close to another word neither of you has touched yet. Like. Want. Months. My girl. All safer than the one with teeth. Bucky’s hand moves slowly over your back, giving you somewhere to put the panic.

“You like me too,” he says, softer, almost cautious beneath the tease.

You close your eyes. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“Don’t get greedy.”

His chest moves under your cheek with a quiet laugh. “Too late.”

A knock hits the door.

Both of you freeze.

Tony’s voice comes through the wood, bright with theatrical politeness. “As the owner of this house, its Egyptian cotton robe, and several traumatized guests, I would like to announce that dinner part two is happening in twenty minutes. Clothing encouraged. Applause optional.”

You bury your face in Bucky’s chest.

Bucky sighs. “Go away, Stark.”

“Gladly. Also, Wilson owes me fifty dollars. Carry on.”

Footsteps retreat.

Your face is burning so badly it may light the bed on fire. “I hate everyone.”

Bucky’s hand slides possessively over your hip. “Want me to get your clothes?”

The thought of walking back outside in the swimsuit after everything makes you want to dissolve. But then again, the old shame does not bite quite the same now. The swimsuit is still a damp heap on the floor. Your body is still your body. Your friends are still awful. Bucky is still a confusing, broad disaster.

Only now he has seen you. Touched you. Wanted you. Said it clearly enough that even your mean little brain has to work harder to ruin it.

“Eventually,” you say.

He hums. “Eventually sounds good.”

“You can’t keep me in Tony’s guest room forever.”

“No,” he agrees, hand moving lazily over your side. “But I can try for another ten minutes.”

“That’s ambitious.”

His mouth finds your neck, and the smile against your skin is warm enough to melt whatever was left of you. “I can be patient.”

“You said that before.”

“I lied.”

You laugh, and he kisses the sound before it can get away.

[ungrapeful]

Canada's Internet Censorship Bill S209

Bill S-209 is 'An Act to restrict young persons’ online access to pornographic material', titled that by the Senator who sponsored it in the Senate.

note: Government laws in Canada are more commonly introduced by the House of Commons but the Senate has the same power. MPs in the House are elected directly by citizens while Senators are appointed by Prime Ministers. Bills from the Senate start with 'S' while bills from the House of Commons start with 'C'. Both parties need to agree on the contents of a bill before it passes into law.

This bill is similar to what's happening with KOSA/SCREEN in the US, OSA in the UK, and even Mastercard/Visa where "protecting the children" is being used as an excuse to level bans of 'pornographic material' online, propose the use of AI to somehow determine people's age to restrict their access to the internet, and force people to submit government ID and/or biometric data in order to "verify their age".

Don't be mistaken, this is a censorship bill. This is not about actually protecting children, this is not about reducing dangerous working conditions within the porn industry, this is not about making the internet safer. This is nothing other than allowing governments to control what you can and can't see online.

But porn is bad! Why shouldn't it be banned?

I'm just going to let @roach-works explain since they did it way better than I can: someone got really mad at me for being pro-pornography.

Also, banning 'pornographic material' is not only extremely broad, it is also an extremely slippery slope, because what always comes next is extending that ban to LGBTQ+ content, sexual or not. Censorship bills need to be stopped early, before it gets to that point.

What can I do to help?

There's a change.org petition floating around but if you're Canadian, you're better off directing your energy to call or write to your Member of Parliament to express your concern.

Find your MP.

Email template made by @sunn-kist.

Remember:

personalize your message (form and template emails can get filtered)

calling your MP is still the most effective

written letters are more effective than emails but I'd recommend both

[theaceofwords]

Why Tumblr Has Rolled Out ID Verification

UK legislation: Online Safety Act 2023

Brazil legislation: Digital Statute For Children And Adolescents

Apple App Store Age Verification

These are not tumblr specific policies. Tumblr is implementing age verification in response to legislative moves that were made months ago.

Tumblr is a failing social media site that has escaped death multiple times already; they do not have the social cachet to defy state regulatory agencies. We know they won't say no to Apple, either--the porn ban on tumblr was in response to Apple's crackdown on explicit content.

If you did not know this was happening, you were behind the curve. That is fine. You're caught up now. The next step is to link up with people in your country who are working to preserve privacy, to roll back these laws where they exist, and to prevent their passage where they do not. In the US the organization you want is Stop KOSA--in the EU you can start with Fight Chat Control.

Repealing ID verification and blocking chat control will help everyone, especially the most vulnerable. We can push this back, but we cannot get it done through the Feedback form. We have to get it done at the legislative level and lock it down so it cannot be forced upon us. I see lots of anger out there. Good. Put it to use.

[existennialmemes]

Every Website right now: Give us a scan of your driver's license or be banished. It's for safety.

Every Website for the last 10 years: Oopsies we had another massive data breach! Tee-hee!