You and Bucky are getting closer. Closer than you are - closer than you should be. Sharing beds and enchantments when you know better. You know better, don't you, Angel?
...Angel, you okay? You don't look so good...
How much have you had to drink?
divinestark!readerxbucky for context: who are you? what are you? why are you here?
other parts: masterlist, one, two, three, four, five, six , eight
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MDNI WARNING: POORLY WRITTEN SMUT AHEAD!
He had fallen asleep on your shoulder—innocent, almost childlike. He hadn’t meant to. Neither had you.
Before dawn you woke, heat coiled around your waist. For one awful, wonderful moment you thought you were still dreaming. It wasn’t a dream. His body was heavy against yours, and the sensation clawed at something you’d never made room for.
You kept your eyes shut, lashes trembling. Slowly, you cracked them open and checked. Relief—and dread—flooded through you. He was asleep.
The intimacy was suffocating. His cheek pressed against your breasts, his arm locked around you like a shackle he didn’t know he’d forged. One hand splayed over the small of your back, fingers twitching as though even in sleep he was fighting not to lose you.
He shouldn’t have looked so young. Not after everything. But he did—long lashes resting soft against cheekbones, lips parted, the faintest flush warming his skin. Freckles. You’d never noticed them. How could you not have noticed? His hair was getting longer, untidy waves spilling over his brow until you brushed them back with a reverence that wasn’t yours to give. His stubble rasped faintly against your shirt.
Then—your name, breathed from his mouth like an invocation.
The word burned through you, more dangerous than any blade. Something inside you cracked open. A sickening, bone-deep certainty filled the hollow places you’d carved out of yourself long ago. You were—no. You couldn’t be. You weren’t allowed to be.
A sound in the hall—the creak of a board—and he stirred. His brow pinched, his grip on you tightened. His body was waking. You couldn’t let him see you. Not like this.
You bent your head, lips near his temple, and whispered in Enochian.
The word carried weight. A blessing, yes, but edged with compulsion. It poured through him, his body slackening instantly, drawn back into the depths. He sighed against you, unknowing, while your heart hammered like it wanted to claw from your chest into his. You were afraid it already had.
He didn’t feel you slip from his bed. But you felt every inch of him fall away.
The shower was your penance. You turned the water hotter, hotter still, until it steamed around you. Mortal flesh would blister. Yours only flushed. It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.
If only it could scour him from your skin, strip the scent of him from your hair, erase the memory of his mouth shaping your name.
You weren’t supposed to want this. Nephilim didn’t bend, didn’t break, didn’t fall. But this wasn’t part of the assignment, or Raynor’s therapy, or anyone’s plan.
This was dangerous. This was ruined.
So you did what you always did, Angel.
You know the line, don’t you? It just got…blurry for a few days after.
Little things shifted before you got the chance to stop yourselves. Your coffee in your favorite mug (‘BEST FLIEING SISTER EVR’ painted on the side by six year old Morgan) were at the end of the counter when you dragged your ass out of bed in the mornings. Mornings when Steve wasn’t there to do it, and even then – you very much doubted he was skipping a run to make sure your coffee was where it needed to be.
Bucky never mentioned it and he never asked for a thank you. So, you convinced yourself that it was fine. So, when you started setting his plate down before he had the chance to get up and make it…you didn’t even realize what was happening.
The shift was so subtle, you couldn’t even catch it.
At sparring, he stopped going for the quick pin. He used to like knocking you flat, pinning your wrists with infuriating precision and waiting for you to growl at him. Now he lingered in the exchanges, letting the spar drag longer than it needed to, every dodge and shift closer than it should have been. Your shoulder brushed his chest more often than was necessary. Once, you nearly tripped over his feet and his arm came around your waist fast, steadying you. For half a second, neither of you moved. You just stared up at him, breath caught, until Sam shouted from the sidelines—“Kiss already or get back to fighting!”—and you both sprang apart like teenagers caught red-handed. After, you’d throw your water bottle at Sam’s back with slightly more force than necessary.
At dinner Natasha cracked some joke about how you two were “friendly lately,” and suddenly he couldn’t stop glancing your way, jaw tight, fingers drumming against his plate. You didn’t notice, you were handling it.
It was easier in front of the others. Harder when it was just the two of you. Passing in the hallway at night, brushing shoulders in the kitchen, hearing his footsteps pause outside your door before moving on. Each moment small, simple—each moment unbearable. Devastating.
Your father caught you once in the briefing room, hand on your shoulder.
“Hi, honey.” Tony said to you as you sorted a stack of papers that you’d have copied in the lab later from your recent mission. Another success. Barnes and Stark were proving to be one of the best assignments in the past few years.
“Hey, Dad.” You said back, pushing your shades up with one hand. Tony watched you for a long moment, tilting his head. He leaned his hip on the conference table, clasping his hands over his knee.
You tilted your head also, a mirror as you watched him think. “Tell me what I’m thinking.” He said to you, offering you a small smile. Tony regarded you like you were a puzzle.
“No,” You laughed a little, shaking your head. “No, Dad. I’m not prying.” You looked away, eyes glancing up at the window leading out into the courtyard and then back to him.
“Don’t pry.” He said. “You know me like I know you, kiddo.” He told you, following your gaze to the window for a moment and then looked back at you.
“Stop using your father psychology on me and spit it out, old man.” You told him, mirroring his position on the conference table with the papers in your grasp. He wanted to pry, but unfortunately only one of you was nephilim and able to crack people open like that.
“I just,” Tony began. “You know, you’re growing up.” You’re twenty-seven, but we won’t dig into his issues with letting go. “Haven’t you thought about taking some time off? Maybe spreading your wings -- pun intended – and just enjoying…I don’t know, life?” He asked, waving his hand to nothing in particular. You tilted your head again.
“No,” You said honestly. You had no reason to slow down and breathe. There was nothing to enjoy if you let the world burn. “This is my life.” You held up the papers, looking at the mission report with an expression that seemed satisfied.
He stood with a sigh. “Babygirl, this isn’t life. This is work.” He told you. He drew closer to you then, hands reaching out. You stood also, and his hands cupped your face like you knew they would. You gave him a roll of your eyes, meeting his gaze with. You entertained him. “You are my biggest achievement,” He told you firmly. “And my greatest joy.”
You smiled at him, like you always did when he praised you. Your eyes squinted up at your dad. “I just wish you’d give yourself time to experience life before you write it off for paperwork and war.”
“I love you endlessly.” You said to him instead, and Tony hung his head in dramatic defeat. You stepped back and turned, eyes darting to the left for a moment before meeting his eyes. “But this is all I need.”
“Okay, get out of my sight.” He grumbled, waving you off. You spared a moment to kiss his cheek before disappearing out the door.
He tucked his hands into his pockets, moving to the window. His gaze flickered down to the courtyard where you had gazed, where Steve Rogers tossed a football to Bucky Barnes. He hummed knowingly, leaning against the glass as he watched them with narrowed eyes and a small shake of his head.
But you were handling it, you promise.
A thunderclap cracked the sky in two, rattling the windows of the compound. You lay awake, staring at the ceiling. You listened to the rain drum relentlessly against the glass. Your eyes trailed back to the window behind your head with a heavy sigh.
It wasn’t the storm that kept you awake, but fuck, it wasn’t helping. He was awake just on the other side of the wall. You could feel it, like you always did – a tether drawing taut between you.
Another crash, and your stomach tightened. You squinted your eyes, listening closely. A door creaked open, the top hinge rusted. Three steps, and a sigh.
You sat up on your elbows, wild hair spilling over your face and down your shoulders. You pushed it away, eyeing the clock that read 3:23 am.
There was a hesitation at your door, and you watched the shadow beneath it. You stood, feet bare and quiet as you approached the door. His fist raised on the other side as the door opened slowly. The lightning clapped behind you,and your eyes met his.
He felt splayed open and raw beneath your gaze. Sometimes, he felt like it wasn’t right for him to see you. He didn’t feel deserving, and he looked away for a moment. He stood leaned against your door frame, all his colors bleeding down on you as he towered over you. His hair was unkempt, locks messed every which way but down and curling near his temples.
His pillow was tucked awkwardly under his arm, and he looked exhausted. Stripped bare, shadows seeping into his bones tired. His hoodie and sweats looked rumpled by sleep despite him apparently not getting any.
“I shouldn’t be here,” He said immediately. His voice was low and rough. His arm tightened on the pillow like he was preparing for you to laugh him back to his room. “I can’t sleep. I’m sorry.”
For a moment you stared up at him, rubbing your nose. You stood in a too big tee that hung off a shoulder and hair unruly. You looked away for a moment, thoughtful. He prepared himself, took a half step back.
You stepped back too, opening your door further to allow him in. He’d never been in your room before. It was full of you, and much to his chagrin, Steve. Steve and you at some event was framed on your bedside. Steve’s shirt on your body.
One of Steve’s shoes discarded under your bed.
“Come in.” You said to him finally, and he slipped past you. His eyes met yours again, and he didn’t shrink away. Your door closed behind him as his throat worked. The lightning clapped and he went rigid. Like second nature, you reached for him when your stomach tightened like it did each time he tensed. Like that band between you pulled tight.
“I shouldn’t be here.” He repeated, eyes falling on your hand on his arm. He walked to the bed, but dropped his pillow on your floor. His eyes found the window
“What are you doing?” You breathed out, fingers running through your hair. With his back turned, you piled your hair together in something resembling a ponytail…or perhaps a bun. You tried not to glance at yourself in the mirror as you clipped it up.
“Laying down?” He said with a huff, his tone sharp.
“On the floor? No,” You were exasperated. You bent down grabbing his pillow with a snatch. You pushed it into his chest. “Pick a side.” You told him, looking up at him.
“You near the wall.” He murmured, hand scrubbing his jaw.
“Plan on bolting?” You joked, crawling into bed and bringing your pillow with.
“Why not? You did.” He countered, putting his pillow down on the edge of the bed. He lay on top of the covers, tense. He couldn’t stop bracing for the inevitable dismissal. You rolled onto your side, tucking under the blanket.
There was a long stretch where the only sound was the rain and the low rumble of thunder. Lightning struck, the room going white for a moment. He slowly turned towards you. In this bed there was more room, but the space never felt smaller than now. His vibranium arm curled under his pillow while his flesh arm – the right arm – rested in the space between you.
You were handling it, and you would bury this, but…
You rolled over slightly, his hand warm in the space between you. You could sense the faintest curl of his fingers in the blanket, like he wanted to pull himself under. You turned and lifted them just as thunder clapped – too close.
He collapsed, all at once, moving under the covers with his legs first. It didn’t mean anything, but it felt like it did. He curled towards you like it was gravity, head pressing into your shoulder like he dropped some weight he’d had to carry right up until this moment. His pillow lay forgotten as he took over yours.
His breath fanned over the space between your neck and collarbone, warm just like his hand as he unravelled beneath your covers.
“I’m sorry,” He whispered, like he was stealing something precious that he had no business to touch.
“Don’t be.” You shook your head, shifting to let your body curl into him. His flesh hand found the curve of your waist. Not taking, just holding like you’d slip away. His fingers pressed into you there and then loosened as he exhaled long and slow.
He was out cold, just like that. The storm raged, but this time he didn’t stir. His weight was heavy and warm against your body. Your heart raged against your ribs, eyes wide. Your hand was impossible this time, operating like it no longer belonged to you as your fingers carded through the hair at the nape of his neck.
You wouldn’t be able to sleep like this, not comfortably. You were afraid of what this meant. But fear folded into exhaustion, and minutes later, you were gone too.
It didn’t just happen once.
Neither of you spoke of it in the light of day, but that silence didn’t quite erase it either. It became a quiet, unbroken pattern. Some nights you’d sleep alone, surrounded by your trinkets and cool sheets while he lay awake on the other side of the wall in an empty room, feeling emptier still. Other nights he would knock, or you’d open the door before he could, and he’d shuffle in and fall into you beneath your covers where it smelled like Tom Ford more often than not.
It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t planned, and try as you might to avoid it, it kept happening.
In the kitchen you passed each other coffee and shared looks like nothing had shifted. On missions, you operated like a missing part of him. Precise, deadly, his. No one said a thing, but you felt it – in the way you sat just close enough to feel the heat of his thigh and shoulder. Touches that lasted longer than they needed, or in the way you imagined he looked at you. No shades, no barriers. Neither of you would admit to it.
You buried it, because that’s what you did. And he let you, because he didn’t think he deserved to ask for more.
“Come on!” Natasha said to you as you sat in the courtyard. You stretched out on the grass, sun beating down on you as you read. You ignored her, flipping another page of your book.
“I couldn’t think of anything he’d hate more.” You mused with a sigh, having to reread the page again. Natasha bent down to snatch your book, and you let her. You heaved another sigh.
“This is the first day we have all been off. No missions, no world ending, and no one maimed in the med bay.” She crossed her arms as she looked at you. “And you’re reading the same goddamn book.” She waved the copy of Pride and Prejudice with her own brand of prejudice. “You need to go out. Get out of this fucking compound.”
“Natasha…” You trailed off, and she dropped beside you with her elbows on her knees. You raised your eyebrow at her and squinted a little.
“Listen,” She began. “Sam won’t go if Steve doesn’t go. Steve won’t go if Bucky doesn’t go. If just Clint and I go with Kate, we end up in Bucharest drunk off our ass in the morning.”
“You’ll end up in Bucharest no matter who goes.” You muttered with a half smile.
“As I was saying,” She bit back a smile. “Barnes won’t go if you don’t go, because he’s your little shadow. Then I’m down to four people, and all of you sit here and work and pretend not to.” You glanced up at her.
“Thor’s coming,” She said in a sing-song voice, and you turned to give her your full attention. Hook, line, and sinker. “And he’s bringing the good stuff.”
The good stuff referred to one thousand year old honey wine. Asgardian mead.
“Well,” A slow smile spread over your face. “Why didn’t you lead with that?” You held your hand out and she tugged you up into a stand.
“Oh! You can wear that dress you got that you never wear out!” Natasha said, handing your book off to you.
Which led you all to Pandamonium. Panda was midtown Manhattan, their regular spot when they did get out. Which was incredibly rare.
Bucky was highly uncomfortable with the idea of a club, but it beat the alternative of sitting alone in the compound wondering what you were doing and with who. Would you be with Thor? Would you dance with h–
He shook his head, trying to dispel the image of you and Thor dancing. At first it was fine, you know? You had shared greetings with the god like a couple of college students, excited energy only seeming to amplify the more you hyped each other up.
Bucky had seen you party with Odinson before in the controlled environment of the compound, so he was no stranger to Thor. Thor Odinson, who had – just today – bounded into the compound after months of being off planet to toss you into the air. Dove this and Dove that, Thor said. His voice was loud, his hands too comfortable when they reached for you.
Bucky nearly forgot how much he hated the god’s overly friendly nature. You and Thor (he hated how that sounded) giggled amongst yourselves like school girls, hands clasped together.
By the time you arrived at Pandamonium, the team was already buzzing with energy. You stopped for a moment at the entrance, checking the bouncer. A fleeting look, a few silent words—just the right gestures—and he blinked, confused, as though whatever he’d seen or thought moments ago was gone. You smiled faintly, slipping inside, leaving no trace. Sam and Steve followed, and Bucky lingered a step behind, scanning you as you moved.
He didn’t know exactly what you’d done—he could feel the pull of something he didn’t understand, and it tightened in his chest. Watching you like that, so confident, so in control… it wasn’t unpleasant. It was dangerous.
“She’s hazing the bouncer. That way he doesn’t tell anyone the team is in here.” Sam told him, and Bucky nodded. You were all smiles, uncovered eyes wide and open. Even as Bucky had become accustomed (not yet unaffected) by your gaze, he had never seen you use it on someone outside of a fight.
Inside, the team spread out, voices and laughter colliding. Clint was teasing Kate, Sam was recounting a story that had everyone groaning, Natasha leaned against the bar, smirking knowingly, and Steve was still trying to moderate everyone without any success. Bucky’s eyes, however, stayed on you. Every gesture, every laugh, every glance—he noticed it all.
You were handling the crowd with ease, smiling at friends, waving at familiar faces, but Bucky’s focus never left you. A subtle twinge of jealousy tugged at him every time your attention went elsewhere, even just briefly. Though, each time you glanced back to him, the sun shone on him again.
When he finally stepped fully into the club, the room blurred around him. Black halter dress, slender fingers, painted nails. Your presence pulled at him like gravity, and he swallowed thickly. He tried to mask it, tried to focus on anything but you, but it was impossible.
“Comin’?” you said over your shoulder, tilting your head just slightly.
Bucky hesitated, jaw tight, before nodding and joining your side. Your hands went up , bass pulsed low in your chest. The club was alive, lights tinted purple and green above that flared with the beat. Natasha dragged Kate to the dance floor, Clint trailed after them with mock reluctance, and Sam was halfway through telling Steve the difference between a “club drink” and a “grandpa drink.” Steve’s response was a very flat, “They both sound like overpriced juice.” Sam shot you a look as if to say, He’s hopeless.
Thor made an entrance like he always did, women fawning over him as he made a bee line to the team. Bucky was your shadow, just over your shoulder as Thor’s light blinded all in it’s path. He clapped Steve hard on the back, pulled Sam into a hug so tight that his feet left the ground.
“DRINK!” Thor commanded, and your head tipped back in a laugh as the team joined to partake. The light caught your earrings, causing the purple and green from above to shatter over the delicate column of your throat.
Glasses arrived quickly, golden liquid catching the lights in a way that was unnatural. The mead was brighter, warmer. No one thought to question it. After all, it was Asgardian mead. It was supposed to feel like the sun was thrumming in your ribs. Thor’s frosted mug clanked against yours, spilling froth over the floor.
He nearly slipped in it, but your hand shot out to steady the god. Bucky grit his teeth. Let him fall. Though, that was selfish.
You tipped the first mug back, shaking your head at Thor as you both loudly went, “AHHHH!” like vikings.
“That’s better!” You announced.
Thor released a WHOO! of excitement as he demanded, “Another!”
Around the bar it was unraveling. Sam was goading Clint into a contest no one would remember in the morning. Steve’s ears went pink as he tried not to grimace over his second sip. Kate, who was not yet an Avenger but just as excited, was already standing on her chair to shout something to the DJ.
Bucky hadn’t touched his glass yet. He leaned against the bar, arms folded and eyes on you. Watching.
“Scared?” You teased him, nodding towards his untouched drink. He followed your gaze, breathing in through his teeth.
“I don’t know if I trust it.” He commented, turning his eyes back to you. If your metabolism was taking the hit of the mead, he couldn’t imagine what it was going to do to him.
“What’s the worst that could happen?” You tilted your head thoughtfully. That earned you a sgh, and he lifted his glass to drink. His jaw flexed as he swallowed. You watched his throat work, and when your eyes met next – there was no burying the heat.
The night blurred, brighter and louder than it should have been. Natrasha’s laughter spun through the music, Steve let himself be dragged to the dance floor. Thor nearly toppled three tables showing Kate some Asgardian step. Sam and Clint got into a loud debate about which one of them was the better wingman with bullet points scribbled on napkins.
Bucky nursed his drink like it might tell him a secret if he stared hard enough. The rim of the glass caught the neon, pale reflections dancing against the metal of his hand. Sam was chanting something over by the bar, Clint had gone facedown in a bowl of peanuts, and Natasha had you by the wrist, dragging you onto the dance floor.
You laughed, half-protest, half-glee, and Bucky felt it in his chest like you were saving it for him.
Every time you glanced back, he was there. Slouched low in the booth, legs spread, a crooked smirk cutting his mouth. Drunker than he’d ever admit. Pink flush high on his cheekbones. He looked almost relaxed, almost normal.
Because his eyes never left you, and they were hungry.
Sure, the mead had loosened his shoulders, made his laugh low and easy when he heard a good joke. It had yet to loosen the hold you had over him. Even through the bass, through the strobing lights, through Natasha – you could feel it. You didn’t think much of the look in his eyes, hell you weren’t thinking at all.
Natasha was whisked away by Steve, a development you didn’t even think of. You couldn’t think, you felt hot all over. You felt giddy, for the first time in…perhaps ever.
No prayers, no problems, no war. Just the music and the lights flashing and you were spinning. Your hair went wild, spinning around you as you tipped your head back. The floor tipped with you. Maybe it was the mead, maybe it was the crowd, or something more sinister.
You staggered into a stranger. He was already smirking, tall, hand out–
A large hand that was warm and familiar clasped above your elbow and pulled you back a step. You turned in shock…and there he was. There he always was, thank the gods.
The lights pulsed above you, his face painted green, purple, then shadowed. His eyes never changed, always dark, always fixed. Like you were his one true north.
“Spoken for,” He bit out to the stranger, eyes lifting to the other man for a breath. His hand moved to your waist, arm curling. You should have said something. You should have pulled away. Why didn’t you?
Your body moved, and so did he. It was like muscle memory, like some instinct. Which was strange, because he hadn’t danced since the 40s. Never at a club. You fell into rhythm like you were wired for it, bodies anchored to one another and breaths drowning in bass and heat.
Every step was a strike, every spin was a dodge. It was like sparring without blood.
“Bucky,” You said, but it came out in a breath.
“Don’t,” He murmured, lips against your temple as you spun into his arms again. His vibranium fingers found your hip, guiding you closer until there was no space. You felt the weight of him everywhere. Hard chest, rough breath, the strength in his arms.
It wasn’t even dancing anymore. What were you doing? Something hotter, something else, was happening. Something you knew you weren’t supposed to want.
You felt made for it. Despite the eerie green in your glass which lay somewhere forgotten. The song went sharp, and your movements did too.
His grip on you tightened as his fingers pressed against your ribs to hold your back against his chest. You felt every devastating inch of his body.
His jaw was tight, lips against your temple. This was dangerous. It was wrong.
Neither of you stopped it. The team was swallowed by the blurred edges of your vision. He couldn’t see anything but you, his hand pressing lower into your pelvis.
“Bucky–” You said again, and your head tipped back against his shoulder. The name broke on your lips. He turned you, his nose dipping to the space beneath your ear.
“Please, don’t say my name like that.” He pleaded. His voice went low, wrecked. His breath fanned across your throat. Your hips slotted together and you released a sharp breath, lips parted like you would apologize when his mouth was on yours.
It wasn’t slow. It wasn’t sweet or careful. It was messy and raw. It was dark, just like him. His stubble scraped against your skin as he kissed you like he’d waited since 1943 to do this. One of his hands fisted in your hair and the other held you tight to him. Your hands went up his chest, pulling him close by his shirt.
When he pulled away, you barely registered it. You caught your breath for a moment, and his eyes lifted from your gaze to sweep the crowd. He released his hold on you, and you feared he might bolt for a moment. Instead, his hand found yours.
It took everything in him to not throw you over his shoulder like the neanderthal he felt like. What was wrong with him?
He pulled you behind him, shouldering through the crowd with single minded focus. He needed you and he was tired of pretending he didn’t.
He pushed open a door. You didn’t care where to, and he pushed you in first. The music dulled to a steady thud, mirror thrumming in the bathroom he’d pulled you into. He turned around as the lock echoed, and his hands went to his hair.
For a moment - clarity - but then you were kissing him first. You tugged him down to your mouth, slotting his mouth over yours. There was no loud thumping or sea of bodies to make this feel less real this time.
He angled his head to deepen it when you pulled back, but his hands held your biceps. “Stop pulling away.” He said, voice frayed.
“Everything’s so quiet.” You murmured, and his hands moved to cradle your face. It was soft for only a breath, his lips parting before he even got to you. His right hand moved to the back of your neck, curling in the hair there to hold you.
He angled your head back and you released a noise you didn’t know you had in you. He groaned low in his throat in response, his left hand going to your hip. His tongue parted your lips for you, ruining you for anyone else.
“Atta girl,” He said against your mouth, a grin tugging at his lips. You laughed a little as he pulled back. His gaze was all heat as he tilted your head to the ceiling, his lips peppering kisses down your neck. His left hand was at the curve of your ass and he lifted you to the sink with ease. The same hand moved to under one knee. He forced your knees apart and settled between them and his teeth grazed your pulse.
You released a gasp. He liked that noise and nipped at your flesh. Your head tipped back with a moan, and your fingers curled into his shoulders. He was built like a fucking adonis. He was soft, but with coiled muscles.
You weren’t thinking much, but you did pride yourself on behaving for so long.
His hands moved up the outside of your thigh, fingers pressing into your flesh hard. “So easy with you,” He murmured, his tongue flat against your throat. He didn’t stop there, tugging you to closer. His hand trailed over your bare back. “Never this easy with anyone.” He finished. He leaned back, watching the small red welts he had left over your neck smooth into nothing as your body healed them. Flustered, his brows drew tight.
“I’ll have to fix it.” He grumbled, kissing up your neck to find your moth. “Have to mark it, don’t I?”
“Mark what?” You breathed just before he caught your mouth in something hot and hungry.
“You,” He said lowly, and you ached to press your thighs together to alleviate the need for friction. His eyes fluttered open and he looked down to your spread thighs.
“Can fix that.” He said, pressing a kiss to your lips again. His hands dropped to your thighs, thumbs pulling the flesh outwards as he dragged you to the edge of the sink. “Let me fix it, angel baby.” He dropped his head to your shoulder, practically pleading. Your dress drew higher, the apex of your thighs in view. “I can smell you everywhere.” He continued to ramble.
He couldn’t shut the fuck up, and he couldn’t figure out why. Your hands ran up his shoulders, fingers carding through his hair. “Fix what?” You asked him, but you knew exactly what he meant. Your lips pressed against his jaw, teeth nipping at his stubbled skin.
“This.” He said roughly, and his thumb tugged your panties to the side. He groaned as he looked at your slick folds with unbridled need. His right thumb and forefinger parted your pussy lips, cool air hitting you. You released a sharp breath. “Want me?”
You couldn’t manage words, which was unlike you. You just nodded.
“No, say it.” He demanded, reaching up to press you back into the mirror. His hands moved under your knees, pushing your legs further apart. “Say you need me, baby. Just Bucky.”
“Need you, Bucky.” You relented, eyes meeting his. His colors were all over the place, but he didn’t shy away as he bared himself to you without even knowing it.
“That’s my girl.” He said, licking his lips. Your eyes dropped to your pried open thighs. “No, look at me. Love when you see me.” He confessed. One hand clasped around your jaw, dragging your gaze upwards and holding you there.
His right thumb ran up your sopping pussy slowly. “So fucking wet, angel.” He groaned, and his eyes dropped to your pussy. You watched his dark lashes cast shadows over his cheeks as his tongue ran over his lips again. “So – Oh my god, you have the prettiest pussy. Anyone ever tell you that?” He rubbed a little circle around your clit. “Don’t tell me.”
He curled his body over yours, lips brushing yours. “You’re so quiet, baby.” He murmured, and then his thick middle finger pressed in slightly. Your lips parted as he held your gaze. “Tell me it’s mine.”
“What?” You gasped out, but he didn’t move his finger. “Bucky, please…”
“Shut up,” He commanded, pressing his lips to yours in a brief kiss. “All I need,” He pressed a finger in slowly, “For you to say you’re mine.” Your eyes rolled, and his fingers flexed around your jaw to remind you to keep eye contact. You met his eyes again.
“I’m yours.” You had no idea why you said it or what he had done to you. “Oh, fuck, Bucky!” Another finger joined the one, and he curled them up into your pussy. His bottom lip dragged between his teeth as he watched you with rapt attention.
“There she is.” He groaned as he scissored his fingers into your pussy in slow deep strokes. “So goddamn tight.” He pulled back, hand moving to move your dress out of the way to watch your cunt stretch over his fingers. His thumb slipped up to your clit and he moaned as you clenched. Your hips jerked as you followed his gaze.
“Aw, it’s not enough, is it?” He mocked as you whimpered. “But I don’t want to break you.” He pumped his fingers into you and you whimpered his name.
“That’s a lie,” He released something akin to a laugh. Or perhaps a groan.
“You can break me.” You told him, finding your voice as his fingers stilled. He pulled his fingers from your pussy, and his thumb pulled your chin down. His fingers went to your mouth. “Don’t want you to move. Just let me do all the work. I’ll take care of it.” He assured you, and your tongue lapped at his fingers as you nodded.
He pulled you from the edge of the sink, arm curling around you. “You can stop m–” Your lips pressed against his instead, and he bit back a grin.
“Shut the fuck up.” You murmured, but you both knew you weren’t in control. Not here, not like this.
“C’mere.” He said against your mouth. He knew how he wanted this, he had spent every night for the last three months thinking about it. Mind you, he had wanted your first time to be something nice. He had wanted you dolled up like this, but on a date. On a picnic. In a nice hotel. He wanted you on a bed.
He tugged you off the ground, his other hand unzipping his jeans. He stumbled back against the wall, sliding down against the bench near the door of the bathroom. You straddled him on your knees, not yet pressed down but close. One hand held your panties to the side and the other stroked himself once - twice. He didn't give you time, large hands grabbing your ass and tugging you down onto his cock raw.
He groaned. “Please, don't fucking move.” He said against your mouth. One hand moved to your hair, pulling you back to look down at him. “Fuck, don't fucking move – just let me –” He was cut off as you moaned. His hand wrapped around the back of your thigh, and with inhuman strength he began to move you just like that.
He moaned, eyes nearly rolling back as he let gravity do the work of bringing you down before he pulled you up. You made a choked noise as he dragged against the inside of your pussy like he was made to be there. Each delicious inch of Bucky Barnes slipped into your pussy like it was made for you
The stretch was borderline painful, his cock nearly too big to take. “Gonna break you, I'm sorry.” He said with a grunt, fingers digging into your skin. “You're so fucking tight, I – no one else can have you. I can't let them.” He rambled, forcing you to take him harder. Your eyes rolled and he released a rough chuckle.
“Look at you, giving me what's already mine like a good fucking girl.” Your stomach tightened and he gasped as he felt your hips jerk and your tight heat flutter. “Fuck, you liked that, huh? My good girl knows exactly where she belongs, don't you?”
Do you? Fuck, he's right. This is it. The pinnacle of success. Nothing will ever feel as good as Bucky Barnes’ cock.
“Say it.” He demanded, and you moaned as he tugged your hair back. “Tell me you belong here. With me.” his lips pressed against your throat then.
“I belong here,” you managed to say, his cock punching up into you. “With you, Bucky.” His hand released your hair, arm circling your waist as his flesh hand bounced you harder. You coiled tight around him as his head fell to your chest. He released something between a whimper and a moan.
“Fuck,” he said, voice muffled in your chest. Someone approached the bathroom, but his foot shot out to wedge the door closed as you moaned in his lap. You didn't even notice as he kissed up your chest. “Baby, you taste holy.” He sounded like he'd cry as he watched you.
He nipped at your nipple through your dress, and he felt it then. The tightening that meant you were going to cum. “God, that's it. You gonna cum for me?” He bit into your other nipple next. You whined out his name like it was scripture.
“Fuck, Bucky.” You gasped, hand curling tighter in his hair.
“Tell me you're mine again.” He said, hips beginning to thrust up into you slow and deep as he brought you down onto his cock hard.
“Yours.” It was true, wasn't it? All that pretending and you never buried anything, did you? “I promise.”
“Oh fuck,” He cursed. His hands moved. Vibranium went to your hip to force you down on his cock as he brought his flesh thumb to his mouth.
His left arm forced you harder, and your back curved towards him with a whine as he pressed against that spongey spot that made tears spring to your eyes. “Gonna-”
“Yeah, you're gonna cum for me, aren't you?” His brows drew tight as he went hot all over. His thumb dropped between you, and he rubbed your throbbing clit in fast circles. “Cum on my cock, baby. Let me – Oh, fuck – There she is…Fuck!”
He gasped as you began to cum on his cock, the tether between you snapping as he drove up into you three more times. He swelled at the tip, went white hot, and then marked you in a way you couldn't heal away. He didn't stop forcing you down onto his cock until the last of his cum drained from him. Then he held let you sit across his lap as you panted.
“I’m sor–” Your mouth found his, cutting off his apologies. His brows drew tight in the center, eyes fluttering closed as you kissed him like it would fix it. Your eyes opened finally, and you let your head drop to his shoulder.
“Me too.” You heard yourself say. The illusion shattered in a moment. One moment you were begging him to break you, and the next you could scent magic in the air like bad perfume.
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